The High Street boys led E.L. to the edge.
“What do you think, son?” Jackie said. “Pretty neat, huh?”
“I’ll say.” E.L. had never seen anything quite like it, only in pictures or movies, or maybe in magazines. Never in real life had he looked out at something as beautiful as this. Standing at the edge of that rock formation, he thought of how he now stood on the same spot the Indians, or maybe the earliest of explorers had walked upon.
“C’mon over here,” Jackie said.
“Look,” Billy said, pointing at a spot where he and his brother Davey had chiseled their initials into the stone.
W.L.B. D.M.B. 1963
“That’s me and my brother Davey’s initials, and above them are my dad’s, and his brothers’.”
Jimmy pointed at a myriad of letters that had been carved into the rock. “Here’s me and Jackie’s, and there’s our dad’s, and his brother’s, and right there’s our grandfather’s initials.”
“You can say whatever you want about the big city, but this is one thing you won’t ever see in any of them places. And it’s all ours, anytime we want it,” Junior said, his chest swelling with pride. “A hundred years from now, our grandchildren will be standing here looking out at the same little town we’re growin’ up in, pointing out our initials.”
“Watch out everybody,” Jackie said. “Junior’s fixin’ to cry.”
“Fuck you, Jackie. This is a neat place, and it makes me think thoughts like that.”
“C’mon now, I’m only kidding. I’m as proud to be a part of this place as anybody,” Jackie said. Then, reaching out and tousling Junior’s hair, “Sorry, Junior. I didn’t mean nothin’.”
“That’s all right. I know you didn’t.”
“Look out boys, they’re gonna kiss!” Billy called out, as Jackie and Junior flipped him the bird, both saying, “Fuck you!”, and then trying to beat the other to “Owe me a Pepsi!”
“Here you go, E.L.,” Jimmy said. Then, reaching into a bag they’d brought from home, he handed E.L. a small hammer and chisel.
“We figured you’d wanta put your initials up here, too.” Jackie said. “Just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
“Just in case you find someone dumb enough to marry your ugly ass. Your children can come up here and put their initials under yours.”
“Hey Jackie?”
“Yeah?”
“You think maybe it might not be that good of an idea to make somebody mad when they’re holding a hammer in their hand?”
“We’ll hold him down if you wanta bang your initials across his forehead,” Junior said, laughing.
Chiseling his initials, E.L. nodded at the two N’s and H’s beside Donnie Belcher’s D. and B. “Whose are those?”
“Nathan and Newton Hayes,” Billy told him.
“Damn if that don’t give me goose bumps,” Jackie said.
“Why’s that?”
“You don’t know about Newton Hayes?” Billy said. “I thought everybody knew about that.”
“He’s new, Billy. It’s not like people go around talkin’ about it,” Junior said. “Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever heard anybody except us mention it much.”
“Talk about what?”
Billy started in on the story of the missing children, and how the sheriff’s twin brother had been stolen in the middle of the night. When he paused, someone else picked the story up and told what he knew, or had heard from parents or relatives.
E.L. listened intently. When they finished, he wiped a hand across his forehead.
“Geez,” he said. “Where are we, the Twilight Zone?”
Jimmy pulled the top off the water jug, took a swig and passed it to the others. When it got to Billy, he drank the last of the water and tossed the plastic container off the front of Ward Rock. As they started back, stopping now and then to swing on some vines, or to rest, they continued discussing all the things they’d been told at Maudie’s. Every once in a while they would answer some question E.L. had about the missing children. When E.L. commented that those things only happen in the movies, they all agreed he was right, except for one thing: movies usually have happy endings.
“Speaking of movies,” Jackie said. “Y’all know about that scary movie comin’ to town next week?”
“Yeah, supposed to be real bloody,” Junior said.
“I saw the previews two weeks ago,” Billy said. “It was scary as all git-out.”
“What’s it called? Uh, uh, uh…”
“Blood Feast,” Billy said.
“Blood Feast?” E.L. said. “They banned that movie down in Florida.”
“They what?”
“Yeah, the town council or somebody watched it and said they couldn’t show it.”
“Wow, it must really be scary,” Jimmy blurted out.
“I doubt it,” Jackie said. “They probably did that to make everybody want to see it that much more.”
“Jackie, that don’t make one lick of sense,” Junior told him.
“I’m tellin’ you, Junior Wilkins. That’s how they get people rarin’ to go,” Jackie said. “You watch, everybody in town’s gonna turn out to see that movie.”
“Even if they do, that won’t prove nothin’,” Billy said.
“Proves I’m right.”
“You always think you’re right.”
“Because I am.”
“Bullshit.”
“Hey, quit arguing,” E.L. said, pointing at Maudie’s house. “There’s Miss Maudie.”
At Maudie’s house, Jimmy changed back into his clothes, and they all headed down the mountain, forgoing the steep downhill route as they kept to the road. On their way, Jackie reignited their argument; happy to see his friends become flustered, mistaking their weariness as a concession that he was right.
Tired of listening to Jackie brag about, of all things, how smart he was, E.L. steered the subject toward sports: basketball, football and baseball.
