Mr. Small was silent. He knew this town. He knew that Thomas, his whole family, was safe in it.
But for how long? he wondered. And what about all the other towns, everywhere?
“You will have to try it,” said Mr. Small. He knew what he said was not good enough. “You will have to walk it and see what happens.” Nothing he could say would ever be good enough.
“Thomas, I wanted to take you to that church this morning because I thought it would be familiar. I thought it would be a good place to start to meet people and to make friends. You will have to give it time.”
“Let’s go eat now,” Thomas said. “I’m hungry, I don’t want to do anything but eat.” He could not look at his father.
Thomas had turned from the window away from his father, when his eyes fell on something below one bookcase, where there was wood paneling. The thing glinted, and Thomas thought it no more than a pinpoint reflection when it jumped at him the way the town had seemed to. He sucked in his breath and stared. A cold fright passed over him.
“Papa,” he said softly, “Papa, look there …”
Mr. Small looked and saw. He reached around Thomas for the object stuck in the wood.
“They are bold, aren’t they, coming here like that through my locked door?” said Mr. Small.
“Another triangle!” Thomas said.
“And they knew we would come here,” said Mr. Small. “They knew I would show you my office.”
“They who, Papa?”
“Whoever knows what I’m going to do before I do it. Whoever it is that has figured out my moves as though we, all of us, were pieces in a game of chess!”
“They could’ve been watching us for a long time,” Thomas said. “Anyone hanging around up here in these towers could see anybody coming or going almost forever. It wouldn’t take an awful lot to jimmy that door.”
“You’re right, of course,” said Mr. Small. “I let the atmosphere, this whole morning, carry me off a little. Probably they have watched us from the time we left church. They may be close by even now.”
“I don’t like them,” Thomas said. “I don’t like them at all!” But his spirits lifted. At least folks cared enough about them to try to warn them out of town.
“Let’s look at the triangle,” Mr. Small said. He held it in his left hand while taking from his pocket one of the three they had found in the house.
Moving the new triangle around, Mr. Small fitted it above the triangle he had taken from his pocket. Then he took from his pocket the last two triangles and fitted them to the first two.
“Papa, now we have all of it,” Thomas said. “We have all four triangles and it’s a Greek cross! But what kind of warning … what kind?”
“What kind indeed,” Mr. Small said. “A cross made from four interchangeable triangles.”
“Do you think there is danger?” Thomas asked.
“I have no idea,” said Mr. Small. “In any case, danger usually doesn’t come in the light of day. We won’t worry about danger until nightfall.” His manner was confident, and this pleased Thomas.
Mr. Small spoke matter-of-factly to Thomas. “Let’s eat now and then find a locksmith,” he said. “I don’t like leaving that house all by itself for too long.”
They ate, speaking not of the triangles or of anything that had to do with crosses or church or the house of Dies Drear. They’d eaten in the large, college dining hall. The hall had screened-in porches at either end, and they sat at a big, round table on the porch. There had been a pitcher of ice water on every table; Thomas had poured water for them all, even the twins. The twins had high chairs to sit in. The waitress had brought the chairs. She even brought the twins wood dolls to play with, since the hall was crowded with Sunday diners, and there might be a long wait for food.
It was the first time Thomas had sat down in a private room such as this, where there were white families eating just like his family. No one seemed to pay much attention at all.
Thomas felt so good he couldn’t speak. Mr. Small watched him anxiously, and Thomas grew shy. After awhile, he looked up at his father, giving him a big grin. Mr. Small cleared his throat, chuckled to himself and studied the menu.
But they never found a locksmith. After a fine Sunday dinner of turkey with good dressing and gravy—Thomas had topped it off with Boston cream pie—they’d got into their car to begin the search.
“We’ll go into the main part of town first,” said Mr. Small. “See if anything is open.”
They turned onto an avenue lined with trees. Xenia Avenue it was called. It extended from the college all the way through town.
“There’s a library,” said Thomas as they drove. He cradled the twins, one in each arm. They were tired now, hungry for the warmth of their bottles and their cribs.
“There’s a drugstore and, look, a big church,” Thomas said.
“That’s the white Presbyterian church,” said Mr. Small. “I know the pastor. He teaches a seminar on religion at the college.”
