When I looked in the mirror that morning, I reckoned I needed to quit spending my nights in the Saunders’ corn fields. I looked a mess and a half. My eyes gave me a scare, motion picture ghoul eyes. Black circles blemished my pale skin, not the way I cared to be noticed.
The way I had it figured, the trauma of last night gave me such a fright I passed out. Didn’t wake up ‘till first call of the rooster. Still early enough to slip back inside before Dad crawled out of bed.
For my troubles, all I managed last night was Thomas’s verified identity. Well, that and the realization ghosts can indeed hurt the living. The cut on my back proved that theory beyond a doubt. Dad always preached to believe in absolutes. The facts never lie, he’d say. I wondered what he’d make of a factual ghostly wound. Plain and simple, he wouldn’t believe it. Can’t rightly blame him, either.
But there sat the proof on my back, a little forget-me-not from the world beyond. The cut itself wasn’t bad, just about an inch-and-a-half long. Not too deep, the bleeding had long clotted. I’d had worse paper cuts. Still, even in the bright of morn, the thought of what had cut me shook me head to toe.
Now, I’d be a downright liar if I claimed all of last night’s sleeplessness rested primarily on the ghosts in the cornfield.
Don’t reckon I realized that, either, until I found myself almost absentmindedly applying make-up.
I’d worn make-up before. Usually on the rare occasion I went to church or out to dinner with Dad. So I kept it around, waste not, want not. Just hadn’t had much call for it lately.
Yet, even though I looked like The Mummy, ol’ Imhotep himself, this morning I wanted to present myself in a different light.
Because of James, dammit.
I’d been more than curt with him yesterday, maybe a little scratchy around the edges. And I certainly wouldn’t mind enlisting him as a partner in solving Thomas Saunders’ presumed death if I hadn’t pushed him away. Course the fact the partner in question was cute played a part in it all, too.
Shameful, I know. Entirely unlike me.
Beleaguered, I stared into the closet full of nice clothes, left-behinds from Mom. All of them stylish, even by today’s ever-changing standards. I’d never worn Mom’s pleated skirt before—never dared to—mainly because ghastly pink drenched it, the color the awful Suzette wrapped herself into. I knew pink represented femininity, but based on Suzette’s ridiculous airs, I associated the awful color with weakness more than anything.
Today wasn’t the day to try out the pleated skirt. Not even a cute boy made wearing pink palatable.
Tapered slacks in a perfectly inoffensive teal color would do nicely, a middle of the road compromise I could live with. I paired it with a white shirt and a sorta mustard colored pullover that clung to the neck.
As I modeled before the mirror, I turned every which angle, agonizing over my bold rebirth. While I’d never fetch the most alluring beauty prize at a fair, my mirror managed not to break either.
I returned to deliberating over the make-up. Clearly, the eyeliner was too much, probably even against school code. In the bathroom, I scrubbed and scrubbed until the flesh around my eyes went from black to red. Even worse, it made me look like I’d been crying, something I’d never allow Suzette and her little hellions to see, not in this lifetime.
Angry, nervous, I scrubbed and started over. Finally, I got the base right, the foundation of my face. Mom’s long abandoned hairspray filled the hair and hardened my hair into place. Playful and daring, I puckered my lips into a red oval and kissed the mirror. I giggled at the left-behind prints, perfectly molded. My mind wandered and I allowed it to indulge in what it’d be like to press those lips against James’. Of course he’d have to give up smoking. Kissing an ashtray sounded like it’d leave a lot to be desired.
Before I chickened out, I grabbed my books and rumbled down the stairwell.
In his usual spot, behind the cover of the Gazette, Dad munched on cereal. For some reason, he rarely used milk. As a result, our breakfasts always resulted in loud affairs.
I planned to rush through breakfast, hoping Dad wouldn’t draw aside his shroud of newsprint.
“Morning, Dad.” I filled my bowl, less than the usual amount.
“Morning. Sleep well?”
“Like a baby on a log.”
He chuckled at my mixed metaphor, the way he always did. The paper accordioned together, the pages met. The paper below his chin, he took a long look at me.
In the hallway, the clock ticked. Inside my chest, my heart tocked. Finally, he grinned. I mighta understood his reaction better had he gone the other way.
My cheeks, forehead reached mercurial and dangerous levels of red.
“My, my, my, you look nice today, Dibby.”
I shrugged. “Thanks.”
“Any reason in particular?”
Before he began that odd ritual parents enjoyed, belittling their children about crushes and what not, I bottled his mischievous genie. “There’s some kinda school photos today or something. For the yearbook. Just thought I’d try and make an effort.”
His smile turned warm, far from condescending. “It’s a mighty fine effort, Dibby. You look very pretty.”
By now, my cheeks matched the bright rose red of my painted lips. I employed my other battle tactic: switching topics. “Dad?”
“Hmmm?” He settled the paper down, crossed his legs. Attentive parent position.
“Are you keeping something from me about the Saunders next door?” I needed to force Dad into talking. Eventually he’d come around, he always did, even if it took some coaxing. The lessons we both learned over “the birds and the bees” debacle were hard to forget. Although he’d been more mortified and embarrassed over that particular talk than me, he discovered I never let go of my inquisitive nature.
