Seeing Red (29 page)

“I’m gonna lay you out!” Mr Dunlop shouted after them.

I tried to keep from busting out laughing, thinking,
No, he laid
you
out…again!

Mr Dunlop went inside, and I was just finishing laughing and getting up to cross back over the creek when he came out on the porch. With his shotgun. I crouched down again real quick and watched him pace the front porch, muttering about teaching people a lesson. I got up my nerve to run when he turned to pace away from me. I didn’t look behind me, but ran flat-out for our house, expecting any minute that he’d shoot me in the back just like his great-grandaddy shot George Freeman. I never ran so fast in my life.

I flew into the kitchen, grabbed the phone, and called the sheriff. I told him about Mr Dunlop, and that Mama was out with Rosie. “She took her out to dinner. She could be bringing her back home any minute!” I stopped to let him speak and also because I was out of breath.

I knew it was bad because for the first time in my life I heard the sheriff swear. “What kind of gun?” he asked.

“Shotgun.”

“Could be worse,” he muttered. “Red?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You get your little brother and Beau and lock yourselves in that store right now, you hear? Ray ain’t too fond of y’all.”

“Yes, sir. I know.”

The three of us were sitting on the floor in the back of the What-U-Want playing gin rummy when I heard Mama knocking on the front door.

“Boys! Are you in there?”

I ran to the front and unlocked the door for her. “What happened?”

“Yeah,” said J, catching up with me, “was there a shootout?”

“No,” Mama said, staring J down, “there was no shootout. Sheriff Scott took Mr Dunlop in for questioning and plans to stay with him tonight. Meanwhile, Rosie is packing—”

“Packing?” I said. “Why?”

“In the morning the sheriff is driving her to Waynesboro, to her aunt and uncle’s, for a while.”

Beau tugged his hair. “Poor Rosie.”

“She’s lucky!” J said, wheeling on Beau. “She gets to miss school!” J turned back to Mama. “How long?”

“Just a week or two,” Mama said, “until things settle down.”

I caught Mama’s eye and crossed my arms at her. Did she really think things would settle down and everything would be okay? She looked away quick like she didn’t see me, but I know she did because her foot started tapping real fast.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Kinship

Miss Georgia’s son called to tell us he was bringing his mama home from the hospital. He also said she caught pneumonia at the hospital and not to be surprised that she looked kind of weak. Finally I could get the answer on when George Freeman died.

Mama organized a homecoming for Miss Georgia at her fixed-up house. We made a lot of food. All four of us. I made biscuits, from scratch. Beau made baked beans. J even made sandwiches. Mama surprised me when she told us that since Miss Miller had worked on fixing up Miss Georgia’s place, she’d invited her
and
Mr Reynolds. When I opened my mouth to remind her that Mr Reynolds hadn’t helped at all she cut me off.

“— and because he’s her friend, he’s welcome, too.”

When we loaded everything into the car, Mama had another surprise. “Beau has his permit now, so he’s going to drive.” She was real calm about it, until we hit the road.

“Don’t grab the wheel like that, Beau! Try to relax.” Mama’s voice was so tense she was making me all twisted inside. Poor Beau’s hands were shaking enough for me to see them vibrating even though I was in the back seat.

Beau braked for about the hundredth time and we all lurched forward. Again.

“When are we going to be there?” J asked.

“Shut up,” I hissed at him.

J shot me a devil look and gave a little kick to Beau’s seat.

I kicked him right back.

“Ow! Mama! Red’s kicking me!”

Mama swung round in her seat like she was about to dive at us. “Boys! Stop it! We don’t need any distractions up here! Beau is trying to drive, in case you hadn’t noticed!”

“We noticed,” J mouthed off.

Mama took a deep breath and puffed up about twice her normal size. It was ugly. That’s when I realized our car was drifting way over to the left. Where the road dropped right off. Into the ravine.

“Beau! Look out!”

