Hattie Mae printed as many as she could in the paper before the winner would be announced.
Remember When…
… you could watch Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, or Charlie Chaplin in a moving picture show at the Empire Nickelodeon for a nickel.… Mama Santoni played the organ, and during The Eyes of the Mummy, she got me so anxious with her scary music, I spilled my lemon fizz and everyone thought I wet my pants.
Rosa (Santoni) McIntyre
… Mr. Devlin was the first person in town to buy a Model T Ford, and a week later, Mrs. Devlin, on her way home from the Women’s Temperance League tea, drove that tin lizzie into Bonner Lake. That must have been some tea!
Andre Matenopoulos
… we kids used to march around town, singing, “Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching. I spy Kaiser at the door. We’ll get a lemon pie, and we’ll squish it in his eye. And there won’t be any Kaiser anymore.”
Stucky Cybulskis
… the Bone Dry Bill was passed, outlawing all alcohol in Kansas.… Most of us didn’t remember it then either.
Anonymous
… Sister Redempta delivered three babies in one day. I was baby number three. I hope she’s ready when my baby comes next March!
Betty Lou (Carlson) Mayes
… Mr. Underhill made a tombstone for Proky Nesch, the milkman. He got the date of birth right, which was in 1862, but had to redo the name, because as everyone but Underhill knew, Proky was the son of staunch abolitionists and “Proky” was short for Emancipation Proclamation.
Getty (short for Gettysburg) Nesch
… when Otis Akkerson got thrown from his horse and ended up facedown in Mr. Cybulskis’s pigsty?
Harry Akkerson
… yeah, well, it wouldn’t have happened if Harry Akkerson hadn’t been riding his bike alongside and spooked my horse with his ding-a-ling bicycle bell. Remember that?
Otis Akkerson
The names especially caught my eye. I knew these people. These names had become familiar to me, like friends, through Miss Sadie’s stories. Even Betty Lou Mayes from the beauty shop. I’d recognized her when she’d visited Miss Sadie’s house, but didn’t realize that her maiden name was Carlson. She must be Heck and Holler’s sister. And she’s not barren after all!
It was like putting together a big family tree. And even though I wasn’t familiar with the tales they told, I felt like I wasn’t just reading about them. It was more like remembering them. As if somehow their memories were becoming mine.
“Here, read this one,” Lettie said, passing me a prescription slip from the office of Dr. Dennis Monahan.
Remember when Margaret Evans and I tied for senior class president and we drew straws to decide the winner? I wanted the post but she was the better man.
Doc Monahan
The sad mixed with the sweet and set a warm feeling in my stomach. But would there be one about Gideon?
I drew another out of the pile. This one came all the way from Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
Remember when Ned Gillen won first place in the state track races? That kid could outrun trouble—and he needed to, what with the company he kept.
Holler Carlson
A few days went on like this, with more and more memories coming in. Then, the day of the deadline, Mr. DeVore delivered a new stack of envelopes. Lettie, Ruthanne, and I all started in opening a few when Lettie gave a gasp. She turned a little pale and, without a word, handed the paper to Ruthanne.
“Well, I’ll be dipped in sugar.” Ruthanne handed me the note written in straight up-and-down letters that looked like they were plodding across the page. “We found our match!”
To whom it may concern,
I have read your recent columns regarding past goings-on in this town. I should think you would be more responsible with the information you print in the publication you choose to call a newspaper. I have no such recollection of ever having mistakenly engraved a name on any tombstone, let alone a name as ridiculous as Proky. Furthermore, whoever would name their offspring after the Emancipation Proclamation should blame themselves for any misprint.
Mr. Underhill
“So Mr. Underhill is the Rattler?” I asked in disbelief. “He’s creepy enough, but he just doesn’t seem the Rattler type.”
“Yeah, he seems more like a lizard or a toad,” Lettie agreed.
“But it’s here in black and white,” said Ruthanne. “It’s the same handwriting that was on the note at the tree house telling us to leave well enough alone.”
We all stared at the notepaper. There was his handwriting, with the last letter trailing off … like a dying breath.
