The Buried Book

by D. M. Pulley

  August 5, 1928

  Mama called me a liar again today. She says there’s nothing worse in this world than a dishonest woman. I’d like to argue that point, but what’s the use? Of course I know I shouldn’t lie, but I’m telling you it’s really not fair. You lie about one silly little thing like saying your prayers at bedtime or washing the dishes and you’re branded for life: Liar. And a young woman to boot. I guess I’m doomed.

  Papa says I don’t have the sense of a headless chicken. Isn’t that a gruesome thought? Me just running around the yard with my head cut off, possessed with a twitching ghost? If anybody bothered to ask me, I’d say the fact he doesn’t understand me doesn’t make me stupid. It’s more of a commentary on his intelligence than mine, don’t you think?

  Perfect Pearl is hardly a sister at all the way she’s constantly telling Mama all my secrets. She’s probably reading this right now, and if she is, she’d better understand that if she keeps reading, I’ll tell Mama all about her kissing Davey Harding behind the schoolhouse. I’m not kidding, Pearl. I’ve booby-trapped this book, and I’ll know if you’ve gone snooping.

  My brothers are hardly any better. All Leonard cares about are tractors, and my oldest brother, Alfred, hardly knows my name. He spends all his time over at the high school in Port Huron. It’s like I don’t exist at all.

  Wouldn’t that be nice? To not exist? To just up and vanish in the night? To fly away? My next life I want to be a bird. That’s assuming you get more than one, of course. Dear God, I sure hope I do.

  Wayne stopped to take a breath. “See what I mean? Just a bunch of girlie whatnot. You sure you want to read this mess?”

  Jasper just kept staring at the twisted-together words. His mother wanted to fly away. Maybe she’d finally gotten her wish.

  “Fine. It’s your funeral. See if you can do it. Try that one again.”

  Jasper spent the next hour reading and rereading the first two entries until he had a grasp on her penmanship.

  “Not bad, kid. Maybe you don’t have rocks for brains after all. You read the next one.”

  In a slow, faltering voice, Jasper sounded out the words.

  August 12, 1928

  Today was a terrible day. Papa was right. I’m worse than a headless chicken. Mr. Hoyt caught me in his barn. Mother’s always telling me not to go snooping where I’m not wanted, but I just had to see that new . . .

  “Colt,” Wayne interjected.

  . . . colt. Papa was talking all about it just the other day. Mr. Hoyt’s been trying to get the . . .

  “Neighbors.”

  . . . neighbors to invest in his new plan to breed racehorses. He says a single horse can fetch over $1,000. What a . . .

  “Schemer!”

  That’s what Papa called him, anyway. Of course, he decided it sounded too good to be true. I don’t think Papa believes in anything that doesn’t involve sweating yourself to death out in the sun, least of all horse racing. But imagine that! A $1,000 horse living just over the creek. I had to see it. It might’ve had golden hooves.

  Turns out he was just a normal sort of baby horse, all . . .

  “Wobbly.”

  . . . wobbly and skinny. I sat down next to him and stared him right in his big black eyes, looking for some sort of sign that he was something special. A $1,000 horse should look like something, but I didn’t see nothing but the reflection of my own dopey face, the poor thing. I couldn’t help but pet him. He was just a baby after all. What was Mr. Hoyt going to do when he found out this prize pony was nothing but a plain . . .

  “Quarter horse. Look at that—there’s a Q.”

  . . . quarter horse? All I could think running my hand down his flank was that he would never be worth more than the plow he’d pull. It made me want to love him. He was so smooth and soft, but under the skin something wild trembled. Maybe he had some racing in him. Or maybe he was just cold being all alone without his mama. I put my arms around him and tried to make him warm and still. It wasn’t his fault he was stuck in that barn. I felt so bad for him, I began dreaming up ways to help him escape.

  Right about then, Mr. Hoyt kicked in the barn door yelling, “Who’s in there, God . . .

  “Damn it!” Wayne raised his eyebrows and grinned, daring Jasper to cuss out loud.

  . . . damn it!”

  I must’ve lost my voice, because I just stood there dumb. He came stomping through, checking stalls until he found me with my arms wrapped around his new horse and pointed a double-barrel shotgun right at my head!

