by Anne McAneny
A drip of water fell on my head. I stepped aside and gazed up at a bowing-ball-sized hole in the ceiling. Water was actually falling from the ceiling of the floor above that one. Didn’t seem promising for the contents of the attic.
Chad and I made our way to the front of the house and up a flight of warped stairs. Immediately to our left on the second floor was the door to the tower. To our right was a long hallway with eight doors, including one in the ceiling that provided attic access. Neither of us was pleased to discover the ancient pull-down ladder that did everything in its power to discourage us from entering the attic. Chad finally got it to a point where we could hoist ourselves up, but the rickety structure seemed more suited to a dollhouse. No way Quail had ever climbed up here.
With a few additional struggles, we entered the attic, not entirely certain we’d make it back down. I glanced around. Some poor schlep had indeed been tasked with lugging a lot of junk up here. Some of the items were large—chairs and mattresses—and roof leaks had decimated them, but the miracle of plastic offered hope for the bins stacked against the wall in back. Someone—a person more thoughtful than my fourteen-year-old self—had actually stored the Whitakers’ possessions in sealed, labeled containers. Had that someone yet given up hope, as years mounted to a decade and the black ink of the labels faded to gray?
I reached toward the first bin cautiously, like a kid in a poisonous candy shop.
“Hey,” Chad said, nudging my arm, “you’ve got to wear these.” He held out plastic gloves. “If it turns out there were nefarious goings-on in Boyd’s basement, this stuff might become evidence.”
I resented the forced layer of sterility but understood its necessity. Chad slapped the gloves into my hand and I slid them on, but the idea of Hoop’s personal items becoming evidence made me squirm. While I wanted justice, I hardly wanted his life on display for a jury to ogle or some reporter to romanticize. Already, the grief-filled territory I’d carved out in my heart felt trampled upon by outsiders.
“You know what to look for,” Chad said. “A hair, particularly with the shaft and root, or maybe a trace of blood. Personal items, like a toothbrush or a fingernail clipping. Anything that might contain DNA.”
“How come you didn’t send a forensics team to do this?”
“We’re overwhelmed. Sherilyn can’t rule Mrs. Elbee’s death a suicide yet, so they’re turning her place over, and we’ve got the FBI and DEA down from D.C. looking into Boyd’s mess. Would you believe he had a false wall on the east side of that basement? He was running a pretty big operation. Little more to Boyd than any of us gave him credit for.”
I snorted my disgust. “Guess he kept the store as a front.”
“Maybe. They had him under surveillance for a while.”
“If the Feds knew about his operation, why didn’t they act?”
Chad shrugged. “Maybe they were hoping to lure in a bigger fish. They won’t say much.”
“Did they at least surveil whoever started the fire?”
“Apparently not. More of a remote, on-and-off surveillance.”
“What tipped them off in the first place? High electricity bill?”
“No. Anonymous tip a few months ago.”
“When it rains in Beulah, it sure as heck pours, huh? Did these Feds know anything about Boyd keeping people captive in his basement?”
“No,” Chad said. “And believe me, I asked. But we’ll figure it out. I’ve got my best investigator on it.”
“Who?”
He smiled. “You.”
With that, we dug in. My first bin contained Hoop’s clothes. No green flannel amongst the piles, but I was knocked out by a whiff of the cheap deodorant Hoop used to wear. It never did stand a chance against his energy, but here it was, twelve years later and still going—unlike its wearer. I checked the clothes for blood but came up short. Just in case, I bagged a pair of dirty socks.
The next bin contained a wooden train set, painted by a child’s rough hand. The globs of red and black on several cars contrasted with the jagged strokes of green and yellow on others. Orange dots boldly mixed themselves with purple swirls and uneven diamond shapes, letting the painter’s passion shine through. I knew exactly which train Hoop had been trying to paint, though it looked like he’d been subconsciously influenced by a pack of Animal Crackers.
Chad looked over my shoulder and caught me playing with the giraffe car. “Barnum and Bailey?” he asked.
