We’d already lost enough time, so I figured I’d get right down to business. “Before you ask me what that was, James, I couldn’t tell you. I’ve never seen it, nor could I even venture a guess.”
“But…but it—”
“In Peculiar County, sometimes it’s just best not to think too much about things. Many folks—‘specially adults—find it’s a right nice plan for a happily-ever-after life here.”
“That’s what everyone does? Just not think about all the creepy stuff? I mean, sure, there’s the ghost dog—and I’m still not convinced that’s on the up and up—and then there’re your ghosts, but, you know, they’re—”
“Wait a minute! You don’t believe in my spooks? You think I’m fibbing?”
“No, no, nothing like that! It’s just… I can, you know, sorta understand ghosts. But I can’t even imagine what just happened to us. Or why. How do you guys put up with it? I mean, live here and everything?”
I shrugged. “You adapt, I reckon. A lotta’ adults are beyond being able to do such a thing, set in their ways as they are. So they choose to ignore what’s plain as the nose on their face. The kids, though, they’re a might bit more open to such things. I used to kinda fall somewhere in the middle. Dad taught me to believe in science, the facts of things. Concrete reasons behind anything that doesn’t quite fit. Thing is, he picked a really weird town to live those lessons. Or I guess he didn’t really pick Hangwell. His great-great-grandpa did. Still, I’d be a darn fool if I didn’t buy into some of the weird, otherworldly happenings in Peculiar County.”
“Man, I’ll say.”
“Now…you ready to go home, pull the blankets up over your head and hide? Or are you ready to go look in on a witch?”
“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto. Let’s go see the Wicked Witch of the West!”
I groaned. Years of outsiders’ stupid Kansas jokes never grew easier to tolerate.
While no one considered Hangwell a big town, the bike ride ahead of us was formidable, nonetheless. Hettie Williquette lived on the outskirts, her spooky abode hidden in the sticks. As the night—morning, now—drew on, our pace lagged, especially James’.
We peddled through downtown, quite a different sight in the wee hours. Every light had been doused, the Lewis and Clark Hotel tucked into a comfy darkness I envied. I figured at least the lampposts would still be blazing and I figured wrong. Another penny pinching, purse- tightening ploy by Mayor Hopkins, that no-good, so and so, as Dad liked to pontificate.
Shadows crawled out of shadows, making me reconsider how many different shades of black might actually exist. My imagination reached out and set up shop in alleyways, peeped out from around corners, and slithered behind drawn shades, a might bit scarier than the truth. Then again, normal rules never did apply, not in Hangwell.
We zipped past the grade school. A ghost had taken up Odie’s swing. It wobbled about drunkenly as if Odie’d just left it, and maybe he darn well had. No one knew the solitary mailman’s nighttime routine. In fact, now more than ever, I wondered if any of us in Hangwell truly knew our neighbors.
We left Main Street and sped by Hollow Crick Road. Chills chased after me as I snuck a quick peek—not too long, mind you—at the Hangwell Cemetery. Full of piss and vinegar tonight, the wind dosey-doed through the Judge’s tree’s naked tree limbs, whistling quite the jaunty melody. Clearly just a trick of my overheated imagination, I swore I glimpsed a silhouette of a man performing his own swing dance at the end of a rope. He spun, bounced, ended with a little bow before dropping slack.
I set my gaze ahead and didn’t look back.
We buzzed through the southern farmlands out yonder, destined for the desolate woods that might even give the stout Hansel and Gretel reason for pause.
Now out in the boonies, I slowed, gathered my bearings. Not many folks inhabited the area, practically forgotten by the more prosperous townsfolk. The powers that be—“the righteous Mayor Hopkins, that S.O.B.” according to Dad—didn’t deem the little dirt roads worthy of names. But I recognized the road Hettie lived on, could find it blind seeing as how it proved a worthy challenge for any kid worth her salt growing up in Hangwell. And in the wood’s darkness, we may as well have been blind.
I flicked on the flashlight and tried to steady it inside my bike basket. It didn’t produce a straight-on beam, but provided an ample, if unsteady, source of light.
