A Minister's Ghost

by Phillip DePoy

  That a young man from the mountains knew enough about film history to appreciate early Hitchcock and to remember the movie I’d shown two years before was impressive even to me and belied every stereotype in the book.

  “Who are your influences, cinematically?” I asked him.

  “Claude Lelouch is the main one,” he fired back. “He could tell a story that didn’t depend on the budget.”

  “A Man and a Woman, right?”

  “That was his commercial success, yes,” the boy said sagely. “What else do you want to know about last night? I’ve got a lot to do before we open.”

  “Sorry,” I hurried on. “What time did the movie let out?”

  “The early show on Friday’s over at around nine; second show’s done by eleven thirty at the latest.”

  “You wouldn’t know the Dyson girls, would you?”

  “Nope.” I could hear him clattering something in the background, maybe getting the popcorn machine ready.

  “All right, they’re two high school girls,” I began, “one’s around eighteen with blond hair, the other’s got brown hair, a year younger. They’re sisters, pretty, very outgoing.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t remember seeing them last night?” I pressed.

  “Mister,” he sighed, “on Friday night we’re packed. There were probably a hundred people here. I can barely keep up.”

  “I understand,” I said calmly. “What’s your name, do you mind my asking?”

  “Andy Newlander,” he whined. “I’m going to change it. It’s not a good filmmaker’s name.”

  “Would you mind if I came by sometime this weekend and showed you their picture? See if you remember them?”

  “Why?” He was suspicious. “Are they in trouble?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Did you hear about the train wreck last night, over there in Pine City?”

  “No.”

  In as little detail as possible, I explained to Andy Newlander why I wanted to come and see him. He agreed, more subdued than he had been, and we hung up.

  Outside the rain was clattering at the window, a wandering spirit demanding sanctuary. Distant thunder sounded, absent any lightning I could see, like muffled timpani played slowly. The room grew darker, and in the distance, I heard a train whistle blow.

  I made my way downstairs, wandered to the back of the funeral home again looking for Donny. I was doing everything I could to get images of Tess and Rory out of my mind, but they wouldn’t leave. Like the girls themselves, their memories clamored for attention, each one cheerfully vying for full appreciation.

  The recollection that won out and occupied me as I stood in the doorway staring at their coffins and wondering where Donny had gone concerned the snapshot on Lucinda’s mantel.

  Several years ago there had been a carnival in Blue Mountain just before Halloween night. Everybody in the county was there. In some folk communities, schools are often one of the gathering places for secular entertainment. Nearly everyone had children or grandchildren in the county school, and if they didn’t, they knew someone who did. So the Fall Festival was held on the school grounds.

  The air was crisp as an apple, filled with the scent of burning leaves. Trees in the school yard were riotous: red leaves, rust reeling downward in crazy spirals of autumn air. They rained onto wooden booths, pony rides, milling crowds. A huge hand-painted sign that said Welcome to Your Fall Festival stood tall in the yard. It was decorated with red witches, white goblins, and happy orange jack-o’-lanterns, a product of the cooperative efforts of the lower grades.

  Down in the cafeteria, teachers had assembled a haunted house, a sad affair of torn sheets, darkened windows, and grown adults dressed in Halloween costumes. Bowls of grapes passed for eyeballs, plates of cold cooked spaghetti masqueraded as conquerer worms. Lucinda wanted to go, but I demurred.

  “Do what you like to a school cafeteria,” I told her, “it requires more than imagination to forget the smell of coleslaw hanging in the air.”

  Skid, a lighter version of the man with whom I’d just spoken, had dressed himself as a reptilian monster wearing a clerical collar and black suit. Billed as the “Preacher from the Black Lagoon,” he occupied the festival’s dunking booth.

  For a dollar, anyone could throw a baseball at the target, and if that target was squarely hit, it might send the monster plummeting into a tub of icy water. The monster would howl, and the children would scream.

  I considered the situation from the monster’s point of view. There he was, minding his own business, not bothering anyone. One second he’s sitting warm and dry, the next he’s dunked in cold October water, without a warning or a prayer.

