Seventh Sense

by Robert A. Brown

  So I spent thirty minutes at the drug store with a nickel cherry phosphate and walked on back to Ma Stean’s, my Indian still parked at Pete’s Skelly station. The only car in the drive was Ma’s old Pontiac touring sedan, and my heart kind of sank. Everything seemed quiet. I guessed Pete had not been able to fix anything up after all.

  Mac came running out when I stepped up on the porch, barking his little head off to let the world know I was home, and then zipped back into the living room. That’s odd, I thought. Usually once I was there he stuck right to my side.

  I opened the screen door and stepped into the foyer – and suddenly my skin prickled like someone had hosed me down with ice water! At the same time, I heard a voice from Ma’s living room.

  “Mac! Get down! You’re just trying to be nice to me – but I know what you did!” The voice was old and without rancor, and when I followed it into the room I was suddenly looking into the near-translucent eyes of Old Lady Davis, Patricia’s ugly grandma. Ma Stean was sitting on the sofa just behind her, and MacWhirtle was at Grandma Davis’s feet, tail wagging wildly.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Stean,” I said. “I didn’t know you had company.”

  Waves of goose pimples seemed to wash over me as I looked from her to Mrs. Davis. At the same time, I thought it funny that the old woman didn’t look quite as repulsive as I remembered.

  “Come in, Mr. Brown,” Ma said with a smile. “I was just telling Mrs. Davis about you.”

  I took her withered hand and smiled. “It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” I said. “We’ve met, but not formally.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “At Mr. Barlow’s filling station. Nice to see you again, young man.”

  The mention of Pete’s name triggered something. At that moment, I knew she was the one I was supposed to meet here. And in a twinkling, I knew what I had to do. Knew it.

  “Mrs. Davis,” I began. “And Ma – Mrs. Stean – may I ask a favor of you?” Neither spoke, but their faces told me to go on.

  “I work for the WPA, as you know, Ma. I talk to people around here and write up stories they tell me. It’s part of a project to save early tales of folklore before all the people who know them are dead and gone. What I want to know is if you ladies would mind taking a look-see at what I’ve written so far.”

  I paused, for effect as much as anything. “You see, I’m worried that something I’ve written could cause embarrassment or even distress to someone, and that’s the last thing I want.”

  Mrs. Davis looked kind of funny as I bulled on.

  “You both have lived around here and would know if I wrote something I shouldn’t. I know it’s an imposition, but there’s not that much. If you’ll wait right here, I’ll go get it. Everything.”

  I turned and hurried out of the room, feeling like I was going to catch a bullet in my back. Ma said something, but I had scooted out of earshot before she finished. Pounding up the stairs and down the hall to my room, I scooped up all my reports, rough drafts, and note books and raced back. I wasn’t even breathing hard when I reached the living room and deposited the stack on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

  It didn’t seem that impressive, John. Most of the stories go only three or four typewritten pages, a few as much as five or six, but it was a small stack any way you looked at it. I got down on my knees beside the table and quickly sorted the papers into three piles: interviews sent in, interviews to be sent, and notes and drafts in incomplete form.

  I looked up. Neither Mrs. Davis nor Ma Stean had moved or said a word. “This is it,” I said. “Everything. Do you mind?”

  The old lady actually smiled. It’s going to sound corny to you, but at that moment she did not look ugly at all.

  “ ‘Course not,” she said.

  Then Mac came over and stood right next to me, looking up at Mrs. Davis. It was like I was seeing her through his eyes, and I knew that finally I was going to be able to put together a little bit of the jigsaw, maybe a border to anchor the other pieces to.

  But that’s going to have to wait. Hell, it’s almost midnight, I’m written out, and that bed looks damn good – especially when I feel sure there won’t be any visiting felines tonight. Mac feels the same way; even with me typing away, he’s been asleep on the bed for hours.

  Tomorrow, I promise, I’ll give you the rest. Right now I’m just beat.

