Dream With Little Angels (4 page)

“Go get her, girl,” Mr. Garner would say, and Dixie would gallop through the woods while the squirrel scampered away or raced up the trunk of an oak.

I looked at the rifle in Mr. Garner's hand. “Hope we don't come across no bears.”

“I think we're safe from bears,” he said.

“Then why're ya carryin' a rifle?” I asked.

“Just in case. You never know.”

I sighed, wondering why nobody could explain exactly what it was I never knew might be lurking out here, requiring the use of a rifle. I decided to let the issue drop for now. Instead I ran up, practically jogging to keep beside him, and asked, “Mr. Garner? You think Mary Ann Dailey's gonna turn up today?”

The forest began breaking around us. Through the sparse trunks, I began to make out Mr. Garner's ranch coming up on our right and the edge of Skeeter Swamp that flanked the Anikawa on our left. Mr. Garner's attention immediately went to that swamp. Farther up, the river banked toward us and a stone bridge arched across, leading to a small hill where a willow stood, its leaves shaking in the morning breeze.

Without taking his eyes off that murky green swamp water, Mr. Garner responded, “I don't rightly know. Sure hope so, Abe. Sure hope this don't turn out to be another Ruby Mae.”

I searched my mind for any recollection of what he might be talking about, but I couldn't remember anyone named Ruby Mae living in Alvin. When I tossed a puzzled glance at Dewey, he just shrugged back. “Who's Ruby Mae?” I asked.

Keeping up his pace, Mr. Garner continued scouring the area, without answering me. I thought maybe he hadn't heard my question and so I was about to ask again when he spoke. “Ruby Mae Vickers,” he said. “She was another little girl went missing from these parts, oh, must've been ten or twelve years ago.”

No wonder I didn't remember. I was either not born or just a baby. “Was she related to the Vickers living out on Finley Circle?” The Vickers had five children, four boys and one girl. Far as I knew, none of them went to school. Most were probably too young though, I thought.

“Yup,” Mr. Garner said. “Ruby Mae was their first daughter.”

“And she went missin'?” I asked.

“Yup.”

“Just like Mary Ann Dailey?” I asked.

“Dunno yet,” Mr. Garner said.

“And nobody ever found her?” Dewey asked. He had jogged up on the other side.

Mr. Garner stopped and pulled a cigar from the front pocket of his jacket. Biting the end off, he stuck it in his mouth and lit it with a match. He blew a big puff of blue smoke into the cold morning air. Out here, surrounded by the woods, the wind wasn't blowing nearly as hard as it had been out in the town, and the smoke kind of hung there like a sour cloud until we finally walked through it. This time, Mr. Garner went considerably slower.

“Oh, she turned up, eventually,” he said. We continued along the Anikawa River, just edging Skeeter Swamp that settled in on either side. “Just not in the same state she disappeared in. I found her a few months later. Her body turned up under that big willow.” He pointed across the river to the tree growing atop the small hill. Fresh flowers were scattered around the bottom of the trunk. I think they were roses. Red, pink, and yellow.

Dewey's eyes went wide at this news. I couldn't believe we'd never heard this story before. It was the sort of thing that would scatter through school faster than an outbreak of cooties. I wondered if maybe he was putting us on, but his face was serious. Very serious, in fact. “What happened to her?” I asked.

Mr. Garner pulled his cigar from his mouth. “Nobody ever did find that out.”

“Where did those flowers come from?” I asked.

Mr. Garner hesitated before answering. “I put them there.”

“How come?” Dewey asked.

“Let's not talk any more about them flowers, okay?” Mr. Garner said.

From here we could now see most of Mr. Garner's ranch. There was a structure set off from his house in the process of being built. “Whatcha making?” I asked.

“Tool shed,” he said.

“What for?” Dewey asked.

“Tools, likely,” I answered sarcastically.

“Actually, I just like doing things to keep me busy,” Mr. Garner said. “The devil finds work for idle hands to do. It's important to remember things like that.”

I glanced back at the willow with the ring of flowers on the other side of the river as we continued.

“You reckon it was one of them cougars that got Ruby Mae?” Dewey asked.

Stopping, Mr. Garner once again inspected Dewey standing there in those giant boots. “Yeah, son,” he said, “I reckon it was some kinda cougar. Just not the kind you's thinkin'. Somebody killed her and tossed her away afterward.”

