Tuesday was the worst day of his life, he'd been running late and had forgotten to look for the gloves in the morning, and the vicious thorns had about ripped his hands to shreds. Even though he was mainly working around the roots, it seemed the little terrors were everywhere. Wednesday was still really slow going, but wearing a pair of canvas gardening gloves he had found in their garage, he began to make quick work of the God-awful project. And by Thursday, he finally began to feel he was making real progress as had finally gotten a rhythm down. Friday morning found him maybe somewhere less than halfway done, and the routine had become as familiar as the morning and afternoon run between his house and the Ballard's.
First, on his knees, he would dig around the base of the stalk with the hand trowel until all the roots were exposed. From the first day, he'd learned to be careful to not tear any of the fine hairs, as Mrs. Ballard had so adamantly instructed as she'd watched. Next, he'd pull the stalk up and pin it back against the trellis. Then, Lee would dig out all around with the big shovel, removing all the earth from the wall to the grass line and pile it up in the wheelbarrow. Walking the wheelbarrow down the path all the way to the mound by the river was the easiest part; at least it was going down hill. Then, making a new pile, he'd dump out the spent, gray dirt. Once the wheelbarrow had been emptied, he'd dig deep through the weedy crust to get to the dark, moist earth just below the surface of the mound. By experience, he learned to fill the wheelbarrow, not too high, and steel himself for the difficult climb, pushing the heavy, wobbly wheelbarrow up to the house. Finally, he'd scoop out handfuls of the rich new dirt into the fresh hole, and gently tamp it in around the roots before piling on the rest of the soil and tamping it down with the shovel. Completely filling in the area and making a nice level mound that matched the previous section's height set him up to repeat the entire process. After the second day, he had lost count how many trips he had made back and forth to the river.
It was probably around nine, Friday morning, and the sun was rising high up in a blue and cloudless sky. Brenda, with an uncanny sense of charity, somehow always knew when the tireless boy needed water. Throughout the day, she would appear, like a ruddy-faced Irish angel of mercy, with a huge tumbler filled to the top and with lots and lots of ice.
Lee leaned on the shovel and drained almost a pint with the first few gulps, enjoying the tickling internal chill as the liquid felt like it was spreading down the inside of his ribs.
A few minutes earlier, Mrs. Ballard had passed by, from out of the porch arbor, on her way down to the little house, a pilgrimage she performed each morning about this time. Only the first day had she spent some time hovering about Lee and driving him almost to nervous affliction with her constant scrutiny and comments over his every move.
Today, she had said nothing, and neither had Lee or Brenda. Lee took the old lady's silence as a good sign, when she floated by. She had been distractingly vocal with him about her specific opinion of how things should be done the first few days. And there was no describing how much better he felt when she wasn't glaring at him with those white eyes or peering over his shoulder.
"Thanks, Brenda,” he said after taking another enormous draught. “I do believe you have the best tasting water I ever drank."
"Glad to do it,” she smiled. The cracks and creases of her pink face furrowed deeply when she smiled, especially around her eyes and mouth. Her face showed she was obviously a person who liked to smile a lot and had quite a bit of practice at it. “I know Mrs. Ballard hasn't said anything to you to show it, but she likes the job you're doing."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
"How's that?” Lee wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
"Because she hasn't said anything to you for a while. When she stays away, you're okay."
Their eyes met, and Lee understood.
Another great draught of water disappeared.
Lee swallowed and hiked a thumb in the direction of the little house. “What does she do in there?"
"You've passed by there how many times?” Brenda asked, always ready to answer one of Lee's questions with another question.
"It feels like a thousand trips going down, but more like a million coming back."
Brenda's creases returned. “And what was she doing every time you passed by?"
"Just sitting there, just staring at that back door, never even moving.” Lee again wiped away a runner of sweat with the back of his hand before it ran down into his eyes. This time he left a streak of mud across his forehead. With his red flush the stripe made him look like he was playing Indian. “It gets so I don't want to look as I go by. If she moved I think I'd jump out of my skin."
"Then you know as much as I know,” said Brenda. “Ever since her Walter died, she's gone in there most every day and stays as long as she can stand it. I once told her she should at least buy a fan and put in a space heater to make it more comfortable when it's so hot in the summer or cold in the winter. She told me to mind my own business, like I'd been peeping on her. And then she made that face of hers.
Lee knew what look Brenda referred to. He had witnessed the awful thing her face could become, as well.
Once, the second day while Mrs. Ballard had been out in the arbor sitting in the rattan chair watching him as she ate her breakfast, he had broken a rose stalk when he'd bent it back to pin it up against the trellis. She had gotten right up and come quickly outside to stand over him just as he'd pulled the broken piece off and tried to bury it in the dirt. He'd looked up to see her towering over him with her arms crossed, and those eyes as angry as sin. She didn't say a word; she didn't have to, the look was enough. The way her parched skin drew tight and her lips curled, you'd have thought she had just taken a bite from something rotten.
"What's behind that door anyway,” Lee asked, then drained the tumbler.
"You've heard about the bomb shelter, haven't you?"
He shrugged. “Not really."