  Your pal through it all,

  Robert

  May 31, 1939

  Wednesday night

  Dear John,

  Since I got behind on my work on Monday, thanks to doing research at the library and everything that happened with Pete acting so crazy and my finding Mrs. Davis at the boarding house and deciding to lay things out with her and Ma – well, I’ve been having to kind of go lickety-split to catch up. The only thing interesting (maybe that’s the wrong word) about my interviews lately is what happened today when I was coming home after taking down still another whiskery old tale of how grandmammy and grandpappy lived in those ancient times of the 1800s, etc. I’ll tell you about the “interesting” part at the end of this letter if I still have the pep.

  But first, what I promised you – the rest of the story about Mrs. Davis and Ma and what I decided to do around Monday noon.

  You may wonder why I did what I did. Well, I thought – no, I knew – that it was what I was supposed to do, if you get me. Sure as hell, I knew that Pete had sent me down to Foreman’s Drug so he could get hold of Mrs. Davis and tell her to get over to Ma’s. He’d told me, you remember, that I’d “know more after tonight.”

  And now I damn sure do.

  I was going on seventh-sense instinct when I decided to show those two ladies my notes and interviews. Like I wrote, I was looking for a few border pieces of the Mackaville jigsaw, just to get a good start on the scene that I can feel deep into my bones but not yet see. When Pete went into a fit and scattered those dimes, I knew he was a part of it. And you know I already had my suspicions about Mrs. Davis. I couldn’t say for certain it was her I’d heard and half-seen when I was about to shoot that son-of-a-bitching cat a few nights ago – it sure didn’t seem like the same person I met in Ma Stean’s sitting room, although maybe a little more like the strange old woman Patricica brought in the car to Pete’s station – but I felt it. And I also felt, somehow, that maybe everything would come together if I did the right things. Something told me one of those right things was laying every card I had out on the table, face up. And that meant to let Mrs. Davis and Ma see everything I’d done.

  Although she tried not to act eager, I couldn’t help but notice that Mrs. Davis sat right down on the sofa, took out a pair of big glasses, and started poring over my material. I wasn’t sure whether to stay or leave, and Ma must’ve sensed my uncertainty, because she said, “It’s pert near lunchtime, but ain’t none of the other boys gonna be in today. How ‘bout I fix you up a ham sandwich now?” And she motioned me toward the dining room. I think I told you MacWhirtle was there and he followed me in and sat there, just nakedly begging for a little of whatever I got to eat.

  It felt funny to be the only one sitting there at the big table designed to accommodate all Ma’s boarders – funny and kind of empty. I thanked Ma when she sat the plate and a big glass of milk in front of me, then watched her as she disappeared back into the room where Mrs. Davis was examining my documents. As I ate, slipping MacWhirtle a pinch or two of ham from inside the thick-sliced bread, I could hear one or the other of them chuckle every once in a while when they saw a name they knew. They knew pretty much every one.

  “Looky there, it’s Ginny Groff. Wonder if there’s anything in there about how shiftless her gran’pa was?” That was Ma’s voice.

  Then, Mrs. Davis. “I’d forgotten about Old Clem Hardage, Mildred’s papa. He was a character, weren’t he?”

  And so on. I forced myself to eat slowly as I listened, eavesdropping, wanting to let them give it all a good going-over before I came back out. They’d make comments, point thin
gs out to one another, and occasionally fall silent for a few moments. John, you don’t have to ask me how I know that when they stopped talking, they’d gotten to one of the scary stories, the witch stories, or something else that really grabbed their attention. They knew I was listening, and when they stopped talking I could almost see them nodding knowingly at one another as they both looked over some piece of paper.

  I sat there as long as I could, antsy, knowing I had an interview coming up with a married couple in their seventies who lived close enough to town to have a home telephone. I thought about calling and rescheduling, but then another idea hit me like a lightning bolt and I got up from the table and walked into the living room.

  You wrote that you believed me when I talked about the cat looking at the notes and all that jazz. I hope you’ll believe me now when I tell you that what to do just came to me, like it was someone else inside my head giving me directions. That’s happened before a few times, but never as powerfully as it did this time.

