by Carolyn Hart
Moving to the back door, looking through the half-glass, out where Lester was working on the bags of feed, Florie Mae felt cold clear down to her toes. Felt so off-kilter that when the door to the kitchen slammed she jumped near out of her skin.
But it was only the children, come out into the store because it was near about closing time. Granny’d had them over to the park, just down the street, and they were sweaty-hot and tired. The June weather was hot as boiled sorghum.
But it didn’t take Bobbie Lee long to recharge. Within seconds he was running hunched over pushing his racecar full speed the length of the store, it rattling and whirring on the smooth pine boards. The mother cats in their carton paid him hardly any mind, they were used to Bobbie Lee. The kittens were spooked by the noise, but not for long before they began to play again, and to try to climb out of the big carton. Lacie June ran over, laughing, and stood on her toes to look in at them. She was dressed in shorts and sweatshirt and sandals, her knees grubby and scratched from play. Hanging over the side of the carton, she reached down with a gentle finger. Even at three years old, she knew to watch the mother cats. When Goldie half-rose to stand over her kittens glaring at Lacie June, the little girl backed obediently away.
Lacie June was carrying the new cloth doll Granny had made for her. Trotting over to the shelf where they kept local produce—bags of stone-milled flour and honey in pint fruit jars—she began dusting the doll’s face with wheat flour, scooping it up with her fingers from around the bags where it had spilled. Florie Mae was standing at the counter reading the paper all over again about Susan Slattery, as if she might discover some fact gone undetected, when the faintest stir—a different sound than the running toy car or Lacie June’s childish talking to herself—made her look up at the door.
Grady Coulter stood in the doorway. Watching her. He paid no attention to the children, just stood looking at her, his green eyes in shadow, the dropping sun behind his back turning his red hair as bright as a hearth fire.
Usually he would ask for some little item, or find it hisself and bring it to the counter, then, reaching into his tight jeans looking for change, he’d start in baiting her. But this evening he just came right on up to the counter. Didn’t say anything. She didn’t like the look in his eyes. She felt the children cross the room and draw in close behind her. She knew they were staring up at Grady over the counter.
She put her hand back, touching Bobbie Lee’s silky hair. “What you want, Grady?” She glanced down at Lacie June and saw, behind the child, that both mama cats had raised up out of their box. They, too, were staring at Grady.
But her cats were like that. They’d be out in the back with her among the nursery plants, and if someone strange came across the yard between the sheds, they’d slip close around her ankles and stare at the stranger, their backs humped up, and spitting.
“James home?” Grady said.
“Yes he is, Grady.”
“He out back?” Grady started around the counter—whether heading for the back door, or for her, she couldn’t tell. “What you want, Grady?”
He looked surprised. A little grin touched his face. “Sheriff’s gettin’ up a volunteer posse. For that Slatter girl,” he said, gesturing toward the newspaper. “Someone saw a car—that’s not in the paper. A white Lincoln, ten-, twelve-year-old, pull up just as she left the Wal-Mart. Sheriff wants all the help he can, while the trail’s fresh. We’re meeting here. Thought James might like to ride along, and maybe Lester. Maybe we’ll find her,” Grady said, looking at her, “maybe we’ll find Rebecca.”
Florie Mae envisioned a bunch of beer-drinking rifle-toting males doing nothing but getting in the sheriff’s way—except James would see they behaved. Privately she hoped James wouldn’t go. This second disappearance had left her as tight as a tick, with fear.
“James is out in the feed shed, Grady. Go on back.”
As Grady moved on past her, she reached behind her to pull the children closer. When she looked up, Albern Haber and Herald Fremkis were pulling up out front. Albern ducked out of his brown pickup, his long dark hair blowing across his shoulders. Both men slammed their truck doors, and together headed around the building to the back. Behind them the dark clouds were lifting away. The rumbling of the sky had stopped. The wind was quieting, and the gentler shadows of a calm evening had begun to draw around the store, soft shadows to settle in along the street, softening the lines of the newspaper office and beauty parlor and Dot’s Café. She heard them knock at the kitchen door.
