Authors: Mary Saums
D
on’t you believe a single word Jane Thistle tells you. She means well, bless her heart, and she’s sweet as can be. She just doesn’t always understand what’s going on down here like I do.
It’s not her fault. Jane is about the smartest person, man or woman, I’ve ever known. She can tell one Shakespeare play from another. Operas and symphonies, too. All that hard stuff. I want you to know she can tell which modern psycho artist painted what, even with nothing but dots and splatters to go on.
And those artsy things aren’t even her strongest subjects. History and archaeology are what she loves because she has worked on dig sites ever since she was a teenager. And trees, Lord have mercy, how she loves plain old ugly trees and plants. Knows their Latin names and everything. Anything green, old, or dead and gone for centuries, Jane knows about it.
I bet she didn’t tell you any of that, did she? That’s because Thistle is a real lady and she don’t go around tooting her own horn like a brazen heifer. She’s a bona fide proper Englishwoman, even though she says she’s completely American now after living in the States for nearly fifty years.
Yes, ma’am, I tell you what, Jane Thistle is sharp as a hound’s tooth and is a saint on top of that. She’d have to be to put up with that Colonel Board-Up-His-Backside husband of hers for so many years. I never actually met him, you understand, but I’ve seen his pictures. From the way she carries on about him, you’d think he hung the moon or invented chewing gum or something.
She really is so naive about people. Her husband probably made her that way, always barking orders at her, I bet you. Now, she wouldn’t say that in so many words. But I can tell he must have been an ornery old cuss from the way he’s glowering out of every single one of them pictures in her house like a mean bulldog.
Oh, I know he was a colonel, but titles don’t mean zip to me. And I’m not saying he didn’t have one or two redeeming qualities. He had at least one I know of: He taught Jane to shoot. Now that I think about it, if it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t have met her that first day she moved to town.
She was standing in line at the back counter of Harvel Wriggle’s Sporting Goods Store. My brother Eugene was having a birthday, and I had gone into Wriggle’s to buy him a new tackle box since fishing takes up the better part of his mind.
“Pardon me, sir,” Jane said, and I knew right away she was English. I grabbed the closest tackle box, a plastic lime green see-through number, and hustled over to stand in line behind her. I just love British accents and I didn’t want to miss a single word.
Harvel Wriggle noticed her accent, too, which only confirmed what I’ve always known about him—he’s not as dumb as he looks.He slicked his hair back with one hand, flattening his cowlick down.
“Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?” he said, with the cowlick springing up at the end of his sentence like a question mark on top of his head. I couldn’t help but laugh which, from the look he gave me, Harvel did not appreciate one bit.
He turned his attention back to Jane, all cute and silver-haired and hardly big as a minute. I wondered if she fixed her own hair. It waved and curled just perfect around her ears. Very classy. Jane has what I call a high-class face, with her little turned-up nose and high cheekbones. She’s got real black eyes that sparkle, and she’s always smiling. The beige and camel outfit she wore that day also showed what good taste she has and how subdued and genteel she is. I wouldn’t be caught dead in beige myself, way too drab, but it looked good on her.
“Yes, thank you,” she said to Harvel. “I’d like to purchase a small box of 9-millimeter bullets and another of 12-gauge shotgun shells, if I may please.”
Well, let me tell you what. You could have knocked me and Harvel both over with a chicken feather. I knew right then Jane and I were going to be close friends.
Harvel just stood there, staring at her with his mouth hanging open.
“What’s the matter?” I asked him. “You look like you never heard a lady ask for bullets before.”
“Well,” he said and cleared his throat. “It is mighty unusual. I believe it’s a first, around here anyway.” Some old retired guys, who hang out there at the store because their wives can’t stand them in the house all day, chuckled like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Believe me, I’ve been around here a long time, and I know exactly how these men think. I could read Harvel’s mind like his forehead was made out of Cling Wrap. He might be laughing but inside he was scared. Men around here like their women docile as old cows, and don’t want to face the fact that one might get trigger-happy. 1 tell you, it was a real treat to see old Harvel squirm.
I tapped Jane on the shoulder. ‘Thank goodness ‘unusual’ ain’t the same thing as ‘illegal,’ right, hon?”
