Authors: Julia Watts
“Smart aleck,” I say, putting the tiny phone to my ear.
When Isabella comes to the phone, I say, “Hey, it’s Miranda. We’re taking a vote on whether or not we should mail Rick the letter.”
“Of course you should mail it,” Isabella says. “This isn’t just about him messing with our restaurant anymore.He’s a murderer! And we have to do what we can to help the woman he killed.”
“And what if he has to pay with his life for what he did?”
“That’s for Juanita to decide.”
“Well, that’s two yeses, then.”
“You and me?” Isabella says.
“You and Abigail.”
“You voted no?” There’s an edge to her voice.
“Adam and I haven’t voted yet.”
“Well, when you do, I know you’ll make the right choice.” Then Isabella whispers, “Customers, gotta go” and hangs up.
I hand Adam the phone. “That’s another yes. She didn’t even have to think about it.”
Adam flops on the grass. “Then why am I thinking so hard I feel like my head will explode?”
“I don’t know. I’m doing it, too.” I flop on the grass beside him. “Maybe it’s our personalities.”
“Is there any way your powers—or your mom’s or granny’s— could predict what will happen if Rick goes to see Juanita at the river?”
“I can see what people are thinking, but I can’t predict what they’re going to do. Granny and Mom have visions sometimes, but they can only make predictions about what the living will do. Living people can’t predict the behavior of the dead.”
Adam runs his fingers through his spiky hair. “Well, that’s too bad. Maybe you should just go ahead and tell me your vote. If you vote yes, what I think won’t matter anyway.”
“That’s an awfully wimpy way of handling things.”
“Hey, I never claimed to be all manly,” Adam says. “If I was, you wouldn’t have to protect me from getting beaten up all the time.”
The wheels in my head are spinning so fast it’s hard to turn my thoughts into speech. “Okay,” I say. “Here’s what I think. You know how Mom was telling us that whatever happened we’d have to face the consequences of our actions?”
“Yeah, parents love to talk about consequences.”
“Well, it seems to me that Rick Boshears has done a lot of terrible things, and he’s never had to face the consequences. If we don’t give him the letter, he’s getting a free pass, again, to keep on hurting people.”
“So you’re saying your vote is yes?”
I hadn’t realized that was what I was saying, but I guess it was. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“And what if the consequences are that he gets killed by a ghost?”
“Well, when you think about it, he doesn’t have to go to the river just because the letter says to. When we give him the letter, we’re giving him a choice. Whatever happens to him is a consequence of that choice.”
“You’re getting too deep for me,witch girl.But I agree with you. At least I think I do.”
“So should we head on over to the post office?”
“You know what’s weird?” Adam says. “We have to ride past Rick Boshears’ garage to get to the post office. Do you think if we just kind of walked into the garage and handed him the letter, he’d beat us to death with a tire iron or something?”
“No.” When I say it, I know it’s true. “He wouldn’t hurt us because we’re kids and he knows adults will come looking for us. He knew he could kill Juanita because she was so alone here.”
Adam stands up. “If that’s not evil, I don’t know what is. See, that’s why I think we should hand the letter to him in person. I want him to know that we’re on to him…that there are people in this town who know him for what he is.”
I get on my bike. “Okay, I can understand that. But we’re not gonna preach him a sermon or anything. We’re gonna get in there, give him the letter, and get out.”
We park our bikes next to Rick’s truck, which is wallpapered with bumper stickers like, “Honk again, I’m reloading,” and “Stop crime: abolish the federal reserve.” A knot of fear squeezes my stomach. I’m not afraid of ghosts, and I’m not afraid of the powers and problems having the Sight gives me. But I am afraid of hate, and the closer I get to Rick Boshears, the more I can feel the force of his hate.
When we walk into the garage, it looks empty. But then I see a man’s blue-jean legs and big black boots sticking out from under a pickup truck.
“Excuse me,” I say, fear making my voice a mousey squeak. When the legs under the truck don’t move, I squeak again louder.
