Wild Things Read online

  Then he pointed at the boy. “And you, young man. You make sure I get your name and address.”

  For a second nobody moved.

  “Well, go on now, get!” he barked, “before I haul in the lot of you for trespassing, reckless endangerment, ruining my turkey dinner, and whatever else applies.”

  Everyone did as the sheriff asked, Maud reluctantly adding her shotgun to the deputy’s growing arsenal. Henry climbed the hill to have a word with Maud. I turned back to the boy and the deer. My eyes moved to the bow peeking out of that canvas bag on the ground inside the fence, a bow nobody else seemed to have seen. The sun was sinking down behind the trees, taking the light with it. When Henry started back down the hill, I ran to meet him, wanting to give the boy a chance to calm the deer and get away if he could.

  “Who is that boy, Zoë?” Henry asked right off. He spun me around and gave me a thorough look-see to make sure I was all right. I turned as slowly as I could.

  “I’m as curious as anybody,” I said. “First I ever saw of him was today.”

  Henry stayed quiet, studying me, as if he was trying to decide whether he believed me or not. “After dinner,” he said finally, “the two of us are going to talk.”

  I heard the sound of a lone owl’s hooting behind me then, and turned to see the gate open, the graveyard empty, the boy and the deer gone.

  14

  Manny used to drink at a hole-in-the-wall bar called Andy’s, owned by a man of the same name. It had four or five vinyl-covered booths, and every night at six o’clock Andy would dim the lights, clip on a black bow tie, and turn Andy’s into André’s, where everything cost a dollar more. I thought about Andy’s during what was left of Thanksgiving Day, because after what had happened outside, everything and everybody looked different to me.

  Maybe it was the candles Helen lighted on the “table” Henry had put together earlier from three sawhorses and a piece of plywood covered by two bedsheets. Or maybe it was the mismatched plates and utensils Bessie set out—“orphans,” she called them, like me. She and Helen speculated about their previous owners while they shifted and fiddled and fussed with the arrangement like they were making high art. Maud Booker ran home for an extra place setting of silverware while Franklin made place cards by writing our names on little paper parasols he found in a kitchen drawer. He even made one for Mr. C’mere and stuck it in his cat-food bowl on the porch. The finished table was beautiful like a crazy quilt and looked as sundry as our group: fine china right next to chipped everyday, crystal wineglasses next to jelly jars with ducks on them; forks, knives, and spoons with every manner of handle; and Bessie’s mama’s lace-trimmed cloth napkins beside Henry’s multicolored bandannas from the hardware store.

  Everybody was talking about what had happened, and about the boy, asking if anyone else knew him or if they’d seen the white deer before. Bessie said that, much as she hated to say it, those migrant children all looked alike to her and we had no shortage of them in Sugar Hill. Maud said the deer looked considerably less than a year old, which was likely why nobody had sighted her till now. And the Padre said that if either one of them lived nearby, neither one was a churchgoer.

  Bessie shooed Harlan upstairs, insisting he make bosom friends with a washcloth and a bar of soap before joining our table. Harlan seemed more beaten down than ever before, full of shame, and his expression begged forgiveness for things I didn’t even know. I heard both the shower and the tub running, and Helen dropped his old clothes down the stairwell. They about stood up on their own. She plucked up each stinky item between two fingers and carried it at arm’s length past the washer and out to the trash, then sent Henry upstairs to find something for Harlan to wear.

  Harlan came down scrubbed raw and wearing some of Henry’s cleaner clothes, which is to say they’d been through the wash and didn’t have too many grease stains or burn holes in them. With his wet hair slicked back, he looked like Andy after he’d put on his bow tie and become André—both the old Harlan and the new improved version at the same time. Being clean seemed to lift his spirits. I couldn’t say it was good to see him, because of the memories he brought back of Mama, but he’d scrubbed off most of his shamefaced look with the stink and dirt, and I found I didn’t mind his being here so much.

