Johnny clung there, and the tree trembled in the wind. Then he dropped down across the fence and gave chase. “You got to come look. They’ll take her away if you don’t—then nobody’ll ever find her.”
The policeman was patient. “Look, little boy, I can’t go nowhere without no warrant. How do I know you’re not lying?” He was joking now.
“You’ve just got to believe me—that’s all.”
The policeman stuck out his hand. “Here.”
Johnny took it. The policeman walked.
“Where are we going?” asked Johnny.
“To see your mother.”
“No!” Johnny squirmed frantically. “That won’t help! She’ll hate me for it! She’ll lie about it!”
The policeman firmly escorted him around front and thumbed the bell. First a maid, and then Mother was at the door, her face pale as milk, her lips a red smear against the white. Her pompadour was a little toppled over. There were blue pouches under her suddenly dull eyes.
“Johnny!”
“Better keep him inside, ma’am.” The policeman touched his cap. “He’ll get hurt running in the street.”
“Thank you, officer.”
The officer looked at her, then at Johnny. Johnny started to speak, but he could only sob. Two tears ran down his cheeks as the door closed, shutting the officer outside.
Mother didn’t say anything to Johnny. Not a word. She just stood there, lost and white, twisting her fingers. That was all.
* * *
Hours later in the day, Johnny wrote it all down upon a nickel tablet of paper. Everything he knew about the Trunk Lady, everything he knew about Cousin William, Mom, Dad, Uncle Flinny, Grandma. Wetting his pencil, Johnny put it out in lines like this:
“The Lady in the Trunk loved Dad. Dad killed her when she came to the house.” Johnny pouted over that one. “Either that or Mom killed her.” Long years of viewing motion picture murders went through Johnny’s mind. “Then, of course, Grandma or Uncle Flinny could have killed her because their authority and security was threatened.” Yeah. Johnny scribbled quick. Let’s see, now. “And Cousin William? Maybe it was his woman friend, after all.” Johnny sort of hoped it was. He wasn’t very partial to Cousin W. “Maybe, maybe there was something in Grandma’s past? Or Uncle Flinny’s?” Now, how about—
“Johnny!”
Grandma’s voice. Johnny put away the pad.
Grandma came in the door and guided Johnny out through the hall and into her room, using her cane as a nervous prod. She seated him before the chessboard and nodded at the pale pieces. “Those are yours. Mine are black.” She thought it over, eyes closed.
“Mine are always black.”
“We can’t play,” Johnny announced. “Two of your black pieces are missing.” He pointed.
She looked. “Uncle Flinny again. He’s always taking some of my players. Always and forever. We’ll play anyway. I’ll use what I have. Move.” She jabbed a skinny finger.
“Where’s Uncle Flinny?”
“Watering t
he garden. Move,” she ordered.
Her eyes watched his fingers in their path. She leaned forward slowly over the shining pieces. “We’re all good people, Johnny. We led a good life these twenty years in this house. You’ve been in it only part of that twenty. We never asked for no trouble. Don’t make us any, Johnny.”
He sat there. A fly buzzed against the large window. Far away, below, water ran from a faucet. “I don’t want no—trouble,” he said.
The chessboard blurred and ran away like colored water. “Dad looked so white and funny at breakfast today. Why should he feel that way over a wax doll, Grandma? And Mom, she looks like she’s all twisted up like a spring inside a clock, ready to bust loose. That’s no way to act over a doll, is it?”
Grandma deliberated over her bishop, withdrawn into herself like an old hermit crab in a shell of lace. “There was no body. Just your imagination. Forget it. Forget it.” She glared at the child as if he were responsible. “Walk light from now on, sonny. Keep quiet and keep out of the way and forget it. Someone’s got to tell you these things. Don’t know why it’s always me. But just forget it!”