The Drowned Forest (8 page)

The subject completed the eighth grade and can read and write competently. After getting married, she moved to Decatur, Alabama, where her husband supervised a warehouse in the Decatur Harbor until his retirement two years ago. The couple have four adult children. The subject is well-regarded in the community, often called “Auntie Peake.” She still mixes up medicines in her kitchen, prays over people who come to her for help, and claims to know if somebody is under a witch’s hex or not. She does not charge for these services, as is the nearly universal custom among root-workers interviewed.

I skim through the rest of the transcripts, but neither Auntie Peake nor Tommy Mud-and-Sticks is mentioned again. I go back up to the reference desk. “Excuse me, hey. These envelopes are marked two and three of six. Don’t you have the others?”

The librarian shakes his head. “That’s all I could find, sorry. Dr. Frazier died maybe ten years back, and they threw out most of the stuff in his office. I really don’t know why these two were catalogued at all.”

We’re so close to an answer, my stomach feels tight and the back of my neck prickles. I beg him to look again. He does, but comes back five minutes later shaking his head some more. I want to throw the transcripts at him, Holly.

At least the librarian finds an old cassette player so I can listen to the Witherspoon tape. It hardly matters, though—the tape has deteriorated. No matter how much I fiddle with the buttons and spindles, the voices are half lost in a hiss of static.

“ … a powerful root-worker. He mostly worked Godly magic, but if somebody crossed him or his, he knew a hex … ” “ … dug into the Indian mound and found it. Looked like a regular piece of quartz, but with colors inside like an oil slick. But if he looked through it and … ” “ … nesting in your roof will protect your house from lightning, but if the swallows ever abandon their nests, it means somebody in the house is going to … ” “ … kept like a pet. Except when I was little, sometimes I’d come over, and it’d be walking on its hind legs or sitting in the rocker like a person. I was too young to know that wasn’t natural … ”

The rest is murmuring voices, like people talking in their sleep. I strain to listen, but it’s hopeless. Muscles in my back and arms tighten down with frustration. I want to scream. It takes physical effort to keep from smashing my fist against the tape player. Instead, I take everything back to the reference desk and thank the librarian for his help. As I leave, I feel lost and mad. I want to kick something. I want to curl up on the sidewalk and sob and give up.

Back at Stratofortress’s house, I grab the mail out of the beat-up mailbox. Turns out Max’s full name is Osgood Maxwell. Weird. I play with LeighAnn’s dogs, barefoot in the backyard, spiny grass poking my soles. When I hear the rumble of Tyler’s truck out front, I rush around and let him through the front gate. “So? What did Bo tell your parents?”

“Everything. All about the ring, you running away.”

“Son of a biscuit!” Leading him back around to the backyard, I ask, “Well? Did they freak?”

“Yeah. They got scared when I didn’t answer my phone last night, but I told them I was jamming with Ultimate and didn’t hear it.”

“They bought that?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “Same thing happened last week.”

“So what about the ring and all that?”

“I, uh … I sort of put it all on you. Said I never really thought it was from Holly, but you were freaking out, and I was just sort of humoring you.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“It was the only thing I could think of. Sorry.”

I throw a stick for the dogs. Hobbit ignores it, lying down in a hole he’s dug. Cookie runs after the stick but won’t bring it back. He gnaws off the bark, leaving a jagged pale tip that looks like bone. Your bones are still in the drowned forest, mixed with the black mud. Your pa-paw’s bones are down there too, I guess, if you left him any bones after you were done with him. I remember how he stopped fighting when you embraced him, just quit, and my stomach suddenly hurts. I ask, “So what about Mr. Alton?”

“There’s nothing in the newspaper. The houseboat sunk. Nobody even realizes he’s missing yet.”

“So what do we do?”

Tyler shrugs again. “What can we do? You’ve got to stay out of sight, so we can’t go to the police. And even if we did, they wouldn’t believe us. Or worse, they’ll decide we’d murdered him.”

“You’re horrible.” I grab the stick from Cookie and throw it again.

“Jane … ”

“He was Holly’s grandpa, Tyler. And you just want to do nothing? He was a human being.” But Tyler’s right; there’s nothing we
can
do. Holly, we’ve messed everything up so bad and can’t fix it. It’s just easier to dump on Tyler than admit this.