Quickly Florie Mae and the children locked up and went on into the kitchen. The three men sat at the table drinking coffee while James washed up at the sink then took a bite of supper standing at the stove beside Granny. When Bobbie Lee realized his daddy was fixin’ to leave, he set up a howl wanting to go with them. Exasperated, Florie Mae peeled his shirt off him and pulled Lacie June’s dress off and sent them out to the side yard to play in the hose. There was no more rumble of thunder, the storm had passed and there was still some daylight, soft and silky as spring water. The evening was hot, the katydids singing up a storm. She listened to their talk, male talk about where they’d look and what might could have happened to Susan. Talk that didn’t help the way she felt inside, talk she wouldn’t want the children to hear.
Grady thought Susan might have got involved with someone at the Wal-Mart, and gone off with them. Lester was silent, still pale and real upset. Albern Haber thought if Susan had got into a car with someone, then she knew him. Said she wouldn’t get in a car with a stranger she’d just met. They spent some time trying to recall who, anywhere in Farley County, drove a ten-year-old white Lincoln. Albern said it didn’t have to be Farley County, could have been from anywhere, Georgia or even Tennessee. Albern was taller than James or Grady, well over six feet. Seemed like that long black hair hanging down ’round his collar made him look even taller. Albern’d had a hurt, sad look about him ever since Rebecca disappeared. Tonight, once he’d had his say, he was quiet, looking to James for direction.
Florie Mae rose ever’ little while to watch her babies, out in the side yard, though she could hear their voices, hear Lacie June’s high little giggle when Bobbie Lee sprayed her with the hose. Listening to the talk about Susan, she had a fierce longing to run outside and play in the hose with her children, and forget about grown-up pain.
Another half hour, and the men were gone, James with them carrying the sandwiches Granny had made and two big torches, his handgun holstered at his belt. James hugged her tight before he left, and stopped in the grassy side yard to hug his babies even if they were sopping wet. Then he was gone, riding in Albern’s truck. Lester rode with Herald. Grady drove his own truck, with no company. They’d be meeting five more men at the sheriff’s office.
When she and Granny were alone they checked the locks on the doors, and locked the downstairs windows, though the kitchen was hot as sin. Granny settled the children at the table and put their supper on, while Florie Mae nursed little Robert. It was well after supper and the dishes done up, and they’d put all three children to bed. Gran was sitting at the table working at her dolls, and Florie Mae was helping her, sewing up a little dress, when they heard a car pull up by the side yard. Quicker than spit, Granny unlocked the cupboard to her shotgun.
But Florie Mae shook her head. She knew the sound of that car. In another minute Martha came knocking their special knock.
Martha Bliss was some taller than Florie Mae, with long glossy black hair, and blue eyes and ivory skin, her beauty far more colorful than Florie Mae’s brown hair and tan cheeks. Florie Mae could never tolerate a sun hat the way Granny thought she should. Tonight Martha had her dark hair pinned back under a pale baseball cap, and in spite of the heat she wore jeans and boots and a leather jacket, her cell phone making a lump in the pocket. “I’ve been lookin’ for Rebecca’s cat.” She dropped her keys on the table, sitting down and accepting the glass of tea Granny offered. She looked up at Florie Mae, her blue eyes wide.
Nugget, Goldie’s kitten from three years back, was just as possessive of Rebecca as Goldie was of Florie Mae. Goldie would rise up at anything that threatened Florie Mae, and Nugget was just the same.
“That night,” Martha said, “when Rebecca didn’t come home, Nugget wanted out real bad. Rebecca would never have let her out at night, and Ms. Duncan wouldn’t neither. She said Nugget was so riled that she shut her in Rebecca’s room, said the cat cried all night. Next, morning, Mrs. Duncan—she hadn’t slept, of course, with phone calls and talking with the sheriff and worrying, and trying to think where Rebecca could be. Calling everyone, all night long. And the cat howling all night. Next morning the cat was near crazy, and Mrs. Duncan felt the same. Said she flung open Rebecca’s bedroom door and the front door, tired of hearing the cat. Said Nugget took off through the woods just a-running.”
Florie Mae said, “Why did Mrs. Duncan call you now? It’s been ten days.”