Miss Sadie’s Divining Parlor
AUGUST 23, 1936
I was so excited to be the bearer of such important news that I ran all the way back to Shady’s place. I planned to tell him the whole story of how we’d been searching for the Rattler all summer and we’d found him. So I was disappointed to find him gone. I can’t say I was surprised, though, now that I knew what kept him busy at odd hours.
Still, I was itching to tell somebody. So I skedaddled over to Miss Sadie’s and tromped up her stairs and into her house.
“Miss Sadie, guess what?” I called. “Miss Sadie?” I said again, looking first in the parlor and then in the kitchen. I saw her through the window, sitting on the back porch. “Miss Sadie,” I said, bounding outside, “you’ll never guess what happened. We found out who the Rattler is. At least, we think he’s the Rattler. It’s Mr. Underhill. He left a note at the tree house and we had a contest—”
Miss Sadie hadn’t even looked at me. She just sat rocking. Her hair lay loose on her shoulders, unbrushed. Her face looked dull and ashen. I thought maybe her leg was bothering her, as it seemed to be redder and oozier than ever.
I stepped closer. “Can I get you some cool water and your ointment? Would you like that, Miss Sadie?” I said quietly.
“The ointment does not help. There is too much sickness inside and it festers.”
I went ahead and got a glass of water and the balm, even though I knew she was right. When the gash on my leg got bad and I was delirious with fever, the doctor had to lance it open to let out all the infection.
I gently dabbed on the salve, telling her about Mr. Underhill. She nodded but stared off disinterestedly. “Things are not always what they seem.”
“What do you mean? You don’t think it’s him?”
“The line between truth and myth is sometimes difficult to see.” As her voice got heavier, and her rocking more rhythmic, I could feel her heading into a story. “As much as we wanted it to be true, it was nothing but a myth.”
What was she talking about? What had been a myth? My insides got tight. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
But she went on. “Who would dare think the outcast and abandoned can find a home? Who would dream that one can love without being crushed under the weight of it? A miracle cure to heal the sick? Pah. What makes us think any of this could be true? And yet all of us, we participate in this myth, we create it, perpetuate it.”
Miss Sadie’s voice grew deep under the weight of the story.
“But what is worse—we believe it. And in the end, we are crushed by it.…”
Homecoming
OCTOBER 27, 1918
Saturday, the day before the homecoming festivities, was cool and overcast, but no one seemed to mind as everyone busied themselves with preparations for the big event.
Along with the changing color of leaves came a vibrant spirit among the people of Manifest. Men set up booths, hung strings of electric lights, and put the final coat of paint on the new gazebo. It was to be a grand affair, complete with a barbershop quartet, pony rides, caramel apples, a pie-baking contest, a bocce tournament, and an evening promenade under the stars. The women were busy baking, rolling, simmering their specialties. Whether they made Greek baklava, French galettes, Italian bread, or German bierochs, all wanted to impress the others.
Word had spread that Mrs. C
ybulskis had gone into labor, and everyone saw it as a good sign that their First Annual Homecoming Celebration would also be welcoming a new life. They even dared to believe that their sons at war would soon return.
Jinx walked past the tented booths, through the open field near Shady’s place, and watched Paulie Santoni explain the rules of bocce to a group of young men. Paulie held a large hedge apple in his hand.
“Now, the first thing you should know is, the Italians, we invented the game of bocce.”
“Is this not just an overgrown game of marbles?” called out a young Frenchman.
Paulie grimaced. “No. Bocce takes true skill and years of practice. Let me explain.” He displayed the hedge apple. “Think of this as a bocce ball. You roll the ball and try to get it closest to the jack ball in the circle.” He cradled the hedge apple gently in his hands. “The ball, she requires finesse and caressing, you know, like a lady. This is why the Italians are so good at bocce. Watch. You don’t want to knock her out. Merely brush her cheek.” He curled the hedge apple behind him and let it fly a little harder than planned, knocking the smaller jack out of the circle.
