Dream With Little Angels (13 page)

It made Dewey want to keep a picture of his pa in his pocket.

“But you don't need a picture,” I had told him. “Your pa's still alive.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess you're right.”

“You should feel lucky for that.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I guess.”

But seeing Dewey now with his pa, I realized how awkward they looked together and reckoned having a pa who was never around was probably just as bad or maybe even worse than having one who was dead.

Anyway, now that I'd found Dewey in this church full of people, I kept sneaking looks over my shoulder at him and making faces, trying to get him to laugh. Every time I did, my mother gave me an elbow and told me to shush.

Another thing came to my attention near the end of the service, and that was a disturbing absence of the presence of Mr. Wyatt Edward Farrow. But then, I didn't know why I was surprised. I never really had him pegged as the church-going type. He was more like the kind of guy who stayed locked away in his garage, making all sorts of roadkill monsters and possibly doing things far, far worse.

Most of the clouds had disappeared from the sky by the time church came to an end and we walked out to find a yellow sparkling sun shining happily in a sky of deep sea blue. Something about the sun reminded me of hope. It beamed brightly down across the colorful rose bushes and all the rest of the well-tended gardens, making even the grave markers and the crosses seem happy, sort of like a nice park for all the dead people to play Frisbee with their dead dogs, or sit and feed dead pigeons.

My mother and Uncle Henry began to stroll along the stone paths that wound through the grounds. I tagged along behind them, taking in the sweet smell of flowers. “Mom?” I asked after a short bit.

She looked back at me, her eyebrows raised.

“I still think you should consider the chance that it's Mr. Farrow from across the street taking them girls,” I said. I said it quietly so nobody else would hear.

She stopped walking and, with a sigh, squatted down in front of me, taking a glance at Carry, who was lingering at least ten yards behind. “Now why do you say that?” my mother asked, pushing a hair lick away from where it had fallen in front of my eye. “You obviously feel very strongly about it to have brought it up twice now. Tell me why.”

I kicked the grass with the toe of my shoe. “I don't know, there's just something about him I find distrustful.” I looked up at her, squinting into the sun. “Why wasn't he in church?”

“Maybe he's not a Baptist. Could be a Methodist,” she said, very matter-of-factly.

“Yeah,” I pointed out. “He
could
even be atheist.” I reconsidered, adding: “Or worse, Catholic.”

Mom smiled, dismissing my point. “Abe, you can't judge people by the way they look or because of some ‘weird feeling' you happen to get from them. The feeling is
your
issue, not Mr. Farrow's. He seems nice enough to me.”

But, by the way she said it, I could tell I'd managed to plant maybe the smallest seed of suspicion inside her. “How come there hasn't been a big hunt by all the folks in Alvin for Tiffany Michelle Yates?” I asked. “There was one for Mary Ann Dailey.”

Mom took a deep breath. At first I thought I'd said something wrong again, but then I realized I'd just said something tough for her to answer. “Remember our talk about racism the other day?” she asked. “How I told you it was important you figured out how to never judge people by their race?”

I nodded.

“Not all people have mothers like you do, Abe. There's a lot of folk around who still don't think with their hearts or their brains.”

“Then what do they think with?”

“Something much lower and around the backside,” she said.

It took me a minute, but I got it. I laughed. “But, Mom,” I said, “does that mean Reverend Matthew's racist, too? He talked far more about Mary Ann Dailey than Tiffany Michelle. I was starting to wonder if maybe God was a racist.”

She looked away, scratching under her chin before looking back. “I know one thing for absolute certain, Abe. God judges us on only one thing: our actions. How we treat each other. That's what's important to Him. Reverend Matthew spent more time talkin' about Mary Ann because he knew that's who his parishioners are most worried about. She's been gone the longest.”

Her voice sort of hung there as though there were more to say. I figured I knew what it was, so I said it. “And his parishioners are nearly all white folk.”

Again she turned her gaze from mine, this time answering without looking back. “I'm sure Reverend Starks over at the Full Gospel is asking God for Tiffany Michelle's fair share.”

That was when Sheryl Davis came stomping across the lawn right up to my mother. “What's this I hear about the Harvest Fair possibly bein' canceled?” she asked, although the way she said it was less like a question and more like some kind of demand. It was obvious she was quite upset by the news.

Sheryl was a plump woman, with a high, nasally voice. Nearly always, she showed up to things like church or the Harvest Fair looking like some kind of wrapped present. Today was no exception. She wore a white dress with a flower pattern all over it and a red bow in her hair.

