Popcorn Thief (2 page)

But wishes weren’t fishes, like what Mama would say.

Franklin knelt down between the rows and pulled up one some
ragweed. He wouldn’t ever spray—he’d heard too many horror stories of
farmers ruining their food crop with the wrong weed killer. He made a note to
get the long-handled dandelion digger later when he spotted a couple of those
ragged leaves.

Franklin stood after a bit, wiping his brow with his
kerchief. Weeding wasn’t hard work, but it was constant. He took that as a good
sign—everything was growing so well in his tiny field this year. He was
sure to win that prize, finally.

A chill went down Franklin’s back, not caused by any wind.
When he turned, he jumped and took a step back. He hadn’t expected Gloria to be
standing so close.

“How can I help you?” Franklin asked. It was always best to
be polite, especially with ghosts out in the corn field. They always gained
strength there. Franklin had stopped going out into his field at night years
before: Too many ghosts followed him there, trying to push their
intent
on him, enough so that he felt
his skin turn sticky.

Gloria just glared at the stalks, as if somehow they’d done
her wrong.

“Were you married to a farmer?” Franklin guessed.

Gloria shook her head. Sadness flowed out from her, like
water from a broken hose.

Finally, they were getting somewhere. It was always a good
sign when a ghost started reacting to Franklin: It meant they were looking for
his help; that they might be thinking about passing on.

Mama had yet to react to anything Franklin said. He was
afraid she intended to haunt him until
he
died.

“But you loved a farm—a farmer?” Franklin asked.

Gloria gave a hesitant nod.

Franklin sighed. This was gonna get messy. Ghosts with love
on their mind were the hardest to satisfy. He hated this part of his duty to
the ghosts, trying to figure out what a person that couldn’t really talk wanted,
who often wouldn’t even respond when he did ask a question.

“Did he love you back?” Franklin held himself ready to bolt,
but Gloria didn’t do more than glare at him.

“So he loved you,” Franklin said, relieved.

But Gloria didn’t agree to that either. Instead, she shook her
head at his corn and faded out of sight.

What did that mean? Had the farmer loved her? Or not?

And why did they have to come bother him about it?

Franklin sighed and returned to his crop, to the easier
cycle of growing and watering and trimming just right, so much better than the
complicated dance of the living and the dead.

* * *

The next morning, Gloria didn’t return until Franklin was
getting his bike out of the front shed. Clouds filled the sky, and the sticky
air made Franklin feel as though he hadn’t dried off after his shower. It would
storm that afternoon. At least his crop was well enough established that unless
it hailed, the stalks could withstand a strong wind.

“Good morning, Miss Gloria,” Franklin said softly after
making sure that no one walked on the empty lane out in front of the property.
“Can I give you a lift into town?”

He’d done that before. Seemed like a ghost could ride on the
basket, between the handlebars. Only two weeks before, he’d given a ride to a
little girl (too young) with pigtails and a simple dress, who’d wanted a lift to
the county judicial center just up the street from the Kroger so she could go harass
the drunk who’d mowed her down.

Gloria took one look at his bike then raised one immaculately
plucked eyebrow.

The
Are you kidding
me?
came through loud and clear.

With a quick shiver, Gloria disappeared.

Franklin groaned. She was going to haunt him all day at the Kroger,
he just knew it.

Was she strong enough to pull down a shelf? She was stronger
than most ghosts, able to click her fingernails against the kitchen table. Franklin
wasn’t looking forward to finding out.

* * *

Franklin coasted his bike wearily down Main Street. The good
news was that Gloria hadn’t been strong enough to knock things off shelves. She
was, however, a bad influence on kids. Somehow, just being near her was enough
to make the younger ones cry and the older ones pick fights. Twice today,
Franklin had had to stop teenagers from throwing cabbages or potatoes or
whatever was handy at each other.

The storm promised by the dark clouds and heated air hadn’t
come. Wetness pressed down on Franklin as he cut across to Jacobson. He’d need
another shower when he got home, though it wouldn’t matter. He felt like he was
riding through one already.

