A Fine Dark Line

12

WE RODE SWIFTLY beneath the light of the partial moon. The shadows of the pine trees fell silent across the road in front of us in dark arrowhead shapes. The air was cool and bats circled overhead diving at bugs. The only sound was the whistling of bicycle tires on concrete, the grind of our chains rolling on their sprockets as we pedaled.

When we came to the abandoned sawmill, we stopped and looked at it. In the moonlight it seemed formidable. I half expected the machinery to start up. Every shadow I saw, was, for an instant, a ghostly sawmill worker moving about his job.

“All the sawmill workers I ever knowed was missin’ a finger,” Richard said. “My daddy’s worked sawmill some, and he’s missin’ a finger on his left hand. Since he whips my ass with the belt in his right, it ain’t been a real hindrance to him. ’Sides, a missing piece of finger don’t matter if you can make a fist.”

“I came to see a ghost,” Callie said. “If there is such a thing. I don’t want to hear about fingers cut off in sawmills.”

“Place where it is is on the other side of the sawmill,” Richard said. “Through the woods, down by the tracks. I can’t guarantee you’ll see anything. But that’s where it’s supposed to be.”

“Through the woods?” Callie said.

“That’s right.” Richard looked at me. “That’s why I didn’t want you to bring a girl.”

“What’s that mean?” Callie asked.

“You sound all frighty. Ooooh, the woods. You might get a bramble in your hair.”

“I didn’t say I couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it. I merely asked where the ghost was. I’m here to see a ghost, aren’t I? You think an old sawmill and some trees are going to stop me?”

“Did Stanley tell you this ghost hasn’t got a head?”

“If you’re trying to scare me, save it. I assume if I’m frightened by this ghost, if there is a ghost, I’ll be just as scared if it has a head or doesn’t.”

“We’ll leave our bikes by the sawmill,” Richard said.

We pushed our bikes into the brush by the mill, leaned them against the rotting posts that held up the back wall. Richard looked at Callie, said, “Stanley tell you there’s a little dead nigger boy under all that sawdust?”

“Do what?”

Richard paused to tell her the story. I realized in his own damaged way, he was flirting with Callie, trying to impress her.

“I don’t believe that story at all,” she said. “And I’d rather you not use that word in my presence.”

“What word?”

“What you call Negroes.”

“Niggers?”

“That’s the word.”

“Nigger, nigger, nigger.”

Callie gave Richard a look that made him move back slightly. In the dark I could feel that look, and I wasn’t even the target.

“Let’s just go see the ghost,” Callie said.

Richard’s mouth formed the beginnings of one more smart remark, but he saved it. I thought that a wise decision.

———

THE MOONLIGHT LAY only on the trail in front of us, the rest of it was sucked up by the darkness between the trees. A night bird called, and a possum, surprised by our presence as we rounded the trail, hissed loudly at us, then scampered away and blended into the woods.

“I almost dirtied my pants,” Callie said.

“I even jumped a little,” Richard said.

“You jumped a lot,” Callie said. “I thought you were going to jump up in my arms.”

Before Richard could argue, we heard a sound, like sobbing, then the crunch of something followed by a whacking noise, then more crunching. All of this overlaid with the sobbing.

Richard, who was in front of us, held up his hand, and we stopped. “Step off the path,” he said. His voice gave little more sound than the beating of a butterfly’s wings.

We hunkered down by a big tree.

“What is that?” Callie asked. “An animal?”

“If it is, it ain’t no animal I know of,” Richard said. “And I’m in these woods all the time.”

“Maybe this animal hasn’t been in the woods when you’re in them,” Callie said. “Until now.”

We listened some more. Definitely sobbing. A crunching sound. Then a sound like something smacking at the dirt.

“It’s off up in the woods to the right,” Richard said. “It could be the ghost.”

“I thought she was by the railroad tracks?” I said.

“Maybe she got tired of the railroad tracks.”

“That sounds like a man crying,” Callie said.

“There’s a little trail over on that side of the path,” Richard said. “If we’re real quiet, we can come out close enough to see what’s making the noise.”

“Are we sure we want to?” I said.

“We came to see the ghost, didn’t we?” Richard said.

“I don’t believe it’s a ghost,” Callie said.