  Such is life.

  Just before sunset everyone had gathered near a bonfire to judge several contests, among them the jack-o’-lantern carving. I fought my urge to tell anyone who would listen that originally the purpose of the carved pumpkin had, indeed, been to make a lantern, and the lanterns were used throughout the autumn months. Only on All Hallows’ Eve were the lanterns made into faces, and then the idea was to frighten away the spirits of the dead, or to light their way so they wouldn’t get lost.

  Instead, Lucinda and I wandered among the quarter acre of severed orange heads, marveling at the craftsmanship and enthusiasm all contestants had mustered.

  There were nearly fifty entries, arranged in rows and glowing in the fading evening light. Some were nearly as big as doghouses, carved mean: scowling eyes, razor teeth, howling mouths. Some had old felt fedoras on, making them look like hoboes, vacant wandering souls. One had a patch over its left eye. One was carved to look like a medieval hellmouth, as I explained to Lucinda, and inside it were melting toy plastic soldiers playing the part of tormented sinners.

  The biggest, fiercest one had been made by the son of Pastor Floyd Davis, the Methodist minister. It was as terrifying an image of Satan as I had seen anywhere, complete with carrot horns, a rotted-eggplant tongue, and peeled white turnips embedded in it that looked very much like blind eyes.

  Tess and Rory had stood at the far end of the last line, a small cardboard box between them. They refused to let anyone look in until the two judges—Pastor Davis and a school science teacher whose name I didn’t know—got to them.

  The judges made their way up and down the long rows of jack-o’-lanterns taking notes, conferring humorlessly, and measuring. Everyone had stopped whatever they were doing and come to watch. Booths were shut down. Skidmore stood close by, wrapped in a blanket. The cafeteria was empty.

  The scene was, in fact, something to see: fifty leering pumpkin faces lined up, candles glowing warm inside, everyone standing around, silent as the grave, waiting for the decision of the judges.

  Someone standing beside Skid said, in hushed tones, “Usually the bigger the pumpkin, the better the chance of winning. That’s why they’re measuring.”

  Contestants really wanted to win. The main prize was from E. P. Waldrup’s Cash and Tow: a month’s worth of free gas, an oil change, a tune-up, and a choice of one item, any item, from anywhere in the yard. This was quite an offer, because some of the “items” in the yard were entire cars.

  The Palace had thrown in four free movie tickets, good anytime. And Miss Etta’s diner was offering free pumpkin pie for a year, in keeping with the situation. That Miss Etta only made pumpkin pie once a year did little to dampen enthusiasm for it. Miss Etta made very good pie.

  Many of the local boys had put a good deal of effort into winning.

  My eyes were on Tess and Rory and their little cardboard box. It was like a baby coffin. They were barely able to contain their excitement, laughing and whispering to each other. Pastor Davis was still measuring his son’s hellmouth when the science teacher made it to the end of the line and demanded to see the girls’ creation.

  Rory sighed, leaned down, and opened the top of the box.

  “Floyd,” the science teacher gasped, her face transfixed. “You’d better get over
here!”

  Pastor Davis wound up his tape and hurried over, clearly irritated by the disturbance in the solemn proceedings. But his expression took on a beatified look of wonder when he peered down into the cardboard container.

  “Lord Almighty, girls,” he said softly.

  People around began to close in, pressing on every side, trying to peer down into the box.

  “What is it?” someone whispered.

  “You’re not going to believe it,” the science teacher intoned.

  The girls beamed.

  Slowly Pastor Davis bent over and pulled out the carving the girls had made.

  It was no bigger than a child’s head, made from a baby pumpkin. Everyone froze.

  In the fading light, licked by amber cast from the bonfire, every one of us witnessed a living, human face. The pumpkin had smiling eyes, a gentle expression filled with love. The fire’s glow gave the eerie impression that the face was constantly changing features, shifting, looking around at everyone. It was clearly alive.

