I beat it with regrets, knowing full well I shouldn’t have added that zinger, not if I wanted Callie’s help. But, heck, it was the brotherly thing to do; I couldn’t help myself.
I didn’t go right to sleep. I got the letters out from under my bed and looked at them. I read the journal carefully. Nothing in the letters or the journal mentioned Margret’s last name. But I was convinced these letters had been to James and that Margret had torn out the journal pages and given them to him, maybe to keep her mother from seeing them, or as a gesture of some kind.
I put the letters and pages up, went to bed, dreamed of a decapitated girl walking along the railroad tracks, searching for her missing head. I dreamed too of a wolf’s man, as Rosy called it, running through the brush with Margret’s head in its mouth.
5
NEXT MORNING after breakfast, I pulled Callie aside and we walked out to the drive-in lot.
“Are you going to help me find out more?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Last night you said you would.”
“I didn’t say for certain. It sounded like fun last night. But in the light of day, I’m not so sure. What if it is the same Margret? So what?”
“She was murdered. No one ever found the murderer. That’s a real mystery, Callie. James Stilwind lives over on the hill with the rich folks. He might know something.”
“You’re just going to knock on his door and ask him about his burned-up sister and a murdered girl named Margret, and a boxful of letters he might have owned?”
“I hadn’t really thought about what I was going to do. Not really. Are you going to help or what?”
“I’m not allowed to go anywhere. So what can I do?”
“But last night . . .”
“I forgot. I forget about it ten times a day because I didn’t do anything. Then there was that crack about the balloon . . . So, just solve your own stupid mystery.”
Callie crunched across the lot’s gravel, back toward our house, which was an odd way to think about a movie screen thick enough to contain two stories, a roof view, and all the comforts of home.
I got my bicycle out of the storage shed, placed Nub over my thighs, and rode across the highway into the residential area where the rich folks lived.
For the first time I really noticed the houses there.
They were built along different designs, but all were big and fresh-looking, as if someone came daily to wipe them down from roof to porch. Some of the porches were big enough for a family of four to live on. All the other houses were equally as magnificent.
I put Nub down so he could run alongside me. I rode on through the neighborhood until the steep hill got to be too much, then I pushed my bicycle, checking the names on mailboxes. They were all neat mailboxes with black lettering, and not a one was different from the other in size and design. None of them said Stilwind.
I came across a girl playing in her front yard that looked to have not only been mowed, but manicured with nail clippers. She was sitting at a little table with chairs, a tea set, and dolls. She wore a pink dress and had a pink bow in her shiny blond hair. She looked as if she were about to go to church.
I called to her from the street. “Do you know where the Stilwinds live?”
“No. Why are you dressed like a nigger?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re wearing those blue jeans with the cuffs rolled up.”
“All the kids do.”
She took a sip from her teacup, said, “Not around here. Your mama make you that shirt?”
“So what?”
“A feed sack and a Butterick pattern?”
“It’s not a feed sack . . . It’s plaid.”
“I don’t wear homemades, and I don’t wear hand-me-downs.”
“So?”
“That little dog looks like a mutt.”
“You look like a mutt,” I said.
“Well, I never,” she said, standing up from her little chair and placing a hand on her hip.
I rolled my bike on, and when I was away from her, I glanced down at myself. My blue jeans were patched, and the shirt I had on was a little thin and faded in spots, but I looked okay. Surely the folks over here didn’t dress up all the time, just to play or ride bikes.
I passed three teenage boys tossing a football. They were wearing jeans and tennis shoes just like me. But there was a difference. They looked as tidy and confident as bankers, and as the little girl had reported, they didn’t cuff the legs of their jeans.
I was about to get on my bike and start riding again, when one of the boys tossing the ball in the yard called out to me.
“Who are you?”
I turned, looked at him. He was tall and blond. Probably seventeen or eighteen. He repeated himself. I told him who I was.
“You’re kind of in the wrong neighborhood, aren’t you, kid? You know what happened last time a white-trash kid came over here, bringing some little rat of a dog with him. I tell you what happened. He disappeared. Him and his little dog.”
One of the boys, darker and stockier, walked closer to the edge of the curb. As he neared, I could smell his hair oil. The aroma was sweet and expensive, unlike the Vitalis on my head.
“They found that boy dead alongside the railroad track with his pants down and his little dog stuffed head- first up his ass,” Stocky said. “The dog was still alive, ’cause when they came up on it, it wagged its tail.”
He and the blond boy laughed.
I knew it was a big joke, but it made me uncomfortable just the same.
“I’m no white trash,” I said.
“You aren’t from the hill,” the blond boy said, “so you have to be.”
“I’m from the drive-in. Down there.”
The blond boy grew serious. “Oh. Well, I go to the drive-in now and then. It’s all right. No hard feelings. I take dates to that drive-in. I don’t want to get in bad there. I was just kidding. You know how joking is.”
The third boy, who so far had not spoken, walked over to the curb holding the football. He was tall and thin with brown hair, probably nice-looking. The other boys began walking back into the yard. He turned and tossed them the football. The blond kid caught it.
“Don’t pay them any mind,” he said. “They think they’re funny. But they’re about as funny as a screen door on a submarine. You just have to ignore them. My name’s Drew. Drew Cleves.”
I knew that name. It was the boy Callie had mentioned last night, that she liked. I decided not to mention that.
“You live here?” I asked.
“No. I live the house over.”
“Do you know where the Stilwinds live?”
“Oh yeah. Top of the hill. Around the curve. Dead center where the street ends. But they don’t really live there anymore. No one lives there. They have it for sale. But no one wants that house.”
“Why?”
“They say it’s haunted. I’ve heard all kinds of stories about it growing up.”
“Does it look haunted?”
“Just a little run-down. But there was some kind of murder there. Or maybe it wasn’t a murder. The story is kind of vague.”
“Then the Stilwinds don’t live in Dewmont?”
“Oh, they do, but just not up there. I don’t know exactly where they live. Different places. There’s several of