To lift his spirits, Franklin rode across Jacobson and up
Stewart, turning north, heading toward what he called the sculpture garden. The
Sorrels were from Los Angeles, come to his small town of Katherinesville to
retire. Adrianna called herself an artist, while her husband, Ray, indulged her.
She filled their yard with “found art”: fallen tree branches wired together
into tall, eerie men; pieces of glass collected from the highway and pasted
together into stars; even plastic bags tied together and dyed, turned into
colorful streamers.

Once a year, the Sorrels had a huge picnic. They invited all
their neighbors and at least half the town to come and eat at their place. Tables
ran the length of the yard, filled with fresh rolls, heaps of sliced ham,
potato salad and coleslaw and corn on the cob and green beans and everything
else neighbors brought to share, with ice cream at the end.

Gossip was that the Sorrels were some kind of Hollywood
behind-the-scenes royalty. But they acted like regular folk—well,
mostly—and if the gate door was open, Franklin would stop and chat for a
while.

But the gate was firmly shut that afternoon. They did have a
new piece hanging on the wooden fence, a strange metal cabinet with tiny
plastic dolls pasted around the edges, framing it.

Was that really art? Franklin had no idea. He found beauty
in his fields, in fresh growing things, in neat stacks of apples or well packed
rows of carrots at the store.

And in the clean lines of kernels, after they’d been dried,
ready to be popped.

Franklin headed north for a few more blocks. The houses were
a mixture of old and new. Some of the buildings were colonial, made out of
brick and tall, with many chimneys and clean, steep tin roofs. Some were more
modern: rectangular and one story, from the ’50s, like Franklin’s. Green
Kentucky bluegrass covered the yards. Despite the dry summer, purple flowering pawpaw
trees bloomed overhead, brightening the day.

Just as Franklin had seen enough and was turning back toward
Jacobsen, Gloria appeared, not two feet in front of him.

Though Franklin knew he couldn’t hurt her, he still
automatically swerved onto the grass edging the side of the street. His tires
skidded, and Franklin fell.

“Dang it!” Franklin said as he stood up, brushing off his Kroger
uniform. A green and black smear went down one pants leg. He was gonna have to
do laundry twice this week if this kept up.

When Franklin looked up, Gloria stood unmoving like a sign
post, one hand pointing away from Jacobson, up the street, farther into the
neighborhood.

With a sigh, Franklin got back on his bike and pedaled the
direction Gloria indicated. She appeared again, pointing him this way and that.
Where was she wanting him to get to? How long was this going to take? His
stomach rumbled. Not too long, hopefully.

Finally, Gloria stopped at the end of a dead-end street, in
front of two ramshackle houses, and pointed to a trail going up between them.

Franklin shook his head as he got off his bike. It was bad
enough that ghosts haunted his place. He hated it when they made him trespass.

But at least the houses looked dark, the owners not home. Trash
lay piled up on the front porch of the one, with blue sheets of plastic covering
the windows. Broken toys lay in front of the other.

Hopefully, neither of them had a dog in their backyard.

Franklin looked up and down the street. He didn’t see anyone
else there, waiting or watching. Damn it. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders,
and walked his bike up the trail Gloria was pointing to.

The backyards of the two houses were cleaner than the
fronts. This was where the folks here lived, with lots of benches, chairs, and
tables for them to gather at. They shared a long barrel smoker, and the smell
of their recent BBQ made Franklin’s mouth water.

Past the yards was a fallow field, full of brambles and
sharp leaved weeds. Franklin pushed his way through, not bothering to untangle
vines from the wire wheels of his bike. Hopefully no one minded his
trespassing. Maybe, though, this would be the last of Gloria’s haunting.

Finally, Gloria pointed Franklin toward a field.

Was this her farmer’s field? Maybe he really could help her
pass this afternoon.

Plus, corn grew in this field. Franklin happily walked into
it. The stalks were tall, well groomed, and healthy. He judged the crop to be a
little behind his rows: Maybe the farmer hadn’t watered as much as Franklin
had.