  The two ladies looked up when I came in. Maybe they saw something in my eyes. They seemed to be waiting for what I had to say – almost like they knew beforehand.

  “Thank you for the sandwich, Ma,” I said. “I’ve got to go out to the Rayfords in just a little bit – I’m sure you know ‘em – but I wanted to tell you both something first.”

  Ma nodded. Mrs. Davis looked at me expectantly.

  “Somehow, I think you’ll understand this. A lot of people wouldn’t.” I swallowed.

  Suddenly, it felt as though there were a noose around my throat. What if it was wrong for me to be saying what I was getting ready to say? What if Mrs. Davis got up and left? What if Ma threw me out? What if something worse happened? What if? What if?

  The hell with it, I thought. I plunged ahead.

  “I’ve got kind of a gift. I’ve had it ever since I was a kid. Some say I got it from my grandmother, my mother’s mother, who had a lot of strange notions and strange... powers, I guess you’d say. It’s what I call a seventh sense, because I think it’s a little different than a sixth sense. It goes further than just getting hunches you can’t explain that turn out to be right. My seventh sense, or whatever you want to call it, isn’t with me all the time, but when it is, I can see things and feel things that most people don’t ever see or feel.”

  I tried to read what was in their eyes, hoping that they didn’t think I was just full of shit or loony. A lot depended on this next minute or two.

  Neither said a word.

  I fixed my gaze on Mrs. Davis. “I’ve awakened to find a big calico cat in my room for three nights now, as Ma can tell you. And I’m sure all that cat wanted was to read the notes you’ve got right there before you.” I paused, not wanting to go too far. “I’m not sure why an animal would have any interest in that, but I’ve got my suspicions. And I also think, well, that now that you’ve seen what I’ve written, Mrs. Davis, I’m not going to have any trouble with that cat any more.”

  Ma got up. “ ‘Scuse me,” she said, and headed toward the dining room I’d just vacated, leaving me with Mrs. Davis. Had she heard enough? Or was she leaving me alone with Patricia’s grandmother so the old lady could tell me what she wanted to tell me in private?

  If I expected the latter, I was wrong. Mrs. Davis didn’t start talking after Ma was out of sight. She just sat there, meeting my gaze with a steady one of her own, the corners of her mouth crinkled up a little.

  “Maybe Ma thinks I’m cuckoo,” I said. “Maybe you do, too. I hope not.”

  “I don’t know as I’d be worryin’ about that,” she said.

  “All right, I won’t. So I’ll just lay it right out. I don’t know how or why or anything else, but I feel like you and that cat, what that cat did, are somehow related.” I paused to let that sink in.

  “Mebbe you been takin’ down too many witch stories,” she said, not in an unkind way. A flicker of a smile played across her lips.

  “It’s possible. But you know Pete Barlow, and when he found out I was cutting up dimes to put in shotgun shells to go after that cat, he went a little nuts. And he called you, and here we are.”

  “Well,” she said, and it was more statement than question.

  “Please know I don’t mean to offend you, but I think maybe what that cat wanted to know was what I planned to do about that state registrar’s letter – you saw it in the stack, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “About reporting people who were ‘passing for white?’”

  This time, she just nodded.

  “Well,” I said, going to the sheaf of papers and leafing through until I found the letter, “here’s what I’m going to do about it.” And I tore up the letter and the envelope right in front of her, dropping the pieces into the wastebasket.

  “It’s not my damn – excuse me, Mrs. Davis – darn business to report on the color of peoples’ skin,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that most people in this town have some Negro blood, but I’m a damn – excuse me again – Northerner and that doesn’t bother me one bit.”

  “You’re telling me the truth?” she asked.

  “I am. And you can tell the cat the same thing.”

  This time, she did grin. “Well, on behalf of the town, I’m much obliged to you.”

  “You’re welcome. I didn’t mean to be pushy, but I was pretty sure that’s one of the things the cat was looking for in my papers. I think there’s something else, too, something I’m not sure about yet.”