  “Wow!” Wayne piped in. “She’s lucky he didn’t shoot her. You don’t go messin’ around Old Hoyt’s place. He’s liable to kill you! Pop said he was robbed once, and that sort of thing leaves a mark.”

  Jasper thought about this for a minute before continuing.

  He looked so surprised to see me, you’d have thought I’d sprouted horns. “Don’t shoot! It’s just me, Mr. Hoyt. Althea.” I gave him a real stupid smile. Papa always said it was important to be a good neighbor. Doesn’t that include horses? I think so too, but Mr. Hoyt didn’t seem to agree. He just kept on staring at me down the barrel of his gun.

  “Who said you could be in here? What’re you doin’? Get away from him! When I tell your father about this, you’re gonna wish you’d had more sense! It ain’t right sneaking around someone else’s place like this.”

  I must’ve looked like I’d seen the devil himself, because out of nowhere he just starts laughing one of those laughs without any sound . . .

  “Boys? You out there?” Aunt Velma called from the driveway. “Time for dinner!”

  “Be right there, Ma!” Wayne hollered back, then hissed, “Hurry up before she comes in here.”

  Jasper dropped his voice to a whisper.

  . . . laughs without any sound, just a lot of hot air blowing out.

  Then he lowered his gun and smiled at me. It didn’t look like a real nice smile, though. His lips were smiling, but his eyes were doing something different. I didn’t like it. “Say, maybe we could keep this between us, Althea. We’re friends, right?”

  Jasper stopped, not sure he’d read the last line right.

  Wayne jumped in, whispering the words twice as fast as Jasper could manage to get to the end.

  I’m not sure if I said anything back. He didn’t look like my friend, but Papa would tan my hide if Mr. Hoyt asked him too. They’re the ones who was friends.

  “Maybe you could do me a favor instead?” His strange smile got bigger. Doing a favor would be better than getting a whupping, right? “You come back here tomorrow, and we’ll figure something out.”

  So I backed my way out of the barn and ran home. Now we have some sort of deal, I guess. But I really don’t want to go back there.

  Wayne snapped the book shut and tucked it back into its hiding place. “We should get back to the house.”

  Jasper reluctantly followed him out of the barn. Halfway to the cabin, he stopped and stole a glance out over the back fields to the split-rail fence that separated his uncle’s farm from Old Hoyt’s place.

  I don’t want to go back there.

  CHAPTER 12

  Children hear things. Sometimes they see things they’re not supposed to. Did you?

  Labor Day came without so much as a break in the work or a chance to go back to the barn and read. Jasper couldn’t help but think of the kids back in Detroit as he helped his cousin and uncle rake the endless windrows before the hay baler rolled over them. They’d be playing in the park or begging the shop owners to open up a fire hydrant. Mrs. Carbo would’ve made her red, white, and blue frosted cookies down in the bakery, and the whole apartment would’ve smelled like burnt sugar.

  “Hey! Quit daydreaming over there!” Wayne barked over the grumbling baler. “You’re gonna get run over!”

  Jasper jumped out of the way and picked up his rake.

  The sense of adventure had left the farm weeks ago. He missed his home. He missed running water and flushing toilets and the playgr
ound and his old bed. He missed the way his father would read him parts of the Sunday paper over toast.

  Most of all he missed her.

  The next morning, Jasper woke with a start. He’d dreamed he was falling again, only this time it was down a dark well. The echo of Sally screaming hung in his ears long after he jerked himself awake. He sucked in a breath and blinked the sleep from his eyes. The first tinge of dawn was still tucked behind the fields.

  His pajamas were wet again. He climbed off the mattress, careful not to jostle Wayne, and assessed the damage. The extra towels Aunt Velma had put under his sheet were damp, but the bed beneath was dry. Jasper hung his head. Wayne hadn’t said anything about the towels, but he must’ve noticed. Jasper tore off his wet pajamas, letting his angry fingernails rake his skin raw.

  Damn it!

  He threw the wet pajamas and towels into the laundry basket Aunt Velma had hidden under the bed.

