The Day of Small Things (36 page)

At last he ran down and his eyelids began to drift shut. “That’s about it, I reckon. And ol’ Dor’thy’s been real good to me. She’s some cook …”

Prin’s hand squeezed his, harder than he would have thought she could, and she whispered real low. “Listen, son, it’s good that you’re happy with Dorothy. You remember that I said that … if anything was to happen … if I was to have to take off again, I want you to go back to Dorothy, you hear?”

Before he could protest, could say that he wanted her and him to get away from Pook, that he wanted to live with her again, not with Dorothy, the fingers had begun the hypnotic stroking once more and his mama had asked, “Your Mamaw Mag says you have a girlfriend. Tell me about her.”

His eyes were closed and he was too sleepy to pretend not to know who she meant. He hadn’t thought of Heather as a girlfriend—not yet. But it was tempting to stretch the truth just a little.

“Yeah, me and Heather does stuff together. I’m teaching her how to use a .22 and she helps me with my English homework. She’s pretty hot looking too. And she’s real nice even though her family is rich Yankees.” Heather’s dark hair and the enticing swell of her tank top came to mind and he felt Mr. Johnson stir next to the hidden cellphone.

The telephone … he wondered if he should tell
Mama … but now she was asking more about Heather and her folks and the fingers was sliding over his hand just as soft … and he was answering all her questions …

“Yeah, her folks are all the time going off on business trips. They’re out in California right now.… They got a babysitter—some old lady from Asheville comes out and stays with Heather when they’re gone. But Heather can sneak out any time she wants—the old lady’s a sound sleeper … her and me one time …”

On he rambled, mixing what had happened with what he hoped might happen, till the answers to his mama’s questions merged seamlessly into a hazy, glorious dream where he and Heather were alone on a sunlit mountainside …

When Calven opened his eyes, the room was filled with morning light. Mama was gone and the door was open. Somewhere in the house he could hear people talking.

After stepping outside to whiz, he shambled toward the kitchen, where Mama and Pook and Darrell were sitting around the table, eating the rest of the stale pizza. Mama’s face was pale but she looked up and gave him a kind of sickly smile. She had on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and he couldn’t see any sign of the bruises.

Darrell nodded at Calven, then returned to the job at hand. Taking another slice of pizza the big man folded it longways, and began to feed it into his mouth with steady concentration. As he swallowed, his free hand reached for another slice.

“Morning, Sunshine.” Pook turned to look at Calven, training the blank black stare of the sunglasses on him. “Like I told you, Good Boy, you fucked up big yesterday.
But your mama’s done paid your debt and we’re gonna move on. And this time, there best be no mistakes, you hear what I’m saying?”

In the harsh morning light Pook’s skin was paper white—lifeless and cold-looking. The sunlight bounced off the dark glasses and picked out the map of tiny wrinkles on his face. It took all of Calven’s willpower to force himself to move toward the empty chair Pook had pulled out from the table. The pale man took a last bite of pizza and spoke as he chewed, revealing a stomach-turning confusion of brown teeth, white crust, and red sauce.

“Thanks to you, Good Boy, we can’t go back to Wildcat Reach. And picking pockets may be fun but it ain’t no living. What I got in mind is a one-time thing—give us enough cash to get us out of the country and set us up for a good long while. There’s places a man can live like a king on five million dollars.”

“I reckon you could live like a king around
here
with just a million dollars,” Calven hazarded, happy to be back in Pook’s good graces—the threat of danger a little farther away.

Pook leaned down to pick up something beside his chair. “Might be that one time you could. But in today’s economy, a million ain’t what it used to be. Now, in Mexico or maybe Costa Rica … and besides, after we pull off this job, it won’t be healthy to stay in the country. Once the FBI get their noses in—”

“You gone rob a bank?” Calven reached for a piece of the cheese and ham and bacon pizza. Not a bad breakfast, though he was ready to eat something hot for a change.

“Bank’s too much risk—no, we’re gonna rob some rich Yankees—lift their precious little girl while they’re away and make them pay us five million to get her back.
And you’re gonna be our inside man—since you’re already tight with little Miss … Heather? … is that the name you said, Prin?”

Pook’s hand emerged from beneath the table, holding a battered-looking orange. Picking up the knife on the table, he sliced the orange in two and thrust half under Calven’s nose. “Want some, Good Boy? Nice and juicy. Just like that little girl, I bet.”

The sharp, sweet aroma rising from the glistening pulp filled Calven’s nostrils and a wave of nausea swept over him. He stood, his legs feeling as if they might fold under him.

He made it outside before throwing up.

Movies This Week

(Dorothy)

T
he waiting was worse than all that had gone before.

After Saturday’s brief encounter with the white van and the rapid involvement of the sheriff’s department, their hopes had soared.

“They’ll trace that vehicle and arrest those fellers and I’ll have Calven back; I can feel it in my bones,” Dorothy had proclaimed, her face weary but radiant. “I’ll stay home by the phone—sheriff promised they’ll let me know soon as they find Prin and those fellers.”

Now, after waiting a day with no results, Dorothy had given her cellphone number to the sheriff’s office and come back to Birdie’s house for company in her vigil.

“You go ahead and watch your story,” Dorothy said. “I’ll just stretch out here on the couch and finish up with this library book of Calven’s. That way, soon as he gets back, I’ll be able to help him with his report and he won’t get so behind with his class.”

Kicking off her shoes, Dorothy settled herself with a
pillow at her back and opened to the page marked by the envelope her electric bill had come in.

“All right, honey,” Birdie answered absently, making no attempt to pick up the remote control that lay on the table at her side. “I may just doze here a while,” she added, pulling the lever to lower the chair back and shutting her eyes.

