Somehow I manage to press the shutter release and take the picture before I drop the camera; only the strap around my neck saves it from hitting the ground. Grabbing Papa Dan's hand, I practically drag him behind me as I hurry around the corner of the house. Mom stands in the driveway talking to a small blond man with a deep Texas drawl. He wears a brown uniform and tan cowboy boots. Relief sweeps through me when I see letters plastered across the door of his white SUV that tell me this man is the county sheriff. My first instinct is to tell him what I saw. But what did I see?
"There you are," Mom says. "Come meet Sheriff Ray Don Dilworth. Sheriff, this is my father-in-law, Daniel Piper, and my daughter, Tansy."
"Mornin', young lady…sir," he says, smiling.
I pause beside them and open my mouth to reply, but I'm too shaken up to speak.
Mom pulls off her sunglasses. "What's wrong?"
I didn't answer.
I should've known Cedar Canyon wouldn't have a place to process film. Which is one more reason I should ask for a digital camera for Christmas. Putting away my 35 millimeter would be hard, though. It's been a friend for so many years. A better one than Hailey, that's for sure.
While Papa Dan scans the magazine rack, I talk to the pregnant woman behind the counter at City Drug—Mary Jane, according to the name tag on her blouse. "Saturday, I'm driving into Amarillo. I'd be happy to drop off your film at the one-hour photo," she says.
"Thanks, but you don't have to do that."
"If it was any trouble, I wouldn't offer," she assures me. "I'll run my errands and pick it up when I'm heading home."
I hesitate a moment before handing Mary Jane the film. I don't even know this woman. But I'm not sure how long it will take to get my darkroom up and running, and I doubt Mom and I will be going to Amarillo anytime soon. I also need some answers. I need to know what did I see and if the camera catches the images of the ghostly figure at the tree. Or t'was just a product of my wild imaginations.
Mary Jane drops the film into her purse. I have a sudden urge to grab it, to not let it out of my sight. That roll contains the proof that I'm either losing my mind or I'm not.
"Write down your name and number and how you want the pictures," Mary Jane says, handing me a pad of paper and a pen.
"How I want them?"
"The size and finish." Reaching behind her, she presses a hand against the small of her back, winces, and mutters, "Roger better not expect me to cook dinner tonight. In fact, I think I'm swearing off cooking until after this baby comes."
As I'm writing down the information, a tall, balding, middle-aged man wearing a white pharmacist's smock walks up to Mary Jane behind the counter. He winks at me, points at her stomach, and whispers, "Being pregnant makes her cranky."
One row behind us, Papa Dan flips the pages of a magazine and whistles a jazzy tune. Satisfied that he's occupied, I hand the paper to Mary Jane.
"I don't think we've met," the pharmacist says. "I'm Jim Bob Cooper, chief pill pusher, bottle washer, and owner of this bustling enterprise. Call me J. B."
Jim Bob, Mary Jane, Sheriff Ray Don Dilworth. Does everyone in this town over the age of thirty have two first names? I introduce myself and we shake hands.
"Oh, you're the writer's daughter."
"Yes," I murmur.
"I heard you folks made it into town. Nice to have you here." J. B. gestures toward the cashier. "The ray of sunshine behind the register is Mary Jane McAllister."
"Nice to meet you," Mary Jane says. "You'll have to come back for a chocolate soda or a root-beer float some afternoon. The fountain's a popular after-school place." She nods toward the far side of the shop, where a row of chrome stools with round red tops lines an old-fashioned soda fountain counter. Glasses in all shapes and sizes are stacked on shelves behind the bar, and the wall is covered with a chalkboard menu and old signs advertising Coca-Cola and Hires Root Beer.
Before I can respond, the door opens, and two girls and a guy walk in. I flinch when I realize it's Alison and her A-hole groupies.
The freckle-faced guy struts in like a puffed-up rooster. His gaze cuts in my direction, and his mouth curves up at one corner. He nudges Alison with his elbow, and she looks at me and says, "Oh, hi."
"Hi," I say quietly, grateful the brim of my hat hides my eyes when the other girl smirks and glances away. Lowering my head, I take off to look for Mom's ibuprofen.
"Hey, hoodlums," J. B. calls out to the threesome, and they tease back and forth with him while I scan the aisles.
"My kids have missed you, Alison," Mary Jane says, sounding cheerful now. "You sure you can't squeeze in a little time to babysit for me every once in a while?"
"Sorry," Alison replies. "I wish I could, but between school, cheerleading, and volunteer work in Amarillo, my weekends are going to be totally packed this year."
Mary Jane sighs. "Your mom told me you were crazy busy. She said you're shooting for the honor roll this year. Good for you."
"Yeah, Alison's become completely boring," the rude girl says. "She has this sudden bizarre obsession with the letter A."
"That's 'cause she never learned the rest of the alphabet, Shanna," Rooster Boy calls from the direction of the soda fountain.
Alison laughs. "Shut up, Jenks."
"I'm just sayin'…," he mutters.
I find Mom's ibuprofen, then slowly start up front again. From the corner of my eye, I see Rooster Boy spinning in a circle on one of the soda fountain stools. As I place my purchase on the counter, he gets up and starts toward me. "Hey, I don't think you've had the pleasure of meeting me," he says. "I'm Jon Jenks."