“Well,” my mother replied, “with the girls going missing and such, I just don't think something like the fair would be safe. Too many people in one place makes it too easy for a little one to go astray.”

“I don't see how that has any effect on the fair,” Sheryl said. “You
know
how important the fair is to this town. Especially the pie contest.” Sheryl Davis won the pie-baking contest going back every year I could remember. She always made the same pie, a strawberry rhubarb one. I'd never tasted it, on account of I didn't so much like rhubarb, but from what I heard, she made a pretty good pie.

“I think we can go without the fair and without a pie contest for one season,” my mother said.

Sheryl harrumphed. “I'm gonna get a petition goin'.”

“Go ahead,” my mother said calmly, “still won't make any difference, though. If the Alvin Police Department says there's no Harvest Fair this year, then there will be no Harvest Fair this season, petition or no petition. While you're at it, maybe get a petition goin' to stop little girls from bein' taken away. See if that works at all.”

With a final glare at my mother, Sheryl marched off back toward the way she had come, where a group of other plump women wrapped up as presents stood waiting to hear about the outcome of her complaint.

“She's just mad because she won't get a chance to enter the pie contest,” my mother whispered to me. “I don't know why she even cares so much. She wins every year anyway. You'd think by now it would stop meaning anything to the woman.”

“Maybe that's all she has to look forward to,” I said.

My mother regarded me a good full second before responding. “That was a very adult point to make, Abe. And you're right. Maybe that
is
all she has, but it still doesn't take priority over this town's children. It does make me a little sad for her, though.”

It made me a little sad for her, too.

W
e were well into autumn now, and the leaves on the trees had started to turn all kinds of burnt oranges and firehouse red and most had already fallen to the ground. It was a time of year that normally made the town look especially pretty, and this year was no different except my mother's case put a dark slant on everything, autumn included. The two missing girls had her completely wound up. It was as though she kept waiting for another one to disappear at any moment. She seemed especially worried about me and Carry.

Actually, it was probably the trip to and from school that made her most nervous. It was a time, I suppose, that children were particularly vulnerable.

Nevertheless, the changes in the season seemed to bring a substantial change to my mother's attitude, at least for a while. There were a few days when she wasn't working that she appeared to be almost downright happy. That was until her mind once again started fixating on her case.

I liked those happy days. I hadn't seen her actually smile a real, honest, and true smile for as long as I could remember.

It was on one of those rare occasions that she announced: “I'm taking y'all out for a nice lunch today. And that includes you too, Hank.”

“I actually gotta drive way up to Franklin later this afternoon. Have a cribbage match booked with an old friend of mine who's in the hospital for her kidneys.”

“Well, we can go sooner rather than later.”

Going out for food
always
made me happy. “Can we go to Tex's Barbecue?” I asked. Tex's served the best chili on the planet. At least that's what the menu said, and judging from my limited experience with chili, I had to agree. Carry was seated at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, her fingers pulling up on her hair like it was dog's ears or something. She didn't seem too thrilled to be going out. Maybe she wouldn't be coming, being grounded and all.

“Is Carry coming, too?” I asked.

“Yep, and we're not going to Tex's. I promised Mr. Takahashi we'd all come to his new sushi restaurant.”

Happy Shogun Sushi Palace had officially opened its doors two days ago. I hadn't heard any reviews as of yet.

Carry's head fell into her arms and clumped loudly onto the tabletop. “Can't I just stay home? After all, I
am
grounded, right?” she asked.

“No,” my mother said. “We're all going to Happy Samurai Sand Castle, and that's final.”

“Happy Shogun Sushi Palace,” I corrected.

“Whatever,” my mother said.

Uncle Henry edged in: “You know, Leah, Carry really
is
grounded. Maybe she should stay home. I don't mind sticking around and keeping an eye on her.”

My mother rolled her eyes. “I can't believe you guys. You're all scared to try something new. It's just food, for cryin' out loud.”

“Raw food!” Carry said. “You're trying to kill me, aren't you?”

“I'm a police officer, honey. If I wanted to kill you, I know much better ways than this.”

“You know, Leah,” Uncle Henry chimed in, “round here, what you're talkin' 'bout really isn't ‘just food.' It's more like bait.” He laughed, but I could tell he was just as wary as my sister about those Happy Shoguns.

