Moon Over Manifest

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I killed him on purpose. I just put the knife in your hand so you’d wake up with it. You should have known you didn’t do it, boy. You don’t have the guts.”

  Jinx felt a flood of relief, which was quickly followed by anger. “Let me go.”

  “I can’t. Junior threatened me and he had it coming. And now you threatened me. This’ll make things real simple. I’ll tell the sheriff it was you that killed Junior, and when I said I was going to turn you in, there was a fight and”—Finn cocked the gun—“well, you can see how things will turn out from there. Move into those trees.”

  Jinx struggled to get away, but Finn held firm. Darkness surrounded them as they entered the thick grove of trees encircling the clearing. Jinx walked forward a few paces, then stopped, not able to see where he was going. Then he sensed a movement just in front of them. He could tell by the way Finn’s body tensed behind his that he had heard something.

  They both backed up a step, then another, as a dark figure moved toward them. There was a faint rattling sound. The figure moved in an eerie, flowing way as it drove them back toward the clearing.

  Jinx felt Finn’s grip loosen, then heard a loud snap. He was free. He could get away. But before he could turn around, the gun went off. Jinx felt pain cut through him for only an instant, then he fell and the world went dark.

  The following afternoon was warm and aglow with the oranges, reds, and yellows of fall leaves. Most of the Manifest townspeople could be found strolling the grounds of the homecoming celebration, enjoying these days of Indian summer. But everyone knew that an Indian summer could only last so long. A lot of things could only last so long. That afternoon also found three men who stood around an open grave. The same open grave Jinx and Shady had used the day before for their prank on Sheriff Dean. Shady, Donal MacGregor, and Hadley Gillen lowered the casket six feet down.

  Sheriff Dean and Sheriff Nagelman approached the grave site just as Shady was finishing his few words of eulogy. “And, Lord, we ask your blessing on this soul, who was with us such a short time. May he rest in peace.”

  Then Donal lifted a shovel to begin replacing the earth into the grave.

  Miss Sadie’s Divining Parlor

  AUGUST 23, 1936

  “What?” I cried. “That can’t be right. You’ve got the story wrong.” Hot tears filled my eyes and my words sputtered out all angry and sad, like water sizzling on a hot tin pan. “Jinx didn’t die. He grew up and lived a life.” And had a daughter. Me. I didn’t say the last part out loud but that was the thread I’d been weaving throughout the summer. I’d come to know Jinx in a way I didn’t even know my own father, who was so far away. It had been such a consolation to me to get wrapped up in Jinx’s story. To grow to love him and care about him. To wish and hope that maybe he’d grown up and become my daddy. That he was loyal and faithful and true. And he’d never leave his daughter behind.

  But if Jinx was gone, then he couldn’t be Gideon. And that meant I’d lost Gideon all over again. I was alone again.

  Miss Sadie just kept rocking, waiting for me to sort things through on my own. What was it she’d said earlier? The line between truth and myth is sometimes difficult to see. Was that all this had been? A myth? Just a tall tale from long ago that didn’t have anything to do with me?

  I knew the choice in front of me. I could walk out of that divining parlor right then and be done with it all. I could leave Miss Sadie behind and never come back. But I knew these people. Jinx and Ned and Velma T., Shady and Hattie Mae. Even Mrs. Larkin. They’d become part of me. And I loved them. What else had Miss Sadie said? “Who would dream that one can love without being crushed under the weight of it?”

  I stiffened my back and sat up straight. The story was about real people who had lived and loved. And in some way I had been allowed into their world. And they had welcomed me. The only way I could give back was to be faithful to the story. To hear it to the end. I would be faithful. Even if it crushed me.

  Miss Sadie sensed my resolve and picked up where she’d left off.

  “Donal lifted a shovel to begin replacing the earth into the grave.…”

  St. Dizier

  OCTOBER 27, 1918

  “Wait,” Nagelman said, holding up a hand. He looked at the gravestone that lay flat on the ground. “This isn’t his name.”

  Shady spoke up. “It’s his given name. Nobody’s born with a name like Jinx.”

  Sheriff Nagelman looked skeptical. He motioned to Sheriff Dean. “Make sure it’s the kid.”

