Devil on My Heels Read online

  He is studying me with this strange look on his face.

  “You thought I came out to the groves to tell Travis on you, didn’t you?”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No!”

  “Just out for a stroll, then?”

  “I happen to like walking in the groves. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  We eye each other. Neither of us looks away. We’re sizing up the situation. We both know we shouldn’t be here, talking to each other. But we’re doing it all the same.

  I slide from the wall.

  Gator jumps down too. “That the only book you got?”

  I sit down on the grass next to Tory Ray’s headstone. There’s a huge hole and a run in my stocking, probably from sitting on the stone wall. I tuck my legs under my skirt. “It’s the only book of poems I’ve got with me.”

  “What else you got?” he says.

  I show him my geometry book. He nods, but I can see he’s not interested.

  “What’s that?” he says, pointing to another book sitting on top of my loose-leaf binder.

  “My history book.”

  He reaches over and picks it up. He runs his finger up and down the contents pages, then flips to the index. His finger continues its search. When he doesn’t find whatever it is he’s looking for, he hands it back. “You’re right, it is your history book.”

  I can’t be sure what he means by that. “You want to hear some epitaphs?” I ask.

  “Some what?”

  “Epitaphs. They’re these poems and sentiments you find on people’s gravestones.”

  Gator stares at me for a few seconds, as if he can’t be sure whether or not I’m pulling his leg. I open my notebook and show him some of the epitaphs I collected for Miss Poyer’s class. He reads the one about Rowena Mae Cunningham and laughs.

  “Okay, let’s hear ’em.” He leans his back against the stone wall, making himself at home, while I read him epitaphs. It’s kind of nice, having a live person to read poems to for a change.

  There is something comfortable and familiar about being here with Gator. It’s not the same as when we were kids, playing in the groves. But still, sitting here on the grass, laughing ourselves sick over some of the epitaphs I read to him, reminds me of those other times and how much fun we used to have before my dad and Jacob Tully and a few other folks decided to put a stop to it. Back when Gator was this boy I liked to play with. Back before I began thinking of him as one of the pickers—just somebody who worked for my dad.

  I flip through my notebook and find one of my favorites, an epitaph for Matthew Peas, who died in 1874.

  PEAS NOT HERE

  JUST THE POD

  PEAS SHELLED OUT

  AND WENT TO GOD

  From behind us comes the sound of giggling. Gator and I aren’t the only ones laughing. When I turn to look, there is Rosemary Howell, leaning against a tree.

  My first thought is that she’s still following me around. And I’m not sure how to put a stop to that. Gator, though, doesn’t seem at all surprised that she’s here. Or worried— which we both should be, considering what happened last Saturday across from the movie theater. He just smiles at her and nods. Rosemary smiles back and then comes to sit with us.

  “Well,” I tell them, closing up my books and brushing myself off. “It’s almost dinnertime. Delia’s going to wonder where I’ve got to.” I am expecting Rosemary to get up too. Maybe walk part of the way with me since I’ll be going past Luellen’s shop. But she doesn’t move a muscle, except to give me a little wave goodbye.

  12

  On Sunday after church Rayanne, Jinny, and I decide to head over to Whelan’s for a soda. The place has an entirely different atmosphere on Sundays. Usually it’s packed with families that stop in after church for a late breakfast. It’s nothing like it is on weekdays after school.

  Rayanne walks along, talking a blue streak about Whidden Hadley and the prom. I tune her out. Jinny takes care of all the polite responses. But then Rayanne starts in on the migrant workers and how they’ve been stirring up trouble. That gets my attention.

  “What kind of trouble?” I ask.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, Dove, don’t you know what’s been going on in your own backyard? Where you been?”

  I’m not sure how to answer this. “What kind of trouble?” I ask again.

  “Well, they’ve been boycotting the camp store, for one thing.” She flings her gloved hand up in the air, dismissing the whole thing. “They’re only hurting themselves.”

  “From what I hear, the camp store charges three times what the Winn-Dixie does for the same groceries,” Jinny says.

