ain’t a crime, just like it ain’t a crime for a woman to use her own kitchen or a man to go in and work on a Saturday morning. That’s where he was. In his office, and the secretary he dragged in with him to testify to his whereabouts. He had it all worked out.”
“Yeah.” Lilah thought of Cranmer Stark on the cellar stairs, thought of the thing he maybe hadn’t seen—but maybe had. She said, “If I was you, I’d tell Mrs. Stark to sell that house. Or burn it, maybe. If it was mine, I’d burn it.”
“Me, too. Sidonia claimed she hadn’t noticed anything funny . . . but she was looking over her shoulder the whole time. I was, too.”
“I don’t think it can hurt people ’cept in the cellar, and maybe only after dark. I mean, it had two months to get me or Mrs. Stark—or Mr. Stark—and it didn’t.” She shivered. “But it wanted to.”
“I never saw the boy but twice. Was he . . . was he a mean little boy?”
“No. That’s the worst thing. He wasn’t mean at all.” She gulped, feeling her eyes start to prickle with tears. “He just wanted his daddy to love him. And his daddy didn’t love him, and his mama didn’t love him, and I didn’t love him, neither. Didn’t nobody love him, and maybe that’s enough to make anybody mad.” She got a handkerchief out of her purse and cried. Sheriff Patterson drove and didn’t say anything.
Finally, calm again, Lilah said, “Where’re you taking me, sheriff? You planning to drive all night?”
“It’s another fifteen minutes to the state line. That should give you as much head start as you need on any trouble I can’t box up.”
“Well,” Lilah said with a sigh, “Arkansas can’t be any worse’n Mississippi.”
The state line was marked by a sign so weather-beaten that only the letters “ARKA” were legible. Sheriff Patterson pulled over. He said abruptly, “What do you think killed Butch? Do you think it was just fright?”
“I dunno,” Lilah said. “I told you, he hadn’t seen it, and he didn’t feel it. I mean, you felt it—not right away maybe, but you felt it.”
“Yeah,” said the sheriff. “I felt it all right.”
“Butch didn’t. He didn’t feel it at all until he looked up from . . . from the body. And if I got to guess, I think it was like it was too sudden. Like, my brothers knew a boy who died of jumping in a lake, because it was so cold and he went in all at once, and his heart just stopped. I think it was like that.”
“You don’t think . . . you don’t think the little boy could have done it?”
“No,” Lilah said.
“That’s good,” said the sheriff. “That’s good to hear.”
Lilah got out of the car, slung her purse on her shoulder. She started toward Arkansas, then suddenly turned and ran back to the car. The sheriff looked up at her.
“Burn the house,” Lilah said. “Do it yourself. Do it tonight.”
Sheriff Patterson looked at her a moment, silently; they both knew what had killed Butch Collier, and it hadn’t been fright. Butch had seen the watcher’s face.
The sheriff touched the brim of his hat, said, “Ma’am, you’re a smart woman.” He shifted into first, pulled the car in a long, slow loop just shy of the Arkansas state line, and started back for Hyperion.
Lilah watched until his tail-lights were no more than dim red sparks in the distance. Then she turned, squared her shoulders, and—sixteen years old and six hours a widow—walked out of Mississippi forever.
The Half-Sister
I was cleaning the lamps when the stranger knocked.
I knew it was a stranger, right off, because whoever it was didn’t know about the postern door that’s the only thing in the front wall that opens. They’d knocked at the ceremonial gate that hasn’t been used since Father reached his majority and won’t be again until Gunther comes of age in another twenty years—if Father hasn’t quarreled irrevocably with Gertrude before then and disinherited the whole pack of
“Yeah.” Lilah thought of Cranmer Stark on the cellar stairs, thought of the thing he maybe hadn’t seen—but maybe had. She said, “If I was you, I’d tell Mrs. Stark to sell that house. Or burn it, maybe. If it was mine, I’d burn it.”
“Me, too. Sidonia claimed she hadn’t noticed anything funny . . . but she was looking over her shoulder the whole time. I was, too.”
“I don’t think it can hurt people ’cept in the cellar, and maybe only after dark. I mean, it had two months to get me or Mrs. Stark—or Mr. Stark—and it didn’t.” She shivered. “But it wanted to.”
“I never saw the boy but twice. Was he . . . was he a mean little boy?”
“No. That’s the worst thing. He wasn’t mean at all.” She gulped, feeling her eyes start to prickle with tears. “He just wanted his daddy to love him. And his daddy didn’t love him, and his mama didn’t love him, and I didn’t love him, neither. Didn’t nobody love him, and maybe that’s enough to make anybody mad.” She got a handkerchief out of her purse and cried. Sheriff Patterson drove and didn’t say anything.
Finally, calm again, Lilah said, “Where’re you taking me, sheriff? You planning to drive all night?”
“It’s another fifteen minutes to the state line. That should give you as much head start as you need on any trouble I can’t box up.”
“Well,” Lilah said with a sigh, “Arkansas can’t be any worse’n Mississippi.”
The state line was marked by a sign so weather-beaten that only the letters “ARKA” were legible. Sheriff Patterson pulled over. He said abruptly, “What do you think killed Butch? Do you think it was just fright?”
“I dunno,” Lilah said. “I told you, he hadn’t seen it, and he didn’t feel it. I mean, you felt it—not right away maybe, but you felt it.”
“Yeah,” said the sheriff. “I felt it all right.”
“Butch didn’t. He didn’t feel it at all until he looked up from . . . from the body. And if I got to guess, I think it was like it was too sudden. Like, my brothers knew a boy who died of jumping in a lake, because it was so cold and he went in all at once, and his heart just stopped. I think it was like that.”
“You don’t think . . . you don’t think the little boy could have done it?”
“No,” Lilah said.
“That’s good,” said the sheriff. “That’s good to hear.”
Lilah got out of the car, slung her purse on her shoulder. She started toward Arkansas, then suddenly turned and ran back to the car. The sheriff looked up at her.
“Burn the house,” Lilah said. “Do it yourself. Do it tonight.”
Sheriff Patterson looked at her a moment, silently; they both knew what had killed Butch Collier, and it hadn’t been fright. Butch had seen the watcher’s face.
The sheriff touched the brim of his hat, said, “Ma’am, you’re a smart woman.” He shifted into first, pulled the car in a long, slow loop just shy of the Arkansas state line, and started back for Hyperion.
Lilah watched until his tail-lights were no more than dim red sparks in the distance. Then she turned, squared her shoulders, and—sixteen years old and six hours a widow—walked out of Mississippi forever.
The Half-Sister
I was cleaning the lamps when the stranger knocked.
I knew it was a stranger, right off, because whoever it was didn’t know about the postern door that’s the only thing in the front wall that opens. They’d knocked at the ceremonial gate that hasn’t been used since Father reached his majority and won’t be again until Gunther comes of age in another twenty years—if Father hasn’t quarreled irrevocably with Gertrude before then and disinherited the whole pack of
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