Grey Lore

by Jean Knight Pace

  “No sir,” she said, kneeling down to rub Loco’s belly. “He was in my neighborhood.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but stopped.

  The farmer nodded. “Your parents ever see him?” he asked.

  “I live with my aunt on the northeast side,” Ella answered, avoiding the question.

  The farmer got his answer anyway. Rich girl befriends poor dog—like star-crossed lovers, that story. He’d seen it before.

  “What do you call him?” Ella asked politely. She sat on the ground with the dog’s head in her lap, like she had no intention of leaving.

  “I call him Buddy,” Jones said. “Truth is, I call all my dogs Buddy till I find them a home or they make it clear that this is their home.” The farmer squatted low and looked at the girl. “What’d you call him?”

  “He wasn’t really mine to name,” Ella answered, looking down.

  “That’s not what I asked,” Jones replied.

  “I called him Loco,” the girl said, looking up and meeting the farmer’s eyes.

  “Loco,” the farmer said, rubbing the dog and then holding his snout in a big hand.

  “But he’s still not mine to name,” Ella said.

  “He’s yours as much as he is mine,” Jones said. “And the name’s a good fit.”

  Other dogs had come to the front yard. Ella smiled to see them and several bumped against her legs, beating her with their tails. She scratched one behind the ears—the fur soft and clean.

  Jones looked down the dusty driveway. “How’d you get all the way out here?” he asked.

  “Bus,” she said, rubbing another one of the dogs—scratching all down its neck, like a doggy masseuse.

  “It’s a good mile walk from the stop,” Jones said.

  “I wanted to know if it was him.” Ella shrugged.

  Jones nodded and was quiet for several long minutes, save for a small, nervous click that he made with his mouth. The dogs pressed against the girl, vying for her attention. In the middle of them, she looked like some kind of queen. The farmer pressed his lips together.

  Ella looked at him. “Is there any way,” she began, “that I could come out several afternoons a week? To volunteer on the farm?”

  Jones glanced down at the dogs. Generally he didn’t like help and he didn’t need it, but the dog Loco was staring at him like a little kid asking for candy, and the other dogs were still sniffing and licking on her like she was family. The farmer sighed. “You get yourself out here and I’m sure I can find something for you to do,” he said.

  He walked with Ella down his driveway, the dogs following the girl like a royal entourage. It was strange, honestly. They didn’t treat all his visitors this way. They didn’t even treat Miss Mandy this way.

  For whatever reasons, the dogs seemed to really like the girl—to attach to her in a way he’d only ever seen them attach to him.

  When they got to the end of his long driveway, Ella turned to wave and then she caught sight of the beat up trailer Jimmy-Duke used to live in. It hadn’t been a beauty before, but now three of the windows were broken and the bottom step was split in half. “That trailer looks pretty rough,” the girl said. “Does anybody live there?”

  “Used to be my no good neighbor,” Jones said. “Now it’s nobody. Hospital admitted him for mental help.”

  “Well, I guess that’s good for you,” Ella said, wrinkling her nose at the stinky, ruined house.

  The farmer nodded half-heartedly. Jimmy-Duke wasn’t coming back, and while it was a relief, something about it nagged at the farmer, refusing to speak.

  Chapter 30

  The Havensborough Unit of the Napper Psychiatric Institution was closed on Fridays. The sign clearly said so. It looked to Sam like it was closed most of the rest of the time too, with only a few visiting hours posted. It appeared to be some type of assisted living facility, probably for the mentally ill.

  “But the card,” Ella said, walking back and forth by the side entrance where they were standing.

  “Is probably ten years old,” Sam said.

  “No,” Sarah said. “It doesn’t look old at all.”

  Sam shrugged.

