by B. B. Ullman
“Do you think it was the same crazy crow?” I asked.
Albert memoed a grim YES.
We spilled our story about the coyote and the birds as we hung our wet snow clothes on chairs by the woodstove. Ma and Meemaw were setting the table, and they didn’t know what to think about the strange nature show we described. Finally Meemaw said, “I’ll bet they were after the compost. I tossed the leftover pancakes in there this morning. I s’pose the food could have gotten ’em all riled. I do make good pancakes,” she added.
“I didn’t think of that! We were standing right next to the compost. Maybe that’s what they were fighting over.” This explanation made me feel so much better; it was logical and grounded in everyday stuff. Even if it didn’t exactly explain the behavior of the crow on the trail, it had such a sensible tone.
7
Old turd on toast
We all gathered in the dining room to have stew and biscuits that Ma had made from scratch. She’d lit some candles on the table and the room felt warm and snug. Our wet snow gear was steaming by the woodstove, lending a damp-fabric smell to the house.
“And another weird thing,” I blurted. “We ran into Mr. Shinn on the trail and he was acting even more creepy than usual.”
“That man is a pain in the rear,” Meemaw grumbled. “Jane, remember when I tried to get him to help you with your car? He wouldn’t lift a finger—and you, a widow. Ed Shinn is an old turd on toast.” Meemaw was shaking her head in disgust.
I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh. I glanced at Brit to see how she took it. She wouldn’t look at me. Apparently she was very interested in her napkin.
Meemaw was notorious for her colorful language.
Ma sent Meemaw a scowl to remind her to watch it. At that moment there was a knock at the door. It was Lars with an overnight bag for Brit.
“Lars, come on in and have some stew,” Ma called from the table. “I made a big pot. I used Mary’s veggie meat but it turned out good anyway.”
“Oh, no thanks, Mrs. Day,” Lars said automatically.
“Come have some stew or Jane will fuss,” Meemaw said sternly.
“Well, I can’t stay . . . ” Lars hesitated. “I’m meeting the guys . . . ”
“You can eat and run,” Meemaw said with finality. She rose and got him a bowl.
Lars seemed reluctant, but once he sat down, he dug in and ate like he was starving.
Ma looked pleased. She liked cooking for people who liked to eat. Albert and I were sort of a disappointment in that way. Albert’s tastes were limited; he liked toast, beans and rice, cottage cheese, and bananas. I had gotten pickier, too, because I wasn’t into eating meat anymore. I wasn’t like, oh, let me lecture you about eating meat because I’m so great. It was just that one day I was at the fair in Sultanville, and I was looking at this cow. She gazed into my eyes and I’m pretty sure she smiled—and that was that. Ma was still adjusting.
“Mary, what did Mr. Shinn say to you?” Ma asked, getting back to the subject.
“He just snuck up behind us acting all mad, and he said we shouldn’t be messing around in the woods. And then Brit told him it wasn’t his property, but he said we were looking for trouble. He said something else, too—what else did he say, Brit?”
“He said something might get us,” she answered.
Ma’s face turned part angry and part worried. “Something might get you? That sounds like a threat.”
“I know. It sort of scared me,” Brit admitted.
“Plus, it looked like he was carrying a gun,” I added.
“Brit, you stay away from there,” Lars said. His voice was low and serious.
“I agree with Lars,” Ma said. “It sounds like that man’s got a screw loose.”
“Jane, maybe you should give Bob a call,” Meemaw suggested. “It’d start a paper trail, you know?”
Bob Dietz was the sheriff of Adeline.
Ma looked thoughtful. “It’s not a bad idea.”
I hadn’t paid attention to the fact that Albert had been doing a sleepy head-bob for the last few minutes. All of a sudden Albert’s head was in his bowl—then he bounced back up with a shocked expression and very messy face. He sent me a groggy memo with a sleepy puppy in it. Sometimes I forgot that even though Albert was crazy-intelligent, he was, after all, just a little boy.
“Oh, Albie, you’re tired,” I said, laughing.
