Chapter Twenty-eight
Sarah usually closed at six in the evening on Sundays, figuring the second shift at the Free Will Baptist Church would bring in a few customers on the way, those who needed a cup of coffee, Moon Pie, or giant Dr Pepper to fuel them through the service. She couldn't understand why some Baptists felt the need to go to church three or four nights a week. She always thought it would be simpler just to do a little less sinning than more begging for forgiveness. But a dollar was a dollar, no matter the stains on the soul who spent it.
She'd had only two customers in the past hour, loud Yankee fly fishermen who prowled the aisles and hadn't bought so much as a pack of Wrigley's, though they'd held up a number of the more esoteric items and laughed in that slick, mean way they taught up in New York. Too many tourists, and Yankees in particular, had a way of waltzing through her store as if it were a museum, as if none of the merchandise had price tags. As if the whole shebang were there for amusement and not to help feed and clothe a poor old hunched-over Appalachian Jew.
So shutting down early had crossed her mind because a feeling was creeping up from the soles of her feet that tonight was going to be a doozy. It was almost like the earth itself was sending up bad vibes, that the billion-year-old rocks and mud of the world's oldest mountains sensed something unclean was walking over them. If tonight was going to be a doozy, and the Circuit Rider had found his horse, then going home and worming deep under the quilts sounded like a good idea. Dollar or no dollar.
Sarah was closing out the cash register, figuring to turn over the sign on the door (from COME ON IN-WE'RE BROKE! to MISSED YOU-AND YOUR MONEY, TOO!) even though it was only four o'clock. Word had gotten around about her fainting spell, so any regular who dropped by would understand. As for the tourists, like those who rented out the cabins on the hill, let them haul their big white rumps into Titusville and mingle with the Tennessee welfare moms in the Wal-Mart.
She was counting the twenties-not enough of them to suit her-when the screen door spanged open and a man thrust himself through. He was soaking wet, one shirttail hanging out, the knees of his trousers scuffed. He was missing one shoe, and the toe of his sock make a spongy slap with each step. The man's eyes showed white all around the iris, as if a doctor had just given him a surprise proctology checkup.
Sarah recognized him from earlier in the day, when he'd stopped in for lunch with a young girl. She'd seen the girl around before; you could hardly miss her, the way she waltzed around tarted up in lipstick and black eyeliner. The girl's redheaded mother came in from time to time, buying eggs, baking powder, and flour, and occasionally asking kitchen advice. The redhead had married Gordon Smith, a fact that had been the talk of the community back in June. This man, though, didn't seem to fit that family picture.
He was probably playing fisherman and had walked himself out of his hip waders after a sip too many. Or maybe he'd rented a canoe from Sue Norwood and taken a spill down by the island park along the first stretch of white water. He didn't look hurt, but his face was blanched the color of the provolone cheese she kept in the dairy case. Might be one of those drugged-out meth junkies she'd read about, who seemed to be everywhere these days, cooking up the stuff in their car trunks. She didn't know what meth was, exactly, or what it did to people, but she wouldn't be surprised if it led you to fall in the river.
"You okay, mister?" She slipped the twenties under the cash register in case he took a notion to rob her. The shotgun beneath the counter was loaded and handy, if need be. She'd made certain of that after the Circuit Rider's recent visit to her store. Not that buckshot would do any good against something two hundred years dead, but it was the comfort of the thing that mattered.
"I don't have any change," he said. He didn't talk Yankee, but he sure wasn't local.
"Well, normally we take credit cards, but I'm just about to close."
"No, I mean-I need to use your phone."
Their eyes settled on the store's rotary-dial phone, a battered black relic that looked like something from a 1950s government office. Sarah liked the sound of a good, solid ring, not the little kitty puttering of those modem phones. A woman of years could hardly hear such a contraption. Most people carried their phones in their pockets these days, as if it were a virtue never to spend a minute totally alone. The pay phone out front barely earned its keep these days, and the BellSouth man had threatened to take it away until she convinced him it was a proper companion to an old country store.
'That's not a public phone," Sarah said, annoyed that a drenched-to-the-gills outsider had the nerve to barge in and take over the place. As if it were a museum built for his amusement and convenience. Sure, he'd tipped well after his earlier meal, but that was hours ago.
The man put his palms flat on the counter and leaned forward water dripping from his chin to dot the scarred maple. He panted, his breath ruffling the cellophane in the jar of cow-tail candy perched by the register. He didn't smell of liquor, so that ruled out the "drunk fisherman" theory.
"I have to report a drowning," he said.
"Oh, goodness, why didn't you say so? Whereabouts?" Sarah grabbed the phone and put her finger in the last hole on the dial, ready to spin out 911.
He waved behind him, toward the old dam. "In the mill. A boy got caught in the waterwheel."
Sarah was halfway through the spin when she lifted her finger away. "About ten? Wearing scrub overalls and a long john shirt?"
The man's eyes grew even wider, near the size of pickled eggs. "Did you see him, too?"
"I seen him," she said. "Not lately, though."
He reached to grab the phone from her, but she slapped his hand away. "Hurry," he said. "There might still be a chance-"
"That was little Johnny Hampton you saw," she said. "No need to hurry on his account. He's dead."
"I didn't see his body. He just went under. He might be somewhere downstream."
"He ain't downstream."
"Please, ma'am." His hands were shaking, and he sniffed a rope of snot back into his head. Sarah was sticking with the "meth junkie" idea, but meth wasn't what had triggered the man's horrible ghostly vision.
"He went around and around the wheel, didn't he?" Sarah said, calm now, no longer afraid of him. Instead she felt pity. Solom's dead were meant for the eyes of Solom's people, not those of outsiders. The Circuit Rider must be whooping up some god-awful bad juju if just any-old-body was able to see his victims.
The man pushed the wet hair from his eyes, stepped back, and looked out the store windows, as if checking to see if the dam was visible from the counter. He shuddered and whether it was from the cold or the shock, Sarah couldn't say. She doubted if the man could either.
"I didn't see it this time," Sarah said. "I saw it nearly twenty years ago."
The man faced her again, one eyelid twitching. "The boy?"
"I wasn't the first, and you ain't the second" Sarah said. "Johnny makes an appearance every now and then. Along with the rest of them."
"The rest of who?"
Sarah had lost him. She should have known better. Solom kept its secrets, and outsiders never understood. "Where's the girl? The one you ate lunch with?"
"My daughter? She's back home." The man choked on that word home as if it were a sour green gooseberry.
"Keep her there. Now, be on about your business."
The man lunged forward and grabbed the front of her cardigan sweater. A speck of spit landed on her cheek as he spoke. "If there's some kind of danger, you need to tell me."
"Hey, mister, ain't no call for that." Sarah dug her fingernails into the man's wrists and squeezed until he looked down. He let go of her and studied his palms as if stigmata had appeared there.