Welcome the Little Children

by Lynda McDaniel

  I’d bought the store on a whim after a week’s stay in a log cabin in the Black Mountains. To prolong the trip, I took backroads home. As I drove through Laurel Falls, I spotted the boarded-up store sporting a For Sale sign. I stopped, jotted down the listed phone number, and called. Within a week, I owned it. The store was in shambles, both physically and financially, but something about its bones had appealed to me. And I could afford the extensive remodeling it needed because the asking price was so low.

  Back in my D.C. condo, I realized how much I wanted a change in my life. I had no family to miss. I was an only child, and my parents had died in an alcoholic daze, their car wrapped around a tree, not long after I left for college. And all those editors and deadlines, big city hassles, and a failed marriage? I was eager to trade them in for a tiny town and a dilapidated store called Coburn’s General Store. (Nobody knew who Coburn was—that was just what it had always been called, though most of the time it was simply Coburn’s. Even if I’d renamed it, no one would’ve used that name.)

  In addition to the store, the deal included an apartment upstairs that, during its ninety-year history, had likely housed more critters than humans, plus a vintage 1950 Chevy pickup truck with wraparound rear windows. And a bonus I didn’t know about when I signed the papers: a living, breathing griffon to guard me and the store—Abit.

  I’d lived there almost a year, and I treasured my days away from the store, especially once it was spring again. Some folks complained that I wasn’t open Sundays (blue laws a distant memory, even though they were repealed only a few years earlier), but I couldn’t work every day, and I couldn’t afford to hire help, except now and again.

  While Jake and I sat under that tree, the sun broke through the canopy and warmed my face and shoulders. I watched Jake’s muzzle twitch (he was already lost in a dream), and chuckled when he sprang to life at the first crinkle of wax paper. I shooed him away as I unwrapped my lunch. On his way back to his nest, he stopped and stared down the dell, his back hairs spiking into a Mohawk.

  “Get over it, boy. I don’t need you scaring me as bad as Mildred. Settle down now,” I gently scolded as I laid out a chunk of Gruyere I’d whittled the hard edges off, an almost-out-of-date salami, and a sourdough roll I’d rescued from the store. I’d been called a food snob, but these sad leftovers from a struggling store sure couldn’t support that claim. Besides, out here the food didn’t matter so much. It was all about the pileated woodpecker trumpeting its jungle call or the tiny golden-crowned kinglet flitting from branch to branch. And the waterfall in the distance, playing its soothing continuo, day and night. These walks kept me sane. The giant trees reminded me I was just a player in a much bigger game, a willing refugee from a crowded, over-planned life.

  I crumpled the lunch wrappings, threw Jake a piece of roll, and found a sunnier spot. I hadn’t closed my eyes for a minute when Jake gave another low growl. He was sitting upright, nose twitching, looking at me for advice. “Sorry, pal. You started it. I don’t hear anything,” I told him. He gave another face-saving low growl and put his head back down.

  “You crazy old hound.” I patted his warm, golden fur. Early on, I wondered what kind of mix he was—maybe some retriever and beagle, bringing his size down to medium. I’d asked the vet to hazard a guess. He wouldn’t. Or couldn’t. It didn’t matter.

  I poured myself a cup of hot coffee, white with steamed milk, appreciating the magic of a thermos, even if the contents always tasted vaguely of vegetable soup. That aroma took me back to the woods of my childhood, just two vacant lots really, a few blocks from my home in D.C.’s Cleveland Park. I played there for hours, stocked with sandwiches and a thermos of hot chocolate. I guessed that was where I first thought of becoming a reporter; I sat in the cold and wrote up everything that passed by—from birds and salamanders to postmen and high schoolers sneaking out for a smoke.

  A deeper growl from Jake pulled me back. As I turned to share his view, I saw a man running toward us. “Dammit, Mildred,” I swore, as though the intruder were her fault. The man looked angry, pushing branches out of his way as he charged toward us. Jake barked furiously as I grabbed his collar and held tight. Even though the scene was unfolding just as my neighbor had warned, I wasn’t afraid. Maybe it was the Madras sport shirt, so out of place on a man with a bushy beard and long ponytail. For God’s sake, I thought, how could anyone set out in the morning dressed like that and plan to do harm? A hint of a tattoo—a Celtic cross?—peeked below his shirt sleeve, adding to his unlikely appearance.

