A Fine Dark Line Page 19

  “You’re not letting it go, are you?”

  “No, sir.”

  Buster sighed.

  “He lived in the house with Jewel Ellen and his father,” I said, “so he might know some answers.”

  “He ain’t told them answers already, what makes you think he’s gonna tell ’em now?”

  “How would I talk to James about such a thing?”

  “I ain’t got no answers on that,” Buster said, pushing the chief’s notes back into the folder. “That’s your problem. You figure on it.”

  “Do you have any advice?”

  “No.”

  ———

  LATER, I went back to help Callie at the concession stand. After all of his explaining, and my not being ready to drop it all as a finished game, Buster grew morose, like one of his moods was coming down on him. I’d seen all of his moods I wanted to see.

  I was sure he was on to the truth, but that there were more concrete answers out there, something we could take to the police. If James knew something, maybe he could be tricked into letting it go. It wasn’t a very clever thought, but when I was that age clever thoughts were not my forte.

  Me and Callie hadn’t had a customer for an hour. We sat and tossed stale popcorn toward Coke cups, seeing who could get more popcorn in. Callie was winning.

  “What did you think of James Stilwind?” I asked.

  “He gave us tickets, didn’t he?”

  “But what did you think of him?”

  “Oh, he’s cute. He’s arrogant. A little full of himself and show-offy. And he looks very young for his age. He must be in his late thirties at least. Right?”

  “That means he was fifteen or so when his sister was burned up in that fire.”

  “I suppose . . . Are you still thinking he did that horrible thing?”

  “I thought that was your idea.”

  “Surely not.”

  “Well, one of us had that idea. Maybe it was me.”

  She looked at me and smiled. It was that special way of hers that let you know she thought you were an idiot, but she was going to pretend you were precious, even if you knew she was pretending and she knew you knew.

  “Drop it, Stanley. Quit snooping.”

  “Tell me you’re not interesed.”

  “Okay, I’m a little interested. James intrigues me. Some.”

  “And it makes Drew crazy.”

  “Yes. It makes Drew crazy.”

  “Why do you do that, Callie?”

  “Because I can, I guess. It’s harmless.”

  “Do you think you could talk to James?”

  “Talk. About what?”

  “About the murder case.”

  “There is no murder case. You’re not a detective, Stanley.”

  “It’s still fun. You could talk to him about it. You know, use your charms.”

  “I don’t know, Stanley. It’s one thing to flirt. But to pry . . . I don’t know.”

  “Guess you’re right,” I said. “No one would talk about something like that. Not even if they thought you were pretty.”

  “Oh, they might. But I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  “If I wanted, I could make him talk.”

  “I bet you could.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “What’s it matter to you? You’re right. It’s silly. I’m sure you could do it if you wanted.”

  “I don’t believe you think I can, Stanley.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yeah, but I can tell the way you act you don’t think I can . . . All right. You’re on. Give me a few days.”

  I kept myself cool, calm, and collected, so as not to blow it. By golly, for once I had outsmarted my sister.

  18

  AS SUMMER WOUND DOWN and school loomed on the horizon, I tried to stuff myself as full as I could of the time left.

  In those remaining dog days of summer vacation I still thought of Margret and Jewel Ellen. Thoughts of them would flare from time to time, like a fire fanned by the wind, then would die down as quickly as they had jumped up.

  I rode my bike all over, except to the top of the great hill that led to the house I now called the Witch House. I bought lots of comics and read them while sitting out on the veranda, their bright images and two-dimensional heroes burning themselves into the back of my brain.

  I read Tarzan, Hardy Boys, and Nancy Drew books, and when I wore out with comics and books and riding my bike, me and Nub wandered the woods and creeks.

  I had also come to really miss Richard, who in that last week of summer I had not seen at all. It was as if he had been sucked up by a windstorm and carried off to Oz. I went by his house once, but when I knocked, no one answered.