“Said she was just so upset, and her and Robert going out every day looking for Rebecca, you know how they’ve done. She knew the cat was frightened and frantic and she couldn’t deal with that too, even if Rebecca did love that cat. It was just all too much, she just opened the door and let the cat go.” Martha was crying, it didn’t take much for tears of pity or frustration to flow.
“Well, then this morning Mrs. Duncan saw Frances Patterson in the Piggly Wiggly. Frances wasn’t sure, but she thought she’d seen Rebecca’s cat over near their place, up around the lake. That big round gold spot on her side? She’s hard to miss, not another cat like her. Frances goes to church ladies’ meeting at Mrs. Duncan’s, she’s seen Nugget dozens of times. So Mrs. Duncan called me, and I’ve been looking all day.
“I looked all around the lake, and called—and all up in the woods. I’ve tramped every garden-place and drove all around the chicken farms, walked around them, lookin’. Near ran out of gas, on the lake road. Let it coast some downhill, and gased up at the Fina. Not a sign of Nugget. But what can you see, if she’s hiding? Rebecca raised that cat from a kitten. Makes me feel real bad, cat going all frantic-like.”
Martha sipped her tea, then set the glass down. She glanced at Granny, where Granny was rocking little Robert, then looked back at Florie Mae. Looked at her for a long time.
“I have this feeling, Florie Mae. That if I can find Nugget, I’ll find Rebecca.”
Florie Mae shivered, despite the heat of the closed kitchen. She took Lacie June in her lap, where the little girl had come to lean against her.
“Maybe,” Granny said, “if that tomcat’s a-bothering the females, maybe Rebecca’s cat run off from him.”
“Rebecca lives clear across town,” Florie Mae said. “That tomcat’s been hanging out in our yard like his paws are stuck in tar.”
Martha rose to stand at the window, looking out the back where the cat trap stood bungied open, with a dab of fresh food inside. She stood looking for some time, then stiffened suddenly, made a little gesture to Florie Mae.
Florie Mae rose carefully, without a sound, staying out of sight of the trap, slipping toward the window to the side of the curtain.
Night was falling, the storm gone, the concrete yard and shed all in twilight colors as soft as goose-down. Looking around the open curtain she saw him, a dark animal deep inside the cage, saw him eating of the bait in the open trap. She glanced at Martha. They watched him finish up the small amount of food, watched him pause to take a couple of paw-licks at his whiskers, insolent and confident, certain he was safe in there. He padded on out of the trap yawning, strolling slow and easy like that cage was no more threatening than someone’s garbage can.
“Tomorrow,” Martha whispered, grinning. “It’s time. You can set the trap tomorrow night.”
“If nothing else happens,” Florie Mae breathed. “If nothing else bad happens.” Because you couldn’t go running off, once you’d set the trap. You had to stay and watch it. Had to make sure the cat had sprung it, then go right out and cover it. Else the cat would tear up his face, banging into the wire fighting to get out. Tear itself up so bad the vet would have to kill it. Martha never left her traps unattended, she’d always hide somewhere or sit in her truck. Run out the minute the trap was sprung and cover it with towels, leave just a little air space. That way, the cat wouldn’t fight the cage. She never left water inside, or wet food. Martha had probably spent half her life sitting in lonely places watching cat-traps. Twenty Atlanta cats to her credit. And fifteen in Greeley that Dr. Mackay had “fixed,” all of those for free. Fix ’em, turn ’em loose to live out their lives without making any more kittens. Florie Mae was about to step away from the window when a long shadow moved in darkness between the sheds. The tomcat leaped away at the subtle shift of shadows, vanished in the blackness as if it had never been there.
And the shadow vanished, too, melting away between the sheds. The shadow of a man. Spinning away from the window, Florie Mae snatched up the phone. Surely one sheriff’s deputy had stayed behind, surely they hadn’t all gone off searching for Susan Slattery. Dialing, she watched Granny unlock the gun closet. Quick as lightning the old lady had that shotgun loaded. Granny had her hand on the back door knob when Florie Mae put the phone down. “Wait. Wait, Granny.” She stood seeing that quick glimpse, that shadow that might be an intruder, and might not. A hunched shadow? A thin, hunched figure?
