Carolina Skeletons Page 2

  Linus heard the girls laughing. He stopped, listened and looked around (he was still alone), then walked toward the sounds.

  The first moment Cindy Lou realized they were not alone was when she saw the fear in Sue Ellen’s eyes. Sue Ellen was kneeling on the grass, just a few feet away, and clutching a bunch of flowers so tightly that the stems were turning to green paste in her hand.

  Cindy Lou turned to look in the direction that Sue Ellen’s terror-bright eyes were staring. And there he was, standing still. It was like a dream. For a long time he stood, and Cindy Lou stared at him, unable to take her eyes away, even though the look in his eyes was one she had not seen before. It was a look that terrified her.

  The birds sang and darted in and out of the sun and shadows of the trees, oblivious.

  And then he started toward them, the look on his face hardening, his eyes wide. The breeze lifted Cindy Lou’s dress a little, and she smoothed it down with a trembling hand.

  Sue Ellen screamed. She did not stop to breathe in and out, she just screamed. Loud enough to drown out the bird sounds, loud enough to make him put his hands to his ears to stop the noise.

  He was upon them now, grabbing Sue Ellen’s bird-thin wrist, shaking her.

  “You be quiet. You be quiet …” Cindy Lou heard him pant.

  Sue Ellen stopped screaming; her face told Cindy Lou that her younger friend wasn’t sure if what was happening was real. Cindy Lou didn’t know whether to be happy or sorry for her friend.

  He spun her away, and Sue Ellen fell to the ground. Then he started toward Cindy Lou.

  Cindy Lou had never been so afraid, had never imagined there could be such fear. Once, in the second grade, she had been really bad in school, and the teacher had stood up and walked toward her and said she might paddle her in front of the class. Cindy Lou had been afraid then, more than ever before, so afraid she thought she might wet her pants. The teacher, seeing how afraid she was, stopped and told her not to do it again, not to misbehave in class, and Cindy Lou had prayed her thanks to God, right there in the classroom, she was so thankful.

  This was so much worse. He had hurt Sue Ellen, now he was coming toward her. He was reaching; he wanted to put his hand where she would never let anyone put a hand. Cindy Lou jumped away.

  “Run, Sue Ellen,” she said, barely able to get the words out. “Run and cry for help. Run fast.”

  Sue Ellen was on her feet again, screaming again. Don’t make him mad, Cindy Lou wanted to tell her, but she could not find her voice.

  Cindy Lou prayed that it was a dream after all. She saw him stoop down. He’s looking for a rock, she thought.

  “I won’t tell if you don’t hit me,” she heard herself say.

  But he did not seem to hear, and the look in his eyes was worse than anything she had ever seen, even in a dream. She saw the track spike in his hand. The spike was covered with rust.

  Sue Ellen screamed even louder than before when he raised the spike over his head. He brought it down on Sue Ellen’s head, and Cindy Lou saw more blood than she had ever seen before. Sue Ellen’s hair was getting wet with it. The sound of Sue Ellen’s screaming changed, to a lower, moaning sound. Cindy Lou had never heard anything so terrible, and she knew it was because Sue Ellen was hurt real bad. Cindy Lou saw the spike come down again; she could not believe he could still be mean enough to hit Sue Ellen after hearing the terrible noise she made.

  Cindy Lou was mad as well as afraid, mad because of how he had hurt Sue Ellen. Cindy Lou grabbed for his wrist; she would bite him as hard as she could, hard enough to make him cry. She would!

  Cindy Lou tried to grab his wrist, but her fingers could not hold on. Then his wrist was right in front of her face, because he was trying to put his hand over her mouth.

  Then the big part of his hand was over her mouth. But her mouth was still open, and part of his hand came inside. Cindy Lou bit as hard as she could; she was surprised at how loud he hollered, how much it seemed to hurt him. She bit as hard as she could, so hard that her mouth hurt, so hard that she still had a hold on him, with her teeth, as he shook her head one way, then the other way, shook her so hard that it made her dizzy looking at the sky.

