But you'd have thought Madam Celeste would have said some comforting things instead of throwing the cards on the floor and ordering Carol Alice to get out then and there. And there wasn't any call to go saying that nice Mr. Dickerson couldn't read Mesopotamian sand any more than he could fly round-trip to the moon and back.
Heather patted her friend's shoulder, gathered up her schoolbooks, said good night to Mrs. Plummer, who was in front of the television set in the family room, and then slowly walked home, while she tried to think what to do. She finally decided that she ought to call Mr. Wainright, even if it meant disturbing him right in the middle of the evening when he was-well, sort of off-duty. Then she could call Carol Alice and say all the right words to make her quit talking about suicide and killing herself and wills and testimonies. Her best friend would feel happier, and Mr. Wainright would know that she, Heather Riley, was a mature, concerned, selfless person.
To her regret, Mr. Wainright didn't have the opportunity to discover all her virtues because he wasn't home. To her further regret, she found herself blabbing everything to Mr. Plummer when he called and demanded to know what in tarnation was wrong with Carol Alice, who was moaning and rolling her eyes and refusing to touch her mother's homemade split pea soup.
When David Allen Wainright did get home, he found a bizarre little group huddled on his front porch. Once he got everybody inside and mopped off, he gave Hammet a searching look. "Why were you all waiting on my porch?"
"The door were locked. Bubba said it weren't no trouble to break a window, but I wouldn't let him."
"Thank you." David Allen sat down and took out his handkerchief to wipe the beads of sweat off his forehead. It was the first time he'd seen all of Robin Buchanon's children in one clump, and it was unsettling. To say the least. "I went by Mrs. Jim Bob's this morning to talk to you, but she said you'd left. That right?"
Hammet shrugged. "Iffen we weren't there, we done left. That's right." Several heads nodded in agreement, but it was obvious to David Allen that Hammet was the official spokesman for the group. "Where'd you go?"
"We jest got wearied of that woman and all the mean things she said about our mam. We decided we wanted to go for a walk without gettin' on the road, so we cut through some folks' yards and a pasture by the creek. We camed out on another road, where we had the good fortune to find Baby in some damn-fool car."
David Allen struggled to understand the intricacies of the narrative. "I thought Baby was with Ruby Bee. In fact, I went by the Bar and Grill and had a word with her, and she didn't mention any of this. When you had this stroke of good fortune, did you see Ruby Bee?"
"The only thing we saw was Baby. He looked mighty lonesome, so we fetched him with us." Hammet glanced at his siblings. "We all got something we wants you to explain. It's about this foster stuff, and gittin' new siblings and a bicycle. Arly's gone, and I figgered you was the next smartest person I knew."
David Allen recounted what he knew of the process, being as truthful and candid as he dared. He admitted a lot of things that didn't sit real well with the Buchanon children, who were squirming and peeking at each other like wallflowers at a cotillion class (although they weren't that, by any stretch of the metaphor).
When he finally stopped, Hammet looked at Bubba and shrugged. "So maybe you don't get a bicycle after all. I still don't think we should tell anybody, though."
"Tell anybody what?" David Allen inserted, rather slyly he thought. "About our pappies," Sukie said through a finger.
Bubba whacked her on the side of the head hard enough to put her on the floor. "You shut up, you stupid little pig. Me and Hammet is talking together. And shush your howlin' unless you wants another slap."
Sukie didn't shush, which set Baby off to howling, too, and Sissie to scolding both of them. Despite the noise, Hammet and Bubba managed a low conversation while David Allen sat helplessly on the edge of his seat. At last Hammet gestured for David Allen to join him in the kitchen.
"We're gonna tell you about our pappies," he said. "Bubba says that's a darn sight better than going off with some tight-ass social worker lady, and I guess he knows 'cause he's the oldest."
"Great. Let me get a piece of paper and a pencil, and we'll-"
"Oh, we ain't gonna tell you now. We're gonna tell you tomorrow after we goes to church," Hammet said, shaking his head.
"After you go to church? Why would you want to do that?"
Hammet looked at the floor. "Because that holyfied lady said we was going to hell iffen we didn't, and that we'd burn like sticks of kindling. We decided we need to see this church of the almighty place."
"You realize they may not welcome you with open arms?"
"We don' care what all they do. We ain't gonna talk until after we go to this church place."
"But why do you have to wait to tell me about your fathers?" David Allen asked, totally bewildered. "I don't see what that has to do with anything." He went to the refrigerator and took out a much-needed beer, keeping a leery eye on Hammet. "If you want to go to church, I suppose I can take you in the morning, but there's no reason not to-"
"Good," Hammet said. "By the way, we was wondering if we could sleep on your floor the rest of tonight. Baby's got snuffles, and Sukie don't look all that good, neither. If either of them commences to crying, we can stick 'em outside to shush 'em real fast. We won't bother you hardly at all."
David Allen realized his jaw was going up and down but he wasn't making any noise-that he could hear, anyway. Hammet gave him a grin, then went back to the living room and turned on the radio receiver. By the time David Allen numbly followed, Hammet was explaining how Mr. Macaroni had also rigged up this here box where you could find rockets what prematurely crashed in the woods. Course it weren't as good as the ones you used to talk to foreigners in their houses, even if you didn't know what they was saying. For David Allen, the scariest thing was that it almost made sense.
The moon came out about the time I reached my reserved parking space on the back side of the ridge. I took the little package of carob chip cookies that Rainbow had pressed on me, threw a few branches over the jeep, grabbed my flashlight, and trudged up to my campsite, yawning so hard my eyes watered and my jaw felt like it might pop out of its sockets. There was no indication I'd been visited by raccoons, bears, skunks, or anything else that might merit concern. Filled with gratitude for that small blessing, I crawled into the tent and secured the flap. My sleeping bag was damp, and my beeper cut into my side as I wiggled around to find a tolerable position, but I was too tired to do more than unclip the damn thing and lob it across the canvas floor.
As I drifted asleep, I did wonder why Ruby Bee and Mrs. Jim Bob had ceased their relentless campaign to speak to me via LaBelle. I must have wasted a good ten seconds on that one.
Madam Celeste stared into the blackness of her bedroom, unable to dismiss the face. The death mask. The wide, unblinking eyes. The flies on the clotted blood. The open mouth. The terror. For the first time in twenty years she longed to be Sarah Lou Dickerson, a gawky, knock-kneed, grimy girl in a faded dress donated by the righteous church dogooders. Living in a miserable trailer on a rocky patch of mountainside. Being whipped on a regular basis by her pa, when he wasn't doing other nasty things to her. Watching her ma get older and grayer, until she looked worse than the wash on the line.