Peculiar Country

by Stuart R. West

  “I didn’t think I would either,” I blurted out.

  That made him laugh even harder. He pulled up a knee, slapped it a good one. “World’s fulla surprises, ain’t it?”

  “Reckon it is, sir.”

  “Well, quit standing there, shaking in your boots, and come on in.” He stomped toward the door, slipped inside. The screen door slapped shut. I considered dragging Queeg in with me for comfort.

  Inside the shack, my jaw fairly dropped. The interior appeared a far cry from the patchwork exterior. Boot kept the large front room tidy, swept, clean. A nice sofa and well lived-in recliner sat in front of a lovely, wooden coffee table. In the corner, a small gas stove, sink, and tiny round table comprised the kitchen. A large, old-timey radio provided Boot his entertainment, no television in sight. Along the back wall, hanging curtains hid two other rooms, presumably the bathroom and bedroom, neither one of which I had a hankering to visit.

  Next to the recliner, a single lamp stirred the darkness. Shelves had been built into one wall, packed with photographs vying for attention. Even though Boot knew everyone in town’s business, it seemed funny how little anyone knew of his. Every bit the loner as Odie, I sorta assumed Boot didn’t have any loved ones. Or he’d outlived them all on his strict diet of orneriness.

  Downright cozy and isolated, I kinda understood why Boot didn’t want to leave his shack for a bigger abode. Comfort like this couldn’t be bought.

  “I like your place,” I said.

  “Yep. So do we.” I hoped Boot meant Queeg and not a surprise shack-mate. I’d had my fill of shocks lately. “Sit yourself on down, Dibby Caldwell.”

  I sat on the sofa, keeping to the edge.

  Boot flopped down in his recliner, the cushions molded to his lean frame. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I seem to ‘member our deal as being I’d tell you what I know about the poor lil’ Saunders boy in exchange for a favor. That about the size of it?”

  “That about fits.”

  “I gotta say, you’re toeing in turbulent waters with your inquiries. Got no idea why you’re doing such a thing, reckon it’s none of my business, but the whole town’s in a tizzy.” While he spoke, he gestured wildly with his hand. The tapered stump beneath his right shoulder wagged along. Frankly, it was a might bit hard to keep my eyes from it. “Yes sir, the whole town’s got their knickers in a knot!” At first I thought he’d stepped into a fit of sorts, coughing and bouncing all over his chair. But hellish laughter soon rose from the ashes, loud within the confining walls. “What a town, what a town…” He wound down, out of gas. Reflecting a spell.

  “Hangwell surely is something,” I agreed. “Still, I don’t have a clue why folks are so riled up.”

  “Oh, there’s lotsa reasons for that, Dibby Caldwell, lots of reasons.” He sat forward. The lamp’s light caught his eyes just so, small embers flickering in them. “Nobody in this here town likes change. They want everything the same, hunky-dory as ever. Buncha goddamn hypocrites don’t wanna think about the bad things, just sweep it all under the rug. And Hangwell’s gotta bunch of dirt to hide, yessiree.”

  “That’s what I’m finding out.”

  “Good! I hope to high hell you find it all out. Somebody needs to, dammit.” Boot sat back. He scratched at his ever-present five-o’clock shadow, blinked wary eyes. “Now, before we get down to business, I’d like to collect on that favor.”

  I gulped, my imagination pushing me down a treacherous slope. I managed, “That’s fine.”

  He sprung to his feet, bounded over toward the photograph filled shelves. On a small table beneath the shrine, he plucked a handful of flowers from a vase, a collection of poppies, peonies and sunflowers. Every much the Southern gentleman come a’courting, he lowered his head, and offered them to me. “These here are for you.”

  Before things turned really ugly, I jumped to my feet. Much too young to become his kept bride, I visually plotted my escape route. My fists knotted. “Mr. Gundersen, that’s not the reason I came here. I ‘spect you got the wrong notion about—”

  “What’re you yapping about? Take the goddamn flowers.” He thrust them toward me. The stems poked into my arm. Anger rippled across his face. “Take ‘em!”

  I grabbed them, bundled them close to my chest, an impotent shield.

  “Now follow me.” Boot turned, stomped out the front door. “Come on,” he hollered from the porch.

