A Fine Dark Line (24 page)

Callie whistled a rock through the air. It hit Chapman on the shoulder. He let out a scream. “You hell-spawn. You Jezebel.”

Another rock whistled, caught him on the side of the head. He jerked a hand to the spot and yelled.

Callie started whistling one rock after another. Chapman broke and ran back a ways. I was on the ground now, and he turned, glared at me. “Don’t you never come around no more, you hear? You see that boy of mine, tell him he’s gonna take a hell of a beatin’. And one for you too.”

Callie threw another rock. Chapman thought he was out of distance of her throwing arm, but the rock hit him in the leg. Another went whistling, struck the tree next to him.

“You better quit, missy. I’ll get you too.”

That was when I saw Daddy on the outside of the fence, coming around on the side closest to Chapman. Chapman didn’t see him. He was too busy taunting me and Callie.

I went over to pick up Nub. He was still breathing. He opened his eyes and looked at me as if trying to focus. He had the same look Buster had when he was coming off his drunk.

Chapman was in the middle of a diatribe when he looked up and saw Daddy. “Now you ought to go on and leave me be. I’m just tryin’ to help these youngin’s get some manners.”

As Daddy neared Chapman, Chapman swung the walking stick. Daddy swatted at it, sucked it into him, moved slightly, and now he had the stick.

Chapman tried to run, but Daddy was on him. The stick swung, caught Chapman on the leg, knocked him down. Daddy tossed the stick away and kicked Chapman in the throat. Chapman went to the ground gagging. I heard Callie yelling at Daddy to stop.

When I looked up he had Chapman pulled to his knees and was slapping him the way he had slapped Chester, but with greater enthusiasm.

“You weasel. You do all right hitting kids and women and little dogs, don’t you, you greasy sleazeball bastard. I get
through with you, you won’t know on which side of your face to pick your nose.”

“Daddy!” Callie had climbed over the fence and was running toward him. Me, I didn’t move.

I picked up Nub, held him close to me. He wiggled.

Callie had hold of Daddy’s slapping hand. Dad shoved Chapman to the ground. Chapman, bleeding from mouth, nose, and ears, said, “A Chapman don’t forget.”

“Good,” Daddy said. “Think I wanted this to slip your mind?”

“And that damn girl. Woman ain’t supposed to raise their hand to a man.”

Daddy kicked Chapman in the ribs. “Who says you’re a man.”

“Daddy,” Callie said, grabbing him. “That’s enough.”

“I’ll get you, missy,” Chapman said, tonguing a tooth out of his bloody mouth.

Callie let go of Daddy and kicked Chapman under the chin, like she was trying to make a field goal. Chapman, who had been trying to rise, was knocked back flat. Callie said, “No you won’t, you sleazy little turd.”

“What did you say?” Daddy said.

“You said
bastard,
” Callie said.

“Suppose I did,” Daddy said. “Chapman. The Mitchels don’t forget either. Your boy is welcome anytime. But don’t let me see you. Even in town.”

Chapman wobbled to his feet. Daddy bent quickly, picked up Chapman’s stick. Chapman flinched. Daddy tossed it to him. “Don’t forget this. You might want to beat a wounded animal to death on the way home.”

Chapman took the walking stick, wheeled, started through the woods as quickly as a man with a limp could go.

Back at the house, I sat at the table holding Nub in my lap,
happy the worst he had gotten was a lump on the head. I felt as if I was living some kind of curse that started by my opening that Pandora’s box of letters.

More had happened to my family in one summer than had happened in my entire life. Perhaps more than had happened in my parents’ lives, even if they were unaware of much of it. I couldn’t help but think by finding and opening that box I had insulted the dark gods, brought them scuttling and scratching across that fine dark line between black mystery and reality; brought them here mad and devilish and full of harm. They were even picking on the family dog.

Mom was leaning against the counter listening to Callie tell what had happened. The rest of us, including Rosy, were sitting around the table.

“I hit him with a rock good,” Callie said.

“That’s not good, Callie,” Mom said. “That’s nothing to be proud of.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dad said. “It says something for her hand-to-eye coordination, the fine function of young muscles. And a goddamn good aim.”

“That’s right,” Rosy said. “Miss Callie, she can toss a rock. I seen her hit a blue jay the other day.”

“Rosy,” Callie said. “I didn’t mean to. I mean, I threw it, but I didn’t think it would hit it.”

