08 May 2010
Someone’d find him soon enough. Most prob’ly, no one would care. Poor old booger, Poppy’d worked for him nigh unto three years and no kin ever stopped by.
She wrapped Angel in a yellow blanket and draped the silk binding about the baby’s shoulder so the child could suck on it. Kid’d lost her binkie, again. Three months old and bad already. Poppy hadn’t wanted kids; hadn’t even known she was pregnant.
The screen door slammed behind them as Poppy settled Angel in the basket of the old guy’s rusty beach cruiser.
Geezum, it was hot, even for West Texas in August. Poppy straddled the bike, rummaged around in the pocket of her Daisy Dukes for a scrunchy but pulled out a striped satin ribbon instead. She captured her heavy auburn hair into a low ponytail and blew sweaty bangs off her forehead.
She lost her balance, barely caught Angel as they tumbled into the scrubby weeds outside the rundown house.
Great Googly-Moogly! Whoever said you never forgot how to ride was crazy. Two more attempts, and they wobbled down the dusty street on half-flattened tires
How in the name of Sam Houston had she gotten into this mess? Dozed off for half a little minute, woke up to the cat’s yowling, an’ there was the geezer—laid out on the floor like a bear rug—only not so pretty.
Strange. He wasn’t that kind of sick, not even all that old. More like he had
arthur-i-tis. Bad. But, still, not dead-sick, just couldn’t move around good.
But, dead he was, all right. ‘least it looked that way.
Û
Ma had got tired of Poppy’s sleeping all day and wandering around at night like some ghost. They’d got her at the agency when she wasn’t but a baby—wanted a little girl, what with their two rowdy boys, but Poppy never did fit in.
“My other two kids is mostly normal,” Poppy’s ma told people, “but Poppy, she’s more like them apparitions you read about in the National Enquirer. It’s like she sneaks up on a body. You turn around, an’ BOOM! there she is at your elbow.”
Poppy didn’t feel like she belonged, either, so she’d turned eighteen, snuck money from her grandma’s purse, and left for good. Figured it gave everybody a present, her leaving.
Poppy floated from one town to the next, picked up housekeeping jobs, finally ended up in South Heaven, Texas with just enough change to stay at the old Hotel Gingol for two days.
“Got the attic room.” The desk clerk dangled an antique brass key on the end of a long, rawhide cord.
“No one’ll stay there ‘cause of Lily’s ghost. She gives most folks the heebie-jeebies. It’s kinda dusty, so you can have it cheap—if you ain’t scared.” He stuck his long neck out toward Poppy and scrunched his forehead like he was assessing her scaredness.
“Don’t make me no-never-mind. Ghosts is just like regular folks, if you treat ‘em right.” Poppy grabbed the key and slipped the cord around her neck. As she started up the stairs, she hollered over her shoulder,
“I kin only pay for two days; got to find a job and a place. You know somewhere?”
“Check with Jonda, over to the hotel barbershop. She knows everybody’s business,” the desk clerk picked up the weekly news and settled himself back behind the counter.
Û
“Mista S need someone to clean up,” Jonda, the shampoo girl said. “His las’ girl run away and got hitched, week or so ago.”
“Mr. S?” Poppy raised her eyebrows.
“That’s what ever’body call him. He come in yestiday. Say he need help, pronto.”
Mr. S needed help, all right. Dishes all over, clothes on the floor—everything a mess ‘cause he couldn’t fetch and carry or bend. Said he had neuritis, or neuralgia or arth-er-it-is or some darn thing. He even had an extra bedroom for Poppy. Sweet!
As long as she kept her music down, cooked and did the shopping, they was okay. He wasn’t much of a talker, but, some evenings, Poppy made sweet tea and the two of ‘em sat out on the front stoop to catch a breeze.