Or was it all a trick of the night? She didn’t want to call out a deputy if that was Lester out there.
But how could it be? Lester had gone with the men.
Martha moved away from the window, sliding into her leather jacket. “I’d best get home,” she said uncertainly, staring toward the window and picking up her keys.
“Stay with us,” Florie Mae said, and her plea was more than the common politeness that folk used to let you know you were welcome. “Don’t go out there, Martha. Don’t try to go home.” She lifted the phone again, dialing the sheriff.
Within three minutes, Deputy McFarland was parking his unit by the side door. McFarland was fifty, brown hair with a military cut, pale green eyes, a skinny man with only the slightest hint of the typical sheriff’s gut from too many meals at Elmer’s Home Cooked Café. McFarland was a quarter Cherokee with a steady way of dealing with life, an easy grin that made everyone warm to him. Coming into the kitchen, he got the picture quickly; and he went on out the back.
From the window they watched him moving along between the storage sheds shining his powerful light into the shadows, checking the locks on the shed doors and on the gate on the nursery fence, a fence James had built to keep out deer and petty thieves. Some folk would steal anything, even tomato plants. McFarland circled the store, too, and looked all around inside then walked through the children’s play yard. He went through the house upstairs, stepping quietly among the sleeping babies.
Back in the kitchen he glanced at Granny’s shotgun with no more surprise than seeing the old woman sewing doll clothes. McFarland had knowed Granny forever and knowed she wasn’t foolish. He told Martha he’d drive home behind her, but Martha took one look at Florie Mae’s white face and said she’d stay the night. They weren’t sure someone had been there; maybe what Florie Mae saw was only shadows. But they were sure enough to be scared.
By ten, Martha had called her mother, had helped Florie Mae change the sheets on the big double bed, and had gone ’round with her to kiss the sleeping children. Despite the heat, Florie Mae closed and locked the children’s windows, that had been open all evening. Feeling foolish, she looked in the closets and under the beds, she was that nervous. Pulling the children’s thin top covers off, to let them sleep just under the sheet, she stood looking down at her babies with a silent prayer that they were safe, and that they would remain safe.
Martha knew
what she was thinking. “Might be, a man who hurts young women won’t bother with children. But,” she said, grinning, “I’m glad your granny loaded her shotgun. Wish I had me one.”
Florie Mae went downstairs, checked the locks, and, again feeling foolish, she got the poker and tongs from the fireplace. Wiping off the soot, she went upstairs again to find a clean robe for Martha, and pajamas, and to get her a towel and washcloth. Granny had taken her shotgun to bed, propping a chair against her bedroom door so not to be surprised by a curious Bobbie Lee before she was properly awake in the morning. By eleven, Martha and Florie Mae were snuggled in bed the way they used to do when they were little girls.
Only tonight instead of giggling, they listened—to the settling sounds the old house made, and for the faintest stealthy and unusual stirring, for noises that did not belong to the old house. They talked in whispers about Rebecca, remembering when she’d overturned Bailey’s canoe and the cooler with their lunch in it sank fifty feet to the bottom of the lake. “With Granny’s lemon cake in it,” Florie Mae said, “and warm sausage biscuits.”
“Remember when we all learned to drive in your grampa’s old truck, how stubborn he was that we had to learn to drive with a gearshift?” Martha said.
“And Rebecca went through Richardson’s pasture fence. Flattened it right down to the nibbled dandelions and let Ms. Richardson’s cows out.”
“The old crook-horn cow run all over Greeley afore we caught her.”
They lay in the dark listening to the night sounds, remembering how the boys would flock around Rebecca, as if Florie Mae and Martha wasn’t anywhere near. Rebecca had always had boyfriends, long before her mama allowed her to date. A dozen guys in high school, more afterward. But all of it respectable enough. “Respectable most times,” Florie Mae said, giggling. A few older men hanging around, too, but Florie Mae didn’t think Rebecca had gone out with them. Surely not with Herald Fremkis. She’d dated those her age, Grady and the boys he ran with. And she got real serious with Albern Haber.