“I reckon this’ll be the Mick’s last year with the Yankees, huh? What do you think, Jimbo?” Jackie said. “This gonna be Mickey’s last season with the YANKEES? Or will the YANKEES talk him into playin’ another year?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
“I don’t know where my stupid Yankees cap is.”
“Did I tell you you’d mess it up?”
“Yeah.”
“Did I tell you not to swing out over the road?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you almost get runned over?”
“I’m sorry, gee!”
“Just tell me you’re gonna listen to me next time.”
“I’m gonna listen next time,” Jimmy replied, with a bright red face that said, I’d rather get a whipping than have to stand here telling him he’s right.
Jackie, winking at Billy, said, “Hey, you hear about that guy over in Charleston, the one who’s been stealin’ kids?”
“Yeah, I heard about that.”
“What kids?” Jimmy said.
Billy nudged Junior with an elbow. “Oh yeah, there’s been a bunch of kids turned up missin’ lately, huh Junior?”
“Yeah, they think some old man’s been snatchin’ ‘em up.”
“Wow, how long’s that been goin’ on?”
“Pretty good while,” Jackie said. “That’s why we’re tellin’ you, Jimbo. You see, there’s this old guy with a beard like Abe Lincoln, and he’s been goin’ ‘round snatchin’ kids.”
“Yeah,” Billy said. “He pushes this casket around, and when he spots a little kid all by himself, he snatches ‘em up and puts ‘em where nobody can see them.”
“Only it’s not a casket, it’s a wooden crate,” Junior said, as E.L. walked quietly along.
“How come the police can’t catch him?” Jimmy said, an unmistakable hint of fear creeping into his voice.
“Beats me,” Jackie said, barely able to suppress his grin.
“Anyway, Jimmy,” Jun
ior continued. “You see an old man with a beard pushing a wooden cart, run away as fast as you can.”
“Yeah, little brother. Get away quick, ‘cause it’d break Mom and Dad’s hearts if someone ever took you away from them.”
“You’d better believe it,” Billy said.
“So you’re gonna run if you see him?” Junior said.
“Fucking aye!” Jimmy called out, and the others burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Jimmy snapped at them.
“Nothing,” Billy said. “We’ve just never heard you talk like that before.”
“Yeah,” Jackie said. “Where’d you learn a word like that?”
“I fucking wonder,” Jimmy told him, drawing snorts of laughter from their companions.
Billy Dillon
Saturday Night:
William Pitch, dressed in a white t-shirt and soiled jeans, sorted through his closet until he found a green-and-white flannel shirt to go with the worn pair of work boots he wore. He slipped on the shirt and admired himself in the full-length mirror hanging on the inside of his closet door, smiling because he knew he would fit right in with the drunken miners of this town.
He walked downstairs, looking for James Hastie, and found him sitting at the kitchen table, eating a sandwich and drinking a beer.
“A little early for Halloween, aren’t we, sir?”
Pitch, grinning, said, “I’ll be doing a little mixing and mingling with the good folks of Whitley tonight.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“Yes, I think so. Finish your sandwich and go pull that wonderful old pickup around front.”
Into the night he went, Pitch, with a pocket full of money and a blue jean jacket slung over his shoulder, onto the porch and down to his ornate marble walkway, on his way to the old Ford pickup, where, once in the driver’s seat, he put the truck in gear and drove off toward town. Traveling down the mountain, he thought of the last time he’d been behind the wheel of the old truck, back to October of ’55, when Pitch, his protégé, and his reluctant servant had delivered Bobby Turner’s bicycle smack dab to the middle of Main Street, leaving the loaf of bread Bobby had purchased just before they’d snatched him in the basket—pinned to the bread, a handwritten note, taunting the police. They parked the truck behind one of Pitch’s properties and went inside, and then stood at the window, waiting for the young policeman to find the only clue they would ever leave behind, Pitch and his protégé drinking whiskey and laughing, whispering excitedly back and forth as the others arrived.
Pitch smiled as he remembered the little three-man police force prowling the town, searching for a clue, just one tiny shred of evidence they would never find. How Bobby Turner’s parents had pleaded over the airwaves for their son’s safe return, all while the fearless leader of the police department knew exactly what was going on, but was too scared to do anything about it. Yes, having Earl Peters under his thumb was a luxury that had proven to be invaluable, and now he finds out that stupid bitch of a wife of his has poisoned him?
Pitch parked in front of the Appalachian Hotel, and went inside to the front desk.
“May I help you, sir?” the beanpole of a clerk asked him.
“Yes, I’d like a room, and I’ll be paying for three days.”
“New around here, aren’t you?”
“Just passing through.”
“Yes, of course. That’ll be forty-five dollars.”
Pitch handed the man three twenties, took the key and headed for the stairs.
“Your change, sir.”
“Keep it.”
“Yes, sir!”
The sparsely furnished room had a bed, a nightstand and a dresser, but no television. In addition to the cheap pressboard furniture, was a bathroom and a small closet, and that was it.
“What a sty,” Pitch said.
