The Hollow Tree at Dead Mule Swamp (4 page)

"You proved to me you work
very hard," I said. "Take it."

Jimmie carefully laid his money on
the table. He put the seven ones back in the envelope and handed me the
remaining $89.00. He'd already put the $16.00 from yesterday in his stash, and
he'd added money two other times when I'd watched.

"How much does a washing
machine cost?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. I think you can
get a basic one for about $400.00."

Jimmie's face fell. "That's an
awful lot."

"It is. Maybe you could find a
used one that still works well."

"That sounds better."

"Jimmie," I began. This
was going to be difficult. "I drove past your house. Is that really where
you live? In that old truck?"

He hung his head and nodded. Then
he added, "I only live in the shed."

I was appalled, but tried to keep
my voice even. "Why there?"

"Bert doesn't like me in the
house, and Mom won't argue with him. She thinks he built me a nice place. It's
not so bad. I fixed it up a little bit. I've got a mattress. And it doesn't
leak with the tarp over it."

"That's good." I couldn't
think of much to say. Instead I got up and pulled the peanut butter out of the
cupboard, and set it in front of Jimmie with the bread and a knife. "Want
jelly?"

"Sure!" Food was always a
good way to cheer up a growing boy.

"What is Bert's last
name?"

"Fowler," he said,
eagerly spreading peanut butter thickly on a slice of bread.

"What's your mom's name?"

"Desiree, but she likes to be
called Dee. My parents were Dee and Lee. It was like a family joke. My dad died
in a car crash. I guess I was in the car too, but I don't remember." He
spooned jelly on top of the peanut butter.

"How do you get enough money
to live on?"

"Mom gets a check for me,
because Dad died. And another one because she's sick. But Bert takes the money
because Mom has to sign the checks for him to cash. She doesn't go out. She used
to be ok, but now she weighs too much."

"And he drinks?"

Jimmie nodded again. His mouth was
now full of sandwich.

"Jimmie, I don't want to make
trouble for you, but would your mom talk to me? Maybe I could get her some
help. Maybe we could get her a separate bank account that the checks could be
sent to so Bert can't get the money."

The frightened look came over the
boy's face again. "She'd lick me too, if she knew I'd told you about Bert.
He says he'll kill her if she rats on him. I think he would."

"All right. We'll wait on
that. But I'm going to think hard about a way to fix this. You do know that
most boys don't live in sheds with a tarp for a roof, don't you?"

"Yes, but it doesn't make
anything better to think about it," he said with glum wisdom.

I wrote Jimmie a receipt for the
money I would keep for him, and he put the seven dollars in the bag under the
crock on the hatchway steps. I gave him the peanut butter and jelly and the
loaf of bread. He tried to refuse, but finally relented when we slipped it in a
plastic bag and put it under some empty beer cans in one of the milk crates. I
couldn't understand how a child could be too frightened to bring home food. And
I still knew nothing about the mysterious sisters. I hadn't dared bring that
subject up again.

Jimmie and I slipped into an easy
routine for the next week. I decided I might get more answers from him by
giving him a way to communicate without being embarrassed. Sunday night, I
worked out a message in his tic-tac-toe code and slipped it into the envelope
along with a pencil. I first asked him, "Why an angel?"

Late Monday, I saw Jimmie slip into
the back yard. He hadn't ridden his bike up to the house, but had come in from
between the trees. I didn't go out to talk to him. However, after he left I
checked under the crock, and he'd answered, also in code, "Christmas for
my mom." That made sense. I was extremely pleased that Jimmie seemed
willing to answer personal questions via code.

He came to the hatchway each day,
and by the end of the week I'd learned his sisters' names were Beth and
Lindsey, that they were seven and four years old, and that they lived with
their father, somewhere in Iowa. From this information, I deduced Dee had a boyfriend or husband between Lee and Bert, and the girls were Jimmie's half
sisters.

Writing coded messages was not all
I did that week. I spoke to both Adele and Cora about the situation, now that I
knew the boyfriend's name was Bert Fowler. Adele immediately knew who he was,
and told me with barely suppressed anger that the county had been trying to do
something about that family for months.  She said no one would file a
complaint because of Fowler's violent temper and general threats to kill anyone
who interfered with his family.

