The Ghosts of Varner Creek (17 page)

Chapter 9

It was nearly impossible falling asleep that next night. George kept the blankets so tight I couldn’t move, and I could feel him searching the room in the dark, his head jerking with every little creak the house made. I wasn't much better. I thought something might happen at any second, but the hours ticked by uneventfully and somewhere along the way he and I both fell asleep. The following day was Sunday and that meant church. True to their word, Francine and Amber set out in the whispers only young girls can master to spread the rumors of George and mine's fictional bedwetting problem to all the other kids. By the time Reverend Monroe finished his sermon and church was let out, it seemed like everyone our age was pointing and laughing. Francine and Amber were as proud as they could be.

We didn't go immediately home. Aunt Emma and Miss Thomas stood off by themselves in discussion. George and I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I knew Miss Thomas had grave concerns regarding my mother's sudden departure with Sarah, especially when she learned that I hadn't been taken along. And by the look on her face now, her and Aunt Emma were talking about what I had told Aunt Emma the day before. They talked for a few more minutes before Uncle Colby went to retrieve Aunt Emma. It was dinner time and he was hungry, which was one of the few things that could make him impatient with her. The three of them walked back towards us and I heard Miss Thomas say, "I'm going to talk with him today, Emma, and I'll let you know how things go." They said their goodbyes and we headed home.

I didn't know at the time who "he" was, but I'd put enough together later to figure Aunt Emma and Miss Thomas had been talking about the sheriff. The next day Miss Thomas went and had a visit with Sheriff Covell. She baked him up a nice apple pie first to bring to him so he'd be a little more easy to sit down and have a good talk with. "Sheriff, I think maybe there's something fishy going on here with Sarah Mayfield's suddenly being gone."

Sheriff Covell was an ample man in his fifties who looked like he could easily be bribed by a mass murderer to look the other way with an apple pie like the one Miss Thomas had brought him. "I know, Hetta." That was Miss Thomas' first name, though I had never heard anyone call her by it. "But there ain't no signs of foul-play over there. I've been out and visited Abram Mayfield and everything he's sayin' seems to check out fine."

"Well, Sheriff, I think he'd hope everything he says sounds fine, but that doesn't mean it is. I don't think I need to tell you what kind of a man Abram Mayfield is."

"Miss Thomas," he was back to being formal again, "I know you mean well in this, but I have to have more than people's thinking something bad mighta happened before I can go invadin' people's lives. I need something to prove it has. You catch my meaning? They horse is gone, her and the child's things are gone . . . it all looks to me like they up and left, just like he says they did."

"I know, but I want you to hear me out, Gus." That was the Sheriff's first name. She must have decided formality wasn't the way to go about things on this particular occasion, "I've known Sarah Mayfield for years and her sister knows her better than anyone, and we both think something just doesn't sound right. I don't doubt that it's possible she did just up and leave town, 'specially being married to that man, but I can't see Annie leaving without her boy. She just wouldn't do that. Those kids are everything to Annie and she would have told her sister, or even me for that matter. She wouldn’t just up and disappear like this."

The sheriff helped himself to a third piece of pie while secretly unbuttoning his top pants button under the table and giving his round stomach a little pat. "Well, what you think I ought to do about it, Hetta? I can't arrest Abram because his wife left him, and unless something says otherwise that's how the law sees things. There ain't no other way for me to see it, even if the whole town thinks it funny the way she left. There ain't no facts that say she didn't and lots that say she did. That's all there is to it."

Miss Thomas knew this all too well. The purpose of her visit was primarily to see what the sheriff thought about the situation, as he had visited Abram at Emma's request, and to make sure the situation was still in his mind. She didn't want him forgetting that there was still some things he needed to be aware of going on around him besides his appetite. "Just promise me you'll stay on top of things, Gus, and that you'll keep an eye on that Abram Mayfield. Everybody knows that man is trouble, and if anything bad has happened to those girls it's him you need to keep in mind."

