Peculiar Country

by Stuart R. West

  “Hold your horses. I told you I don’t even like Suzette. I mean, other than a friend, maybe. Besides…it’s you I’m here for. Not her.”

  “Why, dammit?” What I really wanted to hear. What I needed to be convinced of.

  “Well…” He shrugged. “I didn’t want to call you or anything, make things worse with your old man. And I couldn’t sleep. That damn ghost dog whining and making a racket and everything. Anyway, since I got my own room, it was easy to sneak out. I was worried about you.”

  “I don’t need your worry. Got plenty of that myself. Get going.”

  “Just hold on. Lemme tell you what I did… Now, I’m no rat-fink, but after school I went into the warden’s digs, told him how Suzette was calling you names and stuff. Told him you didn’t deserve to be kicked out.”

  Other than Dad, no one’d ever really gone to bat for me before. It felt good, knowing I wasn’t alone, that someone looked out for me. Then again, Dad had warned me about boys carrying loaded smiles, loaded compliments, and overloaded hormones. I still didn’t know if I could trust James. Especially since he always appeared friendlier with Suzette than he lead me on to believe. After a lifetime of distrust, being on-guard comes naturally.

  “Did you really do that? For me?” I asked.

  “Sure did.”

  “Well…what did Mr. Brining say?”

  “Told me to get outta’ his office. Said he’d handled it.”

  “Yeah… He handled it, alright. I’ve gotta’ make best friends with Suzette.”

  “What? Brining’s outta’ his tree!”

  “I guess.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “I dunno. I’ll find a way. Reckon I always do.”

  James sat down, his back against the tree trunk. I sat next to him, putting a bit of trunk between us.

  “So…what’d your old man do to you?” he asked.

  “Two weeks grounded. And somehow I gotta help pay for Suzette’s metal teeth if I hurt ‘em.”

  “Man…oh, man…”

  A breeze gusted by, rattled the leaves above us. Shadows painted a mosaic of dark and moonlight across James’ face, daubing him in even more mystery.

  “Well…what’re we gonna do about, you know, Thomas’s ghost and everything?”

  A mighty fine question, one I’d been asking myself before I got into this stupid Suzette mess. “Reckon there isn’t much we can do for a couple a’weeks. Unless we go out at night, see what ghosts we can stir up.”

  “Okay.” His eyes lit up.

  “I’m kidding. We can’t sneak out every night, looking for ghosts.”

  “Don’t see why not. You’re doing it already.”

  He had me there. But they hadn’t been planned ghost hunts. Rather, the ghosts had drafted me into duty. “That’s about as poor an idea as I’ve ever heard, James. Besides, we need to do more investigating, talk to people. No one’s up at night. ‘Sides, Dad and your folks would find out we’re traipsing through the night in no time.”

  Then I thought of ol’ Hettie Williquette. Someone I highly suspected would be awake during the wee hours. But the thought of talking to her, even under the comforting sun, scared the dickens out of me. And I knew enough about James by now to know he’d jump at the chance to talk to a bona fide witch. I kept my trap shut regarding Hettie.

  “Ah, still stuck in Squaresville.” He leaned over, dug into his pocket, and pulled out a bent cigarette. He slipped it between his lips, then fished into his pocket for matches.

  I plucked it from him, and snapped it in half. “I’m not stuck in Squaresville.”

  He looked at me in wide-eyed disbelief. “Not this again.”

  “My boots are firmly planted in reality, not your make-believe Squaresville. Neither one of us need to go looking for trouble.”

  As soon as he pinched out another crooked cigarette, I broke it, and boomeranged the broken halves back to him.

  “Dammit! Quit breaking my cigarettes!”

  “If we wanna stay outta trouble, we’ll start here.”

  He closed one eye and peeked into his nearly empty, well sat-on package. “But…I’m about out. You can’t break any more.”

  “Sure can.”

  He groaned, rightly tucked the package into his jacket’s pocket. “Give me one good reason why we can’t we go out at night. I can break outta my hotel, no sweat. It’ll be fun.”

  James practically bent over backwards for fun. But he couldn’t understand that Thomas Saunders’ murder was about as far from “fun” as one could get. Furthermore, what Odie’d said kept circling the drain in my head: Too many kids done gone missing already. Maybe what’d happened to Thomas could just as easily happen to us.