  Another thing me and Nub did with our summer days was spend time looking up at those pieces of house in the trees. In my imagination I thought at night the house came together up there, like a puzzle snapped in place by the gods. All except the metal stairway, which remained outside and wound its way to an open window, and I would climb that metal ladder and enter the house through it.

  It was always dark in my daydreams, and when I clambered through the window, I would see Jewel, on the bed, bound in sheets and blankets, ropes wrapped around her, stinking of gasoline. I would sit on the windowsill and look at her. She would turn her head, and out of her mouth would come flames.

  I would sit in the window frame and watch her burn.

  Sometimes I daydreamed of Margret, wandering the tracks headless, that little light we had seen jumping up and down before her.

  These moments moved farther and farther apart.

  On one of the last days of summer, about midday, the sun so hot leaves and limbs sagged and the birds were silent with heat exhaustion, me and Nub were out beneath the trees back of the drive-in, loving the shade.

  Nub had found his squirrel tormentor, or one just like it, and was soon once more up the oak tree, on a limb, telling that squirrel what he thought of him. Way he scurried up that tree, you would have thought Nub was part cat. I was sure if I could translate dog language I wouldn’t want to repeat what Nub was saying to that squirrel. What the squirrel was chattering back was probably no less flammable.

  I laughed at them awhile, then found myself looking up at the rotting fragments in the trees again. Since last time I had been there, a piece or two had disintegrated and fallen to the ground, shattered into blackened slivers.

  The metal staircase still hung in place, however, and I knew I had to climb it. The idea had been with me all summer, and I couldn’t let the summer end without trying it.

  It was a foolish thing to consider, but it’s one of the faults of being a boy.

  I climbed about halfway up and felt the stairs sway. But only sway. They seemed to be caught up good in pine boughs and vines that had twisted up the trunk of the tree closest to the stairwell.

  The stairway had survived the fire in place, the rest of the house burning down around it. Vines, a tree, and time, had lifted it out of the ground and held it just above its former position like a twisty metal worm captured in a giant spiderweb.

  Halfway up, the stairs wobbled and I had a vision of some rusted spot giving way. I decided to go back down. When I turned, I saw Mr. Chapman coming through the woods. He was walking, carrying a large walking stick. He saw me on the stairway, came over, looked up, put his hands on one of the rails. The stairway shook and moved much more than my weight had moved it.

  “Please don’t do that, Mr. Chapman,” I said.

  “That scare you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seen that boy of mine?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You ain’t lyin’ to me, are you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I don’t like being lied to.”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  Chapman looked around, then looked back up at me and grinned. He shook the stairway. “Tell me the truth now, boy.”


  “Don’t. I’m going to fall.”

  Nub, who had been occupied with his squirrel, realized I was being threatened. He leaped from his limb, hit the ground, rolled to his feet, darted straight for Chapman.

  “Hey, hey,” Chapman said.

  Nub bit at Chapman’s ankle. “Stop it!” Chapman said, and he swatted at Nub, struck him with the stick, knocked him rolling.

  “He thinks you’re hurting me,” I yelled, starting down. “Leave him be. I’ll get him.”

  “Don’t care what he thinks.”

  Nub was up again, growling. You would have thought he was a German shepherd. And maybe, in his mind, he was. Nub shot at Chapman like an arrow. The stick swung, missed. Nub caught Chapman by the ankle. Chapman let out a scream.

  “Stop it,” I said. “Leave him alone.”

  “I’ll kill him.”

  “No you won’t.” It was Callie. She was inside the drive-in, standing on something next to the fence, her shoulders and head poking up over the top of it. She had a handful of rocks from the gravel drive.

  “I’ll beat him to death,” Chapman said, and he struck at Nub, hitting him, knocking him down and out.

  “Now, bury the little bastard.”

  It went through my head like a shot that this was the same man we had seen in the woods crying over a dog. It wasn’t a thought I considered long. I started climbing down. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but my eyes were filled with tears and I was crazy mad.

  Callie whistled a rock through the air. It hit Chapman on the shoulder. He let out a scream. “You hell-spawn. You Jezebel.”