We turned left on Dead Man’s Slip (a moniker the boys at the Tavern had deemed worthy of this orphaned road), deadly enough in the rain, drop the temperature a bit, and it well earned its name. Untamed by automobiles, the narrow dirt road proved rough riding.
“Wow, this is…a gasser.” Big shot words, but James voice folded into an unsure child’s. Dang near shaking in his boots, he studied the alien environment. Trees hulked over us, edging in when you looked the other direction.
The sounds, though—especially the unidentifiable ones—were what set me to my bike seat’s edge.
Cries, hoots, bellows, barks, clicks, caws, hums, and nearly audible whispers—punctuated by nerve-rattling sibilant sssssssssss’s—followed us deep into the woods. A network of varmints announced our arrival, passed it on, animal kindred to Boot Gundersen’s telephone board. But something else seemed at play, something unnatural riding upshot over the proceedings.
James looked fit to be tied. Truth be told, so was I.
Down a hill we raced, mounting speed to tackle the last incline. At the top, I stopped. James walked his bike up the last several feet, drinking in great mouthfuls of air and thankful for it.
Hettie Williquette’s clapboard of a rat-trap house nestled snugly in the center of an odd clearing. Guardian trees formed a near perfect circle around the witch’s abode. Only a fool doubted the trees’ true intent, or so said ol’ Hy Thurgood. Often, when deep in his cups, Hy spoke of how he once saw the trees come alive, dancing to beat the band. Most folks had a hard time separating the truth from Hy’s fevered benders in a bottle. These days, though, I tended to lean toward Hy being the savviest man in Peculiar County.
Although no one (‘cept for kids, of course) ever dared venture near Hettie’s land, her house remained an ongoing topic of dismay for town meetings, particularly the Baptist and Catholic contingent. They proclaimed the house a disgrace to the good moral fiber of Hangwell (questionable) and an eyesore (hit the nail on the head).
Faded shutters of a now indiscernible color sagged to one side, putting me in mind of Aunt Gertie’s face after her stroke. Paint had long fled the external walls, worn down to wood. Brick columns struggled valiantly to hold up the roof covering the front-length porch, but it sloped madly toward the right. Weeds you could get lost in rose up around Hettie’s house, a minor beard of color. I long suspected a strong gust of wind might just flatten Hettie’s house into a pancake. But against all odds, against all elements, it kept standing.
And bursting with life, too, by the looks of things. On the porch, in what passed for Hettie’s yard, and deep in the weeds, strolled a legion of cats. All kinds of cats, calico, Siamese, bobtails, long haired, short haired, no haired (quite a disturbing sight), cats I’d never seen before nor could I hook a name on, cats that’d surely been stirred to life in the magic of Hettie’s cauldron.
Until now, I hadn’t realized the rest of the wood-living varmints had quieted around us. Even creepier, the cats remained solemnly, spookily silent as the proverbial church mice. A couple glanced at us, then dismissed us as if bored.
Usually, country wild cats kept on the move, leaping out of garages and barns, then spinning away in a blur of bothered fur. Other than a wayward flick of the paw here or there, a swish of a tail, or a few mute yowls, Hettie’s feline zoo stayed impossibly inert.
“Wow…”
That’s all James said and it pretty much encapsulated my thoughts, too.
“What do we do now?” he whispered.
A fine question, one I’d burned a lot of grey matter over. Unfortunately, I still hadn’t come up with a decent answer. Standing in front of Hettie’s frightening hovel in the dead of night certainly didn’t encourage my exploratory nature.
Yet Hettie’s home lit up like the lights of Las Vegas, an invite—a dare—of sorts. Even the small attic above blazed with fire, an orange inferno brilliance poring through the tiny porthole window.
Unhealthy black smoke rose from the chimney. And something smelled, off and rank, something I didn’t want to lend a whole lot thought to.
I considered heading home, the sensible thing to do, particularly on a school night. But ever since James’ arrival, maybe due to his wild side influence, I’ve felt a calling of a different variety other than sensible.
My feet kicked me out of procrastinating. Next to the road, I leaned my bike against a tree, faced it North should we need a fast getaway. Quietly, I snaked my way through the trees toward the house. Stealthy, one with the shadows, I edged closer. James followed with the nerve-grating grace of a rhino, crunching up leaves and bashing into bushes. The cats paid no heed to his ruckus and thankfully, Hettie didn’t either.
