Moon Over Manifest (8 page)

“Come on, son. We’re backed up out here,” came a holler from outside.

“Yeah, we’re backed up something fierce,” Ned yelled.

Jinx opened the door. “I guess leaves’ll do in a pinch, but can’t you boys afford any newspaper or something? Let’s go, Cletus.”

The boys sauntered away, Jinx yelling over his shoulder, “They got toilet paper in Arkansas.”

M
iss Sadie looked to be done for the day. Her voice had gotten raspy toward the end of her fortune-telling and she breathed like she’d been carrying something heavy.

I wanted my dime back. “I said I wanted to know about my daddy. That was just some old story from twenty years ago about two people I don’t even know.”

Her eyes narrowed a bit and she raised her chin as if she had just figured me out. “You show me a letter. I tell you what the letter shows me.” She wagged a finger. “Next time you should be more specific about what it is you are seeking.”

I didn’t plan on there being a next time. So she’d told a story about Ned and Jinx. A made-up story about two names she read in the letter. I pictured the yellow and green fishing lure in the Lucky Bill cigar box. She knew the mementos I
had and she’d zeroed in on the fishing lure mentioned in the letter to conjure her story. Anybody could do that.

I looked at Miss Sadie sitting there, her leg propped up. She was a pathetic sight. What kind of purveyor of the future could only tell stories from the past?

“Go home,” she said. “Communing with the spirits is a privilege. I have ointment on the top shelf, just behind the baking soda, above the icebox. But I will get it myself.”

She sure gave good directions if she was planning on getting it herself.

“I’ll get it,” I said with no small amount of reluctance. “Long as you don’t charge me another dime for the
privilege.
”

I maneuvered my way through the maze of velvet and fringe into her pantry and retrieved the nearly empty jar of salve. I gave it a whiff and nearly singed my nostrils.

“What is this stuff?”

“Hawthorn root,” she said, scooping out the remainder and rubbing it onto her leg. “It helps to increase circulation.” She moaned a little, massaging her swollen leg. It was then that I could see the wound that was causing her so much distress.

“What happened to your leg?” I asked with a grimace.

“I catch it on barbed wire. It is slow to heal.”

That was putting it mildly. That sore, with its scabbing and yellow pus, looked to have gone from bad to worse and about another mile past that.

“If you tell me where another jar is, I’ll fetch that for you and then I’ll be on my way.”

“There is no more. I gather the last of the hawthorn root
near the cemetery last night. But I am sure there is more to be found elsewhere.”

I looked outside at the scorching sun. “Maybe you haven’t been outside lately, but there’s not much growing around here. There’s not enough water to fill a thimble.”

“There is water. It remains deep and hidden, but there is always water.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know what my father knew. And his father before him. It is what diviners know.”

“Your people are all fortune-tellers?” I hoped they were better at it than she was but I didn’t say so.

“No. We are a family of diviners. We see and understand things most people overlook. We read the signs of the land.”

“You mean like those hill people who walk around with a jiggly stick, thinking they can find underground wells?”

She made a guttural, scoffing sound. “Pah, what does one need with a stick? All one needs is eyes and ears. The earth speaks loud enough when it wants to be heard.”

I was beginning to have no doubt that she heard things. The woman wasn’t right in the head.

“All right, then. You have a nice day,” I said, backing toward the door.

“I believe there is still a matter to be settled about my broken pot. It survives a boat ride all the way from Hungary and now it is in pieces.” Hungary. That explained the accent.

I stood my ground. “Well, it wouldn’t be broken if you hadn’t taken my compass.”

“Take your compass? I am out to gather hawthorn root
and find something on my property. How am I to know it is yours?”

She had a point, I thought as she winced, rubbing her leg. I was surprised she could make it to the cemetery and back, but figured that was why her leg had swelled up so bad today.

“I’d offer to pay for the pot but I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Yes, it is worth much more than the coin you have remaining in your pocket.”

The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I didn’t believe in fortune-tellers, but how had she pulled that one off?

“So,” Miss Sadie said, knitting her fingers together, “it appears you have something I want and I have something you want.” She said her
w
’s like
v
’s
. You have something I vant and I have something you vant
.