  Glad to leave the prison of the small shack, I rushed outside. Queeg tore out in front of me, nearly tripping me up on the porch. Beside a gathering of trees Boot stood, impatiently tapping a bare foot. “You coming? Ain’t got all day. Night’ll soon be here.”

  The last surviving stretch of sunlight pulled. Tree limbs wiggled crooked fingers. A gust of wind forced the trees to shake hands with one another, a pact of darkness.

  Boot stepped within the woods and all but disappeared. I considered high-tailing it toward my bike, but the promise of vital information ensnared me. One step closer to putting poor Thomas Saunders’ soul to rest.

  Owls hooted from all corners of the woods, an air-borne game of “Marco Polo.”

  Suddenly, hair rose on the back of my neck. Chills skied down the slope of my back.

  Someone else had joined us. Someone hidden in the woods, watching me. Felt it like a slap on the back. I turned, peered into the darkening woods. But I didn’t look too hard.

  As they say, “Better the devil you know.” I took off after Boot, figured at least I could see him, outrun the old coot if it came down to it.

  Once I entered the woods, the meager, remaining sunlight just up and went home. A heart-stopping spell of blindness froze me in place. Aided by small jags of purple light poking through the brush, my eyes got the hang of it. Ahead I spotted the tip of Boot’s cigarette, burning bright and red. I followed the tiny beacon, tracked the smoky smell down a rock-strewn path, the drop just deep enough to make for slow-going. Eventually the path flattened and opened into a circular, man-made clearing. Even the trees overhead had pealed back, inviting in the last dim light of dusk.

  Boot stood in the center, his back toward me.

  Behind me, something snapped. Cracked. The following silence came too abruptly, unnaturally. I whirled. Saw nothing. But I surely felt the presence of something. Human or otherwise, I couldn’t swear by. I hurried toward Boot. Chills chased me like a persistent flu bug.

  In reverence, Boot fisted his hand over his belly and bowed his head. At his feet, a cross composed of two pieces of nailed together wood jutted out of the ground. A heap of small pebbles and rocks sat in front of it, a smaller version of the skull-sized rock mounds found on top of the graves in Judge Wilbur’s hanging cemetery. In red paint—blood?—the name “Richard” had been scrawled across the horizontal wood plank.

  I stood next to Boot, followed his example. Folded my hands and looked down in silence.

  “Go on,” he said.

  I hesitated, not having the foggiest.

  “Go on, put them flowers down.” Irritation crisped the edges of his voice. His arm stump gestured, just a small wag.

  On my knees, I placed the flowers at the foot of the crude grave marker. Quickly, I got to my feet, uncomfortable with Boot behind me. I resettled beside Boot.

  He said, “Richard. Lil’ Richie. My grandson.”

  “Was he… Is he buried here?”

  “Yep. Well…no. Not really. But he may as well be.”

  Up on the path, leafs snapped. Footsteps approached fast. Three of them. Queeg broke into the clearing and raced toward us. He sat down next to me, lowered his head, too. Used to the ritual.

  “This here’s part of what you’re looking for, Dibby Caldwell.” Boot’s stump wiggled at the marker.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Course you don’t, dammit! I ain’t tole you yet. Now if you’ll gum up a minute, I’ll explain.” His voice broke a little, just a hair. A slice of the rising moon hooked into his damp eyes. He took a deep breath, let it out. Queeg
seemed to mimic him, then settled into a groan. “About four months after Thomas Saunders disappeared, my grandson Richie went missing too.”

  “I’m rightly sorry to hear that, Mr. Gundersen. But I’ve never heard of—”

  “Course not! And don’t interrupt adults when they’re speaking!” He clucked, carried on a bit. “Some time ago, my daughter, Gretchen, went head over heels for Alvie Holmberg, a well-to-do Durham farmer. Wasn’t long after that she married him and moved to Durham. They started raising a family of their own. Their first-born, Richard, was really something, really special. I loved that boy. Loved him like he was my own son. Hell, he looked like a Gundersen more than a Holmberg, too, I always said.” He thumped his chest, jut his chin out.

  “I’ll just bet he did,” I said.

  “Used to bounce that boy on my knee. When he was old enough, I took him out on hunts. Course Gretchen thought him too young, but age don’t matter for certain things, if you know what I mean.”

  I didn’t, not really, but nodded like I did.