  Another rock whistled, caught him on the side of the head. He jerked a hand to the spot and yelled.

  Callie started whistling one rock after another. Chapman broke and ran back a ways. I was on the ground now, and he turned, glared at me. “Don’t you never come around no more, you hear? You see that boy of mine, tell him he’s gonna take a hell of a beatin’. And one for you too.”

  Callie threw another rock. Chapman thought he was out of distance of her throwing arm, but the rock hit him in the leg. Another went whistling, struck the tree next to him.

  “You better quit, missy. I’ll get you too.”

  That was when I saw Daddy on the outside of the fence, coming around on the side closest to Chapman. Chapman didn’t see him. He was too busy taunting me and Callie.

  I went over to pick up Nub. He was still breathing. He opened his eyes and looked at me as if trying to focus. He had the same look Buster had when he was coming off his drunk.

  Chapman was in the middle of a diatribe when he looked up and saw Daddy. “Now you ought to go on and leave me be. I’m just tryin’ to help these youngin’s get some manners.”

  As Daddy neared Chapman, Chapman swung the walking stick. Daddy swatted at it, sucked it into him, moved slightly, and now he had the stick.

  Chapman tried to run, but Daddy was on him. The stick swung, caught Chapman on the leg, knocked him down. Daddy tossed the stick away and kicked Chapman in the throat. Chapman went to the ground gagging. I heard Callie yelling at Daddy to stop.

  When I looked up he had Chapman pulled to his knees and was slapping him the way he had slapped Chester, but with greater enthusiasm.

  “You weasel. You do all right hitting kids and women and little dogs, don’t you, you greasy sleazeball bastard. I get through with you, you won’t know on which side of your face to pick your nose.”

  “Daddy!” Callie had climbed over the fence and was running toward him. Me, I didn’t move.

  I picked up Nub, held him close to me. He wiggled.

  Callie had hold of Daddy’s slapping hand. Dad shoved Chapman to the ground. Chapman, bleeding from mouth, nose, and ears, said, “A Chapman don’t forget.”

  “Good,” Daddy said. “Think I wanted this to slip your mind?”

  “And that damn girl. Woman ain’t supposed to raise their hand to a man.”

  Daddy kicked Chapman in the ribs. “Who says you’re a man.”

  “Daddy,” Callie said, grabbing him. “That’s enough.”

  “I’ll get you, missy,” Chapman said, tonguing a tooth out of his bloody mouth.

  Callie let go of Daddy and kicked Chapman under the chin, like she was trying to make a field goal. Chapman, who had been trying to rise, was knocked back flat. Callie said, “No you won’t, you sleazy little turd.”

  “What did you say?” Daddy said.

  “You said bastard,” Callie said.

  “Suppose I did,” Daddy said. “Chapman. The Mitchels don’t forget either. Your boy is welcome anytime. But don’t let me see you. Even in town.”

  Chapman wobbled to his feet. Daddy bent quickly, picked up Chapman’s stick. Chapman flinched. Daddy tossed it to him. “Don’t forget this. You might want to beat a wounded animal to death on the way home.”

  Chapman took the walking stick, wheeled, started through the woods as quickly as a man with a limp could go.

  Back at the house, I sat at the table holding Nub in my lap, happy the worst he had gotten was a lump on the head. I felt as if I was living some kind of curse that started by my opening that Pandora’s box of letters.

  More had happened to my family in one summer than had happened in my entire life. Perhaps more than had happened in my parents’ lives, even if they were unaware of much of it. I couldn’t help but think by finding and opening that box I had insulted the dark gods, brought them scuttling and scratching across that fine dark line between black mystery and reality; brought them here mad and devilish and full of harm. They were even picking on the family dog.

  Mom was leaning against the counter listening to Callie tell what had happened. The rest of us, including Rosy, were sitting around the table.

  “I hit him with a rock good,” Callie said.

  “That’s not good, Callie,” Mom said. “That’s nothing to be proud of.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Dad said. “It says something for her hand-to-eye coordination, the fine function of young muscles. And a goddamn good aim.”