  “James, I’m not fiddling around here. I need to know if you’re fully committed to finding out what happened to Thomas Saunders. Things could get dangerous.” I set my lips firmly, gave him a good eyeful.

  “Hey, easy, easy. I wanna help you. I like danger. About time something cool happened in this burg.”

  I sighed. Absolutely irrepressible. “Just keep what I said in mind, James.”

  In the distance, a critter howled, something I couldn’t identify by sound. Nothing new under the moon in Hangwell, though.

  “What was that?” asked James.

  “Who knows?” I decided to embellish a bit, maybe shake some sense into him. “Here in Peculiar County, you’re liable to hear lotsa strange things. I suspect it might be a devil hound. Maybe a werewolf.” I couldn’t hide my grin. Maybe Odie Smith didn’t have the rottenest poker face in town after all.

  “Ah, now you’re putting me on.”

  “Caught red-handed! Still…you can’t deny Hangwell’s weirdness. You’re already well-acquainted with Mittens, the ghost dog. And the Sooters sisters.”

  “Yeah, completely cuckoo. So…you know about werewolves and stuff?” I nodded. “Well…I was wondering… You know there’s a horror film, The Curse of the Fly, coming to the Starlight Theatre and—”

  “Yes.” I blurted. “I’d love to see it! I loved the other Fly movies, too!”

  “Really? I mean, you’ll go with me?”

  Reality crept up and slapped the upside of my jawbone. My newly grounded status hardly made allowances for movies. In a way I felt a trifle relieved. I’d never been on a date before. I needed some time to get my toes wet before diving head in. “Oh, wait…I’d really like to go with you. But I can’t. I’m grounded, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah…right. Hell.”

  Disappointment deflated him. There, in the dim moonlight, beneath the tree, he looked much younger than the way his swagger and bluster aged him. I felt awful, both for him and for me.

  “Well…maybe the picture will stay in town for a couple weeks.” But I knew that wouldn’t be the case, not with horror pictures. Around here, the Starlight scooped in all the kids for one weekend, then the movie’d blow outta town like the wind. “Or maybe…maybe I could ask Dad to make this one exception.” Honestly, it sounded far-fetched. While, on occasion, Dad had given me leeway—I suspected out of his deep-rooted parental guilt—socking Suzette seemed fairly irredeemable, even to me.

  “Really? That’d be fab.”

  “I can’t make any promises. But it surely won’t hurt to ask. As long as you stay out of trouble, too.”

  “Yeah.” As if I’d reminded him of his bad habits, he plucked out his rumpled cigarette package again. “They got any cigarette machines in this town?”

  “Well… There’s one down at Daryl Mooney’s service station—you know, the Sinclair—but ol’ Daryl keeps a tight eye on doings. He wouldn’t cotton to a minor buying cigarettes. And, don’t quote me on this or anything as I never set a foot inside, but I’m willing to bet dollars to donuts there’s one at the Tavern. But you don’t wanna go in there. Probably couldn’t anyway.”

  This time James really deflated. He groaned, raised his hands to the sky. “What’m I gonna’ do?”

  “Sounds to me like not much choic
e other than quit. That advice’s on the house.”

  “I guess.” He snatched the last cigarette from the pack, quickly jabbed it between his lips. Just as quickly, I plucked it away, gave it what for.

  “Nooo,” he cried. “That was my last one!”

  “Good. You ever kissed an ash tray?”

  His cigarettes forgotten, he grinned. “No. Have you?”

  “Absolutely not. Disgusting.”

  “You ever kissed a boy who smokes?”

  “No. That’s even more disgusting.”

  “Wanna’ try?”

  “I reckon I might.”

  The conversation happened so fast, I couldn’t keep up with my mouth. But it felt right.

  He leaned in. So did I. His fingers caressed the bottom of my chin, playing over the little scarred reminder of when I cracked my chin open as a kid. Self awareness of my flaws kicked in. But if he noticed the scar, it didn’t seem to phase him.