  As he neared, I could see his face wasn’t so much angry as pained, drained of color.

  “There’s some … one,” his voice cracked. He put his hands on his thighs and tried to catch his breath. As he did, his graying ponytail fell across his chest.

  “What? Who?”

  “A body. Somebody over there,” he said, pointing toward the creek. “Not far, it’s …” he stopped again to breathe.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Cross … creek.” He started to run.

  “Wait! Don’t go!” I shouted, but all I could see was the back of his shirt as he ran. “Hey! At least call for help. There’s an emergency call box down that road, at the car park. Call Gregg O’Donnell at the Forest Service. I’ll go see if there’s anything I can do.”

  He shouted, “There nothing you can do,” and kept running.

  Jake led the way as we crashed through the forest, branches whipping our faces. I felt the creek’s icy chill, in defiance of the day’s warmth, as I missed the smaller stepping stones and soaked my feet. Why didn’t I ask the stranger more details or have him show me where to find the person? And what did “across the creek” mean in an eleven-thousand-acre wilderness area? When I stopped to get my bearings, I began to shiver, my feet numb. Jake stopped with me, sensing the seriousness of our romp in the woods; he even ignored a squirrel.

  We were a pack of two, running together, the forest silent except for our heavy breathing and the rustle we made crossing the decaying carpet beneath our feet. Jake barked at something, startling me, but it was just the crack of a branch I’d broken to clear the way. We were both spooked.

  I stopped to rest on a fallen tree as Jake ran ahead, then back and to the right. Confused, he stopped and looked at me. “I don’t know which way either, boy.” We were just responding to a deep, instinctual urge to help. “You go on, Jake. You’ll find it before I will.”

  And he did.

  3 Abit

  Nobody paid me no attention. They either ignored me, like Daddy, or they thought I was a no count. Oncet I got over the hurt, or didn’t care so much, I could see how that had its good points. They thought since they didn’t notice me, I didn’t see them. If they only knew.

  That evening, all I could think about was Della and what them cops had been doing up in her apartment. Four cars and six men. I wudn’t even hungry for supper. Mama looked at me funny; she knew I usually didn’t have no trouble putting away four of her biscuits covered in gravy.

  “Eat your supper, son. What’s wrong with you?” she scolded, like I were eight year old. Well, what did she think? Like we’d ever had a day like that before. I asked to be excused, and Daddy nodded at her. I couldn’t figure out why they weren’t more curious about everything.

  “Do you know what’s going on?” I asked.

  Daddy just told me to run along. Okay, fine. That was my idea in the first place.

  Even though the store were closed, I headed to my chair. A couple of year ago, I’d found a butt-sprung caned chair thrown behind the store. I fixed it with woven strips of inner tube, which made it real comfortable, especially when I’d lean against the wall. I worried when Daddy sold the store that the new owner would gussy everything up and get rid of my chair. But Della told me I was welcome to lean on her wall any day, any time. Then she smiled at me and asked me to stop calling her Mrs. Kincaid; I was welcome to call her Della.

  I liked sitting there ‘cause I could visit with f
olks, and not everyone talked to me like Lonnie and the sheriff. Take Della’s best friend, Cleva Hall, who came by at least oncet a week. She insisted on calling me Vester, which was kind of weird since I wudn’t used to it. At first, I thought she was talking about Daddy. But then I reckoned she had trouble calling me Abit, which was pretty nice when I thought about it.

  I’d been on my own most of my life. Mama and Daddy kinda ignored me, when they weren’t worried I was getting up to no good. And I didn’t fit in with other folks. Della didn’t neither, but she seemed okay with that. She chatted with customers and acted polite, but I could tell she weren’t worried about being accepted. Which was good, since folks hadn’t accepted her. Sure, they bought her food and beer, but that was mostly ‘cause the big store was a good ten or more mile away. They’d act okay to her face, but they didn’t really like her ‘cause “she wudn’t from here.” Truth be told, I liked her extra ‘cause she wudn’t from here.