  I spied Maud outside sweet-talking Mr. C’mere, who was regarding her from the far side of the porch—a good thing, because he reeked of Harlan’s stinky car. I went out to thank her for standing up for the white deer. She was hunkered down, telling Mr. C what a handsome devil he was, and his tail was swishing back and forth like he was eating up every word.

  “Thanks for what you did,” I said, squatting next to her.

  She shook her head sadly. “Those yahoos’ll shoot anything that moves.”

  “You think he’ll ever let me touch him?” I asked.

  She tipped her head. “Hard to tell with the wild ones, but I got a good feeling about this one. He’s already come this far, seems to know he’s getting old. In my experience, one day he’ll just decide.”

  “Decide?” I asked.

  “Between being alone or being befriended. The wild ones never completely tame, but I’d say he’s moving in the befriended direction.”

  “His ear got better,” I said, pointing. His eyes had closed now, but his tail still swept the floor at the sound of our voices.

  “I thought it might.”

  “You have animals?”

  “Four cats, a possum, and a crippled dog.”

  “How’d he get crippled?” I asked.

  “Found him by the roadside, hit by a car.”

  “Oh,” I said, thinking of my daddy. Maybe she was thinking about him too. Maybe someday I could ask her what else she knew about him, but I didn’t know how to start that conversation now or if she’d mind.

  “Maybe you’d like to meet them sometime,” she said as we stood and headed inside.

  “Maybe I would,” I said.

  We all sat down to our crazy-quilt table laden with roast turkey, pecan stuffing, buttered green peas, candied yams, and steaming cornbread with real butter, the sight of which made Franklin kiss Fred’s hands.

  Bessie offered grace, saying how thankful we were for God’s beautiful wild creatures, for the sheriff and peaceful resolutions, and for the great pleasure of sharing our bounty with Ms. Booker and Mr. Jeffers. Then she looked at me and Henry, adding that it was her fond hope that our gratitude might bring out our better selves and keep all Hades from breaking loose until after dessert.

  Everybody seemed to relax after that. The conversation was light during dinner, mostly about how good the food was. Harlan sat between me and Bessie, shoveling food into his mouth as fast as he could swallow it, till I kicked him under the table and he smiled, red-faced, and slowed down. He put away two good-sized platefuls, five pieces of cornbread, and two slices of pumpkin pie with whipped cream, taking the last piece under the nose of a dismayed Franklin, who’d eaten nearly as much.

  “You two are a pleasure to cook for,” Fred told them, seeing Franklin’s face. “There’s another pie in the kitchen, so nobody has to be shy. I’ll go get it.”

  Henry followed Fred into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of apple spirits, which he poured into small glasses for those old enough, except Harlan, who said he’d sworn off the demon in a glass.

  Bessie lifted her glass and the others did the same. Harlan and I raised our chocolate milk. The candlelight made everything sparkle.

  “To brave children,” she said, looking at me, and I felt blood rush to my face. “Those present and not.”

  “Rash children,” Henry said, frowning.

  “Fool children is more like it,” Fred said. “Could’ve been killed or got us killed. Curtis is a terrible shot. Shot off half his big toe last year hunting quail.”

  Bessie reared back suddenly in her chair, her face hardening with real anger. “Why, Henry Royster and Fred Montgomery!” she snapped, slapping the table with her palm. “I can’t
believe what I am hearing.”

  I’d never heard Bessie raise her voice to Henry or Fred before, and by the table’s reaction I guessed nobody else had either.

  Fred was truly startled. “What?”

  “You especially. Calling the children fools,” she said. “Of all people.”

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “Why, you old hypocrite!” Bessie stared open-mouthed at her husband as though he was an utter stranger speaking in tongues.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked her.

  “I’m talking about the other fool children at this table.”

  “Who?” I said, looking around the table and seeing none.

  “Fred Montgomery, for one. Who’s forgotten he was a fool child once himself. And you, too,” she said to Henry.