He retraced his steps, left the hotel and wandered through town. And found that absolutely nothing had changed since he’d last walked these streets. The same old beer joints were serving alcohol to the same old toothless hillbillies, who were still spending their paychecks on the same old drunken whores. After an hour or so, he found himself standing outside Donnie’s Tavern. Thirteen years ago, this place had been Jimmy T’s Bar and Grill. Many a night Pitch had stopped in for a beer, and for Jimmy Tomlin to steer some poor unsuspecting soul his way.
Poor Jimmy T, he thought. What a weak little coward.
When they had first met, Pitch offered to make him rich beyond his wildest dreams, but Tomlin had been too frightened to accept. He used Tomlin’s fear to control him, corrupting him without giving up a single thing, until Tomlin finally sold his place and fled to God only knew where.
Pitch stepped through the door, made his way to the bar, and took a stool between a couple of miners.
“Hey, Donnie!” Billy Dillon called out, shouting to be heard over the loud country music piping out of the old jukebox. “How about another beer over here!”
“Sure thing, Billy.”
“Howdy boys,” Pitch called out to either side of him.
“Do I know you?” Jerry Mays said, turning to face the old stranger.
“Well, no, not yet you don’t.”
Billy grinned. “Aw, don’t pay him no mind. He’s still mad about them Reds.”
Pitch offered his hand to Dillon. “Good to meet you, son. Name’s Pickens, Dickie Pickens.”
“Well, it’s good to meet you, too,” Billy said, and gave Pitch’s hand a quick pump.
Donnie, having come down the bar to set a beer in front of Billy, turned to Pitch.
“What can I get you, sir?”
“I’ll have a Budweiser, young man, and you can call me Dickie.”
“Okay Dickie, I’m Donnie. Be right back.”
Jerry Mays turned to Pitch. “Sorry about a while ago,” he said. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“No apology needed. Those damned Reds have been driving me crazy for years.”
Pitch offered his hand, and Jerry shook it. “Jerry Mays,” he said.
“Dickie Pickens, at your service,” Pitch said, thinking, Yep, same old toothless hillbillies.
“Here you go, Dickie.” Donnie set a beer down in front of him. “You a newcomer or just passin’ through?”
“Passing through on my way to a better tomorrow.”
“What do you do for a living?” Billy asked him.
“Retired iron worker.”
“Well, hell, me and Jerry here are coal miners. That just about makes us distant cousins.”
“Cheers to my distant cousins!” Pitch called out, raising his beer, the three new friends touching bottles together before taking a good long drink.
“Damn good beer. How’s the mining business these days, boys?”
“Low down and dirty, Dickie,” Billy told him.
“Spooky as hell.”
“Spooky? How so?”
“You’re not starting that shit again, are you, Jerry?”
“Oh, fuck you, Donnie,” Jerry said, and then proceeded to run through a couple of his patented stories, the ghost, the missing kids.
On the inside, Pitch was laughing hysterically. But outwardly he remained courteous and attentive. When Jerry finished, Pitch nodded his agreement. “Sounds pretty spooky to me.”
With the conviction of a true believer, Billy said, “You gotta admit, some of that shit’s pretty weird.”
Donnie shrugged. “Whatever you say, Billy.”
“How about three more?” Pitch said.
“Nah, I gotta get goin’,” Jerry said, scooping up some change and heading for the door, as Pitch said, “Well, make it two then.”
A moment or two later, Donnie sat two fresh bottles in front of them, and then moved on to visit with some of his Saturday night regulars.
After a couple of more rounds, Billy and Pitch walked to the poolroom side of Donnie’s, where Pitch’s deposited quarter brought a line of multicolored balls shooting from the bowels of the
pool table.
The balls racked, Pitch on one end of the table and Billy on the other, Billy said, “You break and we’ll play for beers.”
What a sucker, he thought, as Pitch said, “You got it, buddy.”
Billy won three games to Pitch’s one. When the fourth game started, Donnie yelled from the bar, “Hey Billy! Your wife’s on the phone!”
“Tell her I’ll be right home!”
“She says you’d better be!” Donnie yelled back, laughing when Billy flipped him the bird.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. So what else is new?” Billy turned to Pitch, scowling. “I’ll have to listen to a shit-load of bitchin’ when I get home.”
“Why?”
“Aw, I don’t know. She raises hell every time I stop and have a couple of beers. Thinks it’s her wifely duty or something. Learned it from her mother. Now there’s a bitch if ever there was one. But that’s another story.”
“Goddamnit. Women just don’t understand a man deserves a little time to himself these days. They bitch and complain, bitch and raise holy hell, until you just can’t take anymore. And when you belt ‘em one, they go nuts.”
Billy, half drunk, laughed. “You got that right, Dickie boy. The cops come out to my house almost every Saturday night.”
He pocketed the eight ball, and Mary Cousins showed up with another round, and Pitch and Billy, laying their cues on the table, took their beers and sat opposite each other in one of the booths.
“How long’ve you been married?”
“Twenty-three long, hard, fucked-up years,” Billy said, and then gulped down a mouthful of beer.
Mary wandered over, frowning at Billy. “Eunice called again. I told her you’d already left. So you’d better drink this one and get on home, Billy.”
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