  “That right?”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes narrowed a little, her grin fading. “What is it?”

  Then, unbidden, the question just pushed its way up and out. Believe me, John, it wasn’t what I planned to say. I was going to be a lot more subtle, see if I could work it out of her. Instead, it just came out.

  “What was the ‘cleansing?’ ” I asked.

  I have to give it to that old lady. I could see that the question hit her like a cannonball to the chest. Hell, John, she even flinched. Physically. But her face, her eyes, didn’t move, and her voice was steady when she spoke.

  “Where on earth you hear about that?”

  I told her about the colored place I’d been to with Pete and Duffy. I didn’t see any reason not to. And I knew Ma was listening from inside the dining room, too, just like I’d done when the two of them looked over my notes.

  “The old man spoke about the jubilee and the cleansing. I know that a jubilee is usually a 50-year anniversary, but I just put in a good amount of time at the library, and the only jubilee I found for this year that made any sense was the Oklahoma Land Run, back in 1889, that opened up your neighboring state. A big deal, but I don’t think that’s it.”

  I locked eyes with Mrs. Davis, who didn’t speak, didn’t move. In the silence, I could hear Ma bustling around in the other room. She didn’t fool me.

  “No,” she finally said, getting up from the sofa. “That ain’t it.”

  “Then you know?”

  She sighed then. “I know more’n I can tell. Like every place, this town’s got its secrets, and it don’t want no one stirrin’ into ‘em.” She looked at me, and I could swear I saw something like affection in her eyes. “I don’t imagine that’ll stop you, though. Just watch out. You won’t have any more trouble with that old calico, but there’s lots worse animals than cats out there.”

  “Animals?” I asked.

  She headed toward the door. “Yeah. Just keep your eyes open,” she said. “And watch your feet.”

  Watch your feet? Where had I heard that before?

  “So you’re not going to tell me about the cleansing?”

  “Not right now,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Maybe later? Maybe I can come see you?”

  “Maybe.” She paused at the door. “Or maybe you just want to visit me ‘cause my granddaughter might be there.” Grinning now, she added, “You ain’t the only one who can see things.”

  And then, John, I swear that those
big hazel eyes of hers turned yellow and the pupils went vertical, like egg yolks sliced with a piece of charcoal. It froze my blood. I knew she was looking inside me like that cat had looked at my notes, trying to read whatever was there.

  Suddenly, Mac yipped, breaking the spell. I looked down to see him at my feet, and when my gaze went back to Mrs. Davis, her eyes had returned to normal. Mac looked up at me as though to say, Did you see that?

  I know. I know.

  Ma came out of the kitchen then and walked Mrs. Davis out of the house. I sure would’ve liked to know what they were saying to one another, but apparently my seventh sense didn’t go that far because I came up with nothing except a big load of the creepy feeling that’s been with me more and more as I go through my life in this strange little burg.

  Thinking about all of that, I almost forgot to tell you what happened a few hours ago, when I was coming down out of the hills after interviewing an old man named Bird, who mostly talked about what a swell feller his grandpa was back in the old days. As I went around a curve up on Mount Howard Road, with about a thousand-foot drop on one side of me and woods on the other, someone threw a log at me. Maybe from up in a tree or from a hillside. It thudded and skidded in front of the big Indian and I had to swerve to miss it. So I’m still here. And thinking a lot about who might’ve pitched that lumber.

  Funny. Right about the same time, I’d been mulling over what Mrs. Davis had said about watching my feet, trying to dope out where I’d heard those exact words before. And just as I remembered it was one of those damn Black twins from the train station – bang! Here came the log.

  Coincidence? I don’t know if I believe in those anymore.

  Slept good Monday and Tuesday night. And even though somebody (I’m just pretty damn sure it was of those idiot Blacks) tried to knock me off the road a couple of hours ago, I’m bushed and ready to fall into bed for a rest that I know will be cat-free, unless I find that calico curled up in the arms of Morpheus.

  Your pal,

  Robert

  June 3, 1939