Gloria joined Franklin, marching angrily down the stalks toward
a taller plant. Was there a particular place in the field that she cared about?
Had something happened here?

Then Gloria stopped, holding out her hands in front of her.

Even from a few feet away, Franklin felt the wave of power
that Gloria pushed out of her palms. She grew darker, less ghostly, as she pressed
her will against a single ear of corn. But it wasn’t hate that drove her, no.

It was fear.

What made her so scared of that corn?

Finally, Gloria got her prize, and a single ear dropped off
the stalk and onto the ground. Gloria glared at Franklin, pointed at him, then
down at the ear of corn.

Despite the heat, Franklin got a cold chill up his spine. He
checked over his shoulder, but he didn’t see another ghost. He scanned
carefully, closely, but all he saw was more stalks of corn.

However, something else lurked there; a silent watcher. He
just knew they weren’t alone. Maybe some spirit haunted these fields.

With great reluctance, Franklin walked forward and picked up
the ear of corn.

As soon as Franklin touched it, he knew Gloria’s
intent
: She wanted him to steal this
corn, steal all of this farmer’s crop.

What had that farmer done to her, that she wanted Franklin
to ruin his livelihood? It must have been real bad. If she’d been alive, she
would have been shaking with fear. Something about this corn and this field
scared her worse than any ghosts could have.

“I’m sorry,” Franklin said, as gently as he could. “I can’t
do it. I can’t steal this corn for you. You’re gonna have to find something
else to help you pass on.” He’d never help a ghost to that extent. Not even if the
person they was mad at had done something horrible. Gloria was just gonna have
to find another way.

Gloria tipped her head back, turning her eyes up to the sky,
then opening her mouth and screaming. Her face held sheer agony, like all the
pinchers of hell was grabbing at her.

Franklin had never seen such a display.

Then Gloria marched over to Franklin and
pushed
at him, trying to get him to do
her will, to leave all the stalks bare, dry, and leafless, like gravestone
markers in the field.

“I can’t,” Franklin said, backing away, his skin feeling
like it was being wrapped in sticky cobwebs. Gloria was strong, but no ghost
was strong enough to force the living to their will.

Gloria stopped, paused, and gave a sly smile.

Suddenly, Franklin knew who owned this field: Karl Metzger,
his rival for the Kentucky State Fair blue ribbon prize for growing the best
popping corn. The man who had everything Franklin wanted. His old rival.

Franklin dropped the ear of corn he’d been holding, like it was
suddenly hot enough to pop all on its own. He raced with his bike along the
long row and bolted out of the field, onto the highway, then pedaled like mad
back toward town.

How could Gloria think he’d be so…so…dastardly as that? It
just wasn’t right.

Franklin would never do something like that, particularly
not to a rival. He wanted to win that prize, wanted that blue ribbon so
badly—but he’d do it on his own terms. He’d never stoop to cheating that
way.

As Franklin got to his side of town, turning off the
four-lane highway onto Stevens, the clouds opened up and blinded him with rain.

It didn’t matter to Franklin that he had to walk his bike the
rest of the way home due to the downpour, that Mama glared at him all through
dinner, that he had to use the last of Sweet Bess’ lard melted over his popcorn
that night: he was content, ’cause he knew he’d done the right thing.

He also knew this was far from over.

WINDS TORE AT THE HOUSE ALL NIGHT,
and thunder shook the trees. Franklin stayed in the sanctuary of his room,
resigned to checking the damage in the morning. Mama had always told him that
fretting didn’t do no good. That night, Franklin tried to follow her advice,
but his eyes kept popping open when the light flashed against his dark shade.

The next morning, clear blue sky gazed down on Franklin,
washed clean from the rain the night before. Smells of wet earth and grass
filled the air. Only Mama sat at the kitchen table that morning, her look less
angry, more pensive.

All of Franklin’s corn stalks had survived. They’d been
knocked around a bit—the ground at the foot of a few of the stalks was
loose, and they leaned forward a little, like a giant hand had been pushing at
them—but for the most part, they were all good. He pushed the stalks back
up and stomped on the wet earth, making it hold them more firm again. He
plucked up a few weeds, pulling them easily out of the wet dirt.