"Right about a year before Mr. Ballard died he became absolutely obsessed with the Communists. He was convinced we were on the brink of atomic war. Said we were all going to get fried.” Brenda looked eerily distant and grimaced as she shook her head. “Strange, that he used those words now that I think about it.” She shivered, but came back to her self. “Anyway, so he had this big bomb shelter dug out and built down there. It's got furniture, beds, food, army surplus stuff, everything, even a gasoline generator. He spent a fortune. Since the sewing house was already there, he thought it would make a good access for the door down to the shelter."
Wow,” said Lee genuinely impressed. “I've never seen a bomb shelter. Have you ever been down there? Have you been in it?"
"Nope.” Brenda shook her head. “Never been. Don't want to. I got enough to do just taking care of the house."
Lee imagined for a moment then asked, “But why would Mrs. Ballard just sit in there, staring at the door?"
Brenda shrugged. “I don't know, and I'm not going to be the one to ask her either."
Lee couldn't hide his ravenous look of curiosity.
"Lee, let me tell you something,” Brenda said, shifting her weight from one leg to the other and putting a hand on her broad hip. “I've worked for the Ballard's a long time; I came on here right after the war. They used to be really good people, in spite of the fact that they had a young daughter die—"
"A daughter?” Lee jumped in. “The Ballard's had kids? Really?"
Brenda's creases furrowed revealing that they didn't only deepen when she was happy.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude and interrupt,” Lee offered quickly. “I just couldn't imagine a kid ever living here. They really had a daughter?"
Brenda nodded, accepting the apology. “And a son, too. I don't know anything about him. But the little girl's name was Irene. Mrs. Ballard occasionally speaks about her. She died in some kind of playground accident."
"Playground?” Lee repeated.
Brenda pointed to the little ho
use. “The equipment was right over there. They had it removed when it started to rust, and later they built the little sewing house right where it had been."
Lee shook his head. “I never heard anything about any of this."
Brenda fanned herself briefly with one hand and then ran a finger under her collar. “Like I said, it was long before I came to work here, way before the war. The Ballards never ever spoke about the accident. I only know because my daddy was a Sheriff's deputy."
Lee took the last drink of water from the tumbler and swished the ice around, then turned the glass up and popped a cube into his mouth.
"Anyway, back to what I was saying about the Ballards,” she continued. “They used to be right popular. They had big parties, the Fourth of July was one of Mr. Ballard's favorites, right up there with Christmas. Your grandma and grandma used to visit over here a lot. But...” She paused searching for the right description. “But, people change, and some times, it's not for the better. Mr. Ballard had some kind of a breakdown. Actually, I don't know if it would be right to call it that. It was like, one day he woke up and decided he just wasn't going to be happy anymore. It was about that time he had that bomb shelter dug out. Then, as soon as the shelter was completed he went totally crazy, and next had all the lovely cherry trees destroyed. He'd have probably had the whole gardens ripped up, but Mrs. Ballard wouldn't let him. There she had drawn the line. I remember it was a terrible ruckus. Then, day-by-day he turned so hateful it was like he wasn't even the same person anymore. I almost quit. I swear to God, after more than fifteen years with the same folks I couldn't take it any more."
"Why didn't you quit?” asked Lee, turning the tumbler up again, higher this time, and leaned his head back to get the last pieces of ice that stubbornly stuck to the bottom.
"Because he died.” She held her hand up like she was swearing an oath. “I'm telling you Lee, it was crazy here. Things started happening here I couldn't even blame on Mr. Ballard.” Her eyes went distant and gray and Lee could see she was remembering something. “Then, I really had had enough.” She shook her head. “It was the day I had set my mind on it, a Friday. I came to work early, ready to tell them I couldn't put up with his following me around, the staring, the fits, and all the mean little evil things he did to everything and everyone around him. Hateful, little spiteful things, like crushing his cigarette out on the floor and then just glaring at me while I had to clean it up, and then as soon as I was done, doing it again. The worst was he'd taken to going down by the river, where he thought no one could see. He set out food to catch a stray cat or lame old dog. Then he'd lead it down to river.” She shook her head and pursed her lips.
"What'd he do?” Lee was riveted.
Brenda shuddered. “Never you mind."
Stopping that glazed, remembering look before she got too far along, she continued quickly. “When I opened the door that morning, there was Mrs. Ballard, her face white as a sheet. I swear to God, absolutely white, like one of those statues.” The strong Irish woman's creases came back to her face. “And her eyes, I've never seen eyes like that on a human being."
Lee handed Brenda the glass back.
"I shouldn't say,” she softened to a whisper, “but it wasn't any accident. No accident to it at all."
"What wasn't an accident?"
"Oh, no. No. I really shouldn't,” she stopped and looked at her watch, then took a step back, and clasped the empty cup to her expansive bosom.
Lee waited, his eyes wide.
"Look we better just mind our own business and get back to work.” Brenda turned the tumbler upside down and actively shook out the last stubborn drops so they fell, disappearing into the new dark soil. “Just you forget about Mrs. Ballard and the little house and keep doing a good job. You'll have your money and be out of here before you know it."
