Fly Like a Bird

CHAPTER 4: SPOOKS

Chapter 4SPOOKS

The next weekend, Grandma asked Uncle Tommy to take Ivy over to Reuben Smith’s place to deliver one of Grandma’s burnt-sugar cakes.

Reuben and his wife, Patty, lived in an old white weathered farmhouse on the way to Hawks Bluff. Conrad Thrasher’s farm was a mile down the road and the house after that belonged to Luther Matthews.

Ivy followed Uncle Tommy to the paint-peeling front porch. He opened the rusty-hinged screen door without knocking. No one locked their doors in Coffey except Uncle Walter, but he was justified because of Uncle Tommy’s constant troublemaking and thievery.

Buckshot, Reuben’s high-spirited golden retriever, came bounding toward Ivy, wagging his tail. When Buckshot howled, it sounded like he was wailing the words, “oh, no.” Ivy laughed and stroked him as they entered the living room.

A clothesline strung down the middle of the living room displayed a load of drying laundry. Reuben’s wife, Patty, didn’t like to leave the house unless absolutely necessary. Uncle Tommy ducked under Patty’s huge underwear and extra-large pink nightgowns dangling on the line. He picked up an open bag of Doritos on the couch and stuffed a handful in his mouth, pointing his Dorito-dusted fingers at Patty’s drying underwear.

“You know, that reminds me. Ivy, did I ever tell you about the time Reuben and I got suspended from high school for stealing Edna Jean Whittaker’s underwear from the girl’s locker room and hoisting it up the library flagpole on Halloween?”

Ivy nodded. “Yeah, you’ve told me that like a hundred times.”

Reuben came in from the kitchen as Uncle Tommy scratched his armpit. “Well, Edna Jean’s eyesight was so bad she couldn’t even tell the underwear-flag was hers. It wasn’t hardly worth the dang trouble.”

Reuben smiled, took his John Deere cap off and scratched his short hair. “The week off from school sure was nice though.” “Only Coffey would have a librarian that’s blind as a bat and looks like one, too,” said Uncle Tommy.

“But don’t forget,” Reuben imitated Edna Jean’s high-pitched voice, “she’s got a developed sense of smell.” He tapped his ear. “And exceptionally keen hearing.”

Edna Jean Whittaker, almost forty, had become the persnickety town librarian. She cleaned the books and furniture until the drab library smelled of lemon furniture polish and the books slid off the waxy tables and shelves. She kept cleaning because she couldn’t see that it was already spotless. The lemon scent of the polish covered up the dusty smell of the old books which was important because Edna Jean had a sensitive nose.

Miss Whittaker did kind of look like a bat. Her dark wig looked like unkempt fur, and her thick glasses enlarged her tiny bat eyes. Edna Jean lived in a small house with a big front lawn only a few blocks from the library. She walked to and from work, opening the library before the sun rose and closing it after the sunset. During the day she lurked among the shadowy stacks of books. The darkness of the library made reading difficult for the town’s patrons, but Edna Jean worked best in the dark. The light hurt her eyes.

Ivy stood up and peered around one of Patty’s pink nightgowns. “What’s wrong with Miss Whittaker?”

Uncle Tommy shoved more Doritos into his mouth and wiped his dusty fingers, making Doritos tracks across his white undershirt.

Reuben looked at Ivy. “Well, nothing really, I guess. She’s just mad at life. Her high school boyfriend married her best friend and they moved away. Edna Jean stayed in Coffey.”

Uncle Tommy reached into his mouth to dig out the Doritos stuck to his teeth. “I need a beer,” he said, going into the kitchen.

Ivy dodged the hanging laundry and walked across the room to where Buckshot stretched out in front of the couch. The dog nudged her and she scratched his ears. She looked up at Reuben. “Why do you help Uncle Tommy play tricks on people like Edna Jean and Uncle Walter?”

Reuben rubbed his sunburned neck. Sprigs of hair grew out of his large ears. “I guess it’s just something to do.”

“Cause you’re mad at life?”

Uncle Tommy came back into the living room with the bag of Doritos and a beer. “Walter deserves it. He’s always looking down his nose at me.”

Heavy thuds coming down the stairs announced Patty’s arrival. Although it was late in the summer afternoon, Patty Smith still wore a pink flannel nightgown, identical to the ones drying in the living room. Ivy remembered a time when Patty didn’t wear her nightgown during the day. But Grandma had told Ivy that as Patty grew larger and sank deeper into her sadness, she stopped dressing. Since she rarely left the house, changing out of her nightgown didn’t seem necessary.