Mismatched stacks of brick and rock propped up the leaning side of Hettie’s house, a patchwork foundation. I tip-toed up three wooden steps, warped and cracked like desert ground, to her porch. Behind moth-eaten curtains, I caught movement, flesh-colored flashes.
Music swelled, hypnotic. Chanting of a foreign nature, if I had to put a name to it. A voice rumbled low, then lifted a few steps above high-pitched. It struck me wrong, my cavity zinging like I’d chawed down on tin foil. To block the headache-inducing sound, I clamped my hands over my ears.
The noise affected James even harder. From behind a tree, he’d fallen to the ground. He winced, released his hands from around his ears, then gave me a finger meets thumb-tip, “a-ok” sign.
The caterwauling stopped. My ears quit ringing. Tenderly I touched both, inspected my fingers for blood, but came back dry.
I tiptoed around the porch cats. Tested my weight on the unforgiving floorboards. They squeaked and tattled. While softer now, the music from within covered for me.
Dizziness swept over me. The floorboards seemed to pitch and sway, a ghost ship moored in the woods. I saw double, triple, a world of porches shimmering off of one another. I clomped a hand—couldn’t be helped and hoped it wasn’t heard—beside a window and waited for the world to simmer down.
It did. Or could be I just got used to it.
Inside, the chanting continued. I peeked into the nearest window, but couldn’t see past the filthy, soot-covered curtain. My feet slid—assuring a steadier hold—toward the next window. Behind the grungy curtains, orange and red and yellow lights danced as if the house burned. Maybe plum dropped into Hell itself.
Through the narrowest parting of curtains, I got a gander, more than I’d bargained for. Lit candles formed a circle around the largely barren room. Wax melted onto the hard wood floors. In the middle, Hettie Williquette sat, naked as the day she was born. Cross-legged, hands on knees, centered within a crudely scrawled six-pointed star with a chalked circle enclosing it. Her bosom pulled down to her belly. As if tetched, her head swayed, her bun of hair bouncing to and fro.
But her eyes, Lord, I’d never seen anything like those.
They’d rolled up into her head, the best way—the only natural way—I could explain it. Big and white as bone, they stuck that way too, not at all like that stupid Donald Johannsen fixing his eyes all funny to scare the girls at school.
Hettie didn’t blink, not once. Blind, she saw nothing, yet observed everything.
Fascinated yet stomach troubled, I couldn’t pull away.
On Hettie’s body, a roadmap of squiggles, shapes, figures, and things that defied description had been inked in black. Several snakes seemed to writhe across her sagging breasts, then merged into one. A jag of dark lightning appeared on her cheek, then came alive, striking other parts of her body. It crawled down her neck, shot down over the hills of her breasts, and vanished into the valleys of her nether regions.
Blood wept from her eyes. Then it downright gushed out, spilling onto her body.
I locked a scream down tight with my hand. Too scared to run. And mesmerized, positively glued to witness the next unfolding atrocity.
Only then did I see the bowl in front of her. Not a witch’s cauldron, by any means. More like an ornately designed pot with two handles. A crude, horrific tableau wrapped around the pot: definable figures killing one another by stabbing, strangling, tearing off limbs, and methods of death beyond my ken to imagine.
Black smoke rose from the pot and billowed into the room. Just as suddenly, the smoke folded back on itself, compressed, and dove back inside its original dwelling.
Hettie reached inside—deep, deep inside, up to her shoulders inside, farther than the physical limitations of the pot could possibly allow inside—and pulled out a squirming critter by its leg. One of its six legs.
I choked back a scream and nearly gagged on it.
The critter wasn’t of a nature I’d ever seen, even in the movies. The six legs waggled from its black-furred body. The oval shaped head turned, rotated an impossible 180 degree twist. Two eyes set aside its head, all too human-looking eyes. And it looked right at me.
A shriek escaped me, loud and uncontrollable.
I tottered, dizzy again. Drawn back to the window—I don’t wanna look, I don’t wanna look, please don’t make me look…I absolutely have to look—I bent down. The curtain whipped back.
Thwump.
