When the Bones Sing

Chapter Five

Five

I stand there stunned for a second before Lo reaches out all of a sudden and pulls me into his arms. He crushes me against his chest and we’re frozen in the sweltering sun, all wrapped up in each other while sweat runs down the backs of our knees and the no-see-ums circle our heads.

It’s so unbearably hot that I might pass out, but I don’t move, because this is the hug I’ve been craving.

“I missed you, Dovie,” he whispers against my hair.

I whisper it back, my lips pressed against his neck. Being without Lo was like walking around for two months with one of my arms missing. I didn’t die from it, but absolutely nothing was the same.

We pry ourselves apart where sweat has sealed our skin together. When he takes my hand to lead me across the churchyard, I look up toward the big window of the church. And there’s Brother Turley again. He’s standing inside watching Lo and me with an intensity that makes me uneasy, so I walk a little faster.

When we step through the creaking gate and out onto Mud Street, Daddy is leaning in the doorway of his glass gallery just across the way. He raises a hand to wave me over, and he doesn’t seem surprised to see Lo with me.

“Mornin’, Lowan,” Daddy says. “Heard you was back around.” I can’t help wondering how everyone in town was privy to that nugget of information except me. Lo reaches out to awkwardly shake my daddy’s offered hand, and I know we’re both seventeen now, but it still strikes me as funny. Like Lo’s playing at being a grown-up.

Daddy shifts his focus to me, and I see him sweep his eyes across my face, checking to see if I’m all right. “Long night, Bird?” It’s the only reference he’ll make to my midnight hike into the woods with the sheriff, which irritates me. There’s no use pretending like it didn’t happen. But the use of my old nickname softens me up a little.

My mama named me Dove after her favorite creature, Nana told me. For the peace and tranquility it symbolized. Daddy took to calling me his little bird when I was a baby.

I start to answer him, but I get interrupted.

“Mornin’, Del. I’m not too early, am I?” The voice from behind us is booming and boisterous compared to Daddy’s, but it’s almost as familiar to me. The sound of it is enough to make me smile.

“Just openin’ up now,” Daddy says, and he steps back out of the doorway into the dusty, air-conditioned coolness of his little shop. “Come on in, Ira.”

A heavy hand claps Lo on the shoulder and gives him a friendly shake. “Good to see you, boy,” Ira Langdon tells him with a genuine smile. “It’s always a good day when one of our young people comes home.”

Lo stares down at our shadows on the sidewalk, and his hair falls across his eyes. I can tell by the way he pulls into himself that he’s uncomfortable. Living up in the hills with just Granny Pearl, he’s not used to attention. Friendly as Ira might be, a regular conversation with anyone but me is enough to send Lo scrambling right back up the mountain, even on his best days.

The truth is, most people in Lucifer’s Creek wouldn’t give two shits whether Lowan Wilder was here or gone. He’s from an old hill family, and other than Granny Pearl, nobody but me much missed him, or even noticed, when he took off. But Daddy and Ira don’t care who’s townfolk and who’s hill folk, and that’s something I’ve always admired about both of them.

“Dovie girl.” Ira gives me a wink. His eyes are ocean blue and his face is round and freckled underneath a mop of bright red curls that makes him look way younger than he is. He glances around, then leans in and lowers his voice. “You done good last night. That’s what Sheriff told me when I run into him gettin’ his coffee this mornin’.” My daddy doesn’t say anything, but even with his beard all grown out long and bushy, salt-and-pepper gray to match his hair, it’s hard to miss the tightness that comes into his jaw. Or the way his mouth settles into a thin line. Ira elbows him in the ribs. “You oughta be proud of our girl, here, Delbert.” I notice the way he said our . We’re not related, but I always think about Ira as a kind of uncle. He’s someone that’s always been there. He slips an arm around my shoulders and gives me a little squeeze. “Whole town oughta be proud of her.”

Ira’s the only one who’d have the nerve to call Daddy out like that. They’ve been like brothers since they were kids, and the two of them are cut from the same cloth. They’re real live mountain men, for sure. They’ve spent their whole lives running these hills together, hunting and fishing and camping.

Only difference now is, since his lodge up on Moonlight Crag started pulling in money from three surrounding states, Ira Langdon is rich enough to buy this whole town a thousand times over…and my daddy still barely squeaks by making his lamps and stained glass birds. Folks around here would probably resent the hell out of Ira and his gobs of new money if he weren’t so damn generous with it. He sprinkles it around like glitter.

Daddy says, growing up, Ira’s people were so dirt poor they couldn’t even afford to complain about it. But Ira was a born businessman. He scraped and saved and borrowed and sold off some family land until he had enough to open up a little lodge up on the crag. These days, cash from Ira Langdon’s operation keeps this town afloat when things get lean, and things have been lean more often than not lately. I remember bein’ hard up against it , he likes to say. Suddenly havin’ money don’t give you amnesia.

“You come by to see the new piece?” Daddy asks. That’s his attempt at changing the subject from me and my trek through the woods last night. “I got it all cut and laid out this mornin’.”

Maybe Nana wasn’t lying about him going into the gallery early to work on something new. Ira’s always ordering custom designs for the lodge. He’s basically been feeding our little family for years.

“Just wanted to give it a little look-see. Make sure it’s gonna be big enough to hang over that front staircase.” Ira winks at me again. “I need me somethin’ that’s gonna make those city suckers stop cold when they walk in.”

