Popcorn Thief

Copyright © 2014 by Leah Cutter

All rights reserved

Published 2014 by Book View Café

www.BookViewCafe.com

ISBN: 978-1611384000

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All
rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed
in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is
purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any
form without permission.

Cover design by Mark Ferrari

http://markferrari.com/

FRANKLIN’S ALARM RANG TOO DAMN EARLY,
as it did every morning. Still, he didn’t dawdle, or indulge himself by hitting
the snooze button. Instead, he got out of his narrow bed, pulled the tan sheets
up to make it neat, then walked through the dim bedroom to his tiny bathroom
for a shower and his weekly shave, scraping carefully against his dark skin for
the few errant hairs.

Putting on his brown Kroger uniform, Franklin hummed to
himself, pleased that his weekly workouts with the Ab-Buster were keeping him
in shape, just like the man on the TV had promised. He didn’t pull the shades
of his bedroom windows up until he was ready to leave the sanctuary of his
room: He never knew what kind of ghosts might be waiting for him out there.

This morning, though, his view of his field of popping corn
was unobstructed by any ghostly visitors. He spent some time looking at the front
stalks. He only had five long rows, twenty stalks per row, and each one was
precious to him. Winds had been light the night before, and he didn’t see any
damage. Broad green leaves grew out evenly from the tall stalks, and nestled in
between them were the fluffy tassels of the best popping corn in all of
Kentucky.
 

Yellow corn, of course. Franklin didn’t go in for fancy
strawberry corn, or that black kernel stuff. He grew grade A, American popping corn,
using a hybrid seed that he’d paid good money for so it would mostly pop up
into butterfly flakes, that were longer and more tender than the
mushroom-shaped flakes.

And this year, he was gonna beat Karl Metzger, his old high
school rival. Franklin’s corn would finally win the blue-ribbon prize for the
best popping corn at the Kentucky State Fair. He’d be able to hang that ribbon
right there, above his dresser, between the pictures of his long dead papa and
his recently dead mama. Make them both proud.

Satisfied, Franklin finally opened the door to his bedroom.
He didn’t know why the ghosts couldn’t cross the threshold—maybe because
no one but him had ever been in there, not since Mama had died, and she hadn’t
been in there that often. Still, he kept the door closed, as he didn’t want to
see their faces staring at him in the dark.

Sunlight beamed against the living room windows. The couch
and overstuffed armchair lurked as dark shapes against the wall. It was gonna
be a hot one today. Franklin left the shades down to give the house an edge
against the heat. He turned on the ancient TV sitting on the even more ancient
bureau to listen to the farm report as he made his way into the kitchen.

“Morning, Mama,” Franklin said to the ghost sitting at his
kitchen table.

Mama didn’t say anything, as usual. She looked the same, her
hair all done up nice, her good gold hoops hanging from her ears, wearing her
best Sunday church dress. Being a ghost had faded out her black skin, brought
out freckles across her nose that Franklin had never seen.

But it hadn’t dimmed the glare that she frequently gave
Franklin, like she did that morning.

Franklin tried not to take it to heart. He reasoned that
being a ghost was hard on a body, particularly someone like his mama, who’d
worked at the local beauty salon in town just so she’d have people to talk with
all day. Not being able to say a word or touch anything—not even push a
piece of paper across the table—had to be difficult.

“Corn’s looking good this morning,” Franklin told her as he
got the peanut butter out of the top cupboard and the bread out of the breadbox
sitting in the corner of the green linoleum counter. “I’ll go out and check the
fields when I get home. There’s some weeds that need pulling.” He got an egg
out of the fridge, and reached for his lard.

He paused.

The cover of the mason jar wasn’t tightly screwed on. It
just rested there, with the lid seal off kilter.

“Mama, did you do this?” Franklin asked as he pulled the jar
out.

She didn’t reply.

“God—dang it!” Franklin said, unwilling to swear in
front of Mama, even though she was a ghost.

Franklin had only opened that jar of lard last week; now, it
was mostly empty.

Mama still glared at him.