  The Manifest sheriff took Donal’s shovel and lifted the lid of the coffin. He gazed down with intent, looking right into the dead face of Finn Bennett and wondered at his missing foot.

  Shady, Donal, and Hadley looked at one another in defeat. They hadn’t anticipated anyone’s opening the coffin.

  Sheriff Dean’s jaw clamped tightly onto his toothpick. He rubbed his whiskers and studied the body. Then he closed the lid, handed the shovel back to Donal, and said firmly, “That’s him.”

  “Good enough,” said Sheriff Nagelman, brushing his hands as if he’d just taken out the trash. He offered his hand to Sheriff Dean. “I guess things worked out for the best.”

  “I’d say so,” Sheriff Dean answered, arms folded.

  “Right.” Sheriff Nagelman withdrew his unshaken hand and left.

  As soon as Sheriff Nagelman was a fair distance away, Shady, Hadley, and Donal let out a collective breath. Then they all set their uncomprehending eyes on Sheriff Dean.

  “Where’s the boy?” Sheriff Dean asked.

  “He’s back at my place, resting,” said Shady. “Gunshot went through his shoulder and he blacked out for a time. He’s being tended to. Should be fine.”

  Sheriff Dean motioned to the coffin. “And who’s the stiff?”

  “He’s the one who really killed that fellow in Joplin and tried to blame it on Jinx. He came after the boy and got spooked by something. Stepped into one of Louver Thompson’s coon traps, then fell back and hit his head on a rock. I wouldn’t wish such an end on anyone, but this man was a bad seed.”

  Sheriff Dean thought for a moment. “That explains the missing foot. Still in the trap, I expect.”

  Again, Shady, Hadley, and Donal stared, dumbfounded, at the sheriff.

  He seemed to enjoy their confusion and eventually removed the toothpick from his mouth. “I may not be the most straight and narrow sheriff in town, but last I checked I’m the only sheriff in town. And no cocky city sheriff’s going to come in and run the show.” He replaced the toothpick in his mouth. “I’d best get going. Shady, that libation you gave me yesterday isn’t setting too well with my constitution,” he said, and walked off.

  After a full minute of the three men watching the sheriff leave and looking back and forth at one another, Donal shook his head and said, “Well, I never.”

  To which the other two responded, “Never.”

  Then Donal began shoveling dirt into the open grave while Shady read aloud the verse that had been engraved on the tombstone. “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.”

  The First Annual Homecoming Celebration began without a hitch. Most people knew nothing of the nighttime escapade or the unusual burial that had taken place that day. They just milled from one booth to another, sampling each other’s fine foods, clapping and cheering for their favorites in the sack races, the egg toss, and the bocce tournament, which ended in a draw between the Italians and the Scots, because the hedge apples kept splitting open.

  As day turned into night and soft music began, the gentlemen of Manifest took their ladies’ hands and escorted them onto the open-air dance floor lit by a canopy of electric lights.

  Jinx sat to the side of the stage, his shoulder in a bandage and sling. Shady brought him a glass of punch. Together they watched children scampering about with glowing faces and eventually nodding off in their mothers’ arms. Ivan DeVore stole glances at Velma T. across the dance floor as h
e worked up the nerve to ask her to dance. Hadley Gillen was on the stage, playing first trumpet in the band. Hattie Mae, with no pen or paper in hand, looked splendid in a pink chiffon dress as she danced a waltz with Mr. Fred Macke.

  Pearl Ann, home from college, served punch while Mrs. Larkin held court with a bevy of women. The ladies listened with rapt attention to the story of how Mrs. Larkin and the boy, Jinx, had cooked up the scheme of tricking Lester Burton into buying the springs and how it had been her idea not to tell anyone, including Shady, of their plans. Mrs. Larkin had done some theater work in high school. She had, in fact, played the lead in the senior class production of All on Account of Polly and was confident she could pull off her part, but felt they’d get a better performance out of Shady if he was unapprised.

  People were smiling. Especially Mrs. Cybulskis, who sat to the side of the dance floor, holding a healthy new baby boy. The whole town was filled with the hope and promise that the hard times were behind them.

  Until the army truck pulled in.