The tip of mad Hettie’s nose flattened against the dusty window, her eyes still turned up inside her skull. Her mouth opened wide, wider, too wide to be humanly possible. I stared into her maw of blackness. Deep within things squirmed, itching to come out, things I had no earthly desire to witness.
I screamed again.
Whatever smidgeon of humanity that still resided in Hettie must’ve pitied my absolute, pants-wetting terror. She closed her abyss of darkness. Thin slices of lips needled together and made a smile. One that said, Now, I’m going to eat you, my pretty.
With her crooked finger, she scrawled a message for me in the window’s dust: I see you.
Just like in the cartoons, I cycled my legs, working ‘em fast, but I couldn’t move. I twisted, nearly tripped on a calico cat nuzzling up against my legs. I hopped over him.
A massive black ball of fur dropped from nowhere, clumped onto the porch. The floorboards trembled. I’ve seen some plumpers, but the biggest cat I’d ever laid eyes on—tiger size and then some—glowered at me with green eyes. A spoon sized tongue lapped a hungry circle around its mouth.
Mrraowww…
More of a roar than a meow, the cat’s yowl sent the whole porch—possibly even the house—to pitching.
The front door opened with a thwack. Hettie, dressed now in a buttoned-up dress belted around the middle, jagged out a thin arm. Her crooked finger pointed at me. Everything about her was crooked: just like her house, her posture skewed to the side, her nose crept to the right, and her limbs connected to her lean frame with sharp angles and mean twists.
Out of my mind, I screamed again. Babbled nonsense. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, I’ll never do it again, I swear, sorry, sorry, just please don’t eat me…” On and on I went, my head and words mushed into a stew of terror.
Somewhere far away, I thought I heard James holler my name. Could be the monster cat said it.
Hettie smiled her crooked smile, kept that crooked finger hooking all the way to Hell and back.
Mind over matter, I forced my legs to work. I leaped over the tiger-cat, hurtled off the porch.
The ground rushed up. Knees bent, feet assured, I landed. Immediately, I sprung off into a sprint, dodging trees left and right. James stood by the road, waving my flashlight around like a loon. Urging me to run faster.
Behind me the cat-thing growled, deep and throaty and hungry as all get out.
I glanced back, wanted to know where Hettie was. She hadn’t moved. Frozen on the porch, finger crooked.
I’m gonna make it!
Just another 75 feet to my bike.
My arms flailed, beating the air.
In front of me, Hettie stepped out from behind a massive oak tree. Smiling. I whipped back around. Impossibly, she stood on her porch, too.
My feet tangled. I crunched down at Hettie’s booted feet.
Before I succumbed to the powers of the witch, Hettie Williquette, I thought: Maybe I should’ve pursued stupid, little girly things after all.
* * *
My head hurt. The desert had migrated into my mouth. Every little joint and inch of flesh banged away at its individual nerve ending, sending a message that pain belonged to the living.
As I rejoined the living, I wondered if I’d drawn the short straw. First thing I saw was ol’ Hettie hovering over me, warts and all. Her mess of black and white scraggly hair had escaped the tightly drawn bun, sticking out of her scalp like straw from a broom. Hettie let out a crow’s caw.
“Well, lookee here,” she said. “Little Dibby Caldwell’s back amongst the living.”
I sat up, attempted to get my bearings. Held captive in a small room, Hettie’s bedroom from the looks of things. The bed I lay on felt like the springs would bounce me right through the window and I surely wished it would.
“Um, yes, ma’am. You know who I am?”
“Course I do! Not much gets by me. Folks round here think I’m tetched, crazier than a loon.” She tapped a graying temple. “But I’ve got the sight of the third eye.”
Only third eye I’ve ever had the acquaintance with was a pimple planted smack-dab in my forehead, but that was neither here nor there. “I’m mighty sorry, Miss Williquette, for looking in your window.”
“And what was it you were hoping to see?”
“Tell the truth, I’m not sure. I just figured you might be able to help me. About Hangwell history. All the other adults ‘round here don’t like to chat about it much.”
“I see.” One of her eyes widened to the size of a golf ball, making it that much easier for her to see. Or hex me with her evil eye. “And what did you actually see through my window?”
