Tattler's Branch (20 page)

Armina wanted to jump down from the wagon and choke Emma Hill. The foolish old lady never stopped talking, and her talking always concerned some day long past
 
—like her mind was a calendar always flipping backward. It was one thing to yak on when folks had the inclination to listen but, good gravy, not today.

“Come along, Emma,” Mrs. Blair was kind enough to say, putting an arm around Mrs. Hill’s chicken-wing shoulders. “I expect the sheriff has other things on his mind.”

The room was close
and dank with trash and old clothes piled up in the corner. It looked to Lilly like the house had been abandoned years ago. As soon as she heard the man go outside, she tried the doorknob. It didn’t turn, of course. The only window was boarded over from the outside, but she could see movement through a space in the two-by-fours. When she peeked out, she saw the man hauling Timmy across the backyard. Timmy twisted and kicked against his captor, screaming like a banshee.

The man opened the door to a dirt cellar carved out of a bank and shoved Timmy in. Timmy churned out before he could slam the door and took off like a shot through the tall
weeds. The man grabbed his shirt collar and dragged him back to the hole in the ground. He pitched the boy in headlong and slammed the door, wedging it shut with a metal rod through the latch.

The breath caught in Lilly’s throat. Timmy’s arm was healing nicely, but it wouldn’t stand up well to this rough treatment.

The man was out of her line of sight. What might he be doing? She assumed his goal was to get the baby, but really all he would have had to do was go to the law and claim his rights to her. Neither Lilly nor Anne could do anything to stop him. A sick feeling settled in Lilly’s stomach. There had to be something more for him to have gone to such lengths.

She tried to recall how the man had seemed when she treated him last week. He was abrupt and dismissive, but she’d sensed no overt hostility. He’d been clean, except for the bloodstained shirt. She recalled the long braid of his hair and his brown felt hat. He had high cheekbones and a sharp, hawk-like nose. Like Timmy, she would have taken him for an Indian were it not for his fair complexion and blond hair. The only thing odd about him was the reason he’d come in
 
—those wounds to his chest.

She saw the man go around the corner of the house. Everything grew quiet. She thought the man had left, but she suspected that wouldn’t last long. In the meantime she might find a means of escape or perhaps a weapon of some sort. With a practiced eye she examined the room. There was a dressing table much like hers, except it had no bench
and dust obscured the mirror. A chair bursting springs and horsehair was flanked by a table and a coal-oil lamp. Coal-oil lamps had heavy bases
 
—perfect for conking someone over the head. She pictured herself standing by the door with the lamp raised high.

Getting closer, she noticed something out of place, something coiled around the lamp. She pulled a snakeskin loose and held it up. At least six feet long, it streamed from her hand. The tail end puddled on the floor like a length of ribbon. A blacksnake, she would bet. She hoped it was long gone, but she’d be extra careful when she went through the heap of clothes. Neither she nor the snake had an easy way out.

Lilly took grateful advantage of the necessary pot behind the door
 
—at least she didn’t have to worry about her bladder if the snake slithered out and scared her. Then, gingerly, she searched through the clothing, discarding shirt after shirt, dress after dress, finding nothing more interesting than two pairs of moldy shoes. She would sit in the chair and try them on, except the snake might be hiding under the cushion. She’d heard it said that they were more afraid of you than you were of them, but she wouldn’t take that chance. Instead she sat on the shelf of the dressing table and examined her feet. They were a mess of abrasions and surface cuts. She hoped Timmy’s had fared better; since the boy didn’t wear shoes during the summer, she suspected he had a nice protective buildup of calluses.

The first pair of shoes was much too large, but the second
ones would do in a pinch. And Lilly was decidedly in a pinch. She would rather have blisters from ill-fitting shoes than a stubbed toe or a serious cut. After wiping mold from the shoes with a musty shirt from the pile on the floor, she put them on. They’d be okay if she could do up the buttons.

Buttons! Buttonhooks
 
—an unexpected weapon. Frantically aware of the passing of time, she dumped the dressing table drawers out onto the floor. There was no buttonhook but there was a knitting needle. She swallowed hard and slipped it into her pocket, where its presence burned like carbide, like the planning of a sin. What did she think she would do with the needle? Poke his eyes out? Stab him?

One hour turned into two as she waited, afraid to turn her back on the door. Finally she heard his heavy footsteps in the hall and saw the doorknob turn. Now was the time to put faith in action
 
—time to do all things through Christ. She flung the tool away.

