Fly Like a Bird Read online

  The two tipsy friends swept up the remains of the ceramic zucchini and buried the evidence of their crime in the trailer park dumpster so Walter wouldn’t be tipped off to the zucchini murder. Then they headed back to the Blue Moon to tell the sheriff and their drinking buddies about their latest hilarious prank.

  As they snuck past the window of Bertha Tuttle’s doublewide trailer next door, the red gingham curtains moved a little.

  Later that night, Uncle Walter and Ivy came back to his trailer to get more bottles of Dr. Pepper for their weekly Saturday game night at Grandma Violet’s house. As soon as they walked in the door, Uncle Walter stopped.

  “Ivy, my trailer’s been violated again.” He pointed to his green recliner, which was never out of place. “Somebody moved my chair.”

  Ivy grabbed Uncle Walter’s arm and looked up at him with her blue eyes. Her nose twitched. “It smells like Uncle Tommy in here. It was him and Reuben again, wasn’t it?”

  Uncle Walter pursed his lips. He sniffed the air. “Yep, that’s the stink of Old Sage.”

  After a quick roll call of Uncle Walter’s cookie jars, they discovered the zucchini, the last vegetable in the alphabet, was missing.

  “First my eggplant and now my zucchini. Cookie jars aren’t safe in this world anymore and no number of locks can keep Tommy from his mischief.”

  Uncle Walter picked up a small ceramic fragment off the floor. He showed Ivy the broken bit of zucchini, resting it in the palm of his well-manicured hand. “Evidence of foul play.”

  Ivy hugged him. “I’m sorry, Uncle Walter. Why can’t Uncle Tommy and Reuben just leave you alone?”

  Uncle Walter ran his hand through his thick black hair. “It’s hard for Tommy to let a good rivalry die.” He shrugged with a heavy, exasperated sigh. “And Reuben, well, he’s just Reuben.”

  Chapter 4

  SPOOKS

  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 ho
use, 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.

  Chapter 5

  EAVESDROPPING ISN’T POLITE

  In Iowa, the seasons are distinct and certain. Summer brings a humid, sweet-smelling heat. Fall carries a cool misty breath of frost. Winter blows cold and blustery. Spring grows a windy fresh rebirth. Each season creates its own beauty in its own time. But as soon as one season arrives, the earth yearns for change and a new season emerges.

  Ivy grew up with that same intense yearning for change.

  The air hung heavy on that hot summer day in 1966. Rivers of sweat left eight-year-old Ivy’s sleeveless white shirt and blue shorts damp and sticky. She couldn’t wait for fall. She parked her bike in the metal rack outside the library. She’d come to see if her best friend, Nick Jerome, was hanging out at his father’s law office on Main Street.

  Nick’s mother, Ellen, who was thirty-three years old but looked much older, had suffered from what Grandma told Ivy was a nervous breakdown. She kept mainly to herself while her husband Peter and son Nick took care of her. She refused to talk to anyone else. But she was often seen out walking the streets of Coffey alone, sometimes at night. Ivy and everyone else in town got used to her adventures on foot and began calling them “Ellen’s walkabouts.”

  Ivy would often see her walking by 4120 in her layered, mismatched clothes and unkempt hair. She looked extremely lonely sometimes, yet other times she seemed determined and bold like a lone explorer on an important mission. Nick seldom mentioned her except to say he needed to go home to check on her.

  She had spoken to Ellen late one summer night when Ivy was in her front yard, catching fireflies in a mason jar. The fogger, a tractor that sprayed huge billows of bug spray throughout the town to get rid of mosquitoes and other insects, headed down Meadowlark Lane.

  Ivy watched Ellen stride onto Meadowlark Lane in the path of the oncoming fogger, but what Ellen didn’t see was a huge poisonous timber rattlesnake, coiled up and enjoying the warmth of the road.

  To avoid breathing the toxic fumes, Grandma always made Ivy run into the house and shut the windows and doors when the fogger came. But that night, frightened for Ellen, Ivy ignored the fogger and ran toward Nick’s mother, pointing and yelling, “Snake!” The loud fogger was nearly upon them and Ellen didn’t hear.