  Cursing made him think of his mother. He slumped onto the side of the bed and pictured her in their kitchen, standing over the shards of some broken plate. Damn it! she’d yell. Then she’d remember Jasper was right there. Sorry, hon . . . Hear no evil. Right, baby?

  Huh? Jasper would pretend to be deaf.

  This almost always made her smile. Jasper squeezed his eyes shut before the tears could come. Her smile was the sun after a long cold rain.

  “You nervous?”

  Jasper jumped up at the sound of his cousin’s voice. “Huh? No . . . Well, sorta. Did I wake you?” He quickly pulled on his pants, mortified that Wayne might’ve been watching him the whole time.

  “Miss Babcock is real nice. Don’t worry.” Wayne slid off the mattress. “Let’s get the chores done so we can get there early.”

  The two boys fed the pigs and milked the cows before breakfast, with Wayne chatting the whole while. “The school’s called St. Clair Primary. It’s over on Jeddo Road about a mile from here. It’ll take us about fifteen minutes walkin’.”

  “How many kids go there?”

  “About fifty or so. They all come from the farms around here. School only goes up to eighth grade. I’ll have to go down to Port Huron in two years for high school,” Wayne explained, carrying two full buckets back up to the house.

  “Fifty kids and just one teacher?” Jasper trailed after him with a basket of eggs plucked from the henhouse. He wasn’t really listening. All he could think about was her. It had been three weeks.

  A half hour later, Wayne and Jasper were heading down the two-track drive out into the fields. The sun was warm, and the air smelled of fermenting apples and cut hay. The day would have been perfect if he wasn’t heading off to some strange school. Back in Detroit, the bus to Southpointe Elementary would be pulling away from his block right about then. He never really liked going to that school, but the fact that he wasn’t on the bus told him he might never go back.

  In the distance, the stand of trees hid the crumbling house where his mother had grown up. His feet itched to go back there.

  Wayne kept talking. “We could’ve gone down Harris, up St. Clair, and over to Jeddo, but this is the fastest way to go on foot.” He led Jasper through the field. They crossed over a small creek on a makeshift footbridge and hopped a low fence. “We’re on Mr. Hoyt’s land now. He don’t mind us cuttin’ through, but you don’t hop the fence unless you know Nicodemus is in the barn, understand?”

  “Nicodemus?”

  “Old Hoyt’s bull. He’s real mean. That son of a bitch almost gored me last year. He’s got horns like two daggers, and that bastard’s fast. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s out to kill me.”

  Jasper’s eyes widened at the description of the bull and his cousin’s foul language. He scanned the field. There was a blood-red barn three hundred yards from the creek. The door was closed. “How’d you know he’s in the barn?”

  “You see ’im?”

  Jasper shook his head. “But how do you know when he’ll be out?”

  “I don’t.” Wayne grinned. “Race ya!”

  With that, the twelve-year-old took off running for the far fence. Jasper’s short legs were no match for his cousin’s long ones, but he was faster than he looked and took off after Wayne. As he sprinted the four hundred yards, he imagined the demon Nicodemus right on his tail. He could feel its hot breath on his neck. He glanced back and there was nothing there, but the more he thought about it, the faster his legs went, until he couldn’t think at all.

  The two boys slammed into the fence at nearly the same time. “Shoot, Jasper! I didn’t know you could run like that.”

  Jasper tried to smile, but the unbridled terror was still coursing through his veins. An image of his mother ran through his mind. Something was chasing her. He shook it off and pulled himself over the fence and headed down to Jeddo Road with his cousin grinning after him.

  Halfway down the road, Jasper glanced back over his shoulder at the clapboard house where Old Hoyt still lived. The white paint was peeling and one of the green shutters hung loose from a nail.

  A curtain moved aside in Hoyt’s window. A pale face peered out from behind the glass. Jasper squinted at the hanging jowls, sagging eyes, and a frown of mouth.

  “Hey there, Mr. Hoyt!” Wayne called out and waved.

  The curtain fell closed again without a response. Jasper whipped his head back around and kept walking, but he could feel a pair of eyes following him the whole way to the schoolhouse. Wayne didn’t seem to notice.

  The teacher greeted the two boys at the door. “Good morning, Wayne!”