“Can I go to that church sometime, Papa?” asked Thomas.
“You can go anytime you want,” Mr. Small said. “We’ll all go.”
“Are Presbyterians like Methodists?” asked Thomas eager to talk.
“They are okay,” said Mrs. Small, “but they aren’t quite as good as Methodists.”
“Mama!” said Thomas.
Mr. Small laughed. “Your mother’s a Methodist from way back, Thomas. You’ll have to forgive it. She can’t help it if she’s prejudiced.”
“I’m not prejudiced,” said Mrs. Small. “I simply have good taste.”
Mr. Small threw back his head and laughed.
“I just want to try it,” said Thomas, looking at the enormous, granite church. “Just to see what it’s like inside.”
Mr. Small stopped at the drugstore to get a Sunday paper. He made Thomas stay in the car so the twins would not want to get out. Mrs. Small stayed in the car also. He came back with candy and news that there was no locksmith in the town. There
was
the hardware store, which sold locks, but it was closed on Sunday. You might try the filling station, the druggist had said. All the Carr boys, who owned it, were handy with all sorts of things.
“It’s surely a small town,” Mr. Small said. “I love the flat way folks say things—not unfriendly but just flat, like maybe they all walked in from northern Kentucky in one big bunch.”
“Where is the filling station?” asked Thomas. “I don’t see it.”
“No, it’s on Highway 68 near the high school the druggist told me,” Mr. Small said. “We’ll have to go out there and talk to the Carr boys, whoever they are. Thomas, you’ll get to see the high school, if it’s that close by.”
School, Thomas thought. I forgot all about it.
“Do I have to go to school tomorrow, Papa? Can I wait a few days until we get more settled?”
“They are still having Easter vacation here,” Mr. Small said. “You have a few more days.”
They drove a short distance out of town, away from the college on Highway 68. They passed a police station. To Thomas, it looked like a cramped chicken coop. There was one light-blue patrol car parked in front of it, with one policeman, who leaned against the car and looked sleepily across the highway. He checked their license plate as they passed and stared after them down the highway.
They found the filling station easily enough, for it was a large, well-attended and modern place. Mr. Small eased the car up close to the office. He didn’t have to get out, for a big man came forward to see what he wanted.
“Afternoon,” said Mr. Small, “Walter Small’s the name—we’ve just moved here, in the old Drear place outside town. I need some locks and someone to install them. Can you help me out? Druggist said you might.”
“I’m Carr,” the man said. “The oldest boy. I have a few locks I can give you at a good price. Can’t put them in until Monday though. All the boys is home with their families. Will that do … Monday?”
“Monday will have to do then,” said Mr. Small. “Monday early morning, if it’s all the same to you.”
“All the same by me,” said the man. “You have some vandalism out there?” he wanted to know. He was curious about them. His broad, white face was serious and intent on them.
“No,” said Mr. Small. “No, nothing like that. My son didn’t realize the kitchen door was locked when he stormed through it. While I’m at it, I thought I might as well change a few other locks.”
“You intend to stay awhile then?” the man said. “The place has been empty for such a long time … I mean except for the old one called Pluto.”
Mr. Small was cautious. He didn’t want to tell the man too much. News spread like wildfire in a town such as this one. At the same time, he didn’t want to give the impression he was hiding anything.
When he did speak, his manner was casual. “I’ll be teaching at the college,” he said. “We wanted space for the children. I thought I might do some farming on the side.”
The man seemed to become more friendly. “You picked yourself a good piece of land for farming,” Carr said. “Along that stream, the soil is rich as can be. I know, because that same stream meanders onto my father’s land. Do you know his farm?”
Mr. Small said he didn’t.
Carr continued. “Well, you can recognize it by the catalpa trees. There’s a whole woods of them. Lots of berry patches in between them. Kids like to pick the berries. Get a good price for them, too, these days.” He smiled at Thomas. “I know, I picked the same bushes when I was a boy.”
“That right?” said Mr. Small. He started up the car, hoping to ease away without appearing impolite.
“Oh sure,” said the man. “Kids love playing there in the trees. My father, he’s old now, and he never did mind them, except for the Darrow boys.”
Mr. Small switched off the ignition. Thomas leaned forward.
