The Hollow Tree at Dead Mule Swamp (5 page)

"Exactly! But we'd have to get
Dee to agree to leave that bloodsucker Bert. We're not building any houses for
him! I don't know anyone who is friends with Dee, though."

"I haven't even met her."

"But you're so good at
figuring out how to get things done," she wheedled.

"I'll think about it," I
said.

"You are thinking about a lot
of things, Ana. Better make up your mind."

I rolled my eyes, retrieved the ice
cream and headed for Cora's house on Brown Trout Lane.

Cora was in a dither. Other times
I'd spent with her, she'd always been calm and organized, but she was nervous
and flitting from the cupboards to the table and back.

"Do you think we should use
china plates? Maybe paper is better for a little boy?" she worried.

"Cora, I think you should calm
down. If you're like this tomorrow, you'll scare the poor child away. He's very
serious."

"Oh dear, his grandfather was
such a clown. Maybe I'll do everything wrong."

"Jimmie hasn't had many
chances to laugh. He acts like a little businessman." I chuckled. "A
hungry businessman."

"That sounds like my Jimmie.
Both parts!"

"Look, he doesn't know much
about his family, but he used to sneak into my house to think about his grandfather.
He knows about the accident, and that he was in the car."

"That poor boy." Cora
shook her head.

"I think you should just do
what you do best. Show him the family history and he'll be delighted."

"Do you really think so?"

"I do. Just be yourself, and
he'll like you."

She shook her head in wonder.
"He could have been my grandson."

I gave her a little hug, and we
worked together to make the sloppy joe filling, so it would only need to be
heated tomorrow. When I left, she was mixing sugar cookies, convinced that ice
cream was not enough dessert.

Late that afternoon, Jimmie slipped
in from the trees again. I had been watching for him, uncertain whether he
would come on a holiday, but hopeful that perhaps he’d earned some money
running errands or something. Soon, I heard a gentle knocking on the door at
the head of the basement steps. It had taken me a long time to translate the
plan into code, but I thought it might appeal to Jimmie's sense of adventure
and love of secrecy to come in through the cellar. I'd left the door at the
bottom of the hatchway steps open, and suggested he come in that way, and up
the inside basement stairs to the kitchen. That way no one would see him coming
to see me. I opened the door at the top of the dark stairway.

Jimmie grinned. "That was
fun," he said.

I smiled back, "I thought you
might think so. How about some soup and a grilled cheese sandwich?"

"Sure!" he said.
"But you feed me every time I come."

"I have a son, but he's at
college now. I know boys are always ready for food."

The tomato soup was in a pan, and
the sandwiches were made and ready to grill. I had been confident he'd be
willing to eat. While I heated the soup, Jimmie pulled another twenty-dollar
bill from his pocket and put it on the table.

"Here's more for you to keep.
I've got over $100.00 now," he said.

"Great! I want to tell you
about the lady we are going to see."

"OK."

"Her name is Cora Baker, but
she will be happy to have you call her Cora. She knew your grandfather very
well when she was young."

"Is she that old lady with all
the old stuff in her barn? We were supposed to go there on a field trip from
school, but the bus couldn't get down her road, so it was cancelled."

"Yes, that's the place. Look,
Jimmie, Cora dated your grandfather for several years. They broke up before he
went to college and met your grandmother, Sandra Sue. She cared for him a whole
lot."

Jimmie thought about that for a
minute, but didn't say anything.

"How does that make you
feel?"

"I dunno. I think maybe I like
it. I like to talk to my grandfather Jimmie, just pretend of course. He tells
me what to do sometimes, when things don't make sense. She's really talked with
him?"

"Lots and lots. Want to know a
secret?"

"Yes!"

"They broke up over a stupid
practical joke, and she's been sorry ever since. But you can't tell her I told
you."

Jimmie grinned. "It's a deal!
How do we get there?"

I told him where it was, but he was
worried about Bert finding his bike anywhere near home. He insisted on riding
at least part of the way there. He wouldn't even agree to put the bike in my
cellar.

