A Fine Dark Line

11

NEXT FEW DAYS Buster brought the old newspapers to work. He arrived at least two hours before he needed to run the reels. Me and Nub spent time with him in the projection booth. We looked through the clippings. Well, Buster and I did. Nub lay on the floor on his back with his paws in the air. He was no help at all.

Buster and I catalogued anything interesting on yellow pads, put the catalogued papers aside for future reference.

Mornings, when Buster wasn’t there, I read from the Sherlock Holmes stories or taught Rosy to read better. She had graduated from the movie magazines and comics, and was reading a few short stories out of Mom’s magazines, like The Saturday Evening Post.

Sometimes Richard came by to visit, and we rode our bikes down to the wood-lined creek, hunted crawdads in the muddy shallow water.

We caught the crawdads by tying a piece of bacon to a string, jerking the mud bugs out of the creek when they grabbed hold of it.

Richard would bring a bucket with him, and by noon of a good day, we had it half full of crawdads. Richard took them home to give to his mother, who boiled them until they were pink. Then she made rice and cooked vegetables and mixed them together.

I had eaten crawdads once or twice at their house and didn’t like them much. They tasted muddy to me. And it was sad to see Richard’s mother move about like a whipped dog, her eye blacked, her nose swollen, her lip pooched out like a patch on a bicycle tire. Just looking across the table at Richard’s dad bent over his plate like a dark cloud about to rain on the world made the food in my mouth taste bad.

One day Richard came to our house on his bike and his eye was blacked.

“What happened?” I asked him.

“Daddy and Mama got into it,” he said. “I tried to stop Daddy from kickin’ her. He blacked my eye and she got kicked anyhow.”

“Sorry.”

“I reckon me and Mama had it comin’.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Come on, let’s go catch crawfish,” he said.

Down at the creek fishing for mud bugs, Richard and I started talking about the ghost by the railroad tracks.

“Hey, want to sneak out tonight and go have a look? I can have you back before you’re even missed.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You can’t be a sissy all your life.”

“I’m no sissy.”

“You do what you’re told, don’t you? I take chances.”

“Well, my daddy doesn’t beat the tar out of me over just anything either. He doesn’t beat the tar out of me at all.”

“My daddy says he’s just tryin’ to make me responsible.”

“He’s just tryin’ to beat your ass. And he hits your mother too. My daddy doesn’t ever hit my mother.”

“She’s sassy ’cause he don’t.”

“What if she is?”

“I don’t mean nothin’ by it, Stanley. But you want to fight, I’ll fight you. I ain’t afraid.”

“And you might whip me, but don’t talk about my mom or my family.”

“You started it.”

I was still squatting on the creek bank, holding a bacon-loaded string. I thought for a moment, said, “Guess I did. I didn’t mean nothing.”

“Me neither. I was just kiddin’ when I called you a sissy. You ain’t no sissy.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure. You want to slip off or not?”

“Why not,” I said.

“I can come by tonight. About eleven or so. That work for you?”

“Better make it midnight.”

“We can ride bikes to the sawmill, walk from there, since there ain’t nothing but a rough trail.”

We wrapped our lines on sticks, stuck them under the bridge for another time when we could get some bacon, then I walked home with Richard, him carrying the bucket with the crawdads in it.

We walked by the old abandoned sawmill. Most of it had rotted down and some of it had been torn away for lumber. One complete building remained. It was supported on posts and through a glassless window machinery could be seen. The roof was conical and had rusted and the rust made it look in the moonlight as if it were made of gold.

The structure was open in front and from it swung a long metal chute held up by rusted chains attached to rods on hinges. The chute dipped toward a damp, blackened sawdust pile which was flattened on top by wind and rain. Blue jays called out from the woods and one lit on the chute for a moment. Even its little weight made the long chute wobble on its chains. The bird took to the sky and made a dot that went away.

Dewmont was full of stories, and one of many I had heard from Richard was about a colored kid who had gone playing in the sawmill ruins and thought it would be fun to ride that old chute down into the sawdust pile. But when he got in the stuff, he went under, and was never found.

