JOHNNY
I left the Odom house in a daze, duffel bag over my shoulder. I had meant to search for my father after seeing Frankie Odom, but there was a weight on me when I walked out the door. I didn’t know what to make of all I had heard, especially the last thing my grandfather had said to me. I wandered down the street and paused at the stop sign to look around, head heavy and muddled. I noticed a house on the corner that seemed out of place in such a seedy neighborhood. It was white with two stories, set back from the curb on a manicured lawn. Urns with ivy topiaries flanked the front door and a sign above it read “Imogene’s” in fancy script. It was obviously a shop, not a residence. I crossed the grass thinking dimly of calling a cab to somewhere. When I opened the door I was standing in what looked like a living room crowded with musty-smelling furniture, price tags dangling off everything. A woman appeared out of nowhere, small with dyed hair and a powdered face. I assumed that she was Imogene. When I noticed the book in her hand my whole body tensed. Like always, a sign. But this time I would rather not have seen it. She was holding a slim volume, forefinger marking her place. It was a book of poems like one I had found in the woods but in better condition, not swollen with moisture or specked with mildew. She smiled at me. “Can I help you with something?”
“What’s that book you have?” I asked, buying some time to collect myself.
She looked at her hand. “Oh,” she said. “I have a friend by the name of Ford Hendrix who travels all over the place hunting old books. The ones he doesn’t keep, he brings to me.” She paused, maybe deciding if I was dangerous. I must have passed inspection because she smiled at me again. “I’ve got more upstairs if you’re interested.”
I thanked her then excused myself and hurried up the stairs. At the end of a narrow hall there was a room with books shelved from floor to ceiling. I ran my fingers over the spines, closed my eyes and took in the good smell. There were no others like those I found in the woods, but if I hadn’t been broke I would have bought one anyway.
I went quietly back downstairs, meaning to sneak out, but a square of door in a nook behind the stairwell caught my eye. It looked inviting with light falling through its cracks. I glanced over my shoulder as I turned the knob, feeling like an intruder even though the shop was a public place, and stepped out into the sun. There was a deck with garden furniture and more topiaries in pots. At the edges of the property a tall wood fence blocked out the neighboring duplex on one side and hid an overgrown lot behind it. I stood there among the plants, pots crowded under glass hothouses and bell jars, ivy and fern leaves trailing everywhere, and had a moment of disbelief that I was free. I would never see my cell at Polk County again. I needed to think about finding work and a place to stay, but the deck was so peaceful, I couldn’t resist sitting down for a while in one of the flaking wicker chairs. My whole body sagged, my arms and legs going limp with exhaustion. I hadn’t realized how bone tired I was, not just from that morning at the Odom house, but over the past four years locked up in prison. I looked at my duffel bag resting on my lap and thought of my notebook inside. If I could clear my head, maybe it would come to me what to do next. I took out the notebook and a pen, but after only a few lines my eyelids grew heavy. A cool wind stirred through the plants and blew over me like a spell from a fairy tale. I felt my fingers loosening on the pen as I nodded off. I don’t know how long I dozed before Imogene’s voice jerked me suddenly awake, the notebook sliding off my lap and landing at my feet.
“Didn’t find one you liked?” she asked, standing in the doorway behind me.
I jumped up as if I’d been caught stealing. “Not this time,” I said.
Imogene smiled. “Well, my friend said he’d probably be by sometime today with another load of books. You ought to come back later and see what he brings.”
I had no intention of going back. But when I left the shop, I still didn’t know where I was headed. I could have tried to find Laura, but I wasn’t ready to see her yet. It would have been like facing up to all I had done and seen since we were together last. I thought of the Law-sons, who had been good to me when I lived with them. Not far down the street from Imogene’s, I saw a phone booth outside a convenience store. I hesitated and then went inside to buy cigarettes first, a habit I’d picked up at the detention center. There was a long line at the counter and the cashier was slow. I stood under the buzzing fluorescents shifting from foot to foot, something nagging at me. After paying for the cigarettes, I walked out to the phone booth, tucking the pack into my breast pocket.
I was looking up the Lawsons’ number when it hit me that I’d left my notebook behind. I froze, dropping the phone book to dangle at the end of its cord. I ran all the way back to Imogene’s with my heart threatening to give out on me. When I got there, throat raw and side aching, I barely registered the red truck parked at the curb. I didn’t bother to go inside the shop. I went around the house to where the garden deck was, praying the notebook would still be where I’d left it. I stopped in my tracks on the bottom step. There was a man sitting in the wicker chair, with long white hair under a greasy baseball cap. He was holding the notebook in his hands, so absorbed in his reading that he didn’t notice me. It took a second to comprehend what I was seeing. Then I crossed the deck in a few leaping steps, knocking over a flower pot, and snatched the notebook away from him. The man stared at me with wild eyes. I was assaulted by the stink of his sweat.
“Hey, sorry,” he said, holding up his hands as if to prove they were empty. I saw that his ring finger was missing, a smooth, pink nub where it should have been. I backed off a few paces. “I assume that belongs to you,” he said. Standing, he was a striking figure in spite of his dirtiness, tall with broad shoulders and a sunken belly. His hair was white but his face was smooth. It was impossible to guess how old he was.
“You should mind your own business,” I said over the thud of my heart.
“I know, I know,” the man said. “But I had a good reason.”
I looked down at the notebook, gripping it so tightly my fingertips were purple. Slowly, it sank in that someone had read the words between the covers. “You had a good reason,” I repeated. I thought of lunging at him again, but the image of that smooth, pink nub on his hand held me back. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’ll take some time to explain.”
“Explain what?”
“I needed to read your poems.”
I stared at him blankly, unable to speak.
The man grinned, teeth bright in his sun-browned face, and stepped toward me. I tensed, prepared to fight. “Listen, are you hungry?” he asked.
“What?”
“Let me buy you a hamburger and I’ll tell you all about it.” He thrust out his hand but I didn’t take it. “Name’s Ford Hendrix.”
“Do you know me somehow?”
“You could say so.”
My mouth went dry. I looked at his damaged left hand, now dropped at his side, and back at his bloodshot eyes. “What do you want with me?”
“I want to help you, that’s all.”
“What makes you think I need helping?”
“I had a vision,” he said. “You were in it.”
I stood gaping at him for a long time, wondering if it was pos sible that I was having a dream. Then I followed him like a sleepwalker to his truck, because he had read my poems. He knew me better than anyone else on earth now, even Laura. But there was another reason I went. It was the missing ring finger. I needed to know how he lost it.