Consumption (12 page)

Erma and Riley had just crossed over Main Street and were heading toward Wilder when a woman stopped them. “Patrick Riley, is that you?”

She wore a tight red dress, with heels and lipstick to match. Though she must have been pushing seventy, she looked fabulous, and when she touched Riley, he reddened.

At first, Erma could tell Riley didn't recognize the woman, but as he looked closer, something seemed to click into place.

“Eve Henderson?”

“One and the same.” The woman removed her hand from Riley's arm and did a little twirl. “Like my new look?”

“You look incredible,” said Riley. “Not that you don't always look great but…” He turned to Erma, clearly embarrassed at his foot-in-mouth moment. “This is Eve, one of my aunt's friends.”

“Bunny and I were in the same high school class,” the woman said, by way of explanation. She studied Erma, her eyes coolly assessing her sundress, sweeping Erma from head to foot.

“It's nice to meet you,” Erma said, extending her hand. She felt very young and very unpolished. As Eve took her hand, Erma had a sudden and unexplainable urge to pull her arm back. She did, breaking the shake gently, but as she pulled away, the woman's nail caught on Erma's palm, scratching it. Erma yanked back, startled, then looked up to see the woman watching her. Eve smiled.

“So nice to see you, Patrick,” Eve said, returning her attention to the sheriff. “I hear you're our head honcho now.”

“I'm back to work for Cavus, that much is true,” said Riley. “As far as head honcho, I think Anita's got that job.”

“You know, I used to have Sheriff Riley in my Sunday School class—didn't I, Patrick?”

“You did indeed, ma'am.”

“Are you still being a good little boy?”

“Hardly good and never little,” he replied, patting his hands on his belly. “Speaking of Sunday School, where's Larry?”

Erma listened to their banter, thinking, as she did so, that she didn't like the woman. There was no real reason for the quick judgment, but there it was.

“Oh, yes,” Eve said. “I'd forgotten that he used to come help with the classes, didn't he? I believe he led an adventure group of you boys out for a camping trip, yes?”

“That's right,” said Riley.

“He wasn't feeling well,” Eve said. “I had to leave him at home today, although I promised him a piece of blackberry pie for when he feels better. Speaking of, I'd better get back to him. It was nice to meet you, Erma. I hope we'll see you tonight at the Feast.”

The woman smiled at her again, and Erma felt a chill down her back. Nope, she didn't like Eve Henderson. Unreasonable reaction or not, the woman left her cold. Erma wiped her palm against her leg, the scratch from Eve's fingernail having opened the skin enough to expose a small trail of blood.

“That was weird,” said Riley, after Eve was out of earshot.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Eve Henderson used to be just about the mousiest woman I knew. Now…”

“Now she looks like a high-class hooker for a geriatric center,” Erma finished for him. “Sorry.”

“Not at all,” said Riley, busting out into a gut laugh. He laughed so hard that he had to wipe a tear away from his eye and take a moment's breath before continuing. “A geriatric hooker. That's just about right,” he said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Erma saw a teenage girl with short black hair standing in front of the large purple tent across the way, and her body tensed, all thoughts of Eve forgotten. She tugged at Riley's arm, pointing. “Is that her?”

But Riley was already racing in that direction, and Erma watched as he approached, then stopped as the girl turned and he realized his mistake. The girl gave Riley a startled look that quickly turned into teenaged annoyance.

When he came back over, he shook his head.

Erma placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Don't give up. She could still be around here somewhere.”

“That's what I keep hoping,” said Riley. “But it's strange. Hardly anyone here I've talked to even seems interested to hear that she's missing.”

“I'm sure that's not true,” Erma said. “They're probably just caught up in the Festival.”

“Maybe,” said Riley. His brow darkened. “That had better be the reason. I can't even imagine if Izzy ever went missing. I'd like to think that Cavus folks would do everything in their power to get her back.”

“Izzy. Is that your daughter's name?” Erma asked.

“Elizabeth actually,” he said shyly. “She acts just like a queen, too, but the name's still too big for her, so we call her Izzy.”

“We?”

“My ex and I. And she's a woman that I can think of another name for, too.”

Erma laughed. “And it's not ‘sweetheart'?”

