Thistle and Twigg (14 page)

P
hoebe was certainly right. The Burns’s house and their surrounding acreage had a decidedly primitive look about it. The area’s name, Pale Holler, was apt, for as we came over the hill, the center of the valley looked like a large spot of gray. The road was gray mud with puddles, large and small, pitting the driveway to the house. Two outbuildings were also gray, a barn and what looked like an unattached garage with simple wood doors open. A large puddle in the road reflected the wood-frame white house and the gray clouds behind it that held the promise of a cold rain.

As Phoebe’s car slowed, a man and a woman came out onto the front porch. They eyed us with suspicion, their bodies still, their heads slowly following our progress. We parked just beyond the house where the road ended in a small parking area of gravel with small shallow pools of rain and mud. Four aggressive dogs of various canine parentages surrounded the car and barked loudly. Phoebe turned off the engine.

“What do we do?” I said, unsure of the etiquette procedure. Were we to wait for our hosts to come to us or call their animals? Or were we to step into the midst of the snarling pack?

“It’s okay. They aren’t going to bother us.” Relieved that Phoebe must know some country or Southern way of gently deterring unfamiliar dogs, I waited. She eyed them a few more moments and seemed to reach a conclusion.

With a sudden great force, she swung her door wide open, knocking two of the dogs back. She reached out her hand to what appeared to be the alpha dog, the largest and loudest of the group, and immediately slapped him on the muzzle.

“Heah!” she said, something between a yell, a nasal utterance, and a growl deep in her throat. Although I’d never heard that particular exclamation before, the dogs apparently had and understood its meaning, for it effectively scattered them away from the car.

“Hey, Mister Burn, Miz Burn. How y’all doing?” Phoebe called with a lilt. Her voice was completely calm as she gave a friendly wave. She motioned for me to get out of the car then shut her own door and walked toward the porch. I joined her quickly, keeping an eye on the dogs who, for now, kept at a distance but still barked. Phoebe ignored them. She marched toward the house as if the dogs didn’t exist.

“Hush that,” Mr. Burn, a tall wiry man with jet black hair, said to the dogs. “Get up here.” He wore an open-neck cotton shirt and dark work pants, both neatly pressed. His gruff voice was instantly obeyed as all the dogs ran to his side, lay down meekly, and said no more.

It occurred to me that I’d not given a thought to what I might say. How does one broach the subject of mysterious phone calls with a stranger?

Phoebe came to my rescue. Just as she had taken charge with the dogs, she used her larger-than-life personality to commandeer the situation with ease and aplomb.

Mrs. Burn, a plain woman with her brown hair pulled back in an old-fashioned bun, neither smiled nor frowned as she said, “Y’all come on in for a spell,” with a hint of curiosity in her voice.

“Why thank you so much,” Phoebe effused and began talking in a steady stream of compliments and small talk. Her speech patterns altered slightly, using different words and syntax that combined into an interesting country accent, stronger than her usual one.

“This is Jane Thistle. She’s your new neighbor up at the old Hardwick place. The one y’all called?”

Mrs. Burn turned to her husband. She looked confused, then there was a brief flash of horror in her eyes before she quickly turned away. Mr. Burn’s back stiffened slightly. I thought I detected embarrassment when he met his wife’s eyes. Oh dear, I thought. We’ve surprised her. She wasn’t expecting us at all. Had Mr. Burn phoned? Or had Phoebe misheard the caller entirely?

Phoebe pressed on, oblivious to the currents passing between the couple. “You know, I haven’t been out here to your house in, what, almost twenty years?” she said continuing her monologue, effortlessly switching from one topic of conversation to another without a pause. “Remember, my church was having a gospel meeting and I was in charge of handing out leaflets to everybody living from Highway Seventy-six to the county line, and Gaynord Phelps came down to preach, all the way from Detroit, Michigan, and …”

Mrs. Burn was nowhere in sight, I noticed, after we stepped inside. Mr. Burn, Phoebe, and I stood in a comfortable living room, decorated with no particular color scheme and filled with antique mahogany furniture. The overstuffed couch and three chairs took up most of the available floor space. A small ornate coffee table was dwarfed and completely surrounded by the couch and chairs, so much so that we had to squeeze through the tiny openings between them and sit with our knees very close to one another’s.