Mama spun around and yanked the steering wheel to the right, all in one move, faster than I’d ever seen her do anything.

We were all quiet after that. So quiet, I think we were all holding our breath. It took for ever to make it the last quarter mile to Miss Georgia’s.

I saw Miss Miller and Mr Reynolds sitting on her front porch, waving, then not waving, then waving again as we crept closer.

When Beau slammed on the brakes, parking next to the Mustang and the Rambler, Mama said, “That was a fine job, Beau,” like nothing unusual had happened.

Beau grinned. “Thank you, Miz Porter.”

Me and J just looked at each other like the front seat was crazy, but even J knew better than to say anything.

We said hey to Miss Miller and Mr Reynolds. At least we got there before Miss Georgia, although I don’t know how, since it felt like it took an hour to go half a mile. Me and Beau quickly got the firewood out of the trunk and piled it up by her fireplace. Beau went ahead and got a fire set for her, even though the sun was still out. It was cold at night now, especially if you were old and skinny like Miss Georgia.

“She’s here!” J yelled.

I ran to the door, wanting to see Miss Georgia come wheeling up the ramp we’d built.

Miss Georgia never stopped staring at the house the whole time her son was getting her wheelchair out of his Plymouth Fury station wagon, lifting her out of the car and into the wheelchair, and pushing her up the ramp. Her eyes were kind of watery, and she kept pressing her lips together. Inside that big old wheelchair she looked like a fragile baby bird in a nest. When Mr Jones got her situated in front of the fireplace, we all kind of stood there, just watching her as she looked around the room.

“George,” she said finally, “I believe you done brought me to the wrong house, you fool!”

We laughed and everyone started talking at once.

I tried to ask Miss Georgia about the grave markers, but J shoved past me with our plate of sandwiches and biscuits. “Lookit, Miss Georgia, we made this stuff for you!”

She raised one eyebrow. “You mean, your mama made them.”

“Nuh-uh, I made the sandwiches, and Red made the biscuits. Mama’s making me and Red and Beau do all kinds of work around the house so we don’t turn into lazy old men.”

Miss Georgia’s son dropped his head and groaned. “Oh, don’t start that, please, or Mama will be telling my wife – again—” And he started imitating Miss Georgia’s voice, “I hope you’re not spoiling that lazy old man who calls himself my son! You’d best be coming up with more chores for him before he turns into a fat old slug!”

“You got that right!” Miss Georgia snapped, but she was smiling.

So was her son. It was funny to think of Mr Jones as her son, since he looked old enough to be someone’s grandaddy, at least, maybe even great-grandaddy.

Miss Georgia thanked J and even took a sandwich from his plate. “I’ll save this if you don’t mind. I don’t have much appetite right now, but I’ll surely enjoy it later.” She looked around her again and whispered, “James, look what these good people have done.”

“Miss Georgia?” I said. “Can I ask you about—” but she didn’t seem to hear me.

She was reaching past me, her arm kind of wobbly, grabbing Beau’s hand. “I heard about your mama, Beau, and I’m real sorry. Sure am. She was a fine lady. A real fine lady.”

“Thank you, Miz Georgia. I sure do miss her.”

Miss Georgia nodded and patted Beau’s hand.

“She was my only kin. Now I ain’t got no one.”

Miss Georgia stopped her head in mid-nod and sat up like she was about to blast right out of that wheelchair. Her voice was raspy but firm. “Don’t you talk like that, Beau! You got plenty of folk around here. It ain’t a question of kin. Sometimes your own kin ain’t worth dog spit.”

Mr Jones rolled his eyes and groaned again.

“It’s kinship what counts,” Miss Georgia went on. “Don’t matter where it come from. You understand that, Beau?”

Beau was at attention now, too. “Yes, ma’am, Miz Georgia! Kinship. I got it.”

“That’s right, you got it. Lots of it.” And she sat back in the wheelchair and had a coughing attack. I ran to get her a glass of water.