 

No other customers sat inside Happy Shogun Sushi Palace when we arrived. Mr. Takahashi greeted us at the door with a bow from his waist. He wore a red jacket with gold buttons and trim. “Welcome to my fine establishment,” he said, smiling. With a sweep of his hand, he gestured to the array of empty tables. “Please sit wherever you wish.”

We took a seat in the corner by the window. I sat across from Carry, whose disposition hadn't improved the slightest since leaving home. Mr. Takahashi handed us each a menu while his wife poured tea in clear glasses.

“What's that floatin' in it?” I asked.

“Tea leaves,” Mrs. Takahashi said. “It's green tea. Good for the stomach.” She was dressed similarly to Mr. Takahashi and had her hair up in a bun on top of her head, held together with a crossed pair of black and gold chopsticks. I noticed she was wearing a lot of makeup on her face. It made her look almost like a cat.

Uncle Henry lifted his cup and sniffed his tea before taking a sip. He looked across the table to my mother. “It's not bad.”

“See?” she said.

Mr. and Mrs. Takahashi left us alone with our menus and a heavy silence fell over the table as each of us realized we had absolutely no idea what we were looking at. “I don't understand any of this,” I said.

“It all sounds disgusting,” Carry said.

“How can you tell?” I asked. “Most of the words aren't even in English.”

My mother sighed. Uncle Henry laughed.

Standing across the restaurant, his hands clasped behind his back, Mr. Takahashi witnessed all this take place. He came over and asked, “Is there something I may be able to help with?”

“I don't think we're quite ready to start orderin' as of yet,” my mother said, trying to be as polite as possible.

With another bow, Mr. Takahashi abruptly turned and marched back to his position across the room with his hands behind his back, patiently waiting for us to decide which cast members of a Jacques Cousteau adventure book we wanted to ingest for dinner.

I looked up at my mother. “Is it okay if I drink this tea, or will it stunt my growth like Mr. Yates's coffee?”

“I think the tea's fine,” she said. “Didn't you hear Mrs. Takahashi? It's good for your stomach.”

Cautiously, I brought the cup up to my nose and sniffed it the way Uncle Henry had. The glass was hot and hard to hold on to, and I wondered why Japanese people didn't know about handles. But the tea didn't smell too bad so I took a taste. “It's all right,” I said.

Carry ignored her tea.

I set down my cup. “There's somethin' I don't understand,” I said.

“Here we go,” my mother said. Uncle Henry's hand reached across the tabletop and came down on hers.

“Some folk keep talkin' like Mary Ann Dailey and Tiffany Michelle Yates are gonna show up again any day now,” I said. “And some of 'em say that might not be a good thing, that they might show up the same way Ruby Mae Vickers did.” I paused a minute, gauging my mother's reaction. I was starting to figure things out a bit when it came to talking to my mother.

Her eyes fell away to the floor, but Uncle Henry tapped her hand and she lifted them back to mine. “What is it you don't understand, honey?” she asked resignedly.

“Why would anyone want to take some girl away? And especially why would anyone want to take some girl away just to hurt 'em? It makes no sense to me.”

Mr. Takahashi approached the table. “You ready to order?”

My mother quickly scanned the menu, as though his interruption was the happiest event in recent history. “Oh, well, I dunno,” she said.

“I don't rightly understand most of this,” Uncle Henry said.

Mr. Takahashi raised an index finger to his lips. “How about I bring you special sushi surprise. A little bit of this, a little bit of that. You can taste some of everything.”

With a glance at Uncle Henry, my mother nodded. “That sounds like a fine idea,” Uncle Henry said.

“Very well.” Mr. Takahashi grinned, collecting the menus. He disappeared into the kitchen.

“So, Hank,” my mother said, “why don't you tell us about this friend of yours in the hospital in Franklin?”

Uncle Henry gave her a half grin. “Why don't you address your boy's concern, Leah?” I was relieved to hear him ask that question, as I was beginning to wonder if everyone just forgot about me talking.

Mom took a deep breath and pushed her hair back up on her head. She stared at Uncle Henry for a long while, with a look in her eyes like she wanted to strangle the breath out of him. When she finally turned her attention back to me, she seemed calmer. “Well, honey, I don't rightly know. I guess the answer to your question is that some people just ain't right in the head.”

“You mean folk like Newt Parker, who used to eat roadkill?” I asked. Roadkill was still on my mind. Mr. Wyatt Edward Farrow had yet to drop off the end of my suspect list.

My mother shook her head. “No, Newt Parker wasn't right in his head a different way—a harmless way. Well, I guess except for the roadkill he ate. But it was already dead, so I don't think that's so bad, really.”