  The Havensborough Unit had a narrow gray door and limited hours, nothing like the gaping mouth of the main entrance at the front of the building. It was a place with a quieter purpose. Sam couldn’t decide if that made it for the more crazy or the less crazy. You weren’t visiting your strung out son or bipolar aunt; you weren’t rushing someone in after a suicide attempt. You were there because you had a recognized and regular need. You were there with intention. Several office windows lined the side—all covered with blinds, all locked up tight.

  Sarah banged on the number pad to the door, like that would let her in.

  Suddenly Sam drew in a sharp breath.

  Number pad.

  The numbers Zinnie had told him flashed through his head. He tried to ignore them. How would Zinnie know the code anyway? And, wait, Zinnie probably wasn’t real.

  Still, his fingers felt twitchy. What was the harm in trying? He was already crazy.

  He moved Sarah’s hand off the key pad. Her fingers were so soft and small. He shook his head, and typed the number. A red light flashed atop the number pad. Denied. He typed it again. Same thing. The girls, he could tell, had no idea what he was doing, but still Ella put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Third time’s a charm.”

  But Sam took her hand off. No, he thought, crazy is crazy. He didn’t need to make himself look crazier.

  “What number was that?” Sarah asked as they walked back to her car.

  Sam shrugged.

  “Come on, tell me,” she said.

  “It’s a number my imaginary friend gave me,” he said.

  Ella looked at her watch. “Looks like we’ll make it in time for Folklore.”

  Sam stopped at the car door. “Look guys, I think I’m gonna walk home.”

  “No,” Sarah said. “Come on.” She nudged him into the car and Sam let himself be nudged.

  In Witten’s class they discussed Hansel and Gretel—two children, crumbs, candy, gingerbread, kill an old woman. Halfway through Sam jumped up and ran to the bathroom. He banged into the stall, locked the door, and leaned his cheek against the cool metal, his head pounding, his stomach sick. He was hovering near the toilet when Mr. Witten came in and spoke.

  “Guess you better head to the nurse, Sam,” he said kindly.

  “Yes, sir,” Sam mumbled.

  “You know,” Mr. Witten said as he walked with Sam to the nurse’s office. “All fairy tales have retellings—twists and turns and whole new stories. It’s part of what makes them so timeless. And interesting.”

  Sam wasn’t listening. If his teacher wasn’t there, Sam would have run out of the school and all the way home. A little pig. Scared.

  Ella sat at the pep rally by herself in the bleachers. Of course, she wasn’t really by herself. She was surrounded by people, sardined between two screaming girls who were in biology with her. Though she was almost sure that neither one knew her name. Ella wished she could have found Sarah in the mob. And she wished Sam hadn’t gone home early. Ella was a little worried about him.

  Everyone around her started to clap as the marching band began to play. Ella touched her hands together, scanning the crowd for Sarah.

  All at once, the clapping stopped and the crowd erupted into cheers and whistles. One of the cheerleaders jumped off the shoulders of two others, doing a twist in the air. The entire student body burst into an enthusiastic shout. Ella caught herself clapping too—for real this time.

  The cheerleaders ran through the crowd, throwing candy. Ella reached up to grab a piece when she felt a sharp pang on her left cheek. Someone had thrown a hard candy at her.

  One of the girls from biology was trying to hide a giggle. “Sorry,” she said, and then the girl next to her giggled too.

  Ella turned away, threading her way out of the gym as quickly as possible.

  As Ella walked
back to her locker, Jack’s brother, Brandt, ran through the hall, shouting, “Go Royals!” and throwing more candy.

  Ella scooted out of the way, but Brandt caught her eye.

  “Hey, Ella,” he said, tossing a lollipop in her direction.

  Ella was surprised he knew her name, and even more surprised that she caught the lollipop.

  Brandt smiled, slowing to a walk, and came up to her. “Nice catch. You coming to the game?”

  “Um,” Ella said, almost dropping the lollipop. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “You should come,” he said. “Maybe I could meet up with you after or something.”

  “I…” she said.

  “Give me your number,” he said before she could finish. “I’ll text you and then you’ll have my number.”