  “It’s Judy,” Lucinda whispered.

  The girls had not carved a demon or a devil, but one of the kindest faces I’d ever seen, apparently the perfect image of their favorite babysitter, Judy Dare, a little person from Chattanooga who lived in Blue Mountain. I’d met her once at Lucinda’s church, barely four feet tall, beautiful. The jack-o’-lantern that depicted her face was not a contrivance to scare away evil spirits, it was a hand-carved tribute, a labor of love; a sacred object designed to invite saints and angels. It was a work of art.

  We stood transfixed. None of us could believe what we were seeing. Judy’s orange face smiled, winked, sighed in the flickering light.

  “Well,” Pastor Davis said finally, “you girls really did something here.”

  Tess lit the candle inside, and Cousin Judy’s face radiated the joy of life, beamed like the soul of a real woman.

  Lucinda rubbed her eye and sniffed.

  “This is just like those girls,” she managed. “Everybody else was trying to see who could make the scariest, the meanest—that wouldn’t even occur to them. All they’ve got in them is love and kindness. They carry on so about Judy; they still visit her all the time. I mean, look at that little face.”

  I think I put my arm around Lucy then, or maybe I just had the impulse to.

  Ordinarily the winner of the pumpkin-carving contest would have been shouted out by the judges, rejoined by much cheering. That year everything was quiet. Pastor Davis fished in his coat pocket and simply handed over the paper that gave the girls their prizes.

  There was a lot of smiling all around.

  Lucinda got the girls to stand with their carving in between them. She took a quick snapshot. Everything went slowly back to normal: the pie booth sold pumpkin pies, caramel apples were stuck on sticks, girls held hands with their boyfriends; the sun began to set. Everyone took a turn walking by the Judy pumpkin.

  After the sun slipped past the horizon, a chill wind came up. It suddenly blew over the large sign in the school yard, and everybody began to gather things up, in a hurry to get home.

  “Might rain,” Pastor Davis offered as he passed us, helping his son carry the fantastic devil head to their truck.

  “Judy is the girls’ babysitter, right?” I asked Lucinda as we headed for my pickup. “Do I remember that correctly?”

  “Yes.” Lucy nodded. “They call her their aunt, but she’s really just a neighbor, lives on the same street as they do.”

  “I have met her, haven’t I? She’s the one you introduced me to at your church.”

  “I believe it was at a church dinner once,” she told me, nodding.

  “Can you believe I barely remembered that?” I fumbled for my car keys. “You’d think I would remember a little person at that church.”

  “Judy’s shy. Probably why she isn’t here tonight. Sometimes even when she’s around, you don’t notice her, which isn’t hard to imagine, little as she is.”

  “I hope she sees this pumpkin, though.” I opened the passenger door. “The carving, I mean. Don’t you think she’d be flattered?”

  “I can’t imagine she wouldn’t be,” Lucinda said, climbing into the cab, “but I don’t really know her.”

  Thunder rattled the sky, and thick, cold globs of rain began to pelt my truck. I got in quickly, cranked the engine. In the rearview mirror I caught sight of several men, Skid included, making sure the bonfire was out. Beside them I saw Tess and Rory carrying their little cardboard box, running, laughing, stumbling toward their little orange Volkswagen parked under a chestnut tree.

  “Don’t they look peaceful?” Donny said from behind me.

  Startled, I turned his way quickly.

  “Sorry, Doc,” he went on, “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that.”

  “That’s all right, Donny,” I said, recovering. “I was just remembering them, something they did a couple of years ago at the school.”

  “The pumpkin-carving contest.” Donny nodded sagely.

  Even though I grew up in Blue Mountain, knew most of the people there as family, I never ceased to be amazed at the way everyone knew everyone else’s business. Or that everyone occasionally exhibited a rough clairvoyance.

  “You remember that?” I asked.

  “Me and Dover had a entry,” Donny said simply.

