Thistle and Twigg (3 page)

I
watched Jane get into her car and drive away. I hadn’t known how to tell her the truth. If I had, she might’ve packed up and left the same day she moved in, and for no reason. The truth is, rumors around town have it that the Hardwick house is infested with spooks, just like that old geezer down at Wriggle’s implied. Talk about rude. There was poor little Jane, all happy and new in town, and he couldn’t help himself from bringing up the ghost thing right off. Thank goodness I have more self-control. I don’t tell everything I know to whoever passes by.

The old maid that had lived in Jane’s house for ninety-two years until she passed away was a little wacky. When people visited, she’d stop right in the middle of a conversation and start talking to the air, like somebody invisible was in the room. You know, like Jimmy Stewart and that giant rabbit. Only, in the movie, the rabbit turned out to be real. Miss Hardwick’s special friends were straight out of her own loopy mind. And even though everybody knew that, somehow the stories got twisted and blown up until people started saying she saw ghosts and the house was haunted. Which is so immature. I don’t know how some people call themselves adults but play like ghosts are for real, and then they make up stories and spread them around and around for fun. None of them really believe in ghosts, either, I’d bet you, they just like to jaw. I reckon it’s like Santa Claus. You know he’s not real but you still talk about him. And UFOs. Have you noticed you never hear little children claiming aliens captured them and experimented on them? Only grownups. What makes that, I wonder? Seems like ghost stories appeal to all ages though, and everybody around here, young or old, loves to talk about the local ghosts.

Just because Jane’s house is old and isolated, and because Civil War soldiers camped out and slept in it, the storytellers around here can’t help themselves from talking about the Hardwick place. It’s like a lie magnet. It’s got all the other classic scary movie cliches going for it, too, like strange sightings in and around the house, a big graveyard in the back, a long history of crazy Southerners in the family. The whole thing is like a cross between
Poltergeist
and
Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte.
To some uneducated people. Even I’ve had what those nuts would say was a supernatural experience there, but since I have more intelligence and common sense, I know better.

It happened when I was a kid. I went to the Hardwick place with my mama when I was six years old. She’d been invited to a tea party and took me along since there wasn’t anybody else to keep me that day. One of the other ladies, Lorene Clark, brought her daughter, too. Donna, who was a year younger than me, had real short brown hair done in a bowl cut.

Miss Ina Hardwick, the loopy one and last of the family, brought little plates and cups for us to play with while the ladies visited at the big table. I’ll say this, now, she was a sweet lady Not a bit stuck up. It was something to get an invitation to the Big House, which is what everybody called it. Back then, nobody had any money or nice things in their houses, so going to the Hardwick place, all grand and full of pretty china and expensive furniture, was like going to Buckingham Palace. I’d just stand there and stare at the glass chandelier and that beautiful mahogany staircase because nobody had anything like that.

Donna and I were sitting by a bay window, one that went all the way to the floor and had lots of small panes. We sat our dolls next to us at the child-sized table Miss Ina brought out for us. Like I said, Donna had short hair and I had mine tied back into a pony-tail with a yellow ribbon. Miss Ina came over to check on us, and when she did, she touched the top of my head. She ran her fingers through my ponytail and said, “Where’d you get such pretty red hair?” I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. Everybody always said that.

Donna and I kept playing with our dolls and teacups, and Miss Ina went on back to the ladies. I picked up our little teapot and was about to tip it into a cup when I felt something rub over my head. I turned around but nobody was there. I started to pour Donna some tea and it happened again. I put my hand on my head, nothing was there, but all of a sudden I felt something pushing my hand down the length of my hair, like it was in front of a brush and somebody was brushing my ponytail.

I hollered “Mama” but she told me to not interrupt Mrs. Smartt, who was talking about her homemade ointment for poison ivy I probably huffed a little bit but let it go. It kept happening, the whole time we were there, and when I told Mama on the way home she laughed at me.

She told Daddy when he came in from the fields and he had a good laugh, too. I got mad and crossed my arms. He scooped me up and said, “It’s nothing to worry about, hon. It was just one of them Hardwick ghosts a’playing with you. They was probably lonesome and liked having you there.” He tweaked my nose and told me to go wash up for supper.