“Again with the Saunders. Dibby…why’re you so interested in them? Why now?” Lines scrimmaged across his forehead. “You’ve lived here fifteen—”
“Almost sixteen.”
“…fifteen years and never showed a wink of interest. Now, suddenly, they’re …the Beatles or something.”
“I wouldn’t quite—”
“Just put the Saunders out of your mind. Leave them be.”
“Why? What’s—”
“I have my reasons. Just listen to me.” He achieved that intimidating lower tone, rarely used and one not to take light-heartedly. He retreated behind his newspaper.
“Fine.” I left my cereal unfinished and emptied the remains into the sink. At the door, I figured I’d give him one more shove. Make a fast getaway if I needed to.
“Dad, did you know Mrs. Saunders had a son? An eight year old?”
Time may as well’ve stopped. The newspaper, usually so crinkly in his hands, drew taut. From behind the paper, he said, “Have a good day at school.”
As I walked to my bike (no running, not in my fancy duds), an unsettling notion dropped on me. Maybe James was right about parents and their penchant for lying to their children.
* * *
The farther I rode, the more uncomfortably my girly attire fit. The pants chafed my legs, wanted to ride up into tender parts. Worse, my clothing choice gnawed at me, a less than reassuring start to my day. Sometimes a small itch could grow into a festering pimple.
Lost in worry, I nearly had a head-on collision on Oak Grove Road with ol’ Boot Gunderson, Hangwell’s telephone operator.
Boot seemed an odd name for a man who had two legs, but only one arm. A victim of the Big War (although I’m still unclear as to which big war Boot fell victim to; he purt near seemed old enough for either), he’d left his arm overseas, but not his uniform. Every day about this time, Boot hightailed it to work on foot, marching down the road to imaginary military anthems, dressed to the nines in his army uniform. He’d been the telephone operator in Hangwell since the phone had been invented, I reckoned, alternating with Gretchen Singer, a notorious busybody.
But if you ever needed to know someone’s business, know where they were at a certain time of day or night, you rang up Boot and he’d set you straight. Thanks to the party lines prevalent throughout Hangwell (again, another antiquated item that could use modernizing), Boot could tell you in a blink where so-and-so was. One of Hangwell’s most colorful, yet creepy, citizens, I generally tried to steer clear of him. I ‘spose Boot was harmless enough, but he gave me the willies, and not the good Starlight Cinema kind either.
Just a foot or so away from Boot, I dragged my heals to a hesitant halt. He reached over and snagged my handlebars.
“Well, now, Dibby Caldwell, if I don’t live and breathe!” One eye squinted like Popeye, the other sized me up. His sea salty chortle just added to the cartoon caricature. “If you’re not a living doll this morning. What’s the occasion? Hah?” He lifted a hand to his cauliflower ear, cupped it. “Huh?” Everyone knew you had to raise your voice to the heavens when speaking to Boot, which made him an odd choice for phone operator.
“Morning, Mr. Gunderson. Just on my way to school.”
“Looking like that? You gonna kiss the boys and make ‘em cry?” Another bray.
I reckoned if Dad hadn’t instilled a good dose of manners in me, I might’ve planted my foot right on top of his. But, frankly, I didn’t want to touch him, not even through my shoe.
My skin crawled like a kazillion ants. I wanted nothing more than to get away from him.
I tried a smile, found a grimace winning out. “No sir. I wouldn’t do that. Just…going to school. Picture day.”
He stepped back, surveyed me again top to bottom. “Yessir. Purty as a picture you are.” His lecherous smile dropped. Tar-discolored fingertips massaged his whiskers. Then he leaned in close to lock one open eye on mine. “Listen to me, girly. You be careful out there. Ya’ hear me? I reckon Hangwell’s not nearly as safe as some folks make it out to be. I know things. I hear things. Purty thing like yourself ‘specially oughta’ be careful.”
“Yes sir.” My voice quivered, my usual angry or frightened response. I managed to wrest control of my handlebars, then quickly got my bike up to speed. “Gotta’ get to school,” I called back.
“You hear me, Dibby Caldwell? Just mark my words! You be careful!”
I pushed my pedals harder, leaving Boot far behind. Hearing about the hidden dangers of Hangwell from the man I believed responsible for a good deal of them seemed about as fruitful as spitting in the wind. Then again, never judge a book by its cover, Dad always said. But sometimes it’s hard to ignore a moldy, sodden, rotten cover.
My first day as the new Dibby Caldwell hardly kicked off in the rip-roaring sensation I’d imagined. I suppose a silly part of me, the goofy little head in the stars schoolgirl, expected there to be a coming-out party of sorts, a belle of the ball scenario, nothing but flying doves and long belled trumpets and a stuffy ol’ British guard announcing my glorious arrival. All of the incredibly silly little girl stuff I thought I’d put away a long time ago along with my teddy-bear, nightlight, and Mom’s departure.
More than ever, I considered wheeling back around, zipping home, and changing into my overalls or jeans. Something that felt natural, that wouldn’t draw attention.
What was I thinking?
But it’d mean passing by creepy Boot Gunderson again, something I’d rather not do more than once a day.
At the last minute, I decided to bypass Main Street and instead hightailed it down Hollow Crick Road, the less traveled street one block over.
