by Morgan James
As a psychologist, I know about trauma and the way the human mind can bend reality. Alfie groaned and stretched in front of the fire, and I got up to prod the oak logs with a poker. Cinders, like red and blue popcorn, exploded up the chimney. Fire. Fire. January’s fire. My barn fire. Mrs. Allen’s kitchen chair on fire. What was going on? What am I missing? Suddenly I was cold, very cold. I sat down on the hearth, my back to the fire, and welcomed the closeness of the flames.
“When I saw her, I was lying on the ground. She put her finger to her lips, as though to tell me not to call out to her. I think she was afraid the man would hurt her and the child. But here is the thing: I saw the stuffed elephant on the grass before all that. It was when I bent to pick it up that the Georgia man pushed me from behind, and I hit my head on the rock…”
Susan interrupted me. “Okay, I can hear you are getting upset. Don’t. Please. Maybe MaMa Allen was up there with a little girl. Tomorrow we’ll go over to MaMa’s and sort it all out.” Susan came over and wrapped me in the afghan from the back of the sofa. “You’re shivering. Let’s talk about something else.”
I wanted to tell her about Mrs. Allen’s burning chair, but she was determined to get my mind off the afternoon and began to set out a plan she’d hatched. “You see, next month I get the trust money from my mama’s insurance. It’s been earning interest since I was seven years old, so there is a fair amount. We all know Granny’s is pitiful as a general store, but I think it would be a crackerjack restaurant, what with it being on the river and all.
“I could buy you out, or we could be partners, whatever you want to do. I already talked it over with Daddy and he agrees that Mama’s car accident ought to count for something other than her dying. He says I should do something lasting and productive with the money. I would be head chef, and we could have music down by the river on the weekends. I know the band would love to come and play. We could do hickory-smoked barbecue. What do you think? Don’t you love the idea?”
What in the world was Susan talking about? I know less about running a restaurant than I do about running a general store—which is nothing. A year ago she wanted us to start a detective agency. She’s off on a new tangent every four months. How could I possibly trust that she’d settle down and concentrate on making a go of the restaurant? Was Daniel really in favor of turning Granny’s into a restaurant? If he thought it was a good idea, why hadn’t he mentioned it to me before? The restaurant business seems like a hard way to make a living—long hours, terribly risky—I’m too old to go down that path. Course, if I let Susan buy me out, I wouldn’t have to worry about what happened with Granny’s. Wouldn’t that be a joyous day? Without the mortgage on the store, I could just about breathe without worrying how much it was going to cost me. I told Susan I really needed to go lie down, but I’d give her idea serious consideration.
March’s last days are fickle companions in Western North Carolina. Just like today. A skim frost in the morning, warm spring sunshine in the afternoon. I lay in bed thinking about the blooming forsythia bush on January’s mountain. Would the cold night wither all those exquisite yellow blossoms? Would a shiver dew render the stuffed blue elephant soggy and sad looking, as it waited in the grass for a child to claim it?
Susan stayed the night with me. I was glad for the company. It was comforting to hear her milling around in the great room stoking the fire, and getting snug on the sofa under a quilt. I don’t think I could have faced the heavy silence of darkness alone tonight. A muffled click, then a whooshing sound told me the furnace cut on, wrapping the house in warm air. Gratitude for the sanctuary of my own bed washed over me, and I recalled a prayer I hadn’t thought of in years: “We have grateful hearts, O Lord, for all Thy tender mercies.” And thank you Fletcher Enloe. I wiped tears away. No more crying. I’d cried this afternoon for Shane Long—for the senseless killing of a man who meant no harm. No more crying. I was safe and thankful for it. I wondered if Daniel was driving home from Raleigh and if Susan had let Alfie out one last time before he settled in for the night. Then the welcome sensation of sleep settled into my body, hushing my mind.