"Believe me, Hetta. I got my eye on things. If Abram Mayfield so much as take one step outta line, I’ll be on him like fleas on a dog. You have my word." The last bit of that third piece of pie disappeared down his gullet. "Bud I Dink Eferybody might be gettin vorked up fer notn," he mumbled. Swallow. "I feel fairly confident that Annie Mayfield and her daughter did up and leave. From what I know of Abram, it was only a matter of time. I 'spect before too long someone will get a letter or telegram from her. I do feel bad for the boy, though. I know his daddy ain't much of a man. Maybe wherever she went, Annie went ahead just to get settled before sending for him. You wait and see, though, we'll hear from her soon enough."

It wasn't the type of perspective on things Miss Thomas would have liked to have seen from the sheriff, but about as much as she expected. Sheriff Covelle was a good man, but he was like an old guard dog who’d taken to sleeping on a porch since nothing every happened. Varner Creek was usually a quiet town, and it took a bit to get old Sheriff Covelle roused into action.

Miss Thomas came out to Aunt Emma's place on Monday and they sat on the newly finished wrap-around porch drinking iced tea and discussing things. Aunt Emma had made a point to ask George and me to go have a nice play away from home for awhile, so we decided we'd go have another whack at the wild chickens. Except this time we carried big sticks with us and knew to be on the lookout for that crazy rooster, who we’d named Lucifer the Leghorn between ourselves, since we were convinced he was part devil. We stole a little of the chicken feed from the henhouse and struck out into the woods. George carried the wooden crate we'd brought and I carried the rope we'd borrowed from Uncle Colby's tool shed.

It took us a long time to find the chickens. We had marched back to the clearing and they weren't there, so we started tromping around until after a while we heard their clucking away in some brush. We stealthily crept up on them with our sticks at the ready. I kept my eyes peeled for the rooster.

George pointed out a nice sized hen that was off a ways from the rest. We figured that one would be the safest one to go after, and there was still no sign of Lucifer the Leghorn. We got to about ten or fifteen feet before she started clucking and pacing about a bit letting us know we weren't too welcome. "She's calling him," warned George.

We both paused and listened quietly. There was no sudden attack, though.

"Naw," I said, "she's just nervous about us is all. These here wild ones ain't used to people like the ones at home." It seemed a good enough explanation and George calmed a bit, but he was still looking every which way. "This here's about as close as we’re gonna get," I told him. "Let's go ahead and spread out the feed and try to get her interested in it." So we proceeded to spread out the corn and mash, adding a little pile between two small trees. Then we put the crate over it, propped it up with a stick that George had tied one end of the rope to, and we crept off as far we could go with the rope without it getting tangled in the brush.

"You think she'll go for it?" asked George.

"Sure she will. She's a chicken, ain't she? And it's chicken feed. Better than they probly been eatin' out here. She'll think it's a meal fit for a queen." Sure enough the hen bobbed over and started pecking at the corn. It must have carried a scent, though, or the other chickens must have heard her pleasurable pecking, because within a minute or so a few more chickens showed up. Then
He
showed up. Out from our left came Lucifer the Leghorn. He was just as big and ugly as he was in my memory from a few days ago. I could feel George tense up next to me, and I have to admit, I did the same. I clenched my stick tighter and my knuckles went white.

"He's going to see us!" said George.

"No he won't," I said, "He's too busy cramming his beak. Look at him." And I was right. Ole Lucifer the Leghorn had a heck of an appetite. He was practically stepping over the hens pecking away frantically. Then he did something we didn't expect. He went straight for the pile under the crate box.

"What are we going to do if he goes for it?" asked George. "He's too big to fit under it, ain't he?"

"Yeah, I think so." I wasn't too sure, though. And I had an idea of what to do if he did get under that crate. "Let's catch him," I said, both to George and myself.

"What?" George grabbed me by the arm, "Are you nuts? He'll slice us to Sunday if we catch that thing."