  “That’s right,” Rosy said. “Miss Callie, she can toss a rock. I seen her hit a blue jay the other day.”

  “Rosy,” Callie said. “I didn’t mean to. I mean, I threw it, but I didn’t think it would hit it.”

  “Killed it deader than a stump,” Rosy said.

  Mom and Dad looked at Callie in that manner only parents can manage.

  “Really,” Callie said. “I didn’t mean to kill it. I was just playing around.”

  “Still,” I said, trying to manage a save, “she has a good arm.”

  “Flings like Whitey Ford,” Daddy said.

  “Stanley,” Mom said. “That’s no way to talk. Bragging on her for something like that. Killing a poor bird. Hitting Mr. Chapman.”

  “Several times,” Dad said.

  “Several times?” Mom said.

  “He was shaking Stan out of a tree,” Callie said.

  “Off a stairway actually,” I said.

  “A stairway?” Mom asked.

  I explained. Mom said, “I didn’t know that was back there. You didn’t tell me that was back there. I’ll have to see that.”

  I probably hadn’t mentioned it because in my mind it was connected to finding the letters, which even now I didn’t mention. And neither did Callie.

  “What was wrong with Mr. Chapman, Daddy?” I said. “He’s always cranky, but . . .”

  “Was he drinking, Stanley?” Mom asked Dad.

  “I don’t think so,” Dad said. “I didn’t smell it on his breath. Then again, I wasn’t trying to.”

  “Daddy was too busy slapping him to smell his breath,” Callie said.

  “That drinkin’ turn a man bad,” Rosy said. “I ought to know. I bet he was drinkin’. He used to work right there where them trees is now. In that old Stilwind house. He such a good-looking man then.”

  “I remember you saying that before,” I said. “It’s hard to imagine.”

  “You sure, Ro
sy?” Callie said. “He looks like something out of a monster movie to me.”

  “After that fire happened, it was like he turn ugly,” Rosy said. “Like it done burned him bad as it burned that little Stilwind girl.”

  “I believe I’m behind on all this,” Mom said.

  “Me too,” Daddy said.

  Me, Callie, and Rosy filled in the blanks. Well, Rosy told what she knew and me and Callie told what we thought we ought to tell. I still didn’t mention what me and Buster had been doing, all the stuff I had found out. I sure didn’t tell them about Winnie Wood, Margret’s mother, or about how Buster had not only interrogated her, but had helped her practice her profession. And I didn’t even know how to begin about Jewel and Margret and what they were doing. Then, of course, there was the pregnancy. So far, concerning my experiences of the summer, all that was missing were flying saucers and the Loch Ness Monster.

  “How come you and Callie know all about this?” Mom asked me.

  “Heard it around,” I said.

  “They say that Margret’s ghost out at the railroad tracks,” Rosy said. “Heard theys one of them ghosts in that house on the hill. Jewel Ellen’s ghost.”

  “Ghosts all over,” Daddy said.

  “No one lives in the house on the hill anymore,” I said.

  “How do you know?” Daddy said.

  “I’ve heard that,” I said.

  Daddy thought for a moment, pursed his lips, said, “I think that’s why you rode up the hill that day you had the wreck. To see if you could see a ghost. Comes together now. Is that it?”

  It was close enough, so I said, “Yes, sir.”

  Daddy shook his head.

  “There isn’t a ghost though,” I said. “It’s Mrs. Stilwind. She leaves the old folks home sometimes and goes there and people see her.”

  “How do you know that?” Mom asked.

  I decided I had to tell the truth on this one. “Buster told me.”

  “He did, did he?” Daddy said.

  “Boy,” Callie said, chuckling, changing the subject back to where we had started. “Daddy sure gave Mr. Chapman a butt whipping.”

  “That’s enough of that talk,” Mom said.

  “Well,” Callie said, “he did.”

  “I did,” Daddy said.

  “He slapped him the way he slapped Chester, only harder,” I said.