Chapter Twelve
Twelve
It only takes a few minutes to make the short walk to the gallery on the uphill end of town, but I spend the whole time going over and over the morning’s bizarre conversations.
Nana and I are seeing the same dead boy lurking outside the house, and on top of that, out of the blue, Daddy’s telling me that he can’t say for certain if Mama ever left town.
I’m so wrapped up in my own puzzles that I don’t even notice the stares and the whispers. Not until I come to the Bite-Size diner. A new sign in the window advertises a pancake special, and a little group of locals has gathered outside among the overflowing flowerpots to beat the hikers to their tables this morning. There’s a cluster of middle-aged women and a couple of kids I know from school.
When I pass by, one of the women mutters, “She’s got another one to find now.”
I feel sick thinking about Hannah, and about poor Candy making that lonely hike back to town this morning all by herself.
Lo and I should have flat-out told them not to go out on the trail.
This is our fault.
“Drove her mama out of her mind,” someone else chimes in. “Couldn’t handle them bones calling out to her like that.”
“Nobody could,” somebody adds under their breath. “It’s the devil’s work.”
“That family is cursed,” a fourth person whispers. “All their women. Right down the line.”
I look up to find the speaker, but everyone is suddenly silent, so I can’t be sure who said that.
I give them all a good glare and keep right on walking.
“God’s punishin’ them,” someone says, and this time it isn’t a whisper. “You know the old lady murdered her husband.”
I whirl around and catch them all by surprise. “My nana isn’t a murderer.” I practically spit the words out, and the whole group takes a step backward. They aren’t used to me looking them in the eye, let alone talking back. “But somebody here is. And nobody seems to give a shit about that.”
“Ain’t no call for that kinda language,” one of the old busybodies scolds me. The tall girl standing beside her looks like she wants to die. She’s picking at a scab on her arm. I’ve sat inches away from her in our cramped trailer classrooms for a dozen years of school now, but here she is acting like she’s never laid eyes on me. “No call,” her mama repeats with a finger in my face, and the whole group of hens starts nodding and pecking like a bunch of chickens in a barnyard.
It figures that they’re more worried about me saying “shit” right out loud on the street than about somebody slitting people’s throats.
“Y’all better watch your backs,” I warn them. “Because if the hikers get smart and quit comin’, one of you might be next.”
I turn around and leave them burning holes in the back of my head with their eyeballs as I march toward the bridge over Lucifer’s Creek.
“We’ll pray for your soul, girl,” someone shouts, and I know that voice. It’s Vicky Mason. She used to cut my hair when I was little, but when I turn back again, she’s narrowing her eyes at me like I’m some kind of freak.
“You do that,” I shoot back. “And I’ll pray that your husband stops messin’ around with your sister.” The group gasps in surprise and Vicky’s whole face puckers up like I shoved a lemon in her mouth. “That’s why you were up at Pearl Wilder’s cabin back at the beginning of summer, isn’t it? You came crawlin’ up the mountain beggin’ for a potion that’d teach his cheatin’ ass a lesson.” Lo and I had sat at the big table and heard every word Vicky said to Granny Pearl as they stood at the old stove together. Here she is actin’ all holier-than-thou.
All eyes turn to stare at Vicky. Like every single one of them hasn’t gone knocking on Granny Pearl’s door at some point in their miserable lives.
“I never—” Vicky stammers, but I’m already walking away.
“It’s evil business, practicin’ magic,” one of the group hisses at me.
“Oh, I’m not practicin’,” I yell over my shoulder without looking back. “I’m already really fucking good at it.”
There’s nothing remotely magic about me. Never has been. But their horrified gasps are worth the lie.
The smell of wet hellfire worms its way into my nose and makes me gag, and I can’t help thinking they got the name of the creek, and this whole damn town, exactly right.
The water is milky blue again today, not brown with storm run-off, and it’s flowing freely underneath my feet. I guess Daddy must have gotten that log jam cleared. I think about those scratches on his arms again. The mud on his pants legs and the rips in his shirt. He does so much for this town, but most the people here wouldn’t bother to spit on him if he was on fire.