Unlike Main Street, the shop proprietors of Hollow Crick opened up a bit later, something I had counted on. Of course, the corner gas station seemed to never close, Darryl Mooney was out in his flawless uniform pumping gas and talking up a mean streak from the back end of a customer’s Buick. He hollered something unheard to me. I poured on the speed and buzzed right past him with a wave.
Round the corner I flew, cut back to Main, and came up on the grade school.
Part of the architecture, Odie Smith sat in his preferred swing, nibbling away at his muffins. He risked loosening a hand from the swing’s chain to pitch up a fast how-do-you-do.
I stopped, dropped my feet. Waved. And honestly considered riding up the hill to have a chat with Odie. Next to Boot Gunderson, Odie Smith was considered the second best fount of information on town legend, past and present.
Except for one other townsperson, of course, and the less said about her the better.
But unlike Boot and the woman who shouldn’t be named, Odie was a friendly sort, a non-scary fella, the kind of guy you’d see sitting in church every Sunday and helping ol’ Mrs. Pederson (before she died, natch, and I harbored no doubt Odie was already planning to be a pallbearer at her funeral; he was at practically everyone else’s) cross the street.
“Morning, Odie,” I called out, remembering to call him by his first name, “you got a minute to—”
“You look fetching this morning, Dibby! Got a new boyfriend?”
With that tossed out on the wind for all of Hangwell to hear, I redirected course and went to school. Wished I woulda’ cut for the day and gone fishing instead.
* * *
Late as usual, I wheeled right up to the rack and jumped off. At the first bell, I raced up the steps. Outside of my classroom, I straightened my slacks before entering.
First thing I saw pretty much set me crashing into an iceberg. Suzette hovered over James at his desk, unashamedly flirting with him. Fluttering those goofy—clearly fake—eyelashes like bat wings and playing with the silly baby doll bow holding up her ghastly pink potato sack jumper. She knew how to utilize her long blonde hair and whipped it around, making sure it grazed James’ face.
Then all heads turned toward me.
Upon seeing me, Suzette opened up her big mouth. She released a whoop akin to a pig realizing it’s bacon day. Her lacquered claws came up, pointing at me.
“What happened to you, Dibby?” she screeched. “Did someone hit you with the pretty stick?”
A bout of laughter infected the room. Suzette’s foul cronies formed a supportive circle around their leader. I burned hot, boiling in a stew of embarrassment, humiliation, hurt, and anger. Anger not only at Suzette and her stupid followers, but at myself for ignorantly believing I could dress-up without being put on parade. Mostly, though, I hated myself for trying to change into one of them.
The laughter continued, a record stuck in a groove.
My fingers curled into my palms. The power of my fists took up a mind of their own, ready to share some anger. Flabbergasted and useless, Mrs. Hopkins stood before the chalkboard, pointing stick in hand.
More insults were hurled. But they flew past me, my mind and ears pretty much blockaded.
All that mattered was James. His brow furrowed as he stared at me. While he hadn’t joined the hyena-like caterwauling, his response seemed far worse. As if disappointed, he shook his head, held a suppliant hand out toward me in a what in the tarnation did you do to yourself? gesture.
Rather than pounding some humanity into Suzette, I backed up onto the high road, and skedaddled out of there. If they wanted to suspend me for cutting class, I’d smile, curtsey, and help them fill out the paperwork.
Anything would be better than facing the classroom again. And James’ clear disenchantment with me and sudden infatuation with the fanged she-devil Suzette.
* * *
Never a body part to beat around the bush, my gut made a strong case for James’ betrayal. But my gut tended to be one of the more traitorous parts of my body, leading me astray on more than one occasion. On the opposing side, my brain argued that Suzette was just flirting with James, no clear two-ways about it.
But honesty’s the best policy—so Grams used to tell me, at least—and if I couldn’t be honest with myself, then I may as well give up, crawl in bed, and let tears wash me away. Either way, tossing a fit hardly seemed like the answer.
Childish pettiness aside, I suppose I had no claim on James, no stake on his heart. We hadn’t even gone on a date and most definitely weren’t going steady. I’d known him all of one afternoon.
So why had his flirtation with Suzette plugged my heart full of lead? Just more silly, hormonal girl stuff, the junk of those creaky ol’ Harlequin romances at the library.
I laughed, pretended like logic had worked its miracles again. But it hadn’t.
Fact of the matter was I couldn’t deny the allure of deep, brown eyes, a strong chin, and a roguish smile. And James had all of that and a dollar.
Not to mention he’d shown interest in me. For a change, me.
Still…
Slowly, I crept my bike down the road toward our house. I truly hoped Dad had been called away. Not that I ever wished for folk to die for personal gain, mind you. That’d be tantamount to flipping nickels with ol’ Death himself, and I’d come close enough to that last night, thank you very much.
I just didn’t feel up to one of Dad’s heartfelt talks, usually designed to wring tears from at least one of us. Not to mention the unfortunate, but understandable, fact I’d cut class.
Fate smiled kindly on me. The drive sat empty, Dad’s hearse gone. I sped across the gravel, bumped through the yard, and hid my bike behind the house. The longer Dad suspected I was at school, the longer I had to build a stronger defense for myself. Maybe catch up on some much needed sleep, too.