I whipped around, feeling sad for my ex. “You don’t know, do you?”
“I didn’t have the most well-rounded childhood, Chloe, but I know what a circus is.”
“You didn’t know our circus.”
He leaned back on an end table and gestured for me to enlighten him.
I held up the train engine and pointed to the red and black FG painted on the side. “The Forenza-Galasso Circus,” I announced. While setting up the cars one by one, I related the best part of Beulah’s history, a part that had nothing to do with illicit drug schemes, missing children, or manslaughter. “We didn’t have much to brag about here in mosquito-infested Beulah, but we did have something most kids would have given their left arms for: the Forenza-Galasso Circus. It was huge in the southwest but very secretive in its recruitment, its schedule, everything. Every year, on the third Sunday in May, it premiered in Beulah for its trial run, sneaking into town under cover of darkness on those old train tracks.”
“The abandoned ones? Thought the money ran out in 1910 and those tracks never got finished.”
“True. Nothing but two wavy strips of rust, but the Forenza-Galasso train would detour off the main line to test their wares here in Beulah. Probably illegal, but the carnies always carried this air of skirting the law. They were like this crazy band of gypsies. And when the show was over, they’d back that train out to the main line and go on their way. Finished up their season in Texas or something.”
“Pretty big deal, I imagine.”
“When the old red-and-black squealed into Beulah, it was like a breath of life inflating a long, flat hose. Acrobatic acts, crazy contortionists, eye-assaulting freaks, and, of course”—I pretended to be speaking through a megaphone—“feats of daredevilry never before performed in front of a live audience.”
I smiled like I had when I was a kid and it seemed to surprise Chad.
“They were on their way to bigger, better venues,” I continued, “but they wouldn’t dare perform in front of a live audience without testing everything here, away from critical eyes and bad press—or people who expected more. We were their sounding board, and our applause or silence refined them into something better.” I swung a toy trapeze that hung from a tall train car. “For an hour and a half every May, our mouths hung open and our fingers turned white as we clutched our seats because the Galassos and Forenzas . . . they were downright certifiable.”
“Carnies often are.”
“But I tell you, when they descended on Beulah, you could stick a finger in the air and get shocked by the tingle. We’d all sit on that half-built train platform for hours, and when we felt the first vibration of the track, we’d all jump around and wouldn’t settle down until the show was over.”
“How come they stopped coming?”
My mood plummeted from elation to ice-cold anger. Silently, I recalled my final memory surrounding that wretched train platform, and I found myself glaring at Chad. “They never showed . . . after.”
“After . . . the week?”
I averted my eyes. “Yeah.”
“Guess all I’ve ever known is post-lottery Beulah.”
I glanced at the green and orange caboose in my hand. “Hoop always planned to join them.”
Chad snorted. “Doing what?”
“Snake charming. Determined to impress people with the first Hoop Snake ever found. That’s how he got his nickname.”
“But those snakes aren’t real. They’re an embellishment of mud snakes.”
“Hoop believed in them.”
>
Chad stared at me with concern, shaking his head slightly. “Is that what you’re always searching for? With the binoculars? Are you seriously frittering away your life looking for a hoop snake?”
“What? No. Why would you even say that?”
“I used to sleep at your place, remember? Every morning, you’d be on the deck, but you were never just observing. You were searching. I used to wonder what for.”
“I was looking at the swamp. Is that a sin now?”
Chad shook his head. “For God’s sake, Chloe, you’re trying to live his dream. He was more than just a friend, wasn’t he?”
“Drop it, Chad.”
“I’ve seen it, Chloe. That look in your eyes when you’re—”
I wheeled on him, throwing the caboose to the floor. It broke into pieces and I feared I’d set off some ancient Forenza-Galasso curse. “Thought we were here to find DNA, or do you want to talk about fairies and elves next?”
He held my eyes. Something heavy passed between us, and then we both spun on our heels, our backs facing each other as we searched through more junk. Ten minutes passed as the modest possessions of the Whitakers grew less impressive: a toaster oven; a boot brush; a calendar with no appointments. Finally, I opened one container and old classmates gazed up at me with dated hairdos and clothes. It was my fourth grade class picture. A single tear slid down my cheek and splashed onto the image.