“Not even close.”

Despite the circumstances, she was having a good time with the man, Erma realized. They'd connected more than she'd thought they might, and she hated to see Riley so stressed. He looked, standing there in the sun, sweat dripping from his red face, like a man on whom stress was bound, sooner or later, to have a permanent effect.

“Riley?” Erma trying to lighten the mood. “Why is the Festival named after the squirrels?”

“You want to know a little Cavus history, huh?” said Riley, and surprised her by smiling. “It just so happens, that you, little lady, are in exactly the right spot.” He took her arm and gently turned her around to face the tent in front of which they were standing. “Ta-da,” he said. The tent, apparently not a popular one, was empty except for the two elderly men who manned it, one in a wheelchair.

“What is it?” Erma asked.

“This here is the complete history of Cavus,” Riley told her. “As told in pictures, compliments of the Lions Club. Ain't that right, Tilly?”

“Eh?” Behind a worn-looking foldout table with a blue sheet tacked like a curtain to its front stood the man to whom Riley'd spoken. He wore a veteran's jacket, two large medals, shined and gleaming, on its front.

“I said that you guys put all this together,” Riley said, bending over and speaking very loudly into the man's ears.

Tilly's face brightened. “Oh, yes. That's us all right. Would you like a tour?”

“Excuse me?” Erma said, trying to understand what he meant by this.

“A tour. We give 'em for free.” Erma looked behind the man to see if she'd missed a place where she might tour. The tent was just a tent, however, barely large enough for the table and a few poster boards covered with photographs and mounted on painter's easels. The space of grass in the tent between the table and poster boards was no more than five feet—certainly not large enough for a tour.

Riley grinned, a look of mischief in his eyes. “I believe she would, Tilly. Erma told me she's very interested in history.”

“I did, did I?” said Erma, beginning to understand where this was going. “I'll make sure to remember your kindness, Sheriff Riley.”

“It's a pleasure to help a pretty woman,” he said. He was flirting with her, but just a little, and Erma smiled back at him, happy to see the stress lifted if even just for a moment. And like that, she remembered that it was a good day. Could be a good day, one that could still end with her sharing her decision with John. With the two of them really and truly committing to a new beginning together.

“Come on, then,” said Tilly, stepping toward the photographs. “This way.” The other old man remained outside of the tent, in his wheelchair. He was also in a uniform, and wore a hat with a mange of sewn-on fur that dropped down around the face like a mane. A blanket covered his lap, and when Erma stepped by, he raised his hand in a shaky salute.

“Eugene's on duty,” Tilly said, motioning for Erma to come closer to where he now stood at the very back of the tent. Tilly looked at the poster boards admiringly. “These are real Cavus artifacts here. We've got a responsibility to protect and share them.”

“You seem to be doing a fine job,” Erma told him. She looked behind her and saw that Riley hadn't followed her into the tent.

“You coming, Sheriff?”

“You know, I think I'll sit this one out. If Tilly thinks he can look after you, I'm going to head across the way to ask some questions at Jezebell's. Those two ladies know more gossip than a tabloid.” Riley raised his voice to shout across to Tilly who was already staring rapturously up at the board and adjusting his bifocals. “You all right with the lady, Tilly?”

“What?”

Riley pointed at Erma.

“Oh. Oh, yes.” Tilly smiled, showing his toothless gums. “Just fine.”

“She's a visitor,” Riley yelled, “so make sure you give her the whole tour, understand? Don't skimp.”

The little old man folded his hands together and actually rubbed them. “Let's get started, shall we?” He pulled a folding ruler from the inside of his jacket and neatly stepped six inches to the left. He raised the ruler and pointed at the first picture, a black-and-white charcoal drawing of a mostly empty street with old-fashioned storefronts on either side. “Cavus in 1849. The gold rush.”

Erma looked behind her longingly and saw the sheriff entering the large, purple tent across the way. A merry green flag waved from the top of the tent with the picture of a squirrel on it.
Jezebell's Pies and Sweets,
the lettering on the flag said.

“That son of a bitch,” Erma muttered under her breath, laughing.

