“Sister Redempta brought it over?” I asked.
“Yup, just yesterday.”
So Sister Redempta had been at Miss Sadie’s place. She must have just come out when I’d run into her. I had a hard time imagining the two in the same town, let alone in the same room at the Divining Parlor. Miss Sadie in all her jangly regalia and Sister Redempta with her stark habit. They seemed like a mismatched set of bookends in their flowing gowns, beads, and veils.
What could have prompted Sister Redempta to venture down the path to Miss Sadie’s? PERDITION, it said on her gate. According to Miss Sadie’s story, Jinx himself had welded that on the gate. Had it been at her request or had he deemed it an appropriate name for the diviner’s den of iniquity?
The questions swirled and remained unanswered when Billy said, “Well, I’d better get these newspapers delivered or Hattie Mae’ll be after me.”
“All right. See you later, Billy,” I called, still lost in thought.
On my way out of town, I chanced to pass by the faded gingerbread house I’d seen when I’d first come to Manifest. The one with the proper lady sitting in her rocker. There she was again, like she’d been there this whole time without moving. Like her life was standing still. If she was alive.
Lettie and Ruthanne had told me that her name was Mrs. Evans. She was the lady who could turn you into stone if she looked you in the eye. They said she never talked to anyone. Just sat on her porch and stared. I stopped at her paint-chipped fence, looking at her from the side of the porch so she wouldn’t see me. It was like she wasn’t really seeing anything. Just staring.
Then, still without looking at me, she raised her hand ever so slightly and her fingers waved at me like she was tinkling one of Miss Sadie’s wind chimes, making music that only she could hear.
Miss Sadie had given me directions. The prickly poppy had white petals with orange and red in the middle. She said to look for them along the railroad tracks. Skeleton weed was purple with no leaves. I was to look near the grazing pasture at the old Cybulskis place. And so on.
I’d already found the skeleton weed, spiderwort, and toadflax right where she’d said, but the prickly poppy was nowhere to be found. With my flour sack stuffed with plants and weeds, I wandered along the railroad tracks, letting my footsteps fall evenly on each tie. There was a comfort in those tracks and my being on them. I closed my eyes and let them guide me. One foot after the other.
I imagined Gideon at the other end of the line, working his way toward me. One foot after the other. It was like one of those story problems in school. If Gideon leaves Des Moines, Iowa, at 6:45 a.m., traveling one railroad tie at a time, and I leave Manifest, doing the same, how long will it take us to meet? I was figuring the problem in my head but started imagining him on a train, getting here faster.
It must have been the growing heat, but I could feel the tracks vibrate beneath my feet. I kept my eyes closed, trying to recall the sound and movement of train on track that could make you feel lonely sometimes and peaceful at others.
Without my willing it, a rhyme formed in my head. Walking, walking, gotta keep walking, gotta keep walking all the way back. Looking, looking, gotta keep looking, miles to go on this railroad track.
I heard a mournful whistle off in the distance. Heard the rattle of the boxcars as they worked across the joints.
A train’ll be coming, coming, coming, train’ll be coming to take me back.
That train seemed so close I could smell the soot and steam. If I stayed on the tracks, maybe it would just sweep me up and take me away.
I opened my eyes just in time to see the black grille of a real train staring me down. It wasn’t going to sweep me away; it was planning to run me over. I hopped off the tracks, my heart pounding as the wind from the train nearly knocked me over. As it went past, I could tell it was slowing down, beckoning me to hop on. For a lot of rail riders there is a powerful urge to keep moving. Even if you don’t know where you’re moving to, it’s better than staying still.
Jump on, jump on, jump on, the boxcars taunted. I reached out my hand. Reaching for the only home I’d known—tracks and trains. Reaching for Gideon. Then the sound died down and the train moved on. I stood mourning the silence. I’d missed my chance.
And then Shady was there. He placed a steady hand on my shoulder, and together we watched the caboose disappear around the bend.
Shady handed me two bags of flour to carry while he toted two bags of coffee. We walked in silence for a time; then he said, “Kind of like a hot-air balloon.”