They never let me forget that story, let me tell you, not none of my brothers or sisters, and would trot it out when they wanted to make fun of me. Of course, I don’t believe any of that foolishness now. You exaggerate when you’re a kid. It was probably nothing but a draft in the old house that happened to blow right where I sat.

A
fter I left Phoebe’s house with my new blanket, I drove down the street and saw the Piggly Wiggly grocery there at the corner of Meadowlark and Main. I tried to think if I had all I needed for the moving men’s lunch and slowly made my way into the parking lot. Although I’d bought two jugs of tea in addition to our barbecue and side dishes, it occurred to me that the movers might prefer colas. A nice cake or pie might also be in order for them. I’d never known hungry young men to turn down dessert.

It is my habit to always check my surroundings when out and about, walking or shopping alone. Before getting out of the car, I automatically made a circular sweep of the immediate area, as I say, out of habit rather than sensing any sort of danger. To my left, a young woman pushed a baby stroller out the store’s automatic door and down the small ramp into the lot. No cars were parked in the rows of spaces directly in front of mine. Two women who looked like mother and daughter stood at the nearest car to my right, several spaces over, unloading grocery sacks into the trunk of a white sedan. I used the rearview and side mirrors to check behind me, and there I saw an odd thing.

Several rows back at the far edge of the lot, an older model Jeep Cherokee reversed into a space next to an old van that had seen much better days. The man from the Jeep wore a wide-brimmed black cowboy hat, a brown knit shirt, jeans, and dark boots. He had a moustache and his skin had the look of a lifetime of outside work. I guessed his age at mid-fifties to early sixties, and the age of the man who came out of the van to meet him at early to mid-thirties. The younger man’s bearing and buzz cut marked him as former military, of that I had no doubt. He wore a black T-shirt that stretched across a tight chest and large arm muscles. His boots and BDU pants, with their many pockets, were army surplus. A faint white scar, untanned like the rest of his skin, trailed from below his right ear and disappeared under the neck of his shirt.

The two didn’t shake hands, nor did they waste any time in idle chitchat. Immediately on emerging from the Jeep, the man in the black hat opened his rear door on the driver’s side and took out two things, a fishing rod and a large tan duffel. The younger man slid the side door of his van open, inspected the rod, and placed it inside his vehicle. The older man then unzipped the duffel and held it out for his ex-military friend who had a quick look inside, moving things about in it with his hand. He nodded his head curtly, rezipped the duffel and put it in the van as well, then slid the door shut. Less than two minutes went by from the time the Jeep parked to the departure of the van.

It’s true, the incident didn’t indicate criminal activity, only roused a mild curiosity. I made another quick scan around the parking lot and carried on into the grocery.

I returned to the house and stayed home the rest of the day. A few hours more of directing the men as they brought in heavy furniture and then the quiet hours of unpacking once the movers were gone left me bone weary and ready for bed.

I found my aspirin bottle and was about to pour myself a glass of water when I heard a commotion outside. It sounded as if someone were yelling, as if in pain. But as the voice drew nearer, I realized the person approaching in the darkness was not hurting. He was singing.

I peeped out the front window’s blind. As the figure came into view under the security light at the edge of my property, I could see for certain it was a man, a very thin one. He wore a plaid flannel shirt and wrinkled pants a size or two too large. Several days of stubble darkened his cheeks and chin. He continued singing while staggering from the middle of the road to the side, getting ever closer to my front yard.

He saw me behind the blind. With an open-mouthed grin, he exposed several dark gaps where teeth had been and began singing louder. To my astonishment, he waved to me and proceeded to walk toward my porch steps.

He leaned on the railing and slid up to the porch, braving the perilous steps with only a couple of slips. His hands reached out and down to the rocker nearest the window where I stood. With a look of victory and relief, his body fell limp as he flopped into the chair seat and made himself at home.

With a wave of his hand, he seemed to be letting me know he was all right. He rocked back and resumed his serenade, thankfully in a less boisterous voice. His eyes closed as the rocker creaked a fervent accompaniment, keeping time with his song.