“If we ain’t afraid of a ghost,” Richard said, “then we ought not be afraid of someone cryin’, should we?”

“I suppose not,” Callie said.

We got back on the path, went up a ways. Richard led us onto a side trail that was overlapped with brush. We had to bend low to pass along it. It eventually widened, the brush disappeared, and there were just pines planted in a row, awaiting the saw.

Through them we could see something moving. We eased up, staying close to trees. When we finally stopped and squatted down, we saw it was a man. He had his back to us. He was wearing a hat, and he was digging in the dirt. Beside him, on the ground, lay something large wrapped in a blanket. The man was sobbing as he dug.

“It’s my daddy,” Richard said. “I can tell.”

“Why’s he crying?” I asked.

“How would I know . . . I ain’t never known him to cry. About nothin’.”

“You think he’s burying money?”

“What money? I can’t believe this. I ain’t never seen him cry like that.”

“Everybody cries,” Callie said.

“I ain’t never seen my daddy cry,” Richard said.

“Now you have,” Callie said.

We continued to squat there, whispering, then finally fell silent. Mr. Chapman ceased digging with his shovel, dropped it on the ground, picked up an axe and went to chopping. After a moment, he put the axe down, grabbed the shovel, went back to digging. Finally he tossed the shovel down and dragged the blanket-wrapped object into the hole and started covering it with dirt.

After a time, he patted the ground with the shovel, said a soft prayer, then, with tools in hand, went through the woods sobbing.

“I want to see what it is,” Richard said.

“Maybe we ought not,” I said.

“If my daddy is cryin’ over it,” Richard said, “I want to see what it is.”

“What do you think, Callie?” I asked.

“It don’t matter what neither of you think,” Richard said. “I’m gonna have me a look.”

We moved cautiously over to the fresh diggings. Richard got down on his knees, began raking back the dirt. We joined him. Obviously, the digging had been hard, marred by all the roots, and that’s what the axe had been for; there were pieces of chopped root mixed with the dirt.

There was a wide place above us with no tree limbs and the moonlight came through and landed right on the hole. It showed us what Mr. Chapman had put there. A patchwork quilt.

“That’s one of my mother’s quilts,” Richard said.

“It’s very pretty,” Callie said. Then looked at me, like: What am I saying?

Richard took hold of the quilt, tugged, but nothing happened. He pulled harder. The blanket moved. A head rolled free, and moonlight fell into its visible, dirt-specked eye.

———

IT WAS A LARGE DOG’S HEAD.

At first, I thought the head had been severed, but it was merely rolling loosely on the neck.

“It’s Butch,” Richard said.

“Why is he burying a dog?” Callie asked. “Besides it being dead, of course.”

“It’s his dog,” I said.

“Daddy was cryin’ over the dog,” Richard said. “He loved Butch. Damn. I didn’t know he was dead. He was pretty old. I guess he just keeled over . . . Damn, cryin’.”

I noticed Richard was crying as well. His tears in the moonlight looked like balls of amber that had heated up and come loose. They rolled down his face and over his chin. I thought at the time he was crying for Butch. Later I thought different.

“I wouldn’t have thought he would have cried for anything. But Butch . . . I’ll be damned.”

“Maybe we should cover him back up,” Callie said.

Richard pulled the quilt around Butch. We shoved the dirt back into the hole, finished by scraping pine straw over the grave with our feet.

“Tomorrow, I’ll bring some rocks out here, put them on top,” Richard said. “It’ll keep the varmints from diggin’ him up.”

“You want to just go on home?” I said.

Richard shook his head. “No. I guess if I go home Daddy will see me. He may already know I’m gone. If I’m gonna take a beatin’, I ought to take it for somethin’ I did completely. He wouldn’t want to know I seen him cryin’, and I darn sure don’t want him to know.”

A breeze made the pines sigh, as if standing tall made them tired. When we reached the trail the breeze picked up, tossed leaves about, hurtled them past and against us like blinded birds.

As we went, I had the uncanny feeling that someone was following us. That sensation you get of dagger points in the back of your head. When I turned there was nothing but the trees bending and flapping and leaves flying. I wondered if it could be Mr. Chapman out there, watching, or the ghost, or an animal. Or Bubba Joe. Or my imagination.