In the photo, I stood at the end of the second row next to the teacher, back when I gave a hoot about what teachers thought of me. I wore pink hoop earrings, dull brown pants, and a lacy green blouse. I smiled obediently—a pasted-on grin held too long while the photographer fiddled. In contrast, Hoop knelt in the front row with a wide smile, outshining the boys that flanked him. If he’d spun around, he could have been proposing to Macy who stood behind him in a pale blue dress. She beamed with an open-mouthed giggle on her face, her eyes huge as if caught by surprise. Even though I had a copy of this photo at home, it wasn’t until that instant that I noticed Hoop’s left hand snaking behind him, grabbing Macy’s ankle. The photographer had captured their moment of contact, the mutual delight of prankster and prankee. Hoop never did squander a chance to remind Macy that he was alive and coming for her, full-force and guns a-blazing.
Beneath the photo lay a yellow envelope with Hoop’s fiddlestick handwriting. A single word on it: Macy. The envelope was clipped to a smaller box within the bin. I greedily reached for it.
“What about that?” Chad said. I jerked my hand back and followed his pointing finger to a tiny, plastic container with a faded white design on it.
“What is it?” I said.
“I might be wrong, but in one of the homes where I lived, this kid who was meaner than a wet badger kept his pulled tooth in something like that.”
“Never heard of the tooth fairy?”
“Kid was dumb as a rock but not stupid enough to believe in the tooth fairy at age thirteen.”
Chad reached down, grabbed the container, and popped it open. There, inside, lay a tooth.
I gasped. “It’s Hoop’s. It’ll definitely have his DNA.”
“Could’ve been his father’s.”
“No, I remember the day he got it pulled.”
Hoop had skidded to a stop on his bike after his dentist appointment. Clover, he’d said, the good Lord knew how much talking I’d do, so He gave me some extra teeth to work with. And can you believe it? That dentist saw fit to mess with the good Lord’s work. He’d made the declaration with a hole in his grin and a fishing rod in his hand.
I looked at the tooth. Maybe the Lord did work in mysterious ways.
Chapter 18
Four Days Before the Thump
Hoop slung the bag of bats, balls, and mitts over his shoulder and headed down the road. His team had lost, 8-5, but he still felt like he’d won. After all, he’d made two outs, two runs, and had worked up a respectable sweat killing time with friends.
“Hey, Hoop,” Ronnie Fields shouted from his bicycle. “Ain’t your dad picking you up?” Ronnie was peering around his little brother who was climbing onto his handlebars for a ride.
“Not likely,” Hoop said, “but it ain’t far.”
“I’d give you a lift, but my mom says I gotta give Andy here a ride home. Too stupid to find his own way.”
“Am not!” Andy protested, his legs kicking frantically while he locked his butt into place.
“It’s all right,” Hoop said. “Good game, by the way. You knocked that one ball clear to West Virginia!”
“Thanks,” Ronnie said. “Got some solid contact.” He wobbled down the road with his unsteady passenger, waving as he went.
Hoop ambled on, kicking pebbles while wondering about the friction between stones and macadam. The bats clanged against his bottom with each step, urging him on like a racehorse. His shirt was covered in sweat, but the cool evening air would dry it soon enough. He wouldn’t have minded a ride, but his dad was busy doing something with a wagon—either falling off it or fighting to stay on it. He smiled as he remembered how his dad had surprised him this morning with fried eggs and hash browns, three of each.
#
“Why three of everything?” Hoop had asked.
“Celebration,” Avis said, showing the grin he’d passed down to his son.
“Three days sober?” Hoop said, keeping his voice measured in case it was three hours until a bar opened up.
“Yessiree,” Avis said. “Turning a corner. And not just a ninety-degree corner, Hoop. Going the whole one-eighty.”