  I couldn’t understand why she chose to live in our town. It weren’t much, though I hadn’t never been out of the county, so how would I have known whether it was good or not? I had to admit that the falls were pretty to look at, and even Daddy said we was lucky to live near them. And we did have a bank, a real estate and law office combined, a dry goods store, Adam’s Rib and few other restaurants (though we never ate out as a family). And some kinda new art store. But there wudn’t a library or gas station or grocery store—except for Della’s store, which sat two mile outside of town on the road to the falls.

  I felt kinda stupid sitting out front with the store closed and all, but I hoped Della would hear me tapping the chair against the wall and come down to talk with me. Mama didn’t like me to be out after supper, though I told her I was getting too old for that. It was funny—Mama was a Bible-readin’ Christian, but she always thought the worst things. Especially at night. She never told me this, but I figured she thought demons came out then. (Not that she weren’t worried about demons during the day, too.) I hated to think of the things that went through her head. Maybe I was slow, but so be it if that meant I didn’t have to wrestle with all that.

  I looked up at Della’s big window but couldn’t see nothin’. I wanted to know if she was all right—and, sure, I wanted to find out what was going on, too. Then a light went on in Della’s kitchen. “Oh, please, please come downstairs,” I said out loud. But just as fast, the light went out.

  4 Della

  I switched off the kitchen light and limped back to the couch. No aspirin in the bedside table or in the bathroom or kitchen cabinets. Good thing I lived above a store.

  Earlier in the woods, I’d twisted my ankle as I scrambled over a mass of tangled limbs trying to get to the open space where Jake waited, barking. Under the towering canopy of giant oaks, little grew, creating a hushed, cathedral-like space. Usually. Jake finally quit barking when he saw me, but he began a strange primal dance, crouching from side to side as he bared his teeth and emitted ugly guttural sounds. I closed my eyes, trying to will away what I knew lay ahead.

  A young woman leaned against a fallen tree trunk blanketed in moss. Her head flopped to one side, long black hair covering half her face, though not enough to hide the vomit that pooled on her left shoulder and down her sleeve. She looked vaguely familiar; I’d probably seen her at the store.

  I edged closer and reached out to feel her neck. Cold and silent. She looked up at me with the penetrating stare of the dead; I resisted the urge to close her eyes.

  The woman, her skin smooth and clear, seemed no older than twenty or so, but her face was locked in a terrible grimace. Pain would do that, possibly the last sensation she’d felt. Just below her left hand lay an empty syringe. I thought about drug overdose or possible suicide. I’d seen both before.

  I knew it wouldn’t be long before the sun slipped behind the mountains and took the day’s warmth with it. We needed help, soon. I held out little hope that Madras Man would call Gregg. And yet, for some reason, I didn’t want to leave the young woman alone.

  For the first time in what felt like hours, I thought about the store, which really wasn’t that far away, as the crow flies. And Abit, who was usually around, even on a day the store was closed. I looked at Jake and recalled how he somehow knew the command, “Go home.” I had no idea how he’d learned it, but he’d built an impressive reputation on it. Not long after we moved to Laurel Falls, Vester ordered Jake off his porch. (Leave it to Jake to find the sunniest spot to lie in.) He told him, “Go home, Jake.” And he did. He stood up, combed his hair (that all-over body shaking dogs do), and trotted down to the store, scratching on the door for me to let him in. The men hanging out on the benches started laughing and calling him Rin Tin Tin, admiring his smarts.

  I searched through my pack for something to write on, but it offered only keys, wallet, and remnants of lunch. I looked at the woman’s backpack. No, I couldn’t, I told myself. But as long shadows blanketed the mountains, I opened a side compartment and rifled through it. I found a small, blank notebook with an attached pen, tore out a sheet, and wrote a note describing the location, best I could. I wiped my prints off the pen and notebook, and put them back in the pack. The note went inside the bread bag I’d stashed in my pocket after lunch; I tied it to Jake’s collar.

  “Go home, Jake. Go home!” It was a longshot, but worth a try. His brown eyes looked sad, but then they always did. “Go home, Jake. Be a good boy.”