I studied him a moment, then looked blankly about my living room. What was I to do with an unexpected and undoubtedly inebriated man, so late in the evening? At first I considered calling the police. As odd as it may seem, I was afraid that would seem un-neighborly if indeed this was, as I suspected, my only close neighbor, the notorious Cal Prewitt, local hermit. How odd, this sudden reversal in his attitude. What might have caused it, other than an indulgence in too much drink, I couldn’t guess.

My instinct was that he meant no harm. I didn’t think I would need a pistol but, half-ashamed of myself, I dropped a small one, hardly bigger than my hand, in my sweater pocket, just in case. I must learn to adjust to the isolation of the house. And I would. Later.

As I opened the door, Cal was ending his rendition with great emotion. I closed the screen quietly behind me as I stepped onto the porch.

When I felt a respectable time had passed at the end of his number, I stepped in front of the rocker and waited for his eyes to open fully.

He looked me over top to bottom and put both feet down flat to stop the creaking rocker. He moved yellow-stained fingernails slowly to an inside pocket, never taking his eyes off me. As he did so, I let my hand drop casually to my pocket as well.

“Mind if I smoke?” he said lifting out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

A small sigh escaped my lips. “Not at all. That’s what porches are made for, eh?”

The lines across his forehead relaxed. “Yes, ma’am. That and dogs. A porch seems empty without a big old hound dog.”

I nodded. “I was just about to have a cup of tea. Would you care for one … Mister Prewitt, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Cal Prewitt,” he said. “Tea would be very nice, thank you kindly Miz … uh … ?”

“Thistle. Please call me Jane,” I said as I put out my right hand. His grip surprised me. From the smell of things, cheap bourbon, I’d say, and a lot of it, I’d expected a much more feeble shake.

He rose slightly from his seat. His attempt at a bow put him off balance a tick and sent him quickly back into the rocker seat with a plop.

“I’ll just be a minute then.” I hesitated, watching to be sure he was well settled.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, “this porch here definitely calls for a dog.”

He put a cigarette to his lips and squinted as if smoke already clouded his vision. He struck a match, drew in the first puff and said, almost to himself, “You’ll do fine,” as he relaxed and set the chair to rock again.

I let the screen tap quietly closed behind me and left the front door open, wondering if he meant I’ll do fine in making our tea, or if I would make an adequate substitute for a porch dog.

When I returned, I had another visitor on the porch. A large, black, smooth-coated dog, mostly Labrador with perhaps also a little spaniel, lay next to Cal’s rocking chair. He raised a big square head and greeted me with a friendly blink of his eyes.

“I told Homer to stay at home but he don’t listen.” Cal said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Nice to meet you, Homer.” He yawned before resting his head on the porch’s wood planks and settling in for a nap.

As it turned out, Cal and I had a very pleasant conversation. He thanked me over and over for the tray of sandwiches and cake I brought out with our tea. They were no trouble at all since the makings were left over from the lunch I’d bought for the movers. He was rail thin. I wondered how long it had been since he’d had a good meal.

We talked of my husband’s military service and of Cal’s own experiences in Italy in the forties after World War II. We spoke of places in London he’d visited during that time and of my family in England. Mostly, we talked about Tullulah, northern Alabama, and how they had changed over Cal’s lifetime.

“But my place has never changed. Same as it was for thousands of years.”

His words made me sit stock-still. I hardly breathed. “You mean,
so
few people have lived and built and worked in the area.”

“No,” he said. “I mean nobody has ever done any of those things here. Nobody white, anyway, besides my family. They used the flatlands down below the bluffs for farming and building their own houses. No, the woods have been kept just like they were ten thousand years ago. Longer than that. Only a handful of us, son to son, lived on the bluffs. The big house burned down in 1958. I’m the only one who has lived up here since …” His voice trailed away. “Since the seventies. Nobody ever cut into the woods, just used these close fields for the house. A few acres for fruit trees, a little for keeping horses and chickens and pigs and cows. All the rest is the same.”

An uncorrupted wood. The thought ran through me like fire in my veins. It was a nature- and history-lover’s dream, to be so close, to have a chance at even a short time of study. My skin tingled in the cool air. I was here, at the threshold of an untouched forest, one that might be made available to study at my leisure by only asking.