Then, Mr. S liked to spin out yarns:
“Seems like in the eighteen-nineties, the Hotel Gingol was a mansion. Belonged to Mr. Saul MacGuffie, it did. Now, Ol’ Saul, he owned the only bank in town. His daughter, Lily, was the purtiest girl in five counties, comely, with flowing auburn locks. Good girl, too, they say. Her daddy was as proud of her as he was of his blue tick hounds; loved to show her off. Yessir, planned to marry her to the son of some oilman down Houston-way.
“In them days, young ladies didn’t run around with their butts an’ boobies hangin’ out—no offense. They dressed in high-laced boots, collars, and ruffles—or so I’m given to understand—and they had no contact with young men ‘less it was under the watchful eye of their mamas.
“Well sir, Miss Lily was ‘bout eighteen, in the flowering of her beauty when she got herself pregnant. Now, Daddy McGuffie, he believed in the Virgin Mary—but he weren’t buyin’ no Virgin Lily.
“He woulda’ took the buggy whip to that girl, weren’t for her mama’s pleadin’ and cryin’. Next thing, he wanted to send her on east to some
kinfolk or other.
“Lily’s ma loved her so much, she couldn’t bear to send her away, so the daddy locked Lily up in that attic room facin’ Main Street. Heard tell, folks’d see her ghostly little face lookin’ out at the world, but she’d shrink back if’n she’d see a body starin’ up at her.
“They say the ma started shovin’ pillows under her own garments to explain the baby when it arrived.
“On the day Lily’s time come, her cries could be heard for blocks around. Her daddy didn’t send for the old doc. No siree, then the whole town’d know their disgrace.
“Late that afternoon, a violent storm blew up and a lightning bolt raced down the chimbly, out through the room’s fireplace and struck Lily—dead.”
At this part of the story, Mr. S swung his head around and looked Poppy dead in the eye. Poppy pulled up a stalk of grass and commenced to cewing on the end.
“That young ‘un Lily carried? Never did get borned—or so they say.
“Ever since, when storm clouds gather, and lightning flashes, passersby can hear the wails of a woman’s pain comin’ from that attic room.
“Let that be a lesson to you, Miss Poppy. Let it be a strong lesson.” Here, Mr. S paused, again and gave Poppy the eye.
“Mr. Saul McGuffie, he buried his Lily out back of the mansion. Her marker is there, to this day. On it says
Lily-of-the-Valley Ann McGuffie
May 21
1881-1899
Beloved Daughter
The Lord came
with vengeance
with divine retribution
He came to save you
Isaiah 35
“Wildflowers abound ‘round that stone, bluebonnets, lilies-of-the-valley, and Indian paintbrush,some buttercups—poppies, too, if’n I’m not mistaken.”
Û
Nine months later, when Poppy gave birth to Angel in Mr. S’s bathtub, she took heed of the lesson, and made no sound what-so-ever. When she come out of the bathroom carrying a baby wrapped in a towel, Mr. S never asked question one. Which was a good thing, since Poppy didn’t have no answers. She couldn’t remember being with anyone—boy nor man—‘course, Poppy couldn’t always remember much of anything, anyhow.
“These things happen,” Mr. S sighed. “Just clean up the mess, hon. It’s okay with me if you and the baby want to stay.”
Û
So stay, they did. Until today. But not no more. Mr. S was dead.
Now, Poppy would have to get another J-O-B. Seemed like soon as she got settled, something came up and she’d have to move on. C-R-A-P.
She probably ought to call somebody about the old man—tell ‘em his time had come. It wasn’t right to leave him lay—the cats might git at him.
“Be still, Angel.” Poppy yelled. “Your wiggling’s gonna get us both kilt. Sheee.”
Poppy took the baby out of the basket, tucking her under one arm like a sack of corn meal. She leaned the bike against the red and white pole in front of the smudged barbershop window.
“Hey, Jonda, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny! Ha, ha, ha! Sounds like I’m calling hogs!” She cracked herself up. “Jon-da!” she called again.
“C’mon in Poppy.” Jonda continued to sweep up tufts of hair from the last customer.
“What’s up chile?” Jonda leaned on her broom.
