Crayons and Angels

by Rita Kano

  “That being the case, we ought to talk with her again. Pull her aside and see if we can find out what it is she says she heard.”

  “It’s a great idea, but it won’t work. It’s too late. By now, Agnes and Quessie have put the fear of God into her so bad you or I couldn’t part her lips with a serving spoon heaped with cream cheese frosting. And as a safeguard, they won’t be letting Eunice out of their sight for some time. Until whatever this is passes.”

  “Until it passes,” repeated Nash. “You know, Miss Shirley, there’s an old saying… I don’t recollect exactly how it goes, but it’s something like if you think everybody’s crazy except you, most likely you’re the crazy one.”

  Shirley nodded. “I know. Oh, how well I know. I’m quite familiar with that concept… too familiar. Just the same, I’ve never let it stop me from trusting my feelings. Stay with me on this, Nash, two heads are better than one. That’s an old saying you…” Shirley stopped suddenly and stared inward, plundering through long shelved memories.

  “What is it?” asked Nash. “You look like you just grabbed hold of an electrified fence wire. You got another idea?”

  “I’ve got a notion, Nash. Which… which isn’t quite as good as an idea, but it just might lead to one. Do you know any old sayings that have something to do with a person going missing?”

  “I ain’t sure I know what you mean.”

  “Well, you know… like the rhymes you learn when you’re a child. Like step on a crack, break your mama’s back. Or if you have a good dream and want it to come true, you’ve got to make sure you don’t tell anyone. Stuff like that. Kids’ stuff that manages to stick with you for one reason or another or because it scared you so bad as a child.”

  “No, can’t say as I do. Not right off the top of my head.”

  “Okay, look at it another way. Like, for example, there are some people who don’t believe in Hell, but they go to church anyway, just to cover all the bases. That kind of thinking. Superstitions. That’s what I’m looking for.”

  Nash shook his head. “No. Sorry. Nothing’s coming to mind.”

  “Hmmm… well, I’ll keep pondering the matter just the same. There’s got to be something. Some saying that’s got a lot of people scared. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

  “Except, like I said before, maybe we’re both a little crazy.” Worry lines pinched Nash’s forehead.

  “No. We’re not. I’ve got a feeling about this, a good, strong, steady pulsing feeling.”

  “Miss Shirley, listen to me. How could the whole town be keeping something to themselves because of an old saying they heard as a child and we don’t know what it is? I grew up here. Wouldn’t I have the fear too… or at least the memory of it?”

  “Nash… Nash, please don’t take offense at what I’m going to say, but my guess is you’ve been doing a man’s work, seven days a week since you were old enough to tug a sack of potatoes and as far as childhoods go, there wasn’t much normal about it. Compared to most, I’m saying.”

  Nash rubbed the back of his neck. “Could be you know me as well as I know myself, Miss Shirley. And I’m not offended. I’m proud of my upbringing. But I still don’t get your point.”

  “That’s okay. I’m not even sure. Except that whatever it is some people in this town know and others don’t has something to do with the differences in our lives. Whatever it is, it isn’t something you learn at your mother’s knee. I suspect it’s hidden in the things you hear from other kids. Something one kid heard their parents whisper when they thought no one was listening. And that kid told another kid. Like that. And that would explain why no one told me. I’ve been an outsider since kindergarten. I’m the one who saw the other kids with their heads huddled together, but never knew what the whispering was all about.”

  “You know, Miss Foster, it’s a bit scary when you start making sense.”

  Shirley laughed. “I know it is, Mr. Britt. However, you’re the first to ever say it out loud. Thank you very much.”

  After they laughed together, Nash asked, “So, what do we do now?”

  “We find a kid,” answered Shirley. “One who has no respect for authority, scoffs at whippings and would piss on a grizzly bear if he had the chance.” Shirley looked around at the few people lingering outside the revival tent.

  “We’d better get going,” said Nash. “Sun’s almost set and it’s starting to sprinkle rain. We wouldn’t want you getting drenched in such a thin cotton dress.”