As I stood next to Evelyn Saunders’ corn field, curiosity lured me in. A quick look around didn’t mean much as I couldn’t rightly see over the tall stalks anyhow, but I figured if Devin Meyers had been out working the field, I’d at least hear him or see some stalks swaying.
On tip-toes—not that it mattered a hoot-and-a-half, it just felt right—I crept toward the rotting picket fence, stepped over a fallen slat, and snuck into the field. In the daylight, the crops adopted a healthier persona. Alive under the sunlight, the greens appeared more natural and the yellows provided a lovely contrast. At first the sun-licked rows threw me off-track, but soon enough I stumbled upon my well-trodden path from the night before.
Maybe my stubborn nature just wanted to confirm I hadn’t dreamed the entire ordeal, or maybe I hoped to find more clues, but I was drawn to the field as surely as a child is drawn to candy.
I felt a pang of guilt, just a smidgeon, when I realized the extent of the damage I’d caused last night. I’d trampled more stalks than I’d imagined. They lay broken and wounded, sad amongst their healthy brethren. The spot where I’d toppled was easy enough to find, the shape of my body (and do I really look like that?) outlined by surrounding, standing stalks. Down on my knees, I looked closely at the ground. I found my footprints, one fitting my foot like Cinderella’s slipper. But further searching turned up nothing. Ghosts didn’t leave behind footprints.
A sudden, tuneless melody nearly shuttered my heart.
I jumped to my feet and listened.
Not very far away, most assuredly in the corn field, the whistling grew louder. Stalks whisked, someone brushing gently past them. Briefly, the whistling stopped. A man grunted. Not a grunt of anger or dismay, rather it carried the calm of a man perplexed, working things out in peaceful solitude.
The whistling resumed, the man not too terribly fraught. But very much coming my way.
I had to get out of there.
Carefully, I stepped over the stalks that lay in my path. Thirty feet or so of field stood between me and where I’d entered. The dull white of the fence glowed beneath the afternoon sunlight.
Two rows over, I saw Devin Meyers’ ball cap bobbing along with his peculiar waddle. I dropped into a squat, made like a four legged varmint. On all fours I followed the dirt-packed row to freedom.
“Well, I’ll be…” Devin said it under his breath, to himself, a man nonplussed. No doubt seeing the damage I’d perpetrated in his field. Carefully he divided a path through the stalks, entered, aimed in my direction.
Ten more feet to the fence…
Devin Meyers stepped into the row behind me.
I leaped for the fence, stuck myself in between the slats. Mr. Meyers gave me an eyeful.
Fast on my feet, I reversed direction, and pretended I’d just climbed into the corn field.
“Oh, you gave me a start,” I said, by no means a lie. “You must be Mr. Meyers. I’m Dibby. Dibby Caldwell, your neighbor next door.” I approached him, hand out. Without saying a word, he tilted back his ball cap to fully gander at me. After he wiped his hand on a red handkerchief, he accepted my hand in his. My shake gave it all, showed Mr. Meyers some steel. Pumped up and down, then released.
“Well, good morning to you, Dibby.” He grinned, showcasing tobacco stains and damaged gums. But it was a friendly enough grin, a right neighborly one. “I’ve seen you around, sure, but I reckon we’ve never had the privilege of actually meeting.”
“Reckon you’re right, sir. I hope you don’t mind my intrusion, but I swear I saw a coyote dash in here just now. Thought I’d shoo him away. Now I know they’re primarily carnivores, but if you listen to legend, they’ll take to corn like it’s dog food if given the opportunity.”
Mr. Meyers tipped his head back and laughed at the sun. “Sounds to me like you’re a well-educated young lady. Speaking of which…” He lowered his head and his eyelids drooped in a suspicious manner. “…why ain’t you in school?”
“Oh…well, I was feeling under par, so they ran me and my germs on home.” I shuffled, stuck my hands in my pockets. Toed the dirt. Adults knew how to make kids feel guilty. Whether they actually were never seemed to rightly matter.
“Looks like you were par enough to go coyote hunting.”
I shrugged. “I’m feeling better. I just didn’t want the coyote to damage your corn stalks, healthy as they look and all.”
Suspicion slipped away into a sort of Santa Claus gentility. He took his hat in hand and allowed me a better view. Grime covered his forehead and cheeks. Sweat drove it into small black tears of mud. His hat line divided worm-belly, white skin from sun-bothered flesh. Small, animal-like eyes kept on the prowl, skitting this way and that, but not without kindness. A wealth of wrinkles rode his forehead, surrounded his eyes with tough leather, more proof that he fought a losing battle with the sun. Strands of hair stretched sparingly across the top of his head, while bushels of it stuck to his temples and sprouted from his ears. As I’d only known him from a vague boogeyman status, his gentle nature caught me off-guard.
He swayed his hat back and forth, trying to beat the heat. “I appreciate that, Dibby, I surely do. But I don’t reckon your papa would look kindly on your crawling through my fields and hunting for coyotes. Particularly when you’re sick.”
“It’s no problem at all, Mr. Meyers. I’m glad to be of help.”
“That damn ol’ coyote—‘scuse my French—must’ve got to some of my stalks.” He switched his lips back and forth as if searching for a forgotten lump of chew. “Plum done tore ‘em up to hell and back.”
