Dream With Little Angels Read online

  Anyhow, my pa used to work nights and get off in the really early mornings, like before the sun rose. One particular morning he was driving home and came up behind a large truck—one of them ones with all the wheels—a semi, I thought they was called. I guess my pa decided the semi was going too slow, so he decided to go around it. Only, he didn’t check the road good enough before changing lanes, and there was another car coming from the other direction that hit him head-on.

  I heard the other driver lived, but my pa never even managed to make it to a hospital. My mother got a phone call telling her what had happened. Most of this I know from the few discussions I’d had with Carry about it.

  She told me she could remember being woken up by my mother just as the sun was starting to come up outside. The sky was still dark, but had just begun to turn that soft shade of pink, and in that light, she could tell my mother had been crying.

  “What’s wrong?” she’d asked.

  She said my mother had smiled at her, but it was one of those transparent smiles that was easy to see right through. “Nothing,” she had said. “You need to get up and get dressed. Uncle Henry’s coming to get you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re going to stay with him a couple days.”

  She rubbed her eyes, she told me. It was all so confusing. “What about Abe?”

  “He’s coming, too.”

  She said she remembered Uncle Henry showing up and him and my mother talking in the living room for quite a long time before Carry and me were finally told to get in his car. Then we drove to his house, where we stayed almost an entire week.

  I was pretty young, so I didn’t remember any of this. It’s funny, because in my head there were little details, but I think they all came from Carry’s retelling it to me, not from when it actually happened.

  That’s probably why I don’t really miss my pa—because I never really got to know him very well. Sometimes I felt a little guilty about that.

  Here’s a secret, though: One day I was looking for some wrapping paper for a Christmas present I had for my mother. It was something dumb I had made at school; I can’t even remember now what it was. But I looked all over the house for some paper until I finally decided to look in her bedroom closet. I had to bring a chair in from the kitchen so I could see up on the top shelf.

  I didn’t find any wrapping paper up there, but I did find an old white shoe box. It had been there so long, the top was covered in dust. It didn’t look like anyone had opened it for quite a while.

  My mother was at work, and I didn’t think she’d care if I looked in a shoe box anyway, so I carefully took it down from the shelf, and held it tightly while I jumped down from the chair and sat on it instead. Then, with the box in my lap, I carefully slipped off the top.

  The box was full of pictures. Pictures I had never seen before in my life.

  Almost every one of them was of my pa. I knew they were of my pa because of the only picture of him my mother kept on display since he died: their wedding picture that sat on a shelf in the living room. I had no idea why she had kept all these ones hidden away in a dusty old box in her closet. There were probably fifty pictures in that box, maybe even more.

  There were so many, in fact, that I knew she’d never miss one of them being gone. And so I took one.

  I kind of felt bad about it later, on account of I was raised not to steal (least that’s what my mother always told me), but I also thought I deserved to have a picture of my pa.

  That must have been four or five years ago. I never told her I had it, and she ain’t never found it in all that time. I kept it in an envelope in one of the drawers in my bedroom, and sometimes I carried it around in my pocket for good luck. It seemed to work. Every time I had it with me, something lucky happened. Once I even found a five-dollar bill lying on the sidewalk while carrying my pa’s picture around.

  It made Dewey want to keep a picture of his pa in his pocket.

  “But you don’t need a picture,” I had told him. “Your pa’s still alive.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess you’re right.”

  “You should feel lucky for that.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I guess.”

  But seeing Dewey now with his pa, I realized how awkward they looked together and reckoned having a pa who was never around was probably just as bad or maybe even worse than having one who was dead.

  Anyway, now that I’d found Dewey in this church full of people, I kept sneaking looks over my shoulder at him and making faces, trying to get him to laugh. Every time I did, my mother gave me an elbow and told me to shush.