According to the story, somewhere beneath that huge mountain of sawdust were his bones, and maybe the bones of others as well.

I always wondered how people knew he was there if no one had seen it happen. And if he was there, surely someone would have dug his body out by now.

When I brought this up to Richard, he said, “That boy’s mama had twelve other kids. She wasn’t missin’ one little nigger much.”

When we got to his property, Richard’s demeanor changed. He lost a step and his shoulders sagged.

He said, “I think me havin’ these crawdads will calm Daddy’s temper, since I been gone so long.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so we just kept walking into his yard. According to Richard, their house had been handed down to them by his mother’s parents. It was huge and once grand, but that grandness was gone.

The yard was lush with high weeds divided by a cracked concrete walk. The porch sagged and the front door hung crooked on its hinges. One side of the porch roof had a hole in it and the lumber was hanging down, black and wet-looking, soft, as if you could tear it apart with your bare hands.

Out back of the house I could hear their big black dog barking, running on its chain attached to the clothesline.

Richard paused, studied the dog as it ran back and forth.

“Daddy loves that dog,” Richard said. “He’s crazy about him.”

Back and beyond the clothesline and the dog was the twenty acres or so Mr. Chapman farmed in potatoes and peas. There too were the crumbling outbuildings, the ill-fed plow mule contained within a rickety fence, and an anemic-looking hog in a mud hole surrounded by closely driven posts made of hoss apple wood. The hog lived on day-old toss-away cakes Mr. Chapman got from the bakery, scraps from the kitchen.

As we stepped on the porch, the door opened, and Mr. Chapman came out. He was a tall lean man who looked as if he had once been wet and wrung out too hard in a wash wringer. There didn’t seem to be a drop of moisture in him or his hair, and his eyes were as dark and dry as pine nuts.

He looked at me, then at Richard.

“You got in that bucket, boy?”

“Crawdads,” Richard said. “Enough for supper, I think.”

“You think. Do you or don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You been gone all day, boy. I had some work for you to do.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Get in the house, give ’em to your mama. Your friend can’t stay.”

“See you, Stanley,” Richard said. The expression in his eyes was like a suicide note.

“Sure,” I said.

Behind me, I heard the door slam, followed by a flat whapping sound. Richard cried out shrilly from behind the door and his father said something sharp. Then I was gone, on out to the road, walking fast, the sunlight warmer and cleaner out there, away from the weeds and the trees and the big rotting Chapman place.

———

I ARRIVED at the drive-in to find Mom in a state. She had been shopping with Callie and had had an adventure.

She was dressed in a black dress with a black hat with a red bow on it; it looked like something Robin Hood would wear if he were in mourning and was a sissy.

Mom removed the hat, which was somehow fastened with a couple of pins, put it on the drainboard by the sink. Her hands were shaking.

“He was pacing us, across the street,” she told me and Rosy Mae.

“Shu it was him, Miss Gal?”

“Well, no. I’ve never seen him. But I think it was. He was big and very black. Had a fedora, pulled down just above his eyebrows. A longish coat. He looked strong.”

“What kind of shoes was he wearin’?” Rosy Mae asked.

“I didn’t think to look at his shoes,” Mom said. “He could have been wearing ballet slippers for all I know. I have to sit down. Stanley, will you get me a glass of water?”

“He had on army style boots with red laces,” Callie said. “I noticed it. I’ve never seen a man with red laces before.”

I brought Mom a glass of water. She sat at the table, and after a few sips, she set the glass down and took a deep breath.

I hadn’t noticed if the man out front of the drive-in the other day, smoking a cigarette, was wearing army boots with red laces, but the rest of it, the clothes, the hat, fit.

Daddy, who had been out back, picking up trash from the drive-in yard, came in, said, “Stanley, I want you out here right now, picking up trash. You can’t go off fishing when there’s work to . . . What’s going on here?”

“I’m not sure if anything is,” Mom said. “I think it may be my imagination.”

