The Right Kind of Fool Page 3

  “Whoa there. Slow down and show me again.”

  Loyal nodded, taking a deep breath. He slowly moved his fingers into a series of shapes, most of which Creed saw looked like the letters of his son’s name—especially the L. Creed tried it, and Loyal made a sort of clicking sound. Creed figured that meant he was pleased. He did it several times until he was sure he could remember. He licked his lips, trying not to feel foolish. Pointing at himself, he made the correct sign with both hands again while saying, “Now show me my name.”

  Loyal crowed, and Creed flinched, then managed to smile and laugh a little. “Guess you like that,” he said.

  Loyal nodded and grabbed his father’s hand. He began to move it into shapes that again made sense except for the r. He couldn’t think why twisting his index and middle finger together made an r. He repeated the motions until Loyal seemed satisfied with his performance. He thought to ask how to shape Delphy but decided not to.

  “That’s enough for tonight,” he said. Loyal smiled and slid between the bedsheets. Creed reached out and smoothed the boy’s hair where a cowlick made it stick up in back. It felt good, being with his son at bedtime. He swallowed hard and turned, pressing the button for the electric light as he moved past the door. He heard Loyal sigh and rustle under the covers. He paused to listen, marveling at the gift of being able to hear, as well as the gift of being able to communicate with someone who couldn’t.

  He eased down the stairs, noticing every creak and groan of the old wood, along with the sigh of the wind outside an open window and even a voice somewhere down the street. Sounds of Delphy finishing her chores came to him as well, and he realized that it all made a melody he hadn’t listened for in far too many years.

  Stepping into the kitchen, he had the urge to take his wife in his arms but stopped himself. He doubted she would welcome his embrace. Not after the tensions of the day. Not to mention the years. He drew nearer and heard another sound—a gulp and a sniffle.

  “Are you crying?”

  She swiped at her eye with the back of her wrist. “I am, and I don’t expect you to do a thing about it, so don’t let it worry you.” She wrung out her dishrag and hung it on a hook. “You know he disobeyed me by going to the river. He should never have been there in the first place. And then when he got into trouble, who did he go to? His father.” She turned away from him and snatched up a basket of laundry, folding shirts and britches like they’d done her wrong.

  Creed stepped closer and grasped her wrist, stilling her angry motions. “I’m sorry.”

  She snorted, but it sounded weak. “Sorry for what?”

  “Everything.”

  She jerked away and picked the basket up, holding it between them like a shield. “Well, that’s not enough,” she said and marched toward the stairs. “You’re welcome to sleep on the sofa. I’m sure Loyal will be glad to see you in the morning.” She snapped off the lights as she went until Creed was left alone in the dark, keenly aware of the soft sounds of the house settling . . . and his wife weeping.

  He knew he’d handled himself all wrong. He’d been so excited by his sudden connection with his son that he’d thought all sorts of past hurts were on the mend. He flopped down on the sofa and worked his boots off, then flipped an embroidered pillow over so he wouldn’t risk getting the needlework dirty. Settling back, he stared at the ceiling trying to think what he needed to do to fix his family.

  Then he lifted one hand into the air so he could see his fingers by the shaft of light coming through the front window and shaped his son’s name over and over until sleep swept him away.

  four

  When Loyal woke, he wanted to rush downstairs to make sure Father was still there, but as he swung his feet to the floor, he saw the comb he’d left on his bedside table. He picked it up and examined it more closely. It was a swirly brown color with gold in it, and there were flowers carved along the top edge. He’d seen his mother wear combs to keep her hair back and out of her face. He flipped the comb over and noticed an R and a W scratched into its back. For Rebecca Westfall? Was this proof that she’d been there when the stranger was shot and killed?

  Loyal slowly moved around his room, folding his pajamas and getting dressed. He’d planned to show his father the comb and tell him about seeing the Westfall kids. But the more he thought about it, the more he was afraid he’d get them in trouble. He didn’t mind so much about Michael, but he liked Rebecca. Finally, he dug out a pair of itchy wool socks, pushed the comb into the toe of one, and buried them in the back of a bureau drawer. Maybe, if Father stuck around, Loyal would ask him what to do. For now, though, he’d keep the comb to himself.