This was Franklin’s special lard, rendered down, white and
pure from Sweet Bess, the pig he’d slaughtered earlier that spring. Sweet Bess had
been anything but sweet. She’d been barely tame, rummaging in the woods next
door for her food and only coming to the pen when the cold winter rains started.
She was also a killer. Any chicken or small animal stupid enough to challenge
her got eaten by her. This made her meat extremely sweet, smelling almost like
perfume when Franklin cooked up her bacon.

Ghosts loved anything salty, would lick it up like a cat
with cream. And though good lard would never go bad sitting out, Franklin kept
it tightly sealed in the fridge.

So how the heck did a ghost get to it? He’d never met one
who had the strength to open a jar. No ghost had ever haunted the refrigerator
before, either.

“Mama, who was the greedy ghost?” Franklin asked, looking
directly at her, hoping she’d give him some clue. “’Cause they ain’t here now.”
All of the ghosts who haunted Franklin tended to stick around until he’d done
his duty and helped them pass on, leave this earth and move to wherever it was
that they was supposed to be.

Mama had never showed any intention of doing anything but
sitting at Franklin’s kitchen table for the rest of her death. She’d been
sitting there for almost a year now.

But Mama didn’t say anything, just glared at him like she
did when he made a mistake that was, according to her, “too stupid for words.”

So Franklin went back to fixing his breakfast—a fried-egg-and-peanut-butter
sandwich. He screwed the lid on tight on the tiny bit of lard left and put the
jar back in the fridge, hoping there’d be enough for his popcorn later that
night. It wasn’t corn he’d grown, he’d already run through that, and this crop
had at least another couple of weeks before it’d be ripe. The first time he’d
put Sweet Bess’ lard on popping corn he’d nearly licked the bowl clean, but
Mama had been staring disapprovingly at him from across the table.

He still didn’t understand how a ghost had opened that jar.
Or how it’d gotten into the fridge.

The weather report from the TV confirmed that it would be a
hot one. Franklin finished his breakfast, washed his dishes, brushed his teeth,
then got ready to go.

“I’ll be home usual time, Mama,” Franklin called out as he
left the house. Then he stopped and checked over his shoulder just in case, but
no one was passing by the driveway, which was open to the quiet street.

Not that it would have mattered—everyone in town
already thought Franklin was crazy. Some of them even knew he sometimes talked
with ghosts: Mama had bragged on him at the shop more than once. She’d always
told him that it was important for him to do his duty to the poor folks who
were stuck between worlds, even when it sometimes meant trespassing or asking
strange questions.

From the front shed, Franklin got out his bike. He checked
the chain, thinking that maybe that strong ghost had gone after anything
greasy. It looked fine, though. No ghosts had messed with it.

Though Franklin could drive, cars were expensive, plus, he
didn’t like to take chances like that. If a ghost suddenly popped up while he
was riding his bike, he could just fall over. In a car, he might hurt someone
else.

Franklin didn’t have to share the lane with any cars. He
waved at Mrs. Wilkerson, out watering her geraniums, before he turned onto the
bigger street. Here, he rode along the gravel edge, hearing his mama’s voice,
warning him how dangerous Stevens Road was. Cars whizzed by, nearly blowing him
over.

But there was nothing for it. Franklin pedaled the two miles
as fast as he could, huffing up the small hills, then coasting down the other
side of the rolling street. The chorus of cicadas blasted him on either side. Fields
of tall sorghum blocked his view of anything else, followed by neat rows of
tobacco. The sky above him paled in the heat, with high clouds to the west.

From Stevens Street, Franklin turned onto the shoulder of
the four-lane highway. Just as it narrowed down to two lanes, he passed by Metzger’s
Farm stand, with people already waiting in line.

Franklin pedaled by furiously. Everything that Karl Metzger
turned his hand to grew bigger and better tasting than whatever Franklin tried.
But Franklin was still going to beat him this year, get that blue ribbon prize
for himself. His corn was growing well, and he had plenty of time to experiment
with drying it, removing the perfect amount of moisture so each kernel would pop
up tender with great wings.

The highway became Jacobson Avenue, and Franklin steered
over to the sidewalk. Though he liked the shade of the trees, they also broke
up the sidewalk, making it dangerous to ride along. Franklin tried to
concentrate on it, and not spill over (again), but his thoughts kept going back
to the ghost and the lard.