  “Um,” Ella said again. “Okay.” She messed up her own phone number twice before finally getting it right.

  Brandt smiled. “Okay then, maybe I’ll see you tonight.”

  The crowd moved him down the hall before she could answer. Which was just as well since she felt like a football was stuck in her throat. There was no way she was going to that game. Who would she sit with? What would she do with herself? Did she want to see Brandt afterwards? I mean, sure he was good-looking, but… Ella almost bumped into her locker.

  She dumped books into her bag and then noticed the lollipop she was still holding. She placed it on the top shelf of her locker, unwilling to eat it just yet.

  Sam was sitting at the table when his dad got home.

  His father put his coat away and walked to the fridge. “You hungry?” he asked, looking at its Spartan contents.

  “No,” Sam said. And his dad turned around.

  “Something wrong?”

  “I think I’m sick,” Sam said quietly.

  His dad sat down beside him and laid a hand against his forehead.

  “No,” Sam said, “not like that.” He paused. “I think…I think something’s wrong with my head. I think I might need to go to the hospital.”

  “You hit it on something?” his dad asked, slowly, as though he knew that’s not what Sam meant.

  “No,” Sam said, looking his dad straight in the eyes. “I’ve been seeing things—things I thought were real, but,” he paused again, “then they’re not.”

  His dad stood up. “Maybe it’s your vision, son. Maybe you’re catching a glance of something that looks like something else.”

  Sam laughed—a hard sound. “Only if what I ‘glance’ talks, smells, and makes cookies.”

  His dad said nothing, but held the back of an empty chair. After a long silence he said, “I’m sure you don’t need a hospital, son. Tell me what you see.”

  Sam closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples. He could still see her, smell the cookies, feel the fire. “I see an old woman. I thought she lived in this shack. Then I took Ella. And the woman wasn’t there. Nothing was there. It didn’t even look the same—it was all dusty and old.”

  “You took Ella there?” his father asked.

  “Yeah,” Sam said miserably. When he opened his eyes, he noticed that his father’s knuckles had gone white from clutching the chair. “Dad, I need help. I don’t want to end up like Granny. Please.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” his father said, pushing the chair away.

  “Look. I know it’s expensive, but I’m scared. I’m worried,” Sam said, picturing the human-sized pantry in the shack. “I’m worried I’m going to hurt someone.”

  His dad tried to hide it—the look that passed over his face—but Sam had seen it. His dad was worried Sam might hurt someone too.

  “I’m not taking you to any hospital,” his father said.

  “Please,” Sam said, his throat tight.

  “No,” his father said. “Your mind is fine.”

  “Dad, I know it’s hard. But I feel like if I get checked, they might be able to help me. I’m young…”

  “They will not help you,” his father shouted. “Or anyone like you. Never forget that.” His father pushed past the chair with such force that it thundered against the table and broke.

  “Dad,” Sam said so softly he knew his father wouldn’t hear. “Dad.”

  Chapter 31

  David Witten surveyed his collection of candied porcelain houses. You got unusual gifts when you were a folklorist. These houses were some of his favorites. Like all fairytales, Hansel and Gretel had dozens of retellings, some even taking the witch’s side.

  But there were none in which both the old woman and the children paired up to fight the evil forces that had thrown them together in the first place. Though surely, when a woman winds up living alone in the middle of the forest, and children are left to wander the woods until they stumble into her, one can assume there are many other malevolent forces at play.

  Somewhere in there was an opportunity for an interesting retelling.

  Witten sighed. Retellings. He wasn’t sure how healthy it was to have your life’s work focused on changing old stories. But, healthy or not, it was what he had chosen.

  He selected a small, bright house, sprinkles and sugar glaze sparkling on the roof, peppermint sticks standing as pillars, gumdrops lining the path to a cinnamon-spiced door. He packaged the ceramic house carefully in a box with tissue paper. Then he took out a dainty pink card and began to write.