He says, “You want to do right by Mr. Alton? Then we finish what he started. We find a way to put Holly’s soul to rest.”

I nod. “Maybe you’re right.”

“So … any ideas on how to do that?”

“Not any good ones, but I did go to the library today.” I tell him about Tommy Mud-and-Sticks and Auntie Peake. He gets excited, just like I did. Then I have to give him the bad news. “She was an old woman when she did that interview back in the eighties. She might be dead by now, and even if she isn’t, we don’t have a phone number or anything. All we know is she lived in Decatur.”

“Well, it’s still more than we had yesterday. Maybe we can get in touch with her. Maybe she can tell us what’s going on.”

I nod just as we hear the front gate swinging open again. It’s Max and Steve. We go inside through the sliding glass door and meet them in the kitchen. They’re both sweaty and flushed, wearing Florence Utilities work shirts. Steve carries a grocery sack. “How you doing, Jane?”

“Good. Just trying to think of a less rock ’n’ roll name than ‘Osgood.’”

“Robert Zimmerman,” Max answers.

“Who?”

Opening the grocery sack, Steve pulls out some gas station fried chicken and a large order of home fries. “Come on, you guys hungry?”

We eat around the cable spool. Max and Steve drink beer, me and Tyler have sweet tea. Steve wants to hear all about the catfish and last night.

“Where’s her ring? Can I see it?”

Tyler shakes his head. “I must’ve left it on the houseboat. It sunk.”

“This whole thing … ” Steve finishes his fries, wiping his hands on his jeans. “The whole thing … just … whoa, you know?”

“Ever hear anything like it?” Tyler asks.

“Nuh-uh. I’ve seen the ghosts over at Forks of Cypress. But they just looked like real pale light, nothing solid. But you know, the Devil’s Circle is near the lake,” Steve says. “Maybe that has something to do with all this.”

Max shakes his head. “The Devil’s Circle is way out, off of Wilson Highway.”

Tyler says, “No, it’s just past the embankment, real close to downtown. It’s on private land, and the owners keep it quiet in case they ever want to sell.”

Max keeps shaking his head. “I’m telling you, Twitchy went—” His phone rings, and he pulls it out. “Hey! How’s it going? Where are you guys?” He carries the phone into the living room. The rest of us keep talking about ghosts.

Everybody knows the story of the Devil’s Circle, even if nobody’s sure where it is. Long ago, there was a kid who played banjo better than almost anybody around here. One night the Devil showed up to dance. The boy was too scared to stop playing, so he played all night while the Devil swirled around and around. Finally, the boy just collapsed from exhaustion. The next morning, he found a boot stuffed with money and a wide circle where nothing would grow. No animals would get close to it, not even the best-trained horses or hunting dogs. The boy never picked up the banjo again, and the Devil’s Circle is still like that today.

The Forks of Cypress plantation house burned down a century ago. The great white columns still mark where it stood, though. Terrified ghosts still glimmer above the foundations some nights, and kids with cars dare each other to drive out there, rush up, and touch the columns.

We talk about Crybaby Bridge, the face in the Pickens County Courthouse window, and Gabriel’s Hounds tearing through the woods every Good Friday. They’re just scraps of stories, told and retold, parts lost and patched up with spare parts from fairy tales and movies. I wonder if the people from the holler knew the truth about them—the people like Mattie Peake, who’d lived there before the dam, far away from town, down where nights were as black as sin and fevers disguised themselves as toads.

Just as LeighAnn comes home, Max reappears and kisses her. “Guess what? Against the Dawn are playing the Bandito Burrito on Thursday.”

“Awesome!”

“That was Jessie on the phone. She wanted to know if they could crash here. I went ahead and said yes.”

LeighAnn gives a thumbs-up. “Gonna be like college again, except we won’t go to class the next morning. ’Course, we didn’t go to class when we were in college, so it’ll be like college again!”

“And also, she wanted us for their opening act.”

LeighAnn sighs. “Oh, well. You tell her Patterson was gone?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Tyler can fill in,” Steve says. Max and LeighAnn both look at Tyler.

Tyler shakes his head and concentrates on his chicken leg. “Come on, Ultimate, I told you, I’m not looking to be in a band right now.”

“You’re the only person who already knows all our songs.”

“Barely. Not nearly as good as Patterson.”

Max says, “How about you just stay for practice tonight, see how it goes?”