A small television sat on a desk to our right. To the left, an end table held a figurine lamp with two courtly porcelain dancers as its base. Next to the lamp on a starched white doily sat an old black telephone with a dial that looked like an original from the forties.

Mr. Burn, expressionless, stood beside the couch until Phoebe and I took our seats. He hiked his trouser legs up at the knees and sat on the couch, just as Mrs. Burn came into the room carrying a large tray.

“Oh, my,” I said, on seeing she had prepared quite a large tea. She set the tray, which must have been very heavy, down in front of us. In only a few minutes time, she’d produced a carafe of hot coffee, four cups and saucers in a beautiful Old World rose pattern, and a plate filled with slices of coconut, chocolate, and angel food cake.

“There’s apple pie and ice cream, if you’d rather have that,” Mrs. Burn said in a flat voice as she poured coffee into a cup. She handed it to her husband, making no eye contact. She then hesitated, holding the pot in the air. “Y’all like coffee? Because we’ve got tea and some good homemade cider if you’d rather have that.”

Phoebe and I assured her that coffee was fine, and that her array of refreshments was more than suitable and quite generous. I marveled at her ability to produce such a delight on short notice. Mrs. Burn allowed a quick smile to flit across her lips, though she performed her hostess duties without looking directly at either of us.

Phoebe swallowed a bite of coconut cake and dabbed a spot of white frosting off her lips. “Mmmm, boy, that is mighty good. Now, like I said before we, or rather Jane, got your phone call. I was worried something might be wrong.” She paused, waiting for one of the Burns to respond. “We could barely tell it was you, the static was so bad.”

The Burns froze in place, Mr. Burn with his cup poised in front of his mouth, Mrs. Burn as she set the carafe on the tray. Phoebe continued her narrative.

“… And we couldn’t hear very good, but I thought I heard Tale Holler’ and ‘Come Over,’ so I looked in the phone book to call y’all back but didn’t see you listed there.”

Mr. Burn took a sip of coffee. “No, we don’t have a phone,” he said.

“Well, see, that’s what I figured, or that your number was unlisted,” Phoebe said cheerily. Her eyes slid to the right, nor could I control the natural inclination to look at the hulking black phone on the end table beside us.

Of course, they noticed our interest in it. Mr. and Mrs. Burn spoke at the same time. “It don’t work,” they said in unison.

I was suddenly aware of the smell of pipe smoke in the air. I hadn’t noticed it when we came in. It was faint, as if a smoker had walked through the room.

Phoebe took a breath. “I see. So y’all don’t need anything? I’m sorry, we came and barged in on you because I thought you did need something, or maybe just heard about Jane moving in and wanted to meet her since she’s practically your neighbor now. But I reckon it wasn’t you then, seeing as how your phone don’t work and all.”

And at that moment, the phone rang. Phoebe and I jumped in our seats. It was extraordinarily loud, much like the clanging of a ship’s bell.

Mr. and Mrs. Burn stared at one another. The phone rang insistently yet neither moved nor spoke. Finally, on the fifth ring, Mrs. Burn picked up the bulky receiver and held it to her ear. She did not say hello or any other greeting. We could hear a faint noise as she listened. She looked at her wristwatch. Without a word, she recradled the receiver.

“Nobody there,” she said, and then she did a very odd thing. She rose from the couch, walked across the room, and turned on the television. She adjusted the volume so it could be heard but would not interfere with our conversation. She returned to her seat. Both she and her husband ignored the TV.

“Probably some kinda e-lectric surge,” Mr. Burn said, having trouble looking us in the eye. I didn’t point out that the lights hadn’t flickered. “So you live in the old Hardwick place now?” he said to me. Mrs. Burn continued to ignore the television as she put her napkin on her lap and took a sip of coffee.

“Yes,” I said. “Please stop by sometime so I can return your kind hospitality.” From the TV, we heard the sounds of a fight scene with kicks and grunts. Only Phoebe turned to watch.

“I’m enjoying it here very much,” I said, trying to keep conversation going. “Everyone in Tullulah has been so kind and most welcoming.”

The fight scene ended and a commercial began. Immediately, the phone rang once again. This time, Mr. Burn picked up. He closed his eyes while listening, then rubbed his free hand over his face. “Uh …,” he said, holding the receiver away from his ear for a moment. “Don’t…” Mr. Burn said, but the voice on the other end of the line didn’t stop.