“Come on, Albert, let’s get you cleaned up,” Ma said. “You had a big day.”
Albert allowed himself to be led away from the table.
Lars stood up. He looked red-cheeked and lanky and very inappropriately dressed for the cold weather in his worn jean jacket and sneakers. “Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Day. It was really good. Later, Albert.”
I liked how Lars was so friendly with Albert, even though Albert didn’t talk.
“Brit, text me tomorrow if you want a ride,” Lars said, buttoning his jacket.
“Mary, why don’t you ask Brit if she wants to stay tomorrow night, too,” Ma called from the kitchen. She was wiping Albert’s face with a washcloth. “It’s New Year’s Eve. You two can watch the ball drop. Meemaw and I can get some pop and snacks tomorrow.”
“You wanna stay over tomorrow?” I asked.
“That’d be nice,” Brit said. She looked happy about the invite.
“I’ll see you later.” Lars carefully shut the door behind him.
Brit had followed Lars to the door. She was looking out the window, her nose pressed against the glass. She waved goodbye to her brother. “It’s still snowing,” she said softly.
8
Sleepover
Everyone else had gone to bed so Brit and I laid out our sleeping bags in the front room. It was more fun sleeping out here than in my bedroom, plus it was cozy by the woodstove. The flames made amber flickers in the little window of the iron door—which sent golden shapes dancing on the ceiling. We had a bowl of popcorn that Meemaw made for us, and we’d eaten most of it.
“You want to check the laptop?” I asked.
“No!” Brit was adamant. “We said we weren’t going to look for all of winter break. Remember the fun-relativity factor.”
“Yeah, I know, you’re right. I have felt better,” I admitted. Brit and I had made this pact to not look at any posts for all of winter break. It made our lame fun seem funner when we weren’t comparing our goofy activities to all the spectacular stuff that other kids seemed to be doing. Brit called this the fun-relativity factor.
We settled for painting our toenails in ten different colors, and our fingernails, too. After that, we tried on some false eyelashes that Ma had given me. They made Brit look like a supermodel—after she’d minimized her acne with lots of foundation. But the lashes made me look like Dora the Explorer. I told Brit my comparison, and we both cracked up.
I had to admit that I’d had the same bangs since fifth grade, and I was sort of chubby and—well, some might say childish-looking. I used to worry that I wasn’t very pretty, but Albert kept sending me messages that contradicted these thoughts. He sent tons of memos with exclamation marks and images of Pearl as a princess—as a great lady in a painting—as an angel with wings—as a sparkling fairy . . . and I began to believe him. I quit thinking about whether I was pretty or not and I just took it for granted that I was awesome, which was a way better way to feel. Pretty nice of Albie.
Brit had laid out Darcy the one-eyed bear next to her pillow. Next to my pillow was Lambert, the limp and graying lamb. His tail was stiff and black because I’d dipped it in paint when I was five. I’d had this vague idea that I was disguising Lambert so Albert wouldn’t figure out that the toy was really his. This made zero sense but I wasn’t a very smart five-year-old. And of course Albert knew all about my great lamb heist since he was in my brain half of the time. But he didn’t comment on things that he didn’t care about, and apparently he didn’t care about Lambert.
The evening passed without a single memo from my brother. He’d
fallen fast asleep after dinner, poor little guy. Ma went ahead and called Sheriff Dietz from her bedroom. We didn’t get to hear the conversation, but I felt satisfied that a complaint had been lodged, just in case.
I lay there with my arms behind my head, watching the shadow play of the fire. “You awake, Brit?”
“Yeah, I’m awake.”
“Me too,” I said.
“Duh,” she said dryly.
I smiled. “Duh.”
Brit sighed. “This is nice. I’m glad I’m here. If I were home, I’d have to deal with my mom, or else she’d have Gary over.”
“Is he the one with the skeezy mustache?”
“No, that was Roland.” Brit grimaced. “He was awful. Gary isn’t as disgusting, and he distracts her from yelling at me.”
“Before my dad died, he was acting all bad-tempered like that.”