“The first known permanent resident of Cavus County was gold miner Chester C. Cleaver,” Tilly began, settling back on his heels. “Chester hailed from the great city of Philadelphia, but at a very young age, the gold bug bit him…. ”

Erma folded her arms across her chest and sighed. Let the great Lions Club Picture Tour begin.

Riley pushed the tent flaps open with a grunt and stepped into the cool darkness of the Jezebell tent. He grinned, thinking about what old Tilly would do to poor Erma. That man could talk a goat's ear off. Well, he'd make amends with a piece of pie.

The outside of the tent was designed to look like something from the Renaissance, with its plush purple velvet exterior accentuated with gold cords. The inside continued the theme with small wood tables and large wall tapestries. At the front, an old-fashioned chalkboard listing the pie flavors hung over a very modern silver display case showing off the goods. Riley's eye fell toward a particularly succulent-looking strawberry-rhubarb pie, its crust uncut and glistening with sugar.

A man with brown hair and a tall build stepped in front of Riley, cutting into the line for pie. Riley tensed, then his shoulders relaxed again as the man ordered a slice of blueberry and turned around to take the piece, on a small white plate, back to one of the tables. It wasn't anyone Riley recognized. No doubt Thad Williams was long gone and heading for one border or another.

“You look like a serious man.” The voice startled him out of his musings, and Riley turned to see Eve Henderson at his elbow. “I told you I had to get Larry his gall-darned piece of pie, didn't I?”

Riley's first thought was that the woman must have already been into the pie herself. Her teeth were smeared with purple. “Hi, Eve,” he said, withdrawing his arm from her hand.

“Patrick. We never got to finish our conversation, did we?”

“Our conversation?”

“About whether or not you're being a good boy.”

“I expect I'm trying,” said Riley, attempting a smile. That smear of purple on her teeth was a damned distraction. Riley ran his tongue across his own teeth, hoping she'd get the hint. She didn't. Instead, Eve Henderson kept on talking.

“You been reading your Bible lately, Patrick?” Eve asked, and there was her hand again, creeping back up onto Riley's arm. He couldn't move it away without being rude.

“To tell you the truth, Eve, I'm not so much into that stuff these days.” He was in no mood for this, and he wasn't going to beat around the bush. Let Eve Henderson do her preaching somewhere else.

“Oh, me either,” said Eve. Now, finally, and blessedly, she licked her teeth, her tongue running over them in a smooth, lingering gesture. The purple remained. “I don't believe in most of that hooey myself. But that doesn't mean there aren't some good parts in the Bible. A few nuggets of wisdom, as it were.”

“I'm sure you're right, Eve,” said Riley. “Listen, I hate to run out on you twice, but I left my friend waiting outdoors.”

“The woman you were with?”

“Yes, her.”

“She isn't from around here, is she?”

“No, ma'am.” Riley began to back away toward the exit. He hadn't gotten any pie, but no pie on earth was worth having to endure this woman another minute. He remembered being trapped by her after Sunday school one day when he'd been waiting on his mom to pick him up. She'd kept him there a good hour, prattling on about Jesus and her pet poodle, Snickers. He still remembered the goddamned thing's name.

“Does your new friend read the Bible?”

“I'm afraid I don't know,” said Riley. He reached up to the place on his head where his hat usually rested, meaning to tip it. He found nothing but his hairline, the edges of it thin and farther back than he'd remembered. He touched his finger to it, anyway.

“I'll be seeing you, Mrs. Henderson.” With a speed he couldn't believe she possessed, Eve Henderson's arm shot out and clutched Riley's arm. She clutched it so tightly that he couldn't move, and her fingers sunk into his flesh like a goddamned trash compactor.

“There is one quote I like especially, Patrick,” Eve said, and she moved her face closer to him, close enough for Riley to see that there was not just the purple smeared around her teeth but also small pieces of something, like seeds, stuck between them. “ ‘And the evil spirit from the Lord was upon Saul, as he sat in his house with his javelin in his hand: and David played with his hand.' ” Eve's eyes were closed, and a smile covered her face as she nodded her head up and down. “You ever play with your hand, Patrick? Do nasty things with your hand and your pecker? Do you?” Her voice was rising, and a few people in the tent turned around to look at them.

“His javelin
in his hand
!” She was screaming now and more people turned around. “Played with
his javelin in his hand
! You ask your friend if she's read that one.”