  “Mr. Nash.” Shirley blushed at the direction of Nash’s mind, but her attention shifted with a pointed, “There. There he is. There’s the little rascal we need.” Johnny Bullock squatted in a shadow of the revival tent, sawing on one of the ropes with a pocketknife. She grabbed Nash’s hand. “Come with me. Quick.”

  Nash held onto his hat as Shirley pulled him forward. “Come on. Hurry. He’s seen us and he’s running.”

  “You want him you got him,” Nash caught sight of Shirley’s target and sprinted on ahead of her.

  By the time Shirley reached the back of the tent, sprinkles of rain had turned to plopping drops and Nash had Johnny Bullock in his grip. Johnny squirmed and kicked trying to get away, but his short legs couldn’t get close enough to do Nash’s body any harm.

  “Here he is. What is it you want to know from this boy?” Nash asked. “You’d better make it quick before we get some unwanted attention.”

  “Johnny, stop kicking. Stop kicking,” said Shirley. “We’re not going to tell anyone you were trying to cut the tent rope. Look.” Shirley reached into her purse. “Look here. I have a five dollar bill for you if you can answer just one tiny little question.”

  Johnny stopped kicking. Nash held onto him anyway.

  “If Mr. Nash lets go of your arm, will you stay put and let me ask my question?”

  Johnny narrowed his eyes. “Screw you,” he said to Shirley.

  “Boy. You don’t…” Nash jerked on Johnny’s arm, “…you don’t ever speak to a lady like that. Where’s your daddy? A good paddling is what you…”

  “Nash…” Shirley interrupted and grabbed hold of his arm. “Nash, it’s all right. I think you’d better let go of him now.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” replied Nash. “Besides, the kid probably don’t know the answer anyway.”

  “I ain’t no kid. And I know plenty.” Johnny latched his eyes onto the five-dollar bill in Shirley’s hand.

  “Don’t even think about snatching it, young man,” warned Shirley.

  “This ain’t no trick?” asked Johnny. “You really going to give me that money if I answer a question?”

  “No trick, Johnny. It’s yours if you answer one question,” replied Shirley.

  “Okay. What’s the stupid question,” he said.

  “The question is,” Shirley waved the five-dollar bill under his nose, “do you know any old sayings, or jingles or rhymes that have anything to do with a missing person?”

  “That’s a dumb question,” sassed the boy.

  “So, give us the stupid answer.” Nash pushed his hat back and cocked his head to the side.

  “Sure, old man. It goes like this. A redhead goes missing and nobody cries. Look in the closet, you’ll find their lies. Tell what you saw and everybody dies. Now give me the five dollars, lady.”

  “Boy…” said Nash through clinched teeth.

  Shirley held out her hand. Johnny grabbed the bill and strutted away.

  “Nice kid,” said Nash. Rain dripped off his hat. “So… does that rhyme mean anything to you?”

  “No.” Shirley crossed her arms over the wet dress clinging to her breasts.

  Nash put his arm around Shirley’s shoulders and held his hat over her head as they walked to her car. When she seated herself inside, he leaned down to the open window space.

  “Don’t feel too put out, Miss Shirley. We tried. That’s all anybody can do. And I want to thank you for…”

  “Thank me? No, Nash. Stop right there. I do
n’t want to hear any it’s-all-over talk,” said Shirley. “Right now I may not know what the rhyme means, but I will find out. As a matter of fact, I think I know exactly where to look. The second line of the rhyme talks about lies. Miss Bessie Redding told a big one today.” Shirley wrapped her hands around the steering wheel. “Johnny Bullock isn’t the only one who isn’t afraid to talk about things he’s told not to. From my experience, the closer people get to the grave the braver they get. They don’t care what people think when they feel the warmth of God’s breath on the back of their neck. Do you know what they do then?”

  Nash shook his head, no.

  “If they can’t get anybody to listen, they write it in the pages of a gold trimmed diary.”

  Shirley started up the car and shoved it into gear.

  “That’s all you’re going to tell me?” Nash backed away keeping one hand on the window frame.

  Shirley wrapped her fingers over his. “That’s all I’ve got.”

  Chapter 6

  Time Ain’t What It Used to Be

  Shirley dropped onto her bed shivering, soaked through to her skin from the late evening shower.

  Time ain’t what it used to be.