All because he got himself mixed up with the Clover women. Nana and Mama.
And me.
When I reach the gallery, I fish Daddy’s key out of the pocket of my shorts. The old lock sticks, and I have to work at it for a few seconds. Just as it finally clicks open, I feel someone staring me down again. I spin around quick, ready to give some other nosy gossip a piece of my mind, but there’s nobody on the sidewalk behind me.
Then I see Brother Turley standing in the open doorway of the Lucifer’s Creek Community Church across the street.
“Dove Warner! The time has come for baptism!” he shouts in my direction. “Ask for forgiveness, and it will be granted.”
Mrs.Danforth is sitting on a bench waiting for customers outside her tiny candle shop right next door to Daddy’s gallery. She looks up from her book to glance from Turley to me. “Amen,” she says, and she nods at me before she adds a little louder, “Amen, Brother Turley! We all need the forgiveness of the Lord.”
The preacher spins on his heels and heads back into the church, his black coat flapping out behind him like the wings of a crow.
Who the hell wears a long-sleeved coat like that in the Ozarks in mid-July anyway? It’s barely eight o’clock in the morning, and I’m already dripping sweat.
“Amen,” Mrs.Danforth mutters again, for good measure, and she goes back to her book. I turn to open the door, but my hands are shaking, so I knock the key out of the lock and I have to get down on my hands and knees to pick it up. Then I flip the cardboard sign to Open and push my way inside.
I close my eyes and breathe in the familiar smell of Daddy’s gallery. Dust and wood and paint. It’s cool and dark inside the tiny shop, and it calms me. I open my eyes and reach over to turn on the lights so I can look around at the delicate pieces of art that fill up the room. Lamps and suncatchers and window panels shine in a hundred beautiful colors. There are abstract patterns, native wildflowers, and sunsets. Those birds I love so much hang together like a colorful little flock.
When I was a kid, after we quit going to the building across the street on Sundays, this gallery was my church. My stained glass cathedral.
Something lures me toward the back room, and I click on the buzzing overhead light to check out the project Daddy’s been working on for Ira. He hasn’t even told me what it is, and my mouth falls open when I see it.
Glass shards are carefully arranged on the big table like the pieces of an intricate jigsaw puzzle. I stare down at them, not quite believing what I’m seeing.
The Ozark Howler stares back at me.
Fur that’s black as midnight. Eyes that burn bright red to match the blood dripping from his sharply pointed fangs and his claws. His mouth is open wide, caught mid-howl. He could almost be some kind of demon bear, except for those huge, curled horns on the top of his head.
I walk around the table to take it all in, and my feet echo loud in the heavy silence of the empty shop. The Howler is huge, by far the biggest piece in the shop. The biggest stained glass piece I’ve ever seen. He takes up every bit of the table, and I can’t take my eyes off him. All that smooth, black glass pulls me in and I’m drowning. It reminds me of the inky surface of Lucifer’s Creek at night. Goose bumps pop up all over my body, and I wrap my arms tight around myself.
Then I notice something that seems odd. When we ran into Ira outside the gallery the other day, Daddy told him that he had his piece all cut and laid out. That was Saturday morning, and this is already Monday. Plus he spent all last night here working on it, but he doesn’t seem to have made any progress at all. It’s still lying here in a hundred separate pieces. He hasn’t even started the tedious process of adding the copper foil that will hold it all together.
“It’s a beauty, ain’t it?”
I jump and whirl around to see Ira leaning in the doorway that separates the shop from the workroom. I’d been so lost in looking at the Howler that I hadn’t even heard the bell over the door jingle.
“Didn’t mean to scare ya,” he says, and his familiar grin makes me feel better than I have all morning. “But ain’t it somethin’?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “It’s gorgeous.” I reach out to run my fingers over those fangs. “Kinda creepy, though.” A shudder runs down my spine. “A little too real.”
“Almost real enough to eat you up,” Ira agrees with a laugh. “Your daddy’s an artist, Dovie girl. He can breathe life into glass like nobody I’ve ever seen.”