“I…I don’t think I rightly know, ma’am.”
She cawed again, tossed her head back. “Course not, you little git! I knew you were coming, my cats done tole me as much. I mixed up a little spell, I did, thought I’d teach you a lesson. Don’t always trust what your eyes show you.”
While what she said provided a bit of sorely needed relief, I didn’t know whether I believed her. The horrible things I saw seemed pretty real, not the results of some witch’s spell.
A large, yellow cat jumped up on the bed, gave me a sniff, then skedaddled into the room’s corner.
“Claw seems to think you’re trustworthy, girl,” said Hettie. “Me? I tend not to trust someone sneaking around and peeking through windows. You want something from me, you ever hear tell of knocking on a door?”
Now that she’d put it in such no-nonsense terms, I honestly didn’t know what in the world I’d been thinking. And I told her as much.
She responded with another deep-rooted laugh. “Guess we’ll chalk it up to the innocence of youth.” Again she glared at me with one large, accusatory eye. “Even if you were trespassing.”
“No, ma’am, that wasn’t my intention, not at all! I rightly do apologize again for my mistake. It’s just…well…I didn’t know how to talk to you.” I didn’t much fancy telling the local witch she scared the daylights outta me, so I hoped my mighty sorrowful look would do the talking.
She waved a hand. “Piffle. If you listen to everything folks say about me, you’d think I was the Devil herself.”
“Well…your reputation does mightily precede you.”
“Yes, indeedy, it does.” She rocked, holding onto her bony knees. Just as long as she didn’t fix to cook me, I much preferred this whimsical side of her. “You’re friends with those two ol’ coots, the Sooter sisters, aren’t you?”
“Well, I don’t rightly reckon I’d consider us friends, but I do frequent their library on occasion.”
“Next time you see those ol’ bats, tell ‘em I’ll see ‘em in Hell.”
Course I wouldn’t deliver that message, but I told Hettie I’d give the librarians a nice howdy-do from her.
“Better then what they got coming to ‘em. Now, then…what is it you wanna’ know?”
“I’m fixing to find out what happened to Thomas Saunders, Evelyn Saunders’ boy. And her husband Hedrick.”
That stopped her rocking. Even the cats seemed to stiffen.
Hettie’s eyes narrowed. She tapped a bent finger on her chin. “My, oh my, isn’t this interesting? And why in the world would you be looking to dig up that ancient history?”
Out of all the adults in Hangwell, I imagined Hettie Williquette—town witch and devourer of children—might be the only one to give my supernatural tale credence. “Cause I’ve seen Thomas’s ghost. Couple of times.”
“You don’t say…” She gave me a mighty long and disturbing look. “Where’d his ghost visit you?”
“In the Saunders’ cornfield.”
“I see.” And every time she said she saw, I truly believed it, and wished to Sam Hill she’d take that ol’ evil eye of hers off me. “That should tell you a little something right there, Dibby. Where you saw Thomas.”
Once again, I got spoon-fed the hazy, unclear treatment adults favored. “Why can’t anyone just come out and tell me what happened to Thomas? Everyone just pats me on the head, tells me to never mind, just scoot on about my business, and leave such grown up notions to adults! No one tells me anything! Thomas is visiting me for a reason! What happened to him? What happened to his daddy? Dammit!”
A week of firsts, this one nothing to cheer about: cursing in front of an adult. But, dad-gummit, it felt great to unleash my frustration. And, if anything, Hettie looked like she enjoyed my slide into the dark side. Her smile grew wider and rounder. She sat down beside me, close, fetid breath close.
“Let me tell you something, girl… That Saunders family is an odd bunch.” Talk about the pot addressing the kettle. “Bad things follow them around like shadows. Did you know Hedrick Saunders came to see me? Afore he went missing?”
“I, ah, think I mighta’ heard something about that.”
“Surely he did. Scared outta’ his wits—what little he had—he came around, asking me to intuit something for him. Told me he’d pay me a healthy wage, too. Wanted me to ply my witchcraft.” Open-mouthed, she gawped at me. Tickled, almost.
“Um, did you?”
“Hell, no! Why in the worlds would I wanna help a man who’d never said boo to me before?”
“What’d he want to know?”