The other young men—Frenchmen, Germans, Swedes, Greeks—all laughed. One boisterous Scot yelled, “Aye, that’s amore.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jinx saw Sheriff Dean watching him. As if that wasn’t uncomfortable enough, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else was also watching him. Someone in the shadows.
Just then, Jinx met up with Shady, glancing past him at the sheriff. Shady handed Jinx a pretzel, keeping a sausage for himself. “Compliments of Mrs. Akkerson.” He followed Jinx’s gaze. “Looks like you have a watchdog.”
Jinx took a bite and muttered with his mouth full, “Yeah, he watches every move I make, hoping I’ll do something he can arrest me for.”
“Word’s spread all over Manifest and beyond that you’re a con man par excellence,” Shady observed. “But the sheriff looks like he’s got more on his mind than cons.”
Jinx was quiet for a moment. “Shady, you’ve been real good to me. I think you should know I’ve got a few skeletons in my closet.”
Shady took a knife from his pocket, cut a chunk of sausage, and squinted across the field at Sheriff Dean. “Well”—he popped the bite into his mouth—“what do you say we throw the sheriff a bone?”
Jinx smiled. “What do you have in mind?”
“Just meet me over in the clearing, by that big sycamore tree where we were selling the elixir. Act like you’re up to something and make sure the sheriff follows you.”
A few minutes later, Jinx pulled his hat down over his eyes and gave a furtive look this way and that, then set off through the trees. He walked slowly and stopped every once in a while to make sure he heard the sheriff’s footsteps behind him.
As Jinx came upon the grassy opening, he saw Shady lowering himself into the grave that had never been filled after the quarantine.
“Shady,” Jinx whispered in a not-quiet voice.
“Over here,” Shady whispered back equally loudly.
“Here.” Shady handed Jinx a gallon jug with a cork stopper. “We’d best get rid of these before the sheriff finds out there’s still some left.”
“Too late for that,” the sheriff said, peering down at Shady.
Shady scratched the back of his neck like he’d been caught red-handed. “There’s just these two jugs left, Sheriff. How’s about one for you and one for us?”
Sheriff Dean shook his head. “Now, Shady. I thought you were swearing off the stuff.” He took up one jug and reached for the other. “I think I’d better keep the kit and the caboodle.” Sheriff Dean uncorked one jug and gave it a sniff. “So, this is two parts alcohol and one part elixir? Smells a little funny, but after a couple stiff drinks, who’ll know the difference?”
He replaced the cork and started to walk away, then called back over his shoulder, “But don’t think I won’t still have my eye on you, boy.”
When the sheriff was gone, Jinx gave Shady a hand up. “I thought I’d moved all the bottles that were left. I put ’em under lock and key, like you said. What was in those jugs?”
“A new elixir.” Shady stuck a cigar in his mouth. “One part alcohol. Two parts prune juice.”
That evening, everyone was so busy putting on their finishing touches at the homecoming grounds that no one noticed when a beat-up old motor scooter chugged its way into town, spitting out a plume of smoke in front of the jail. A wiry man stepped off the bike as if it was his trusty steed. He removed his goggles from his dusty face, revealing clean white around his eyes that made him look like a raccoon.
Sheriff Dean stood in the doorway of the jail, nursing a mug of Shady’s brew. “Why, Sheriff Nagelman, what brings you to our fair state? If I recall, the Kansas side is a little out of your Missouri jurisdiction.”
“Knock it off, Ed. I don’t have all day. Now, where’s the boy?”
“Ah, Leonard, what kind of greeting is that for your brother-in-law?”
Nagelman lit a cigarette, realizing that he wasn’t going to be able to rush Sheriff Dean.
“How’s life in the big city?” Sheriff Dean asked.
“Just peachy.” Nagelman flicked his ashes. “Now, if we’re done with the chitchat, I have a cell and maybe even a noose waiting for a certain degenerate you’re harboring in this town.”
Sheriff Dean took another draw from his mug. “What makes you so sure that kid, Jinx, is your man? Besides, I thought you were looking for a pair.”
