“But the shape changer will be back, Billy. I’m sure of that. It’s still picking at you, maybe even without you knowing it. Your grandmother was never certain of what the shape changer’s limits were, or what it was capable of doing. I’m not, either…but expect the unexpected, always.”
He thought of the boar-thing, and its whispered promise: I’ll be waiting for you.
“How did you feel,” she asked, “after…what you did at the sawmill?”
“I was afraid. And I was mad, too.” For a couple of weeks afterward he’d had nightmares of a spinning saw blade grinding his arm down to bloody pulp. Sometimes he felt a fierce, jagged pain stabbing his left eye. Worse than the pain, though, was a hot center of anger that had raged in him until he’d attacked the Klansmen in the front yard; afterward both the phantom pain and the rage had steadily faded.
“Those were the emotions that kept Link Patterson chained to this world,” Ramona said. “When you persuaded the revenant to give them up, he was able to pass on. You’ll have those feelings inside you again; what will you do with them? The next time might be worse. You’ll have two choices: you can turn the emotions into something creative, or into something mean and violent. I don’t know, that’s up to you.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“And then there’s the other thing.” She gazed out the window for a moment, dreading to see dust rise off the road. That man would be here soon. “The black aura.”
Billy’s heart gave a cold kick.
“You’ll see it again. That’s why I stopped goin’ out, stopped goin’ to church or to town; I just don’t want to know who’ll be the next to die. That night at the tent revival, I saw it around a couple of people who that Falconer boy said was healed; well, those people were near death, and so they stopped takin’ their medicine and went home and died. I believe that the human mind can work miracles, Billy: mighty, earth-movin’ miracles. The human mind can heal the body; but sometimes the mind can make the body sick, too, with imagined ailments. What do you think went on in the minds of those families whose loved ones went to the Crusade and were told to throw away their medicines and not to go to the doctor anymore? Well, they probably cursed the name of God after their loved ones died, because they’d been filled with false hope and then death struck. They were made to turn their backs on the idea of death, to close their eyes to it; and that made it so much more terrible when they lost their loved ones. Oh, I’m not sayin’ give up hope, but everybody gets sick, Christians and sinners alike, and medicines are to be used to help…plus a good old-fashioned dollop of sunshine, laughter, and faith. The human touch spreads; when Wayne Falconer played God, he turned good people with brains into stupid sheep ripe for the shearing.”
“Are you sure those people died afterwards?” Billy asked. “Maybe the black aura got weaker, and they regained their health…”
She shook her head. “No. I saw what I saw, and I wish to God I hadn’t because now I know. I know and I have to be silent, because what can one aging old witch do?” She paused for a moment, and Billy saw in her eyes a deep concern that he couldn’t fully understand. “The worst evil—the very worst—wears the robes of a shepherd, and then it strikes down those who’ve trusted in it. Oh, Lord…” She gave a deep sigh, and then was silent.
Billy put his hand on her shoulder, and she covered it with her own. “I’ll make you proud of me, Mom. You’ll see.”
“I know. Billy, you’re goin’ a long ways…”
“Just to Tuscaloosa…”
“No,” she said quietly. “First to Tuscaloosa. Then…your Mystery Walk will be different from mine, just as mine was different from my mother’s. You’ll walk a further path, and you’ll see things I never dreamed of. In a way, I envy you; and in a way, I fear for you. Well…” She rose up from her chair, and in the afternoon light Billy saw all the strands of silver in her hair. “I’ll make you some sandwiches while you get dressed. Lord only knows when you’ll have a chance to eat.”
He went to his chest of drawers and got out the clothes he’d planned to wear on the trip—clean blue jeans and a green-and-blue madras shirt. He dressed hurriedly, wanting to have time to talk to his father before he had to go. Then he took the gleaming piece of good-luck coal from the dirty jeans he’d worn atop the roof, and put it in his pocket. His heart was beating like a drum corps. He took his suitcase out to the porch, where his father was squinting toward the road, his head cocked to one side as if listening.
“Hot day,” John said. “Listen to that corn rustle.”