When she finally stopped, Mama asked, “How are you feeling, Miss Georgia?”

She smiled. “Old. That’s how I feel. Old. And tired.”

Mama rushed to fix her a plate of food like that’d help her feel young again.

I couldn’t wait any longer to ask the question that had been burning a hole in my brain for weeks. “Miss Georgia, we fixed your grave markers out back—”

“But I got the date wrong at first,” Beau interrupted, tugging his hair. “I’m real sorry, Miss Georgia, ma’am, but I fixed it up, soon as Red told me what I done wrong.”

“Yeah,” I said, “because it was July first, right?”

“Not Jool seven,” Beau added.

“He means July seventh,” I said.

The whole time, Miss Georgia’s head was turning back and forth between the two of us. “What are y’all talkin’ about?”

“Your grandaddy,” Beau said.

“He died July first, right?”

“Red said it wasn’t Jool seven – I mean July seven, right?”

“Oh,” Miss Georgia’s forehead scrunched up, “I believe it was.”

Beau tugged his hair again. “You believe it was July seven or you believe it was July first?”

“I…I—” She sighed. “Boys, right now I can’t hardly remember my own name.”

Mama came up behind me and said real quiet, “Red, we need to go now.”

I wheeled around. “What? We just got here!”

“Miss Georgia’s very tired. Miss Miller and I are going to get her ready for bed. You boys all wait outside.”

“Can’t I just ask one question about—” but Mama had her hands on my shoulders and was steering me out the front door, and Beau followed.

J was already outside. “We didn’t even get to eat,” he whined.

I listened to the crickets and the low voices of Mr Jones and Mr Reynolds talking as I paced in front of the house.

Beau turned our Chevy’s headlights on, sat on the ground in front of the bumper, and made shadow animals against the house. When J still complained about being hungry, Beau cracked him up by making food shadows of anything J called out.

I didn’t care about eating. Or shadow play. I had a mystery to solve. I couldn’t stand having to wait another day.

When I looked over at Mr Reynolds, his arms crossed, talking to Mr Jones a mile a minute, I realized it was time. Time to show him the map and ask him why it said
Fieri Facias
. And if George Freeman didn’t die until July seventh, did the map mean what I thought it meant?

I walked over to him. “Mr Reynolds, can I talk with you in private, please?”

Mr Jones nodded like it was okay with him and, except for Mr Reynolds looking a little surprised, I guess it was okay with him, too, because he followed me to George Freeman’s grave.

The crickets seemed even louder now, like they were screeching a warning with everything I said.

I told Mr Reynolds about the date on the grave marker and arguing with Beau and asking Miss Georgia about it. Finally I pulled the map out my pocket and started to hand it over to him, but pulled it back when his head jerked and he said, “Is that the paper Mr Dunlop gave your daddy?”

“How do you know about that?”

“Your mama told me that your daddy was upset about a paper Mr Dunlop gave him, but she never actually saw it.” He tilted his head at me. “Where’d you find it?”

“In his desk.”

“She said she looked in his desk and couldn’t find it.”

“Well, she wouldn’t have looked in an envelope called Rambler.”

“Rambler?”

“That’s Miss Georgia’s car. Daddy kept notes about the cars he worked on.” I looked down at the paper in my hand. “But he had a different kind of note for this.”

“May I see it?” Mr Reynolds asked.

I handed it over, and he looked at the top of the map carefully. When his eyes got to the bottom of the page, a gasp escaped from his mouth. He looked up at the top again.

“What does it mean?” I asked. “How could George Freeman have been killed three days after that map says he’s already dead? There’s got to be some mistake, right?”

Mr Reynolds didn’t answer, but he rubbed his thumb back and forth by the initials at the bottom of the page.

“It’s dirt,” I told him. “It won’t come off. It’s been there for a hundred years.” Why did he care about that, anyway? I needed to know what the words meant.