Since Adele know pretty much what
everyone was doing most of the time, she also told me Bert hung out at the Dead
Dog, a local bar, some week nights, but always on Saturdays. She also said Dee
Mosher had once been a good-looking vibrant woman. When Lee was killed she had
married again, and moved away. Adele didn't know where. But when Dee moved back
to Cherry Hill, she was overweight and depressed. She'd spent too much time at
bars and the truck stop in Emily City. Then she'd taken up with Bert and all
but disappeared from view. That was three years ago. But Jimmie came to school,
was clean and not a discipline problem. He never had any visible bruises.
Everyone could see how they lived, but there wasn't an obvious reason to file a
complaint. Sure, the boy was thin, but so was his grandfather. Most everyone
remembered that Jimmie Mosher. He'd owned the Cherry Blossom Restaurant. 

I asked what Bert looked like, and
she told me he was about fifty, not yet fat, but going bald on top, so he wore
a cowboy hat. He had a waxed mustache, and a swagger that made him stand out.

Cora was excited about meeting
Jimmie, and she urged me to bring him to visit her. I promised her I'd try to
work something out. It seemed as if no one kept track of the boy well enough to
mind if he were missing for a few hours. He apparently spent all day riding the
back roads looking for metal. And Jimmie had said he'd like to see the
pictures. I just had to work out the logistics.

Meanwhile, it was Saturday, and I
decided I wanted to meet Bert. I put on my tightest jeans and a scoop-neck
t-shirt. When I added some flashy dangling earrings and eye makeup, the effect
was terrible, but it seemed to fit with what I had in mind. A little after nine
that evening, I walked into the Dead Dog and blinked. The interior of the bar
was really dark. As my eyes adjusted I saw the usual line-up of men at the bar,
and some couples at the few scattered tables. Loud country music was playing,
and I recognized the tune of
If I Die Young
. I could hear the clacking
of pool balls, and a rumble of voices competing with the loud tunes.

I walked to the bar, and ordered a
draft pale ale. I'm not much of a drinker, but I knew I could handle a couple
of beers. While the bartender filled a tall glass from the tap I looked down
the bar. Sure enough, a few people away to my right, was the man who had to be
Bert Fowler, mustache, cowboy hat and all. Most of the men were wearing
baseball caps, and no one else had a handlebar mustache. I had to admit, he was
handsome enough to be attractive, if I hadn't known his dirty secrets.

A few heads turned to look at me,
but nobody paid too much attention. I didn't recognize anyone. I sipped my beer
and started watching a baseball game, which was playing on the TV mounted high
in the corner. The sound was turned down. I was struggling to read the tiny
ticker at the bottom of the screen, to see if I could tell who was playing,
when there was Bert at my right elbow. Maybe this was going to be really easy.

He leaned sideways into the bar. He
had on a denim shirt with the sleeves turned up loosely to reveal hairy
forearms. The shirt was tucked neatly into a pair of stone-washed jeans. His
belt had a large Mack Truck buckle, and the jeans tapered to where they met
tooled cowboy boots. His face was tanned and the mustache was perfectly
rolled.  "I don't think I've seen you in here before," he began.

"You haven't," I agreed.

"What's the occasion?"

"Oh, nothing special. I've
lived here a couple of months, and just haven't had time to get out much
yet."

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"I have one, thanks."

"That's pretty tame. How about
something stronger?"

The man's not shy
, I
thought. I covered my glass and laughed. "Oh no, I'm strictly a beer
drinker."

"What's your name?"

"Ana Raven. I bought the old Mosher
place on South River Road." I wondered if that would get a reaction.

"Hell, we're neighbors,"
he joked. "Name's Bert Fowler. I live out that way too." But he
didn't flinch at hearing the Mosher name, and he didn't mention the dump on Alder Road.

"Do you have a family?" I
asked.