“You have my compass. But what could I have that you vant … I mean, want?”

“Two. Good. Legs,” she said, punctuating each word.

I wasn’t sure where this was going but I knew I wasn’t going to like it.

“You will come here to do a few odd jobs.”

Any job for her would be odd
, I thought. But she had me over a barrel. I did break something of hers and I wanted my compass back.

“For how long?” I asked.

“You will know when you have finished.”

She handed back the letter I’d given her, and suddenly, I found myself heading toward the front door. I stopped short. There, just inside, was my compass, hanging on a single
nail, daring me to take it. I gave it a strong look but knew I’d broken her pot and needed to make restitution. I marched down her rickety steps, a bead of sweat already trickling its way down my back. Curiosity had set in.

I ran back to Shady’s place, clomped up the wooden steps to my room, and reached under the floorboard for the Lucky Bill cigar box. Dumping the contents onto the bed, I found the fishing lure I hadn’t paid much attention to. The words from Miss Sadie’s story came back to me as I looked at the fancy green and yellow spotted lure. The underside of the lure, in pretty gold lettering, read
WIGGLE KING—SO COLORFUL IT’LL CATCH A BLIND FISH
.

At that moment I wished I’d never set foot on the Path to Perdition.

I
lay in bed the next morning, feeling mightily burdened. Something had been gnawing at me all night. It was Gideon. Where did he fit into all this? How was he connected to this town? To these people? Manifest was the place he’d chosen to send me to, and yet it didn’t seem like he’d even been there. Did he know Ned or Jinx? Did anyone know him? I wasn’t even sure that I did.

Now, there was a thought. What did I know about Gideon? What did I think people should know about him? I started a list in my head. He always walked like he knew where he was going. He was a better cook than Shady. He tucked the blanket up under my chin when he thought I was asleep.

I stretched out in the warmth of my bed and pulled the blanket up to my chin.
Let’s see
, I thought. He was smart. Not so much book smart, even though he did know all forty-eight
states and capitals
and
all the presidents from Washington to Roosevelt. No, Gideon was more “living by your wits” smart. He had once turned a bunch of wildflowers into a twenty-dollar bill. Some might have said that wasn’t smart, that was magic. Not the way Gideon had done it.

He’d gathered up a nice bunch of wildflowers and traded them for a sewing kit in Decatur, then, in Fort Wayne, swapped that for a camera, which he raffled off at a church picnic in South Bend. Chances were twenty-five cents apiece or five for a dollar. He ended up with seven dollars and fifty cents and bought us a tandem bicycle. But our behinds were so sore by Kalamazoo that he sold it for a twenty-dollar bill to a man with twin grandkids.

I remembered all these things about Gideon, but I couldn’t remember if he’d said the words or if I’d only imagined them. Those words
I’m coming back for you
.

Memories were like sunshine. They warmed you up and left a pleasant glow, but you couldn’t hold them.

I’d have to do some divining of my own, I thought as I rolled over. There was the Wiggle King fishing lure, sitting on the windowsill, where I’d left it the night before. I should have put it back in the cigar box, but somehow it had separated itself from the rest of the items. It had become different. Special. And it needed a special place.

There was a welcome breeze blowing through the open window. I was no stranger to hard work, but the thought of being cooped up in Miss Sadie’s Divining Parlor left me feeling a bit short of breath. Maybe I could busy myself helping Shady and wouldn’t have to go.

There was a plan. I’d saunter downstairs and make myself so useful Shady couldn’t possibly see fit to allow me to walk
out the door, let alone to do someone else’s bidding. I figured Shady might be feeling a little down in the mouth that day. He’d held his church service the night before, followed by a potluck, but it turned out to be more of a “down on your luck,” as only one person showed up. A fellow with a week-old beard and a hole in his hat brought a can of beans.

I hopped out of bed, put on my overalls, and headed down the narrow wooden stairs.