Quiet wind rustled the leaves. Standing in between the stalks,
Franklin couldn’t see the house, or the yard—nothing but rows of corn.
Peace filled him. He wished he could bottle it up and keep it with him when he
needed it most, like the fireflies he’d captured as a boy, using them as
nightlights for his room.

A feeling of stillness beyond the quiet of the morning told
Franklin that he wasn’t alone. When he looked up, he saw Gloria standing at the
end of one of the rows. With a contemptuous hand, Gloria smacked one of his ears
of corn. Power rippled from her, through the stalks and Franklin’s chest.

Franklin rushed over to the ear Gloria hit. He didn’t see
anything wrong with it: It was still firmly attached to the stalk, not suddenly
iced over or filled with bugs or some other nightmare that only ghosts could give
him.

When Franklin looked back at Gloria, she merely pointed at
him, her
intent
clear: This was
merely a warning. More damage was on the way if he didn’t help her.

Franklin gulped. “Miss Gloria, I can’t steal Karl’s crop.
That wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly. There’s gotta be something
else I can do, that’ll help you.” Franklin wasn’t gonna steal Karl’s corn. Karl
was his competitor. He didn’t hate Karl. He envied him.

Gloria pressed her lips together tightly, but she didn’t
push any more
intent
at Franklin.

Her disappointment was obvious, though.

She disappeared before Franklin could say much else.

But what could he have said? He wasn’t a thief.

* * *

Later that night, after dinner, Gloria appeared in the
kitchen again, sitting at the table beside Mama. Franklin wondered if they
talked with each other in a way he couldn’t hear, as they kept looking at each
other, Mama with her hair up and her good church clothes, Gloria with her
perfect blond curls, too-tight shirt, and long red nails that she kept clicking
on the table.

They did seem to be in agreement about one thing: They kept
glaring at Franklin, first separately, then together.

Well, maybe some more of Sweet Bess’ lard would gentle
Gloria.

Franklin went down to the basement, then stepped into the
root cellar for another one of his jars. The darkness of the basement never
bothered him much: He’d grown up seeing ghosts, having them give him nightmares.
A little darkness wasn’t ever scary after that. He liked how cool it was down
there. Most of the basement had a concrete floor, but the root cellar’s floor
was dirt and smelled like his fields. A steep wooden staircase took up one
wall, leading up to closed shutter doors. Deep shelves lines the walls, and
Franklin had some spices hanging from the ceiling, gifts from his cousin
Lexine.

Only a half dozen jars of plain rendered lard remained,
along with some of the snow white, rendered leaf lard from around Bess’ kidneys
that he had stored in the freezer. He’d use the latter for making pies to bring
to the Sorrels’ picnic later that year, as it was pure and had no scent of pork.

Franklin hadn’t planned on opening another jar so soon. He
justified it to himself by telling himself that it was for Gloria. Maybe he
could please her enough with that, so she’d figure out something else for him
to do, instead of stealing Karl’s crop.

However, neither Gloria or Mama seemed interested in the jar
when Franklin held it up to show them. After cracking it open, Franklin
approached the table slowly, so as not to spook Gloria: He didn’t want her
disappearing or going after his crop.

Inch by slow inch, Franklin held out the open jar for
Gloria. Would she understand what he was offering?

Puzzled, Gloria sniffed at the lard, then curled her nose up
at the smell of it and disappeared.

Damn it! Why didn’t she want the lard? She’d certainly been
going after it earlier.

Mama moved her hand from the table for the first time since
she’d started haunting Franklin.

Startled, Franklin held himself absolutely still. What was
Mama about to tell him?

Slowly, Mama raised up three fingers.
Intent
oozed from her, like butter melting over popcorn.

There were three ghosts haunting Franklin: Mama, Gloria, and
another, unnamed, unseen ghost.

And Mama was worried about her boy.