  “Leave me out of this,” Henry told her.

  “Don’t be digging up old dirt,” Fred said.

  Bessie ignored them both and turned to me. “The reason Fred, Henry, and the sheriff are friends,” she began, “is that Fred and Henry saved Garland Bean’s life.”

  “Who’s Garland Bean?” I asked.

  “The sheriff, honey,” she said. “Garland’s his given name.”

  “It was Henry more than me,” Fred said, dismissing the whole business with a wave of his hand.

  “The heck it was,” Henry protested. “You brought him up. I couldn’t have done my part under water.”

  “You dove in same as I did,” Fred said. “And I wouldn’t have seen him down there except for you pointing him out.”

  “It was both of you saved that little boy,” Bessie insisted.

  “What little boy?” I asked impatiently. This confused talk was making me irritable.

  “Garland Bean, honey,” said Bessie. “He wasn’t but five years old when they saved him.”

  “That’ll do, Bessie,” Fred said.

  “Really,” Henry put in.

  “Oh, tell us, Bessie,” Helen said, looking at Henry and Fred. “So many heroes in our midst. I never knew.”

  “I’m not bothering to make up plots for my books anymore,” Franklin announced. “I’ll just come to Henry’s and write down what I see and hear.”

  “I got first dibs,” I told him, with a cautionary glare.

  “I remember that rescue,” Maud said, nodding. “Must’ve been forty years ago. But I thought the Wilson and Peters boys saved him. Didn’t they get medals?”

  “That was the story in the Sugar Hill paper,” Bessie said sourly. “But that was only because the mayor’s daddy owned it. The truth was buried in the state paper a week later, where nobody saw it.”

  “If I recall,” said the Padre, concentrating, “it happened right after I first came here. A group of children were playing above the basin in the old quarry, their swimming hole. They were diving into it.”

  “Garland didn’t dive in,” Fred said. “He was shoved off that rock by two drunk high school boys.”

  “Delray Peters was one,” Bessie said.

  “Who’s that?” I said.

  “The mayor,” the Padre whispered.

  It was hard for me to imagine the mayor as a boy, but the behavior fit the family.

  “Garland couldn’t swim,” Fred went on. “Had no business being up there in the first place. Bessie and I were on the far side of the basin, having a little time to ourselves. I heard him scream as he fell. Hit the water like a stone. I did what anybody would.”

  “Anybody!” Bessie scoffed. “Not a one of those other anybodies dove in after him. Not even his own brother and sister. They just stood up there shouting the fact of it, crying and calling his name, like he’d rise up out of that water on his own. But I never saw anybody move as fast as my Fred. He ran like he was afire and dove right in. Took those bystanding children clean by surprise. They hadn’t even known we were there.”

  Bessie closed her eyes and trembled. “They were under water so long, I shiver to remember. The surface got smooth as glass. And then Fred shot up to the surface like a geyser, the first time without the boy. He took a terrifying breath, loud and desperate, then dove right back under for an even longer time. I was sure they were both dead. Then Henry shoots by out of nowhere and dives in after Fred. What were you doing up there anyway?” she said, turning suddenly to Henry.

  “My motives weren’t pure,” Henry said. “I went up there to draw, because that’s where the high school girls would go skinny-dipping. Best life-drawing class I ever had.”

  Harlan chuckled.

  “What happened then?” I asked, not caring a bit about skinny-dipping girls.

  “Next thing I knew,” Bessie said, “Fred and Henry shot up out of that water, with Garland. Fred was gasping and coughing up water, but Garland looked pale as death, not breathing at all. I ran down to the water’s edge and the two of them pushed Garland high enough so I could drag him by his shirt collar to level ground, but he still wasn’t breathing. Henry told Fred to work his legs, push his knees into his chest, while Henry leaned over him, lifted his little chin, and breathed the breath right back into him, alternating with that heart-pumping thing they do.”

  Bessie crossed her small hands over her heart and pushed up and down.