“Good morning, Shady,” I said, ready to sit down to a plate of his usual warm, slightly burnt biscuits and molasses. Shady stashed something under the bar and mumbled words I didn’t catch. When he looked up, I could see that his eyes were kind of bloodshot and his whiskers hadn’t been shaved since the day before. The bottle on the shelf behind the bar was still full, but I supposed it was like any craving. If a person liked cookies, he was going to keep more than one at hand. When Shady went back to the stove for my breakfast, I leaned across the counter and peered behind it, but there was only a chipped coffee cup holding a couple of nickels and a button. Was it Shady’s drink money? Alcohol was against the law then as much as it was in 1917, but folks could usually get a bottle of the stuff here or there. I didn’t know if bootleggers would take buttons for payment along with nickels.

I scooted back to my barstool as Shady came in, presenting me with a plate of cold, more than slightly burnt biscuits and half a leathery pork chop. I knew that times were hard, so I didn’t complain, but my stomach couldn’t help its moaning and groaning. Hattie Mae had brought by some delicious fried chicken the day before, but that was a distant memory. I bit into a hard biscuit, hoping I had enough spit to soften
it up. But just then, Shady brought me a cold glass of milk. I nearly drank it down in one gulp and he poured me another glass. It filled my stomach nicely, but in my head I made plans to go by the newspaper office later to see if Hattie Mae had any leftovers.

“I thought maybe you could use some help around here,” I said to Shady, wiping off my milk mustache. “I do laundering and mending. I’m even good with a hammer and nail.”

He scratched his whiskery face, making a sound like sandpaper on rough wood. “Well, that’s awful nice of you to offer. But I’m feeling a little spent this morning and need a bit of a lie down. Besides, Miss Sadie’ll be expecting you,” he said.

I choked a little on the biscuit brick, wondering how Shady knew of my ill-conceived agreement with the diviner, when he went over to a box in the corner of the room and pulled out a wire-bristle brush, one glove, a half-full bag of chewing tobacco, and a cracked mirror.

Then his eyes lit up and he said, “There you are.” He pulled out a long coil of rope and proceeded to tie a large knot at each end. He gave the rope a good tug, testing its worth, and presented it to me. “Every little girl needs a skipping rope,” he said with a smile as he replaced the odds and ends and hauled the junk box out back.

I held the rope in my hands and felt a stinging in my eyes. I didn’t really think of myself as a little girl anymore, but I smiled. “I had a skipping rope once,” I said when he returned. “It was in Tennessee, and I was using it to pull a wagon full of firewood. I guess I loaded too much wood in it, because the rope broke in two. I’ve always wished I could do that over. I wouldn’t have carried such a heavy load.”

“Seems to me you’ve been carrying a heavy load for some time.” Shady’s eyes looked like deep watery pools. “Besides, everyone deserves a do-over. Now you’ve got yours.” He smiled.

I smiled back, feeling the rough and bristly rope. It was like Shady. He had his rough edges but he was strong and steady. I guessed I’d better fess up about the diviner, since that cat was out of the bag anyway.

“About last night … I lost my compass again the other day, and had to go see about getting it back.”

“Mm-hmm. Miss Sadie told me. I take a little milk over to her on my way back from town a couple times a week. Did you two have a nice visit?”

“If you mean did she tell my fortune, no, she did not. She just carried on a bit, jingling and jangling, telling me an old story about a couple boys who lived here a long time ago.” I kind of liked having the letters and mementos mostly to myself, so I decided to keep those a secret. “But I broke her pot and now I have to go back to work it off.”

Shady had perked up a bit. “She told you about a couple of boys?”

“Yeah, and some trouble they got into with the Klan with some poison ivy and such. Ned and Jinx. Did you know them?”

Shady occupied himself by scrubbing down the bar top. “I did.”

That gnawing feeling came back to me and I worked up my nerve. “Shady?”

“Yes, Abilene.”

“Do you think Gideon knew those two boys? Did he have many friends when he was here? Did he ever go fishing
with anyone or swimming in the creek?” My questions and my need to know came out in a rush.

“Well, now.” Shady rubbed the back of his neck. “Let me see. I’m sure your daddy did most things boys do. Swim, fish, cause havoc.” He worked at a stubborn spot on the counter but I caught him catching a glimpse of me. “Didn’t he tell you much about when he was here?”