  At first people thought it was just a latecomer to the dance. But when the young man, dressed in a crisp brown uniform, stepped out of his automobile, they knew otherwise. The music died out with a painful moan. The soldier made his way into the crowd. He showed a paper to Mr. Matenopoulos, who motioned toward the band platform.

  Hadley stood, waiting for the news.

  “Are you Mr. Hadley Gillen?” the soldier asked.

  Hadley nodded.

  The man spoke a few quiet words and handed Hadley an envelope. Hadley held the envelope for a moment, then passed it to Shady. “Read it, Shady. To all of us.”

  Shady read.

  “REGRET TO INFORM YOU, YOUR SON NED GILLEN WAS KILLED IN ACTION OCTOBER EIGHTH STOP HIS BODY RECOVERED IN ARGONNE REGION SOUTH FRANCE STOP LAID TO REST IN ST. DIZIER STOP PERSONAL EFFECTS TO FOLLOW STOP.”

  A deathly silence became the music that reverberated throughout. The town of Manifest had loved Ned Gillen. And now the town of Manifest was crushed under the weight of that love.

  But the boy, Jinx. It buried him.

  PVT. NED GILLEN

  OCTOBER 6, 1918

  Dear Jinx,

  Took a piece of shrapnel in the arm yesterday. Didn’t even see it coming, but it was just a scratch. So not to worry. Today was a good day. Whenever we quit running or fighting long enough to look around, France turns out to be a beautiful place. Seems like all we’ve been seeing lately is our own muddy green uniforms, so the bright fall leaves are like a colorful kaleidoscope.

  Stopped for a spell today on the roadside. A group of fresh replacements sauntered past. Talk about colors. They were greener than green. Jaunty clean-cut fellas, walking like they had someplace to be. Heck, Holler, and me sat there, all of us thinking those boys reminded us of someone. Could it be someone from home? Was there still such a place? Then we realized it was us back in June. “Did we ever look like that?” I asked. Heck answered, “Yeah, when we were in the sixth grade.” Then, true to his name, Holler yelled out, “What’s your hurry, ladies? The senior promenade was last week.” In a bygone day, we’d have laughed one of those laughs that keeps going on after you forget what was so funny. But that doesn’t happen anymore.

  We’ve been on a two-day hike and have had the good fortune to come across trenches already dug. You can tell a lot about a man by the trench he digs for himself. Some are shallow and clumpy. Others are well dug and roomy enough for two. Kind of feels like sleeping in someone else’s bed for a spell, but I always feel a debt of gratitude to whoever dug it. Funny thing, it also makes me take a little extra care when I dig one so it might be a place of respite for the next guy to come along.

  I’m reminded of a line in a book I read in high school. “It is not down in any map; true places never are.” I can guaran-darn-tee you, these foxholes won’t be found on any map after the war is over. But for now, my home is wherever me and my buddies lay our heads at night. And where we pray to God we’ll wake up in the morning.

  There’s been some talk of peace. Armistice, they call it. Hope is something most of us have been none too familiar with lately. Some men try to fight it off like a bad cold. Others let it wrap around them like a blanket. Me? It creeps quietly into my dreams and it looks like Pop, and you, and home.

  Vive la nuit (Long live the night),

  Ned

  The Shadow of Death

  AUGUST 23, 1936

  Miss Sadie stared ahead. This time she lingered in the story after she told it, as if she was looking for a different ending.

  Even though she had not told me to go, I stood and started out the door. Then, turning back, I took the compass from the hook on which it had hung all summer. My work here was finished. It felt like we’d all done enough.

  I can’t say I knew where I was heading when I stepped off her porch and walked down the Path to Perdition. I knew when I got to the end of the path that there was no place else for me to go. I wandered around a little but eventually found the tombstone I’d come across the day Lettie, Ruthanne, and I had been frog hunting. The one all by itself in the clearing, near an old craggy sycamore tree.

  I studied the letters on the tombstone, letting them tell me their story. Letting them help me make sense of something that made no sense. The letters spelled out my father’s name. Gideon Tucker. That was my father. The boy, Jinx. They were one and the same, as I’d wondered about and hoped for all along.

