Shirley Murphy: The Cat, the Devil, and Lee Fontana

31

Becky managed a visit with Morgan the next day while Sammie was in school but when she picked the child up, Sammie guessed at once where she’d been; she was so agitated at being left out again, at not seeing her daddy, was so completely focused on telling Morgan something deeply important to her, that Becky gave in at last; she knew that stubborn determination wouldn’t go away. When she looked into Sammie’s dark and grieving eyes she was filled, herself, with Sammie’s same driving need to tell him whatever was so urgent, so very meaningful to her. Sammie might be only nine, but she was not like other children; her perceptions awed and frightened Becky, and Becky had to listen to her.

But there was one thing that Becky made her promise not to tell Morgan. Her daddy knew nothing about Falon’s break-in and his attack on them, he didn’t know about any of the trouble they’d had with Falon. She had always thought, long before Morgan was arrested and put in jail, that if Morgan knew how Falon had behaved he’d be so enraged he might kill Falon. She had kept silent to protect Morgan and now, with Morgan locked up, what good would it do to tell him, it would only create more hurt, more desperate and helpless rage.

“Grandma made carrot cake today,” Becky said. “We’ll stop at her house for a little snack first, then we’ll go to see Daddy. On one condition,” she said, looking down at Sammie. “You remember to keep your promise not to tell Daddy about Falon coming to the house?”

Sammie looked up at her. “You mean, the last time?”

“I mean all the times, as we agreed. Clear back, long ago. Even that time when—”

“When he killed Misto,” Sammie said.

Becky nodded. “You know I’ve never told him, it would be too upsetting.”

“You were afraid of what Daddy would do.”

Becky nodded. “And right now, Daddy has enough to worry him without hearing about that ugliness.” She knew there’d be a police report from when Falon broke in the last time. She just hoped they hadn’t told Morgan about that.

Sammie looked up at her a long time, but said nothing. She was still quiet when they pulled into Caroline’s drive, she didn’t say a word as they went inside. Sitting at the big kitchen table as Caroline cut a piece of carrot cake for her and poured a glass of milk, Sammie hadn’t said a word.

“Can you promise that?” Becky said. “ Will you promise—for Daddy’s sake?”

Sammie ate some cake, took a sip of milk. “I promise,” she said at last, but in a reluctant little voice. Becky looked sternly at her. Sammie blinked, and looked down. “I promise,” she said more boldly. Caroline watched them in silence. “I promise,” Sammie repeated, and then she tied into her milk and cake.

The evening light was softening as they pulled into the courthouse parking lot. Sammie was still quiet as they went inside, the child walking very determined, very straight in her light summer jacket, her chin up, her eyes straight ahead. Whatever was on her mind, whatever she needed to tell Morgan, no matter how shaky Becky felt at the emotional disaster it might cause, this couldn’t be avoided. Whatever Sammie had to say, Becky half expected a meltdown that would leave Sammie tearful and leave Morgan intolerably shaken.

Maybe her mind was filled with a dream she hadn’t told Becky, a worse nightmare even than the last one where Morgan was thrown in jail—that trauma would stay with them for the rest of their lives, she couldn’t imagine what would be worse than that prediction.

For a moment, she wondered if this had to do with Morgan being drugged, wondered if Sammie had seen something in a dream where Falon was giving him a drug as well as alcohol?

She had already talked with their doctor about that. Dr. Bates had visited Morgan in jail, had questioned him, had done what small, simple tests there were to do, had looked at Morgan’s pupils, had checked his heart, even smelled Morgan’s breath.

He said whatever Morgan had been given could have been an overdose of some prescription medication. He said there wasn’t much in the way of testing, if they didn’t know what they were looking for, particularly this long after the dose had been given. Dr. Bates said that, because Morgan didn’t drink, a sufficient amount of bootleg whiskey could have knocked him out overnight, could have left him uncertain and groggy, the way the police found him. But he didn’t see how Morgan could have been forced to drink so much without trying to refuse, without remembering. He did say that some bootleg whiskey contained additives to make it more potent, but usually that was found in the bigger cities, not in moonshine from these small, backwoods stills.

At the jail, Sergeant Trevis ushered them into the same small, ugly visiting room, Sammie holding Becky’s hand tight, her own hand cold and tense. Becky hardly noticed the scarred table and two metal chairs. The afternoon heat inside the small room was nearly intolerable, and the street noise added to their stress. Becky sat down with her back to the window. Sammie stood waiting near the door, tense and watchful, listening to footsteps coming down the hall.

Officer Jimson stood behind Morgan, and as her daddy entered, Sammie flew straight into his arms, clinging to him, pushing her face against his chest. Morgan pulled out the empty chair, sat down with Sammie on his lap. He kissed her cheek, buried his face in her pale, clean hair. At the other side of the table Becky sat quietly, trying not to send emotional vibes, wanting to let Sammie have her say without interference or distraction. Even Sergeant Trevis seemed tuned in to Sammie’s urgency, he stood back against the wall, looking at the floor, remaining very still and disconnected as if his attention were miles away.

When at last Sammie pulled away from her daddy’s hug, she took his face in her two small hands, looking deeply at him. Her words startled Becky, they were not what she’d expected. “I dreamed of the cowboy,” Sammie said. “He’s coming, Daddy.”

Becky looked down, trying to hide her frown, her hands clenched out of sight under the table. What was this, what was this about the old man?

“He’s coming now, Daddy, he’s coming here to help you.”

Morgan looked at her, puzzled.

“I knew he’d come,” Sammie said sagely, looking deeply at him. “I dreamed before that he would, I dreamed about the airplane. That’s part of how he’s coming, he was so happy with escaping in the plane. He’s coming, Daddy. But not right away. There will be jail for him, too. I dreamed of prison walls around him, but not here. Far away from here.

“Prison walls around you both,” she said very low, glancing at Sergeant Trevis and then away. “But at first in different places.” She put her arms around Morgan, pressed her forehead against his chest, speaking half muffled against him. “You’ll be in prison, Daddy, a big prison right here near home. But then the cowboy will come there, you’ll be together then. You’ll both be there, inside that high wall. And then, Daddy—then the cowboy will help you.”

She looked at Morgan hard. “You’ll get away from there, Daddy. In the dark night the cowboy will help you get away. Only the cowboy can save you, he’ll help you prove the truth, he will help you, Daddy.”

Morgan looked at Sammie a long time, his expression stern and unchanging, but tears welled in his eyes. When he looked up at Becky, a long look over the child’s head, his gaze was filled with fear, with disbelief, with dismay at the thought of prison.

“How do you know?” Morgan whispered. “How can you know this?” But then from somewhere deep inside, Becky saw his calm certainty rise. She watched Morgan’s faith surface, his faith in Sammie, sure and trusting, his faith in a talent and knowledge that no ordinary human would possess. “How can you know?” he repeated.