"Not if he's under the crate, he won't. We can just drag him home if we gotta."

George pondered on it and his eyes got real big with the thought of bringing home Lucifer the Leghorn. "Yeah, maybe we could . . ."

He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence, though. Because while we were fantasizing, the rooster had squeezed himself under the crate. His red comb smacked the top of it, knocking it loose from its prop, and the box came down around him. Before either one of us could go on planning the strategics involved in how we'd get him in the crate, he did it for us. "We got him!" screamed George.

"Holy shit!" I yelled in excitement. We could see his beak poking out from the bottom of the crate and it was bouncing up and down. "He's gonna get loose!" I yelled. I jumped up and ran for the crate full speed. My plan was to throw myself on the crate and let my weight do the job, but I wasn't quick enough. Right about the time I went airborne the crate flipped over backwards, and the rooster side-stepped my body as I came crashing down. I flopped on my belly and looked over at him and it was probably the first time a chicken ever stood taller than a man. He looked at me with his beady eyes and I swear I thought I saw him smile. Then it was all a flurry of feathers. He came at me with a vengeance. I thought for sure George's omen might just come true, and I might lose an eye. But before I went sightless I heard George yell out.

He came charging forward like one of the soldiers in Pickett's charge, screaming his own battle cry, "Ya-a-a-a!" He held his stick up with both hands directly over his head as though it were a sword. Lucifer the Leghorn heard him coming, and instead of flying straight at George I could see hesitation in those beady eyes of his. It was momentary, though, and he gave me one last hard peck on the nose and then went for George. It was a clash of titans. George was swinging frantically as though fighting off a swarm of bees. Lucifer the Leghorn, for his part, was beating his wings like thunder and dodging George's stick in an awkward sort of dance. Despite George's best effort, I could see that the rooster was beginning to get the better of him. George was panicking and swinging wildly, allowing Lucifer the Leghorn to dart in and scratch and peck, then dart back out, moving like a seasoned boxer. George's charge did take the violence away from me, though, and I was able to jump up again and yell for George to run with me. I had left my own stick on the ground when I went for the crate, and when we both ran by it I picked it up and tossed it at the rooster that was right on our heels. He had to move to miss it and we made good our escape.

"Damn!" I said to George when we were in the clear. "We had him!"

George bent over to catch his breath, "You mean he nearly had us."

I laughed, "Maybe, but he was scared of you, boy."

He smiled, "Not half of scared as I was. I thought he was going to peck your face off if I didn't do something."

"Well, you sure charged in there like you was just as crazy as him. That was great!" George appreciated the encouragement, and I appreciated still having my eyes and nose intact. "Thanks, George," I told him.

"Lot of good it did. I didn't even hit him one good time, not one."

"That's all right, it was enough for me to get up and gone."

We hung our heads in defeat yet again and headed home, but somehow it didn't feel like a total loss. On the way we talked about what had gone wrong and how close we had come to bringing home the big one. We also talked about Sarah and Mama. He asked if I really thought Sarah's ghost had been in our room. I said yes, and he wanted to know what I thought it was all about. It was hard talking about it, though. I still had that image of Sarah's living head in the water bucket. Aunt Emma had told me not to think such things, but I couldn't help it.
What else can it be but Sarah's ghost
, I thought. And that could only mean she wasn't alive anymore. I hoped I was wrong, but nobody had heard from them yet, and my suspicions were growing stronger.

It was nearing dusk when we finally came out from the woods. Miss Thomas' buggy was gone and nobody sat outside, but there was a strange horse I hadn't seen before in the pen. It looked like it had been ridden hard that day, a sweat lather covering its hairs. It must have been here for a while, though, because it was contently munching on an oat bag that had been strapped to it and its saddle had been slung over the railing of the pen. It was a beautiful horse, gray with white spots, and very well groomed.

"I wonder whose horse that is?" I asked George.