This time he slides out from under the truck. A little board with wheels is under his back. His hands and face are black with grease. “Look,” he says, “no offense, kids, but I don’t want to buy any cookies or candles or gift wrap or whatever it is you’re selling.”
I try to answer him, but the black grease on his face makes me think of a black cast-iron skillet, and then my mind is deep in his memories, his past, and he’s picking up the skillet because he’s mad—not mad at Juanita but mad at himself for loving her even though Reverend Bobby says it’s wrong. The handle of the skillet is hot, but he doesn’t notice it’s burning his hand as he swings it hard as a baseball bat. It hisses when it hits Juanita’s face, and her head turns, farther than a person’s head ought to turn. As she falls, the back of her head hits the edge of the counter. When she hits the floor, she is still.
I hear Adam saying, “We’re not selling anything,” and just like that, I’m back in the present.
“Wait, I know you,” Rick says. “I fixed your mama’s car a while back, and when you shook my hand I thought you’d never let go of it. You’re the one they call the witch girl, aren’t you?”
“That’s what they call me,” I say. “But I’m not a witch, and I’m not selling Girl Scout cookies. We just came to deliver a message.” I hold out the note from Juanita.
He takes it in his big, greasy hand and looks down at it. “Where did you get this?”
“From Juanita,” I say. “Or, I guess, from her spirit down at the river.”
His eyes are black as coal and gleam with anger mixed with fear, the most dangerous of combinations.
“Look, witch girl, I don’t know what you and Charlie Chan there think you know, but here’s the truth: This Juanita woman used to be my girlfriend, but that was back before a very important man opened my eyes to the dangers of race mixing. As soon as I found the Lord and wised up, I broke up with that little senorita and sent her back to Mexico.” He wads up the note in his big, greasy fist. “So I don’t know what kind of bill of goods you’re trying to sell me with this letter, but whatever it is, I ain’t buying it.” He tosses the paper wad into the trash can in the corner. “And I’ll tell you something else. If you two don’t stay out of my business, and I mean that literally and figuratively, I’m gonna be calling your parents and the police both.”
“Yes, sir,” Adam and I say. We’re backing out of the garage.
“I don’t know what a man’s got to do to get a little peace and privacy these days,” Rick says. His face is red, and a vein bulges in his forehead.
He picks up a heavy wrench, and I begin to wonder if I should’ve been so sure that he wouldn’t hurt us. I remember something Granny told me once about the Sight: Just because you can tell what people are thinking doesn’t mean you can tell what people will do. Especially when it comes to the kind of people who often act without thinking.
Rick wasn’t thinking when he hit Juanita with that skillet. He was just feeling overwhelming anger. I grab Adam’s arm and start to run. He falls into step with me.
“Children should be seen and not heard!” Rick yells behind us. “I’d better not see or hear from you two again!”
Adam and I jump on our bikes and pedal like crazy. We don’t stop till we get to Adam’s front yard where we collapse, sweaty and out of breath.
“Okay,” Adam says, gasping. “I think we’ve just got to admit defeat on this one. Or partial defeat, anyway. We know Rick defaced the restaurant and drugged the food. And way worse than that, we know he killed Juanita. But we can’t prove anything and I’m pretty sure if we tried to push the issue further, what was left of us would end up keeping Juanita company down by the river.”
My throat aches like I’m going to cry, but I swallow hard and blink, not wanting to freak out Adam with my girly emotions. “It’s so unfair,” I say. “No justice for the Ramirezes, no freedom for Juanita’s spirit. But Rick gets his freedom to keep on hurting people.”
Adam shakes his head. “I know. People always ask me why I love horror movies—how can I enjoy something so scary. But the truth is, horror movies don’t scare me. Real life is what’s scary. Because too much of the time in real life, the bad guys win.”
It’s been three days since we gave up. We told Isabella, who was very sweet and said she appreciated everything we had done. The fact that she was so nice made me feel even worse that we failed her. And I can’t even let myself think of how we failed Juanita, how she’ll be trapped at the river forever.
