Welcome the Little Children

by Lynda McDaniel

  Until he wasn’t.

  Horne stopped by the store around nine o’clock Tuesday morning to tell me he’d gotten a call from someone in Chester who’d seen Lilah. “Do you want to ride along?” he asked. “I need to talk to this woman, and you’ve got a better way with them than I do. It needs a woman’s touch. I’ll fill you in on the ride down there.” He didn’t even wait for my answer before driving off.

  I didn’t know what decade he’d dredged up “woman’s touch” from but that put me off the idea of riding in the car with him for a couple of hours. Not to mention his assumption that I’d say yes. But I think we both knew I’d end up going along.

  I tried Mary Lou, but she wasn’t at home. Just as I put the phone down, I saw Abit and Millie heading toward the store. I’d never ask him, and not just because he had too many bad memories from when his father owned the store. He had better things to do.

  As soon as he and Millie walked through the door, he picked up on my mood. “Hey, Della. Everything all right? You look worried.”

  “Oh, I don’t have anyone to keep the store, and I really need—well, want—to go with Horne.” I bent down to scratch Millie behind her ears, and she rolled over on her back, sizeable white paws flopping over her white teddy-bear chest.

  “Don’t look at me,” Abit said, unnecessarily.

  “Honey, I never would. But Billie’s still out of town and Mary Lou isn’t home.”

  “Well, we’re waiting on a delivery of maple wood, and Shiloh can’t finish that sideboard ‘til it comes in. He could hold down the store. I’m not saying he’d do a great sales job, but he won’t clean out the till.”

  I liked Shiloh, even if he was a bit of a poseur. I got a kick out of him whenever we chatted in back over a coffee. But hold down the store? Abit must have read my mind, because he added, “He may not be perfect, but you’d get outta here.”

  Shiloh came down, and I gave him a quick overview. The register wasn’t anything fancy; all he had to do was ring things up. We agreed on an hourly rate, but before he’d let me go, he gave me a Buddhist lecture about being kind to criminals and not exacting revenge. I was already planning on doing the first and not the second. It was Horne he should’ve been lecturing.

  On the drive to Chester, Horne was both excited about the new lead and disappointed Dibble didn’t appear to be guilty. “I didn’t find anything—not a scratch on him. No sign of struggle. And that company attorney called again because the seventy-two hours were up. I had to release Dibble.”

  Oh, that pesky U.S. Constitution, I thought to myself. Besides, the more he explained the new lead, the more it seemed Dibble had dropped Lilah off in Chester like he’d said.

  “You know how the Mountain Weekly and a few other local papers published Mrs. Holt’s photo with a brief story about her disappearance?” Horne asked. “Well, this woman we’re going to see”—he looked down at a note lying on the front seat—“Ralphine Dawson told me she recognized the woman from the newspaper story, but what really made her stick in her mind was she was pulling one of those ‘newfangled suitcases on wheels.’ I wanted to tell her they’d been around for a while, but what would be the point? Anyway, she went on to describe Mrs. Holt at the Chester Trailways station and swears it was the day after Dibble allegedly dropped her off outside of town. That was a couple of weeks ago now, so I want to talk with her to make sure she’s not a drunk.”

  “What was Dawson doing at the bus station?”

  “She’s a janitor there.”

  I could only guess he had something against janitors, assuming they were all drunks. I didn’t bother to ask why because we’d just pulled up at the station.

  “It caught my eye ‘cause I’d never seen one like that,” Ralphine told us. “Suitcase, I mean. I’d like to get me one of them—but a bit bigger. Not that I go anywheres—at least not yet. I just clean up after people who do.” Ralphine had a lined face that made her look older than she likely was, maybe forty-five or fifty. But she had a spark about her that hadn’t been extinguished by the daily detritus at the station. She’d held on to expectations of a life filled with travel and adventure. I liked her and believed her.

  Horne still seemed to have doubts. He pulled out a small mug-shot book he’d prepared back at the office—five pictures from his records plus Lilah’s. Ralphine was shaking her head as she went through the first three, but on the fourth, her finger stabbed Lilah in the middle of her face. “That’s her!”