  Then the spike covered part of the sky. There it was, now covering the whole sky. There was pain all over the side of Cindy Lou’s head, like a hard slap that hurt way underneath the skin and a knife cut all at once.

  She had cut herself bad on a knife in the kitchen one time, but this pain was even worse. It made her weak and dizzy. She was surprised that the second blow did not hurt as much as the first, though it made her even more weak and dizzy. She was whirling around now, the blue sky and green treetops spinning faster and faster.

  The spinning stopped. Cindy Lou believed in God.

  * * *

  Sometimes on the playground, Linus got to laughing so hard and having so much fun that he giggled, his giggle almost as high as a girl’s.

  Linus had heard the girls with the bicycle talking and giggling. Then their voices had gone real high, only it did not sound like on the playground. Now, as he came near the clearing, Linus heard nothing. He did not understand, because he thought the girls were nearby. He stopped, trying not to make any noise, but he stepped on a branch. Linus listened as hard as he could, but he heard only his own heart and breathing. Then he thought he heard a horse’s hooves, like before, but he was not sure.

  He tiptoed, listening as hard as he could for the girls, but there was no girl sounds. Then he was standing at the edge of the clearing, looking at the girls lying on the ground. They were playing a game, looking up at the sky to see who could be still the longest.

  Then Linus saw their heads, saw the red. It was not a game.

  One time, when he was little, Linus had peeked through a crack in the shed wall and watched his daddy kill a pig. Linus had never forgotten the squeal and the gush of blood. It made him dizzy, made his knees weak to remember.

  Linus had cried then, cried because of the squeal, cried because the pig was dead.

  This was worse. He wondered if he was dreaming. No. His knees were so weak, his ears so full of the sound of his own heart, that it could not be a dream.

  Linus stood still. He heard his heart and his breathing, then he thought he heard the horse sound again. Then nothing.

  He remembered tying Blossom to the fence post, remembered the magic feeling, remembered walking toward the sounds, remembered looking—

  The girls lay still. The older one’s eyes were open, but they were shiny-dead. Hair flat against the head, held there by blood, the breeze stirring little hairs near her neck.

  Linus could not believe how much blood there was. It was worse than the day of the pig.

  Linus was afraid. Should he go tell?

  He was sorry he had looked at the girls. He had not meant to look, the breeze had done it. Picked up her dress and let him see …

  He touched his face, felt it covered with sweat, felt his shirt sticking to his back. He would go tell.

  Just then something hit Linus in the back, hard enough to hurt real bad, and suddenly he was looking right at the ground, so close he could see the dirt real close, smell it. Something big stuck in his back, then something was across his neck and his head was being pulled up, up, off the ground and he could hardly breathe. He was more afraid than he had ever been.

  Linus waited a long, long time, until the cattails and lily pads stopped bobbing up and down, until the water was still. His legs were still weak. He felt his heart pounding.

  Slowly, Linus walked back through the woods, back to where he had left Blossom. It hurt too much to even think about his mama and daddy.

  The breeze came by. Linus heard the birds. He could not believe they were still singing.

  The cow looked up as he came to her. She looked mad because he had kept her waiting.

  “You, cow. What you look at?” Linus swatted her nose with the tether, hard enough so she grunted with surprise and hurt, hard enough so that the end of th
e leash came around behind him and stung him on the arm.

  Linus wanted to cry. He had left the cow tied up, then he had hit her.

  “Sorry, Blossom. Sorry …”

  The cow grunted, forgiving him, and Linus wanted to cry.

  Linus led Blossom back down the tracks. He had to walk slowly, because his legs were trembling, and he had to try as hard as he could just to put one foot in front of the other, one in front of the other.

  He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t. He felt sick.

  One foot in front of the other, one in front of the other …

  Linus remembered the feeling he had had once when he played a mean trick on Mr. Crooks, a scary old man who live a few shacks away.

  Linus’s papa had told him to pay no attention to Mr. Crooks, that he only seemed mean because he was old and hurt a lot but still had to work at the mill.