  Our lips met. A gentle and smooth kiss, not at all the roughhouse, back alley and dive kissing found in movies. I followed James’ lead, explored his lips with mine. To get closer, fit more snugly, I angled my head. His other hand rested on my shoulder—when it found its way there, I couldn’t rightly recollect—and he massaged it.

  My heart banged away. Breathing turned locomotive. Plumes of his breath warmed my cheek. I pressed harder, wiggled to and fro. His slightly smoky breath didn’t matter one whit.

  Warmth spread through my body, tingles from head to toe, and nearly exploded at the physical center of myself.

  At that moment, I had no idea how this would end, how I wanted it to end. For all I cared, we could’ve kissed all night. Time had crashed to a halt and politely waited for us. Nothing else in the world mattered but now.

  Yet, as if from a well, Dad’s voice hollered up, full of warnings about the dangers and complications and mysteries of sex.

  Even though my body felt ready to chug down that track at full speed, my mind stepped on the brakes.

  With a hand on James’ chest, I broke the kiss. And opened my eyes.

  James’ eyes twinkled, of course, their usual way. I reined in my galloping breath, tried to wrangle my runaway heart. And I grinned, a full-on, jack-o-lantern stupid grin.

  “Gosh.” That’s all I said. All I could come up with after being immersed in a lifetime of witty cinema repartee. Anything fancy alluded me. From the looks of James, he’d been stricken with the same, not unpleasant ailment.

  “That was nice,” he said.

  “Yep, surely was. Except I was right.”

  “About what?”

  “Kissing you was like putting my mouth on an ash-tray.” With that, I hopped up and clapped imaginary dust away from my hands. Hoping James would get the picture that the deed was done. For now.

  He joined me and reached for my hand. Somewhat skittish—and I rightly couldn’t be sure why, either—I pulled away and kept my hands clasped tightly beneath my chin, the way I’d seen the girls at school do while flirting. And now I sorta understood it, too. It was a mighty effective form of defense and offense at the same time.

  Without saying a word to one another, we strolled back to my house. I jumped up onto the porch and whispered, “I’ll ask Dad about the movie.”

  Deciding that was about as good a farewell as I had in me, I hurried inside, and quietly closed the door. On tiptoes, I looked out the small door window. James stood there, dumbfounded, another deer caught in the headlight. Then he waved. And got on his bike and rode off into the dark of night.

  * * *

  It took some fine finagling, but I finally convinced Dad that fresh air and sunshine would benefit me if I rode my bike to school. Of course I had to promise not to make any other stops, a promise I fully intended to keep at the time. But if the road to hell is paved with good intentions, the road to good intentions is surely pocked with pot-holes.

  Of course since I’d just won a minor battle, I didn’t dare ask Dad about the movie this weekend. Winning that war would require more stamina, none of which I had now.

  Regardless of my dog-tired body, sheer excitement powered my brain. I pedaled through town, straight down Main Street, delivering greetings with a little more pep in my voice than usual. I didn’t even mind the occasional odd stare, figured I near earned it by socking Suzette. Nothing could dampen my day, a glorious one. Funny how a kiss could flip things sunny side up.

  “Dibby? Dibby Caldwell!”

  Right away, I recognized the voice, damaged by years of cigarettes, whiskey and barking orders. Never before had he called me out, and it set me on edge. But it was a voice I’d be wise not to ignore.

  I braked and wheeled around. Sure enough, Sheriff Grigsby stood in front of Simonson’s Drug Store, hands set to the side of his mouth as if to holler at me again. Behind him, Fire Chief Wakuna—his ever present companion—strut out of the store, shadowing the bigger man.

  “Morning, Sheriff Grigsby! How-do, Chief Wakuna!” Rather than going over to them, I sat perched on my bike, hoping to get on with my day. But the Sheriff—the world’s biggest pear—strode across the street, huffing and puffing. Clearly, he had something on his mind other than chatting up the weather.

  Wheezing like a squeaky gate, the sheriff fanned his face with his hat. Although 75 degrees out, he looked like a man who’d just crawled out of the Sahara Desert.

  As his usual wont, Chief Wakuna took forever and a day crossing the street. Despite his giraffe-length strides, he lived life at a decided easy-going pace, the polar opposite of the sheriff.

  Sheriff Grigsby still couldn’t muster the air to form a sentence.

