Mischief In Maggody

The northern side of Cotter's Ridge was a mite cool this late in October, but it were time to 'seng hunt and she didn't need a damn fool calendar to tell her so. Her worn fla

She curled her lip, exposing a sparse collection of mossy teeth, as she scrabbled up a gully toward the patch. Her patch. It'd been her pappy's afore, and his pappy's afore that. There'd been a worrisome minute when it looked like grandpappy was go

A good 'seng patch was worth a fortune-at least a hu

She was still gri

A rage began to bubble deep in her gut. No yellergold leaves, no red berries. No ginseng plants-in her goddamn patch that she loved better than most anything in the goddamn world! A growl curled up along her gullet, growing and sparking and burning until it erupted in a cry of primeval fury. A flock of starlings flapped away with squawks of alarm. A squirrel fled across the branches. A polecat lifted his head to consider the wisdom of investigating, then slunk off in the opposite direction. Only a trio of buzzards in a dead tree on the top of the ridge took pleasure in the sound, which hinted of easy pickin's in the future.

Robin stumbled forward, her fingers tightening on her tools of the trade. Some low-down, thievin' sumbitch had been here, that much she could tell. She began to gnaw on her lower lip as she tried real hard to figure out just what the hell was a-goin' on, anyway. Weren't nobody in sight, and she was pretty sure ever'thing had been okay last spring. But why in tarnation would some damn fool dig up her 'seng patch out here on the far side of the ridge? Didn't make a hog's hair of sense. There was a loggin' road not too far yonder, she remembered. Some sumbitch must have decided to do his farmin' out in the middle of nowhere. But why in her beloved 'seng patch? Her tools fell to the ground as she wrapped her arms around herself and began to wail. It weren't fair. That sumbitch should be tied up agin an oak tree and be learned what a godawful thing he'd done in destroying her patch. Grandpappy's patch.

Below her simian brow, her eyes turned the shade of yeller gold that she should have found. She sure as hell could show him what a sinful thing he'd done, she told herself as she moved toward the tidy rows of plants. She'd just plumb tear up all his plants and throw 'em in the gully to rot. Rip up those plants the way she wished she could rip off his tongue and dick and feed 'em to the hogs. Mebbe have one of the younguns keep watch and run back to the cabin iffen anyone came back. Then she'd bring some barbed wire and-

A click about shoulder height caught her attention. As she turned, wondering what the fuck was a-goin' on now, her face exploded.

"Of course I understand why you're upset," David Allen Wainright said for not the first time in the last half hour. He took a quick peep at his watch, then sighed and leaned back in the chair. "It's admirable that you're showing this deep and obviously genuine concern for your friend. It's important that we share our feelings, especially during our high school years, when it's common for us to be unsure of ourselves."

Heather snuffled into the tightly wadded tissue in her hand. "I feel really awful, Mr. Wainright. I mean, like I shouldn't be telling you any of this because I swore on Carol Alice's Bible that she got when she was baptized last spring at the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall that I wouldn't tell a soul. She's my best friend in the whole world."

"Which is why you've shown such maturity by coming to talk to me," David Allen said soothingly. It was almost two-thirty; surely she'd have to leave in a minute in order to catch her bus. Surely. "Sometimes we're so confused by our emotions that we're at a loss to know what to do or where to turn. That's why I'm here." On the other hand, he had no idea why she was here. No one actually believed someone would commit suicide on the basis of some idiotic psychic's dour prediction.

"Then," Heather said through a series of distastefully damp hiccups, "you'll talk some sense into Carol Alice?"

He formed a temple with his fingers and gave her his most professional smile (Adolescence and Stress, Chapter Seven). "Well, we may worsen the situation if I confront your friend with the knowledge that I'm aware of her problem. She may be driven to take some sort of drastic action out of fear or embarrassment. We wouldn't want that, would we?" No, we want the buses to be a

"Carol Alice, Mr. Wainright. Thank you so much for letting me talk to you about this. It was so kind of you." Heather picked up her books and purse, and with a hesitant smile stood up. "I feel much better knowing that you'll do something about that awful woman and poor, brokenhearted Carol Alice." She emphasized the last word, just in case he was still confused. Which wasn't hard to understand, considering how many students there were at Maggody High School and him being new and all.

"You may rest assured that we'll deal with this problem. Now, we don't want you to miss your bus, do we? You run along, and I'll spend some time this evening deciding what needs to be done." Over a six-pack and pizza, of course. He was relieved when she left with a coy glance over her shoulder.

Heather, on the other hand, was in love. Why, if she'd seen Billy Dick in the hallway, she wouldn't have slowed down long enough to give him the time of day.

I idled away the weekend in my apartment, dealing with several inches of dust, a smattering of mouse droppings (but no visible perpetrators), and fuzzy things in the refrigerator. For exercise, I periodically dashed across the road to the Suds of Fun to process seventeen loads of dirty laundry through all the appropriate cycles. All in all, it was pleasantly uneventful. Bright and early on Monday morning I reported (to myself) for duty at the PD. It was dim and smelled of industrial strength disinfectant. The gingham curtains were frayed at the hems. My middle desk drawer was filled with wadded up gum wrappers. The telephone book was missing. The creamer jar was empty. Were I inclined to do so, I could have written my name in the dust on each and every flat surface. Home sweet home.

I finished the reports: one trespassing, two lost dogs, a meager collection of traffic citations, and eight obscene telephone calls-I suspect Elsie McMay relished them more than her caller, since she always insisted on repeating them to me down to the last disgusting syllable and then having me read them back to her. Some of them went on for a couple of pages; I asked her once why she didn't hang up, and she haughtily informed me that that would be rude and she was better reared than that, missy.