  I look over at her. Sometimes Jinny surprises me.

  “Well, then, no wonder they’re shopping someplace else,” I say. “If they can save money, why not?”

  “And that’s another thing.” Rayanne adjusts the blue net on her hat, pulling it farther down over her eyes. “The money. They’re complaining about not getting paid on time and having some of their wages withheld because they owe money to the store. Well, if they owe money, they got to pay up like everybody else. Isn’t that right, Jinny?”

  Jinny is walking on my other side. She slips off her white gloves—setting her charm bracelet to jingling—and stuffs them in her purse, all the while looking thoughtful. But she doesn’t say anything.

  “Well, if they’re not getting paid on time, that’s not right,” I say. I can’t believe I haven’t heard about this sooner. Although, thinking back, Gator did say something about the store when we were talking in the groves last week. What he didn’t bother to tell me was that there’s been trouble.

  “I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if it’s the pickers who’ve been setting those fires, like everybody says. Just to get back at Travis Waite and them,” Rayanne prattles on. “My daddy says if somebody doesn’t put a lid on it soon, this whole thing could boil over and make a real mess.”

  Rayanne’s dad is president of the Benevolence Savings and Loan. He’s in a good position to know just about everybody’s business around here, including the folks who own the camp store.

  “A lid on what?” I ask. “Rayanne, you’re not making any sense.”

  She doesn’t answer. We’ve turned onto Main Street and a familiar silver-blue T-bird is coming our way. Rayanne grabs my arm.

  “Ooo, it’s Chase. Do something. Wave!”

  “You’ve got arms. Wave to him yourself,” I tell her.

  Right about then Chase pulls his T-bird up to the curb next to us.

  “Hey, Rayanne. Jinny.” He shifts his eyes my way and grins. “Hey, Dove.”

  My heart does a happy little skip. Lately it’s been doing that whenever Chase shows up unexpectedly.

  Rayanne leans against the passenger side door. “We’ve been talking about the pickers,” she says.

  “Yeah?” Chase looks straight ahead through his windshield. I can tell he’s not all that interested in what Rayanne has to say. It dawns on me that he probably already knows what’s going on.

  “I could use a ride home,” I tell him. “If you’re heading in that direction.”

  Rayanne snaps to attention and shoots me a look. “I thought we were going to Whelan’s.” She glares at me, then looks over at Chase. “You want to come with us?” she asks.

  “Dove here needs a ride home,” he says.

  Rayanne’s fury—hotter than the heat rising from the sidewalk—radiates all around me as I slip into the front seat of Chase’s car. “Say hey to Whidden for me,” I call back to her as we pull off.

  I settle myself into the soft bucket seat. I know the T-bird is going to fly like the wind the second we are outside the town limits, so I take off my hat, which is nothing more than a little wedge of pink with tiny white flowers and a pink veil that matches my pink sheath dress.

  “Do you know anything about what’s going on with the pickers and the camp store?” I ask Chase before we are halfway down the block.

&nb
sp; He looks over at me. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Rayanne.”

  “Right. Rayanne Beecham. The Louella Parsons of Panther County. What’d she say?”

  I tell him.

  “I don’t know much more than that myself,” he says.

  “I have a feeling there’s more to this than a few upset pickers arguing about their wages going to pay their store bill.”

  Chase shrugs. “Maybe.” He reaches over and rests his hand on mine. My heart is pounding double-time. “You want to see something that’ll make your eyes pop out?” he asks.

  “I have to get home. Delia’s waiting on dinner.” Delia always cooks us a big Sunday dinner, then she has the rest of the afternoon off. If I’m late, I’ll never hear the end of it.

  “Come on, Dove. It’ll be fun.”

  “What is it?” I have to admit, I’m curious.

  “I can’t tell you. I have to show you.”

  “Delia’ll have a fit if this cuts into her afternoon off.”

  “It’s not gonna take all that long.”

  “Well, I guess it’s okay,” I tell him.