  My dear Emmaline—

  He paused, his pen in the air like a wand, wound up with a spell.

  I am still hoping to see you for American Christmas, though your mother is concerned that the timing may not be quite right. In the meantime I’ve written a version of one of your favorite tales, and one I’ve been thinking about these last few weeks. I hope you enjoy it.

  Once… He glanced out the window at the dark clouds that were gathering in the distance. …in the dark of the wood lived a very old woman in a very old house. Both had stood in the forest for much longer than such things should; and both had grown old and crooked from time. The woman, as you can guess, was possibly the loneliest creature in the entire world, having only her gardens and the animals for company.

  To soothe this ache, she spent hours each day baking cake and boiling confections of every kind—things that reminded her of times long past. She baked so much and so often that soon the little house was overflowing with sweet treats. The woman began to pile pound cakes against walls like bricks, filling in the cracks of her old, aching house with frosting, spinning hot sugar through the floorboards, and plastering the walls in crisp chocolate.

  As the years went on, the house became more and more solid while the woman continued to stoop and crumble.

  And then one day a flock of birds flew over her house, cackling and pecking at the shortbread shingles of her roof. “You’re lucky, old crone,” a fat bird chittered, “that we’re not hungrier. For we’ve just devoured an entire path of sweet, white breadcrumbs, and don’t have room for your roof today.”

  The old woman shooed the crows away just as two small children came into the clearing, the youngest one crying as the older pulled on her hand, begging her to keep moving. They stopped when they saw the house, and the old woman tucked herself behind the poppy seed door, watching.

  Now, in many a tale you’ve heard, that old woman tricked those poor children into her house, and tried to eat them.

  But the truth is that there are many things about children that are sweet beyond what lips can taste and sustaining beyond what bellies can feel.

  For many moons the children stayed with the old woman, drinking her tea and patching her old bones in a way only bright, young creatures can.

  But both witch and children possessed things that powerful people sought. And, in time, the birds brought news of a stepmother’s hunger and an old mayor’s greed.

  Digging into her speculoos cellar, the woman brought out several bright rubies and a pair of diamonds. “Take these, my sweets,” she said. “And tell them you’ve pushed the old hag into the fire. In t
his way, we might both remain safe.”

  The woman sent the now-rich children back into the dark wood.

  The jewels, she knew, would buy the children some freedom. And the story would buy her some time. But there were those in this world who would not be quick to be satiated. And so she watched through her butterscotch windows. And waited.

  When Ella got to the game, it was cold and the air felt thick and damp. Kids wandered past her, holding hands, wearing letter jackets, gossiping, and laughing.

  She didn’t belong here. It was just too obvious. She’d invited Sarah to come, but Sarah hated football. It was one of the first things they’d talked about, one of the surprisingly many things they’d had in common.

  Now Ella paused near the entrance, wondering if she should leave, but the smell of winter hung in the air, shot through with laughter and cheering. People were carrying mugs of hot chocolate and baskets of fries, which smelled amazing. Jack had been right—there was a lot of energy here. And in a strange way, it did feel nice to be a tiny part of it, wandering through crowds, catching bits of conversation, pulling her sleeves down over her cold hands.

  Ella had purposefully come late, and now the second half was starting. All around her people were stomping and cheering, while in the bleachers the marching band played a loud, honking version of the fight song.

  Ella took a deep breath. She figured she could hang out in line at the concession stand. That would kill a few minutes before she actually had to make her way to the bleachers and find a spot.

  Ella felt the first drop of rain as someone from the student council handed her a hot dog. It hit her on the nose, then another on the hand, her jacket, her hair—picking up speed as the ground around her darkened in the increasing rain. Then, through the trees that surrounded the stadium, she heard the rush of wind as the heart of the storm crashed down on them, a wall of water pounding into the crowd. All around her people scattered, pulling up hoods and running for cover as the fat rain drops beat against the aluminum bleachers and the thin roofs of the concession booths.