Grandma often urged Uncle Tommy to take Ivy to visit Patty and Reuben. She explained to Ivy that Patty hadn’t always been so withdrawn. Barely eighteen years old when she married Reuben, Patty used to love running in the fields behind their farmhouse. She had helped Reuben wrestle the calves to the ground for ear tagging. She desired nothing more than to raise a family with Reuben on their small farm. Patty planned on six children, just for starters. But each year she didn’t get pregnant, she sank deeper into a depression. All Patty wanted was a baby, and when no baby came, Grandma explained, all she wanted was food. Patty couldn’t get filled up.

Reuben tried to soothe his sad wife the only way he knew how. He filled the shelves with groceries from the Hy-Vee store. He brought home pizzas from the Pizza Shed and fried tenderloin sandwiches and French fries from the Coffey Shop.

Ivy understood Patty’s emptiness. She wanted parents.

Patty snatched the bag of Doritos away from Uncle Tommy. Reuben helped her over to the couch where she slumped into her well-worn seat and stuffed Doritos into her mouth. “I agree with Ivy. You shouldn’t make fun of people. Nobody should have to endure torment.”

Reuben waved his hand high in the air. “Tell that to the spooks.”

While forty-year-old Patty was heartbroken over not having any children, Reuben understood why they remained childless. It was the ghosts.

Reuben held the spooks responsible for every power outage, roof leak, door slam, missing sock, cold draft, creaky floorboard, and broken furnace in the house, and when Patty didn’t get pregnant, he blamed them for that, too. The spooks became a daily part of Reuben’s life. He spoke about them as if they were a commonplace occurrence. Reuben constantly talked about the spirits to his friends as they drank coffee or ate lunch at the Coffey Shop. His friends enjoyed hearing Reuben’s ghost stories as much as he enjoyed telling them. The only difference was that Reuben believed them.

Patty licked Dorito dust from her chubby fingers. Reuben patted his wife’s shoulder and sat down beside her on the couch. “It wasn’t your fault. Those ghosts made my seed unfruitful.”

Ivy shivered every time Reuben talked about the spirits roaming the hallways and filling up the empty spaces of his small farmhouse. It didn’t help that the tombstones of Weeping Willow Cemetery loomed eerily in the distance across Reuben’s fields.

Ivy held onto Buckshot for comfort, but he stretched his legs, gripping the carpet with his paws and howled his signature “oh, no” dog-sound before sauntering upstairs.

“Why are the ghosts here?” Ivy asked.

Reuben tucked his hands in the pockets of his overalls. “I don’t know. I remember the ghosts came right after my little brother died. I was just a kid. Can’t remember the funeral or where he was buried, only the cold spell that winter and not having my brother. I reckon the ghosts came to get my brother’s soul and take him to the world beyond. But the spirits never left. Must’ve gotten stuck here among the living. Anyhow, something got real messed up, and no new souls can come to our house.”

A loud thump sounded upstairs, and Ivy jumped. She looked up at the ceiling and then back at Reuben.

Reuben raised his eyebrows. “See?”

“Probably just Buckshot’s tail banging against something,” Uncle Tommy said.

“Why didn’t you move?” Ivy asked Reuben.

Reuben stood up and walked to the back door. “Come here.”

Ivy followed Reuben onto the small back porch with Uncle Tommy trailing behind them. Patty stayed on the couch eating Doritos. She’d heard him talk about this many times.

Reuben swept his arm across his acreage. “This place is my home. Lived here all my life. I know it. It knows me. I reckon, sometimes, your home is worth the sacrifice.” He cleared his throat and spat over the side of the porch, barely missing a chicken pecking in the dirt yard.

Ivy looked at Reuben’s fields and the weathered red barn that had stood there since Reuben was a little boy. The Weeping Willow Cemetery appeared on the horizon as if waiting for something. The cemetery was in no hurry. Everyone came to it eventually.

“You know my dad’s buried over there,” Ivy said, pointing to the cemetery.

Reuben nodded. Uncle Tommy stared at the cemetery in the distance.

“But my mother isn’t. Do you know where she is, Uncle Tommy?”

Uncle Tommy shook his head. “Nope.” Then he hurried into the house.

Reuben patted Ivy’s shoulder. “Anyway, sometimes you got to stay to keep your home. The ghosts be danged.”

And although Ivy saw Patty’s empty spirit, she hadn’t seen any ghosts—yet.