Moon Over Manifest

“Do you think Gideon knew those two boys? Did he have many friends when he was here? Did he ever go fishing with anyone or swimming in the creek?” My questions and my need to know came out in a rush.

“Well, now.” Shady rubbed the back of his neck. “Let me see. I’m sure your daddy did most things boys do. Swim, fish, cause havoc.” He worked at a stubborn spot on the counter but I caught him catching a glimpse of me. “Didn’t he tell you much about when he was here?”

“Yes, he told me lots of things. He said there was a man who drove a cart around town and brought fresh milk to people’s doorsteps. And ladies who’d walk down the street in white gloves and fancy hats with big feathers sticking way up. But it’s like he was telling things you’d notice from the tree house. Storefronts and activity, people going here and there, but only what you could see from a distance. Nothing up close. Why, I only heard about you a few weeks ago. Did he write to you at all?”

Shady paused and his shoulders looked heavy. “A postcard now and then. Sometimes, when folks move on, it’s hard to look back. It’s not their fault. We knew he wandered a bit after he left here, but then we got word that he had a little girl, and we knew he’d take good care of you.”

I did warm a little at that but I wasn’t ready to be done grumbling. I stuck my chin on my fists. “Well, Gideon’s telling of Manifest was nothing like Miss Sadie’s. Her story was full of names and faces and who did what where. I learned more about Manifest in one sitting with her than from all of Gideon’s stories put together,” I grumped. But I still hadn’t learned anything about Gideon.

Shady looked up, and with the sun gleaming in through the stained glass, he looked like he was having a revelation.

“Yes, that Miss Sadie sure can weave a story. I bet she could fill in some of the missing pieces.”

I don’t know if Shady would’ve said more, but he looked relieved to hear a jingle at the door.

Lettie and Ruthanne poked their heads in. “Hey, Abilene?” Then, remembering their manners, they added, “Good morning, Shady.”

“Good morning,” he answered. “Would you girls care for a glass of buttermilk?”

“Yes, please,” Lettie and Ruthanne answered together.

Shady went into the back room and Lettie whispered, “First we have to sell some eggs in town. Then we can work on the Rattler mystery. We’ve made a list of suspects. Mr. Cooper, the barber. Mr. Koski at the diner. Hattie Mae.”

“Hattie Mae?” I whispered back. The nice newspaper lady? “Surely you don’t think she’s the Rattler?”

“Well, not really, but she’s got a sweet tooth and she’ll probably give us a licorice whip or some jelly beans if we stop by. But we’ll start with Mr. DeVore, the postmaster.”

Mention of Hattie Mae made me think of something. “Wait a minute. I need to run back upstairs.” I went up and thumbed through the newspapers I’d selected from Hattie Mae’s office. I found her column in both and gave each a quick look-see. It was the one from October 11 that rang a bell. I carefully tore it out and made a point to take another look through Hattie Mae’s old newspapers later.

As I went back downstairs, Shady was pouring the buttermilk. “What are you girls up to today?”

“Uh, we’re doing some corporal works of mercy. Mr. DeVore needs visiting.”

“Oh, he does? Is he sick?”

“Sick?” Ruthanne pondered the question. “I guess you could say that. If you consider loneliness a sickness. Who wouldn’t be? Spending all day sorting everybody else’s letters from dear ones far and near and never having a loving word sent your way.”

Shady looked like he’d been given more answer than he’d asked for. “Well, you be sure to give him my regards. Tell him we missed him at last night’s service and we’d be pleased to have him come next week at the same time.” He reached behind the bar, where he’d stashed something earlier, and took out that something wrapped in a brown paper bag. “Good day, girls,” he said as he left.

There was an awkward silence as I thought about what might be in that bag. Then Ruthanne said, “Come on, Abilene. Finish up and let’s go.”

“Can’t,” I said before washing down the last of my biscuit with some buttermilk.

“Why not?” asked Lettie.

I handed her the October 11 “Hattie Mae News Auxiliary.” The paper was a little wet from my sweaty hand. “I got a debt to work off.”

HATTIE MAE’S

NEWS AUXILIARYOCTOBER 11, 1917

I hope all of you are having a festive and convivial fall. With the autumnal surrogation to winter and the Thanksgiving holiday quickly ascending upon us, I find myself reminiscing to mind the many blessings and bestowments of the past.

I suppose having matriculated to my nineteenth year has provided me with a depth of insight which I am only beginning to excavate.