  He switches on the radio and “All I Have to Do Is Dream” comes on. There doesn’t seem to be much else to do but sit back, listen to the Everly Brothers, and wait to see where Chase is taking me.

  After a while, I say, “Who runs that camp store, anyway?”

  “Are you on that again?”

  “So what if I am? I want to know is all.”

  Chase starts slapping one palm against the steering wheel, keeping time to a Jerry Lee Lewis song that has come on. “Travis Waite owns the store. He owns the whole camp.”

  “Travis Waite? He’s their crew boss!”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that.”

  “Why would I? Travis Waite works for my dad, not me. It’s not like he’s somebody I give any thought to, much less care what he does.”

  Chase shrugs. “So what’s the big deal, then? A lot of crew leaders run camps.”

  “Well, how can they be crew bosses and also run the camps and stores?”

  “They’ve got folks working for them. Like Travis. He’s got Moss’s brother, Tyler, and Jimmy’s girlfriend, Maybeth Spencer, taking care of the store.”

  “So he offers the pickers credit. The pickers buy the things they need, and then the cost is taken out of their pay. Is that how it works?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Maybe they’re getting cheated. Maybe that’s what they’re upset about.”

  “What is this? Are you writing a book?”

  This is Chase’s way of letting me know he’s finished answering my questions, so I let it drop.

  A short time later we turn off the main highway and head down a badly paved road. We bump over crater-sized potholes, pass by groves and open meadows. When we come to the bottom of a hill, Chase stops the car. “Watch this,” he says.

  I’m sure Chase has lost his mind, stopping the car in the middle of the road where just about anybody can come barreling down the hill and smash right into us. But he doesn’t seem all that worried.

  I give him a funny look.

  “Just wait,” he says.

  I stare down at my white high heels, flex the pointed toes, and do as he says. I wait. All of a sudden the car begins to roll backward. Uphill!

  My mouth must have dropped open all the way to my knees. Chase has been watching me, I guess waiting to see what I’d do. Now he throws his head back and bellows out a laugh.

  “Spook Hill!” I shout. “This is Spook Hill, right?” I’ve heard about this place all my life, but I’ve never actually been here. Now I’m seeing it with my own eyes, feeling it with my own body. And it really exists. Stopped cars actually do roll backward up the hill. I’ve heard that some folks have even set balls at the bottom of the road just to watch them roll uphill. It’s impossible, but it’s true. It’s like the laws of physics somehow skipped this spot. It’s also downright spooky, which is more than likely how the place got its name.

  “How does it work?” I ask.

  Chase shakes his head. “Nobody knows.” He’s still grinning. He’s so darn happy about surprising me that he can hardly contain himself.

  “But there’s got to be an explanation.”

  “Why? Why not just let it be a mystery? Something to wonder about.” He leans toward me, gently trailing his fingers along the back of my neck. “Like why we care about the people we do,” he whispers close to my ear.

  My whole body goes soft. I know I should make him start up the car right this minute. I know Delia is going to have a fit. But I don’t seem to have the will to move.

  Chase’s lips, gently pressing mine, are as much a surprise as Spook Hill. Soft and easy, sending warm waves rolling under my skin. After that first kiss, my mind must have shut down because the only thing I remember from that afternoon—besides Delia chewing me up one side and down the other for being late—is Chase Tully’s touch.

  13

  On Monday Chase shows up at my locker after my first class to see if I want to go to the drive-in that night. Some Like It Hot is playing. I am pretty sure Chase picked this movie on account of Marilyn Monroe being in it. But I don’t mind.

  With him standing there smiling, leaning against the locker next to mine, I almost forget my dad’s rule about not going out on school nights. And the drive-in is definitely out, no matter what night of the week it is.

  I am having a hard time getting it through my head that Chase is asking me on a date. A real date. It’s all I can do to think straight. “My dad won’t let me go out on a school night,” I tell him.

  Chase just shrugs and says, “No big deal.” Then he heads down the hall.

  I want to go after him, grab him by the arm and say, “Hey, you ever hear of weekends?” But I don’t.