We continued in silence. I don't think neither me nor Dewey could think of any proper response to something like that. This was likely the reason for everyone reacting the way they did when Mr. Garner mentioned Skeeter Swamp this morning.

Once again, we entered a wooded area. We came to a rotted log in our path so big even Mr. Garner had to step up on it in order to get over it. Dewey and I struggled to climb across, the hollow wood breaking apart beneath our hands. Dewey had an especially hard time, being all clumsy in his father's galoshes, but eventually we made it, just as the first heavy drops of rain fell through the thick ceiling of leaves and branches hanging above our heads.

Dewey and I pulled up our hoods. Mr. Garner didn't seem to even notice. Something else was on his mind.

We were getting close to Painted Lake. I could hear Bullfrog Creek coming up along our right. Not only the water quietly rushing over the stones, but also the croaking of the animals that gave it its name.

Mr. Garner spoke again, but I got the feeling this time he was talking more to himself than us. “I sure as hell hope this don't turn out to be another Ruby Mae,” he said.

That was all we heard of it for the rest of our wet walk through the trees and up to the lake.

N
obody found Mary Ann Dailey even though they searched throughout that entire day and into the night. My mother brought me and Dewey home after our group finished up at Painted Lake, and made us a quick lunch before she went out again. I was glad she didn't ask if we wanted to go with her. By then the rain was coming down something fierce, and I'd really had my fill of walking through the woods.

My mother didn't end up finally getting home until long after I was in bed. I was still awake though, on account of I couldn't sleep, thinking about what Mr. Garner had told me and Dewey about Ruby Mae Vickers. About it being some kind of cougar that was responsible,just not the kind of cougar we was thinking about. He was talking about the human kind, I figured, and I couldn't imagine what sort of person would take a girl away only to kill her a few months later. I wondered if Dewey was lying in his own bed thinking something the same, and I suspected he likely was. The rain pounded on my window and I thought about poor Ruby Mae out there by herself, dead beneath that willow tree. My stomach flipped and I near enough threw up right there in my bed. So I rolled over, pulled up my covers, and decided to try to think about something else, but I couldn't. Just that poor girl out there, being “tossed away,” like Mr. Garner said. The more I tried to get her out of my head, the more she insisted on staying, the thought growing more horrible every time it came back.

She finally drifted away after my mother returned home. After fixing herself something to eat, my mother came down the hall and opened my door, the way she always did to check on me when she got home.

I had my back to her, and she probably figured I was asleep, but just before she closed my door again, I turned over and said, “Mom?”

“Honey?” she asked, coming over and crouching beside me. “You're still up? It's late.”

“I'm havin' troubles falling asleep tonight.”

She placed her hand on my forehead. “You not feeling well, baby?”

I didn't answer right away. I didn't rightly know
how
to answer. It wasn't that I was sick or nothing like that, but I wasn't feeling good. So, instead, I asked, “Did you find Mary Ann?”

With a deep breath, she looked down at my floor. “No, honey, we didn't.”

“Do you reckon someone took her?”

My question seemed to surprise her. I saw her eyes open wider just a bit, but then she answered plainly, “I don't know, baby. I sure hope not.”

“I hope not, too,” I said.

“Is this why you're having trouble sleepin'?”

I nodded.

Reaching over me, she pulled me to her in a tight hug, burying my face into the side of her neck. She smelled like the rain and the woods. “Don't you worry, we're gonna find her,” she said. When she let go, I saw tears standing in her eyes. Sniffling, she wiped her face with the arm of her sweater. With another big breath, she swallowed and told me Uncle Henry was coming up from Mobile tomorrow to stay with us awhile. I didn't ask why, but she explained anyway. “I just don't want you kids to be alone right now, is all. You understand that, right?”

I nodded.

“Now I want you to go to sleep and not worry about Mary Ann. That's my job, remember?”

I nodded again. She kissed me on my forehead and tucked my blankets under my chin. “Good night, my little man,” she said, and stood.

“Night, Mama.”

She walked out, leaving my door open a few inches so the yellow light from the hall stretched into my bedroom. It had been more than a year since I slept with my door partway open and the hall light on, but tonight I certainly appreciated it.

I turned back over and pulled my blankets up even tighter.