"Idiot," Alison murmurs, her mouth pulling into a tight smile that isn't really a smile at all. She and Shanna wander over to a candy rack and disappear behind it.
"I'm Tansy," I tell Jon.
"So I heard. Welcome to the big city." He nods toward the girls. "Don't worry about the wildlife; they aren't as fierce as they seem."
"I'm not worried."
"Now I, on the other hand, bite." Wiggling his brows, he starts off toward the magazine racks.
J. B. shakes his head and sighs. "Always the clown." Shifting his attention from Rooster Boy to Papa Dan, he asks, "Is that gentleman looking at magazines your grandfather? I heard he used to live here way back before I was born."
"Yes," I say. "His name's Daniel Piper." When the pharmacist calls out a greeting to Papa Dan, I lower my voice and say, "He doesn't talk."
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Papa Dan yells, "WwwwoooooOOO-WweeeeeEEEE!"
Giggles drift from behind the candy rack.
"He doesn't talk much," I add, my face heating up when I notice that my grandfather is looking at a Cosmo magazine while Rooster Boy snoops over his shoulder.
"Well, I'm pleased to meet both of you. I look forward to meeting your mother, too. It's not every day I get to talk to a famous author." J. B.'s smile is kind, but I don't feel any less mortified. "What else can I help you with today?" he asks.
"You don't sell film, do you? I need five rolls of black-and-white."
"Yes, we have film." He stoops to search beneath the counter.
I scan the store but don't see the girls. Rooster Boy has moved to the opposite end of the magazine rack from Papa Dan. I feel Mary Jane watching me and glance at her. She settles one hand on her bulging belly and says, "When we heard a published author was moving to town, my husband bought one of your mom's books at the grocery store. Something about a zombie girl."
Rooster Boy sputters a laugh, and I wish for the hundredth time my mom was a secretary or a nurse or a lawyer.
I shrug. "I'm pretty sure that's the goal." Faking interest in the merchandise on a nearby shelf, I pick up a box, then realize I'm reading the directions for applying hemorrhoid medication and set it back down. I search the shelves for something else to help me escape the woman's scrutiny. Enemas. Home pregnancy tests. Condoms. Tampons. No place is safe!
"The Peterson house ought to give your mom plenty of material for her books," Mary Jane goes on.
Hoping she'll forget about me if I ignore her, I move to the analgesic creams. I hear a girl's giggle in the next aisle, hear my name whispered, followed by a shhhh. Ducking my head, I read the label on a tube. Apply small amount to cut, abrasion, or wound to reduce sensitivity.
"Here you go, Tansy," J. B. calls, and I walk over to the counter as he hands Mary Jane the film. "Sorry that took so long. We don't get many requests for black-and-white."
Mary Jane rings up the sale. "Have you heard that the Peterson kid who lived in your house back in the thirties committed suicide?"
Startled, I nod and say, "Mr. Quattlebaum told me."
"My grandma says he was nuttier than a fruitcake. He was a class ahead of her in school, but she and pretty much everyone else steered clear of him. I grew up hearing her stories about the strange things he'd do. Grandma said he used to walk the railing on the old wagon bridge that crosses the creek in the canyon. Have you been out there?"
"Not yet."
She shakes her head. "A person would have to be crazy to do that. It's a long drop to the creek bed. Sometimes people would see him sitting alone in the canyon, playing his violin. Grandma said he was an artist, too. He painted pictures."
And wrote poems… I comment to myself
"They say he was a loner. A real oddball. Or he might've been depressed. Back then, nobody thought kids suffered from depression." they went on.
Excusing myself, I walk over to the magazine rack to get Papa Dan, ready to make my escape. Rooster Boy is flipping through a car magazine as I pass behind him. "Let's go," I say to my grandfather. I put back his magazine and lead him down the aisle.
"See ya Monday at school, Zombie Girl," Rooster Boy mutters as we pass by. Heat scorches my neck. I don't look at him, just keep my focus on the door.
"What the heck is up with that girl?" I heard the b*tch girl named Shanna said as we went outside.
As I'm driving through town, every person we pass waves at us as if we're old friends. I feel weird waving back, but I don't want to seem unfriendly and earn another lecture from Mom. I brush aside thoughts of Alison and her friends, how self-conscious I felt around them, how Shanna completely ignored me. Instead, I think of Henry Peterson and Mary Jane's grandmother. I wonder if Mom would let me drive the forty miles into Amarillo. I could tell her I want to go shopping. She hates malls, so maybe she'd let me go alone. I want to go to Willow Grove and ask the old woman about Henry.
We cross the city limits, and the landscape empties. In my mind, I picture Henry sitting in the turret with only his violin to keep him company, shut off from the world. Mary Jane called him an oddball for it, but I don't consider his behavior to be all that strange. Maybe Henry and I are two of a kind.
As I make the turn onto the road that leads to the house, I glance at Papa Dan and the hairs on my arms stand on end. He stares out the windshield, a far-off, haunted look in his eyes. I wonder if he sees what I see: the dirt road ahead, the man mowing the tall weeds in the parched yard alongside our driveway, the Cedar Canyon Handyman Service truck parked there. Does he see the house? The hollow-eyed windows? Henry's turret sticking up from the roof like a vulgar insult?
A shiver snakes through me. I have a feeling he's looking at a very different scene. One I might see, too, if the light shifted.
Or if I looked through my camera's viewfinder.