“Well,” Daddy said, “am I going to have to imagine what happened?”

“No,” Mom said. “I just don’t know it was anything. You see, me and Callie, we were in town shopping. Going to Phillips’s Grocery, but had to park down from the store a ways. It’s coupon day for the store. They’ve started this thing with their own coupons—”

“Gal, for heaven’s sake,” Daddy said.

“Okay. Anyway. We were walking back to the car, and across the street was this big colored man wearing a brown fedora. He looked so scary. He . . . Well, I didn’t like the way he was looking at us. As we walked back to the car, he paced us on the other side of the street. When we stopped, he stopped, and he glared at us. I didn’t imagine that, did I, Callie?”

“No. He was watching us, Daddy.”

“He followed us all the way to the car, and when we got inside, and I was starting to back out, he came next to the window and looked in. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t do anything. But he had the strangest look on his face. And his eyes, they were so . . .”

“Scary,” Callie said. “Like something out of a monster movie.”

“Yes. Something out of a monster movie. I froze with my foot on the brake.”

“It was him, Miss Gal,” Rosy Mae said. “He wear them red laces all the time. I bought them for him. And he got that look. I seen that look many times, right before he hit me so hard my clothes changes colors.”

Rosy Mae pulled up a chair, sat down.

“He done gone to followin’ you, and it’s all my fault.”

“I invited you here,” Mom said.

“Yes,” Daddy said. “You did.”

“I can get my stuff and be gone in jes’ fifteen minutes,” Rosy Mae said. “Ain’t no one been nicer than you, Miss Gal. But I don’t want to bring nothin’ on your fambly.”

“You hush up, Rosy,” Mom said. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

“Maybe I should, Miss Gal.”

“You go out there, roam those streets, he’s going to hurt you,” Mom said. “I guarantee it.”

“And what about you?” Daddy said. “Sounds to me like he’s going to hurt you. Or Callie.”

Mom glared at him. “And what do you suggest?”

Daddy thought it over, said, “I suggest we leave things like they are. You’re welcome here, Rosy. I don’t want you roaming the streets. You really don’t have anyplace to go . . . Do you?”

“No, sir, Mr. Stanley, I don’t.”

“Well, then, you got to stay. But this old dog ain’t gonna hunt. Where did you see this nig . . . this fella?”

“On Main Street,” Callie said. “But he’d be gone by now. You should have seen him, Daddy, lookin’ in the car, scary-like.”

“Where’s he live, Rosy?” Daddy asked.

“Down in the Section.”

“Where in the Section?”

She told him.

“I’ll check by there,” he said. “I don’t find him, I’ll call the police.”

“No, Stanley,” Mom said. “The man is dangerous. He might have a gun.”

“He might not have no gun,” Rosy said. “But he carry a knife or a razor all the time, and he cut you too, you can bet on that.”

“Go to the police right away,” Mom said.

“I’ll be back,” Daddy said. He went upstairs, put on a clean shirt, got his hat, went out.

I said, “You think he’ll go to the police?”

Mom said, “I certainly hope so.”

———

DADDY WAS GONE for some time. We were all nervous about his whereabouts. Mom and Callie went about household duties, and I picked up paper on the lot with the nail stick. When I finished, I read the last Sherlock Holmes story in the book Buster had loaned me, but my mind never really wrapped around it.

We were, to put it mildly, excited when Daddy finally came in the door, removing his hat.

“Did you tell the police?” Callie asked.

“I did,” Daddy said. “I gave them the description you gave me. But first, I went by the shack where he lives . . . Where you lived, Rosy. He wasn’t there. And neither was the shack.”

“How’s that, Mr. Stanley?”

“It was burned to the ground.”

“He threatened to do that with me in it,” Rosy Mae said. “I’m glad I wasn’t in it.”

“Police are out looking for him. They said they’d keep us posted.”

“I want to keep all the doors locked,” Mom said. “I’m scared for all of us.”

“Not a bad idea,” Daddy said, “but I doubt he’ll come around here.”