Riley pulled away from her, no longer caring about decorum, or being rude, or offending Mrs. Goddamned-Crazy-as-Batshit New-and-Improved Henderson. He hurried back out into the sunlight and heard the blessed sound of the pie tent's flap closing behind him.

Erma craned her neck toward the pie tent. She had narrowly escaped The Great Cavus Picture Tour after enduring a twenty-minute description of Cavus geography, by telling the two men that she needed to use the restroom but would be right back. Now she sat on a bench under the shade of a large tree, waiting for Riley to emerge. She supposed she could go look for him, but the lines leading out of Jezebell's were daunting. Better to wait here, maybe, where she'd be sure not to miss him.

A woman, big with pregnancy and carrying a large diaper bag while holding the hand of a four- or five-year-old girl, sat down beside her.

“You mind?”

“Of course not.” Erma scooted over to allow the woman more room, happy to be taken out of her own thoughts.

“Hot as the devil out here today, isn't it?” said the woman, trying to blow a tuft of blond hair away from her forehead, where it was stuck with sweat. “Tara, come here!” she yelled after the little girl, who had broken away and was starting toward a booth across the street that had a picture of a dancing corncob painted brightly upon it.

“I want one!” the little girl pouted, pointing at the booth.

“Later. Right now you sit down and rest with Mommy.”

The girl did, squeezing herself in beside the woman reluctantly. “Kids,” the woman said, shaking her head at Erma. “You have any?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, when you do, make sure you keep them on a leash. I'd recommend a nondetachable one until about the age of six or so.”

Erma laughed. “Good advice. I'll keep it in mind.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, the woman digging in her bag and pulling out a plastic Ziploc full of what looked to be Cheerios. She handed it to the little girl, who'd begun drumming her feet against the back of the bench. “Here, Tara. Quit your squirming and eat these while Mommy rests.”

“I want that!” the little girl pouted, pointing again to the dancing corncob.

“Later,” said the woman, and shoved the bag into the girl's hands. Tara opened it and began to search through the cereal, a frown on her face, picking up one piece after another and then dropping them back into the bag as if she might find a corncob in there if she only kept looking.

“Sorry,” said the woman, extending her hand. “I didn't introduce myself. My name's Sandy.”

“Erma,” said Erma, extending her own hand. They shook, the woman's hand sweaty but firm. She was pretty in a milkmaid sort of way, Erma thought. Sandy's hair was golden and done into a single braid, though chunks of it were coming loose and sticking to her skin.

“I'm sorry, but I don't think I've seen you around before,” Sandy said. “I'm usually pretty good with faces, and I thought I knew just about everyone here in Cavus, least to say hi.”

“I'm just passing through,” Erma said. “We're headed out to the coast for my husband's job.”

“Well, you picked a good time to see Cavus,” said Sandy. “The rest of the year it's as dead as roadkill around here.”

Erma studied Sandy's swollen belly, wondering how much hotter she must feel because of it. “How far along are you?”

“Eight months,” said the woman. “And I feel every day of it. I might just give birth right here on this park bench.”

“Please don't,” said Erma. “I'd hate to have your little girl miss out on her corncob.”

There was a squeal from the other side of Sandy, and Erma looked over to see a black squirrel perched on the edge of the park bench and nibbling on a single Cheerio, which he had apparently stolen directly from the little girl's hand.

“Mommy!” Tara breathed, her voice no more than a whisper. “Oh, Mommy, look!” The little girl reached out her hand as if to pet the thing. The squirrel looked up, gave a chirrup of annoyance, then turned tail to scramble off the bench and to the trunk of the tree, which it climbed with quick ease.

“Wow,” Erma said. “I guess half of me didn't believe those things were real.”

“They're real all right,” said Sandy, taking the bag of Cheerios off her daughter's lap and returning it to her diaper bag. “Not as many of them around here as there used to be because they've bred with some of the red squirrels, but there's still a few. For whatever reason, they always seem to come out during the Festival.”

“Maybe they know it's named after them,” said Erma.

“I think the food's the more likely culprit,” Sandy said, smiling. She pulled a pack of baby wipes from the bag and gently took Tara's hands in her own, wiping first them and then the little girl's mouth.