Mr. Takahashi brought a dish covered in slices of raw fish laid across rolls of rice. Some were white, some were pink, some were yellow. He also laid chopsticks down in front of all of us. I had never used chopsticks before. I didn't think my mother or Carry had, either. I had no idea about Uncle Henry.

As Mr. Takahashi walked away, my mother whispered to Uncle Henry, “Do you think we should ask what each of these are before we try them?”

“I think it's best not to know,” Uncle Henry said. He fumbled with the chopsticks, dropping one of the pink slices of fish four times on the way to his mouth. Finally, he just used his fingers. I assumed he hadn't used chopsticks before, either.

My mother tried a white piece, and I tried a pink one like Uncle Henry. It tasted slimy in my mouth, and I found it best not to chew it. It was far better to just let it slide down my throat and then quickly chase it with the tea.

Smiling, Mom tried to convince us it didn't taste too bad at all.

“I didn't really taste anything,” I said. “Just felt it slide across my tongue.”

“You gonna try some, Caroline?” my mother asked.

Carry just shook her head, her arms still crossed defiantly over her chest. Uncle Henry caught my mother's eye and gently shook his head. I could hear his thoughts:
Leave her be, Leah.

I decided to fill in the silence. “Anyway,” I continued with my previous line of thinking, “when you say people who ain't right in the head, you mean like some kinda cougar?”

My mother's eyebrows came together confused. She shook her head. “I have no idea what you're talkin' about.”

“Mr. Garner told Dewey and me that he reckoned it was some sorta cougar that got Ruby Mae Vickers. Only, he said, not the sort of cougar me and Dewey was picturin' in our heads. I figured he meant a person.”

I saw my mother nodding absently, deep in thought. “That's a fairly reasonable way of putting it. The thing to remember, Abe, is that not all people are nice. Some people are sick in ways that make them hurt other people. They might not even mean to do it.”

I stared out at Main Street, considering this. “I think I understand.”

“Mr. Takahashi?” I called across the restaurant, hoping I wasn't about to say anything racist. “What's a shogun, anyway?”

He smiled, showing a mouthful of white teeth and once again approached our table. “Shogun fearsome Japanese warrior with big sword. You eat lots of sushi, you become like him.” Mrs. Takahashi came out of the kitchen with a big round plate that she set down on our table. It was full of slimy sea creatures, each a variety of different colors. Two of them were purple with actual tentacles attached to them. The tentacles had suction cups. I picked one up and made it wiggle in my fingers while I hummed a little tune. Even Carry smiled at that.

“Stop it!” my mother said, slapping me on the hand with one of her chopsticks. “Eat it, don't dance with it.”

At that point, Uncle Henry started laughing.

I decided I wanted to eat it. I shoved the whole thing into my mouth and realized near on immediately it was a huge mistake. It tasted exactly the way it looked, like some purple creature with suction cups and tentacles. I barely managed to swallow it. It took the entire rest of my tea to wash it down my throat. Carry looked at me like I'd just done the most disgusting thing she'd ever seen though, and that made the whole thing worth it.

“How was it?” my mother asked.

“Tentacley.”

“Yeah, I think I'll pass on that one,” she said.

“Mom?” I asked. “Can I ask another question about the case?” Lately, she'd not wanted to talk much about it, so I didn't want to get her angry by just launching into my badgering.

She let out a big sigh. “Yes, Abe?”

“You reckon you'll catch whoever took Mary Ann and Tiffany Michelle?”

She gave Uncle Henry another long look. This time, it lasted so long I started wishing I hadn't asked my question. It was Uncle Henry who finally answered it. “Your mama's gonna do her best, Abe. That's all anyone in this world can do—their best.” He turned back to my mother. “Nobody expects perfection from anyone. Or maybe they do—sometimes from
themselves
—but those are false expectations that can never be met. All we can hope to do during our life, Abe, is to be honest and try our damndest not to hurt the ones we love. Try to find a place inside us where we have integrity.”

“What's integrity?” I asked.

“Integrity's how you know what the right thing to do is, even when you don't,” Uncle Henry said.

I looked to my mother. “You mean like when I say things that are racist even though I don't realize they are? Does that mean I have no integrity?”

My mother's eyes grew wet. She shook her head. “No, that's just ignorance. There's a difference. You're too young to understand that difference yet. But one day you will.”

“And when you do,” Uncle Henry added, “it will be up to you whether or not you want to live your life with integrity or not.”