“I ain’t puttin’ nothin’ past him,” Rosy Mae said. “Not now. If’n he’s big on the whiskey, they ain’t no tellin’.”

Suppose I should have mentioned seeing Bubba Joe, and I’m not exactly sure why I didn’t. Sort of felt it really didn’t matter. He wasn’t out there now, and Mother and Callie were already upset enough, and if I told Daddy, he might charge off looking for him, might do something to him that need not be done. Or maybe, though it was hard to imagine, Bubba Joe might hurt Daddy.

I was a mess of emotions.

In the end, I was silent.

At least as far as my family went.

———

THE DAY WENT BY nervously. I found myself constantly looking to see if Bubba Joe was trying to storm the drive-in fence, or the locked gate where cars came in.

When Buster arrived that day, I went out to see him.

“You look skittish, boy.”

“I am,” and I told him why.

“He’s a crazy nigger, Stanley. Always beatin’ on women and such. I ain’t never liked him, got no truck with him. But I don’t think he’ll come over here in the white section. He scared of whites. Not no individual white, but whites in general. Some coloreds I know think you get a cold from a white person it’s twicet as bad as from a colored.”

“I don’t think Bubba Joe is the kind to worry about a cold.”

“You got a point there.”

“Think I saw him the other day. Out front of the drive-in, staring.”

“Was he in the yard?”

“Out by the highway.”

“Still don’t think you need to shit yourself just yet. He ain’t likely to come on a white man’s property without an invitation . . . Well, he might. Ain’t no tellin’ what a crazy man will do.”

I didn’t exactly find that cheering, but I set about going through the newspaper clippings, primarily because Buster was enjoying it so much.

In the clippings I came across one about the murder and the fire written some days after they happened. It was a kind of sum-up of events so far. About how Margret’s body had been found by a hunter, and that he had reported it. It said it was a tragedy, but you could tell from the article the main tragedy for the writer was the death of the Stilwind girl, the burning down of the house of a prominent family. The article listed all the school awards the Stilwind girl had won, said how pretty she was. Margret was just a murdered girl down by the railroad tracks.

I pointed this clipping out to Buster.

“So, this fella, whoever he is that’s supposed to have done the killin’ on Margret, you think he’s running to make a killing back at the Stilwinds’?”

“I don’t know. I guess.”

“Think about it. He might have had time to get from the tracks to the Stilwind house, but then he got to get in, not get caught, and he got to tie the Stilwind girl up, gag her so she’ll be quiet. He’d be busy, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He got to do all that, get the fire set, get out of the house without gettin’ caught. Think on that.”

I thought a moment, said, “Maybe he tied and gagged her, went and killed Margret, then came back and set the fire.”

“Too much trouble.”

“It’s making my head hurt,” I said.

“I hear that,” Buster said. “I got a bit of an ache myself.”

———

AS NIGHT NEARED, I began to regret my plans with Richard. The idea of sneaking out frightened me. If my parents found out, I could be locked away at home for the rest of the summer.

There was also the fact I was scared because Bubba Joe was about. I had spent the day with a chill up my spine over Bubba Joe, and to think I might go out at night and wander about seemed crazy.

I could explain it to Richard, but it would sound like an excuse. I had made a deal and didn’t want to disappoint him. Or to be more truthful, I didn’t want to be perceived as a sissy, since he had already brought that possibility up.

As the sun set, my dread rose. After the family had gone to bed, and I presumably had gone to bed, I lay there with Nub, looking up at my ceiling, thinking about poor Margret, Jewel Ellen, the crazy woman in her abandoned house, the colored kid supposedly at the bottom of the heap of wood dust, and, of course, mean ole Bubba Joe and everything else that had crossed my mind in the last few weeks. Not to mention the memory of a braking semi-truck.

I thought about all those things until they jumbled together.

I considered listening to the radio for a while, but didn’t. I just lay there with my hands crossed on my stomach, and waited. This proved too much for me, however. The tension was making me sweat. I decided to get up.