I looked at him, puzzled. He shook the bags hanging at his sides.
“Ballast. Like the sandbags that hang off the basket of a hot-air balloon to keep it weighted and steady. I rode in one a long time ago. Fella was giving rides for fifteen cents. Going up it felt so light and thrilling-like. You could see everywhere in the world a person might want to go. But after a time, a body just wants to be back in a place where it belongs.” He shook the bags hanging at his side. “Ballast.”
His eyes were red again, his face unshaven. He’d been out all night. I’d heard a harmonica playing again the night before and wondered if that was the sound that lured him out. Like the ocean sirens Gideon told me about. They were kind of like mermaids, and their song lured seamen to crash their ships into the rocks. I didn’t think poorly of Shady. I’d seen my share of folks who looked to a bottle of whiskey for whatever they’d lost. I believe Gideon himself might have looked there if he hadn’t been trying to raise a daughter on the road.
We stopped near Miss Sadie’s place and Shady took my bags. “Will I see you tonight for supper?” he asked, seeming to acknowledge that I could still take off if I pleased.
I wanted to ask him a hundred questions. Why had Gideon closed himself to me? Why had he sent me away, and when would he come back? I wanted to tell Shady I had an old cork of his on my windowsill. A cork that had become special because it was part of a story. And I knew that story wasn’t finished. But I also knew that Shady wasn’t the one to tell me the rest of it.
“Depends,” I said. “What’s for supper?”
“Oh, I’m fixing something special.”
“Let me guess. Beans and corn bread.”
“You peeked at my menu,” he said, pretending to be hurt, even though it didn’t take a diviner to figure that out.
“I’ll be there. It sounds better than what I’ve got.” I showed him my sack of skeleton weed, spiderwort, and toadflax. “Now, can you point me in the direction of some prickly poppy?”
Miss Sadie’s Divining Parlor
JUNE 17, 1936
Late that afternoon I returned to Miss Sadie’s place in a mood. Having crawled through a bramble bush for the prickly poppy, I was feeling a bit prickly myself just then. Why Miss Sadie had call to send me all over God’s creation to dig up plants never intended for human use, I can’t say. Her Divining Highness was not in sight when I arrived, so I busied myself with trying to find a pot or a vase to put the flowers in. There was nothing on the back porch but a metal watering can and piles of dried-up leaves that had been pushed into a corner.
The gardening shed looked to be the likely place for a pot, but it was locked. I peeked through the dirty windows, trying to make out what was inside, when—
“Get away from there!” Miss Sadie hobbled from the side of the house. “There’s nothing in there that you need,” she said, breathing heavy from the effort.
I held up my flour sack full of plants. “I got most of the ones you asked for. I was just looking for a planting pot.” I noticed the wound on her leg. It was worse, all red and festering. “I can lance that for you. To let out the infection.”
Miss Sadie settled herself in her metal rocking chair and her breathing slowed as if a crisis had passed. “No.”
I didn’t know what she was waiting for, but it was her leg.
“Let me see.” Her breathing was still heavy as she motioned toward the plants in my hand. She ran her fingertips all ov
er them, feeling the stems, leaves, petals, smelling them like a blind person wanting to know what she could not see.
“Aren’t those the ones you wanted?” I asked.
“They are. But they do not tell me what I wish to know.” She gazed up into the cloudless sky. “The earth, it holds back secrets it is not yet willing to part with.”
Then, as if she’d seen enough, she started taking the plants apart, expertly sorting leaves from stems from seeds, creating small piles of each in her lap.
“I went all over tarnation to get those and all you wanted were some dead flowers?”
“They are only dead to what they once were. Now they become something else. Go.” Without looking up, she motioned to the dry ground of the garden. “Back to work.”
I looked at the rows of tilled-up soil splayed out like open wounds and did as I was told. My already blistered hands and scraped knees rebelled as the dust took over me like a swarm of bees. I went to the far end of the yard so I could grumble to myself without being heard. “The earth, it holds back secrets it is not willing to part with,” I mimicked. “What a bunch of hooey,” I said under my breath, tossing a dirt clod over my shoulder against the locked-up garden shed. I studied the little outpost, and feeling the diviner’s eyes on me, I came to the only reasonable conclusion. Miss Sadie was holding back a few secrets of her own.