  The words from Sadie Redding’s diary squeezed through her chattering teeth into her disconnected thoughts and floundered restlessly within the gray walls containing them.

  Time ain’t what it used to be.

  Grandma Sadie’s words sounded different to Shirley now. When she first read them, she thought they simply formed one of those idle musings that don’t really mean anything in particular. Not unlike so many other phrases used to fill uncomfortable silences or hide uncomfortable truths. What else was it Grandma Sadie said in that first, and now last, excerpt from her diary published in the Purity Post? Shirley had saved the article, but unwilling to pry herself up from the bed and reread it, struggled to remember the words, as she also struggled to forget the last few hours. The revival and its attendant surrealism had scraped the scabs off a number of Shirley’s insecurities. Her head whirled with flashbacks. Judgmental stares. Cup-handed whispers. Flashing glances. Nash’s kiss. Her thoughts jumped again. What did Grandma Sadie write? Didn’t it go something like… just when you think you’ve got time pinned down, you reach out for it and nothing’s left but dust?

  Shirley, although still chilled to the bone, and unwilling to focus on anything other than finding Martha Ann, pulled the far end of the bedspread over her and curled up.

  Letters had appeared from out of nowhere, at least, according to Nash. They dated back to the early 1900’s, if not earlier.

  Time.

  Could that be the most important piece of the mystery, the missing connecting piece that could lead to Martha Ann? Shirley rolled onto her other side. Sadie Redding lived around the turn of the century. And, Shirley realized as warmth and clarity returned to her body, the letters and the diary also had something else in common. The beginning of Grandma Sadie’ diary entry came across to Shirley as a matter of life and death. Two redheaded women, Glory and Isabelle, had fallen victim to… to what? Shirley turned onto her back, eyes glued upwards. And the hand that penned the letters wrapped in buckskin used the words, the risk I take. If the recipient of the leather bound letters just happened to be a redheaded woman, Shirley mused… I’d rather be dead than red on the head. How many times had she heard that insult shot anonymously from the midst of a crowd, lifted and carried by an accompaniment of giggles?

  Putting aside the cowardly cruelty in the world, could there be a meaning to the rhyme other than the one generally assumed? Did the condescending phrase hide a deep-seated fear masking a deadly prophecy? How many redheaded women had gone missing in Hog Swamp? Or died under unusual circumstances? Was that the connection between the letters and the diary?

  Martha Ann was missing. Sadie Redding’s diary mentioned two redheads, Glory and Isabelle, who were cruelly forgotten. Nash’s redheaded wife, Sable, was dead. Martha Ann’s own mother had disappeared. Did the little town of Purity, NC have a very discriminating skeleton in its closet? Did generation after generation walk into it? And to what depth did that closet reach?

  How deep? Yes. That was it. How deep?

  Shirley popped up from the bed covers, grabbed a pen and paper and scribbled a list.

  Martha Ann

  Martha Ann’s mother, Sandy

  Martha Ann’s grandmother Sable, whose real name was Isabelle

  The other Miss Isabelle, who could have been the first Isabelle’s mother or other grand relative

  and Glory.

  It could mean only one thing. If the recipient of the letters that defied time and destruction happened to be a distant relative of Martha Ann, it would mean the deaths and disappearances plaguing redheads was more than a coincidence. Vengeance had come upon the redheaded women and children of one particular family line.

  Shirley’s hands suddenly covered her mouth, capturing an involuntary gasp, as her eyes opened painfully wide. “No,” she said aloud. “No. Not that.”

  The that clawing into Shirley’s reality would make… oh my god, would make Lizzie Lovett next in line to meet the same mysterious fate.

  The soles of Shirley’s feet slapped against the floor. She knew what had to be done. She had to get her hands on Sadie Redding’s diary.

  But how?

  If she asked permission to read the diary, she’d be calling Miss Bessie a liar, Bessie having clearly told her that she burned it. Whether the statement rang true or false didn’t matter. Miss Bessie would never forgive such an accusation. And once gossip of an indiscretion like that spread around town, there wouldn’t be anyone willing to give Shirley Foster the time of day.