  For the rest of the day all I can think about is how I messed up my chance to go out with Chase. And how he will probably never ask me out again. If I’d been thinking clearly, I might have told him I’d try to figure a way to sneak out of the house and meet him someplace.

  Fortunately Chase must have been thinking along those same lines because long about nine o’clock that night, I hear gravel raining down on the upper part of my bedroom window. I am still up, studying for a history test. When I look out the window, there is Chase, grinning up at me.

  He points to the oak tree next to my window. I know he wants me to sneak down, but I’m not much for climbing trees these days.

  I do a quick check in the mirror, turn out my light so Dad will think I’m asleep, close the door, and tiptoe downstairs. Dad is asleep on the couch in the living room, snoring. The TV is still on.

  I slip out the back door. Chase is waiting for me. “I’ve got the car parked down at the end of the road,” he says.

  “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” I tell him. I’m wearing shorts and sneakers. Not exactly appropriate dating attire for young ladies. Delia would just up and die if she knew. “And if anybody sees us, Dad’ll find out for sure.”

  Chase shakes his head. “He won’t find out. I’ve got it all arranged.”

  Well, now, you have to be curious about something like that, so I follow him down to the T-bird. Chase heads straight for town and parks behind the movie theater on Main Street. The marquee lights are dimmed. The place is closed. They only have a seven-o’clock show on weekdays.

  I’m about to ask him what he thinks he’s doing, when he says, “Just wait, okay?” He takes my hand and leads me to the back door. As soon as he pulls out a key, I know what’s going on. His cousin, Billy Tyler, who is in my grade at school, has been working the Saturday matinees since he was thirteen. Billy’s father—Chase’s uncle—Will Tyler, owns the theater.

  “You got that from Billy,” I say. Chase grins at me and steps aside to let me in the door.

  We hear swooshing sounds coming from inside the theater. Buford Radcliff is sweeping candy wrappers and stale popcorn from between t
he rows. Buford is as old as Methuselah. Half the time he forgets to put his teeth in, like tonight. Only a few wispy strands of white hair float around the top of his practically bald head as he moves back and forth. He looks like a skeleton in baggy clothes.

  Chase puts a finger up to his lips. He points toward the projection room. We both hunker down and sneak up the side aisle by the wall. Buford is humming show tunes from Oklahoma! while he sweeps. He never even looks our way. We make it up to the dark room and watch from the window until he’s finished for the night. Chase stands by the open door, listening until we hear the click of Buford’s key and the slap of the back door.

  Then Chase takes a reel of film and sets up the projector.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “What does it look like I’m doing? We’re going to watch a movie.”

  “You sure you know how to work that thing?”

  “I’ve helped Uncle Will do this hundreds of times.”

  I have my doubts about it being that many times, but when beams of light carry those images down to the screen below, and suddenly there’s John Wayne in Rio Bravo, well, I have to believe Chase knows what he’s doing. We watch the entire movie from upstairs in the projection room. It would be a lot more romantic if we were sitting in the seats down below, instead of on these hard stools, where Chase could put his arm around me or hold my hand or maybe kiss me like he did at Spook Hill the day before, but he just sits by the projector on that dumb stool, watching John Wayne and Ricky Nelson. It’s as if he’s forgotten he brought me along.

  When the movie is over and he’s put the film back in the can, I say, “It’s late. My dad’s probably in bed by now. I have to get home.”

  Chase nods and we slip back downstairs into the theater. Except this time when he takes my hand, he steers me away from the back door and over to this archway beside the stage. He pulls the curtain aside, revealing a hallway behind it. The wall is stone, same as the foundation of the theater, and there are dim lights overhead. It’s a little like walking through a tunnel.

  Downstairs, beneath the stage, are all these old dressing rooms. Chase tells me they are from back when they used to have vaudeville acts before the movie came on. I have been coming to this movie theater since I was five years old and Dad took me to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. All these years I never knew about these secret rooms tucked away below the stage.