The trail emptied into a field scraped flat and pocked with gravel. There was a little railway shed there with a big padlock on the door. A little farther out were the rails, glowing like silver ribbons in the moonlight. Even before we were close, you could smell the creosote on the railroad ties. It was strong enough to make your eyes water.

“Where’s the ghost?” Callie asked.

“I didn’t say she’d be standin’ here waitin’ on us,” Richard said. “ ’Sides, this ain’t where they found her body. It’s up a ways. There ain’t no guarantee you’ll see anything.”

We walked to the tracks, crossed, sauntered up to where the woods crept close to the tracks and there was only a bit of a gravel path next to the rails.

“I can’t believe I’m out here doing this,” Callie said. “I must be crazy.”

“I didn’t make you come,” I said.

“I couldn’t let you go by yourself. Jeeze Louise, what was I thinking. I could end up never leaving the house again. Daddy just set me free, and here I am again, acting like an idiot. Well, actually, I didn’t really do anything the first time.”

“You sure have this time,” I said.

“Why don’t you shut your holes,” Richard said. “If we come on the ghost, y’all gonna scare it away.”

“If we can scare it, it isn’t much of a ghost,” Callie said.

I don’t know how far we went, but in the woods you could see swampy water and hear huge bullfrogs calling as if through megaphones. The way they splashed in the water, they sounded big as dogs.

“I knowed this colored woman once told me there’s a King of Bullfrogs,” Richard said.

“A king?” Callie said.

“A great big bullfrog. Said he was once this old nig— colored man, and he got this spell put on him, and he turned into this big black bullfrog. He rules over all the frogs and snakes and swimmin’ things.”

“Isn’t he lucky,” Callie said.

“Why’d he get turned into a frog?” I asked.

“He messed with women, and his wife was a witch and she done it ’cause he wouldn’t do right.”

“Good for her,” Callie said.

“He’s supposed to steal kids, take them back to the swamp for the frogs to eat.”

“Frogs don’t have teeth,” Callie said.

“They still eat.”

“Well, they aren’t big enough to eat children,” she said.

“Mostly the King Frog eats them. He’s got a crown on his head. He looks like a big colored man that squats like a frog. He ain’t exactly a man or a frog, but kinda both.”

“Maybe Chester would make a nice white frog to complement the black one,” Callie said. “He could be the Queen Frog . . . Think you could get me that frog recipe, Richard?”

“I thought you didn’t like Chester,” I said.

“I don’t. I liked him, you think I’d want him to be a frog?”

“Colored man’s wife turned him into a frog,” Richard said. “Didn’t she like him?”

“Not after she turned him into a frog,” Callie said.

“Ssshhhhhh,” Richard said. “That’s her house.”

“Whose house?” I asked.

“Hers. Margret’s. The girl got her head run over. The one that’s a ghost.”

A chill went over me. It was strange to think that I was perhaps walking ground she had walked.

Visible through the trees, beyond a stand of slick, slimy water, we could see a small, white, clapboard house. The moonlight leaned on it like a thug and made it very bright.

In the distance were other small houses. It was what some called a clapboard community.

“Her mother still lives there. Daddy says she shacks up with a nigger . . . a colored man. She’s a whore is what I hear.”

“You hear a lot,” Callie said.

“What’s that mean?”

“It means you hear all kinds of things, but that doesn’t mean all, or any of it, is true.”

“I tell you, that’s the house. That’s where Margret lived. Her body with the head cut off was found right around here somewheres. She wasn’t that far from home.”

“What’s that?” I said.

Down the tracks where they bent around the trees and the swamp land, I could see something bright. It didn’t have a definite color. Sometimes it seemed green, sometimes gold. It moved toward us bobbing up and down, as if it were being dribbled. Then it moved from side to side. Disappeared. Popped back into view and started moving toward us again.

“Someone coming down the tracks,” Callie said.

“Where’s the someone?” Richard said. “It’s the ghost. It’s Margret’s ghost.”

“With a flashlight,” Callie said.

The light nodded up and down, crossed over the tracks, floated up a bit, then veered into the woods, hung over the slimy water, came back to the edge of the tracks and moved toward us.

“If it’s a flashlight,” I said, “whoever is carrying it is very busy. And very acrobatic. And he can walk on water.”

The hairs on my neck and arms crawled, and I could feel my scalp constrict.