“Dad?” Billy said. “I don’t know if you can understand me or not, but… I’m going away for a while. See? My suitcase is all packed, and…” There was a lump in his throat, and he had to wait until it subsided. “I’ll be gone until October:” A sudden thought speared him: Your Dad won’t be here, come October. He forced it away, looking at the good side of his father’s face.
John nodded. “Crickets sure like to sing on a hot day, don’t they?”
“Oh, Dad…” Billy said. His throat constricted and he grasped one of his father’s leathery hands, dangling over the chair arm. “I’m sorry, it was because of me this happened to you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Tears burned his eyes.
“Splash!” John said, and grinned. “Did you see that? Old bullfrog jumped down at the pond!” He squinted and leaned forward, visoring his eyes with his free hand. “Looky there. Company’s comin’.”
Dust was rising off the road. Not now! Billy said mentally. It’s too soon! Birds scattered up out of the lumbering van’s path; the vehicle didn’t stop this time, but braved the rocks and ruts all the way up to the front yard. On the van’s sides, written in spooky-looking white letters, was DR. MIRAKLE’S GHOST SHOW.
“Who’s our company today?” John asked, the grin stuck lopsided on his face.
“The man I told you about, hon,” Ramona said from behind the screen door; she came on out carrying a paper sack with a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, a bologna sandwich, and two red apples in it. Her eyes glazed over as the van’s door opened and Dr. Mirakle, looking as if he’d slept in his seersucker suit and straw hat, stepped out.
“Fine afternoon, isn’t it!” he called and approached the house on his stubby legs; his wide smile lost wattage with every step he took, as he felt Ramona Creekmore’s icy glare on him. He cleared his throat and craned his neck to see the roof. “All finished?”
“He’s finished,” Ramona said.
“Good. Mr. Creekmore, how are you today?”
John just stared at him.
Mirakle stepped up to the edge of the porch. “Billy? It’s time to go now.”
As Billy bent to pick up his suitcase, Ramona caught at his arm. “Just a minute! You promise me one thing! You take good care of my boy! You treat him like you’d treat a son of your own! He’s a hard worker, but he’s nobody’s mule. You treat my boy fair. Will you promise me that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mirakle said, and bowed his head slightly. “I do so promise. Well… I’ll take this on to the van for you, then.” He reached up and took the suitcase, then carried it to the van to give them a moment alone.
“Billy.” John’s voice was slow and sluggish; his blue eyes were dull, hazed with half-remembered days when the young man standing before him was a little boy. A smile worked around the good edge of his mouth, but wouldn’t take hold.
“I’m going away, Dad. I’ll work hard, and I’ll mail you money. Everything’ll be fine…”
“Billy,” John said, “I… I want…to read you something.” Emotion had thickened his speech, made it more difficult for him to say the right words. He was trying very hard to concentrate; he turned in the Bible to the Book of Matthew, and searched for a particular passage. Then he began to read, with difficulty: “Matthew seven, verses thirteen and fourteen. ‘Enter ye in…at the strait gate; for wide is the gate, and broad is the way that…leadeth to destruction, and…many there be which…go in thereat. Because strait is the gate an
d…narrow is the way which leadeth unto life, and few there be…that find it’” He closed the Bible and lifted his gaze to his son. “I’m readin’ better,” he said.
Billy leaned down, hugged him and kissed his cheek; he smelled of Vitalis, and Billy was reminded of the times they used to get their hair cut together at Curtis Peel’s. When he raised up, his father’s eyes were shining. “Good-bye, Dad,” Billy said.
Ramona put her arm around her son, and they started walking toward Dr. Mirakle’s van. “Be careful,” she said, her voice husky with emotion. “Be strong and proud. Brush your teeth twice a day, and hang your clothes up at night. Just remember who you are: you’re Billy Creekmore, there’s Choctaw blood in your veins, and you can walk with the likes of anybody!”