  “Well…it was tragedy enough when lil’ Thomas Saunders went to missing here in Hangwell. Whole town was on edge, the gossip flying left and right. I heard it all on the phone party line. And since the boy’s father, Hedrick, had gone missing just a couple months earlier, tongues were really wagging, putting together outlandish stories. I heard all of them. All of them, I tell you, Dibby Caldwell!” He placed a finger beside his nose, winked. “But, by then, I learned not to give too much consideration to nattering. You hear it day in and day out on your job, it tends to not matter any more.”

  “Wish more folks would turn a deaf ear on gossip.”

  “You’re damn tooting! Anyway, I didn’t give the gossip no mind. Until Richie went missing. Four months after Thomas Saunders. The law in Durham said Richie’d done run away, just like Thomas had. Same age, same situation. Now, I ain’t a big believer in coincidences, a fool’s game, you ask me.” I nodded again. “I blew my stack. Refused to believe Richie’d run away. Let me ask you this, Dibby Caldwell, how many eight year olds run away?”

  I considered it. The several occasions I’d tried it, I hadn’t made it farther than the woods, home in time for supper. “Not many, I reckon.”

  “You reckon right. The kiddies go sit by the crick, climb a tree. Get scared and come home. And those are the kiddies who ain’t had a happy upbringing, feel they got reason to run away. But Richie’d come from good stock. His folks gave him everything he wanted. No sir, Richie didn’t run away. Just like Thomas, someone’d killed Richie.” His voice derailed. He gulped out great sobs. Lately I’d taken to carrying around a wad of clean tissues and for good reason. I handed Boot one. He ripped it from my hand, honked into it, then finagled his arm stump into his eyes to dry them.

  “Sorry ‘bout that. I know it ain’t very becoming to see a man bawl.”

  “It’s alright, Mr. Gundersen. Everybody does it now and then. I reckon it proves you’re human.”

  To that, Boot laughed. “For a little one, you’re wise beyond your years, Dibby Caldwell.” He cleared his throat, rattling like he’d swallowed a can of nails. “No one would believe me. About someone murdering my grandson, I mean. The Durham sheriff just laughed me out of his office. Gretchen and Alvie, Richie’s folks, were all bound up in blind faith. They overlooked the mean reality of it all, holding onto hope Richie’d come home. To this day, they still put a light on in his bedroom at night. Gretchen even turns down his sheets before turning in.”

  “I’m sorry to hear—”

  “Not half as sorry as me,” he spat. “My daughter refused to give Richie a proper, Christian burial. So—and I know it ain’t right and all—I put together this here lil’ memorial for Richie. Hoping he’d be invited into the gates of Heaven.”

  “I’m sure he has, Mr. Gundersen.”

  “Well, I believe in doubling down, Dibby Caldwell.” He turned toward me, his face drawing long as the outlying shadows. “I’m collecting on your favor. Get down on your knees.”

  “What?”

  Boot could turn on a dime. Just seconds before I felt a great flood of empathy for him. Now it seemed as if the Devil himself had set up camp within Boot.

  “I said get down on yore knees!” I backed away. He came at me, arm outstretched. My foot rolled over a fallen limb, sent me tottering back. I hit the ground hard, my hind end absorbing most of the shock. Boot grabbed the back of my flannel shirt. With surprising strength in his one arm, he hauled me up. Wrangling me by my shirt collar, he shoved me toward Richard’s temporary gravesite.

  “Get down, goddammit, down!” He shook me like a rag doll until I dropped to my knees.

  In the woods, something crashed. Limbs snapped, leaves crunched. Lowered on his front limbs, flange of hair raised, Queeg growled at the sudden intruder. A shushing sound grew loud, louder.

  “Let her go!”

  I whirled around.

  Scratched, sweaty and red-cheeked, James raced his bike into the clearing. He sliced into a semi-circle, his feet dragging him to a stop. The bike crashed to the ground as James abandoned it. One fist pulled back, he ran toward us.

  “Leave her alone before I kick you into next Tuesday!” James looked like he meant it, too.

  Boot let go of my shirt and straightened. A howl of laughter erupted from him, sent up toward the moon.

  Cautiously, I rose to my feet. James stopped, just sorta stood there, dumbstruck. His fists still coiled, he stared at them, clearly wondering if it’d be proper to sock a laughing old man.