I don’t know how long I slept before I dreamt of the dark hallway where I felt my way along wood planked walls smelling of pine and chimney smoke. There was a closed room at the end of the hallway, light spilling under its rough-hewn door, and a voice drawing me closer. When at last I stood in the pool of light, I reached up and parted the door the width of my fingers, enough to see three figures outlined by the flickering of an oil lamp attached to the far wall. The man stood, his back to me, a Bible in his outstretched hand. Wild gray hair fell to his shoulders. He was dressed in black pants and coat. No shoes, no socks. His long boney feet skeleton white against the dark floor.
His voice was low—as calm as explaining to a child how to peel and core an apple. “Jesus said to her, ‘Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?’ Hear what the Book says. God tells us belief, and belief alone, is the key to salvation.” A red haired woman, the collar of her plain brown dress trimmed with white lace, her face in the shadows, knelt facing him. She held a small child to her skirts. The child watched her face. She watched the face of the man. In slow motion, he lowered his arm letting the Bible rest against his thigh, and turned to face me— his electric blue eyes ignited by an inner light. “Ezekiel 37,” he said.
There must have been more, but his words melded into Susan’s, intruding from the next room, and I was drawn out of the dream. “No, I didn’t talk to him. Mac told me he figured Fletcher didn’t have much choice but to shoot. Mac also said not to talk about it to Miz P. until he got her signed statement.”
There was a soft rap on the bedroom door. “Babe, you awake?” Daniel was sitting on the side of the bed before I could clear my head enough to answer. “I should have been there for you today. I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”
I raised myself up on an elbow and reached for his hand. “You had no way of knowing. Don’t blame yourself.”
“If I’d been here, you wouldn’t have been alone up there…”
“Shhh. Don’t. Besides, I’m sure Fletcher will tell us all for the next twenty years that he told me not to go up there, and I was too bullheaded to listen.”
There was enough moonlight to see Daniel’s face relaxing. “No way. Who in the world would ever say Promise McNeal is bullheaded?”
“Who indeed? You want me to get up and make some coffee?”
“No. I don’t want coffee.”
Was I hearing a slight hesitation in his voice? “Then what do you want, Mr. Allen? You know it’s the middle of the night, and you’re in a lady’s bedroom.”
“What I want is some of everything. But for tonight, how about I just lie down here beside you. Hold you while you get some rest? I’ll even sing you a lullaby.”
How did I get so lucky? I nestled down under the comforter with Daniel’s tall body cradling me, and his clean soap smell soothing me with every breath I took. His lips brushed against my ear as he sang, “…There’s a truth in your eyes saying’ you’ll never leave me.” That Alison Krauss song again.
What a coincidence. If you believe in coincidences.
13
The aroma of sizzling bacon brought me out of a light sleep and into the kitchen. Daniel was standing at the stove; his dark curls still damp from a shower, a day’s graying stubble on his face. Alfie was standing guard beside him. “It’s a good thing you got up. This dog of yours is begging all the bacon. Five more minutes and we’d be eating only toast with our eggs.”
I poured a cup of coffee and gave Alfie a rub behind his pendulous ears. Daniel turned. “Don’t I get a rub? I’m the one doing the cooking.”
“For you, a kiss.” I stretched up and kissed him lightly on his scratchy cheek.
“Not much of a kiss,” he grumbled.
“That’s the best I can do before I have my coffee. Susan gone?”
“Yeah. She went on in to open Granny’s. You all righ
t this morning?”
I busied myself with pouring Purina Little Bites into Alfie’s bowl while deciding if I was indeed, all right. The hound turned up his nose and steadied his position beside Daniel at the bacon service center. “I’m okay. Or I will be. Just need some time and distance from yesterday. Thanks for last night.” Daniel smiled. I smiled back, wondering at the mystery of how his eyes light up when he smiles. “One more piece, Alfie, and that’s it. The way you love bacon, Daniel needs to be raising pigs and not cows.”
Alfie responded with a bark and loped to the door to be let out. When I opened the door, the subject of his barking stood on the porch, right hand poised to knock, left hand holding his hat, and his always-running-for-office smile camera ready. “Hey Sheriff Mac. I didn’t hear you drive up. Come on in. I’ll pour you a cup of coffee.”