“One of the church elders came through here last week and said he saw the same boy who was “cured” during the tent revival. If I can catch one, I’ll get him to rat out the other. And then Louise Haskell will quit yapping at me about finding the person who killed her nephew, Junior. Besides, I got to string somebody up and he’s as good as any.”
“Why didn’t your church elder report it to me? After all, I am the sheriff here.”
“He said there was no sheriff to be found.” Nagelman looked at the mug in Sheriff Dean’s hand and the jug at his feet. “You must have been otherwise engaged. But who would expect any different from a no-account sheriff of a no-account town?” Sheriff Nagelman took one last puff of his cigarette, then crushed the stub under his foot. “Now, can we go?”
Sheriff Dean thought for a minute, then swallowed the last of his drink. “All right. Follow me.”
Jinx had been helping Mama Santoni and little Rosa hoist a big black pot over the fire pit so it would be ready for the simmering tomato sauce the next day, when he caught sight of Sheriff Dean and the goggle-eyed sheriff he recognized from Joplin.
“Now, you come to our house to eat,” Mama urged as they finished.
“I can’t just now, but thank you. I’ve got to run.” And he did. Jinx ran away from the festival grounds and into the woods, fear rising in him. Maybe if he’d just lie low, Sheriff Nagelman would give up looking and go back to Joplin. As he reached the clearing near the creek, he stopped short.
A man stood in front of him, blocking his way.
“You’ve been busy, haven’t you, boy?”
Jinx stood still, his eyes darting this way and that as he looked for a way to escape.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you have anything to say to your uncle Finn?”
“I thought we were going our separate ways.”
“I bet that’s what you thought, now that you’re all cozy here. You think you’ve found a home, don’t you?” Finn took a step closer while Jinx inched out of the trees into the clearing. “I seen the sign outside of town. How’s it read? ‘Manifest—a town with a rich past and a bright future.’ I shot a few holes in that theory.” Finn pulled a gun from his jacket and admired its gleam. “I’ve been watching you, the way you latched on to folks around here.”
Jinx thought of the night in the abandoned mine shaft when he thought he’d seen Finn. And other times, when he’d felt like someone just out of sight was watching him.
Finn sho
ok his head. “You are something else, boy. I take care of you and your mama—”
“You never lifted a hand to help my mother.” Jinx’s face flushed with anger. “You just used me and waited for her to die. I’m not going with you, Finn. These folks are my family now.”
Finn’s smile vanished and his face contorted into an angry scowl. “These people don’t even know you. Have you told them that you’re nothing but a jinx? That bad luck follows you everywhere and people all around you end up in bad straits or dying? First your daddy, then your mama, then Junior. I’m surprised no one around here has been touched by your curse, but then, it’s only a matter of time, ain’t that right, Jinx?”
Jinx winced as Finn’s words hit their mark.
“That’s right,” Finn continued. “I’m the only one’s free of your hoodoo curse and you’re trying to shed me like a snakeskin. Well, let me tell you, boy, blood is thicker than water, and I’m the only blood you got.”
Jinx shook his head. He wanted Finn to shut up. “My mother was out of her mind with sickness. She’d never have left me with you. All you wanted was a hired hand. Every con needs a mole, isn’t that right? Well, I’m done. You’re on your own.”
Jinx and Finn were standing in the clearing surrounded by a circle of trees and bushes, cutting them off from the town, from Shady’s place, from help. There was a rustle of leaves and a loud snap in the distance, but no one came. It must have been a coon or a badger getting caught in a hunter’s trap. Every creature had a basic instinct for survival, but for that poor critter, there was no getting away.
Jinx’s own survival instincts were charged. He knew he wasn’t going back with Finn. “I’ll tell them. I’ll turn myself in and tell them it was an accident. And I’ll tell them you were there.”
Finn nodded. For a second Jinx thought he might actually leave. Then, in one swift movement, Finn grabbed Jinx, twisted him around, and shoved the gun into his back. “Well, now, that’d be a lie. Because it wasn’t no accident.”
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