An unseen ghost haunting Franklin? That just didn’t seem
right. Ghosts haunted Franklin because they needed his help. They’d been doing
it since he was a boy. Mama had always told him it was his duty. And he sure
hadn’t done anything to make a ghost want revenge or come after him.

Maybe the ghost was just ornery enough to haunt Franklin
without wanting his help. But that still didn’t seem right. And it wouldn’t
worry Mama, not that much.

What was this other ghost? And what did it really want?

* * *

On his lunch break the next day at the Kroger, Franklin
hurriedly ate his sandwich and went to find Charlene, the store manager.

“Hey darlin’,” Charlene said, welcoming Franklin into the
little security booth on the balcony of the store. “What can I do you for?”

The room held a half-dozen TV screens, all black and white,
showing different places in the store, like the liquor coolers in the back, the
two cashiers up front, and the baby and diaper aisle—they’d had a problem
recently with formula going missing. Like the rest of the store, the room smelled
like old wood and dust: The building was a turn-of-the-century store front,
gutted and converted into a more modern store.

Franklin had never felt comfortable up there, spying on
everyone. Charlene always struck him as a little too keen on security.

Charlene’s uniform was a long-sleeved white shirt with the
Kroger logo over her right breast pocket, black trousers, and a utility belt
that rivaled any comic book character’s. She cut her brown curly hair short and
always wore what Mama called “work makeup”—just enough to make her
pretty, but never enough to be noticed. Fortunately, Mama had never tried to
set Franklin up with Charlene. Franklin had always assumed it wasn’t because
Charlene was white, but because of her size: She was taller and wider than
Franklin (who wasn’t a small man) and at least twice as strong.

“Figured I’d come and catch up on the local gossip,”
Franklin said with a grin, holding out his bribe: half a bowl of the fresh
blueberries that had just come in, drowning in cream.

“You know I don’t gossip,” Charlene admonished as she took
the bowl with one hand, while indicating that Franklin should sit on the other
chair in her “command center.” “Thank you,” she added with a shy smile.

“Then maybe you can catch me up on the news,” Franklin said.

“Well, you know the Whittiers?” Charlene started. “They live
up near the big Baptist church, off Fifth. So Jimmy—you know Jimmy, the
dry cleaner—he was saying…”

Franklin nodded, letting Charlene spin her tales. The
problem wasn’t ever getting Charlene talking, but getting her to stop. It was
why he’d come to see her at the end of his break, not the beginning.

“So, have any bad people been killed on the highway
recently?” Franklin asked when he felt he could get a word in.

“No, no, not that I could say,” Charlene said. She put the
empty bowl back on the desk in front of her. “You sure are a gruesome thing,
ain’t ya? Always asking about who’s dying.”

Franklin shrugged and tried to act casual. “Just an interest
of mine,” he said truthfully.

“The only big news we’ve had is that some big developer, a
businessman, has gone missing. He was supposed to call into his office yesterday,
on Monday, and didn’t,” Charlene said.

“What do you mean, missing?” Franklin asked, wondering. A
developer—that might make a hungry ghost, particularly if he was looking
to buy up anything in their little sleepy town.

“You can’t say a word to anyone else,” Charlene said,
leaning forward and lowering her voice. “I heard it on the scanner.”

Charlene kept a police scanner in her car, and sometimes
followed Sheriff Thompson or went out to where there was trouble. Not that it
was illegal, but the sheriff and his deputies didn’t like Charlene much. She
insisted it was because they were threatened she’d do their jobs so much better,
if only she’d gone into law enforcement instead of business.

“I promise I won’t tell a soul,” Franklin assured her.

“So this guy—Jackson, I think his name is—came
here to see about building a resort.”

“Here?” Franklin scoffed. “There’s nothing here.” Katherinesville
was a historic town. It had its share of colonial buildings, and the third
floor of the eye clinic had been the old opera house and still showed plays.
But it wasn’t as fancy or preserved as the bigger towns, like Bardstown or
Harrodsburg. The countryside was pretty enough, but so was most of
Kentucky.
 