Poppy plopped into a chair at one of the barbering stations
“Johnny-girl, got a smoke?” Poppy twirled around with Angel on her lap, going faster and faster.
“Girrrl, you know you done quit smokin’.” Jonda reached out and stopped the chair. “You look kinda peak-ed.” She put a hand on each of the armrests and peered into the girl’s eyes
“You left that man in the middle of this hot day? You know he get ornery when it too hot. You don’t want to lose you no job.”
“I ain’t worrying about that,” Poppy said. “Looks to me like ol’ Charlie’s working you too hard at this here saloon. Sit down and give me a butt—jist one—and I’ll buy you a whole pack when I got money.”
“Save your money, hon—an’ it’s Mista Charlie to me an’ you.”
“You think Mr. Charlie could use another girl around here? I could do the sweeping whilst you shampoo. I’m gonna be needing a job now that—well, now that I don’t have one, no more.” Poppy glanced around. “Yeah. I always liked it pretty good in here and you was the first one in town been nice to me.”
Jonda’s knees cracked as she took the chair at the other station. She rummaged around in the pocket of her smock with fingers like gnarled tree roots and pulled out a crumpled pack of Camels. She lit two, gave one to Poppy, then, sat back, tamping the tobacco down with her thumbnail.
Poppy patted Angel’s back, hard. “Don’t cry, little doll-baby. Don’t you cry, now—stop it, stopitstopitstopit!” She rocked back and forth too fast. The ash of her cigarette dangled too close to Angel’s sparse reddish hair.
“Chile, that babe didn’t make one sound ‘til you started yellin’.” Jonda stubbed out her own cigarette and took Angel, holding the baby’s mottled red cheek against her brown one.
“What this all about?”
“Dead.”
“Who dead?”
“Mr. S is dead as road kill.”
Jonda reared up out of her chair, still holding the baby. Angel commenced to hollering.
“You have anything to do with it, girl? An’ ‘road kill?’ Have some respec’.”
“Not as I can remember.” Poppy picked at a scab on her knee.
Û
Sheriff Conyer barged into the barbershop, rushing past Jonda into the storage area.
“Have you seen that Poppy woman?” he demanded, not looking at Jonda.
“You know I have, sheriff, since I’m holdin’ her baby right here.”
“What’s your name, girl.” It sounded more like a threat than a question.
“I’m Jonda Jones, Sheriff, but you can kin call me, ‘Ma’am,’ like you do the other ladies in town.” Jonda stood tall and stared down the reedy old man.
The sheriff grabbed his hat off.
“Yes, Ma’am.” He looked Jonda in the eye for the first time.
“Now, what you want to know from me—‘Sir.’”
“Where is Poppy?”
“This minute, I couldn’t rightly say.” Jonda inclined her head toward the baby. “She be back for Angel later.”
“Then, you won’t mind if I search the premises, would you, girl. . . I mean, Miss Jondra?”
“It be ‘Jonda,’ sheriff, and I don’t min’ at all. Mista Charlie, the owner be upstairs in the hotel. You want me to give him a call?”
“Was he here when Poppy came in?” the sheriff asked.
“No, sir.”
“Then don’t bother him, just yet . . . How’s old Charlie, by the way?”
“He fine. Getting along in years, but he do all right for an older gen’leman.” Jonda swayed, patting Angel’s back.
“Poppy say when she’d return?”
“No, sir, but she often go out for a couple of hours on her day off. I’ve got a playpen here for my granchr’n. I put Angel in if she get tired.”
“Tell Poppy to get in touch with me.” The sheriff made the slightest bow. I’ll go see Ol’ Charlie, now.” He hurried out and around the corner of the hotel.
As soon as the sheriff was out of sight, Jonda carried Angel out the back door and scurried up the fire escape to where Poppy was huddled behind a plastic palm on the fourth floor landing.
“You got to turn yourself in, li’l girl. I ain’t lyin’ for you, again.”
“I swear to God, I didn’t do nothing.”