I winked at her and nodded at Harvel, who hadn’t moved an inch and still had his hands flat on the counter. I said, “Harvel.” I said, “Women are citizens just like you men. We’ve got the right to bear arms just like y’all, don’t we? Unless you boys have gone and changed the Constitution of the United States of America when I wasn’t paying attention. It
is
legal for a woman to buy bullets, isn’t it?” I jerked my head toward the boxes behind him.
“Yes, oh yes,” he said, finally turning around to the shelves behind him to pick out the two boxes Jane had asked for.
Meanwhile, I introduced myself. Jane and I had a nice little chat. She told me she had picked up some lunch for herself and the men from the moving company. After she got her bullets, she had one more stop, to buy an electric blanket. Jane had seen the weather forecast for chilly nights later in the week and realized the little thin blankets she’d used in Florida weren’t going to be enough in Tullulah, especially with fall coming on.
She told me she’d only been for a couple of short visits before deciding to buy a house here. It struck me as being a strange thing, to move someplace where you don’t have any relatives or friends. Don’t you think that’s strange? I mean, especially at Jane’s age. But that was really none of my business, so I didn’t pry.
I told her I already knew where she lived. Everybody knew. The old Hardwick place out Anisidi Road had been empty and on the market for at least a year due to its remote location and high price.
Jane told us about a big snake coming in her house that morning; that’s why she thought she better come get some bullets. One of the old geezers in the corner said, “I reckon that ain’t gonna be much help against some other things in that house.” His buddies all giggled and shook like a bunch of little girls.
“Don’t pay them any mind, Jane. They’re only here because the mental hospital ain’t got room for all of them right now.”
The Hardwick place is kind of famous around here. It sits on the edge of the refuge, way out there by itself in the sticks, and is over a hundred and fifty years old. The Daughters of Historical Southern Heritage got it designated as an official historic site some time back. This was because the house was used as a hospital for Civil War soldiers wounded at the Battle of Cokers Branch, which happened not too far away. Bullet holes are still all over the old brick fireplaces. So, naturally, that made the house’s asking price pretty steep, too high for most folks in town.
Jane said she liked it being out by itself and planned to take long walks everyday on the refuge trails that are right close to her property. Since I like to get out and walk, too, I told her I might go with her someday.
“Let’s get together sometime soon,” I said.
“I’d enjoy that very much,” she said as she turned to go. “Please stop by anytime. So nice to meet you, Phoebe.”
I told you she was a lady. “Hey, listen. Hang on just a minute, Jane. Let me pay for this and then let’s walk out together.”
While Harvel was ringing up the tackle box, I said to him, “Before you total that up, I’d also like to purchase a box of bullets, if I may please.” I smiled at him. Mind you, I had no need of bullets myself and had never even touched a gun in all my sixty-five years. But when Jane stood up to the regime like she did, even if she didn’t know she was doing it, it was a star-spangled moment for me.
Not long before, I’d seen that home-decorating show
DiDi Moody’s House of Beauty,
which comes out of Florence on Wednesday mornings. DiDi said that the best room accessories are ones that have special meaning to you personally.
It was like a light went on. I went straight upstairs and got in my cedar chest where I kept such things, stuff that represented important days in my life. I took a small tablecloth that had been a wedding gift and covered a little table my granddaddy made. On top, I set my most special treasures. So see, I wanted those bullets for my table, so I’d remember Jane standing up to the Man for her rights, right here in Tullulah, Alabama, where I was an eyewitness. I had no intention to actually use the bullets. Although, when Harvel piped up, I admit a good use for them did cross my mind.
“Aw, Phoebe, come on now,” he said, snickering. “That’s ridiculous. You don’t have a gun. And wouldn’t know what to do with one if you did.
Snick snick snick.”
“
Harvel Wriggle.” I blew out some steam and bit my tongue rather than give him a piece of my mind. “Just give me a box of bullets like I asked you, please.” Sometimes a lady has to get a little mean before a man will listen, although I pride myself in having a soft voice and kind manner at least ninety-five percent of the time.
“Well, you have to tell me what kind,” he said and winked at the old geezers. “Do you want .45 caliber? .357? How about some .44 Magnums so you and Dirty Harry can go out and blow away some street punks?” More guffaws from the eejit corner.