Tyler nods. “We’ll see how it goes.”

Ultimate Steve claps him on the back. LeighAnn goes to change out of her skirt suit. While she’s in the bedroom, that sketchy girl who was hanging on Steve the other day appears—I didn’t even hear the front door open. The first thing she does is hug Steve, pressing her face to his sweaty, mucky work shirt and breathing deep.

“Hey Britney. How’s it going?”

“Hey, sweetness.” She stands on her tip-toes to kiss him.

The guys head into the living room and start getting ready. Britney isn’t in the band, so she just sits on the couch and plays with Steve’s hair. LeighAnn returns, wearing cutoffs and a tee, no shoes. Microwaving a chicken thigh, she glances around the kitchen and says, “You cleaned.”

“A little. Also, I walked the dogs.”

“Great. Were they good boys?”

“Sure were.”

“So you still feeling bad for calling me nasty names?” Her voice is calm, conversational, just like it was this morning.

“A little.” My face starts burning, and I focus hard at the floor.

LeighAnn punches me in the chest, stepping into it like a pitcher. Icicles stab down to my elbows. They freeze muscles, and I can’t get a breath. Clutching my chest, I drop to my knees on the freshly swept linoleum.

“How about now?” she asks.

“Think I’m over it,” I croak.

“Awesome.” The microwave dings. She gets her chicken, then steps over me. Walking into the living room, she yells, “All right! I’m feeling all Motörhead tonight. Let’s set it of
f
!
”

They sit and stand in a half circle, starting with a song called “Catatonic State Marching Band.” They play fast and loud, first Max singing, then everybody joining in more or less together. They make the window panes rattle in their frames, and I think I know why a neighbor took a baseball bat to their mailbox.

In between practicing the song, they sip beer, talk about other bands, and joke around, filling the night with laughter. Of course, while Tyler’s playing, we’re not doing anything to help you, Holly. We’re not getting any closer to figuring out what’s going on. I’m not any closer to getting to go home. Tyler will see his parents, sleep in his own bed tonight, so what does he care about me?

They start into the same song again. Ultimate Steve bangs his drums, sweat flying from his hair and beard. He holds his drumsticks with the scarred stump of his finger sticking out like he’s sipping tea with the Queen of England.

What was that Banana Hammocks song, Holly? “Chainsaw Girl.” No, “Chainsaw Heartbreak”? Something stupid like that. And then one time Steve decided to add a chainsaw solo, revving it in rhythm to the song. I bet the audience loved that right up until he cut off his finger.

The next day you told me about it. “Then he picks it up off the stage and just sticks it in the cooler.” Your eyes were wide and all your words rushed together. “Just down in the ice with the drinks. Then he goes back and finishes the gig.”

“Gross, gross! How could he do that? That’s so gross.”

“But he finished the gig! They did, like, four more
songs, and Steve never missed a beat! He had blood run
ning all down his—”

“Ew, don’t tell me. Why didn’t Tyler and them take him to the ER?”

“They did afterward, but it was too late. Doctor couldn’t reattach it.”

“So wait, if he’d gone to the ER right away, they could have?”

“Well, yeah. Maybe. But … ” We stared at each other, neither understanding the other. We might as well have been speaking different languages. “Jane, he finished the gig! Just sticks it in the cooler and sits back down at his kit and counts off the next song. Blood running all down his arm, and he never missed a beat.”

And somehow that made him a titan of rock, not a total lunatic. Somehow that made him the Ultimate Steve—all other Steves mere imitations. And somehow I wound up hiding here with these losers.

Quit, quit it. I’m being nice.

Still, the noise fills the whole house. It fills me, every
boom-cha-boom
rattling my bones. I wish he’d chopped off his whole hand, not just a finger.

Nice. Be nice.

After an hour or so, Stratofortress switches to a new song, “Poppy Red, Moth White.” It’s a twangy little song about a girl who never stays in any one place for long. Standing in the doorway, I watch Tyler’s fingers on the strings. I watch Max’s Adam’s apple quiver up and down as he sings; LeighAnn, her whole body swaying back and forth like a metronome.

The fear and frustration that have held me tight all day—the worry about you, about my parents—starts to slide away. There’s something hypnotic about watching musicians play, following their small, certain motions as they find that groove. They carry you into the groove without you realizing it, without you really even wanting to. I look down and see I’m tapping my foot.