So, the next morning, I met Jimmie
at ten at the corner of Centerline and School Section Road. He pushed his bike
into the bushes where it was well-hidden, and rode the rest of the way with me
in the Jeep.

Cora had composed herself
overnight, and she and little Jimmie hit it off instantly. He was delighted to
see the pictures of his great-great grandparents, but held the book with the
photos of his grandfather with care approaching reverence. He asked Cora to tell
him the story behind every single picture, but at the same time seemed to have
an innate ability to stop just short of asking embarrassing questions. I was
mostly a spectator, but I was happy to be there.

He ate three sloppy joes, much to
Cora's delight, and an extra scoop of the ice cream, not to mention potato
chips, cookies, and a handful of carrots.

By mid-afternoon, he was calling
Cora "Nana," and was accepting little around-the-shoulder hugs from
her. In short, the day was a huge success.

Before I dropped Jimmie at his
bike, however, I had to warn him about a part of my plan that might not make
him so happy.  Since I'd learned Bert was to be out of town (if I could
believe him), I had decided I'd try to talk to Jimmie's mother, Dee. When I told
him I was going to visit her the next day, however, he didn't object at all. He
did say he would stay out all day, that he didn't want to listen.

He agreed to help me with one
thing, though, because I certainly didn't want to show up before Bert was gone.
Jimmie said he'd wait till Bert left, and then ride past my house as a signal.
But he insisted he couldn't stop, that I'd have to watch for him through a
window.

After I saw Jimmie pedal by in the
morning, I waited another half hour, and then drove over to the truck-house on Alder Road. I carefully pulled into the yard, and climbed the steps to the door. It was
actually a standard exterior door, fitted into an opening cut and framed into
the semi-trailer body. No use hesitating. I knocked firmly.

After several minutes the door was
opened by a grossly overweight woman in a pink sweat suit. She was breathing
heavily.

"We don't want to buy
anything," she began.

I smiled my best I-care smile.
"I'm not selling anything. I'm Anastasia Raven. I bought the old Mosher
house. I've met your son, Jimmie."

"Oh," she said.

"May I come in? I'm sorry, I
don't know your name."

"Dee, Mrs. Dee Pickard."
She seemed uncomfortable, but finally said. "OK. I guess it's all
right."

She stepped in and I entered the made-over
trailer, expecting the worst. I was shocked beyond any expectations. Instead of
being a mess, the interior was clean, well-lit and tastefully decorated. The
only thing to complain about was a lack of windows. The space had been
transformed to be very much like the inside of a standard trailer.  There
were too many knick-knacks for my taste, but it certainly wasn't my house. The
primary theme was angels. I wondered which one Jimmie had given her for
Christmas.

"Have a seat." She
pointed to the couch and waddled to the easy chair facing the television. I was
afraid I was going to have to compete with game shows, but she picked up the
remote and clicked the tube off.

"Mrs. Pickard," I said. I
was still so shocked I hardly knew what to say. "I'm concerned about
Jimmie."

"But school's over for the
year, isn't it? Did he lie to me and skip the last week of school?"

"No, nothing like that. Jimmie
seems very responsible."

"What's he done, then?"

"Nothing bad. Honestly, Mrs.
Pickard. Let me explain. Jimmie works very hard to earn enough money for things
that are basic needs for a school child."

The woman didn't answer but she
leaned forward, clasped her hands, extended her arms and pushed them between
her knees. She began rocking forward and back.

I had to press my argument. It
might be the only chance I'd have. "He has hinted to me that there might
be problems with Bert."

She continued to rock.

"Is there something you'd like
to tell me, Dee. May I call you Dee?"

She nodded.

I didn't have high hopes for real
information on this visit. I knew abused women often refuse to admit they are
in trouble.

"Is there a reason Jimmie had
to buy his own winter coat?"

"Bert won't give me any
money," she whispered.

"Not at all?" I asked,
looking around.

She saw my eyes roving over the
knick-knacks. "These things are mine from before. Bert leaves them alone
if I'm good." I wondered what that meant.