“Come along,” he said, waving the gun.

“I’m not leaving Timmy here alone,” she said.

“Oh yeah, well, what if I shoot you now? Who’ll find you or the boy?”

“You are not a cruel man. I don’t believe you’d leave the boy in that place to die.”

He scraped the barrel of the gun against the stubble of his beard. “Ma’am, you took my child. Alls I want is to get her back.”

“And I am willing to help you, but not at the risk of hurting Timmy.”

“That boy’s brought this misery on himself. He wouldn’t stay out of my business.”

She raised her hands in supplication. “Sir, he’s just a boy.”

He whirled and kicked the door so hard it bounced against the frame. She flinched and nearly screamed. His eyes were wild when he looked at her. “Just do as I say and nobody has to get hurt.”

“Bring Timmy in here, and I’ll go with you.” She let her face go soft. It wasn’t a stretch to let a few tears flow. She could have cried a river.

He turned on his heel and shut the door. The key clicked in the lock.

Lilly flew to the window and watched him jerk the cellar door open. A subdued Timmy came out and followed the man inside.

“Timmy, you’ll be okay here until we come back. Okay?” She held the snakeskin up. “Look what I found.”

“Boy, that’s a beaut.”

“Just think what the boys will say when you show it to them. They’re going to be so envious that you’ve had such an adventure.”

“Yeah,” he said, wrapping the skin around his wrist. “I can’t wait to show them. Maybe I’ll find the snake, too.”

The man had procured a horse and a two-door carriage, with an ample front bench and a small backseat. Lilly wondered what family was missing theirs.

They’d have to go around the mountain in order to get to the Beckers’ house in the buggy. The horse couldn’t haul it
up the ridge on this road. She was thankful. They were sure to see someone who knew she was missing.

But half an hour later, they rolled into the Beckers’ front yard. “I know they have my daughter,” he said, his voice as cold as a January morning. “You go get her. Try anything funny and I won’t have any qualms about what happens next.”

Lilly stepped down from the carriage. She knew she looked a mess. Anne would know something was amiss the moment she saw her. She squared her shoulders, walked up the porch steps with her unfastened shoes flopping, and knocked on the door.

After a moment, Cletus answered. Amy was in his arms. The little girl squealed with excitement when she saw Lilly. She pointed one tiny finger toward the room behind her. “Baba dere,” she said. “Baba night-night.”

“Is Anne here?” Lilly asked as the Beckers’ rawboned hound dog sniffed around her ankles.

“Nah.”

Lilly’s heart plunged. “Will she be back soon, Cletus? It’s important that I talk to her.”

“Just left out,” he mumbled with his chin tucked into his neck. “Gone to town.”

“Skip Rock?”

“Nah, Perry.”

Lilly’s heart sank. Anne could be gone for hours. She could feel the threat of the weapon pointed at her back. She knew the man could hear every word. “I need to take Glory for some medical tests. Could you get her for me?”

He put Amy down and went back inside. Amy tugged on Lilly’s skirt and raised her arms. Lilly swung her up. She buried her nose in the girl’s sweet-smelling neck. Tears threatened to overtake her.
Please, Lord,
she silently prayed,
let Cletus notice that something is wrong.

He was gone for several minutes. Lilly had to steel herself from looking over her shoulder at the buggy. Maybe Cletus was loading his gun, or maybe he’d fled out the back door to run for help. Oh, but the Beckers didn’t have a back door.

Amy sucked her fingers and laid her head on Lilly’s shoulder. Lilly fought to distract her racing heart. “Does Sassy like her new home?” she asked.

Amy rewarded her with a big, toothy smile. “Oink-oink dere,” she said, looking across the yard.

“Yes,” Lilly said, bouncing the girl in her arms. “Sassy’s in the barn.”

“Err-err-err in a barn,” Amy chortled.

“Yes, rooster’s in the barn too. You’re such a smart girl.”

“Horsey?”

“Yes, that’s a horsey.”

Amy pointed at the buggy. “Who dere?”

Lilly turned slightly away from the man’s line of vision and whispered, “A very bad man is in the buggy. Bad, bad man.”

“Baaa,” Amy bleated like a sheep.

Lilly’s heart skipped when she heard the buggy door click open and closed. He was giving her a warning. What was taking Cletus so long?