  “And you’re sure it wasn’t Thursday when you saw her.”

  Ralphine nodded her head vigorously. “That’s my day off.”

  We thanked her, and I slipped her a twenty dollar bill, just because. She stuffed it in her apron and nodded her thanks.

  Horne talked with the station manager, who explained he had no way to know where Lilah was headed. He was cooperative, though, and gave Horne a list of drivers. “It won’t be easy to reach them; they’re out on the road so much. I can let you talk to the ones here now, and I’ll put up that woman’s photograph and story in the drivers’ breakroom.”

  They went over schedules while I sat in the waiting area and people-watched. The station bustled on a Friday, hosting an amazing mix of humanity, from college students to migrant workers to ne’er-do-wells and mothers with more children than they could handle. The racket was deafening.

  Horne came over to get me, a big smile on his face. He’d caught a break. Only two buses went out that day during the most likely timeframe, and one of those drivers was due back in an hour. He apologized to me for the delay, but I didn’t mind. I’d spotted a bookstore a block or two over.

  I didn’t get to a real bookstore often enough. I browsed through row after row of books, not even caring what the subject was. They were all beautiful, new, and fascinating. I bought one on bluegrass music I thought Abit would enjoy and the latest Michael Connelly mystery for me. At the coffee shop inside the bookstore—a pairing as natural as Shakespeare in the Globe Theater—I ordered a latte and chicken sandwich; I was starving.

  But a couple of hours—and too many coffees and muffins—later, even I was getting tired of hanging out there (and good-natured bookstore employees were starting to give me funny looks). Horne was supposed to come get me when he finished, but I decided to walk back to the bus station. I saw him standing at the far end with a long face. One of the buses had been delayed by over an hour, and after the wait, that driver didn’t recognize her. The other driver wasn’t due in for several hours; the manager assured Horne he’d show him the photograph.

  Horne thanked him, hustled me out to the car, and drove off fast. When I asked where we were going in such a hurry, he handed me a sheet with directions to Dr. Murray Epstein’s office. He’d spent the last week calling almost every doctor in Chester, trying to locate Lilah’s physician. It wasn’t easy, given patient privacy laws. Some told him they didn’t have a patient by that name (assuming she used her real name); others refused to respond. He finally found one who made him think she was hiding something. Just a sheriff’s hunch, he told me. He’d tried pulling rank as a law enforcement officer, but she told him he could be Jack the Ripper for all she knew over the phone. He suggested she call his office to verify, but she wasn’t having it.

  When we entered that office, we had no doubts that Dolores Lopez, according to her desk nameplate, was a no-nonsense woman. I looked forward to seeing how Horne handled the situation.

  He didn’t do too badly, showing his badge and using a courteous tone. Ms. Lopez studied his ID and said, “I can confirm that she had an appointment that day—but didn’t show up for it.”

  Which threw Horne’s theory into a tailspin. Why had she missed her appointment—one she’d gone to great lengths to get to? Maybe she’d arrived too late and didn’t bother to stop by. But the appointment time she’d circled in her calendar was1:30 p.m., and if Dibble had dropped her off at noon, she could have made the appointment in plenty of time, even with a long walk in from the outskirts.

&
nbsp; Horne and I talked over the case on the way home. I could tell he was as worried as I was about her not showing up. From the timing of her appointment, it appeared she’d gotten an early start on Thursday and likely wanted to get home before dark. I got the sense he still felt Dibble had done more harm than he’d admitted, but there was no denying the bus station janitor’s recollection of seeing her on Friday. Dibble was long gone by the time Ralphine had coveted that suitcase.

  Traffic was light, a break I needed because I’d been away much longer than I’d told Shiloh. I was relieved the store was still open.

  But Horne wasn’t ready to call it a day. When he turned off the ignition, I sensed something hanging in the air. He took off his somewhat creepy reflective shades and sheriff’s hat—not quite cowboy, not quite fedora—and turned in his seat. Even his voice sounded different (and better) when he told me he enjoyed my company and hoped we could be friends. At first I thought oh no, that protective reaction every woman has. But then I remembered how Gregg O’Donnell, the Forest Service ranger, had turned me down years ago when I told him I wanted to continue to be “just friends.” He’d said he couldn’t do that, and I never saw Gregg after that except by chance a couple of times a year.

