Thistle and Twigg

by Mary Saums

  Phoebe came to my rescue. Just as she had taken charge with the dogs, she used her larger-than-life personality to commandeer the situation with ease and aplomb.

  Mrs. Burn, a plain woman with her brown hair pulled back in an old-fashioned bun, neither smiled nor frowned as she said, “Y’all come on in for a spell,” with a hint of curiosity in her voice.

  “Why thank you so much,” Phoebe effused and began talking in a steady stream of compliments and small talk. Her speech patterns altered slightly, using different words and syntax that combined into an interesting country accent, stronger than her usual one.

  “This is Jane Thistle. She’s your new neighbor up at the old Hardwick place. The one y’all called?”

  Mrs. Burn turned to her husband. She looked confused, then there was a brief flash of horror in her eyes before she quickly turned away. Mr. Burn’s back stiffened slightly. I thought I detected embarrassment when he met his wife’s eyes. Oh dear, I thought. We’ve surprised her. She wasn’t expecting us at all. Had Mr. Burn phoned? Or had Phoebe misheard the caller entirely?

  Phoebe pressed on, oblivious to the currents passing between the couple. “You know, I haven’t been out here to your house in, what, almost twenty years?” she said continuing her monologue, effortlessly switching from one topic of conversation to another without a pause. “Remember, my church was having a gospel meeting and I was in charge of handing out leaflets to everybody living from Highway Seventy-six to the county line, and Gaynord Phelps came down to preach, all the way from Detroit, Michigan, and …”

  Mrs. Burn was nowhere in sight, I noticed, after we stepped inside. Mr. Burn, Phoebe, and I stood in a comfortable living room, decorated with no particular color scheme and filled with antique mahogany furniture. The overstuffed couch and three chairs took up most of the available floor space. A small ornate coffee table was dwarfed and completely surrounded by the couch and chairs, so much so that we had to squeeze through the tiny openings between them and sit with our knees very close to one another’s.

  A small television sat on a desk to our right. To the left, an end table held a figurine lamp with two courtly porcelain dancers as its base. Next to the lamp on a starched white doily sat an old black telephone with a dial that looked like an original from the forties.

  Mr. Burn, expressionless, stood beside the couch until Phoebe and I took our seats. He hiked his trouser legs up at the knees and sat on the couch, just as Mrs. Burn came into the room carrying a large tray.

  “Oh, my,” I said, on seeing she had prepared quite a large tea. She set the tray, which must have been very heavy, down in front of us. In only a few minutes time, she’d produced a carafe of hot coffee, four cups and saucers in a beautiful Old World rose pattern, and a plate filled with slices of coconut, chocolate, and angel food cake.

  “There’s apple pie and ice cream, if you’d rather have that,” Mrs. Burn said in a flat voice as she poured coffee into a cup. She handed it to her husband, making no eye contact. She then hesitated, holding the pot in the air. “Y’all like coffee? Because we’ve got tea and some good homemade cider if you’d rather have that.”

  Phoebe and I assured her that coffee was fine, and that her array of refreshments was more than suitable and quite generous. I marveled at her ability to produce such a delight on short notice. Mrs. Burn allowed a quick smile to flit across her lips, though she performed her hostess duties without looking directly at either of us.

  Phoebe swallowed a bite of coconut cake and dabbed a spot of white frosting off her lips. “Mmmm, boy, that is mighty good. Now, like I said before we, or rather Jane, got your phone call. I was worried something might be wrong.” She paused, waiting for one of the Burns to respond. “We could barely tell it was you, the static was so bad.”

  The Burns froze in place, Mr. Burn with his cup poised in front of his mouth, Mrs. Burn as she set the carafe on the tray. Phoebe continued her narrative.

  “… And we couldn’t hear very good, but I thought I heard Tale Holler’ and ‘Come Over,’ so I looked in the phone book to call y’all back but didn’t see you listed there.”

  Mr. Burn took a sip of coffee. “No, we don’t have a phone,” he said.

  “Well, see, that’s what I figured, or that your number was unlisted,” Phoebe said cheerily. Her eyes slid to the right, nor could I control the natural inclination to look at the hulking black phone on the end table beside us.