“What do you think got into him?”
“I don’t know. It was like he was having mental problems or something. He was doing his research, and at first he was super happy about it. Ma and I used to visit him out in the garage where he had this really cool lab set up. It was fun to see him out there; he’d let me push buttons and I’d pretend I was a scientist, and Ma helped him a lot with his paperwork. He seemed really psyched about the baby coming, and me starting kindergarten—and then all of a sudden he turned into a jerk.”
“Maybe he was drinking or, like, doing drugs,” Brit suggested.
“Ma said he didn’t do any of that stuff because it was so important for him to think clearly—but maybe he changed. I found a note from him when I was a kid. It was crumpled up in the wastebasket in Ma’s room. I didn’t even know what it said, but I saved it because I knew it was his writing. When I finally learned to read . . . well, it was sort of odd.”
“What’d it say?” Brit asked.
“I’ll get it. It’s in my old diary.” I scrambled from the living room to my bedroom and found the little book with the lock and key. I removed the yellowed note that I’d read so many times and brought it out to show Brit.
“It was after the funeral. Ma was really a mess. I think she must have wadded it up and tossed it. Here, you can read it.”
Forgive me, my dearest Jane. You are quite right. I’m not myself. I’ve been cruel to you and Mary, and God help me, I am so sorry. I think I’m losing it. I can’t seem to handle the workload and I can’t seem to be a good father anymore. I feel like I’m cracking up. Remember that I love you and Mary and the baby with all my heart and soul. Please, please remember my love.
Forever,
Your Albie
Brit solemnly returned the note. “It sounds like he knew he was having problems.”
“Yeah, finally he just took off. He was gone for what seemed like a month—but maybe it was less, I can’t remember. And then one day the police told Ma there’d been an accident and he was dead. Sometimes I think he meant to drive into that bulkhead.”
Brit thought about it for a while. “I know it sounds horrible, but maybe it was good that he left when he did. Maybe he just would have gotten meaner and meaner. At least my mom passes out and then she feels guilty the next day.” Brit gave me a grim smile.
“I just wish my dad had gotten help, you know? I could forgive him for being messed up, only he said a lot of bad stuff to Ma, and I’m not sure she’ll ever forgive him—especially for leaving us, if that makes any sense. But it’s a bummer for her because it takes a lot of energy to stay mad.”
“Oh, I know.” Brit gave me an expression that said she knew all about that kind of anger. There was a long pause, and she sighed again. “I like your mom.”
I giggled. “What about Meemaw?”
“Meemaw’s tough—I like her, too.”
“Yeah, she’s okay.” The fire snapped and crackled. I felt wide awake. “Hey, do you want to go out and make snow angels?”
“What if the psycho crow is out there?”
“We’ll stay close to the house. I’ll get the big umbrella.”
Brit considered this. “Yeah, okay.”
9
Unsettling
We dressed hurriedly, putting our snow clothes on over our pajamas. I grabbed a flashlight and the black umbrella. Before opening the front door, I turned on the porch light and then we tiptoed outside, trying to be quiet. I put the umbrella up for a just-in-case shield, and surveyed the yard and the sky. I could see a whisper of flakes drifting through the halo of light created by the Wagners’ oversized halogen. Ken Wagner had nailed the giant light right onto a tree because it was cheaper than erecting a post. Real environmental, Ken.
“Wow, the snow’s over my knees.” I looked around. “No sign of the crow.” I set the umbrella down.
Brit scanned the area, too. “And no freaky animals looking for pancakes.” She must have been satisfied with the safety of the yard because suddenly she swooned, falling backward into the snow.
I followed her example and fell back, too. The snow was a cold feather bed. I waved my arms above my head to craft wings, and flapped my legs to make a gown. Delicate snowflakes dappled my face and melted away. Soon we’d made a crowd of angels and we stepped back to admire them. That’s when I realized I was hearing the muffled sound of an engine.
“Do you hear a car?” I asked.
“Yes, and it smells familiar.” Brit gave me a knowing look.