Daniel waved a spatula hello to his cousin and then took up the last of the bacon to drain. “No thanks, I already had me a free cup of your fancy Don Pablo’s Colombian down at Granny’s on my way out. Susan was looking extra chipper this morning.”
Daniel poured himself coffee. “Yeah, she’s on a roll with a lulu of an idea she’s trying to sell Promise on.”
“I wouldn’t say she’s really trying to sell me on the restaurant thing, but we did talk about the possibility.”
Daniel’s face clouded. “Doesn’t sound like you’re hot on the idea.”
“Well, maybe. Let’s talk about it later. I imagine Sheriff Mac came about other business this morning.”
The turkey-brown trooper’s hat, with the gold sheriff’s shield pinned up front like a warning headlight, went back on Mac’s head. He was converting to all business. “Fact is, I did. First off, bring your coffee outside and tell me about that little fire you had. The one you failed to report to the proper authorities.”
Fletcher Enloe, wearing his familiar scowl, was letting himself out of the goat yard. Mac called to him. “Morning Fletcher. What you got there?”
Daniel and I rolled eyes at each other, knowing Mac’s question would no doubt be the perfect straight line for one of my neighbor’s caustic retorts.
Fletcher did not disappoint. “What the hell you think I got in a milk bucket, Mr. College Education, a pack of squirrels?”
Mac had experience with Fletcher. He volleyed back, “It was only a neighborly way to start a civil conversation with you, Fletcher. Should’ve known it wouldn’t work on the likes of you.”
“Save your conversations for when you’re pumping hands on the town square trying to get folks to let you keep our cushy job for another four years.”
“Fletcher, you got no respect for the law. You know that?”
“Course I do. I just knowed you since you was a boy, and that makes it hard to get all-upright about you being sheriff. There’s been better, and there’s been worse men stood for that job in Perry County.”
“Well, that’s one thing we agree on.”
That remark seemed to call a truce between the two men. Daniel extended his hand to Fletcher. “Good to see you Fletcher. I appreciate what you did yesterday.” Fletcher nodded, saying nothing. He likes Daniel.
Hoping the coast was clear; I stepped forward and spoke to Fletcher. “Thanks for milking Minnie. By the weight of the bucket, you must have gotten over a gallon this morning.”
“I did. I’ll bring you some once I get it strained and cooled down.”
Mac unwisely engaged Fletcher again. “How come you milking Miz Promise’s goat?”
Fletcher gave me, and then Mac, a look that probably curdled the milk. “Cause she don’t know what the Sam Hill she’s doing. Can’t never get the milk to come down right. Makes Minnie nervous. You ask me, she’d be better off going on back down to ‘Lanta where she came from. If you ain’t got no more useless questions, I’m off to home.” He walked past us toward the pine thicket that separates our property, leaving behind the just washed smell and starchy sound of his tan, knife creased work pants and shirt. Just short of the pines, Fletcher turned back to us. “One more thing, city girl. I told you not to go up on that mountain by yourself, and you see now what happened. I’m telling you again. Stay off my mountain. You hear me girl?”
My toes curled in my L.L. Bean loafers. How dare that old man humiliate me like that, treat me like a child? With great effort, I breathed in and out, remembered yesterday afternoon, and answered, “Yes, I hear you, Mr. Enloe.”
The three of us stood silently until Fletcher was out of earshot. Mac was the first to speak. “Poor old sod, he probably woke up this morning realizing he’d had to kill a man yesterday. I been there. It ain’t an easy row to hoe.”
Mac’s sensitivity to Fletcher surprised me. I didn’t think he had it in him. Daniel was having a little trouble connecting the dots. “So you’re thinking Fletcher is grumpy with Promise because he blames her for having to shoot that guy?”
“Well, something like that. Don’t you see how that could happen?”
Daniel laughed. “I can see it, except Fletcher usually treats Promise like that. Seems to like her and not like her at the same time.”