  Of course, they noticed our interest in it. Mr. and Mrs. Burn spoke at the same time. “It don’t work,” they said in unison.

  I was suddenly aware of the smell of pipe smoke in the air. I hadn’t noticed it when we came in. It was faint, as if a smoker had walked through the room.

  Phoebe took a breath. “I see. So y’all don’t need anything? I’m sorry, we came and barged in on you because I thought you did need something, or maybe just heard about Jane moving in and wanted to meet her since she’s practically your neighbor now. But I reckon it wasn’t you then, seeing as how your phone don’t work and all.”

  And at that moment, the phone rang. Phoebe and I jumped in our seats. It was extraordinarily loud, much like the clanging of a ship’s bell.

  Mr. and Mrs. Burn stared at one another. The phone rang insistently yet neither moved nor spoke. Finally, on the fifth ring, Mrs. Burn picked up the bulky receiver and held it to her ear. She did not say hello or any other greeting. We could hear a faint noise as she listened. She looked at her wristwatch. Without a word, she recradled the receiver.

  “Nobody there,” she said, and then she did a very odd thing. She rose from the couch, walked across the room, and turned on the television. She adjusted the volume so it could be heard but would not interfere with our conversation. She returned to her seat. Both she and her husband ignored the TV.

  “Probably some kinda e-lectric surge,” Mr. Burn said, having trouble looking us in the eye. I didn’t point out that the lights hadn’t flickered. “So you live in the old Hardwick place now?” he said to me. Mrs. Burn continued to ignore the television as she put her napkin on her lap and took a sip of coffee.

  “Yes,” I said. “Please stop by sometime so I can return your kind hospitality.” From the TV, we heard the sounds of a fight scene with kicks and grunts. Only Phoebe turned to watch.

  “I’m enjoying it here very much,” I said, trying to keep conversation going. “Everyone in Tullulah has been so kind and most welcoming.”

  The fight scene ended and a commercial began. Immediately, the phone rang once again. This time, Mr. Burn picked up. He closed his eyes while listening, then rubbed his free hand over his face. “Uh …,” he said, holding the receiver away from his ear for a moment. “Don’t…” Mr. Burn said, but the voice on the other end of the line didn’t stop.

  Mr. Burn sighed. A glance to his wife was answered with a stern shake of her head and one mouthed word, “No.” The next instant, she turned to us and grimaced as she forced a smile. She lifted the cake plate from the coffee table and said, “Another slice?” I declined.

  “Yes, sir,” Mr. Burn said. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” With another sigh, Mr. Burn held the receiver out to me. “It’s for you.” Mrs. Burn’s eyes widened. Phoebe slowly turned her head away from the television. I tried not to look shocked.

  “Oh. I see,” I said. Gingerly, I took the receiver from him. “Hello? Jane Thistle here.”

  A scratchy male voice came over the line. “Hello, Miz Thistle. Welcome to Alabama. I hope you like it here.”

  “Thank you.” The faces around me looked on with rapt attention, Phoebe with curiosity and the Burns with acute anxiety. “I like it very much.”

  “Good, good. This here is Nelton Burn. That’s my boy and his wife at the house. You can call me Dad. I appreciate you coming over so quick.” The voice was that of an elderly man, and though some static crinkled in the background, I could hear him clearly.

  “Yes, well,” I said. “My friend, Phoebe, and I weren’t altogether sure we got the right information
. I’m afraid we had quite a bad connection at my house. I must have that checked.”

  “No, ma’am, it’s not your wiring.” He drawled out the last word, “wah-ren.” “It’s cause I ain’t never called nobody anywheres else. Tell the truth, I didn’t reckon it’d work a tall. But my little great-niece said you was real nice and she liked you, so I thought I’d give it a try.”

  “I’ve met your niece?”

  “Doreen.”

  I was puzzled. Not only had I not met a Doreen in Tullulah, I was certain I never knew anyone by that name.

  “She probably didn’t tell you her name,” Dad said. “You saw her down on the square them first two times you came here before moving.” My breath caught in my throat. The little girl in the white dress. I’d told no one I’d seen her. Not a living soul.