What was he dealing with? It must be a mighty strong ghost.
Why hadn’t it stuck around, to let Franklin know what it needed in order to
pass on and stop haunting him?

As Franklin pedaled hard up Main Street, he shivered once,
like something had just walked over his grave.

That ghost was something different.

And different was never good.

* * *

Franklin didn’t mind the tomato stains down the front of his
brown Kroger uniform, or the dirt on his knees from kneeling to stock cans of
sweet corn on the lower shelves. However, he’d also had to uncrate a box of
that awful men’s body wash, and of course, one of the bottles hadn’t been
sealed right. He could barely stand himself as he biked home as fast as he
could, bumping over the broken sidewalks then along the four-lane highway, trying
to create a breeze to blow the stink off him.
 

He didn’t know if ghosts could smell or not. He figured they
couldn’t, though, so he wasn’t worried what Mama would think.

If she’d been alive, she might have accused him of rolling
in a back alley with some cat in heat, despite Franklin never having a
girlfriend. He couldn’t imagine bringing home any girl that Mama wouldn’t rip
to shreds.

Franklin rushed into the kitchen, intending on going
straight to the shower. “Mama, I—”

He stopped when he saw Mama had company.

Or rather, he had another ghost, sitting at the kitchen
table with Mama.

None of his other visitors had ever dared. What made her
special?

She’d been as black as Franklin when she’d been alive. He
wondered if she’d worked with Mama at the beauty parlor ’cause she had bleached
blond hair that curled softly around her face, the obvious result of hours of
work and product. Her once-bright red lips framed perfect teeth, and the color
on her long nails matched her mouth. She didn’t look much older than Franklin
either, which was a shame—he hated it when people passed on early.

She also had some power, as she clicked those nails
impatiently on the table, the only sound in the whole house.

Click. Click. Click.

Was this his greedy ghost from the night before?

Most of the time, Franklin only got impressions of what a
ghost wanted, their
intent
. He rarely
got a name, but hers came through, shining like her hair.

Gloria.

“Miss Gloria, it’s nice to meet you,” Franklin said. He
would have been polite to her whether Mama had been sitting there or
not—she’d raised him to do the right thing.

He didn’t expect a reply, and he didn’t get one.

“Is there something I can do for you?”

Nothing came, no hint of a place Gloria wanted to go to, or
something she needed doing before she passed.

That surprised Franklin: Since her name had come through so
loud, he’d figured her purpose would come as well. “Well, ladies, if you’ll
excuse me, I have to freshen up before dinner.”

Both Mama and Gloria glared at him, as if this was too
obvious.

Maybe ghosts did have a sense of smell.

If it had been just Mama, Franklin would have taken off his
shirt in the kitchen and thrown it down the stairs to the basement right then.
But that wasn’t right, undressing like that in front of a strange female ghost
like Gloria. So Franklin went back to his room to change.

Nothing was different there: The bed still had the sheets
pulled up, his photo of Papa (who’d died when Franklin was two) and one of him
and Mama still hung on the wall above his dresser, an empty space between them,
where his blue ribbon would go. Franklin threw the offensive shirt into the laundry
basket, then gathered up the rest of his dirty clothes. It was only Monday, and
he generally did laundry on Tuesday, but this shirt couldn’t wait.

He looked out at his field. He’d go pull weeds after he put
a load in the washer.

Mama and Gloria hadn’t moved from the kitchen table. They
almost looked like mother and daughter, except that Mama would have called
Gloria’s shirt indecent. The top button was undone and it strained across her
chest. If Gloria had worked for Mama, Mama would have made her go home and
change.

Franklin started the washer, with extra vinegar for taking
the smell out of the shirt, then eagerly went outside.

The air still held the afternoon heat, but the shade from
the trees out back promised the coolness of the evening. The taller stalks of
corn reached their heads up high to catch the last of the sun’s rays. Scents of
warm earth and growing things floated up to Franklin. The slightest wind set
the corn to rustling.

Franklin looked out from his field to the land next door. It
was sitting fallow, the For Sale sign weathered. The State Fair prize wasn’t
enough money to buy it, but maybe, with that money, he could talk Mr. Averson
into lowering the price. Franklin had a bit saved, left over from Mama’s
insurance money—most of which he’d used to pay off the house, so he only
owed taxes on it every year.