  Ivy grabbed a stick. “Snake!” she yelled again. She hit the snake until it slithered away just as the fogger arrived and Ellen looked up. When the smoke cleared, Nick’s mother was gone but saved from the snake. Ivy could see her continuing her walkabout down the road. Ellen turned and waved her thank you. Ivy waved back. Then Ellen had continued her solitary exploration into the night like a ghostly apparition.

  On that hot summer’s day, on her way to find Nick Jerome, Ivy saw the usually homebound Patty Smith shuffle down the sidewalk toward the Hy-Vee grocery store. She stared at her friend, who was wearing a pink nightgown beneath a long stretched-out sweater in the thick summer heat. What was Patty doing out of her house?

  Before Ivy could call to her, she heard someone yell. Weston Thrasher, the mayor’s son, was leaning against the dime store wall. “Fatty Patty, her big butt’s sore, ‘cause she can’t get through the bathroom door.”

  Ivy flushed with embarrassment for her. The heartbroken Patty turned and glanced at the young taunter for a moment before lumbering on alone. Ivy dashed after her and threw her arms around the women’s soft, sweaty middle. She buried her face in Patty’s old sweater, which smelled faintly of Doritos and her dog Buckshot.

  “Weston’s mean and hateful to everyone,” Ivy said.

  Patty bent down and cupped Ivy’s freckled face in her hands. “Don’t worry about Weston Thrasher. I don’t care if his father is the mayor. That boy is nothing but a backwoods hooligan.”

  Ivy glanced over at the thirteen-year-old boy across the street. “My grandma says Weston’s soul left with his mother when she died.”

  “Well, in that case, I’m sure we’ve got an extra soul floating around our place he could use.”

  Ivy giggled. “What are you doing in town?”

  “Reuben’s in the fields and I was out of Doritos.” She breathed heavily. “Oh my, I’m not used to walking. I need to keep going. Goodbye, dear. Stay away from those Thrashers, if you can.”

  Patty tottered on toward the store to buy more chips to fill her cupboards and her empty heart. Alone on the street, Ivy spied on Weston out of the corner of her eye. Patty Smith wasn’t the only person Weston tormented but most people in Coffey overlooked the boy’s cruelty because his father was the mayor and the banker, and because of the tragic circumstances surrounding his mother’s death.

  Ivy had overheard the story from Edna Jean the librarian when she was talking to Bertha at the library. One chilly winter day about a week after Ivy’s parents’ car accident, Conrad had reported that his much younger wife, Mildred, was missing after unexplainably being gone for several days. Sheriff Carter a
nd his two deputies formed search parties and volunteers from town combed the woods at Conrad’s farm and nearby Hawks Bluff as well as Reuben and Luther’s fields. But they found no trace of Mildred.

  A week later, a few days before Christmas, Conrad found something floating under the old swimmer’s dock in the middle of the placid lake behind his house. It was his beloved wife, drowned but well preserved by the frigid water.

  George Kelsey, the county coroner and town doctor, examined the body. He found that Mildred Thrasher had drowned in the lake. Locals speculated that the slight rocking motion of the floating dock kept the ice from forming in that part of the pond, leading to the discovery of her body. Otherwise, they might not have found her until spring. But how exactly she came to be floating in the peaceful lake remained a mystery that was often whispered about out of earshot of the Thrashers.

  The Baker Funeral Home held Mildred’s service and when the casket closed, so did Sheriff Carter’s investigation. After asking only a few questions, he left his friend Conrad alone with his grief. Without any witnesses, nothing more could be done.

  Conrad raised his son, Weston, without much guidance in the big farmhouse by the lake that took his wife, and Weston soon ran wild.

  Today, Ivy wanted to avoid Weston, so, she took the long way. She crossed the street and headed down the alley between the dime store and the bank to see if Nick was at his father’s law office.

  Weston followed her, chanting in a sing-song voice. “Here comes Poison Ivy. Don’t let her touch you. She poisoned her parents, and they died.”

  Weston scratched imaginary itches all over himself and fell over, clutching his throat. He lay on his back in the alley, writhing desperately as his hands pawed the air.

  Ivy kept walking. “Weston, you’re weird. You know that?”

  “That’s better than being poison.” He ran ahead of her and blocked her way down the gravel alley. “Poison Ivy.”