“Yes ma’am. I’ll send the money every week, and I’ll…” He glanced up at the van, and a shadow of true fear passed over him; he felt like a shipwrecked sailor, slowly drifting away from land. “I’ll be fine,” he said, as the feeling began to fade. “You should take the car down to the gas station and put air in the tires. I meant to do it myself, but…time just got away…”
“You write now, you hear? Mind your manners, and say your prayers…”
Mirakle had leaned over and opened the passenger door. Billy climbed up into the slightly greasy interior; when he closed the door, his mother said, “Remember who you are! You’ve got Choctaw blood in your veins, and…”
Mirakle started the engine. “Are you ready, Billy?”
“Yes sir.” He looked toward the house, waved at his father, and then said to Ramona, “I love you.” The van started moving.
“I love you!” she called back, and walked alongside the van as it eased over the ruts. “Get your sleep, and don’t stay out until all hours of the night.” She had to walk faster, because the van was picking up speed. Dust blossomed from beneath the tires. “Do right!” she called out.
“I will!” Billy promised, and then his mother was left behind as the van moved away. Ramona stood shielding her face from the dust as the black van reached the highway. It turned left and disappeared behind the curtain of full green trees, but Ramona stood where she was until the sound of its engine had faded, leaving faint echoes in the hills.
29
RAMONA TURNED AWAY AND walked back to the house through the hanging layers of dust. She sat on the porch with John for a few minutes more, and told him she was going to take the car down to the gas station, then drive in to Fayette for a little while, and she’d be gone for maybe two hours. He nodded and said that was fine. In the house, she took two dollars from the kitchen cookie jar, made sure John would have everything he needed while she was gone, then took the car keys from where they lay on the mantel. It was four-twenty when she got on the road, and she wanted to reach a particular shop in Fayette before it closed at five.
In Fayette, Ramona parked the Olds near a rather run-down pawnshop and loan service. Arranged in the window were displays of cheap rhinestone rings, radios, a couple of electric guitars, a trombone, and a few cheap wristwatches. Above the doorway a sign read HAP’S PAWNS AND LOANS and YOU’RE ALWAYS HAPPY WHEN YOU TRADE WITH HAP. She stepped into the shop, where a single ceiling fan stirred the heavy, dusty air. “Is Mr. Tillman in today?” she asked a sallow-faced woman behind one of the counters.
“Hap?” The woman had flame-red dyed hair and one glass eye that looked off into empty space; with her good eye she quickly appraised Ramona. “Yeah, he’s back in his office. What do you want to see him a—” But Ramona was already moving, heading back along an aisle toward the shop’s rear. “Hey! Lady! You can’t go back there!”
Ramona stepped through a green curtain into a narrow, dank corridor. She rapped on a door and entered the office without being asked in.
“Hap” Tillman’s thick body was reclining in his chair, his legs up on the desktop, as he smoked a Swisher Sweet cigar and paged through a Stag magazine. Now he sat up, outraged that someone had dared to invade his inner sanctum, and was about to curse a blue streak when he saw it was Ramona Creekmore. The red-haired woman stuck her head in. “Hap, I told her not to come back here.”
“It’s okay, Doris.” He had a fleshy, square-jawed face and wore a stark-black toupee that was entirely at odds with his gray eyebrows. “I know Mizz Creekmore. You can leave us be.”
“I told her not to come back,” Doris said; she shot Ramona a black look and closed the door.
“Well! Mizz Creekmore, what a surprise to see you of all people!” Tillman tapped ash off his Swisher Sweet and plugged the cigar into his mouth. Around his desk was a sea of stacked boxes; over in one corner were black filing cabinets, and on the wall hung a calendar that showed a well-endowed woman in a bikini straddling a watermelon. “Whatever can I do for you today?”
She said, “I want to know.”
“What?” he asked. “Did I hear you right?”
“Yes, I want to know. Now.”
“Shit you say!” Tillman leaped up, belching out smoke like a furnace, and stepped past Ramona to throw open the door. He peered out into the empty corridor, then closed the door again and locked it. “That bitch Doris listens outside my office,” he told her. “I’ve caught her at it twice. Damn it, lady, you’ve got an awful short memory! We did business. Know what that means? Business means we got a binding contract!”