  Horne rolled his hat brim between his fingers as he told me he needed someone he could relate to. “Lonnie just doesn’t cut it. It gets lonesome around here. I know you’ve got your ‘friend’ (he added air quotes, awkwardly juggling his hat in the process), so it’s nothing like that. I just appreciate your intellect. And when I see you with your family, it looks so …”

  He couldn’t find the right word, so I filled in the blank. “Nice. And it is. Though it’s small and an unusual one, at that.”

  “Well it looks like a big one when you’re a family of one.”

  Once I understood he really was looking for “just a friend,” I felt, well, honored. Maybe because I understood that kind of loneliness—and the courage it took to do something about it. We shook on it, as though we’d just signed a contract.

  “I’m sorry I’m so late!” I said as I stepped through the front door. Shiloh was busy stacking cans of tomatoes, beets, and kidney beans in what appeared to be an everything-red pyramid. And the store reeked of patchouli. Oh well, I thought, it was worth it to get away.

  “Oh, hello. I was just working on this display for you,” he said, beaming at his sculpture. Good thing I got back before he started in on the green and yellow pyramids, I thought. I settled up with him, paying cash out of the register. There definitely seemed to be more bills in there than when I left.

  “How’d it go?” I asked.

  “Oh, you had quite a flurry of customers. We had a good discussion going, too, about why you were off to Chester and the Buddhist way of viewing criminal activity. I explained to everyone that Buddhists see punishing an offender only as a means to reform his character. We focused mainly on whether Horne saw it that way, and just what your feelings on this matter might be.”

  “Thanks, Shiloh,” I said with only a hint of sarcasm. I agreed with his stance, but I wondered what my customers would have to say about all that. I was already dreading the mayhem he’d likely dredged up, something Mary Lou and I would have to deal with in the days ahead. I shuffled him toward the front of the store. “Thanks again,” I said, trying to close the door, but he didn’t take the hint.

  “I hope you’ll call on me again, Ms. Kincaid. I found I have quite a rapport with your clientele. Oh, and one more thing. I think you’ll be getting some new orders.” He punctuated that with a wink and a smile before turning to leave. I sighed. What in the world did that mean?

  It was right at quitting time, so I brought in the sandwich board (Shiloh had added two smiley faces to it), locked the back door (he’d put out a tin of imported Spanish tuna for the feral cat I was trying to discourage) and counted the till (it came out to the penny). I wondered to myself why righteous people could make you think such unrighteous thoughts.

  17

  Abit

  I didn’t feel much like working, but I needed to stay busy. I sanded a coffee table Della’d ordered not long after Fiona’d left me. She swore it weren’t a pity order, and I guessed I believed her. I vaguely remembered her saying something earlier about an order. Whatever, I was glad to have a small project to work on. That was all I could handle.

  I tried focusing on my dovetail joints, but I kept thinking about what I’d learned the other night at one of our concerts. Our banjo player, Tater Matthews, told me he’d seen Fiona out with a doctor from the Newland Hospital. They were in a restaurant up in Boone, not hanging out local, he said. I was trying to figure out what he meant by that when he added that his wife, who was also a nurse in Newland, had heard that the doctor had just separated from his wife. That meant neither one of them had waited long to jump in each other’s arms. I made myself stop picturing it happening before we split. I just couldn’t believe that.

  Shiloh didn’t complain about my mood that day, and he worked in merciful silence for a while. I switched jobs, carving some leaves and birds on the top piece of a hoosier. It felt good to make something pretty. The piece turned out so nice, I thought about keeping it for myself—but what did I need with a baking cupboard?

  About three o’clock, Shiloh brought over a thermos of mu tea, some herbal concoction he drank most days, and offered me a cup. Not bad, really, though that seed loaf he shared tasted like sawdust. (And believe me, I knew what that tasted like.) But he was trying to cheer me up, and I appreciated that. When he asked about Fiona, I told him about her and that doctor.