“Ah, but what if he diverted Wolf River?”

“Could they do that?” Franklin asked, astonished. What would
happen to his taxes if the town became prosperous? Could he still afford to
live there, or buy the property next to his? “I sure hope they don’t.”

“Well, that’s just the gossip,” Charlene said with a grin.
“Anyway, he met with some of the local bigwigs, like the Sorrels and the county
governor and the mayor. Then he wanted to poke around, get some of the ‘flavor’
of the area.”

Franklin snickered. “Flavor. I’ll say.” Why did city folks
think places like Katherinesville were so quaint? When Charlene didn’t go on,
he added, “So what happened to him?”

“He disappeared. Never made it to his plane. His rental car
wasn’t returned. He hasn’t checked his email, or called into his office.”

“Couldn’t they find him on his phone or something?
Triangulate?” Franklin asked.

“You been watching too many cop shows on TV. That only works
if there’s a signal. Can you get reception out in the middle of your field?”

Franklin shook his head
no
.
He didn’t have a fancy, smart phone—as Mama had said, those things made
you dumb. But he did have a cell phone that he could use, when he remembered to
charge it. But Charlene was right—it was useless out in the middle of his
field.

“So they can’t find him. Or track him. He’s just fallen off
the face of the earth. People are speculating that the deal he wanted to make
went bad.”

“Or maybe not,” Franklin replied. “If he’s really that busy
and important, maybe he just wanted to take some time off.”

“Maybe,” Charlene said, nodding. “But I bet there’s been
foul play.”

“Now who’s been watching too much TV?” Franklin teased. He
stood up and gathered their bowls. “I appreciate the news,” he added. “But my
break’s about over.”

As Franklin headed out, Charlene called after him, “You want
me to tell you if they bring a fancy crew out just to track one man?”

“Sure thing,” Franklin said, though he had a better tracking
device than any of the equipment he saw on those shows on TV.

He had his cousin Lexine.

* * *

Franklin tugged on his gloves and reached for the first head
of red leaf lettuce. Stocking lettuce wasn’t as bad as cleaning out the wet
rack where the lettuces was displayed, even if he didn’t like trimming leaves
off the heads, particularly when they were slimy. He kept his knife sharp, so
it was a bit easier.

But he’d forgotten to turn off the sprayer, so of course,
the next time he reached back to set a head of lettuce in the wet rack his
glove and arm all got wet.

“Dang it,” Franklin said under his breath so no one else
would hear. He didn’t have any paper towels on his cart, either. He marched
down to the end of the display and turned off the sprayer, then went back to
break room to pat down his arm.

By the time he came back, Gloria stood there, smirking, as
two brothers, Mark and Louis, flung stringy, slimy lettuce cuttings at each
other.
 

“Mark! Louis!” Franklin bellowed.

The boys stopped mid-throw and looked guilty. “We’re sorry
Mr. Kanly, sir,” Mark said as he realized that there were bits of slimy lettuce
on the floor, as well as dripping off the front of the vegetable case.

“Don’t tell our mom,” Louis begged.

Franklin sighed. Luckily, he’d brought the paper towels with
him. “You go find her, then,” he said gruffly as he bent down to wipe up the
gunk on the floor.

The boys skedaddled. Franklin didn’t feel too badly about
them—they’d clearly been under the influence of Gloria. No need to warn
their mother, Mrs. Mason. She already had enough on her hands, with four boys.
His mama had always said that she was lucky she’d only had the one, ’cause she
swore that more than one would have sent her clear around the bend.

Franklin finished cleaning up and had started trimming
lettuce leaves again when Mr. Sorrel came up, a mere loaf of bread and a small
pack of cheese sitting morosely in his wire cart. He wore a loud red-and-yellow
print shirt with cartoon figures Franklin didn’t recognize, beige shorts, white
socks and sandals. His white hair was perfectly styled and filled his whole
head, despite his seventy-plus years. He had a bland face, the kind you’d
forget in an hour, unless he found you interesting and suddenly focused his
gray-blue eyes on you and you’d realize just how smart he was.