Dorothy studied the book.
Chapter Five—The Legend of the Little People
. A cartoon drawing of tiny Indians taking shelter from the rain under a wide-capped toadstool held her attention briefly, then she began to read, soundlessly attempting to pronounce the Cherokee words scattered here and there through the story.

Yunwi Tsunsdi, now there’s a tongue twister of a word. I never heard such a funny name. Right funny critters too—hard to say if they’re good or bad. Lead travelers astray—that’s bad. But then they take care of lost children.…

From the corner of her eye she could see that Birdie was not napping but moving restlessly as if she couldn’t get comfortable. The older woman returned the recliner to a sitting position and picked up the worn Bible from the table at her side, held it briefly, and then set it back on its doily, unopened.

Dorothy read on but each time she turned a page, she took a stealthy glance at Birdie, and again and again saw the same thing: the wrinkled hand picking up the Bible, holding it, and returning it to the table.

The old woman’s lips were moving silently and now and then she nodded as if she were in conversation with herself.

Poor old Birdie. I believe she’s slipping. I reckon at her age Saturday was just too much for her
.

Saturday.

The helpful Mr. Aaron had been right. All hell
had
broken loose. One thing after another, going from bad to worse without letting up. Dorothy traced the events in her mind, telling them on her fingers in the order they had occurred.

One: A burglar alarm in one of the houses of the community had been tripped, sending a signal to the gatehouse, thus making the guard close the gate and call the sheriff’s department.

Two: The white van had forced her car into the ditch.

Three: The guard had been on the phone with the sheriff’s office as the white van barreled through the gated entrance, sideswiping a pair of joggers, one of which was now in the Asheville hospital with a concussion and a broken leg. No tractor could be sent to pull their car from the ditch till an ambulance had taken the wounded jogger away and the sheriff’s men had arrived.

When at last one of the deputies had come to question them where they waited by the side of the road, Mr. Aaron had greeted him like an old friend but had remained silent as the two women told their story. Dorothy had been eager to give full particulars of the van and its occupants, happy that she had such useful and accurate information.

“A great big feller, brown hair, kindly shaggy. Looks like he could be a few bricks shy of a load, if you know what I mean. And another feller, who I take to be the boss, not near so big but wiry-like. That one has his head shaved and wears sunglasses. Looks awful mean. Couldn’t say what age he might be—real white face, right wrinkled, like a smoker’s sometimes gets. And Prin Ridder’s with them—skinny bleached blonde with … well, she’s got great big bosoms. I wouldn’t bring it up but I reckon it’s
what most men are going to notice about her. And Prin’s boy is with them—my nephew Calven. He’s a good young un and he ain’t to blame if—”

The deputy, who had been scribbling in his notepad in a vain attempt to keep pace with Dorothy’s flow of information, held up his hand.

“Wait a second there, Miz …”

He glanced down at his notes and continued. “… Miz Franklin, now let me see if I got this right. Miz …” Again, the downward glance. “Miz Gentry here said you uns were in your vehicle when a white van come around the curve here at speed, forcing your vehicle into the ditch; is that right?”

“Of course that’s right!” she had shouted. Dorothy blushed at the memory.
Lord, if I didn’t stamp my foot like a spoiled young un at his question
. “Birdie done told it just like it happened! And I—”

“That’s correct, Wade,” Mr. Aaron had interrupted. “That van had to have been doing around fifty.”

The deputy had looked smug, flipped his notepad shut, and tapped on its cover with his pen.

“Well now, don’t you see, Jake, that’s the problem. Fast as that vehicle was traveling, how the—how the heck could these ladies see what the suspects in the van looked like?”

It had taken some explaining—from Prin and her companions’ early morning visit to Dorothy’s house to Bernice’s boy’s sighting of the van and on to Earl’s information at the little store and their arrival at Wildcat Reach. Finally, however, Mr. Aaron had smoothed things over, leaving Wade the deputy willing to admit the possibility that the descriptions he had taken down were accurate.

But by the time the fellow on the tractor came and got us out of the ditch, poor little Birdie was just about wore out. She hardly said a word coming home and she went to bed way before it even got dark. Poor little thing
.

Dorothy looked at her friend—the wrinkled face, the thinning white hair, the liver-spotted hands—and remembered the vigorous woman Birdie had once been.
That night we went to the snake church … for a moment I thought I saw a touch of how she looked when first I knew her. But now—Lord, if she don’t look plumb ancient—older than these hills
.

Almost as if she had heard the unspoken words, Birdie’s blue eyes lost their confused, faraway look and focused on Dorothy.

“Dor’thy, I need to take me a little walk—this setting and waiting is getting on my nerves. You stay there and read your book—I’ll not be long.”

“Now, Birdie, that’s a right good idea. A little fresh air’ll make you feel better,” Dorothy agreed.

“Fresh air …” Birdie’s eyes were far away again as she put down the recliner’s footrest and planted her shoes on the floor. “Ay, law … fresh air.”

Once more her hand reached for the Bible and brought it to her lap. From the corner of her eye, Dorothy watched, somewhere between amusement and concern, waiting for her friend to put the book back, as before, unopened. This time, however, Birdie opened the book and took from it a small folded square of paper. Without further comment, the old woman hobbled to the door, took up her walking stick, and went out.

She oughtn’t to go off alone, tired as she looks
. Closing the book with a snap, Dorothy pulled on her shoes.

Watching from the door, she saw the old woman stand
in the sunshine of the front yard and raise both arms. Something in the movement brought to mind the television special she had seen once all about the Pope. Even the hickory walking stick Birdie was holding reminded her of the crook-topped stick old John Paul had carried.