  “The year the girls won, you and your brother entered a jack-o’-lantern?” I found it hard to believe. It wasn’t the sort of thing the boys were likely to do in those days. Steal a pumpkin, throw it at a passing neighbor, even give one to their sister, Truevine, in the hope of talking her into making a pie—these were more in line with their general wont.

  “We had the biggest one there,” he said in hushed tones. “We were sure we’d win. We wanted the stuff from Eppie’s yard. You know. Funny what you want when you’re a kid.”

  I turned again to look at the side of his face. In his dark suit with the glow of the fire from inside the room painting his face with amber light, I saw a new man, different from the wild boy who’d hunted pigs and snakes. This was someone of substance. Sometimes the job makes the man.

  “Would you be offended if I said I was proud of you, of the transformation you’ve made, Donny?”

  “What?” He tilted his head. “You’re proud of me?” His face went boyish and I wasn’t sure if he was going to smile or cry.

  “You and your brothers have really done something here,” I went on quickly, “and I expect there are quite a few people in town who see the changes you all have made. In yourselves and in this place. It’s good work and it deserves to be recognized.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Devilin.” He studied his shoes. “That means a whole lot.”

  “You got the girls ready in a hurry,” I said, stepping away from the coffins. “Is the family coming soon?”

  “Anytime now.”

  “Oh.” I jumped. “Well, I’ll be going, then.”

  I headed toward the door. It wouldn’t do for me to run into the parents at the funeral parlor. I was hoping to catch them at home, maybe the next day. I had some questions for them, but I certainly didn’t want to intrude on their moment with the bodies. No need making the investigation any more difficult than it already was.

  “When’s the funeral?” I asked Donny, fishing in my pocket for keys. “Do you know?”

  “Tomorrow,” he answered, following me. “At noon. You want me to walk you back to your truck?”

  The rain had let up a little.

  “That’s all right,” I assured him. “I can dash for it.”

  I pulled open the door, gathered my collar around my neck, and jogged down the steps.

  “Okay, then,” Donny called from the doorway. “Take care.”

  Thunder sounded again, louder than before. A gust of wind drove orange and rusty leaves down all around me as I dashed for the truck. Leaves stuck to my face, my arms, my chest, as if autumn had decided to claim me for its own, wrap me in its shroud; cover me over with a cold embra
ce.

  I brushed them away before I climbed into the cab and pulled the door against a chill draft. But one leaf had followed me in, rested on the dashboard: orange, the color of a pumpkin, a crumpled wreckage of the year’s end.

  The coroner’s office was only a five-minute drive, on the same main street as Skid’s office and Miss Etta’s diner. I thought I’d drive by to see if Millroy might be there.

  The door was open; I pushed it. A stranger in a black suit wended my way down the short hall and came to a stop three inches too close to me.

  “You’re Dr. Devilin.”

  “I am.”

  “My name is Davis Millroy, the new county coroner,” he said. “I know Lucinda Foxe from the hospital, and she seems to be a fine person, so I try to keep on her good side. That’s how I know you. I’m new in town, so I try to get to know people before I meet them.”

  “Yes,” I said, holding out my hand. “Welcome to Blue Mountain.”

  “I’ve been here six months.”

  “I’m hoping you’ll talk with me about your findings concerning these girls.”

  “What girls?”

  “Tess and Rory Dyson?” I suggested. How many girls are you currently investigating.

  “Oh.” He looked around. “Naturally. Ms. Foxe is the girls’ aunt, I believe.”

  “Correct.”

  “Which is why you are here.” He squinted oddly.

  “Can you tell me about your autopsy,” I said, not looking at him. “Do you mind?”

  “I enjoy talking about my work,” he answered completely expressionlessly. “You aren’t the only nonofficial personnel interested in my report. I probably shouldn’t be telling you that, but I consider it a professional courtesy.”

  “I’m sorry?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “One medical man to another.”

  “Oh, right,” I agreed. “Absolutely.”

  No point in my telling him that my doctorate was in folklore, it would only have embarrassed him. After he’d been in town for a while, he’d realize it all on his own anyway.