“I think I already know, Mr. Tillman. But I… I have to make sure. It’s important…”
“My ass is important, too! We may have done business, but a lot of it was out of the kindness of my heart. I pulled a lot of strings!” He tried to stare her down and failed. Shaking his head, he puffed on his cigar and retreated behind the fortress of his boxes and desk. His eyes glinted. “Oh, I see. Sure. It’s blackmail, is that it?”
“No. It’s not that at—”
Tillman’s head darted forward. “It better not be! I may be in deep, but you’re in deeper! You just remember that, if you try to get me in trouble!”
“Mr. Tillman,” Ramona said patiently, and stepped closer to his desk. “I wouldn’t be here asking you about this if I didn’t think it was very, very important. I’m not going to blackmail anybody. I’m not going to cause any trouble. But I’m not leaving here until I know.”
“Lady, you signed a goddamned contract…”
“I don’t care if I signed ten contracts!” Ramona shouted, and instantly the man winced and put a finger to his lips to shush her.
“Please…please,” Tillman said, “keep your voice down! Sit down and calm yourself, will you?” He motioned toward a chair, and reluctantly Ramona sat down. He puffed on his cigar for a moment, trying to think what to do.
“Shitfire, lady!” Tillman crushed the cigar in an ashtray, and sparks jumped like tiny red grasshoppers. “It’s just…it’s just not ethical! I mean, there’s a lot to think about, and I wish you’d—”
“I’ve thought about it,” Ramona said. “Now do you tell me or do I have to go see a policeman?”
“You wouldn’t,” he sneered. Tillman sat down, and faced Ramona in silence for a moment. Then he sighed deeply and said, “I’m a born fool for doin’ business with a crazy woman!” He slid the top drawer out of his desk and reached into the slot, his fingers searching for the strip of masking tape; he found it, peeled it off, and brought it out. Stuck to the tape was a small key. He looked up at Ramona. “Don’t you ever show your face in my shop again,” he said gravely. “Do you understand me, lady?” He stood up, went to one wall, and lifted a framed paint-by-numbers picture of a harbor scene. There was a combination safe behind it. Tillman dialed it open, careful to stand in front of it so Ramona couldn’t see the numbers.
“You may fool everybody else,” he said, “but not me, lady. Nosir! You and that boy of yours are natural-born con artists! Pretendin’ to talk to ghosts! That’s the biggest fool thing I ever heard tell of!” He brought a small metal strongbox out of the safe, laid it on his desk. “Everybody else might be afraid of you, but I’m not! Nosir!” He opene
d the strongbox with the little key, and flipped through index cards. “Creekmore,” he read, and brought the card out. It was slightly yellowed with age; Tillman couldn’t suppress a wicked grin as he read it. Then he handed it to the woman. “Here!”
Ramona looked at it, her mouth set in a tight, grim line.
“Ha!” Tillman laughed. “Bet that galls your Indian ass, doesn’t it?”
She handed the card back and rose from her chair. “It’s as I thought. Thank you.”
“Yeah, that’s a real hoot, ain’t it!” Tillman returned the card to the strongbox, closed the lid, and locked it. “But you know my motto: You’re always happy when you trade with Hap!”
She looked into his ugly, grinning face and felt the urge to slap it crooked. But what good would that do? Would it change things, or make them right?
“Yeah, that’s a real dipsy-doodle!” Tillman chuckled, put the box away in the safe, and closed it, spinning the combination lock. “Forgive me if I don’t see you to the door,” he said sarcastically, “but I’ve got a business to—” He turned toward Ramona, but she was already gone. He opened the door and yelled out, “AND DON’T COME BACK!”
SEVEN
Ghost Show
30
SATAN CAME SHAMBLING OUT into the red spotlight. There was a chorus of screams and jeers. Behind the foul-smelling mask, Billy said, “Don’t forget to tell your friends to see Dr. Mirakle’s Ghost Show…or I’ll be seeing you!” He shook his plastic pitchfork at the dozen or so people who sat before the stage, and heard the muffled thump! as Dr. Mirakle sneaked back inside the black cabinet and closed the lid. Haze drifted in the air from the smoke bombs Mirakle had exploded. At the tent’s ceiling bobbed papier-mâché ghosts and skeletons as eerie tape-recorded organ music played.