  Another thing came to my attention near the end of the service, and that was a disturbing absence of the presence of Mr. Wyatt Edward Farrow. But then, I didn’t know why I was surprised. I never really had him pegged as the church-going type. He was more like the kind of guy who stayed locked away in his garage, making all sorts of roadkill monsters and possibly doing things far, far worse.

  Most of the clouds had disappeared from the sky by the time church came to an end and we walked out to find a yellow sparkling sun shining happily in a sky of deep sea blue. Something about the sun reminded me of hope. It beamed brightly down across the colorful rose bushes and all the rest of the well-tended gardens, making even the grave markers and the crosses seem happy, sort of like a nice park for all the dead people to play Frisbee with their dead dogs, or sit and feed dead pigeons.

  My mother and Uncle Henry began to stroll along the stone paths that wound through the grounds. I tagged along behind them, taking in the sweet smell of flowers. “Mom?” I asked after a short bit.

  She looked back at me, her eyebrows raised.

  “I still think you should consider the chance that it’s Mr. Farrow from across the street taking them girls,” I said. I said it quietly so nobody else would hear.

  She stopped walking and, with a sigh, squatted down in front of me, taking a glance at Carry, who was lingering at least ten yards behind. “Now why do you say that?” my mother asked, pushing a hair lick away from where it had fallen in front of my eye. “You obviously feel very strongly about it to have brought it up twice now. Tell me why.”

  I kicked the grass with the toe of my shoe. “I don’t know, there’s just something about him I find distrustful.” I looked up at her, squinting into the sun. “Why wasn’t he in church?”

  “Maybe he’s not a Baptist. Could be a Methodist,” she said, very matter-of-factly.

  “Yeah,” I pointed out. “He could even be atheist.” I reconsidered, adding: “Or worse, Catholic.”

  Mom smiled, dismissing my point. “Abe, you can’t judge people by the way they look or because of some ‘weird feeling’ you happen to get from them. The feeling is your issue, not Mr. Farrow’s. He seems nice enough to me.”

  But, by the way she said it, I could tell I’d managed to plant maybe the smallest seed of suspicion inside her. “How come there hasn’t been a big hunt by all the folks in Alvin for Tiffany Michelle Yates?” I asked. “There was one for Mary Ann Dailey.”

  Mom took a deep breath. At first I thought I’d said something wrong again, but then I realized I’d just said something tough for her to answer. “Remember our talk about racism the other day?” she asked. “How I told you it was important you figured out how to never judge people by their race?”

  I nodded.

  “Not all people have mothers like you do, Abe. There’s a lot of folk around who still don’t think with their hearts or their brains.”

  “Then what do they think with?”

  “Something much lower and around the backside,” she said.

  It took me a minute, but I got it. I laughed. “But, Mom,” I said, “does that mean Reverend Matthew’s racist, too? He talked far more about Mary Ann Dailey than Tiffany Michelle. I was starting to wonder if maybe God was a racist.”

  She looked away, scratching under her chin before looking back. “I know one thing for absolute certain, Abe. God judges
us on only one thing: our actions. How we treat each other. That’s what’s important to Him. Reverend Matthew spent more time talkin’ about Mary Ann because he knew that’s who his parishioners are most worried about. She’s been gone the longest.”

  Her voice sort of hung there as though there were more to say. I figured I knew what it was, so I said it. “And his parishioners are nearly all white folk.”

  Again she turned her gaze from mine, this time answering without looking back. “I’m sure Reverend Starks over at the Full Gospel is asking God for Tiffany Michelle’s fair share.”

  That was when Sheryl Davis came stomping across the lawn right up to my mother. “What’s this I hear about the Harvest Fair possibly bein’ canceled?” she asked, although the way she said it was less like a question and more like some kind of demand. It was obvious she was quite upset by the news.

  Sheryl was a plump woman, with a high, nasally voice. Nearly always, she showed up to things like church or the Harvest Fair looking like some kind of wrapped present. Today was no exception. She wore a white dress with a flower pattern all over it and a red bow in her hair.