  Just like that, he was doing his goddam standup routine. The joke was so bad—something about a second opinion—I just tuned him out. I knew he’d meant no harm. That strange brain of his heard a cue like “doctor” and whirred through his bank of jokes to find one that worked. Only it hadn’t.

  I got through the day, and at quitting time I met Duane Dockery out back of Della’s store. We were looking over the old Rollin’ Store bus. Della heard us talking and joined us, holding out two cans of beer.

  “Do you think she’ll work for Abit’s band?” she asked, patting the side of the bus. “By the way, Abit, what are you guys calling yourself these days?”

  “Rollin’ Ramblers.”

  “Well, this old Rolling Store bus seems fitting for a band with that name. What do you say, Duane?”

  “Oh, we can get her on the road again,” he answered after taking a long pull on his beer. “But what about the outside paint job? I don’t know if either one of us has time for a major overhaul of that.” We talked a while, and then Duane’s eyebrows shot up. “I’ve got an idea,” he said, smiling.

  A couple of days later, the bus had a fresh coat of paint in the spots it needed. Duane had played round with the flowers and vines, making them look like exhaust coming outta the bus he’d added on the side, like it were riding on flower power. Della was clapping her hands, and I was as happy as I’d been in some time.

  Then Shiloh stopped by. “What is a Rollin’ Rambler? The opposite of a Stationary Rambler?” he asked. It took me a minute to follow his logic. I saw his point. It was kinda repetitive, but for a guy whose name meant peace, he sure could stir up trouble. Besides, the band had agreed we wanted to keep the Rollin’ part in honor of the bus’s history.

  That evening I signed Duane on to be our driver and roadie. It didn’t pay much, but it got him out. He and I made a sorry duo—pining for our former wife and girlfriend. The only good thing that came from his divorce was he’d lost a lot weight and had been working out. Later on, oncet he was working with the band, he got invitations same as me, women asking us to join them after our gigs, but our hearts just weren’t into that.

  Not that I didn’t notice pretty girls. They’d be sashaying to our music, and I wasn’t blind to how nice they looked. When I was growing up, everyone from Mama’s church—and plenty of others—made a real fuss over the evils of dancing. I could never make out what they were so w
orried about. Then one night while we were playing, I looked up, and I swear you could see clear as day what was on their minds as those boys and girls swayed close to one another and then back, close again, making eye contact and sharing a knowing smile. For the first time I could see what those church folks were talking about. Not that I thought it was evil, just as natural as the sun coming up.

  Since Fiona’d left me, I’d had a lot of time on my hands, so I put them to work writing songs for our band. I’d been listening to Ricky Skaggs, and when he sang “Memories of Mother and Dad” by Bill Monroe, something just blew open inside of me. Something good. Like I had things to say and music I wanted to write.

  We had a gig coming up at my old school, The Hicks, in Boone. I went back from time to time to play on Dance Night, which they held every Saturday night except for Christmas, if it fell on a Saturday. It was amazing how the Keefe House, the main building at the school, woke up from its sleepy weekday vibe. Even with school in session, that place had a comforting hush about it, pine tongue-and-groove walls absorbing over sixty years of sounds and handmade rugs quieting every footfall. And all them black-and-white photographs of people lining the hallways. Doris Ulmann had come through these parts in the 1920s and ‘30s taking pictures of Appalachian crafts makers and musicians, among others. They looked back at you so weary you couldn’t help but feel it, too. And yet she’d captured them in a way that had dignity. Those portraits on the walls were a shrine of sorts, a tribute to what our ancestors had created outta nothin’.

  But come Saturday night, that building rocked in its big community room where they held the dances. On that particular Saturday, I planned to perform a song I’d just finished. During our practice, all the band folks told me they liked it. Mr. Monroe had awakened the songwriter in me—I wasn’t stealin’, just inspired in the way artists had always done—and I wrote a nice solo for the mandolin in his honor. Gina Rodgers played it so good during our practice, I could imagine Mr. Monroe nodding his approval.