  “Morning, Dibby.” Chief Wakuna stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. A light breeze blew his open flannel shirt back over his T-shirt and lifted his long hair. I’d always been secretly jealous of his thick, lustrous locks, by far the best in Hangwell.

  “Morning back to you, Chief. Sheriff. Just on my way to school. Can’t be late.”

  At long last, the Sheriff’s breath topped off. “Well now, Dibby, I certainly don’t want to contribute to your being late to school. I understand you’re already in a mite big heap of trouble.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘heap,’” I suggested.

  “Fact of the matter is, I’d like to make sure you don’t add anything onto that ol’ heap you seem gosh-durn hell-bent on building for yourself.”

  “That’s powerful nice of you, Sheriff. But I fully intend on staying on the straight and narrow.”

  Typically, Chief Wakuna said nothing. A man of few words, he never beat around any bushes unless they tumbled in his way. If he knew what the sheriff wanted, he didn’t show it. But that didn’t mean a thing. Unlike Odie Smith, Chief Wakuna enjoyed the reputation of being the man no one in town wanted to play poker with.

  “Dibby, it’s come to my attention…well, this matter gets a little tetchy, if you know what I mean…” I didn’t, but the sheriff tapped his temple as if he had everything under control upstairs. “I done heard you made up some nonsense about a non-existent history project. One regarding the Saunders family.”

  That wasn’t the only thing I’d fabricated. A fake cough covered my nervous gulp. “Oh, we were just fooling around, Sheriff. We didn’t mean anything by it. Honest.”

  “By ‘we,’ I take it you’re referring to the new Mackleby boy? The one living over at the hotel?” The sheriff framed a sour face as if a bug’d flown into his mouth, his distaste for James obvious. Knowing the sheriff, I fully suspected James’ long hair provided the reason.

  “That’d be James, sir. Since he’s new, I thought I’d show him around.”

  “Now that still doesn’t explain why you’re running around lying about school projects. That just doesn’t sit well with me. How ‘bout you, Chief?”

  “Mm.”

  “But the thing that strikes me as odd, Dibby,” continued the sheriff, “…the thing that just sticks in my craw and won’t let go…is why in the world would you be having fun at the ex
pense of the Saunders’ family? That seems a bit cruel given their history.”

  He waited for my response, stretched back and stood tall. A bullet of sunlight pinged off his sheriff’s star.

  I weighed my responses. On the one hand, it seemed like the sheriff might be the most knowledgeable person regarding Thomas Saunders. On the other, I reckoned I was much too young to end up in his hoosegow. All over a stupid lie over a stupid, made-up school project. “Sheriff, I surely meant no disrespect. I was just curious about what happened to Thomas Saunders. Seeing as how Mrs. Saunders is my neighbor, I didn’t want to say something off and stick my boot in my big ol’ mouth.”

  Just when I thought the Sheriff had blustered every shade of red, he turned heart attack purple, the color ol’ Fred Landry assumed when he dropped dead last year. His lips drew into a tiny, colorless draw-stringed bag. “You listen to me, young lady, and you listen good! Tommy Saunders ran away from home years ago and it done tore his momma up. He just up and ran off to make good in the big city or join the circus or some other starry-eyed notion. Either way, what he done was a huge disrespect to his momma and now I see your heading down that same path. Mrs. Saunders has had enough heartache! I suggest, and this is a strong suggestion…” His stubby finger nearly poked me in the eye. “…that you never mind about the Saunders’ past heartbreak and go live your lil’ girl life. Like a normal girl.”

  Course I’m not a normal girl. “What happened to Thomas’s father?”

  “Why don’t you ask your daddy about that!” Spittle flew from the Sheriff’s mouth.

  “My dad won’t talk to me about the Saunders.” My voice sounded small. I felt like a little girl, the kind the Sheriff wanted me to be.

  “For damn good reason, I imagine!” The Sheriff straightened, took a breath, then snorted it out toward me. The minty odor of chaw, mixed with onions, filled my nose. “Just leave things alone, Dibby. I mean it.” He brought back his stubby finger of the law. “Or I might just have to look into that accusation that you defiled and stole from the library. Now get on to school. Git!” He slapped my back tire as if it was a horse.