"Not me," he boasted.
"I'm a free spirit." The man just beyond Bert guffawed, but it might
have been at the error the shortstop had just committed. I thought it would be
perfect to be hearing the strains of
Your Cheatin' Heart
, but I didn't
recognize the tune that was playing. I sure recognized the music Bert had in
mind.

"How about you?"

"Divorced," I admitted.

"A pretty lady like you?"

I took another sip and tried to
look demure. I doubted I knew how, but it was worth a try. "Where do you
work, Bert?" I asked.

"Here and there. Used to drive
truck." I couldn't haven't made up a more useless answer. "Do you
play pool?"

"Oh, not very well. But I'd
like to watch you play." At least that would give me a chance to observe
him, without talking too much more.

He nudged a man seated a couple of
stools away. "C'mon Bud, let's rack 'em up, and show this honey how it's
done."

Bud and Bert made their way to one
of the pool tables, and slapped a stack of quarters on the rim to signal the players
they wanted the table next.

I followed along bringing my beer.
Soon it was our turn, and Bert pulled the balls from the side slots and
arranged them in the rack. Stacking the quarters was only a custom, as the coin
slot had been removed. Playing the game was free. Bud chalked the cues. I spent
the next hour leaning against a dirty wall watching Bert show off some of his
best swagger. It was almost nauseating to keep raising an eyebrow, smiling,
winking, chuckling at stupid jokes, and praising the man for good shots, but I
did learn that Bert was going out of town on Wednesday on some sort of delivery
job.

He tried to convince me to stay
longer, but I said I was tired, which was certainly no lie. I was plenty tired
of Bert. It concerned me a little bit that I'd told him where I lived, but it
wasn't like my address was any secret around town.

Now I understood more about why
people were reluctant to make any complaints about Bert. He was handsome and
personable, even if not my style. If Dee was grossly overweight and ill, people
probably felt sorry for Bert. As long as there was no obvious evidence of
abuse, no one was going to stick out his or her neck. Couple that with Adele's
assertion about his temper, and it all made sense. It wasn't right, but it made
sense.

Jimmie was unlikely to visit on
Sunday, since Harold's Scrap Yard wasn't open that day. After church (which
seemed cleansing after my evening in the bar with Bert), I called Cora and
asked her if she'd like to meet Jimmie on Tuesday. She was emotional with
anticipation but tried not to let me know how strongly she felt about Jimmie.
To give her something more mundane to discuss, I suggested that we fix a nice
lunch. Since Cora likes to cook and bake, this turned out to be a great idea. I
tried to get her to let me bring some food, but she wouldn't hear of it. She
did agree to let me do the shopping, since she doesn't drive. As a result, I
ended up with a list of groceries to buy on Monday.

There was one thing left to do that
day. I sat down with my code key and laboriously printed out a note for Jimmie,
telling him I could take him to see some family pictures on Tuesday. I
suggested he come in the house tomorrow and talk to me about it.

Monday was Memorial Day, and the
small town of Cherry Hill was preparing to celebrate in a humble way. I didn’t
yet feel connected to the community enough to care to watch the small parade
that was scheduled to take place in the early afternoon,

Luckily, Volger’s Grocery was open
in the morning, catering to people who had forgotten to buy their picnic
supplies. There, I bought the ingredients for sloppy joes, plus potato chips,
some vegetables to cut up, dip, and ice cream. It seemed like a simple menu,
but a safe one to please a hungry boy.

"Put that ice cream back in
the freezer for a minute," Adele said. "I want to talk to you."

I didn't mind the order, because I
was confident Adele had enough influence with the right groups to actually get
Jimmy and Dee some help. "What's up?"

"You left right after the service
yesterday," she accused.

"I didn't have any reason to
stay longer." I didn't understand what the problem was.

"This is a small town. When
you are trying to get things done, you have to spend time talking with the
people who can help you."

"Did I offend someone?"
It sounded like I'd offended Adele, for sure.

"I wanted to introduce you to
Glenn Erickson."

"Who's he?"

"He's the head of the local
Habitat for Humanity group, that's who! He doesn't come to Crossroads all the
time." She added as an aside, "His wife is Lutheran."

"Are you thinking we might get
a house for Jimmie and his mom?"