A piece this size must be costing Ira a fortune, not that he can’t afford it. He spreads money around this town the way farmers spread manure on a field, and we all bloom brighter because of his generosity. Hell, Ira plays the mandolin, and he even pays the owner of Donny Blue’s to let his bluegrass band perform at the little pub every Saturday night, when everybody knows it’s supposed to work the other way.
“Why the Howler?” I ask.
“Don’t ask me.” Ira chuckles and runs a hand through his curly hair. “I wanted a big ol’ elk, but your daddy talked me into this guy instead. And who am I to argue with an artist?” He gives me a little shrug. “Already had him all sketched out in a notebook and everything.”
“But why?”
“Well, like Del told me, it’s our heritage.” He comes to stand beside me at the table. “Part of the fabric of these hills. Every corner of the world has its monster, and the Howler is uniquely ours. He belongs to the Ozarks, same as you and me, Dovie. That’s how your daddy sold me on him.” We’re both staring into those red eyes. Ira touches a section of the glass with one finger. “And he’s right. This right here is a piece of art my guests are never gonna see hangin’ at a Hilton in Dallas or Oklahoma City.” He looks sheepish all of a sudden, and it’s like getting a glimpse of what he must’ve been like when he and Daddy were boys. “I guess I like the idea of that. Having something really unusual. One of a kind. You know?”
“He’s very cool,” I admit, and Ira’s grin widens.
“Del around?” he asks me. “I was gonna see if he might want to make a run down to Rogers with me this evenin’. Gotta pick up a couple of new printers I ordered for the school.”
That sounds about right. We wouldn’t even have chalk for the blackboards if it weren’t for Ira.
“He’s at home,” I say. “Gettin’ some sleep.” I don’t tell Ira that Daddy spent the whole night at the gallery, but he gives me a look that tells me maybe he knows.
“He seem okay to you, Dovie?” I drop my eyes back to the table to focus on the Howler. “Seems like maybe things have been weighin’ heavy on Del lately.”
I’m ashamed to realize I don’t even know the answer to that question. Daddy and I hardly pay any attention to each other these days. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if he’d grown a second head.
“He’s tired, is all, I think.” It doesn’t sound very convincing, but it’s the best I can come up with.
Ira nods. “He’s been through a lot, your daddy, but he just keeps on goin’.” He settles on a stool and sighs. “The best people are like stained glass windows, girl. When darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed by the light that shines from deep inside ’em.” He pauses for a minute to look up at me. There’s something sad in his eyes, and it seems strange to see that expression on Ira’s face. He’s usually grinning and goofy. “Truth is, I don’t think he ever let himself grieve your mama.”
“Do you know where she went?” I ask him. “Or where she is now?” I don’t know why Mama’s been on the tip of my tongue so much lately. Normally it hurts too much to bring her up, so I go along most days trying to act like she never existed.
Ira sighs and shakes his head. “Not a clue. And if Del ever knew, he didn’t say.”
“Do you know why she left us?”
Why she left me?
It’s just us two in the shop, but Ira still lowers his voice before he answers. “I don’t think she could stand bein’ in these hills without Claire. That’s the truth of it. After she drowned, the life kinda went out of Lucy. And then she started—” He stops abruptly and stuff his hands in his pockets, then he raises one eyebrow and gives me an apologetic smile. “I always did talk too damn much. Del will tell you that.”
I’m not letting him off the hook that easy. “Then she started what?” I demand. “Come on, Ira. Please. Nobody tells me any of this stuff.”
“Shit, Dovie,” he mumbles. “This is family business. You’re like my own kid, and you know Del’s a brother to me, but I don’t wanna overstep. Why don’t you ask your dad?” When I don’t say anything, Ira sighs again, long and low. “I know it’s hard for people to talk sometimes, and I guess you gotta right to know.” He pulls Daddy’s stool up closer to the big worktable with that glass Howler spread out like a map across its surface. “Lucy started hearin’ the bones call out to her. Or however y’all say it. After she found Claire drowned in Lucifer’s Creek.”
I put both hands on the table and lean in closer to make sure I heard him right. “Mama didn’t feel the bone song till after Claire drowned?” I’d always assumed she’d heard it since she was a little girl, like me.