“If Thomas was his child. His natural offspring.” Again, she seemed to be testing me. Close to me and still coming, practically in my lap now. An odd odor of herbs and spices and something sour rolled out of her mouth.
“Well,” she continued, “good Samaritan that I am, I took pity on Hedrick. And told him lil’ Thomas Saunders had a different birth daddy. Hee! Ol’ Hedrick just took off like a shotgun blast. Course he wasn’t seen again after that night.” She scratched her whiskers.
“Who was Thomas’s real father?” I asked.
She chuckled. “Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it? You see, I know things, quite a few things, I do. Specially ‘bout that cursed Saunders clan. Let me ask you something, Dibby… Do you really wanna know what happened to Hedrick Saunders?”
I inched back, afraid to speak, scared. Not only of Hettie, but of the answer to the Saunders mystery. At long last. But if her sadistic grin was any indication, I didn’t know if I was quite ready.
“Are you absolutely surrre you wanna know what became of Hedrick Saunders, Dibby?” Long and teasing, her words resembled a cat’s purr. She scooted in closer, so close I literally had my back against the cold wall. I nodded.
Eyes tapered to slits, she said, “You might not like what you hearrr…” Words all sing-songy, she grinned, pleased with herself.
“I need to know.” My throat and mouth dry, I barely formed the words.
“This is your last chance, Dibby. One final opportunity to just pick yourself right up and get on home without—”
“Just tell me!” I hollered.
“Why, Dibby…everybody knows Hedrick Saunders up and ran off with your momma!”
Hettie’s laughter exploded, flinging shrapnel into my world. My stomach roiled. The witch’s cackling ballooned into the room, taunting me about my mother running off with the man next door. How she left me behind, unloved like a red-headed stepchild.
The secret Dad wouldn’t tell me.
Hettie held her gut, guffawing, lolling around next to me. I hoped she’d choke on her laughter.
In a white hot burst of heat, I bolted off the bed, ran for the door. Sweat-covered, my hand slipped from the handle. Second attempt I lassoed it and threw the door open. I made a beeline for the front door, stumbled into furniture, uprighted candles that snuffed out onto the floor. Hettie’s incessant laughter chased after me.
“Your daddy ain’t told you the truth about your momma,” the ol’ witch gleefully cried out. “That’s rich! You come back again and I’ll tell you all ‘bout poor lil’ Thomas Saunders!”
I threw open the front door, then threw up on the front steps.
Winded, I fell onto my hind quarters, just dropped right down onto the porch. My world spun, out of control, and any control I thought I had over my life flipped over into a lie.
“Dibby?” From out of the shadows, James cautiously approached. “Hey…you alright?” With one eye glued on Hettie’s front door, James bent over, shook my arm. “What happened? Are you okay?”
Course not, you damn fool, I wanted to yell. But I didn’t. Instead I just nodded, said, “Let’s get outta here.”
As we wheeled down the road, I could still hear Hettie’s cruel laughter and taunts. Like spicy food, they stuck with me well into the wee hours of morning.
* * *
For the first bit of our long trip back, I didn’t say a word, not a peep. Even though he was chomping at the bit to find out what’d happened, James must’ve realized my need for quiet. Finally, on the last leg, nearly home, I hopped off my bike and walked. James did the same. And I told him my story. All of it.
“Wow. That’s terrible, Dibby. I’m sorry.”
I shrugged, carried big shoulders, and didn’t do right by them. “It wasn’t what I thought I’d find out.”
“Your old lady just up and left with the neighbor? Never said goodbye or, you know, left a note or anything?”
“I reckon there’s a lot ‘bout her leaving I don’t know about. I was young, three years old. My recall isn’t what it oughta be. And Dad…he never talks about her. All I have really are these vague memories. How Mom was perfect. But then reality’s gotta way of sneaking up and pulling the rug out from under you. What I really remember…was Mom not talking. Not doing much of anything. I think…the last time I saw her was at our kitchen table, just bawling her eyes out.”
James stopped, put an arm across my back. I rested my head on his shoulder.
“I really don’t feel up to snuff. I don’t wanna talk about this anymore, James.”
He nodded. “Copacetic.”