Erma heard chattering above her, and she looked up to see the squirrel perched on a tree branch directly over her head. It watched Erma, cocking its head to one side. Almost, it looked like a cat or a skunk, the black fur refusing to settle in Erma's mind into a squirrel shape. The creature began to chatter again, not in a screeching, get-out-of-here manner like squirrels sometimes did when Maxie was around, but in a pleasant, conversational tone. Erma laughed. “He's pretty darn adorable.”

“I think he knows it, too,” said Sandy.

“So what's the deal with these guys? Why name the Festival after them?”

“You haven't heard?”

“No.”

“The rumor is that they were the only survivors from the mine after the big fire that happened here.”

“Fire?” She remembered seeing a black-and-white photo of burnt buildings in the Lions' tent, though she'd left before Tilly came to it or any mention of the squirrels.

“Mom!” Tara interrupted the conversation, hitting her mother's leg. “Mom, look! I want one, Mom. Please.”

“Shh, Tara. Hush.”

“PLEASE!” The little girl bounced on the bench, and Erma saw what was causing all the excitement. A few feet to their left, a man in clown paint and a torn black suit with tails had appeared. He had a crowd of children around him and was making balloon animals. The man stretched a long, pink piece of rubber, blew into it, and then twisted it into the shape of a dog, handing it to a little boy in front of him. The boy clutched the balloon lovingly to his chest.

“I want one!” Tara screeched again, and then, before her mother could stop her, bounded from the bench and away.

Beside Erma, Sandy sighed, and began the slow process of hoisting herself from the bench. “Duty calls,” she said, offering Erma a wry smile. “I hate to think what will happen when whatever balloon creature we come away with succumbs to what is sure to be a quick and accidental popping.”

“Good luck,” Erma said, standing to hand the diaper bag to her.

“Thanks,” said Sandy. “It was nice meeting you.” She waded through the crowd to join her daughter, her large belly doing the work of clearing a path through the people.

Erma watched her go. She sat for a minute, enjoying the coolness of the shade, then decided to get up and find Riley after all. Before she could, she felt a light tapping on her shoulder. Surprised, she turned to see the little girl standing behind her. Tara held up a black balloon, in the shape of a squirrel.

“It's for you.”

“For me?” asked Erma, feeling unexpectedly delighted. “Why, thank you. That's very nice of you, Tara.”

Tara nodded. “I know.”

Erma took the creature from the girl's hand, its rubbery texture squeaking against her skin. “You'd better find your mommy, honey. She'll be worried about you.”

The little girl stood on tiptoes and made a motion with her hand for Erma to lean over. She did, and the little girl cupped her hand against Erma's ear, sending a pleasant tickle up her spine.

“They burned, you know,” said the little girl.

“What did you say?”

“They burned.” The little girl stood perfectly still, her head cocked to the side and a wide smile across her face. “They all burned. Just like your baby. He burned, too, didn't he?”

Erma couldn't speak, she felt all the spit in her mouth dry up, as if someone had stuck a big, cotton rag inside of it.

“Don't worry,” said the little girl. “You'll burn, too. You all will.”

With that, the girl spun on her heels and was gone, weaving her way through the crowd.

Erma sat on the bench, letting seconds tick by before lifting herself shakily to her feet. Riley emerged from Jezebell's across the way, and they made eye contact. Riley waved, and Erma lifted an arm to do the same.

As she did, she saw that she was holding something. A black thing that looked like nothing in that moment so much as a burnt and twisted piece of flesh. Small flesh.

It was the balloon squirrel. Erma quickly dropped it to the ground, and rubbed her hands against her leg, as if wiping away some kind of dirt.

That woman, Sandy, must have been some kind of Bible freak and the daughter had picked up some of it. It was the only explanation for Tara's behavior. Sandy'd seemed nice, but…well, you never could tell, could you? Erma'd met all kinds of crazies at her job in Portland. There was nothing to do but forget about it and move on with her day.

It was a good day. She and John were together, and their new life was beginning. That was what was important to remember. Whatever was in the past was best left there. Today she was going to enjoy the Festival. Erma steeled a smile on her face and waded across the crowded street to join the sheriff.