Guilt saddled up on my back and rode me hard. “I’ll be glad to keep an eye out for the coyote, Mr. Meyers. Shoo ‘em away with Dad’s rifle should I see ‘em prowling around again.”
He took a step toward me. Again, he wiped his hand on his kerchief. Then ruffled my hair as if I was a toddler, a boy one to boot. “I ‘preciate that mightily, Dibby. I surely do. But…it ain’t your place to be doing a man’s job. And I suspect your papa wouldn’t take kindly to you doing me any favors either.”
When on fishing expeditions, sometimes the pole dang near baits itself. “I doubt that. My daddy loves helping people.”
As in the Wolfman movies, Mr. Meyers’ face transformed, step-by-step. First, he grimaced. Then he chuckled, just once and dry as the desert. Gazing down at his feet, he kicked a boot. When he looked up again—still not at me—he appeared lost, eyes clouded by memory, somewhere else entirely. Squinting hard as if locking up some base emotion.
More than a bit hesitant, he said, “I’m mighty sorry, Dibby, but it just ain’t my place to tell you why your daddy might find issue with you being here.” Turned on a dime, he mussed my hair again, and I really wished to high heaven adults would cut it out. “Now you run along home, you hear me? Thankee kindly for the heads up on that ol’ coyote.”
He stuck his arm out, finger pointing, showing me the way home.
* * *
I’ve read that catching up on sleep is like snipe-hunting, nothing more than a myth. But the second my head hit the pillow (after scrubbing off the make-up, of course), the wonderful shut-eye that followed surely felt like catching up.
While the ghosts took a holiday, the caller at the doorbell surely didn’t, ringing away like Sunday church bells.
Half awake, I sat up. An opossum had crawled inside my mouth and died, leaving me parched and gummy. I didn’t want to see anyone but the afternoon caller’s persistence couldn’t be denied.
Bing-donggg…bing-donggg…bing, bing, bing…
Honestly, I’d rather have smothered myself with my pillow, but Dad would never forgive me if I’d become his next customer. Or if the visitor was a customer in need of Dad’s services.
After I hauled myself out of bed, I glanced in the mirror and frowned at the silly cowlicks poking up in back. I looked a fright. Rubbing sleep from my eyes didn’t do anything to diminish my appearance. Beauty sleep appeared not to shine on me.
Quickly as a brain bothered by fog would allow, I jumped into regular folks’ clothing.
If a door-to-door salesman stood on our stoop, I vowed to run after him with a pitchfork. My hand on the doorknob, I snuck one last peak in the foyer hanging mirror, frowned again at my image.
But at least it was the real me. None of that childish make-up and dolly clothes to impress a boy.
I whipped open the door, nearly squeaked like a mouse caught in a trap.
Bent forward, James appeared confused, doorbells apparently non-existent in Los Angeles. Poker-faced, he straightened and said, “Dibby.” Not a salutation, no excitement, just a factual statement.
Panic set my body to full alert. I performed an impromptu dance-step, ending with an awkward pat at the damned cowlick on the back of my head. Not that James noticed. He just sorta looked around, peered over my shoulder.
I struggled to think of something witty to say. I came up with, “What?”
A smile wiped away James’ dim-witted appearance. “You feeling okay, Dibs? Man, you cut out fast. I got worried.”
The hallway clock chose that inopportune time to chime three o’clock. James should’ve still been at school, just getting out. “What about you? Shouldn’t you be at school?”
His jean jacket shoulders pinched up with a shrug, stayed that way briefly before falling back in place. “Hey, you know, study hall. I don’t need study hall. I bugged out. Everyone was buzz, buzz, buzzing about you. Thought I’d, you know, check up on you.” Another shrug, a poor substitute for emotion.
“You’re gonna get in trouble, James. Especially as a new—”
“Hey, no sweat. Trouble and me, we’re no strangers. But I couldn’t help it, practically up a tree all day long about you. I mean, you show up, then beat feet.” He knew how to use his eyes, leaned in with the practiced soul of a puppy dog. “So, you okay?”
“Right as rain. No need to worry ‘bout me. I can take care of myself.” It seemed silly, standing there, having the conversation in the doorway. But I felt guarded. And I’d let my guard down already with James.
“I know you can, Dibs. But…why’d you wig out?”
“I did not wig out, nor did I bug out, or whatever you wanna call it! I left because I plain and simple wanted to! And I don’t owe you any explanations and I don’t mean maybe!”
“Okay, geez, don’t blow a gasket. I didn’t mean anything. Really. I was just worried about you, that’s all.”
“Didn’t look like it to me.” Immediately I wished I could lasso the words right back in.
“What?” Like a tortoise-slow sunrise, realization dawned on him. “Oh… Oh. You mean Suzette?” He grinned and I surely wanted to turn that the other way around. “She’s nothing. Pffft. I knew girls like that back in L.A. They’re a dime a dozen, those broads.”
Seeing as how I practically needed a slang dictionary to decipher James’ odd speech, I intuited enough to realize I may’ve jumped the gun in my assumptions. Just a bit. “Looked to me like she was right special to you this morning.”
“Hey, she’s nowhere! I can’t help it she wouldn’t leave me alone. The minute I got there, she was on me like white on rice. Nothing to it, baby.”