“Killed it deader than a stump,” Rosy said.

Mom and Dad looked at Callie in that manner only parents can manage.

“Really,” Callie said. “I didn’t mean to kill it. I was just playing around.”

“Still,” I said, trying to manage a save, “she has a good arm.”

“Flings like Whitey Ford,” Daddy said.

“Stanley,” Mom said. “That’s no way to talk. Bragging on
her for something like that. Killing a poor bird. Hitting Mr. Chapman.”

“Several times,” Dad said.

“Several times?” Mom said.

“He was shaking Stan out of a tree,” Callie said.

“Off a stairway actually,” I said.

“A stairway?” Mom asked.

I explained. Mom said, “I didn’t know that was back there. You didn’t tell me that was back there. I’ll have to see that.”

I probably hadn’t mentioned it because in my mind it was connected to finding the letters, which even now I didn’t mention. And neither did Callie.

“What was wrong with Mr. Chapman, Daddy?” I said. “He’s always cranky, but . . .”

“Was he drinking, Stanley?” Mom asked Dad.

“I don’t think so,” Dad said. “I didn’t smell it on his breath. Then again, I wasn’t trying to.”

“Daddy was too busy slapping him to smell his breath,” Callie said.

“That drinkin’ turn a man bad,” Rosy said. “I ought to know. I bet he was drinkin’. He used to work right there where them trees is now. In that old Stilwind house. He such a good-looking man then.”

“I remember you saying that before,” I said. “It’s hard to imagine.”

“You sure, Rosy?” Callie said. “He looks like something out of a monster movie to me.”

“After that fire happened, it was like he turn ugly,” Rosy said. “Like it done burned him bad as it burned that little Stilwind girl.”

“I believe I’m behind on all this,” Mom said.

“Me too,” Daddy said.

Me, Callie, and Rosy filled in the blanks. Well, Rosy told
what she knew and me and Callie told what we thought we ought to tell. I still didn’t mention what me and Buster had been doing, all the stuff I had found out. I sure didn’t tell them about Winnie Wood, Margret’s mother, or about how Buster had not only interrogated her, but had helped her practice her profession. And I didn’t even know how to begin about Jewel and Margret and what they were doing. Then, of course, there was the pregnancy. So far, concerning my experiences of the summer, all that was missing were flying saucers and the Loch Ness Monster.

“How come you and Callie know all about this?” Mom asked me.

“Heard it around,” I said.

“They say that Margret’s ghost out at the railroad tracks,” Rosy said. “Heard theys one of them ghosts in that house on the hill. Jewel Ellen’s ghost.”

“Ghosts all over,” Daddy said.

“No one lives in the house on the hill anymore,” I said.

“How do you know?” Daddy said.

“I’ve heard that,” I said.

Daddy thought for a moment, pursed his lips, said, “I think that’s why you rode up the hill that day you had the wreck. To see if you could see a ghost. Comes together now. Is that it?”

It was close enough, so I said, “Yes, sir.”

Daddy shook his head.

“There isn’t a ghost though,” I said. “It’s Mrs. Stilwind. She leaves the old folks home sometimes and goes there and people see her.”

“How do you know that?” Mom asked.

I decided I had to tell the truth on this one. “Buster told me.”

“He did, did he?” Daddy said.

“Boy,” Callie said, chuckling, changing the subject back to
where we had started. “Daddy sure gave Mr. Chapman a butt whipping.”

“That’s enough of that talk,” Mom said.

“Well,” Callie said, “he did.”

“I did,” Daddy said.

“He slapped him the way he slapped Chester, only harder,” I said.

“Chester, by the way,” Mom said, “was innocent.”

“I’ve said it before,” Daddy said. “Chester was bound to do something eventually, and he probably did something before, so he had it coming.”

“That’s a silly way to think,” Mom said.

“I suppose it is,” Daddy said. “But it’s my only excuse.”

“Mr. Chapman had it coming,” Callie said. “Whap, whap, whap. And Daddy hit him with a stick too. And he cussed.”

“Stanley, what kind of talk is that around the children?”

“Pretty foul, I suppose,” Daddy said. “It was a strained moment.”

Daddy said this as if it were the only time he had ever let go of a string of colorful expletives.

“I can’t imagine what that poor little Richard goes through,” Mom said. “It has to be horrible. Where’s his mother during all this? What’s she doing about it?”