  “Well,” my mother replied, “with the girls going missing and such, I just don’t think something like the fair would be safe. Too many people in one place makes it too easy for a little one to go astray.”

  “I don’t see how that has any effect on the fair,” Sheryl said. “You know how important the fair is to this town. Especially the pie contest.” Sheryl Davis won the pie-baking contest going back every year I could remember. She always made the same pie, a strawberry rhubarb one. I’d never tasted it, on account of I didn’t so much like rhubarb, but from what I heard, she made a pretty good pie.

  “I think we can go without the fair and without a pie contest for one season,” my mother said.

  Sheryl harrumphed. “I’m gonna get a petition goin’.”

  “Go ahead,” my mother said calmly, “still won’t make any difference, though. If the Alvin Police Department says there’s no Harvest Fair this year, then there will be no Harvest Fair this season, petition or no petition. While you’re at it, maybe get a petition goin’ to stop little girls from bein’ taken away. See if that works at all.”

  With a final glare at my mother, Sheryl marched off back toward the way she had come, where a group of other plump women wrapped up as presents stood waiting to hear about the outcome of her complaint.

  “She’s just mad because she won’t get a chance to enter the pie contest,” my mother whispered to me. “I don’t know why she even cares so much. She wins every year anyway. You’d think by now it would stop meaning anything to the woman.”

  “Maybe that’s all she has to look forward to,” I said.

  My mother regarded me a good full second before responding. “That was a very adult point to make, Abe. And you’re right. Maybe that is all she has, but it still doesn’t take priority over this town’s children. It does make me a little sad for her, though.”

  It made me a little sad for her, too.

  CHAPTER 13

  We were well into autumn now, and the leaves on the trees had started to turn all kinds of burnt oranges and firehouse red and most had already fallen to the ground. It was a time of year that normally made the town look especially pretty, and this year was no different except my mother’s case put a dark slant on everything, autumn included. The two missing girls had her completely wound up. It was as though she kept waiting for another one to disappear at any moment. She seemed especially worried about me and Carry.

  Actually, it was probably the trip to and from school that made her most nervous. It was a time, I suppose, that children were particularly vulnerable.

  Nevertheless, the changes in the season seemed to bring a substantial change to my mother’s attitude, at least for a while. There were a few days when she wasn’t working that she appeared to be almost downright happy. That was until her mind once again started fixating on her case.

  I liked those happy days. I hadn’t seen her actually smile a real, honest, and true smile for as long as I could remember.

  It was on one of those rare occasions that she announced: “I’m taking y’all out for a nice lunch today. And that includes you too, Hank.”

  “I actually gotta drive way up to Franklin later this afternoon. Have a cribbage match booked with an old friend of mine who’s in the hospital for her kidneys.”

  “Well, we can go sooner rather than later.”

  Going out for food always made me happy. “Can we go to Tex’s Barbecue?” I asked. Tex’s served the best chili on the planet. At least that’s what the menu said, and judging from my limited experience with chili, I had to agree. Carry was seated at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, her fingers pulling up on her hair like it was dog’s ears or something. She didn’t seem too thrilled to be going out. Maybe she wouldn’t be coming, being grounded and all.

  “Is Carry coming, too?” I asked.

  “Yep, and we’re not going to Tex’s. I promised Mr. Takahashi we’d all come to his new sushi restaurant.”

  Happy Shogun Sushi Palace had officially opened its doors two days ago. I hadn’t heard any reviews as of yet.

  Carry’s head fell into her arms and clumped loudly onto the tabletop. “Can’t I just stay home? After all, I am grounded, right?” she asked.

  “No,” my mother said. “We’re all going to Happy Samurai Sand Castle, and that’s final.”

  “Happy Shogun Sushi Palace,” I corrected.

  “Whatever,” my mother said.

  Uncle Henry edged in: “You know, Leah, Carry really is grounded. Maybe she should stay home. I don’t mind sticking around and keeping an eye on her.”