We peeked around the hedge, and sure enough, there was Lars’s pickup in a haze of exhaust.
“Let’s see what he’s up to,” Brit said.
Brit carried the umbrella and I grabbed the flashlight. We slogged to the car where a bass was pounding—but it was just big Tim Guthrie, dozing on the passenger side with his tunes cranked up.
Brit tapped on the window. “Where’s Lars?”
Tim spasmed awake. He turned down the sound and lowered his window, allowing a certain smell to waft out. “You scared the farts out of me!” Tim accused.
“Gross,” Brit said. “Where’s Lars?”
“He wanted to check something out.”
Brit frowned. “Check what out?”
“That Shinn guy.”
“How long has he been out there?” I asked.
“Too long. If you see him, tell him to get his butt back here. His heater is crap.”
“Why don’t you go tell him yourself?” Brit countered.
“It’s cold out,” Tim said, sounding very whiny for such a big guy.
Brit shook her head, disgusted. “Tim, you better make sure your tailpipe is out of the snow or you could asphyxiate yourself from carbon monoxide.” She stood there, scowling as he rolled up the window. Under her breath she said, “Tim is such a weenie.” She turned to me and her mouth was a tight, worried line. “Mary, I’m nervous about Lars being in those woods. We told him about Mr. Shinn, but we never mentioned that odd mist or how strange the animals were acting.”
“I know.” I gulped and summoned my courage. “We should go check on him.”
“Scoot in and get under the umbrella.” Brit linked arms with me and we started walking.
“Is that true—about the tailpipe?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s true. And now he’ll have to get out and go check it.” She gave me a conspiratorial smile.
We trudged past the garage and onto the trail, losing the light from the back porch. Since the laundry room was also Meemaw’s bedroom, she locked the back door and left the light on each night. That door was one of the few things she was nervous about.
I turned the flashlight on. The footprints we’d been following veered to the electric fence and commenced on the other side of the wire. “I don’t want to try to jump it,” Brit said. “Let’s just walk on your side and maybe we’ll see him in the field.”
When we entered the forest the silence felt heavy; I could hear my heart beating and my breathing was noisy in my ears. There was something unsettling in the air; something that made me feel afraid.
“Lars?” Brit called, but not very loudly.
No answer.
“Hey Brit, there’s that red mist.” I pointed the flashlight at it.
The little reddish cloud hovered about five feet above the forest floor, maybe fifteen feet from our trail. It was oddly centered in the middle of those six old posts.
“I think it’s brighter,” Brit observed. She packed a snowball and threw it. It missed and hit one of the posts—which didn’t sound like what you would expect from a rotten old post. It rang, like metal.
Brit adjusted her aim and threw another snowball, still trying to hit the mist, and she got it, dead center. The snowball seemed to vanish.
“It’s like the fog ate it.” I stared into the target. “Throw another one and I’ll keep the flashlight right on it.” I was aiming the beam of light—when a voice behind me said, “I told you to stay away from this place.”
I jumped and squealed—and was hugely relieved to see that it was only Lars.
“Lars, you scared us!” Brit cried, smacking her brother’s arm.
“I didn’t like what you said about Shinn carrying a gun around,” Lars said. “So I thought I’d check things out.”
“You see anything?” Brit asked.
“Naw.” He grinned a little. “It was a dumb idea and my feet are like ice cubes.”
“Tim wants you to hurry back. He said your heater sucks,” I related.
“Tim is a weenie. What are you two doing out here?” His expression had turned severe.
“I had to be sure you were okay.” Brit leaned in and shoved her brother’s arm with her shoulder. “Plus, look over there, Lars.” She pointed at the ball of mist. “Do you see something glowing?”
“Yeah, I see it; a little cloud, like the size of a basketball.” Lars moved his head from side to side. “It’s kind of a reddish color. It’s more visible if you don’t look right at it. I wonder if it’s a reflection from an arcing wire or something.”
“Throw another snowball at it, Brit,” I suggested. I held the flashlight beam steady, illuminating the cloud.