This time Ruby Mae left me alone to sleep, but I guess I didn't sleep too well, because when I woke up in the morning, I felt just as tired as if it were time for bed all over again. I couldn't remember any dreams, but I had a feeling a few had floated through my brain and maybe it was forgetting them on purpose. Either way, it was Sunday and I had to get up for church.

My mother liked to think we went to church every Sunday and Wednesday without fail, and in her own heart, I believe she thought it was true, too. Fact was, we missed church more often than we went, but it wasn't because my mother didn't respect the Lord. Usually it had to do with her schedule. Things just tended to get away from her most of the time.

But on those days when things didn't get in the way? It wouldn't have mattered if I'd had my leg bitten off by a gator the day before—we'd still be going to church. I think even if I had managed to not sleep for four days straight, my mother would still drag me to church and force me to keep my eyes open for the whole service before bringing me back home and putting me to bed.

And this morning we were definitely going to church, so I had to get myself out of bed and get dressed. Besides, the smell of bacon sizzling and popping in the kitchen was winding its way down the hall and through my open door. I think someone could be near on at their deathbed, barely able to get out of bed in their final throes, and still not be able to resist the smell of frying bacon and hot coffee on a wet morning. They would postpone the afterlife for one last breakfast; at least, I would. I'm surprised Jesus didn't have a last breakfast of bacon and coffee instead of that supper. Not that I drank coffee, but my mother did, and sometimes, lately, so did Carry. I didn't drink it, but I loved the smell. When accompanied by bacon, it always smelled like weekends.

“You're up!” my mother said as I came into the kitchen, still in my blue pajamas. “I was beginnin' to think I was gonna have to go in there and pull you out by your feet.”

I sat at the table just as she slid a plate with bacon, two fried eggs, and two pieces of freshly toasted white bread in front of me. She went back to the stove for the skillet full of fried potatoes and dumped some beside my eggs. “Caroline!” she called out over her shoulder, pausing with one hand in an oven mitt clutching the handle of the hot skillet and the other hand grasping the spatula.

There was absolutely no response from Carry's bedroom down the hall.

“Caroline!” my mother called out again, but still my sister didn't answer. “Now, she might be in need of more than just a little feet pullin' soon,” my mother said, giving me a few more potatoes before returning the pan to the stove. She disappeared down the hall toward Carry's bedroom, which was right across from mine. “Caroline!”

I didn't bother waiting. Nothing tastes worse than cold eggs, at least that's my theory, and it was good enough to allow me to dunk my toast into my yolks without feeling even a pang of guilt for not waiting for my mother and Carry to come to the table. I was on my second or third bite when I heard the backdoor open and someone come into the house.

It wasn't unusual for people to come visit, especially Sunday mornings before church. Because my mother was a police officer, she had good relationships with many of the townsfolk; many of them was just like family. So it also wasn't unusual for someone to show up and walk in without knocking first. I figured maybe it was Miss Crystal from next door come over to borrow some eggs or maybe a cup of milk or sugar. Miss Crystal was always coming over to borrow something. It was almost as though she never actually did any shopping for herself, she just got her groceries off people living on the street.

Turned out, though, that I was wrong. I had forgotten what my mother said the night before about Uncle Henry coming to stay awhile and so I was pleasantly surprised to see his round, pink face when he came into the kitchen.

“Looks like I made it just in time for breakfast!” he said, the lights reflecting off his glasses and the teeth of his big grin. He was wearing a gray baseball cap with the brim pushed high on his head, and a white knitted sweater. I liked Uncle Henry a lot. He lived down in Mobile. Normally, we got to see him only a few times a year—mainly at Christmas. But he retired a year and a few months back, so I guessed we'd probably be seeing more of him now. I sure hoped so.

From her room, Carry yelled that she had no intention of going to church—loud enough that Dewey might even have heard it at his house way up the street. Uncle Henry gave a look of surprise. A few minutes later, Carry came bustling down the hall, preceded by her sour mood and followed by my mother. Carry was partially dressed, wearing a baggy white school sweatshirt, but she still had her pink pajama bottoms on. Her hair was naturally curly and she generally kept it perfectly brushed (especially lately) with clips behind her bangs, but this morning it was a blond nest of tangles. With a harrumph, she thumped down into the seat across from me, her arms crossed, her blue eyes staring at the pine tabletop somewhere between me and her.