Mr. Burn sighed. A glance to his wife was answered with a stern shake of her head and one mouthed word, “No.” The next instant, she turned to us and grimaced as she forced a smile. She lifted the cake plate from the coffee table and said, “Another slice?” I declined.

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Burn said. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” With another sigh, Mr. Burn held the receiver out to me. “It’s for you.” Mrs. Burn’s eyes widened. Phoebe slowly turned her head away from the television. I tried not to look shocked.

“Oh. I see,” I said. Gingerly, I took the receiver from him. “Hello? Jane Thistle here.”

A scratchy male voice came over the line. “Hello, Miz Thistle. Welcome to Alabama. I hope you like it here.”

“Thank you.” The faces around me looked on with rapt attention, Phoebe with curiosity and the Burns with acute anxiety. “I like it very much.”

“Good, good. This here is Nelton Burn. That’s my boy and his wife at the house. You can call me Dad. I appreciate you coming over so quick.” The voice was that of an elderly man, and though some static crinkled in the background, I could hear him clearly.

“Yes, well,” I said. “My friend, Phoebe, and I weren’t altogether sure we got the right information. I’m afraid we had quite a bad connection at my house. I must have that checked.”

“No, ma’am, it’s not your wiring.” He drawled out the last word, “
wah-ren.” “It’s
cause I ain’t never called nobody anywheres else. Tell the truth, I didn’t reckon it’d work a tall. But my little great-niece said you was real nice and she liked you, so I thought I’d give it a try.”

“I’ve met your niece?”

“Doreen.”

I was puzzled. Not only had I not met a Doreen in Tullulah, I was certain I never knew anyone by that name.

“She probably didn’t tell you her name,” Dad said. “You saw her down on the square them first two times you came here before moving.” My breath caught in my throat. The little girl in the white dress. I’d told no one I’d seen her. Not a living soul.

Dad’s voice continued over the intermittent background static. “Now, there’s people where I’m at who see better than I do. They wanted me to tell you something. They said Cal’s mind ain’t what it used to be. They say he has done messed up and he’s going to be sorry. Tell him to quit thinking he can do it all by himself.”

Dad coughed and caught his breath before continuing. “You both need to be real careful about trusting people right now. I told my friends, I said that you were smart and not to worry because you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t the one. I may not see as good as they do, but I tell you one thing, I can feel a whole bunch of meanness prowling out there in the woods, right up next to you. You be extra careful.”

“Sorry, I don’t understand. What did you mean, ‘the one? The one for what, exactly?”

“The one who’s gonna save the woods and Cal’s sorry hide. He has always been a stubborn old cuss. Never would listen to nobody. And the woods, well, that’s the main thing, isn’t it? That’s why it’s so important. Now, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. I know this is a lot for you to take in all at once. I wish we’d had time to get to know each other first. But time is something we don’t have much of. I felt like I had to try to reach you now before it was too late.”

On the television, the commercial ended. A young blond girl in a graveyard came onscreen. She held a wooden stake in her hand. Phoebe was entranced.

“Well, Jane,” Dad said, “it was sure nice talking to you. My story is back on, so I’ll let you go for now Don’t forget what I’ve told you. Oh, something else. Don’t you worry none about Boo. He’s a good boy and he knows you’ve come to help us. And we sure do appreciate it, Miz Thistle, more than I can tell you. You let me know if I can do anything for you, you hear? I’ll try you again at your house soon if I can figure out how to do it. And please excuse my boy there next to you. I’m afraid I’ve embarrassed him and his wife.”

I was about to ask precisely how I could get in touch, should I need to, but the phone clicked. I held it to my ear a little longer, waiting for the dial tone. None came. The line was dead. “Hello? Are you still there?” I said. When there was no answer, I handed the receiver back to Mr. Burn. Both he and his wife had red faces and looked quite uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry about that,” Mr. Burn said. “I take it he called your house. We didn’t realize he could do that. Nobody else … ah … that is, you’re the first person he’s talked to other than us.”

Mrs. Burn cut in. “It’s a crank caller. He has messed up our phone to where it doesn’t work except for when he calls.” She looked to Mr. Burns to back up her unlikely statement which, from the fear in her expression, I was sure was a complete lie.