  “A miracle,” the Padre said to Henry.

  “A merit badge,” Henry said blandly.

  “To top it all off,” Bessie went on, “those high school kids came down and start taking credit, like it was them that pulled Garland out, especially that Lucinda Bean, Tate’s and Garland’s sister, who was supposed to have been babysitting Garland at home. She’d brought him up to the quarry because she was sweet on the Wilson boy.”

  “The lady from the grocery store?” I asked Henry, and he nodded. “She’s the sheriff’s sister?”

  “She is,” Bessie said. “Not one bit changed, if you ask me. Standing there saying Delray Peters had pulled Garland out and Willie Wilson had breathed the life back into him—as bald a bald-faced lie as ever was told, because the pair of them stood there dry as dust with Fred and Henry dripping wet beside them. They didn’t even have the sense to get wet before the law came! Anybody with eyes could have seen who the real heroes were. Garland was clinging to Fred like Fred was his mama. Fred had to ride in the ambulance because Garland wouldn’t let go. He knew who’d pulled him out. But Lucinda and Delray hold to their version to this day.”

  “So that’s why she and the mayor don’t like you two,” the Padre said to Henry and Fred.

  “But they saved a little kid’s life!” I cried.

  “No good deed goes unpunished,” said Franklin.

  “Unpunished by who?” I asked.

  “God. The Fates. Other people. Take your pick.”

  “Lord,” I said. “I’ll never understand God or human beings as long as I live.”

  “Join the congregation,” said the Padre.

  “So much bravery here,” Helen said. “I’m a sissy myself.”

  “Not true. You married me,” Franklin said sweetly, and Helen smiled.

  “Well, I certainly don’t deserve to sit in such courageous company,” said the Padre.

  “Now, Padre,” Bessie protested. “Dalton Pendergrass told me how you stood up to those old biddies who wanted to poison Zoë’s cat!”

  “Who wanted to poison my cat?” I shouted. “I’ll skin ’em, I swear.”

  “I’ll hold them down while you do,” said Maud.

  “Don’t you worry,” Bessie said. “The Padre told them they’d spend eternity in Hell if they laid so much as a fingernail on that animal. Didn’t you, Padre?”

  “Did I?” said the Padre hopefully. He sat up taller in his chair. “I’m so pleased.”

  “I want names,” I demanded.

  “Shhh,” Henry said. He put one finger to his lips and glanced over at Harlan, and I turned to see why he’d been so quiet during the story. He was slumped back in his chair, sound asleep, head cocked to one side, his mouth full open. It was not a pretty sight.

  “That
man needs a dentist,” Bessie said, frowning.

  Henry looked at me. “What do you say we have our talk?”

  The others talked on in the front room as Henry and I put out a sleeping bag and pillows in front of the study fireplace for Harlan. I settled in one of the two armchairs while Henry lighted a fire.

  “Fred thinks I’ve let you run wild,” Henry began, taking a seat behind his desk.

  “Is that what you think?” I asked.

  He considered for a minute. “See this?” he said, pointing to his forehead.

  I leaned close. I saw the faintest line of a scar on his forehead, like a windy river on a map. It disappeared under his red bandanna, which he pulled off, revealing his baldness. The scar ran almost to the back of his head.

  “Seventy-seven stitches,” he said. “I wasn’t paying attention one day. A sculpture fell on me. I hadn’t distributed the weight of the upper parts properly over the base. Sliced a nasty gash in my head.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, not seeing where this was going.

  “Fred says I haven’t been paying enough attention to you. Says I’ve given you too much freedom, that I’ve been too involved in my work. He thinks things might all come crashing down on our heads. After today, I think he might be right.”

  “I’ve been on my own my whole life,” I said defensively. “I’ve done pretty well.”

  “You have,” he agreed. “But you’ve done it keeping everybody in your life at arm’s length, trusting no one. Today you took a terrible risk.”

  “You should talk!” I protested. “Besides, I trust you!”