My mother sighed, then seemed to notice Uncle Henry for the first time and her expression improved dramatically. “Hank!” she said. She walked over and hugged him, kissing his cheek. Uncle Henry
was
actually my mother's uncle, which, I suppose, made him our great uncle, but we still called him Uncle Henry anyway. He was Uncle Henry to a lot of people we knew. Even people his birth had nothing to do with. Seemed like the only person who called him Hank was my mother.

Uncle Henry pointed to Carry. “I see my little sugarplum's not her regular sweet self this morning.”

“Oh, never mind her,” my mother said, picking up a towel from the counter. “She's been in a mood goin' on six months now. I think it's boys.” She whispered the last part, but not near quiet enough for neither me nor Carry not to hear.

“You don't know nothin' about my life, Mother!” Carry snapped, her eyes still fixed halfway on the tabletop between us, her arms still tightly wrapped together.

My mother rolled her eyes at Uncle Henry. “Apparently I know nothin' 'bout her life. I only grew her in my womb for nine months and spent the last fifteen years puttin' bandages on her scrapes and makin' sure she stayed clothed and fed.” She turned back to Carry. “Caroline, say hello to your Uncle Henry.”

There was a pause, and for a moment I thought Carry was going to be unconscionably rude, even for her new self. She loved Uncle Henry as much as I did. I knew this, and so she had no business making him the victim of whatever frustrations had recently crawled inside of her. I wasn't sure she had any business taking it out on me and my mother neither, but I suppose by virtue of simply living together, you automatically assume certain responsibilities. I was just about ready to give Carry a piece of
my
mind when she came to her senses. “Hello, Uncle Henry,” she said, even turning to look at him. “It's nice to see you.” She didn't say it with quite the proper emotion such a sentiment required, but at least she said it.

Uncle Henry nodded and winked back. “Nice to see you too, sugarplum. Sorry you're goin' through whatever phase you're goin' through. Just try to remember that everyone who grows up pretty much grows up the same way, and every one of 'em thinks they're different than all the others who came before them, but one day you'll see that's not the case. But you can't skip over anythin', cuz it's all important and it's all part of becoming who you'll eventually be.” He gave my mother a sideways smile. “So your mama here, she's just gonna have to hang on and do her best to keep the train from runnin' off the tracks. But try to remember from time to time that we're all on your side.”

Now, normally these days, if someone said something like this to Carry it would result in a blowup so extreme I would have been looking for cover. This new Carry, the one I really didn't care for so much, didn't like having anything explained to her that even slightly smelled like parental advice. I think I even flinched halfway through Uncle Henry's little speech, waiting for the knife and fork in front of my sister to come flying across the room like poisoned arrows, but Carry surprised me this time. Her eyes did narrow when he finished talking, and she was obviously thinking something over, but it turned out to not have anything to do with throwing a fit. She just nodded back to him, the edges of her lips nearly even raising enough to qualify as a smile, and said, “Thanks, Uncle Henry. I'll try to remember that.”

Uncle Henry gave her a wink. “Thanks, sugarplum.” He went around to where she was sitting and squatted down beside her. “You got a kiss for your Uncle Henry under all that angst?”

Now she did smile and gave him a hug and kissed him on the cheek the same way my mother had.

“How about you, young soldier?” Uncle Henry asked, coming around to where I was sitting with a mouthful of potatoes while my mother set a plate full of food in front of Carry. “You got a handshake in you, or are you too busy shoveling all that grub into your mug?”

My mouth still full, I set down my fork and took his outstretched hand. This was new. Normally Uncle Henry asked me for hugs and kisses too, but I guess he thought I was getting too old for such things. I felt his grip tighten and I tightened mine back. I hoped he wouldn't tighten again, because I was pretty much putting all the strength I had into mine.

He didn't. “That's a firm grip you got there, boy,” he said. “You're gettin' strong. You're turnin' into quite a young man now, ain't ya?”

Swallowing, I nodded and just beamed back. Like I said, Uncle Henry was good people. He always made
me
feel good, anyway.

My mother had her oven mitt back on and had brought the iron skillet of sizzling potatoes back to the table. “Pull up a chair, Hank. I made lots.”

Uncle Henry waved the idea away. “I ate before I came. You guys go ahead and eat. Just pretend I'm not here.” He sat down anyway and added, “Of course, I'll have a cup of that coffee, if you don't mind.”