  Shirley collapsed back onto the bed. Should she tell Nash that Lizzie could be in danger now, not somewhere down the road? Nash had no fear for Lizzie’s safety, believing as he did that her young age gave her time and hope. Shirley pulled the other bed pillow over and covered her face. Never in her life had she wanted to be so very, very wrong.

  Shirley unbuttoned her dress, pushed it over her head and rolled onto the dry side of the bed. Reaching to a chair beside the bed, she grabbed the neatly folded patchwork quilt that her grandmother had made, covered up and closed her eyes. A quilt full of memories, a good night’s sleep and a clear head in the morning became her only hope for an ordinary tomorrow.

  Chapter 7

  Miss Bessie’s Warning

  The next morning, in her usual hurry, Shirley stacked breakfast dishes in the sink to soak until she returned from work, when a knock came from the front porch.

  “Miss Bessie,” she said upon opening the door.

  “Mine ain’t the right hands,” Bessie Redding blurted out.

  “The right hands…” Shirley repeated, still feeling a bit cotton-headed from the night before. “I’m… I’m sorry. I don’t understand. But, please, won’t you come in?”

  “No, ain’t got time for that. I lied,” she said with the glassy stare of a child awaking from a nightmare. “With sure words, I looked into your trusting eyes and I lied. Can you forgive me? I know the Lord won’t if you don’t.”

  “You lied? Oh, you mean about the diary,” said Shirley.

  Bessie fidgeted with a button on the bodice of her dress. “I didn’t burn it. I couldn’t burn my great grandma’s diary. But, I did put it in a place I don’t expect nobody will ever find it. It’s with a heart full of shame I stand before you and ask you again, Miss Foster. Can you forgive me? Will you?”

  “Of course, I do. Please, Miss Bessie, don’t give it another thought.”

  “I’m sorry, too, about the hour, Miss Shirley. But it couldn’t be helped. I have something for you. At least I hope and pray I do. Something…”

  “Something you think will be in the right hands … my hands?”

  “Yes. Last night a peculiar dream came to me and I woke up this morning knowing it’s what my dear Great Grandma Sadie wanted. It’s the least I can do. I can’t turn my back any lon
ger. But, if you ain’t willing, there won’t be no hard feelings. Miss Foster, I’m afraid something terrible has happened and still is happening. All I know for sure is, mine ain’t the right hands for this,” she glanced behind her as she spoke. “The Lord knows mine ain’t the right hands.”

  “Something terrible is happening? What do you mean?” Shirley noticed Bessie’s hands trembling. “Miss Bessie… Miss Bessie, it’s obvious you’re upset. Are you sure you won’t come in for a moment?”

  “No. No. I can’t stay.”

  “Well, okay, if you’re sure, but… does this have anything to do with Martha Ann?”

  “I can’t say no more.” Bessie removed the patent-leather purse dangling from her crooked elbow, snapped the click-lock open and fumbled through it. “Here.” She shoved a folded paper toward Shirley. “I found it in the back of the diary.”

  “Miss Bessie, I really need to know why you’re so frightened.”

  “The way I see it, if you don’t find the understanding of that paper, there ain’t nobody will. I done my part. There ain’t nothing more I can tell you. I got to be going,” Bessie snapped the pocketbook closed. “And Lord forgive me for speaking so plain,” Miss Bessie lifted her crucifix necklace and kissed it, “this is the last time I’ll be speaking with you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry as I can be… but, I got to ask you to stay away from me from this minute on.”

  Shirley stood in the doorway with the paper in her hand, speechless, for the second time, as Bessie clomped away with hurried footsteps.

  Bessie opened her car door and called back to Shirley. “I’m truly sorry, Miss Foster. What I said… it ain’t anything personal. I’ve always liked your peculiar ways.”

  From the doorway, Shirley glanced inside to the wall clock … 7:23. If she didn’t leave within the minute, she’d be late for work. But the paper in her hand… she turned it over and back, was obviously old. Time had worn the creases and yellowed it with age. Shirley started unfolding it, wondering if it was the other letter Nash suspected was out there somewhere. If it turned out to be a letter connected to the others, the fact that it had been found tucked away in Sadie Redding’s diary would confirm Shirley’s suspicions of the night before.