“Then, you got nuthin’ on God’s green earth to worry about. I’ll keep Angel ‘long as you need.
“Now, go ‘head on to the police while Sheriff Conyer upstairs talkin’ to Mista Charlie. It’ll be easier with just Deputy Buck at the station house.”
When Jonda disappeared back into the barbershop, Poppy, returned to the open window behind the plastic plant. She climbed in, used the brass key she’d forgotten to return to the hotel clerk three years before, to open the attic door, then locked it from the inside.
Û
An autopsy found Mr. S died from an overdose of pain medication prescribed for his arthritis.
He left this note in the empty pill bottle in his bathroom:
to who it may concern, if anyone
I cannot go on like this I’m hurtin all the time with no relief
and I can’t hardly move, no falt of my doc who trys to help thanks doc.
so I been saving my pills and today May 21 in the year of our lord
nineteen and ninety and nine I took em all. I got no kin,
but Poppy and her little Angel been good to me. I saved up some money
in a steel box in my closet about nine thousand two hundred dollars
and seventeen cent. Give it to the girl for her and her child.
She can also have my house which it and the taxes is paid for.
Joseph Quincy Salamone May 21, 1999
Û
Turns out Sheriff Conyer was looking for Poppy to tell her about Mr. S’s note.
“She thought you was after her for murder, Sheriff.” Jonda sat in a straight-backed chair in the sheriff’s office, because he’d summoned her.
“Now, why would she think that?” Sheriff Conyer stared out the window at the tumbleweeds blowing across the dusty street. Man, he loved this town. Why would anyone want to live elsewhere?
“Well, sir, sometimes, you seems . . . not so friendly—if you’ll forgive me sayin’ so.” Jonda stared at the old man’s back.
The sheriff let out his breath. His shoulders slumped. When he turned, his face looked like a map folded too many times.
“I know. Sometimes, life don’t turn out like you plan, and—well, in my line of work, it don’t pay to show people what you feel. Ever since my wife—well that’s my own sorrow—begging your pardon, Miss Jonda . . .
“I’ve talked with about everybody in town, but no one knows much about Poppy. Not even her last name or where she came from. She kept pretty much to herself.
“She didn’t talk to many. Seemed like she blew in,” he nodded toward the window, “like them tumbleweeds out there, lookin’ for a place to light ‘til the wind carried her on. We got a bulletin out on her.
“Thanks for your help, Miss Jonda. I ain’t a bad guy; I’m just getting to be old and cranky.” The sheriff held out his hand and Jonda shook it.
Û
No one ever saw Poppy again in East Heaven, Texas, or anywhere else. Eventually, the case went into the Cold Case file. If anyone thought about it, they imagined she’d come to harm in the vast, empty desert surrounding the town.
Old-time residents of East Heaven passed down tales. On hot, sunny days in May, at noon, down by the Hotel Gingol, townfolk still report hearing the voice of a young woman scolding a child. It seems to come from the attic of the hotel.
About the time the ghostly scoldings began, the cry of a woman in labor, heard for exactly one hundred years, ceased.
Over time, several teams of ghost hunters mounted the stairs to the attic of the Hotel Gingo armed with black boxes, cameras, Geiger counters and talcum powder to track ghostly foot prints.
Besides rats, spider webs, and layers of dust, they found a single metal bed, a dresser, a looking glass with flaked silver backing, a slop jar, small button-up kidskin boots and a wardrobe stuffed with flowing dresses in the style of 1890s. On the dresser lay a chased silver hairbrush with strands of long, red hair and several striped, faded ribbons like the ones Poppy used to tie up her auburn ponytail.
~~
These days, over on Pervis Street, Mr. S’s house has become
Poppy’s Day Care Center. A discrete bronze plaque under the doorbell reads:
A gift to the City of West Heaven
from
Mr. Joseph Q. Salamone
dedicated to
Misses Poppy and Lily-of-the-Valley Ann McGuffie
You must log in to add a comment and rate this story.