  My mother rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you guys. You’re all scared to try something new. It’s just food, for cryin’ out loud.”

  “Raw food!” Carry said. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a police officer, honey. If I wanted to kill you, I know much better ways than this.”

  “You know, Leah,” Uncle Henry chimed in, “round here, what you’re talkin’ ’bout really isn’t ‘just food.’ It’s more like bait.” He laughed, but I could tell he was just as wary as my sister about those Happy Shoguns.

  No other customers sat inside Happy Shogun Sushi Palace when we arrived. Mr. Takahashi greeted us at the door with a bow from his waist. He wore a red jacket with gold buttons and trim. “Welcome to my fine establishment,” he said, smiling. With a sweep of his hand, he gestured to the array of empty tables. “Please sit wherever you wish.”

  We took a seat in the corner by the window. I sat across from Carry, whose disposition hadn’t improved the slightest since leaving home. Mr. Takahashi handed us each a menu while his wife poured tea in clear glasses.

  “What’s that floatin’ in it?” I asked.

  “Tea leaves,” Mrs. Takahashi said. “It’s green tea. Good for the stomach.” She was dressed similarly to Mr. Takahashi and had her hair up in a bun on top of her head, held together with a crossed pair of black and gold chopsticks. I noticed she was wearing a lot of makeup on her face. It made her look almost like a cat.

  Uncle Henry lifted his cup and sniffed his tea before taking a sip. He looked across the table to my mother. “It’s not bad.”

  “See?” she said.

  Mr. and Mrs. Takahashi left us alone with our menus and a heavy silence fell over the table as each of us realized we had absolutely no idea what we were looking at. “I don’t understand any of this,” I said.

  “It all sounds disgusting,” Carry said.

  “How can you tell?” I asked. “Most of the words aren’t even in English.”

  My mother sighed. Uncle Henry laughed.

  Standing across the restaurant, his hands clasped behind his back, Mr. Takahashi witnessed all this take place. He came over and asked, “Is there something I may be able to help with?”

  “I don’t think we’re quite ready to start orde
rin’ as of yet,” my mother said, trying to be as polite as possible.

  With another bow, Mr. Takahashi abruptly turned and marched back to his position across the room with his hands behind his back, patiently waiting for us to decide which cast members of a Jacques Cousteau adventure book we wanted to ingest for dinner.

  I looked up at my mother. “Is it okay if I drink this tea, or will it stunt my growth like Mr. Yates’s coffee?”

  “I think the tea’s fine,” she said. “Didn’t you hear Mrs. Takahashi? It’s good for your stomach.”

  Cautiously, I brought the cup up to my nose and sniffed it the way Uncle Henry had. The glass was hot and hard to hold on to, and I wondered why Japanese people didn’t know about handles. But the tea didn’t smell too bad so I took a taste. “It’s all right,” I said.

  Carry ignored her tea.

  I set down my cup. “There’s somethin’ I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Here we go,” my mother said. Uncle Henry’s hand reached across the tabletop and came down on hers.

  “Some folk keep talkin’ like Mary Ann Dailey and Tiffany Michelle Yates are gonna show up again any day now,” I said. “And some of ’em say that might not be a good thing, that they might show up the same way Ruby Mae Vickers did.” I paused a minute, gauging my mother’s reaction. I was starting to figure things out a bit when it came to talking to my mother.

  Her eyes fell away to the floor, but Uncle Henry tapped her hand and she lifted them back to mine. “What is it you don’t understand, honey?” she asked resignedly.

  “Why would anyone want to take some girl away? And especially why would anyone want to take some girl away just to hurt ’em? It makes no sense to me.”

  Mr. Takahashi approached the table. “You ready to order?”

  My mother quickly scanned the menu, as though his interruption was the happiest event in recent history. “Oh, well, I dunno,” she said.

  “I don’t rightly understand most of this,” Uncle Henry said.