  One day, Linus had snuck up behind Mr. Crooks’s shack and pulled the plug in the barrel where Mr. Crooks kept his catfish. At first, sneaking away and then running, Linus had been proud and excited, happy and laughing to think how mad Mr. Crooks would be when he looked in the barrel and found the water gone and the fish dead. Then Linus had thought of the fish, imagined them flopping all over each other like snakes in the empty barrel, afraid to die. He had felt sorry for them, and for Mr. Crooks.

  So Linus had snuck back to Mr. Crooks’s shack, afraid of being caught yet hoping very hard that he would not be too late. The barrel was half empty, the fish beginning to swim faster and faster in circles, bumping into each other.

  But it was not too late. Linus plugged the barrel up again and took buckets of water from Mr. Crooks’s pump, pumping as hard as he could without being noisy, and filled the barrel again. Then he ran away, as fast as he could, ran until he knew he was safe. When he stopped to catch his breath, he felt light and happy, knowing the fish had enough water.

  He must not tell. He must keep the secret about the girls until he died and went to heaven …

  One foot in front of the other. His knees shook. He felt sick.

  He was almost at the Green Hill church. He could smell the cut wood and hear the screams of saws from the mill. Almost quitting time …

  When he got to his family’s shack, he would tie Blossom up and stay outside until it was almost dark …

  “You hold that cow right, hear? Ain’t some dog you pullin’ around …” It was Mr. Crooks, standing in the doorway of his shack. The mill foremen sometimes let him quit early, so he was the only man around.

  “I lead her okay.” Linus’s mouth was dry.

  “Your folks gonna hear, you give me any sass …”

  Linus went by Mr. Crooks’s shack. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Mr. Crooks take a step toward him, then stop.

  Linus was so afraid, he tried to make himself think of something else. He thought of the color poster he had seen in the company store, the one with the plane that had a red tiger’s mouth behind the propeller. He loved the picture of the tiger plane, shining silver except for the tiger mouth and the orange flashes from the guns in the wings. He had gone by the big trash barrel behind the store, picking up almost-empty cans of paint and scraps of pine. Before long, he had enough scraps of wood to paint on.

  He could never get the tiger plane to look just the way he wanted, but he still loved to try. He painted blue for the sky, a whole lot of orange for the flashing guns, and yellow for the bad planes that the tiger planes shot at.

  Linus knew the tiger planes were in the war, way across the ocean. He used to hope it would last until he was big enough to fly a tiger plane.

  Once, two white men from the mill had come by and stood over him when he was trying to paint a war picture (he liked the colors, but he could never make it come out as good as he saw it in his head). Linus had felt funny when the white men laughed. Boy, you thinkin’ of flyin’ one of them planes? Yes sir. For whose side, boy?

  Linus had felt his face burn when the men laughed. They meant he could never fly a tiger plane, that it was funny to even think about it. It took Linus a long time to get the thought out of his head and tell himself that he could fly a tiger plane, maybe. If the war was long enough.

  Linus tied Blossom to her stake in the backyard, next to the garden. Then he walked to the back door of the shack and listened. He could hear his mama humming, could smell food. He thought he would be sick.

  “I be home, Mama. I be out here for a while.”

  He heard his mama grunt that it was all right. Then he went to the shed and got out his wood scraps and paint. But he did not feel like painting a tiger plane.

  Linus stared at the red tiger mouth behind the propeller, at the red spot on the bad planes. Back there, where the girls were, the red had been just as bright.

  He knelt and stared at the picture for a long time. It did not look as real as he had remembered it. Blossom chewed on grass; she was happy. He smelled food cooking in the shack, but he was not hungry. It would be dark soon.

  Linus wanted to cry, but he was afraid. His mama would ask him why.

  “I ain’t gonna fly no tiger plane,” he whispered.

  3

  Hiram Stoker winced when the phone rang. For a fleeting moment, he was tempted to ignore it. But he had never ignored the phone, and he never would as long as he was sheriff of Clarendon County.

  His years as a law man—too many years, he sometimes thought—had not only honed his gifts for hard work and common sense. They had given him an intuition as well. That was why, as soon as the phone rang this particular evening, he knew his whole night was shot.