“Ha. Ha. You’re just as funny as you were in junior high.”
I looked around on the shelves. “Right there,” I said pointing. “The blue box with the little picture on it. I like that one.” I looked closer when he handed it to me to see what the picture was on top. “A sword and an olive branch?”
Harvel plopped his hands on the counter. “Yep. Made in Israel.”
“Oo-wee. Now that’s what I’m talking about,” I said. “Serious high quality.”
He gave the old guys another look but I didn’t care. I left thinking about more important things, like a little gift for Jane and where on my memento table I’d display my pretty new box of Israeli bullets.
N
ow then,” Phoebe said, as she gripped her brown paper sack and adjusted the purse on her shoulder. We walked outside the sporting goods store onto the town square’s sidewalk. It was a glorious day with a hint of autumn in the air. Only a few high clouds dotted the sky that was a deep cerulean blue. How nice it was to breathe air heavily scented with the maples, oaks, and evergreen trees that were so prevalent, even in the middle of town.
When I turned my head toward Phoebe, I looked in the direction of the City Grill. Just beyond it in the alleyway between the cafe and Lloyd’s Drugs, a small head peeped around the corner. It was the little girl with ringlets. She grinned and waved to me. I smiled and waved back without thinking, then dropped my hand self-consciously
Phoebe glanced in her direction. I assume she saw nothing, for when she turned again to me, she had a most curious look on her face, one that questioned my sanity.
“What I’m thinking, Jane,” Phoebe said, politely ignoring the incident, “is, rather than you going and buying an electric blanket, let me just give you one.”
I was taken aback. I tried to protest but she insisted.
“No, see, here’s the thing. My sister Geraldine gave me one for Christmas two years ago. I tried it one night and nearly burnt up, even on the lowest setting. I’m just naturally hot-natured. I only used it that once, and it was with the sheets and comforter straight out of the dryer, so the blanket is clean and like brand-new. I put it right back in the box, so it doesn’t even have any dust on it.”
“My goodness,” I said. “That’s very generous. I’ll be happy to pay you for it.”
“Heavens, no. You’ll be doing me a favor, getting it out of my way. Here’s my car. Where are you parked? Come on and follow me over to my house, why don’t you? That’ll take care of that, and you won’t have to go buy one. Save your money. You might need you some more bullets,” she said with a wink.
We drove to a quiet, older neighborhood only a few streets away from the square. The houses looked as if they were built in the twenties or thirties, most in a bungalow style. Phoebe’s house, painted a cheery lemon yellow, had a screened porch in front trimmed in white. A variety of mums and pansies filled her flowerbeds with a beautiful display of color. Ivy grew beneath dark green window boxes and shutters. An American flag attached next to the porch’s entrance moved gently in the breeze. Leaves from large maple trees made a beautiful sound in the wind as shade and sunlight dappled the front lawn.
“What a beautiful place,” I said as we walked into the backyard and up the steps to her back door.
“Why, thank you. Come on in. Don’t mind the mess.”
There was no mess. We stepped into the kitchen that was tidy as could be. The aroma of baked fruit pies filled the room, which was shining and spotless.
Phoebe led me through to the living room and said, “Make yourself at home.” She reached into her brown bag from Wriggle’s, came out with the box of bullets she’d just purchased, and set it down on a table by her couch. She eyed its position a moment, then moved one end of the box about a quarter of an inch. “Now then,” she said, and with a satisfied smile, she disappeared up the staircase.
Light flooded the living room through four paned windows where pastel coral curtains had been drawn aside. The hardwood floor shone as if freshly waxed and polished. Several large beige rugs highlighted in oranges and browns lay scattered about the floor. They had a Native American look, as did the entire room. On each wall hung paintings of Indians on horseback or in family settings. Several dream catchers of twine and feathers decorated one of the windows.
I walked to her television set. Video boxes, all lined neatly and in alphabetical order, filled a shelf underneath a video player. The first were how-to titles:
Appliques for Every Occasion, Country Cooking with Carlene, Gardening for Four Seasons, Make Your Own Slipcovers, Martha Stewart’s Simple Springtime Entertaining.