I girded myself, took a couple of breaths, then moved on. “Hey, what happened to you back at Hettie’s? When she grabbed me?”
“I…ah…I kinda’ hid back in the woods. I was watching the house, looking for a chance to rescue you.”
“You mean you were scared and high-tailed it for cover. My hero.”
“Come on! I was really trying to—”
“Wet your britches.”
He sighed. “I’m telling you I was—”
“Never mind. So…what did you see out there? I mean, from the moment I got up on her porch.”
He paused, but continued to walk his bike along Main Street. Finally, he said, “Dibby, I don’t know what I saw. Really. I kinda…maybe I don’t wanna’ think about it too much.”
And maybe he was right. Finally learning how to cope in Peculiar County.
“So, what’re we gonna do now?” he asked, clearly relishing a change of topics.
“As much as I surely don’t ever wanna visit that ol’ witch again, she told me to come back in regards to Thomas Saunders. I just wish there was someone else willing to tell me the truth.”
“I guess there’s that Boot guy,” said James.
“You kidding me? I’d rather go with Hettie.”
“Whatever you do, I’m going with you. You can count on me, Dibby.” Moonlight caught in his eyes, illuminated his commitment. For a moment, I wanted to be bold, grab him, continue where we left off the other night. But the news of my mother—not to mention my sick breath— washed such notions away.
We neared the Lewis and Clark Hotel. As if on cue, James released a not-so-subtle yawn, his arms taking turns stretching for the stars.
“You don’t need to see me home, James. I can manage just fine on my own.”
“Are you sure? I mean, it’s the right thing to do. I can’t just leave you—”
“You’ve performed enough heroic duties tonight.” I laughed. He toed the dirt, his male ego wounded. “You just get on to sleep. Not too much time left in the night anyhow.”
Hollow barks bellowed from within the hotel. James jumped as someone’d stuck a lit match between his toes. “That damn dog!”
“You’re finally accepting Mittens’ ghostly origins?” I asked.
“Guess I am. Now.” He grew edgy, twitchy, searching up and down the street as if afraid something from Hettie’s had followed us home. “Anyway…g’night, Dibby.”
“Good morning, more like.” He leaned in, gave me a quick hug, a buddy hug. A sudden, heartbreaking, puzzling change in our status quo. Then again, we’d both been through a lot tonight. Or could be he got a whiff of my breath, similar to a skunk gone belly-up.
On the way home, I rode fast and hard. I had an abundance of anger and hurt I needed to cast away and better it be through bicycling than taken out on Dad. Even if he deserved it.
Nearing four in the morn, I gave up the idea of getting any shut eye. With a fresh pot of coffee, I set up camp at the kitchen table. Time slowly ticked by as I played out all the scenarios in my head, the many different conversations I intended to have with Dad.
Going on six o’clock, Dad finally shuffled into the kitchen. He saw me, scratched his stubble, gave a half-hearted, tired smile, yawned, then sat down.
I yawned too, contagious as a cold, and hardly the commanding way I’d wanted to start the proceedings.
“Thought I smelled coffee. You’re up early, Dibs.” His brow tucked down as he gave me a once-over. “Everything okay?”
“Dad… Why didn’t you tell me about Mom?”
Caught off guard, he shook cobwebs from his mind. Then that heavy brow of his dropped with the weight of the world. “What’re you talking about?”
“Why didn’t you tell me Mom ran away with Hedrick Saunders?” I kept my face serious, my voice monotonic. I wouldn’t surrender, although cracks formed along my voice’s wall. The unfairness of it all clobbered me. Surely, the onus should’ve been on Dad to have this talk with me long ago.
Dad looked down at his folded hands, too ashamed to look me in the eye. “Dibby…that’s not what happened.”
“You’re just gonna keep on fibbing to me, Dad? I got a right to know what happened to—”
“She didn’t run off with Hedrick Saunders.”
“Sure, she didn’t! How’m I supposed to believe anything you say anymore? Why—”
“It’s true because I know where your mother is.”
“Where? Tell me!”
He grabbed for my hand and I knew then what he aimed to tell me was much worse than Hettie’s version of the truth. “Your mother’s in the Lackasaw Mental Facility. An asylum for the mentally ill.”