“Think they call that a U-turn.” Hoop raised a hand toward his dad with pinkie and thumb curled in. “Gimme three,” he said, and Avis slapped the fingers with three of his own.
“Remember when I didn’t come home a few nights ago?” Avis said.
Hoop nodded while shoving a hash brown into his mouth.
“That’s because I hit what they call rock bottom, and in my case, it was pretty literal.”
“How so?”
“Blacked out. Woke up cold, wet, and dirty in . . . you know what? You don’t need the details. What you need to know is that I’m climbing my way back up. Sound square to you?”
“All kinds of square,” Hoop said.
Avis rustled Hoop’s hair like he used to.
Hoop dug in to his eggs, thinking how it’d be a storybook life like this every day if his mother had stayed in the picture. But she’d edited herself from the pages long ago. On her worst days, Jessica Whitaker had made her husband look clean and sober, but on her best, she’d made Avis and Hoop feel like the luckiest people in the world. Hoop’s last memory of her revolved around a tattoo she got a week before hitting the road: Better Without, it had said, inked in a circular design of rose, emerald and black, near her shoulder. Better had formed the top half of the circle while Without scraped the bottom. Hoop had traced it with his finger, impressed with the curly letters and the smooth blending of colors. Back then, he and his dad had been too thickheaded to get it, but now, as a fifteen-year-old, he understood that his mother had been sending them a message: better without her.
“Macy swung by,” Avis said as Hoop scraped up his last egg. “She’s getting a game going this afternoon. Said she’ll take shortstop if you bring the game.”
“I always bring game, Pop.”
“I’ll drive you over.”
Hoop hid his surprise at the offer. Usually, his dad was too inebriated to drive, at least with anyone else in the car. “Thanks,” he said.
Avis shoved aside a pile of dirty clothes and sat down on the fold-out chair where Hoop was supposed to do homework, though that hardly seemed possible with the array of boy-treasures covering his desk. “You ever gonna ask that Macy girl out, Hoop? They don’t wait around forever, you know.”
Hoop heard the underlying message: they don’t stay around forever, either. Hoop wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned. “I got plans in motion, Pop. Big plans. Don’t you worry about me.”
<
br /> “I rarely do, buddy. The good Lord knew just how much I could handle this go-round, and he gave me exactly one serving of it.”
“This go-round?” Hoop asked. “You planning on coming back?”
Avis thought about it, his mouth squaring up. “I’d like to think so, now that I’ve worked out some of the kinks.”
Hoop sat back and contemplated. “I like the idea of circling back. Takes a little of the taint off death, don’t it?”
“Sure does, but in my opinion, you should still treat every day like it’s your last.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
Avis rubbed his bristly stubble. “I’ve had too many near-last days myself. Wouldn’t mind this being the start of some firsts.”
“It will be, Pop.” Hoop got out of bed, set his breakfast dishes aside, and pulled his blankets up to his pillow. In the old days, his mother would work half the night as a bartender, drink three male co-workers under the table, and then near-kill herself on a motorcycle on the way home, but she always got up in the morning and made her bed. Claimed it started the day in a fresh manner, which could never be a bad thing.
Avis cleared his throat. “That box you been keeping in the closet . . . got anything to do with your plans for Macy?”
Hoop gave his dad a guilty glance. “Meant to tell you about that. And yeah, it does.”
Avis rose up and headed to the kitchen with Hoop’s dishes. “You just be careful, y’hear?”
“Always am, Pop.”
#
A bat and ball shifted in Hoop’s sack and banged him in the hip. He switched the load to his other shoulder, then spoke without turning around. “I know you’re there,” he said. “You got that smell.”
“Good smell or bad?” Macy said. She’d been following him on her bike for a good fifty yards now.
Hoop sniffed like a wine expert sticking his nose in a goblet. “Downright evil,” he said, “like a femme fatale going for the kill in one of them noir movies.”
Macy pedaled to catch up to him. “Honestly, Hoop, I don’t know what you’re talking about half the time. But it always sounds good.” She pulled her bike to a stop. “Hop on.”