Of course, my heart pit-patted. In a good way. But I knew he was slick, too slick. A boy to watch out for, the kind Dad told me to stay away from. Which, I suppose, made him that much more exciting. “You telling me the truth?”
“Nothing, but.” He held up three fingers, waffled with a fourth, absolutely messing up the Boy Scouts’ sign. “Come on, Dibs. Like I said, those girls are so…Dullsville. They’re all the same. All stylish clothes, fancy make-up, giggles all the time. Just…phony, phony, nothing but baloney, dig?”
I dug alright. But he was doing a right good job of shoveling it even deeper. “I’m sure Suzette and her little hellion squad had nothing but awful things to say about me.”
His hands went up, neither confirming or denying. No matter. I knew the truth. After one day, I could read James’ body language. Nervously, his finger ringed his collar.
I let him off the hook. “Let ‘em gab. They’ll be that way their whole lives.”
“Yeah. I think so, too.” James looked up at the sun, drew his arm across his forehead, clearly not used to the Midwest heat. Might do him a world of good if he reconsidered wearing his jean jacket all the time. “Hey, can I come in, Dibs? Maybe get a glass of water?”
He’d earned passage. “I suppose so. But if Dad comes home, you might wanna hightail it outta here.”
“But I thought your ol’ man sounded like one of the good ones.”
“He is. But, trust me, if he catches a boy here, he’ll grill you like a hotcake. A nice and toasted one.”
He said nothing, just breezed by me. “Ah, I know how to handle adults. No sweat.”
While I didn’t necessarily buy into his secret mastery of the world of adults, he was definitely dead wrong about the “no sweat” part. He looked soaked through to the bone. “I’ll get that glass of water. If you’re so hot, you might take off your jacket.”
He shrugged. Kept it on. For a boy who claimed he didn’t care about the appearances of the tarted up girls at school, he sure put a lot of thought and care into his looks.
When I came back with the water, he’d taken up residence on the den’s sofa, one arm draped over the back of it. He patted a hand on the cushion next to him. I ignored him and sat down in Dad’s recliner next to the sofa. Over the coffee table, I handed him the glass.
Disappointed, his cocky grin slipped away. He hid it well behind the glass as he gulped the water down.
“So…your Dad’s gone? I mean…not like he’s ‘gone’.” He wiggled finger quotes. “Gone like he’s not here now?”
“I said he wasn’t here, didn’t I?”
“Fab! Can I see where he works?” James shot off the sofa.
“That’s not a good idea. I gave it some thought and it’s just not worth the trouble.”
“Ah, c’mon, Dibs, your old man’ll never know. I won’t touch a thing, I swear.”
“Dad made the rules to—”
“You’re kidding, right? Let me clue you in on something. The squares wanna lord it over us with their rules. No rock ‘n roll, no fun, no nothing. That’s the only kinda life they know. But times are changing. You need to live life a little, baby…”
He rattled on like a beatnik poet, going round and round and headed nowhere. But he had a point. Maybe it was time for me to explore my world a little, branch out from beneath Dad’s protective wing. Earn my own adult wings and learn to fly. I faced a mighty perplexing crossroads. I was the only one who could make my adulthood happen, yet Dad seemed pretty adamant about keeping me underfoot as his little girl.
As I tuned back into James’ goofy soap-boxing, I’d made up my mind.
“…squares, baby, nothing but squares.” Out-of-breath, James drew a lopsided square with his finger. “S…q…u—”
“Fine. Let’s go.”
“What?”
“I said, let’s go. Don’t stand there gawping. You wanna see where Dad works or not?”
“You’re the ultimate, Dibs. Let’s beat feet!”
“Hold your horses.” I stuck an authoritative hand high. “I’ve got some ground rules—”
“Always rules,” he grumbled.
“You can’t touch anything. And you can’t ever, ever tell anyone. If we hear my dad coming, you’re gonna hightail it out the back door. You understand?”
He nodded, held up his half-way Scouts sign again.
“Alright, then. Let’s go.” I gave the hallway clock a glance. 3:32 P.M. Of course that didn’t mean beans when it came to Dad’s work schedule. Some days he’d be gone all day, others he’d slip out for fifteen minutes. I’d struck the match, though, ready to play with the fire. While I knew this particular fire could likely burn, a larger fire blazed within me, smoldering with excitement.
Down the main hall we went, past the kitchen, and into the extension wing my ancestors had started years ago.
“Man…this place is, like, a maze or something. It just keeps going.” Clearly awed, James craned his head around, taking in the sights like a kid visiting Disneyland.
“When my great grandfather started the funeral home, it was only ‘bout half this size. My relatives just kept adding on and built this new wing to accommodate the flood of new customers.”
James laughed. “I guess there’s no shortage of old geezers kicking off around here, huh?”
“It’s not just the ol’ folks who up and die in Hangwell.”
That put his laughter on the skids.
We turned the corner into another hallway, leaving windows with hints of sunshine far behind. I reckoned Grandpa figured the dead didn’t need sunlight. The lighting grew dim, small bulbs dangling at evenly measured intervals. James stopped to look at the array of photos lining the wall.
“Who’s this?” He pointed toward Grandpa standing in front of an early incarnation of our home, chest out, and thumbs hooked behind his suspenders.