Finally Cletus returned with Glory in her Moses basket. Lilly set Amy down and took the baby. “Thank you, Cletus. Tell Anne I’m sorry to have missed her.”

Amy started crying. “Baba here,” she sobbed and stomped her little foot. “Baba here.”

Cletus swept Amy up and turned his back. Lilly heard the door shut behind her as she stumbled down the steps.

The wagon bumped
and squeaked all the way up Tattler’s Branch Road. Armina held herself ramrod straight on her portion of the seat between Turnip Tippen, who was all slouched down relaxed-like, and Sheriff Clay, who was tense as a racehorse at the gate. She clutched the canvas shoes tightly in her lap. Doc Lilly was sure to need them.

Hannah was in the bed of the wagon. Armina hoped she wasn’t getting too jostled back there. It had been unnecessary for the sheriff to bring the nurse along; Armina had no intention of falling ill again. Once the awful memories had fully surfaced, her brain clicked along on all its gears. She was kindly glad Hannah was there, though; she was starting to feel like a friend.

Armina watched closely for the narrow bridge as the wagon rolled along. Things looked different from up here. “Stop,” she said when she spotted the stately tulip poplar under which she’d waited out the rain that day. “Let me down. I remember that there tree.”

Turnip jumped down from the bench and forged ahead like he was chief of the Indians. Sheriff Clay stood back for a moment, taking in the scene. Hannah stayed beside Armina, pinching her elbow lightly as they walked toward the tree.

“This is where I stopped for a break that day,” Armina said. “Ye can hear the creek.”

Turnip slapped the long, straight tree with the flat of his hand, startling a flock of red-winged blackbirds. The birds burst from the top of the tree, dislodging hundreds of tulip poplar seeds, which pinwheeled through the air. “This here trunk would make a fine canoe,” Turnip said while brushing the debris from his hair.

“Weren’t nobody talking about canoes, Turnip,” Armina said, wishing she could push him off in one. Maybe he’d float all the way to the Mississippi.

The sheriff coughed behind his fist. Armina saw a little smile play around his lips. He must be as weary of Turnip Tippen as she was. The man had not stopped talking all the way from Skip Rock, yet he hadn’t said one important word.

“Stand back if you don’t mind, Turnip,” the sheriff said. “Let’s give Miz Armina a little space.”

Hannah took the shoes from her. “I’ll keep these safe,
Armina.” She followed Turnip back to the wagon. The seeds popped like corn under their feet.

Armina stood under the tree with the sheriff. It was definitely the right one. “The bridge is over yonder,” she said.

“You all come along
 
—” he motioned to Turnip and Hannah
 
—“but hang back a ways.”

She appreciated the young man’s effort. It must be hard for him to match his pace with hers. He surely wanted to hurry things up. For her own self she wanted to find Doc . . . and she didn’t. She was mortally concerned about what the outcome might be. A body wasn’t jerked out of their own shoes without being forced. She didn’t think she could bear it if Doc had been hurt. Especially since Armina had started this whole thing.

Behind them, the red-winged blackbirds swarmed the poplar again, screeching and chattering their claim.

Armina stopped just shy of the bridge to get her bearings. “This is the bridge I crossed with my berry bucket. See the gate there among the brambles?”

They trooped across the bridge one at a time. Armina made certain she didn’t look down. There might be a pile of bones under there.

When they approached the gate, the sheriff drew his pistol. Turnip carried a shotgun. The sheriff motioned for Armina and Hannah to stay back. Hannah clasped Armina’s hand tight enough to cut off her circulation. As soon as the men disappeared among the trees, Armina pulled her forward. They huddled behind the very same tree where Armina had hidden that awful day.

The house looked as tidy as when Armina had seen it last. She didn’t see a thing out of place. The flower garden wasn’t so pretty, though. The red and orange zinnias drooped, and the yellow marigolds needed a good pruning.

Sheriff Clay sent Turnip around to the back of the house while he went up the porch steps and pounded on the front door. “Sheriff!” he yelled. “Open up!”

When no one answered, he raised his booted foot and kicked the door in. With gun raised, he went inside.

Hannah stood so close behind Armina that she could feel the woman’s sharp intake of breath and hear her whispered prayer: “Oh, Lord, please let Dr. Still be okay.”

Armina was so thankful for the words that she reached up and patted the hand that Hannah had clamped to her shoulder like a vise.

In moments that seemed like hours, the sheriff came out shaking his head. He called for Turnip, and they stood on the porch together like comrades in arms. Armina and Hannah walked up to the yard.