The conversation continued and, though interesting, Cal bordered on incomprehension most of the time. The drink, I imagined. It was actually all quite amusing, though I didn’t laugh, only listened and enjoyed the performance as his words fell and rose and ambled like the slow flow of a creek. He made many references to heaven and angels, to punishment of the wicked, and was particularly fervent in denouncing all traitors and warmongers. He spoke in a voice reminiscent of Native American chiefs concerning the Great Spirit, and even spoke Cherokee at times in his more poetic recitations. When his ramblings took a turn toward the spiritual and supernatural, I didn’t take the opportunity to mention the little girl I’d seen downtown, nor did Cal did say anything about my house and its possible otherworldly occupants. Perhaps I’d feel more comfortable talking about it when I got to know him better. And when he was a little more sober.

He was attentive when I spoke of my love of wildlife, and how I’d studied every book I could find on the nearby counties. I asked if he had a favorite story something to tell me about the history or people of the area.

“Let’s see. There’s the one about when the white men first came. The valley here was a hunting ground shared by several tribes. The Chickasaw controlled it through most of that time, but there were Cherokee villages here, too.

“A Scottish trader named Charlie came through with an expedition. This was in the mid seventeen hundreds. Charlie got here and didn’t want to leave, so he asked the chief of the small Cherokee town nearby if he could live and work with them. The chief agreed since Charlie was a skilled hunter and fisherman, and understood the Indian ways better than the other white men he’d been traveling with. So, Charlie stayed on.

‘The chief had one daughter,
Usti Tseni.
Little Wren. She and Charlie fell in love, had children, and were happy together. Then, a few years later, another band of whites came through, only they weren’t respectful of the tribe and had no interest in passing through peacefully.

“First, they took all the food they could find. They burned the village’s outer wood defense and some of the huts inside. Then they started killing. Charlie and his father-in-law stood together and fought them off. They and the other men of the tribe managed to kill all the attackers, but Charlie was shot in the chest at the end and didn’t survive. The chief found Little Wren at the door of her hut, stabbed to death while trying to defend her children.”

“How terrible,” I said and shuddered. “That’s not a very happy story for right before bed.”

“It’s the way it was,” Cal said. “It happened all over, not just here.” We sat a while without speaking before Cal finished the story. “The chief dug their graves himself. He laid his daughter and Charlie in the ground next to each other. In Little Wren’s palm, he placed an acorn and closed her fingers around it. He put a maple seed in Charlie’s hand and did the same. A year later, the chief and what was left of the tribe had a special ceremony of thanks when they saw the shoots of new saplings coming out of the graves. They celebrated because, to them, Charlie and Little Wren and their love for each other were still alive.”

I brushed a tear off my cheek and the night slipped quietly away as we sat. We sipped the rest of our tea, looking out over my yard and across to Cal’s land. His thoughts became increasingly disjointed and slower as he tired, and he began to mumble strange things again. I could hear and remember only one such soliloquy, which sounded like another of his Cherokee poems. He translated for me: “In a dark moon, when the stars touch the earth, the Old Ones come down, to help the People.” We sat in the quiet as golden lights of fireflies blinked on and off in the dark as they hovered over my yard and the meadow across the road.

Cal sighed and rose slowly from his chair. “I reckon Homer and I need to get on home. I do thank you for the tea and the kind hospitality. Been a long time since I’ve had such a good talk.”

“Me, too,” I said. “You’re most welcome to visit anytime. And Homer as well, of course.” Homer had risen when Cal did. They both moved slowly down the porch steps into the yard.

Cal looked up. “Would you like to come over to our place in the morning? There’s some things I believe you’d enjoy seeing. Things you’d appreciate.”

I was stunned and overjoyed. “I’d love to,” I said before he could change his mind.

“Good.” His head hung down and his voice trailed off to a whisper tinged with sadness. “Good.” We set a time to meet and said our good-byes before Cal and Homer crossed the road to go home.

Cal was no longer in view but I heard the faint crunch of gravel as he walked toward home. His humming grew louder then he once again broke into song. A little farther on, I could hear the muffled cry of Homer, howling along as he joined in on the chorus.