  “Well, I’ll be dipped in shit and put on parade,” hooted Boot. “Your lil’ boyfriend here’s come to your rescue, ready to take on a one-armed marine. You—”

  “Not my boyfriend,” I muttered.

  “You still ain’t no match for me, sonny,” Boot continued. “Not even on my worst days! If that ain’t the damndest thing! Now I seen it all! The very idea… The best laugh I’ve had in a coon’s age. Why I never, never, ever…”

  From a dire situation to one I couldn’t comprehend, I had no recourse but to listen as Boot wound on. Not to be left out of the merry proceedings, Queeg circled his owner, tail wagging, his missing back leg not setting him back a bit. No doubt the dog didn’t see Boot in a giddy, back-slapping mood often. Birds cawed and fled, afraid of the unusual beast in their midst.

  Finally, Boot’s legs gave up on him, just dumped him into the dirt. He issued a bagpipe wheeze. “Sonny-boy, I wasn’t aiming to hurt your little darling…”

  “Not his darling,” I said.

  “I reckon I owe you my apologies, lil lady,” Boot said. “When it comes to my grandson, Richie…I just kinda slide a little to the bad side. A dark side I don’t much like, picked it up in the war, but it’s mine and I have to live with it. Sometimes…about Richie… Everything goes black…” He scratched his whiskers, looked either lost or ashamed, hard to tell. “It ain’t much of an excuse, I know, but I ‘spose I’m not all that good at one-on-one interaction with folks anymore. Since Richie’s death, I’ve kinda become a hermit, sometimes forget how to be good folks.” He held a hand up. “I surely shouldn’t have manhandled you, missy. I’m sorry. I rightly am.”

  “I understand how family matters can color one’s view at times.” I grabbed Boot’s hand and tried to tug him up. He shooed my helping hand away, then managed to crawl to his feet.

  Confused, James looked between us. He settled for matter over mind, what he knew best. “You…you just leave her alone, you hear me? Or I’ll…I’ll…”

  The menacing storm had passed. Boot laughed again, lending James’ threats the significance of a gnat’s sneeze. Humiliated, James sunk into a cute bundle of silence.

  But James cared. Inside, my heart flowered. Outside, I festered. “James…what’re you doing here, dangit? I told you I’d take care of it on my own!”

  He shrugged, put on his flash again. “I was worried about you, Dibs. I found out where he lived…” He jerked his chin at Boot. “…and thought yo
u might need help. I was right.”

  “I downright handled this a bit sloppy, I reckon, but my intentions were clean.” Boot pointed toward Richie’s marker. “Dibby Caldwell, I’d muchly appreciate if you’d pray for Richie’s soul. You might say I ain’t been much of a righteous man. Done sinned with the worst of ‘em. For all I know, my praying here might not be doing a lick of good. So I figured if I could get somebody righteous, somebody good to pray, it just might ensure Richie’s arrival into Heaven.”

  A pickle of a situation, to be sure. Praying didn’t come naturally to me, either. I hadn’t prayed since…well, pretty much since Mom had left. And I hardly felt good, righteous folks went around socking their enemies in the mouth, either. Still, it seemed like it might put Boot’s mind at ease and it surely couldn’t hurt. Maybe for me, too. Besides, with all the unexplainable things I’d seen in Hangwell lately, it just seemed a bit short-sighted to rule out matters of Heaven just yet.

  “All you had to do was ask, Mr. Gundersen.” I got down on my knees, beckoned for James to join me. “Next time you might try a softer touch.”

  Boot shrugged, a mighty peculiar gesture with only one arm.

  James joined me, whispered, “I don’t know how to pray.”

  I nudged him. “Shut your hole and follow me.”

  Down on one hand, Boot tucked his legs beneath him, then sidled up next to us. Together the three of us folded hands, closed our eyes. Queeg anchored the other side.

  “Dear God in Heaven,” I said, “please help the spirit of lil’ Richie Holmberg find safe passage into Heaven and to live a good and peaceful eternal life.” James lagged behind, occasionally repeating words and snippets. “Give his folks and Grandpa peace of mind and help them know that someday they’ll see him again. Um…I reckon that’s about it ‘cept I’d like to ask that Thomas Saunders find his way there into Heaven, too. Maybe the boys can be friends, just having fun, fishing off their cloud, and what not. So…”

  Boot murmured, “Ask for Queeg to go to Heaven, too. When it’s his time.”