“Can you be certain this is the right house, Miz Armina?” the sheriff said, his face a study in disappointment.

“I’m certain sure. I even remember the flowers.” A shovel sporting a rusty blade had fallen over in the garden and a pickax leaned against the rail. Armina toed the blade of the shovel. “Looks like the tools he carried off that day.”

“Show me where you went inside,” the sheriff said, following her to the window at the side of the house.

“It was raised that day. I crawled right over the sill.”

“Let’s go inside. I want to see where the baby was when you found her.”

The sheriff poked around in every corner. The house was neat as a pin. There wasn’t a cobweb or a dust bunny anywhere that Armina could see. The only thing out of place was a ragged-edged square of paper poking out from behind the kitchen stove.

Sheriff Clay bent to pick it up. He showed the page to her. “Do these pictures look anything like the baby you found?”

“Somewhat,” she said, squinting to take it in. “She was an odd-looking little thing.”

He examined the page as if it were a bug and he had a microscope. “Hmm. This look like blood to you?”

She looked at a smear on the paper. “Dried up, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“It does.”

“Oh, man,” he said.

Chanis was reaching for the doorknob when Armina spied something else out of place. On the wall beside the door, a red lard bucket and a sycamore walking stick hung from a peg. She took the stick down and examined it as Chanis watched.

“I can’t vouch for the bucket,” she said, “but this is my stick. This proves my story.”

“It sure does,” Chanis said.

Armina took her stick outside while the men searched around the cabin and up to Tattler’s Branch. Neither she nor
Hannah felt like talking. They could hear Turnip and the sheriff thrashing around in various places.

Soon Turnip returned for the shovel. His face was white as a sheet. “It don’t look good” was all he said before he left again.

“You see any reason we shouldn’t make coffee?” Hannah asked.

Armina remembered the grating sounds she’d heard the day she took the baby. “No reason at all,” she said, certain as she was that Doc Lilly was not in this place. “It’ll give us something to do while we wait.”

Armina measured the grounds she’d found on a shelf while Hannah went to the well to fetch water. This kitchen was a puzzle, what with its cheery red-checked curtains at the window and the pink-and-green china so carefully stacked in the cupboard. It was hard to imagine how people who lived in such a welcoming place could wind up wrestling in the creek
 
—much less how one could smack the other upside the head with a rock. Especially if the one that got smacked happened to be the mother of a baby. What would make a woman cleave to a man like that?

She took the lid from the coffeepot and peered inside. It was clean as a whistle. Armina’s own sister had a husband mean as a chained dog, always nipping at her with his condescending words. But her sister had hightailed it home the first time he’d shown her the back of his hand. Maybe the baby’s mother didn’t have anywhere else to go. Or maybe putting up with a man like that felt natural to her
 
—some women didn’t have much gumption.

“Looks like a storm’s brewing,” Hannah said, setting the water bucket on the sink. “That’s all we need.”

Armina stuck another chunk of wood into the cookstove before putting the coffeepot on the heating burner. “If it ain’t one thing, it’s another.”

The men were glad for the coffee when they came in, their faces set in grim lines.

“We found the grave,” Sheriff Clay said. “I figure it to be the mother of the baby you found that’s lying there.”

“Was her head . . . ?”

“Yeah, just like you said.”

Armina bustled around, tamping down the stove, rinsing out the pot, dashing the water Sheriff Clay and Turnip had washed their hands in, while the sheriff jotted things down in his notebook. She couldn’t say why it was important, but she didn’t want to leave the house in disarray.

Thunder rolled across the mountains and swept up the holler.

“Let’s head out,” Sheriff Clay said.

“Are we going to leave her like that?” Hannah asked as tears spilled from her eyes.

“We covered her back up,” the sheriff said. “That’s the best we could do for now.”

Armina figured she should keep watch on Hannah. She climbed up into the wagon’s bed and settled down beside the distraught woman.

Turnip unfolded a tarp and draped it over them, tucking
the tail underneath their feet. “Sit tight, ladies, and you won’t get wet.”

Armina found herself appreciating his efforts. Good gravy, was she going to have to change all her opinions?

“Maybe Dr. Still will be waiting when we get back,” Hannah said, dabbing at her tears.

Rain tap-danced over their heads as they rode tight as ticks in their temporary tent. “Let’s call on the Lord,” Armina said as the storm broke.