“Grandpa. The second Caldwell in the funeral home business.”
“Boss! You gonna’ take over the business some day?”
My immediate, post-Hangwell plans had been set in stone and definitely not the tombstone type either. “Heck no! I can’t wait to leave Hangwell and go to college.”
James just nodded. I imagined he hadn’t heard me, completely entranced by the surroundings.
I pushed through a set of swinging teal doors. Beyond the doors a cement ramp descended at a slight decline.
“Too, too much,” said James. “Why the ramp?”
“There used to be stairs, but Dad thought it took too much effort hauling bodies up and down them. So he poured the concrete and built the ramps.”
“Wanna race our bikes down here?”
“Over my dead body.” Recognizing my faux pas, I knocked on the wood paneling, not caring to rile things up. Just a precaution.
The paneling—the last of the homey touches—gave way to red brick walls. James trailed his fingers down the old and seen better days walls. “Man, these are cold.”
“Today they are, but not always.”
“Really? Why?”
“On the other side’s the oven. Where Dad cremates the bodies.”
James yanked his hand away as if bitten by a rattler. As much as he huffed and puffed, I wondered if he was truly prepared for the sights ahead.
Around the corner, we descended a second ramp leading to the bottom level. The floor leveled out into a space large enough to wheel bodies around on a gurney. A solemn wood door, reinforced with steel, stood to the right. Ahead of us sat two swinging doors, well-used and worn down. Color had drained from the original teal color of the doors into an appropriately death-like gray. The sheen of the metal door plates had worn off, buffed into blandness. Fingerprints smudged the plates while dried specks of blood dotted the door bottoms.
I took James through the single door first.
“Wow.” Truly astonished, maybe in reverence to the recently departed, James’ voice melted into a whisper.
“This’s the crematorium. Over there’s the oven,” I said.
Slowly, James crept toward the filthy and scuffed oven door set into the brick chimney. As if afraid of what he might see on the other side, he made several jackrabbit starts and stops before peering through the little porthole window.
“I can’t see anything.”
“Course not. It’s not fired up. Even when it’s on, there’s not a whole lot to see. At least that’s what Dad tells me.”
“How’s it work? I mean, how does he burn the bodies up? Can we open it?”
For the most part, I noticed James’ hep lingo had fallen by the wayside, maybe sticking closer to his true character. And I liked what I saw, no putting on airs, no bluster, just up front and honest.
“I’m not gonna do that. But…let’s see what I remember about it…” Course I remembered. Just like James, the crematorium held a special fascination for my macabre sensibilities, too. “After preparing the body, Dad sticks it in a coffin or container. Then a trolley wheels the body into the retort, which is the chamber where the fire fries ‘em to dust. The walls are made of layers of heat-resistant bricks, so the whole house doesn’t go up in smoke.”
“I betcha the fire gets hot. Really hot.”
“Dad used to use coal, but that was a lot more work. He switched to propane not too long ago. In the olden days, back in Grandpa’s days I reckon, they used to just heap the bodies on a pyre. Living with a mortician, I learn a lot. You should see the newsletter Dad gets.” I rolled my eyes. “Wasn’t ‘till this year, in fact, that the Catholics finally lifted a ban on cremation. Dad says that’s why the town Catholics don’t cotton too much to him.” I moved around the corner to the control panel on the wall. “The big green and red buttons are pretty much self-explanatory, I reckon.”
Flames seemed to dance in James’ pupils, the green button an alluring temptress. Before he gave in to his delinquent calling, I dragged him out of the room.
Still in a dumb sorta daze, he asked, “How do you want to die? I mean, when it’s your time?”
He lobbed the question at me from left field. I’d never given such notions much deliberation, not at my age. Frankly, it spooked me a bit that James had.
“James, we’re still young. We don’t need to be thinking of such things. Now, over here—”
“But, Dibs, we could go just like that.” He whipped a hand up and snapped his fingers. “I mean, any of us, no matter our age. Even if we’re in great shape or whatever. Any of us.” He gripped my arm, held it firm. Glared at me with the conviction of ol’ Judge Wilbur.
“I understand what you’re saying. I surely do. But I’m not gonna live my life that way, looking for the reaper over my shoulder, worrying every lil’ wart and bump and pimple to death. That ain’t living life at all. That’s just waiting. Now, leggo my arm.”
He let go of my arm, but appeared to still be hanging onto his dark thoughts. He rubbed his chin, stared at the swinging doors before him, but I had no clue what he really saw.
I’d never met anyone so dark before, young or old. Frankly, James scared me. Just a scooch. And it also made him that much more fascinating.
Course we were definitely in the right auditorium for such debate. “James…why are you like this?”
“Huh?” Clarity parted the dark clouds in his eyes, a welcome respite from stormy weather. “Ah, forget it. Everything’s copacetic, baby. What’s in here?”
The change happened fast. Contrary to what I’d thought earlier, I welcomed back James’ big-talking, hep cat persona. At least this side of James appeared to embrace life.
I led him through the double swinging doors and flipped the switches on the wall. Overhead, fluorescent lights snapped to life, flickering like a silent lightning storm. The room radiated with a pale yellow color, anything but natural.