  Dad’s voice continued over the intermittent background static. “Now, there’s people where I’m at who see better than I do. They wanted me to tell you something. They said Cal’s mind ain’t what it used to be. They say he has done messed up and he’s going to be sorry. Tell him to quit thinking he can do it all by himself.”

  Dad coughed and caught his breath before continuing. “You both need to be real careful about trusting people right now. I told my friends, I said that you were smart and not to worry because you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t the one. I may not see as good as they do, but I tell you one thing, I can feel a whole bunch of meanness prowling out there in the woods, right up next to you. You be extra careful.”

  “Sorry, I don’t understand. What did you mean, ‘the one? The one for what, exactly?”

  “The one who’s gonna save the woods and Cal’s sorry hide. He has always been a stubborn old cuss. Never would listen to nobody. And the woods, well, that’s the main thing, isn’t it? That’s why it’s so important. Now, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. I know this is a lot for you to take in all at once. I wish we’d had time to get to know each other first. But time is something we don’t have much of. I felt like I had to try to reach you now before it was too late.”

  On the television, the commercial ended. A young blond girl in a graveyard came onscreen. She held a wooden stake in her hand. Phoebe was entranced.

  “Well, Jane,” Dad said, “it was sure nice talking to you. My story is back on, so I’ll let you go for now Don’t forget what I’ve told you. Oh, something else. Don’t you worry none about Boo. He’s a good boy and he knows you’ve come to help us. And we sure do appreciate it, Miz Thistle, more than I can tell you. You let me know if I can do anything for you, you hear? I’ll try you again at your house soon if I can figure out how to do it. And please excuse my boy there next to you. I’m afraid I’ve embarrassed him and his wife.”

  I was about to ask precisely how I could get in touch, should I need to, but the phone clicked. I held it to my ear a little longer, waiting for the dial tone. None came. The line was dead. “Hello? Are you still there?” I said. When there was no answer, I handed the receiver back to Mr. Burn. Both he and his wife had red faces and looked quite uncomfortable.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Mr. Burn said. “I take it he called your house. We didn’t realize he could do that. Nobody else … ah … that is, you’re the first person he’s talked to other than us.”

  Mrs. Burn cut in. “It’s a crank caller. He has messed up our phone to where it doesn’t work except for when he calls.” She looked to Mr. Burns to back up her unlikely statement which, from the fear in her expression, I was sure was a complete lie.

  Mr. Burn looked torn. He rubbed a hand over his face and did his best not to contradict his wife. “We’ve gotten used to his calls. I’m sorry if he has started pestering you, too.”

  “Not at all,” I said, unsure now if the man on the phone was actually Mr. Burn’s father or not. “He was quite charming. He only wanted to welcome me to the area.”

  “I don’t suppose he, ah, told you his name?” Mr. Burn obviously hoped he did not. Perhaps his father was right, that his son was terribly embarrassed by him.

  “Yes, he did. Dad. Dad Burn.”

  Phoebe’s body shook beside me. She was trying very hard not to smile or giggle. I had no idea what she found so amusing.

  Mr. Burn cringed. Mrs. Burn gasped and looked as if she might faint.

  Phoebe couldn’t suppress a giggle any longer. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. I just thought of something funny.”

  I stood and pulled Phoebe up with me. “We really should be going,” I said. “I’m so sorry if we’ve imposed.” Amid assurances to the contrary, we thanked the Burns for their hospitality and made our way to the door. Something on TV caught Phoebe’s eye. The blond teenage girl fought off three large men who, on second look, were actually zombies. The girl was winning. Phoebe stared, wide-eyed and impressed.

  “Come, Phoebe, dear.” I tugged her arm until we reached the door and stepped off the porch toward her car. The dogs watched but made no sound or gave any indication they wished to follow us.

  As soon as our car doors shut, Phoebe had a fit of giggles. She drove us onto the main road, shaking and laughing. “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “Dad Burn? Ha ha! Somebody is pulling your leg good, Jane. And was that weird about their telephone, or what? See, I told you. They are severely country. What did old ‘Dad Burn’ have to say, anyway?” She laughed and shook, wiping the corners of her eyes while muttering the name over and over.