The light danced along the tracks, went past us.

“What is that?” Callie asked.

“I told you,” Richard said. “That’s her. The headless ghost. She’s out here with a light, looking for her head.”

“Where do ghosts get lights?” Callie said. “They go to a store and ask for a light? They buy ghostly flashlights?”

I looked at Callie. She talked cool, but I knew her well enough to know she had been startled.

We watched the light move down the tracks, pop into the woods, dance among the trees and on top of the water. Then, suddenly, it was gone.

I realized I had been holding my breath.

“I don’t know if that was a ghost,” I said. “But whatever it was, I’ve had enough. Let’s go home.”

“Let’s stay on this side of the tracks,” Callie said. “Maybe we’ll see it again.”

“I don’t want to see it again,” Richard said.

“Me neither,” I said.

“Oh, don’t be such Nellies. Come on.”

As we walked it became apparent that in the woods next to us, near the water, something was moving. We all heard it and we stopped to listen, and what was moving stopped as well. I looked at the trees and the glimmer of water between them, but I couldn’t see anyone.

We looked at one another, and without so much as a word, started moving again. As we did, the stepping alongside us started up, and this time I saw someone amongst the trees, moving quickly and carefully, darting from tree to tree. If that wasn’t enough, to my right, I heard a humming sound.

I turned, glanced. Nothing. But I knew what it was.

The rails. They were humming because a train was approaching.

Callie gave me a look that showed she was finally, and truly, frightened. “Walk faster,” she said.

We did. Much faster. So did our companion in the woods. And he was moving close to the edge of the trees, nearer to us. The train’s headlight flashed behind us, filled the night with a glow like a second moon. The whistle sounded and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Run,” Callie said. We broke and ran all out. Whoever, or whatever, was in the woods beside us began running as well; the harder we ran, the harder it ran.

I peered over my shoulder, saw a man lurch out of the woods, start sprinting behind us. I knew in a glance it must be Bubba Joe. His bulk was framed in the light of the train. His hat brim blew back and his coat trailed behind him like the rags of a wraith.

The train was chugging and puffing, popping sparks, blowing its whistle, telling anyone up the way that might listen it was coming fast and would soon cross the trestle bridge.

When it was almost on us, Callie, who was breathing heavy, said, “We got to cross the tracks. We don’t, he’ll catch us.”

She crossed, her long legs flying like those of a grasshopper. I went after her. Richard followed as the train passed and the wind of it blew up the back of my shirt and ruffled my hair. The train charged on, clanked and sparked the rails, filled our nostrils with the stench of charred oil and hot scraped metal.

Our pursuer was left on the other side of the track.

I looked down the track, observed it was a long train a winding. It would be coming for some time before it passed us. I bent over and gulped air and felt as if I were going to throw up. We had missed death by only a few feet. I wanted to grab Callie and start hitting her, and I wanted to grab her and kiss her, because if we hadn’t crossed, Bubba Joe, or whoever that was, would have caught us. I don’t know what he would have done with us, but he would have caught us.

I said, “I think that was Bubba Joe.”

“Could have just been some hobo,” Callie said, taking a deep breath.

“I don’t care who it was,” Richard said. “I’m goin’ home, and I don’t care if Daddy does catch me and give me a beatin’.”

We started walking away, then started running, and pretty soon we were on the wooded trail and the wind and the blowing leaves followed us all the way back to the sawmill. We paused there to get our breath. I looked up at the hanging metal ladder that led up to the upper level of what was left of the mill, heard the chute shift and creak in the breeze.

We got our bikes. Richard rode home. Me and Callie did the same.

Quietly, we put our bikes away, snuck into the house, talked briefly in my room about what we had done and seen. Callie finally wore out and went to bed.

All night I lay awake to look out the crack between the window and water fan, watching to see if Bubba Joe was there. I never saw him, and as the sun crept up, I became too tired to watch and fell sleep.

It was an uneasy sleep, full of the tall dark mill and its creaking sawdust chute. The dancing light that might have been Margret. The black Frog King who should have left other women alone. Bubba Joe. The dead dog in the patchwork quilt. Richard’s daddy sobbing, saying a prayer.

Finally, there was the snaky black train, its bright light and shrill whistle, the chill wind from the engine and boxcars as they passed us by.