13
The summer days grew shorter, and September, along with Truman’s eighth birthday (for which his parents made a rare visit), came and went, but no big mysteries revealed themselves. Except for school. Truman began attending Monroe County Grammar School, but he didn’t care for third grade, finding his teacher’s attitude toward his braininess puzzling. Especially since that teacher was his cousin Callie.
“You’re too smart for your own good,” Callie said on day one.
“But how can I be too smart? Isn’t that why we’re in school, to get smarter?” he asked.
“It’s those kinds of questions that make it hard for me to teach you anything,” Callie said back. “An eight-year-old should know better.”
Every day was a struggle. All he wanted to do was read stories or tell tall tales. But Callie gave him nothing but grief for reading too far ahead of everyone else and disrupting class with his wild tales about tigers or the exploits of his father the explorer, which she knew to be false. Every time he told a fib, she smacked him on the hand with a ruler. By the end of the week, his hand was usually bright red.
Truman began to dislike school because of all the headaches it caused him. Mondays were hardest because that meant there was a whole week still in front of him. So on Mondays, he, Nelle, and Big Boy took their sweet time getting to school, having little adventures or trying to scare one another along the way. Especially any time they walked by the Boulars’ house.
The house was two doors down from Nelle’s. Big Boy was certain it was haunted. From the outside, it sure looked foreboding and unkempt. Even on sunny days, it was downright gloomy, desolate and dark with the shades pulled shut, hidden by the shadows of ancient pecan trees that kept the sun away. Sometimes, Big Boy would cross the street just to avoid its gaze.
It was owned by Mr. Boular, who was about the meanest man in town. He never said hi to anyone. According to Nelle, one of his daughters had been killed by an alligator, and since then, the house felt more like a lonely cemetery than a home. Even though he still had a wife, a son, and another girl, happiness was not a word to use in describing the Boular family.
“There he is,” whispered Truman one day. As usual, Mr. Boular was dressed all in black with a dour bowler hat and an umbrella. He was tall and thin and looked like an undertaker. He was walking straight toward them, his gaze absent, as if he were staring into another dimension.
“Say something,” said Truman, nudging Nelle.
Nelle shook her head and elbowed Big Boy. “You say something.”
Big Boy gulped. Mr. Boular was almost upon them. “Um, morning, Mr. Boular,” he squeaked. “How’s Mrs.—”
Mr. Boular passed by them as if they weren’t there. A chill went down Truman’s spine. It was almost like the man sucked the air right out of you.
“Sook says he’s never said a word to anyone, ever,” said Truman.
“How would she know?” asked Nelle. “She hasn’t walked into town since I been born.”
“He’s a strange one, all right,” said Big Boy. “But he’s not the one I’m worried about—look!”
Big Boy pulled them down behind the run-down fence that surrounded the Boular property. Big Boy pointed at an upstairs window. Truman saw it—the curtain was parted and a shadowy figure was watching them.
“It’s Sonny . . .” he said.
Sonny was Mr. Boular’s teenage boy. There were always rumors floating around about strange goings-on, and they were all blamed on him. Sook called him Caw because of the funny crow-like noises he made to himself. People said he ate squirrels alive, and if you saw his eyes, you just might believe it. They were big and round and never blinked. It was rumored that he’d killed old Mrs. Bussey’s black cat, cut it open, and stuffed it in a hole in one of the trees in the middle of the road. He was downright spooky—a boogeyman to every kid in the neighborhood.
Truman ducked down, out of sight of the window. “He gives me the creeps. Last night, I went for a walk after dark and I heard these strange cawing noises by this fence . . . Caw! Caw!” said Truman. “I looked through the slates and there were these doll’s eyes staring back at me.”
“No!” said Nelle. “It was Sonny?”
Truman nodded. “And he spoke to me! He said, ‘Ain’t you the nicest boy I’ve ever seen.’ I started to walk away and he reached through the fence and tried to grab me!”
“What did you do?”
“I ran, of course! But then he called after me, ‘Come back! Please don’t be scared, I ain’t gonna harm you.’ I turned and saw him watching me and he looked so . . . lonely. I shrugged and told him I had to go home. Then his face grew dark and he started banging on the fence and hissing, ‘Come back here or you’ll be sorry. You’ll be the sorriest kid in the graveyard!’”
Big Boy suddenly grabbed Nelle from behind and she screamed as only a little girl can. Truman and Big Boy couldn’t stop laughing.