It’s Friday night, so Adam is over, and Mom is trying to cheer us up by letting us bake chocolate chip cookies. Abigail can’t really help since she has to stay in her mirror, but she seems entertained by watching us.
“So every time you open the door of the…the icebox, the light comes on, and every time you close it, the light goes off?” she asks.
“It’s called a refrigerator,” Adam says. “But that’s how it works, yeah.”
“Amazing.” Abigail’s voice is full of wonder.
The front doorbell rings, and I jump a little because it’s so unexpected. We never have surprise visitors at our house. Except for Adam and Isabella and the people who come to see Granny for cures and potions, we never have visitors at all.
I hear Mom open the door and say in an uncertain tone, “Would you like to come in?” A minute later she calls, “Miranda! Adam! I think you’d better come into the living room.”
I pick up Abigail’s mirror to bring with us.
Rick Boshears is sitting on our living room couch, somehow looking smaller than he looked the other day. His shoulders are slumped, and his face is pale and drawn. His long silver hair is lank and unwashed and his clothes are rumpled. “You folks will have to excuse my appearance,” he says, and his words are slow and slurred. “I haven’t slept for a couple of nights.”
“And you’ve been drinking,” Granny says. She is sitting in the wingback chair in the corner, with Methuseleh on her shoulder.
Rick nods and looks down at his hands folded in his lap. “Yes, ma’am. I’m not proud of it, but I can’t say I’ve drawn a sober breath these past three days.”
“Demon rum! Demon rum!” Methuseleh squawks.
“Nobody asked for your input, Methuseleh,” Mom says. “Rick, can I offer you some coffee?”
“No thank you, ma’am,” he says. “I just came here to ask a question, then I’ll be on my way.”
Granny looks at him. “You’re in pain, ain’t you, son?”
He nods, and a tear slides down his cheek. He wipes it away with a big fist.
“You brought it on yourself, didn’t you?” Granny says. “But you brought it on other people, too. More pain than you can ever heal.”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s true,” Rick says, and to my shock, he’s not hiding his tears anymore. Big sobs shake him.
Mom rises and gives him a handkerchief. “There,” she says. “It’s good to cry. Cry all you need to, and when you’re ready to talk, you can ask your question.”
I don’t get to see Mom at her job, but I know she handles this kind of emotional stuff all the time. And I can see she’s good at it.
Rick wipes his eyes with the hanky and blows his nose with a big honk. “I’ve got to ask you kids. Juanita. Did you really see her?”
“Yeah,” I say. Granny shoots me a look, and I say, “Yes, sir. We saw her. And she wrote that note and told us to give it to you.”
“It’s her handwriting,” Rick says. “I don’t know how it could be, but it is.”
Methuseleh squawks from Granny’s shoulder. “What fools these mortals be!”
Granny’s been teaching Methuseleh some lines out of Shakespeare.
Rick looks at the parrot. “Huh?”
“Don’t worry about the bird,” Mom says. “We’ve all learned to ignore him.”
Rick looks at me, and when our eyes meet, I hear his thoughts just the same as if he were saying them out loud: I’ve done so many bad things, so many terrible things, just because I wanted answers. I wanted life to make sense. And now nothing makes sense. All I know is I never stopped loving you, Juanita.
“Do you want us to take you to her?” I say.
He’s crying too hard to talk, but he nods.
“Mom?” I say. “Can we go to the river?”
“All right, but we’ll go in my car. Mr. Boshears is in no condition to drive.”
“I’ll stay here,” Granny says. “I’ll know what’s going on anyway.”She looks at Rick,then at Mom and me.“He’s no danger to you now.”
Rick rides in the front passenger seat, and Adam and I are in the back with Abigail in her mirror. It’s a strange trip because nobody says anything out loud, and yet I can hear everybody’s thoughts jumbled together: Mom’s I can’t believe I’m doing this, Rick’s I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, Adam’s What if Juanita kills him right in front of us? Only Abigail’s thoughts are closed to me.