“That’s right. And between that and bein’ without Claire for the first time in her life, I think it was too much. Lucy was sensitive.” He stops. “I think these hills were too haunted for her. Too full of spirits and memories.”
It’s almost an echo of what Daddy said earlier this morning. I guess she just got tired of seein’ ghosts.
Ira stands up and takes another look at the Howler. “Thanks,” I say. “For tellin’ me all that.”
He nods. “I understand why it’s hard for Del to be the one that lays it all out.” Ira studies my face for a few seconds. “You’re your mama’s girl, Dovie. You always have been.” His eyes get that real sad look again. “Lucy was somethin’ else. Her and Claire both. Smart as whips. Feisty as firecrackers.” He winks at me. “Two beautiful peas in a pod.” There’s a pause, and he reaches out to run a gentle finger over the Howler again. “But you got an awful lot of your daddy in you, too.”
“Thanks,” I say. I don’t know what else to tell him. I’ve known Ira my whole life, but we’ve never really talked like this before.
“Gotta get back up to the lodge. There’s a new bunch checkin’ in this mornin’. But you tell Del I came by. All righty?”
“Yeah. Will do.”
Ira slips out of the back room, and I don’t hear the bell jingle when he leaves, either. He’s left me with too much to think about.
I spend the rest of the mornin’ staring out the front window, waiting for customers. I chat with the handful of hikers who come in like there’s nothing wrong. Not a thing to worry about. They buy smaller stuff, mostly. A couple of suncatchers and a little lamp. I fill out the forms to ship their purchases back to states like New Mexico and Florida and Maryland, and I wrestle with whether or not I should say something to them. I know I should tell them not to go back out there. But in the end I just tell them all to be careful.
Take care. Stick together. These hills can be dangerous.
Daddy comes in after lunch and thanks me for holding down the fort. I tell him that Ira was in looking for him, and he says he’ll give him a call up at the lodge. Neither one of us brings up Mama. Or ghosts. Or anything at all, really.
I’m about to step out onto Mud Street and head home when I suddenly remember Brother Turley, so I peer through the door to make sure the coast is clear.
Daddy is busy rearranging suncatchers in the window, but he pauses to frown at me. “You expectin’ someone?”
“Looking for Turley,” I admit. “He’s been tryin’ to get me to come to church.”
I don’t mention that he might have caught me and Lo hiding out in the Lord’s house yesterday.
All entering.
No breaking.
But maybe a little minor theft. I think about that Bible stashed in my closet. Turley has to have noticed it’s missing by now.
“Don’t pay him no mind,” Daddy grumbles. “Turley’s got the rest of this town in his pocket, but he’s not gonna get us.” He reaches up to hang a suncatcher to replace one I sold earlier, and I see those scratches standing out on his forearms again. “You got as much right to walk down the sidewalk as anybody that sits in that church on Sunday.”
“Yes, sir,” I tell him, but I still check one more time before I open the door and step out into the sunlight. I hear those little prosperity bells on the green ribbon jingle to mark my exit.
I don’t see Brother Turley on my way home. Or anybody else, really. It’s the hottest part of the afternoon, and most everyone is inside in the air-conditioning or at least laid up somewhere in the shade. Lucifer’s Creek might as well be an actual ghost town, instead of just a town full of ghosts.
Before I turn to head up the stone path to our house, I look across to the thick stand of trees where I saw Riley Alden’s face this morning. I know he wasn’t really there, but something pulls me across the street anyway. If Nana and I are seeing the same phantom, there has to be something to it.
I step into the middle of the trees and look around, and I was right. Of course. There’s nothing there at all. Definity no glowing specter.
Then I notice something in the soft mud. I stop moving and squat down to survey the ground around my feet.
Footprints.
The deep, wide-treaded prints of heavy boots in the dark, wet earth.
I wasn’t afraid of spirit hikers. Or Riley Alden’s spirit. Not really. At least not in the light of day. But these boot prints scare me. Because someone has definitely been lurking in the trees over here, keeping an eye on our house.
Keeping an eye on me.
And ghosts don’t wear hiking boots.