  “Just pleasantries. Welcoming me to town, that sort of thing. Very nice, really. He said he’s Mr. Burn’s father. I find it puzzling that his son and daughter-in-law didn’t want to openly recognize him. Even if he is eccentric, I don’t understand why they don’t just come out and say he was family.”

  “No, hon,” Phoebe said. “That’s not possible. Junior’s daddy Old Nelton Burn, died years and years ago.”

  “Good heavens. Are you sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure. I remember when it happened. A telephone pole got hit by lightning and fell on him, sparks a’flying everywhere. Lit him up like a Christmas tree. He glowed in his casket the whole time he was in the funeral parlor. No lie.” She held up a hand as if giving an oath. “He had the highest attendance, yet to be topped, of people viewing a body during visitation. Folks that didn’t even know him, even from other counties, came every night to see him. Look here, it doesn’t matter. Somebody is having a good time fooling with you, that’s all. No harm to it and we had some mighty good dessert while we were there.”

  I sat quietly as we drove, trying to sort out the mysterious phone call. Presently, I asked, “Phoebe, who is Boo?”

  “Boo who?” She started laughing again. I couldn’t help from doing so myself. What a silly friend I’d found.

  “Don’t know Someone Dad mentioned,” I said.

  The rest of our phone conversation I kept to myself. I wasn’t sure what reaction I’d get from Phoebe if I told her I didn’t believe the caller was a crank at all. She might not take it very well if she knew that I, sensible Jane, had just talked to a ghost.

  twenty-three

  Phoebe Hits

  The Pool Cue

  After we left Pale Holler and the rest of the boonies be-hind, Jane and I drove past the first building in town, which was Grace Baptist Church. Grace Baptist has a nice new building, complete with a lighted sign like at the Pig, where they can change the letters depending on the specials that week. Grace Baptist changed their sign like that, too, only with different Bible verses.

  “What did it say?” I said. “It was too long to read and drive at the same time.”

  “Tor in Him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible.’“ Jane’s voice was so low I could barely hear her, and she sat there, staring out the windshield, like she was pondering something real hard.

  “Huh. Not a very deep one this week. Tub Ashwander must be on the sign committee again. Speaking of invisible, that reminds me. Ricky Blaze, who is working on my house, told me something you might
be interested in,” I said. “He said there was a murder in your house and that’s why it’s haunted.” Jane turned her head to me. She looked a little scared. “I don’t believe it’s haunted, Jane. He said that, not me, and when he did, I told him, I said, why it’s not haunted a bit, and that’s when he told me what happened. But if you don’t want to hear it…”

  “No, I do.”

  “And it doesn’t have anything to do with ghosts; it’s just what happened. Cold, hard facts. It was way back in my granddaddy’s time. The Hardwicks took in a retarded cousin whose family was poor and ignorant and didn’t treat him right or know how to take care of him. They took him in, and then one day, a little girl from town went missing and he got killed.”

  “How do you mean? Was there a connection?”

  “The little girl’s daddy thought so. Him and a bunch of other folks in town blamed the retarded boy because he was out walking in the road, right down from your house, and he was carrying a doll that belonged to the girl. Her body was found close to where he was seen, somewhere on your property, I expect. The daddy went berserk and went home, got his shotgun, and tromped straight into the Hardwick’s living room. Didn’t even knock. Blew that poor boy away.”

  “How horrible.”

  “Yeah. Ricky Blaze said they never got the blood off the floor. I haven’t seen any, have you?”

  “No. It must be one of those lies you mentioned.”

  “Yeah. I knew it was. You can’t believe a word anybody says.”

  Once we got settled in at Jane’s again, we looked over her living room floor for dark spots on the wood. Nothing. Just like I figured.

  I followed Jane into the kitchen and almost ran into her. She stopped in the middle of the room, bent over, and picked something up off the floor.

  “What’s that?”

  She didn’t say anything and her face was pale when she showed me. It was a bullet.

  “How did that get there?” I said.

  She shook her head. “I’ve no idea.” That’s what she said but I got the feeling she was fibbing.