"What about things Jimmie
needs?" I insisted.

"Bert doesn't like Jimmie. He
makes him stay out back in a cabin he built for him. Jimmie says it's
nice." There was a desperate note in her voice. She wanted to believe it
very much.

I closed my eyes for a minute, then
said, "Have you seen his room?"

"I can't get out,
really."

I thought I saw my opening. I asked
gently, "Would you like to see where Jimmie lives?"

"Can you help me down the
steps?"

"Of course."

It was not a simple project. The
truth was, even though she had to be ten years younger than I am, Dee could hardly walk. But she sent me to a closet where I found a cane, placed on a high
shelf, out of her reach. That seemed particularly cruel.

Getting to Jimmie's room took
almost an hour. Dee could only take a few steps before she had to rest. I
brought out a kitchen chair and she perched on it for several minutes after
walking each five or six feet. She was so large, her behind rolled off the
sides of the chair and she seemed to have trouble balancing on the seat. When
we finally worked our way around to the back of the trailer, she looked around,
confusion showing on her face.

"Where is his cabin?" she
asked.

"Right here," I said,
pointing at the low lean-to made of scraps of wood with the blue tarp battened
over the top. I thought for a minute she was going to fall off the chair, but she
took a deep breath, and struggled to her feet again. We continued the slow
march. I wasn't sure I was going to be able to find the door, the shed was such
a patchwork of different surfaces. But when we got close enough, I found one
board with hinges on the edge, actually a cupboard door, and an old-fashioned
latch obviously salvaged from Jimmie's scavenging. I pressed the thumb button
and the bar lifted out of the hook. I pulled the door open and bent over to
look in. The roof was only four feet high, not tall enough even for Jimmie to
stand up.

"Sit down and wait a
minute," I suggested to Dee. I crawled inside the cave-like space.

An electric drop cord was tacked
across the ceiling and hung near the door. I reached out and pushed the button;
the small room flooded with harsh light. The walls and ceiling were lined with
odds and ends of pink and blue foam insulation board, cut and fitted together
like a crazy quilt. The floor consisted of a couple of pieces of plywood laid
directly on the dirt. A scrap of torn, stained carpet led from the door to the
opposite wall. To my right, under the low end of the shed, I saw a bare
mattress with a neatly arranged, but odd set of coverings, including a sleeping
bag, a blanket, and a torn canvas tarp. Wooden potato crates were stacked along
the walls for shelving.

I backed out of the doorway, and
said, "You need to see this. Let me put the chair by the door."

Dee stood up and waited till I got
the chair placed beside the opening so that she should be able to see in if she
leaned forward. She got settled and began to examine Jimmie's
"cabin." I couldn't see her face, as it was turned into the small
door, and I wondered how she was reacting. However, her body language began to
send me signals. I saw her heavy shoulders rise and fall once, then again. Her
knuckles tightened on the handle of the cane, which she held with both arms
extended as a prop.

After almost five minutes, she
pushed on the cane and sat upright. She still didn't speak, but seemed to be
fumbling with her clothes. I wondered if she'd been bitten by a spider or
something. But in another few seconds I realized she was simply lifting her
sweatshirt. She turned her face to me and said bitterly, "Look at
this."

All around her ribs and across her
stomach were bruises both new and old. Some were purple; others had faded to
yellow and green. I raised my eyebrows.

"I'm not sure I can get in a
car anymore, but I'll try if you can take me to the police station. Bert Fowler
has told me one too many lies."

Just then, Jimmie appeared from
behind some oil barrels that were stacked at the edge of the clearing.
Obviously, he'd been hiding to see what might happen as a result of my visit.
He ran to his mother and put his arms around her neck.

"Why didn't you tell me,
son?" she asked, as the tears began to run down her cheeks.

"I didn't want to make you
sad," he said, rubbing her on her back.

"Can you be strong, if we go
to the police? Bert will be awful mad."

"Maybe he'll go to jail,"
Jimmie said hopefully.

"Not for ever," Dee said, shaking her head. "But we better not worry about that yet."