As the afternoon wore on, I began feeling like the miners from years ago, covered in grime. Tasting the dirt in my mouth, I imagined it to be the soot of the mines. Had their families recognized them when they’d emerged from their desolate work? Would anyone recognize me? Would anyone care? I was enjoying my pitiful thoughts. What if I died right there in that dirt? Would anyone notice?
“Death is like an explosion,” Miss Sadie said, her accent thick, like the humid air that hovered heavy around me. “It makes people take notice of things they might have overlooked.”
I sat back on my haunches, annoyed that my sorrowful thoughts had been not only interrupted but seemingly overheard. What was Miss Sadie talking about this time? Whose death?
“This is the way with the Widow Cane. Her death causes people to notice things they have overlooked,” she continued.
My mind had to work backward. I recalled the name. The abandoned mine shaft where Ned and Jinx had made their fireworks—it had been on the Widow Cane’s property near the mine. I tried to shut out the story I knew was coming, but Miss Sadie’s words pulled at me. It was like being drawn out of the dark mine, only to emerge squinting into the bright light of day. I preferred to stay lost in the darkness of my dismal thoughts.
Unbidden, Miss Sadie went on. “Mr. Devlin and his mine people have a sudden interest in that little stretch of land near the edge of the woods that before had only been a pleasant spring and a shady place to sit between Manifest and the mine.”
I could hear it coming like a freight train and there was no stopping it. I kept my back to her.
“Lester Burton, he goes back and forth across that stretch of land. He observes it from this way and that. They even call a new geologist to make a report. The townspeople keep a watchful eye, but ask questions only among themselves.”
Keep talking. I’m not listening.
“Before long Mr. Devlin himself pays a visit to the public land office to inquire about purchasing the land now that the Widow Cane is dead. This is his mistake. Mrs. Larkin’s neighbor works in that office. Mr. Devlin, he barely leaves his seat before half the town knows he wants to buy this land.”
I turned around, but only because I was at the end of one row and starting on another.
“He says he will use it as a picnic area for his miners to eat their lunch. It does not take a diviner to see this is a lie. He barely gives the men time to eat and they do that underground. Too much time is wasted coming up and going down for a few minutes of fresh air. The news spreads and Hadley Gillen calls a meeting. They piece together what I could have told them all along.”
She let off for a long pause, and I swear the words came without my willing them to.
“What? What could you tell them?”
Miss Sadie almost smiled. “Where the grass grows thick and animals refuse to burrow, there is ore below.”
I remembered something from an early part of Miss Sadie’s story. Jinx had seen Mr. Devlin arguing with the mine geologist. It had been something about the coal vein taking a turn and going the wrong direction. Was that what she was talking about?
Miss Sadie picked up where my thoughts left off.
“The vein, it zigs where it should have zagged and runs right under the patch of ground between Devlin’s mine and the town of Manifest—the Widow Cane’s property. Unfortunately, after her death, it was the only patch of ground that neither side could claim as their own.…”
No-Man’s-Land
JULY 20, 1918
Jinx rushed headlong into Shady’s place. “Hey, Shady, you’re not going to believe how many bottles I sold.” He fanned a wad of money.
Shady looked furtively toward the front door as dusk set in. “Now’s probably not a good time.”
Jinx continued, not noticing Shady’s uneasiness. “Your hooch and Velma T.’s elixir are a match made in heaven. It’s been less than two weeks and just about everybody in town—”
“Quite a few of those folks are going to be showing up here any minute for Hadley’s meeting.”
“Why here?”
“Because Hadley only invited one or two people from each fraternal order and he doesn’t want Burton knowing about it. After the cross burning in front of the German hall, folks are a little on edge. But they’re coming, and the way Eudora Larkin’s been doggin’ me all week after that episode at the Women’s Temperance League meeting, I have a feeling she’ll be not far behind them. Your elixir made a lasting impression on her.”