She tousled his hair and gave him a pat on the shoulder, then went back inside.
Lee laid the shovel atop the pile of dead soil and went around to the handles, straining to lift the wheelbarrow for another trip down to the mound by the river. Again, he made a conscious point of trying not to look in the empty windows as he passed the little house; but he couldn't not see her sitting in there. As always, his attention seemed to be drawn, in spite of himself, more to the things he shouldn't look at. Here too, there always seemed to be something moving but only when he could catch sight of it out of the reflection in the widow panes or the corners of his eyes. But she was in there, the gray bun of her hair pulled up on the back of her head facing him through the glass. One time, he had thought he'd seen her move, reaching up to touch the knob.
But he had to be careful to watch his balance, lest he dump the load. It was tricky moving along on the cement and pebble stepping-stones. It might have been easier going to the side, but Mrs. Ballard had insisted he keep to the path. She said she didn't want any ruts in her nice St. Augustine grass.
Finally, back down by the river he could appreciate all that he had done as the huge earthen mound now had quite a large chunk taken from its side. He'd dumped the wheelbarrow out and then moved it over so that it was near the hole he'd excavated. Lee dug in deeply, thrusting the shovel down to where the soil was black and rich and run through with red streaks of soft clay.
As though digging in a trash pile instead of a pile of earth, he constantly ran across little shards of charred wood, tatters of cloth, pieces of glass, and even once, a few flat, tarnished green metal buttons with the letters U.S. They were still attached to a strip of rotten cloth. Once he had even found in the dirt a row of teeth, still locked in a chunk of bone. Positive that they hadn't come from a raccoon or a dog, he had flung them far out towards the middle of the river, watching them sail over the cattails and then disappear. He knew they weren't from any animal; dogs and raccoons didn't have fillings.
Part of the difficulty of the work was that it was always difficult to decide when the wheelbarrow was full. He always wanted to get as much dirt as possible in for each trip. But if the wheelbarrow tipped, or was too heavy to push all the way up, it made the work even worse than making more trips with lighter loads.
"One more good shovel full,” he thought, straining at the shovel's long, wooden handle. He managed a full scoop, and turned, levering his elbow on his knee, as he swung around and dropped it on the pile already heaped well above the sides of the wheelbarrow.
A few thick clods hanging above the freshly excavated cavity lost their grip and tumbled down loosely rolling down to his feet. A glint of something odd shone in the sunlight, catching his attention. Lee shoved the shovel back into the dirt and bent down to examine the clod.
It looked like a marble at first glance. It was hard and round, and milky white, like a dirty old piano key. He knelt down and scooped it up. Picking at it with his fingers, he cleaned off the sticky, red clay. Finally, Lee put it in the tail of his sweaty shirt and rubbed the smooth, round ball vigorously. Plucking it out from the sweaty cloth and being careful not to drop it, he turned it over. On the other side was a round, dark green circle. Inside this green inlay was an inner black hollow that shone and sparkled.
He almost dropped it, as he realized what he had found, had once been someone's glass eye.
Unlike the teeth the other day, he didn't throw this into the river. Like a nugget of gold, he buried it deep in his blue jean's pocket. “Finders keepers,” he thought to himself, and grabbed the wheelbarrow handles, for another long trip back up to the house.
By the end of the day, Lee was wiped out. It seemed the distance between the mound of earth and the trellis had grown two fold with every trip back and forth. He hadn't even had enough energy to run home, and had walked along under the trees examining his new prize. The eye was fascinating. In his opinion, much better than anything else he had ever found. It was dirty, though. Who knows how long it had lain in the ground. Rubbing it on his shirt or pants didn't help, and possibly even made it dirtier. He vowed to get it cleaned up first thing when he got home.
At the gate, Flapjack had heard him coming and was waiting.
"Hey, boy,” Lee called out as he came through the gate.
The big duck was wild with excitement at seeing Lee. He had spread his wings and was honking, all the while prodding Lee with his beak and blocking his path to the back door.
"Okay! Okay!” Lee was forced to kneel down and give Flapjack a squeeze. He then captured the ducks head in both hands and looked him face to face. “How you doing, boy? You missed me? Did you find any good bugs to eat today?"
Lee had never had a puppy. Maggie hated dogs. But he'd had enough friends with pets to know what he'd been missing all these years. There was no mistaking the way Flapjack looked at him. Flapjack was Lee's duck, no question about it.
He rubbed the blue spot, still left from the Easter dye, on the feather behind the head then got to his feet. “You're gonna lose that last bit of blue one of these days, boy,” he told the duck. “Come on, out of my way. I'm tired and I need to get cleaned up."
Flapjack, displaying that rare talent of a loving pet, was an expert at getting in the way. It seemed no matter how carefully Lee tried not to step on Flapjack he was always there blocking the way and looking up at Lee with those adoring eyes. Finally though, Lee sat down on the back steps and began to untie his tennis shoes. Of course, Flapjack was there to help, trying to give Lee his kisses every time he bent forward.
Evil Heights, Book I: The Midnight Flyer Page 12