“Mr. Chapman beats her,” I said. “He slaps Richard around too. I’ve seen them with knots and fat lips and black eyes.”

“What a man,” Daddy said.

“This time he got slapped around,” Callie said. “Did you see him try to melt into the ground? He was looking for some kind of hole to go into.”

“Weasels like holes,” Daddy said. “Any place where they can’t see the light of day.”

“I can’t imagine why Mrs. Chapman puts up with such,”
Mom said. “Your daddy ever did that, I’d be gone. After I killed him.”

“I only slap guys around,” Daddy said. “When they have it coming, of course.”

“Nub bit him,” I said. “He tried to protect me.”

“Poor Nub got hit with a stick,” Callie said.

“He’s all right,” Daddy said. “He’ll have a knot and a headache, but he’s all right. Good ole Nub.”

“I’ll give our brave hero dog a can of dog food, right now,” Mom said.

“What about the rest of us heroes?” Callie said.

“Nub first,” Mom said. “Besides, I haven’t enough dog food to go around.”

“That’s funny,” Daddy said.

“I’ll bake some cookies for the rest of you. No. This is a real celebration. Rosy will bake the cookies and I’ll help.”

This was a special moment, I thought. Mom had accepted that Rosy was the better cook, and that was the end of it.

“It gettin’ right around dinnertime, Miss Gal,” Rosy said. “Why don’t I fix some dinner. Some fried chicken and greens, corn bread and mashed taters. Then I’ll fix some oatmeal cookies make your stomach wish it was twice its own size.”

“I won’t fight that idea,” Daddy said.

T
HREE DAYS BEFORE SCHOOL
, a Saturday, Mom sent me and Callie to town to buy some school supplies. Callie, who had been learning to drive, took the car. Back then, though you had to have a license, the cops didn’t check them much. Fewer people, looser rules. You could drive around when you were thirteen, no problem.

Daddy wasn’t quite that loose with the rules, but he had started to let Callie drive at sixteen. With him in the car at first, and finally, now and then, alone.

We shopped, got the few things we needed. Mostly pens and pencils. They had a new kind of fountain pen you put little plastic cartridges full of ink into, and when those wore out, you replaced them. We bought a couple of those and lots of replacement cartridges. We bought Big Chief tablets, colored map pencils, two small dictionaries, and lots of writing paper and composition notebooks.

I loved all of that stuff. It was exciting. It was a great way
to end a summer and prepare for a school year. I was actually starting to look forward to school.

Of course, within a month to six weeks I’d be sick of all of it and anxious for Thanksgiving, and then the Christmas holidays.

We finished around noon, put our booty in the car, then walked to the drugstore for a hamburger. Tim was working. He was still brooding over Callie’s last appearance there with Drew. We sat at the counter and he took our order, trying not to show any interest. But Callie’s green eyes and that glossy mane of a ponytail melted him.

“So,” he said, after writing down our order on a pad. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

“I’m not sure,” Callie said.

“He like a permanent thing? I mean, are you going steady?”

“No,” she said.

“You dating other people?”

“Not just now.”

“I see. But you might.”

“Sure. I might.”

“What about Stilwind? You still interested in him? He’s too old for you, you know.”

“I’m not interested in him.”

Hope had returned to Tim’s breast. He said, “I’ll get this stuff going.”

He took the order back to the cook, shoved the slip through the service window.

We ate our hamburgers, Tim checking on us inordinately. Callie was very nice, smiled a lot. Tim looked as if he might break down and cry. He felt he had a chance now. We got extra Cokes with our meal.

When we finished, started outside, I said, “You like him too?”

“Not really. But I didn’t want him to spit in our food. And we got extra Cokes.”

“I think you just like messing with him.”

“You know I do.”

Callie walked over to the theater’s pay booth, examined the times posted there for the double feature. She came back and looked at her watch. “Movie starts in about fifteen minutes. Want to go? At least see the first feature?”

“Tim reminded you of James Stilwind. Well, I’m not interested in James Stilwind anymore.”

This wasn’t entirely true, but the nearness and excitement of starting school, the events of the other day, the whipping Daddy had given Chapman, had sucked some of the curiosity out of me.

“You were just nuts about finding out more about him the other day,” Callie said.

“I know,” I said. “Not now . . . You don’t want to see a movie that bad, Callie. I know you. You want to mess with Stilwind.”