  The third time I said it, he turned and ran, though not down the path we’d taken. God, I hope he knows where he’s going, I thought, as he raced up the creek bank. And I prayed Mildred hadn’t called Abit inside.

  I watched Jake climb the steep trail and head over the ridge. When the last of his golden fur disappeared below the horizon, I laid back against the red oak, avoiding the stare of the dead woman. It would be at least an hour before anyone could get there.

  I tried to rest, but when my eyes closed, unwelcomed memories rushed to mind. I reopened them. That’s when I saw the dead woman turn her head toward me. I screamed, but quickly felt foolish. It was just the wind blowing her long hair.

  I knew not to touch anything. I’d been involved in several police investigations in D.C. and watched enough television shows to know the drill. But eventually, curiosity won out. I crawled over to her, pulled my sleeve over my hand to avoid fingerprints, and began carefully rummaging through the backpack again, trying to find out who she was and where she’d come from.

  Her wallet contained twenty-six dollars and a few coins, but all the slots normally bulging with credit cards and driver’s license were empty. I also found a syringe case, the kind diabetics carry with them. Otherwise, the pack held only an apple and a scarf. No keys or identifiers of any kind.

  I was getting stiff, so I stood, stretched, and started pacing. From a different angle, I noticed a corner of white barely sticking out of the left pocket of her flannel shirt. I pulled down my sleeve again and removed the note. I clumsily opened the handwritten note with my makeshift gloved hand.

  I’m tired of so much sorrow. My life or death doesn’t matter. L.

  I struggled to refold the note and slip it back into the pocket. I knew I didn’t have any connection to this death, unlike a tragedy I’d witnessed in D.C., but my nerves felt raw. I kept walking. I started to shiver from the cold, but wouldn’t allow myself to borrow anything from her stash. I found another smooth beech tree surrounded by brush that sheltered me from the wind, scrunched down, and waited.

  My thoughts drifted back to my home and office near Dupont Circle, where I wrote for a variety of magazines and newspapers. I had a nickname among colleagues—Ghoulfriend—because I somehow kept getting assignments for sad and even violent stories. I was good at it, maybe because I took the time to understand both the backstory and the current story. I covered unimaginable situations, except by those who’d suffered them. Men who passed as loving fathers during the workday but turned into monsters in the basements of their family homes. Women who grew
up with abuse and perpetuated that pattern onto another generation. Men so troubled by wars that it seemed only natural to kill—including themselves, either intentionally or through the slow death of drugs and alcohol. I recalled the relief I always felt when I’d hear about their passing, and how I still grappled with that. It seemed wrong to be glad someone died, but when their suffering never stopped, it was hard not to be thankful they’d finally been released from so much pain.

  I stood again and paced around the natural enclosure. I noticed some British soldiers, the green matchstick lichen with bright red “hats,” standing at attention atop a huge fallen trunk, its center hollowed out by rain and time and animals seeking shelter. The birds were singing again—or was I just hearing them again? Two nuthatches flittered through a nearby stand of white pines. A cluster of spring beauty eased my mind, until I saw they were growing inside the skull of an opossum. I kept moving.

  As I paced, I noticed that her youthful face was pretty in the way that most young people are. I couldn’t imagine why her life had to end that way. I knew features were superficial, that the urge to kill yourself garnered energy from dark places deep within, but she didn’t look tired or drained like the other victims I’d seen. No telltale lines that broadcast an unbearable hurt. But who really knew?

  I shivered in my light jacket and waited. Finally, I heard Jake’s bark over the grinding gears of a four-wheel drive.

  My throbbing ankle brought me back to my apartment. When I stepped out onto the landing, I noticed the sun had dropped behind the mountains, carving the sky with angry slashes of purple. Swallows swooped through the air, as though they were drawing a curtain on the day.

  I limped down the long wooden staircase that hugged the outside of the building, leading down to the driveway. Only the promise of aspirin inside the store kept me moving. As I turned toward the front door, I saw Abit craning his neck to see me. Jake had run ahead and jumped in Abit’s lap, threatening to topple him from his chair. I couldn’t help but smile at my makeshift family.