Next came movies:
Cobra, Delta Force, Dirty Harry, Missing in Action, Ramho: First Blood, Rambo: First Blood Part II, Rambo III, Red Heat, The Trouble with Angels.
The table where Phoebe had placed the bullets held other objects of interest. I walked over to see them more closely. A lamp took up most of the space, its shade an Indian pattern in turquoise and deep brown. A white satin rectangle with a picture of a waterfall and the words “Ruby Falls” covered the table. Royal blue tassels hung off the corners over a red underskirt. Figurines of a black bear and two cubs huddled close to the lamp. On the wall above it, a novelty clock in the shape of Elvis Presley clicked the time, his dancing, splayed legs rocking left, right, left, right as a pendulum.
When Phoebe returned, she caught me staring too long at a flat, furry object lying outstretched on the tabletop like a miniature bear rug. Instead of a roaring bear head, however, this one had the head of a chipmunk.
“Oh, that’s Petey,” Phoebe said. “I ran over him when I was taking my driver’s test. Flattened him like a little pancake. I got so upset that the instructor giving me the test put his arm around me and asked me out on a date. That was Ronald. His daddy was a taxidermist, so Ronald knew how to stuff animals himself. He fixed Petey up and that was his first present to me. We got married four months later.”
I searched for words. “Love at first sight, eh?”
Phoebe sighed. “Yeah. He was a good one. Now then, I hope this will be all right,” she said. She handed me a box and lifted the top so I could inspect it. The blanket was in pristine condition, just as she had described it.
“I don’t know what to say. Please, let me pay you.”
Phoebe’s head shook adamantly. “No way. It’s a gift. Like a housewarming present, okay?” She patted my arm. “I’m so happy you’re here. I hope you won’t get bored in Tullulah. We don’t have much in the way of fancy entertainment or anything.”
“I’m not looking for that. I know I shall be very happy here. Especially if everyone is as kind as you have been. I see you have quite a movie collection to keep yourself entertained.”
“Oh! Goodness, you must think I’m terrible with all those shoot-’em-ups. I keep a couple of little boys down the street overnight sometimes. Their mama died about a year back, so me and a couple of other folks take care of them every now and then, you know, to give their daddy a break. Lord knows he needs it with those two. Those movies keep them occupied. I sure don’t like the blood and guts parts, though, so when they come on, we go fix us a treat in the kitchen. But I have to say I like ones with a little action because they’ve got some good stories and some good heroes. And it doesn’t hurt that the actors are mighty fine-looking young men. That reminds me, those boys asked me if I’d get them another Chuck Norris movie. Don’t you just love him? He is the cutest thing. He’s the best-looking one of the whole bunch and the best fighter, too.”
Phoebe slipped the blanket box inside a canvas bag with handles. “Here, take this bag. I’ve made about two dozen of them in art classes. You might be able to use it.” Fabric transfers of little children in Native American dress decorated one side of the orange bag. In the background, a deer and an eagle watched the children play. I gratefully accepted both bag and blanket and thanked her again.
On the way to my car, I reflected on the not-so-very-subtle comment made by the man at Wriggle’s store concerning my house and its possible spirit inhabitants. I tried to remember what Vince Murphy, my real estate agent, said when he first showed me the house. Although it was much roomier than the one I’d moved from in Florida, I didn’t feel lost in it. Quite the contrary. I told Vince it felt as if I weren’t alone at all, to which he gave me a sheepish look and said something along the lines of, “No, you’d never have to worry about that here.”
It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d told me straight out that the house was haunted for, from the moment I saw the Hardwick place, I was entranced. This was it, I thought to myself. I knew it in my bones. The yard, the house itself, the surrounding wooded areas of the Anisidi Wildlife Refuge all drew me in immediately. This was home. I wouldn’t have cared a whit if I’d learned there might be others likely to inhabit it along with me.
The house is a two-story farmhouse with an open porch that stretches across its entire width. The two large rockers there when I first viewed the house came free with purchase. Maple, dogwood, sweet gum, oak, pecan, apple, and peach trees shade the large lawn that slopes gently to the borders of the refuge. Inside, the rooms are spacious and cozy at the same time.