I had put on my pajamas for bed, but after I was certain the house was quiet, I dressed in blue jeans, tennis shoes, and an old blue shirt. I had a little wind-up clock, and I carried it over to the window and let the moonlight show me its face.

Eleven fifteen.

I pulled a chair next to the window, so while sitting I could see out the crack between window and window fan, watching for Richard. I put the clock on the floor next to me, and about every thirty seconds I checked it.

At eleven forty-five, Richard showed up. I could see him ride into the yard and stop, waiting for me.

I took my pocketknife off the top of the dresser, put it in my pocket. I put my clock on the nightstand. Nub was standing beside me, all ready to go on an adventure.

“Stay, Nub. Stay here.”

Nub looked at me as if I had insulted him.

“Not this time, Nub. Stay.”

Easing the door open, I glanced back at Nub, who was lying down, looking at me in that sad way only a dog can manage. I closed the door, stepped on the landing, went quietly downstairs.

When I entered the kitchen, Callie, wearing her pajamas, was standing at the refrigerator pouring milk into a glass. The light from inside it framed her and poured out on the floor.

“Stanley?”

“What are you doing up?”

“I’m pouring milk. What are you doing dressed?”

“Nothing.”

“Bull. You were slipping out.”

“Was not.”

“Were too. You tell me what you’re doing, or I’m going to wake up Mom and Daddy.”

I hesitated. Lies slipped through my head like minnows through a big fish net, none of them big enough or good enough to catch and use.

“You’re gonna wake up Rosy,” I said.

Callie glanced toward the living room. We could hear Rosy snoring. It sounded like someone sawing logs with a dull crosscut.

“Let’s step out back,” she said.

She unlocked the back door and we went out on the veranda. “Now tell me,” she said.

I gave her the background, briefly as I could.

“Ghosts?” she said. “You believe in ghosts?”

“I don’t know. I wanted to find out.”

Callie was quiet. She still had her glass of milk and she sipped it slowly.

“Richard’s out front waiting on me.”

“You know Bubba Joe could be out there.”

“I know.”

“Kind of exciting really.”

Actually, I wasn’t all that excited. I was just worried about being perceived as a sissy.

“I’m going with you.”

“Do what?”

“I’m going with you. I want to see a ghost.”

“You can’t go with us.”

“It’s either I go, or I tell Mom and Daddy about you.”

“I’ll tell them you wanted to go too.”

“They won’t believe you.”

“You could end up in trouble.”

“So could you.”

“You already been in trouble. Sure you want to chance it?”

“Want to chance yourself getting in trouble?”

“Oh, all right.”

“I have to change.”

“I’ll tell Richard.”

“If you know what’s good for you, you won’t try and slip off with him. You hear me, Stanley?”

“We’re taking bikes as far as the sawmill.”

“So, I’ll bring my bike.”

“Do you still remember how to ride?”

“I believe I can still figure it out. Now go out front and wait on me.”

“I’ll need the key to take my bike out.”

Callie reached it off the key hook inside next to the door.

“All right. You unlock the gate, leave it open, hang the key on the latch, and I’ll lock up when I get my bike out. I’ll lock up the house as I come out.”

———

I OPENED THE GATE, pushed my bicycle out to meet Richard. “I was beginning to think you were asleep,” Richard said.

I thought: Now there was a lie I could have used. I could have told him I fell asleep. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

It was too late, of course.

“My sister caught me. She’s coming too.”

“She can’t.”

“She can. Or she’s going to tell on me.”

“A girl.”

“Yes, Richard. She is a girl. Sisters usually are.”

He sighed. “All right. Where is she?”

“Getting dressed.”

After about five minutes, Callie showed up pushing her bike, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She had on jeans rolled almost to the knee, pink tennis shoes, and a large pink shirt tied in front with the shirttails. In the moonlight I could see that she had put on lipstick.

“Who’s the warpaint for?” I said. “The ghost?”

“You never know who you might meet.” Callie straddled her bike, said, “I’m ready.”