  “Morning, Miss Babcock. This is my cousin Jasper Leary.”

  “Hello, Jasper!” She knelt down to size him up. “Welcome to St. Clair Primary. How old are you?”

  “Nine,” Jasper replied, keeping his eyes on the ground.

  “Well then. You’ll be sitting in the third row.” She stood to hold the door open, and the boys stepped into a large room. There was a slate blackboard at the front of the room and five rows of wood desks lined up like church pews. A black woodstove sat unlit in a corner. There was a hand-painted sign next to it that read “Wandering Hands Get Burned.”

  Jasper found a seat in the third row, and Wayne picked a spot in the back. They were the first kids in the room, and Miss Babcock followed Jasper to his seat.

  “Did you finish third grade, Jasper?” she asked, standing in front of his desk.

  He nodded his head, keeping his eyes on the hem of her long skirt.

  “Did you like it?”

  He kept his eyes down and nodded again. He hated his old school, but at that moment he missed it so bad it hurt.

  “Well, you’ll find school here to be a little different. You don’t have to stick to only fourth grade lessons. You can do fifth or sixth grade lessons if you like. You can do third grade things too. There’s only one rule in this school.”

  He waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. Finally, he had no choice but to look up at her face. Her eyes were kind but not smiling anymore.

  “You must be your best self while you’re here. I will not tolerate lying, cheating, stealing, interruptions, or laziness.”

  He glanced up at the wooden paddle hanging above her desk then back down at the wood-plank floor.

  “Can you be your best self, Jasper?” She crouched down in front of him and lifted his chin until they were eye to eye. For a split second, he was terrified she was looking right into his soul and could see all the ugly things inside it. All the things that had made his mother leave him.

  He shut his eyes and nodded.

  CHAPTER 13

  Tell me about your neighbors. Were you particularly close to any of them?

  August 13, 1928

  I hoped he’d forget. But I’ve never been lucky. I was born under a bad moon, that’s what Mama told me that time when I accidentally broke her favorite vase. Seemed like an awfully mean thing to say over a really ugly piece of pottery she’d gotten across the river, but maybe she was right. Maybe I was born bad
.

  Mr. Hoyt came by today to talk to Papa about something boring, but then he motioned me over and patted his knee for me. I’m fourteen years old and far too big to sit on a lap, but I did it anyway.

  “Althea here’s growin’ up to be a fine young lady, John. Don’t you think?” he said, smiling that strange smile of his.

  “She sure is, Art. Sometimes I think she’s gettin’ a bit too big for her britches.” Papa laughed. He didn’t seem bothered at all that Mr. Hoyt had his hand on my shoulder.

  “Could you spare her a couple afternoons a week? My Alice is having a harder time keepin’ up with the housework since Maureen up and got married. We’d pay. How does a nickel an hour sound?”

  I wanted to jump off Hoyt’s leg and scream, but Papa just seemed pleased as punch. “Well, sure.”

  “But, Papa!” I practically yelled. “I—I have so many chores here. And in a few weeks there’ll be schoolwork.”

  “Althea, hush. A little hard work never did anybody any harm. You’re always asking for new dresses and the like. Now you can earn the money for ’em. I dare say Mr. Hoyt here’s being all too generous.”

  And just like that I was sold into slavery by my own father!

  “Wonderful. Why don’t you send her over tomorrow after lunch then.” Mr. Hoyt patted my back, then put his hands on my waist and lifted me off his knee.

  The minute he left, I begged Papa to undo the deal, but he wouldn’t have it. He said we’ve been hurtin’ for money for too long and it was high time I was put to good use. I screamed at the top of my lungs that I did all my chores every day and I worked hard in school and how could he single me out and not Perfect Pearl or Leo.

  Turns out, I got my whupping anyway.

  Jasper read the entry again nice and slow just to be sure. Wayne wasn’t there to help him this time and complain about all the girlie whatnot, but he’d done his job. Jasper could see the words coming out of the mess of swirled ink. The same thing had happened when he was four. One day he picked up his favorite book about the little blue engine, and he didn’t just see the letters his mother had taught him. He could see all the words he knew by heart jumping off the page.