Renovations some twenty years earlier modernized the kitchen, and the bathroom fixtures and their black-and-white tile floors were from the forties. Though very well maintained, little else that I could see had been changed since the house was built in the mid-1800s. Before I moved in, I had a local carpenter repair a few minor things and also had him build in floor-to-ceiling bookcases in the largest room, which I planned to use as my den.
I had only one neighbor. Cal Prewitt owned all the land across from me on Anisidi Road. His was a one-hundred-plus-acre plot that ended at the wildlife refuge, which also served as my own property’s right boundary To the north, the Prewitt land extended from the road to a range of cliffs overlooking the Tennessee River and below to the flat-land on the river’s banks, next to the refuge-duck sanctuary.
I learned these things and a few stories that did not speak well of my new neighbor from Vince, as well as that Cal was getting on in years and was not in the best of health. When I told Vince I would be interested in making an offer on Cal’s property as well as the Hardwick place, he laughed.
“I doubt Cal would sell,” he said. “People have been trying to get him out of there for years.”
“Could we ask? He may have changed his mind since receiving his last offer.”
He laughed again but on seeing I was completely serious stopped smiling and began to look worried.
“No, ma’am. I don’t see how we could ask. He doesn’t have a phone, and I… that is, everyone knows it’s not safe to go down that road.”
He pointed to a gap in the hog-wire fence overgrown with tall grasses. There, a one-lane road disappeared into the brush. An old weathered piece of board with hand-painted lettering was tacked to a rusted gatepost, minus a gate. It read, “Stay Out—This Means YOU,” in uneven characters.
“Could we please try? Surely he wouldn’t mind discussing business that might profit him?”
Vince Murphy weighed the options. Sweat poured down his forehead as we stood in the heat. He ran a finger under the tight collar of his white short-sleeved shirt and then under his light blue tie to loosen it. While he patted a handkerchief around his hairline, his face wrinkled as he considered whether to heed the sign and his better judgment, or take a chance on increasing his commission. The money won.
“Okay,” he said, “Let’s give it a try. We can drive through one time and look around, even if we don’t find Cal.” He sounded as if this was his hope—that we wouldn’t encounter him. Unfortunately, this had not been the case.
Once past the entrance, the road changed abruptly from asphalt to red dirt with a shallow overlay of rock. On either side of us, fields and woods looked as if no human had ever set foot in them.
We came upon a small, wood-frame house that had once been painted white. A sagging carport jutted out from one side, and an old barn sat farther back in the lot. The only vehicle we saw was parked on the grass, an older model truck with faded green paint.
Just as Vince slowed to a stop, we heard the crack of a shot being fired. Both of us jumped in our seats as the hood ornament of Vince’s Chrysler broke off and whirled through the air.
A loud voice yelled at us. “Didn’t you see that no trespassing sign?”
From my position scooted down low in my seat, I peeked up through the windows but could not see the speaker.
“This here ain’t the refuge,” the gravelly voice said. “This is private property. No visitors allowed.”
Vince moved up from his slouched position just enough to yell out, “Cal, it’s Vince Murphy here. Tuck and Louise’s boy. We don’t mean no harm. This nice lady with me is your new neighbor. She’s buying the Hardwick place and thought you might want to sell off a little piece …”
“I ain’t a’selling nothing! And don’t you come here no more, you hear me?”
Before Vince could answer, another shot rang out over the car. Vince quickly put the Chrysler into reverse and jerked us backward over the bumpy road.
We never mentioned the additional land parcel again.
I had another glimpse of my new neighbor before I moved in, when I came to town to close the real estate deal. While walking in the shade of a little dogwood grove on the west side of my front yard, I happened to glance across the road. An older man in a cap stood watching me, but quickly turned and disappeared behind a thick hedge that blocked my view.
“Hello!” I called out but no one answered. I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. Now would be a good time to introduce myself, I thought, and also remind him I might be interested if he ever decided to sell. Who knows when I might have another chance, if indeed he was as reclusive as I’d been told? But after another hello with no response, I assumed my neighbor was indeed not the talkative type and gave up.
It was only when I turned to go inside that a little shiver of apprehension went up my spine. The hedge could hide a gun as well as a man. Though I knew this particular man probably only shot at intruders who ventured on his land, I couldn’t help feeling a slight tingle in my back as I walked, perhaps more quickly than necessary, the last few steps from yard to porch.