These imaginings had something to do with being of use to the world. Annie would not be the first young person to become flustered because life refused to take a proper shape. Annie didn’t know that. Perhaps it’s just as well. Had she known, she might have tried to help.
She was aware Sugar Bear liked her, sort of. She just couldn’t tell how much. She also knew Sugar Bear worried, and that the dead guy no doubt walked through Sugar Bear’s dreams. Annie may have been a kid, and accustomed to nebulous thoughts, but Annie can never be thought of as dumb. It seemed wrong that a good man should be in danger, just because the world spat forth a guy who should have gone out with the garbage.
And, because she had her cap set for Sugar Bear, she tried, really tried, to understand him. She told herself she was more practical, but in a way she understood. It must be awful to do something really, really, really bad, and not be able to undo it. It must be even worse to be the kind of person who could not shove the blame off on someone else; and it must be pretty bad to discover a streak in yourself so ugly it caused you to smash someone. She thought over the problem, and watched from the forest as backed-up traffic drew a colorful line along the dark road. Stink of exhaust swirled among dry smells of the forest. On the north side of trees, where moisture still lingered, roll-y bugs, little snails, slugs, and earwigs hid, and, buglike, did things to each other.
Sometimes Annie showed the knowledge owned by the Ancients, even if she was not very old and knew little of them. When, for example, she told Bertha that the thing in the Canal was a Fury, she was fairly sure she spoke true. Annie was not exactly clear about what a Fury was, but made a mental note.
Meantime, she showed the wisdom of the Ancients. For two days and nights she remained silent and listened to the sounds of Canal and forest. She cloaked herself in silence, and let the voice of wind, the lap of water, the snap of twigs and rustle of leaves speak their pieces. She heard flutters of wings, the birds long past mating season, and soon to fly south. Her mind could feel fingers of mist touching the Canal when sunlight faded and the forest grew black as shoal.
Solutions presented themselves. Some solutions made her hopeful, and some sad. She was urgently aware that police divers steadily moved closer to the dead guy. She understood that if she was going to do something, she had better do it right away.
The problem with spells is some worked, some didn’t, and some went off half-cocked. With time to experiment, she could learn what worked. There was no time. Plus, she felt sort of sad, and that made it possible to do something dumb.
She saw these options:
Move the dead guy’s car, and the dead guy, to deep, deep water where the divers would never find him.
Or, just move the dead guy.
Or, cause a distraction and shut down the whole operation. “It will take time,” she whispered to the forest. “I’ll have to stall for time.” Those, her first words in two days, dropped into the silence of the forest like an echoing voice from long ago. The forest remained silent, tranquil, and possibly as tired as August; and August is the tiredest month.
On the road a state cop who looked like a movie actor hassled traffic. He seemed really official out there. When he halted traffic with his hand, he wore his don’t-screw-around-with-me cop look. He also looked like a cop who needed a drink, and Annie thought—if he were not a cop—she would take him some lemonade.
She also thought she had better figure out a pretty good stall. It would take at least a couple of days to see if she could move the car, or the dead guy. Or whatever.
Concerning Real Estate and Cops
Wind picked up during afternoon, gusting at first, then changing to a steady blow. The Canal ruffled with heavy chop, and the chop turned to waves that crashed along the shore. A few fishing boats headed to sea as Navy ships fled into port, heavy weather being tiresome to the Navy.
As wind continued, police divers shut up shop. Cops took down orange barriers blocking one lane, and the yellow crane parked. The crane looked like a heron hovering over a fishing spot, and its color matched yellow dive gear being packed into a police van. Turbulence along the shore shifted remains of fallen trees as it churned water. Divers could not see a foot ahead of them. Whether the wind and wave action was enough to tumble wrecked cars was anybody’s guess, but folks hanging out at Beer and Bait argued the possibility. Everyone figured the blow would drop when the tide changed.
Afternoon progressed toward evening, the tide turned, and wind, if anything, picked up. The parking lot at Beer and Bait came alive with rumbles of diesels as log truck drivers understood there was no other place to go, except home. The trucks are rarely fancy. They occasionally display a snazzy striping job, or an extra smidgen of chrome, but for the most part are working machines; bulky, sort of beautiful like a herd of colorful metal bison. The trucks congregated because drivers knew, what with wind, all logging operations would shut down. The forest rapidly turned to tinder where even the spark from a chainsaw could spell catastrophe. Drivers relaxed at Beer and Bait, grumbled, and were secretly glad to take a break, though everyone worried. It was no longer a question of: will there be a forest fire? That seemed certain as an owl hoots. The only way out was miracles or magic.
As a good crowd gathered, Chantrell George wandered toward Beer and Bait. Wind snatched at his raggedy orange shirt and his equally raggedy green pants. His shoes in summer are aerated, allowing breathing space for toes. Before entering Beer and Bait he used his sleeve to make sure his nose didn’t drip. He combed his hair with his fingers. Bertha, who sensed a big night, put Chantrell to work right away. She figured he would be pretty well cleaned up, for a junkie. What with the heat, his mushroom source was temporarily closed. The shy creatures prefer lots of moisture and a muted sky.
Sugar Bear sat at a table in the exact center of the room, looking like a mountain of sorrow rising above foothills of routine cares. A few fisherman scattered among loggers, and beefed about wind. A few tradesmen clustered near windows and talked shop. Wives and girlfriends chatted, laughed, or patted the backs of their men’s hands, as the men worried over truck payments.
After the first dust got washed from throats, and the first beer-buzz made the world more palatable to most, Bertha turned the whole show over to Chantrell. She sat at the far end of the bar, the end away from the door. She hassled pool games and tried to figure if it was time to give up on Petey, because he’d made no big moves since coming home.
As wind continued to crash, Bertha turned the tape deck down instead of up. Chatter competing with music did not ordinarily cause her to bat an ear, but today seemed different. She felt an edge of impatience—not the best sort of feeling for the owner of a joint; impatient with herself, impatient with Petey, plus the weather was enough to make a preacher cuss. What with wind and general unrest, Bertha suffered a bout of melancholy.
That afternoon she and Petey had been playing their first truly private game of pool since Petey’s return. The only other soul present was Jubal Jim, a-snooze on the floor. Or, it might be someone sat outside on the front steps, relaxing in the sun, and listening. If that “someone” was there, he probably made bets with himself on how far the line of traffic would stack up.