“Dad’s workshop.” A nice way of hanging flowers on an ugly mule. Dad did everything down here from preparing the bodies for burial or cremation to shaping them into fair viewing again. It was no secret Dad could apply make-up tenfold better than I could, a fact that left me a might bit jealous. Sometimes Sheriff Grigsby called upon Dad inquiring as to the cause of death in a suspect case. What that entailed only led to nightmares, ‘specially when I looked at some of the tools hanging next to the sink, particularly the one that looked like giant hedge clippers. Sometimes, late at night, I imagined Dad cutting into one of our late neighbor’s chests, just chopping away. In my mind, I heard an awful crunching sound, a horribly similar noise to Dad’s gnawing on his dry cereal.
In fact, for what I imagined to be the messiest job in Peculiar County, Dad somehow kept his work space cleaner than freshly hung linen. He always lined his tools up, biggest to smallest, orderly like so much of his life. On his cart sat all manners of scalpels, something he called a trocar, various ointments and disinfectants (both for him and the deceased, I assumed). The sink, longer than the tallest fella Dad had ever buried by a foot, remained sparkling, fresh out of the box looking. Not even the drain in the bottom or the small crevices trailing to it looked used. Of course it never stopped me from imagining what kind of body fluids made the long trawl to the sewers below.
Next to the sink stood the grey chugging beast of an embalming machine that had scared me to death as a child. Still did, not that I’d tell a soul. But sometimes in my bedroom, three stories above, I could hear the machine gobbling blood and spitting back embalming fluid which carried a particularly nasty odor. On occasion—sometimes just out of the blue—the fluid’s smell struck me on my skin and clothes. Other times, I imagined the machine as a living beast, my dad doing its evil bidding by supplying it bodies. It’d shake back and forth, the tubes snaking from it, wiggling to and fro like living limbs. The metal grate grew giant grey teeth. The knobs above transformed into cold, dead eyes, not unlike monstrous “googly eyes,” the pupils rattling around in the otherworldly orbs. Dad had never let me see the machine actually operate, nor did I care to. In my mind, I’d witnessed more than enough, honest truth.
However, those were the ruminations of a child’s imagination set loose. Nothing I needed to worry about any more. On my few visits down to Dad’s workshop—at least the supervised ones he knew about—I’d never seen a drop of blood.
“Man, it’s freezing down here.” Even though clad in his jean jacket, James rubbed his arms.
“Yup. Dad likes it that way. Keeps the bodies preserved for as long as possible.”
James forgot about being cold, turned left and right, searching for something. and I had a good notion what that might be. Where I’d draw the line.
He strolled over to Dad’s workbench, admired the various sharp-edged tools adorning the wall. Next, he hunkered down, pored over the contents of the cart next to the bench.
“What’re these for?” A line of silver bells, each with a red ribbon thread through the top-loop, caught his eye. Anywhere else the bells’ sole purpose would be to gussy up Christmas. But not here. Not at Caldwell’s Funeral Home.
“It’s kinda silly, but Grandpa used to tie them onto the bodies’ toes.”
“Why?”
“’Cause back in the olden days, it was harder to tell if bodies were actually dead or not. So, if the toe started wiggling, the bell started jingling, and the corpse started singing.”
“Nuh-uhhh! Your old man ever hear any jingling? Wait…did he ever bury anybody alive?” I felt like snapping James’ jaw closed, nailing it shut, his behavior a might bit ridiculous.
“Not that I’ve ever heard.”
“Huh.” Disappointed, James raced toward the opposite wall, the one I wanted to keep him far away from. In front of the walk-in freezer, he stopped, his hand wavering over the door. “Is this…” He latched onto the protruding handle. Ready to pull up on it.
I raced across the lab, grabbed his arm and flung it away. “I told you not to touch anything!”
“Come on, Dibs. Just a look. I won’t tell a soul. Scout’s—”
Again, I yanked his arm down. His nonsense had worn me slick, just not in the mood. “You’re not looking in there, James.”
“But that’s where the dead bodies are, right? I just want a quick peek. Then I’ll—”
“I said no! Besides being disrespectful to the dead, you’re also disrespecting my wishes!” Aggravated, I stuck my hands on my hips, gave him a stare down, and wouldn’t back down come hell or high water.
Finally, he waved a flag of surrender. He sunk his shoulders, tried to work his pouty, soulful charm on me again. But I held firm.
A sudden, unsettling notion fairly gob-smacked me. Maybe James has more interest in the funeral home than me.
“We’re going back upstairs now. Then you’re going home.”
“But, Dibs, I didn’t mean to—”
“I don’t rightly care what you meant to do. You ever hear that actions speak louder than words?”
With one last forlorn look at the hypnotic freezer door, James skulked out ahead of me, his head hanging low. “Sorry.” He said it like a petulant child, just giving service to the words and not really meaning them.
And, dad gum, if I didn’t feel like his mother in that instant, wanting to tan his hide ‘till he screamed for mercy. Not exactly how I’d fancied myself with James, but then again, my fancy seemed fairly unreliable lately.
“Just go.” Before I pushed through the swinging doors, the left one swung inward and thumped James’ forehead. He staggered back, his arms propelling for a smooth landing.
Dad breezed in and, just as I had, stuck his hands on his hips. Through clench-teethed, he said, “Dibby. Who’s your little friend?”