  Sitting down with my back against the stone, I took the compass from my pocket and opened the latch. Inside were the words I’d mistaken for the compass maker’s name. Now I knew them for what they were. ST. DIZIER. OCTOBER 8, 1918. This was Ned’s compass, on which Gideon had engraved Ned’s date of death and place of burial. Because for my father, that was the day he began his wanderings in the valley of the shadow of death.

  I sat mourning the loss of Ned, a young soldier at arms. Grieving the death of a town. Wishing for my father, who was still wandering.

  My tears had been falling for some time when Shady came for me. He stood beside me, stroking my hair.

  “He thought it was his fault, didn’t he, Shady? Because he helped Ned raise the twenty-five dollars to join the army underage and then Ned was killed. Because he thought he was a jinx.”

  “I suppose.”

  “So what happened that night? After the telegram came about Ned?”

  Shady sat down beside me. “He left and never came back. With Ned gone, I suppose he felt he’d done the one thing the town couldn’t forgive him for. We didn’t blame him. No, sir. There was nothing to forgive him for. The problem was we couldn’t forgive ourselves.”

  “For what?”

  “For not being able to live up to what we’d convinced ourselves of. That there was something special about Manifest. That we could overcome our past and start over.”

  “What about the springwater, the metal ore in the ground?”

  “Some of us started believing our own tale. That it might be healing water, hallowed ground. But it was just water and dirt, plain and simple.”

  “But the elixir. It saved lives.”

  “It helped people feel better for a while. Until the worst wave of the influenza hit just a few weeks later. The deadly one. Then it was beyond what any elixir could cure.”

  I let his words sink in, then stood up. “Show me.”

  Shady took my hand and walked no more than twenty feet from where we’d been sitting. Pushing aside a few branches, he made an opening in a row of bushes. And there they were. Dozens of tombstones surrounded by dense shrubs and weeds. Bodies set apart from the town cemetery because of the deadly disease that had killed them. This was no-man’s-land.

  I walked from stone to stone, feeling the loss of each person. Judge Carlson. Callisto Matenopoulos. Mama Santoni. Even little Eva Cybulskis. It seemed no family had been left untouched. Donal MacGregor and Greta Akkerson. And Margaret Evans, senior class president, class of 1918. Shady said she’d been the first to die of the influ
enza in Manifest. All died in November of 1918.

  Then the name that was probably the hardest of all to believe: Mrs. Eudora Larkin. In my mind, she’d been so vigorous, so staunch, that surely if death was to approach her, she would give it a good tongue-lashing and send it on its way.

  But as Miss Sadie had said, “Things are not always what they seem.” It was clear death had come to Manifest and would not be brushed aside.

  I felt Shady pull me away. “Come along, Miss Abilene. You’ve seen enough. Let’s go home.”

  The word struck me as odd. Home. That was a word I didn’t know the meaning of. “I think I’d like some coffee. Strong coffee.”

  Shady understood. He took me along the railroad tracks to the bend by the woods. Back to the Jungle, where there were faces familiar to me. People lost and wandering. Like Gideon. Like me.

  I sat at the fire and received nods of welcome from the men camped there for the night. Shady handed me a tin cup. The hot coffee scalded me as I sipped.

  No wonder Gideon had started closing in on himself. Looking back, I thought it started not when I had been cut, but when I’d turned twelve. I was growing up and he was probably already worrying about the road being a poor place for raising a young lady. Then, when the accident happened and I got so sick, the world came crashing down around him. He thought he was still a jinx and, one way or another, my life could not be good with him. When I’d cut my leg that day, I’d said the same thing as was written in Ned’s letter. It was just a scratch. Gideon was afraid and he sent me away.

  I took another strong swallow, letting the coffee sear my throat. “He’s not coming back, is he?” I asked Shady. “He’s going to wander in the valley of the shadow of death all by himself.”

  Shady stared uncomfortably into his coffee cup, as if searching for a way to answer me.

  “When we got the telegram from your daddy saying that you were coming, we knew he must be in a bad way. Maybe I should have told you more about when he was here, but it was so long ago. And when Miss Sadie started her story, it seemed like that might be the best way for you to hear what happened.”