Jinx’s mouth dropped open. “She bought a bottle from Velma T., not me. Besides, who told her to drink a whole bottle in one sitting?” He hesitated. “Do you think she knows we did a little tampering with it?”
“You’ve been selling it all over town, so I think she might have a pretty good idea.”
Jinx grimaced. “Well, there was extra and I figured I was doing Velma T. a favor to get her elixir out among the ailing public.”
“I’m sure that was your utmost priority,” Shady said with a sideways glance.
They heard footsteps crunching on the gravel outside.
“Quick,” Shady whispered. He hoisted up a movable panel behind the bar that revealed a hidden stash of whiskey bottles.
“What’s that for?” Jinx asked in astonishment.
“It’s for hiding things. What’s it look like? Get in and stay there.” Jinx barely had time to stuff his wad of money into his overalls and crawl inside before the front door opened.
The space was dark and cramped. Jinx shifted to find a more comfortable position and noticed a pinhole of light. He strained to reach it and placed his eye against a perfect peephole, through which he could see most of the bar’s seating area of small wooden tables and chairs.
It was Chester Thornhill who entered. Chester was a regular customer, who knew nothing of any meeting. “Evening, Shady. I’ll have a shot.”
Jinx heard Shady behind the bar. “Evening, Chester. Going to have a quick one tonight? I’ll bet the missus is waiting for you.”
“I’m in no hurry,” Chester said.
The front door opened again and more people arrived. Jinx watched from his hiding space.
Chairs shifted and scraped against the dusty floor as people took their seats and eyed each other without speaking. There had never been a town meeting before. Normally, each fraternal order would gather in their own hall and discuss their own business. On occasion there might be an awkward encounter in the mercantile or the hardware store, in which members of one nationality might exchange a halted word of greeting with those of another.
Even in church, folks kept to their own. Among the Catholics, the Austrians
went to Mass at eight o’clock, Italians at nine o’clock, and Irish at ten o’clock. Services were divided up similarly among the Lutherans and Methodists.
But in light of the recent goings-on at the mine, the cross burning at the German Fraternal Hall, and the Widow Cane’s death, the whole town was abuzz. With everyone’s wanting to talk and a more than usual desire not to be noticed by Burton and his pit boys, representatives of each nationality and a few others had been asked to the secret meeting at Shady’s place. Chester Thornhill, one of Burton’s crew, had not been invited. But here he was, smack in the middle of it.
Wide-eyed, Chester sipped his drink as Velma T. Harkrader arrived. Soon after, Olaf and Greta Akkerson of Norway took their seats. The Akkersons were the driest couple in town. When they started munching on a few beer nuts, it was too much for Chester to swallow.
“What’s going on here, Shady?” Chester blustered as Casimir and Etta Cybulskis from Poland joined the growing crowd, their four-year-old daughter, Eva, in tow.
“Why, we’re having a discussion on prairie flora and fauna, in honor of the late Widow Cane.” Shady whipped out five glasses and filled them with sarsaparilla.
“Flora and who?”
“Fauna,” Shady replied without apology. “Did you know there are thirty-seven varieties of hydrangea in Crawford County alone?”
Little Eva stared at Chester as she took her first sip of the bubbly sarsaparilla. Then, being eye level with Jinx’s peephole, she peered right at him and giggled.
Chester banged his glass down on the table. “This is a bar, Shady, not a ladies’ tearoom.” He tossed a coin onto the table, nearly running into the Hungarian woman as he stormed out.
Jinx’s hiding spot was getting stuffy and his feet tingled from lack of circulation. But even after being spotted by Eva, he couldn’t take his eye away from the drama unfolding before him.
The Hungarian woman, her bracelets and beads jangling, took her place alone at the bar. Shady filled a shot glass for her and couldn’t help smiling. Never had there been such an array of people in his establishment. Some were regulars, unbeknownst to their wives, while others would normally sooner be caught dead than set foot across his threshold. But here they all were.