I pretty much grew up at the lodge. Lots of evenings when I was a kid, Daddy would load me up into the old truck after dinner and we’d drive up to Moonlight Crag so I could chase fireflies while he and Ira sat on the deck passing a beer back and forth and swapping stories. I watched them build the huge new place from the ground up, but even after all these years, it still takes my breath away. Moonlight Crag Lodge has the best views in all of Arkansas from the three-story floor-to-ceiling windows in its common area. The big lounge is stuffed with dark leather sofas and reading lamps, plus taxidermied foxes and deer that look so alive you’d swear you saw them moving. The most beautiful folk art pieces from the shops along Mud Street decorate the walls. Pressed flowers, framed quilts, hand-painted landscapes, and more stained glass than Notre Dame.

“It’ll be big enough,” Daddy says, and I see him start to crack a smile. “Don’t you worry about that. Come on in and see for yourself.” He can be way too serious, but sometimes Ira can get him laughing.

And I’ve always loved that about Ira.

Lo and I say goodbye and turn to go, but Ira stops us with a hand on Lo’s shoulder again. “I know you and Pearl probably got things you need.” He hesitates, and I know he’s being careful of Lo’s pride. “Did she tell ya I checked in on her a couple times while you was gone?”

“Yes, sir. She did,” Lo says, but he doesn’t look up. “And I sure appreciate it.”

“You come on up to the lodge and see me this week, when you get a chance,” Ira goes on. “Might be I could find some work for ya. Somethin’ steady.” He slaps Lo on the back. “Keep ya outta trouble.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do that,” Lo says, and I see him visibly relax when Ira and Daddy step into the gallery and close the door behind them. Overhead three tiny silver bells jingle on a green ribbon. An Ozarks charm to bring good business. Abundance and prosperity.

Money.

“Might be nice,” I say as we cross the bridge over Lucifer’s Creek and pass the crowded diner. “Workin’ up at the lodge. It’d be something to do.” Lo did his schooling at home, like a lot of the hill kids do. I’ve got another year of high school yet, but Lo finished up a whole year early. Got done with it all in May, just before he took off. That means he’s gonna have a lot of empty time on his hands this fall and winter while I’m stuck inside the little collection of prefab metal trailers that passes for a school.

And Ira’s right. Lo and Granny Pearl are hard up for money. Their tiny little cabin is all but falling down around them. They barely scrape by on food stamps and the bit of cash Lo makes doing odd jobs here and there. Plus the piddling amount they make selling charms and potions from their front porch.

Besides, maybe Lo would be less haunted up there at Moonlight Crag, in the bright glow of the cozy reading lamps Daddy’s made for Ira.

I don’t want to push him, though, so we’re quiet for the three or four minutes it takes to reach our small blue house at the center of town. Each of us is lost in our own thoughts and busy avoiding the eyes we can feel watching us from behind shop windows and from inside the pickup trucks that cruise slowly along Mud Street with country music drifting out their rolled-down windows.

When we start up the little stone path to our front steps, Nana is in the yard trimming Mama’s crepe myrtles. Phantom appears from somewhere in the shade to weave circles around our feet, and Lo bends down to scratch the old white cat behind the ears.

“Lowan Wilder,” Nana says. “Bless your heart.” She sets down her shears and pulls off her gardening gloves. Whatever feud she had with Granny Pearl, it doesn’t extend to Pearl’s grandson. Nana has always doted on Lo like he was her own.

He stands up and reaches into his pocket to pull out a little pouch tied with a curling yellow ribbon. “Brought you a charm, Fern,” he tells her. “The Magic of Nine. To help with your arthritis.”

Her eyes light up and she grins like a little girl. “Three branches. Elderberry. Spicebush. And witch hazel.”

“Three leaves.” Lo holds up his fingers to count them. “Common mint. Horsemint. And rabbit tobacco.”

She finishes the spell. “Three roots. Burdock. Dandelion. And…” She searches her memory for the last one.

“Sassafras,” he tells her, and she gives him a coy smile from underneath her wide-brimmed straw hat.

Nana tucks the little bag into her apron pocket and lays a hand on Lo’s cheek. “I feel better already, sugar.” She ushers us both into the kitchen and pours sweet tea with fresh garden mint into tall jelly jars filled with ice. When she hands Lo his drink, he swallows it down in one gulp, without the least little bit of fear.

Nana looks at him like maybe there’s something she wants to ask, but all she says is, “Does my old heart good to see you two together.” Then she picks up her gloves and heads back out to the front yard to battle the unruly bushes with their bright pink flowers.

I figure maybe she was wanting to know how Granny Pearl’s doing. Nana still keeps a framed photo of her and Pearl as young women on her nightstand. They’re standing together under a pear tree holding hands—dressed in their Sunday best—and each of them has a baby girl tucked in her other arm.

Sometimes when I walk by her bedroom late at night, if the door is cracked open and her lamp is on, I peek in and see Nana sitting on the edge of the bed holding that picture.

I reach across the space between us and grab Lo’s hand. I don’t believe in curses, and there’s no way I’ll let that happen to us. It’s a vow I’ve made to myself a million times. I won’t lose him like Nana lost Pearl. Like Mama lost Claire.

Not without one hell of a fight.

Lo squeezes my fingers, but when I look in his direction, I catch him eyeing the dark inside of our pantry closet. Nana left the door ajar when she got out the sugar for the tea, and now Lo won’t stop staring into the shadows.

We’re playing hide-and-seek with his demons.

“Come on,” I tell him, and I close the pantry door to shut out the dark. “Let’s go up to my room.”

Maybe Lo’s ghosts won’t find us there.