  He was already late getting out of his cramped office in front of the jail. That afternoon, he had had to straighten out a messy colored thing: two big bucks, drunk on peach wine, carving each other with razors. Lucky for them (though not so lucky for the sheriff, since they were now sleeping it off in their cells out back, until he could get them shipped off to a highway work gang to straighten them out), they had been so drunk that neither had been able to do a real good cutting job. Still, there had been the smell (a lot of human blood in one place smelled, white and colored both), and the unpleasantness of hearing them whimper while being sewed up.

  Anyhow the sheriff had just got the bucks bedded down, warning them that they had goddamn well better keep quiet till his deputy came by for the night trick, when they could have some supper if they had the stomach for it, when the phone rang.

  Goddamn. He was looking forward to getting home, getting some dinner, maybe some cards and part of a jug …

  Trouble. The sheriff knew it by the hairs on his arms.

  “Sheriff’s office.”

  “Hiram, this is Wilbur Clark. Me and the wife are worried. Sue Ellen went to pick flowers down past niggertown and she ain’t back.”

  “Who she with, Wilbur? Maybe she just stopped somewhere. Wish I had a dollar for every time my sons—”

  “Uh, huh. She went with Cindy Lou Ellerby. She ain’t come back either. Her folks are here now, at our place. We all worried.”

  “Hmmm. Down by the mill they went, you say …”

  “Yep.”

  “Tell you what. I be by your place in a little while. If the tykes ain’t back by the time I get there, we can figure a little bit what we’re gonna do. And if they is, I’ll scare ’em so bad they’ll never worry you like this again.”

  Stoker hung up and dialed home to tell his wife he would probably be late. A moan came from a cell.

  “Shut up back there!” he shouted, annoyance having chased compassion from his heart. “Your own goddamn fault. Sorry-ass niggers.” He gave his wife a terse message, turned out the lights, locked his door, and got into his car.

  To get to the Clark house, the sheriff had to drive by the mill. He liked Mr. Tyler well enough (not a bad sort at all, especially for being so rich), but he had to admit Mr. Tyler made his job tougher, at least indirectly. The mill had been busier since the war, and Mr. Tyler had taken on some unfamiliar help. Had to,
with so many men away. Still, that made Stoker’s job harder. Any sheriff knew that the fewer strangers around (whites and colored both), the quieter things were. With more strangers at the mill, there had been a few more fistfights, a few more wrecks, a few more ruckuses in the colored shacks.

  Twilight came as he was passing the mill. Just a few lights on, the saws quiet, the smell of cut wood in the now-chill air. He drove slowly, half-expecting to see two little girls walking in a big hurry, knowing they were late and fearing for their fannies.

  He slowed to a crawl, opened his window all the way. Frogs and crickets thrumming away, telling the new spring they were alive. A pretty sound, but Stoker frowned. If they were out there and lost, the girls would be scared.

  The sheriff heard a horse cry in pain from the shed near the mill gate. He stopped his car and got out.

  Even in the gathering darkness, Hiram Stoker easily made out the stooped, shuffling form of T. J. Campbell. A sneaky, no-good way about him, the sheriff thought, knowing his dislike was not particularly rational but not caring, either.

  “Evenin’, T.J.,” Hiram Stoker said.

  “That you, Sheriff?”

  “None other. You here kinda late, aincha?”

  “Lotta work to do. Never seems to get done …”

  “Hmmm.” There was a laugh, Hiram Stoker thought. In the sheriff’s opinion, T. J. Campbell was not a candidate to work himself to death. The sheriff thought he had one qualification to work at the mill at all, let alone be a foreman, and that was his kinship to the owner. Short on brains, long on mouth, mean to the workers, white and colored both. And horses.

  “You happen to see two little girls in these parts?” the sheriff said, forcing his mind to the task at hand.

  “Nope …”

  Silence hung in the dark.

  “Well, they were down by the mill a while back, down where there’s some flowers. Off the track there …”