“I hear you.” Mac puckered his lips into a playful smirk. “Fletcher does tend to have a way with the women. You know, when Mrs. Enloe was still alive, bless her heart, I had to go over there more than once when she’d lock the surly bastard out of the house on account of his meanness. She loved the old man, that’s for sure, but it’s like she told me, even she had a boiling over point with Fletcher. And you probably remember Fletcher has a daughter about Promise’s age. Rosalie Snyder– lives over in Marshall. Remember she married that guy from Chicago who came down here with the power company. Boy, it got all over Fletcher—her marrying a man from away, and all. Anyway, Fletcher and Rosalie had a knock down drag out when Mrs. Enloe first took sick with cancer. I hear they haven’t spoke since, not even at the funeral.”
All of this was interesting gossip, but a bothersome memory was unfolding in the back of my mind. “Mac, what you said about Fletcher—poor old sod. That reminds me of a comment the Georgia convict made. Something about not seeing any hikers since the “peckerwood” he’d seen on the trail the day before. I think he was talking about finding Shane Long’s body.”
Mac cut his eyes at Daniel, and I noticed a look of familiarity pass between them. They were both thinking the same thing about me. I just didn’t know what that thing was. Daniel raked his hands through his hair and took a step closer to me. “All right now Promise, I can hear your mind churning. What are you getting at?”
“What’s bothering me is this: if the Georgia man killed Shane Long, why tell me about seeing him. Saying he’d seen a “peckerwood” on the trail seemed like a casual remark for him to make, as though Shane’s death wasn’t related to him. Like he thought Shane fell down, hit his head, and died. If you’d killed someone, I don’t think you’d refer to them as some peckerwood you’d found n the trail?”
Mac perked up, interested. “What do you mean, if he killed Long? My money’s on him sure enough. He walked off the prison work detail. They got witnesses down in Georgia say he killed the convenience store clerk. Kill once, kill twice. You don’t worry about all that. The state boys and my deputies are hunting all over the area where Shane was killed. We’ll find evidence to tie that Georgia man, or somebody, to the killing. I guarantee that. And in the meantime, I think Daniel would agree with me that you need to take it easy, what with that bump on your head, and let us professionals do our jobs.”
Mac was talking to me just like Fletcher Enloe. What is it with these Perry County men? “No offense, Sheriff Mac, but you professionals weren’t up on the mountain with the Georgia man.”
Both men grimaced. It was Daniel who tried to placate me. “I guess you got us there. We didn’t talk to him. And he didn’t threaten to kill us. But why are you so curious about the Shane Long business anyway?”
“Daniel, I met with Shane on the day he was killed. He left my house and rode his motorcycle over there to get his h
ead bashed in by someone. I just want to know the whole story, that’s all.” I could hear my voice jumping up an octave. I was wound as tight as Mrs. Allen’s cuckoo clock. “And another thing that’s bugging me: what was so interesting that Shane Long took off on a work day to hike up Fire Mountain? He was a local boy. He must have roamed all over the county at one time or another. Why choose that day to hike? And with a back pack…why would he take a pack on a short hike?”
“A lot of people carry a backpack, even for a short hike. Don’t they Mac?”
Mac opened his mouth to agree with Daniel. I interrupted. “And what exactly was in his backpack?”
“Now Promise, you know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with you. Let’s get off this subject and you tell me about the hay barn fire.”
“The barn caught fire and burned. If it was vandals, I didn’t see them. End of story. Fletcher went through the backpack. I bet he remembers what was in there.”
Mac shuffled his right boot in the dirt a few times and looked at Daniel for help. Daniel threw up his hands. “I can’t help you cousin,” he said. “You might as well tell her, ‘cause I’m here to testify, she won’t give up.”
“Oh all right. But you have to swear you’ll stay out of my investigation. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” I think my fingers were crossed behind my back.
“Mac ticked off the items found in Shane’s pack: three granola bar wrappers, an empty water bottle, one heavy duty, long-neck flashlight, four D-size batteries, a torn piece of a topo map…”
“What’s a topo map?”
Mac frowned. Daniel answered. “It’s a map showing elevations. Instead of roads and highways, it shows where the ridges, flat spots, mountain slopes, and that kind of stuff are located. Also shows how high a piece of ground is located above sea level. You know, like Big Top Mountain is 3,200 feet above sea level.”