Joe Lansdale - A Fine Dark Line

“As for the notes. That’s all they are, notes. They don’t really say Stilwind did somethin’ to her. But it sure makes it look that way. He left them there so if things come back on him, he wouldn’t have taken them with him when he left, to maybe use as blackmail. He could say, ‘They’re right in the files. And you know, it does look like he might have done somethin’ to that girl. Didn’t pick up on that then. Should’a, but missed it.’ Hear what I’m sayin’?”

“Yes, sir. I think so. But what about Margret?”

“Maybe Jewel Ellen told Margret, and Stilwind found out. Jewel got mad, blurted it out. Could’a told him she liked girls, not men. That would hurt his pride even more. Could have said she and Margret were gonna raise the baby. He wouldn’t want that. Wouldn’t want a granddaughter by his own daughter runnin’ around. That’s bad for business.”

“Could he kill his own daughter?”

“There’s people will do anything, Stan.”

“What can we do about it?”

“Done told you, boy. Just a game. Who’s gonna listen if we tell this? We back to the same old problem. A boy and an old nigger with a big tale. And there’s this. Could be this is just part of the tale. Could be like the blind men and the elephant. Everyone’s holding a different part of the elephant, and they all got the elephant all right, but they all describe the part they holdin’ as the whole elephant. They’re all right and they’re all wrong. What it may come down to in the end, is we done our best and we figured some things, but we ain’t got nothin’ left but to let it go. I know that’s all I got left. Lettin’ it go.”

“James Stilwind could know something.”

“You’re not letting it go, are you?”

“No, sir.”

Buster sighed.

“He lived in the house with Jewel Ellen and his father,” I said, “so he might know some answers.”

“He ain’t told them answers already, what makes you think he’s gonna tell ’em now?”

“How would I talk to James about such a thing?”

“I ain’t got no answers on that,” Buster said, pushing the chief’s notes back into the folder. “That’s your problem. You figure on it.”

“Do you have any advice?”

“No.”

———

LATER, I went back to help Callie at the concession stand. After all of his explaining, and my not being ready to drop it all as a finished game, Buster grew morose, like one of his moods was coming down on him. I’d seen all of his moods I wanted to see.

I was sure he was on to the truth, but that there were more concrete answers out there, something we could take to the police. If James knew something, maybe he could be tricked into letting it go. It wasn’t a very clever thought, but when I was that age clever thoughts were not my forte.

Me and Callie hadn’t had a customer for an hour. We sat and tossed stale popcorn toward Coke cups, seeing who could get more popcorn in. Callie was winning.

“What did you think of James Stilwind?” I asked.

“He gave us tickets, didn’t he?”

“But what did you think of him?”

“Oh, he’s cute. He’s arrogant. A little full of himself and show-offy. And he looks very young for his age. He must be in his late thirties at least. Right?”

“That means he was fifteen or so when his sister was burned up in that fire.”

“I suppose . . . Are you still thinking he did that horrible thing?”

“I thought that was your idea.”

“Surely not.”

“Well, one of us had that idea. Maybe it was me.”

She looked at me and smiled. It was that special way of hers that let you know she thought you were an idiot, but she was going to pretend you were precious, even if you knew she was pretending and she knew you knew.

“Drop it, Stanley. Quit snooping.”

“Tell me you’re not interesed.”

“Okay, I’m a little interested. James intrigues me. Some.”

“And it makes Drew crazy.”

“Yes. It makes Drew crazy.”

“Why do you do that, Callie?”

“Because I can, I guess. It’s harmless.”

“Do you think you could talk to James?”

“Talk. About what?”

“About the murder case.”

“There is no murder case. You’re not a detective, Stanley.”

“It’s still fun. You could talk to him about it. You know, use your charms.”

“I don’t know, Stanley. It’s one thing to flirt. But to pry . . . I don’t know.”

“Guess you’re right,” I said. “No one would talk about something like that. Not even if they thought you were pretty.”

“Oh, they might. But I wouldn’t do that.”

“Sure. I understand.”

“If I wanted, I could make him talk.”

“I bet you could.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“What’s it matter to you? You’re right. It’s silly. I’m sure you could do it if you wanted.”

“I don’t believe you think I can, Stanley.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yeah, but I can tell the way you act you don’t think I can . . . All right. You’re on. Give me a few days.”

I kept myself cool, calm, and collected, so as not to blow it. By golly, for once I had outsmarted my sister.

18

AS SUMMER WOUND DOWN and school loomed on the horizon, I tried to stuff myself as full as I could of the time left.

In those remaining dog days of summer vacation I still thought of Margret and Jewel Ellen. Thoughts of them would flare from time to time, like a fire fanned by the wind, then would die down as quickly as they had jumped up.

I rode my bike all over, except to the top of the great hill that led to the house I now called the Witch House. I bought lots of comics and read them while sitting out on the veranda, their bright images and two-dimensional heroes burning themselves into the back of my brain.

I read Tarzan, Hardy Boys, and Nancy Drew books, and when I wore out with comics and books and riding my bike, me and Nub wandered the woods and creeks.

I had also come to really miss Richard, who in that last week of summer I had not seen at all. It was as if he had been sucked up by a windstorm and carried off to Oz. I went by his house once, but when I knocked, no one answered.

Another thing me and Nub did with our summer days was spend time looking up at those pieces of house in the trees. In my imagination I thought at night the house came together up there, like a puzzle snapped in place by the gods. All except the metal stairway, which remained outside and wound its way to an open window, and I would climb that metal ladder and enter the house through it.

It was always dark in my daydreams, and when I clambered through the window, I would see Jewel, on the bed, bound in sheets and blankets, ropes wrapped around her, stinking of gasoline. I would sit on the windowsill and look at her. She would turn her head, and out of her mouth would come flames.

I would sit in the window frame and watch her burn.

Sometimes I daydreamed of Margret, wandering the tracks headless, that little light we had seen jumping up and down before her.

These moments moved farther and farther apart.

On one of the last days of summer, about midday, the sun so hot leaves and limbs sagged and the birds were silent with heat exhaustion, me and Nub were out beneath the trees back of the drive-in, loving the shade.

Nub had found his squirrel tormentor, or one just like it, and was soon once more up the oak tree, on a limb, telling that squirrel what he thought of him. Way he scurried up that tree, you would have thought Nub was part cat. I was sure if I could translate dog language I wouldn’t want to repeat what Nub was saying to that squirrel. What the squirrel was chattering back was probably no less flammable.