“Darrow, you say?” Mr. Small said. He tried to appear only slightly interested.
“Do you know them?” asked Carr. “They have the closest spread to my father’s. They’re all around you out there. Mean ones, sometimes. Use’ to bother that other old man—Pluto he’s called. That Pluto and my father were young about the same time. My father, he was born in a log cabin in this town. But Pluto, he come here as a boy from somewheres. Seems to me I heard something about there being bad blood between the old man Darrow, the grandfather, and Pluto when they was young.” Carr looked pleasantly at Mr. Small, pleased to talk on this slow Sunday. What he had to say appeared innocent enough. Of course, you never could tell about strangers, Thomas thought.
“The grandfather still living?” asked Mr. Small. He took out his handkerchief and wiped perspiration from his neck, then folded it neatly and returned it to his breast pocket. The gesture was slow and easy, giving the impression that he was tired and willing to sit a moment to talk.
“Oh no, indeed,” Carr said. “He’s been gone now, oh, seven, eight, maybe ten years. But he was a mean one. I know, I use’ to play with one of the older boys. Old Wilbur Darrow. Haven’t seen him in a couple of months though. They can stay out on that farm of theirs for six months at a time without folks seeing them. Always digging up trees and putting them back. When the grandpaw was living—he was River Swift Darrow—they moved the whole house a few feet to one side, looked around under it for about a week and then moved it back again where it was in the first place.” He chuckled to himself, looking off down the highway.
“Sure, me and Wilbur Darrow were all right. The father, he was River Lewis, didn’t seem to mind me. But the old grandpaw didn’t like it. No sir, he didn’t like me hanging around one bit. He’d come tearing out of that house calling me all kinds of rednecks. Now you know that can’t be right. My family, we was always the same with everybody. We played no favorites and saw no difference.”
“That’s the best way,” said Mr. Small.
“That’s the truth, as I see it,” said Carr. “No, they don’t like folks hanging around. Real secret they are. Always have been. They have a boy about your son’s age. He doesn’t seem to be as tough and sour as the rest. Maybe they’re changing.” He chuckled again. “Better watch ’em though. They got something in for that Pluto.” Carr’s eyes flicked away from Mr. Small’s. “They’re close by you, and I give you honest warning.”
“Thank you kindly,” said Mr. Small. He started the car.
“Got plenty good tires here anytime you need them,” Carr said. “Plenty of good gas.”
“I’ll be coming back soon,” said Mr. Small. Without effort, he imitated the flat, hill speech of the man.
“My young brothers like as not can fix most any busted thing. You let me know. They paint houses real well, folks say. We got a few tractors for plowing. The price of a field ain’t high either.”
“I’ll be calling again,” said Mr. Small as he drove out of the filling station.
“WELL THEN,” SAID
Mr. Small, “we know a little more than we did an hour ago.” He headed the car back toward town, the way they had come.
“Carr people, Darrow people,” Mrs. Small said, “I wonder what Mr. Pluto’s family name is.”
“Skinner,” said Mr. Small.
“Who? How do you know that?” asked Thomas.
“I found out from the foundation, the first trip I made here—didn’t I tell you?” Mr. Small said. “They told me his name is Henry Skinner.”
“But is he the only Skinner?” Mrs. Small wanted to know. “Does he have family here?”
“I never thought to ask,” said Mr. Small. “I suspect the Carr man would have said something if Pluto had family here.”
“You could find out,” Thomas said. “You could go to the county seat maybe. They keep records.”
“I don’t care to find out,” Mr. Small said. “Besides, Carr said Pluto came from somewhere else as a boy.”
“And that there was bad blood between the old grandfather Darrow and him. I wonder why?” Thomas said.
“Time may tell,” Mr. Small said. “Let’s take things easy and wait awhile.”
“Look,” said Mrs. Small. “Look there, isn’t that a school?” There was a drive off Highway 68 leading into an expanse of land, on which sat a sprawling, ivy-covered school. Mr. Small drove down.
“Oh, that’s a pretty school!” said Thomas. It was called Washington Junior High and High School. It had a smooth lawn and a large playing field. To the right of it was a wide stream called the Little Miami River.
“Miami!” Thomas said. “That’s in Florida.”