  The house smelled like cinnamon and yeasty bread. Loyal scrambled down the stairs and swung into the kitchen where he saw Mother pulling cinnamon toast from the oven. She was alone. He let his shoulders sag. If Father had stayed, he hadn’t stayed long. Mother smiled and nodded toward the table. Loyal dropped into a chair and propped his chin in his hands. Then Mother glanced over his shoulder, and Loyal whirled around to see Father stepping out of the lavatory, his face moist and freshly shaved. He jumped from the table and threw his arms around Father, breathing in the woodsy smell of him laced with Mother’s soap. He threw his head back in an exaggerated laugh to show his delight. Father looked alarmed, so Loyal immediately stopped. Of course, Father would prefer that he act like boys who could hear. He pulled back and nodded gravely, then slipped into his chair hoping Father would join him. After a moment, he did.

  Loyal guessed that Mother was still angry about his going to the river since she’d stopped smiling. She set the hot bread slathered with butter and a sprinkling of sugar and cinnamon on the table and then sat herself. His parents stared at each other. Loyal considered reaching for his favorite treat but sensed there was an unspoken conversation going on. He was good at those. So, he waited.

  “Want me to say a blessing?” Father finally asked.

  Mother bit her lip and nodded.

  Father bowed his head, then looked up, brow furrowed. “But the boy can’t hear me pray.”

  Mother signed as she spoke, “There’s no rule that you have to close your eyes to pray. Loyal can read your lips while I sign what you say.”

  Father got that wild look in his eyes again. He took a deep breath and nodded once. “Okay. Well then. Here goes.” He looked around the table, closed his eyes, opened them again, then started. “Father in heaven, we give thanks for this food and for the hands that have prepared it.” He relaxed as he got going. Loyal alternated between watching his mother’s hands and his father’s lips. “Guide the sheriff in his investigation and be with the family of the man who died. We pray that they find peace and comfort in you.” His glance flicked around the table. “Please bless Delphy and watch over . . .” He lifted his right hand and spelled L-o-y-a-l. There was a long pause, and Loyal could see that his parents’ eyes were locked on each other. His mother’s hands dropped into her lap as Father signed. Her teeth worked her lower lip and her eyes looked wet. Finally, Father swallowed, his throat moving. “Thank you, Father, for your many blessings. Amen.”

  Loyal smiled and took a piece of bread, sinking his teeth into the rich, buttery sweetness, but his parents just sat there. At last, Mother lifted the platter and offered Father a piece. Loyal couldn’t think why she’d do that since Father was sitting plenty close, but whatever the reason he could feel the heaviness in the room lift. He smiled and grabbed another slice.

  After breakfast, Creed walked to the sheriff’s office. Loyal wanted to come with him, but he made the boy stay at home. The more he could keep his son out of this mess, the better. He’d let Virgil think they’d found the body together. He didn’t want Loyal to be put on the spot. No, better to keep things simple. Anyway, it wasn’t as if Loyal knew any more than Creed did.

  As soon as he stepped through the door of the old Beverly courthouse, Virgil started talking. “I was about to come hunting you. Afraid you’d gone back up the mountain already.�
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  “Not yet. Thought I’d better see if you need anything. And I’ll confess to a measure of curiosity about that fella we found.”

  Virgil ran a hand over his bald head. “You mean like who in tarnation he is? Well, turns out he is working for the government. Or was. Name’s Eddie Minks. His partner turned up here this morning hunting him. He’s over at the diner now getting himself a cup of coffee. He was real shook up about what happened.”

  Creed propped a hip against a heavy wooden desk. “Why weren’t they together? Seems like it’d be smart to travel in pairs when you’re poking around hills and hollers where you don’t much know what, or who, you might run into.”

  “Earl Westin—that’s the other fella’s name—said they usually do, but he wasn’t feeling so good yesterday.” Virgil got a cagey look. “You ask me, he was sleeping off a drunk. Anyhow, Eddie went out without him and never came back, so Earl started looking.”

  “And he’s sure the body we found is his partner?”

  “Walked him over to the funeral home and let him have a look. Thought he was gonna throw up on my shoes. So I sent him to get a cup of coffee and maybe a biscuit to settle his stomach.” Virgil craned his neck to the side. “Here he comes now. Stick around—might make him feel easier if there’s a civilian hangin’ around the place. He won’t know about your checkered past as a lawman.”

  Creed gave his friend a lopsided grin and watched as a fellow who looked like he was in his late forties stepped through the door. Although, on closer inspection, he might be in his early forties and living hard. He had deep lines around his mouth like he smoked a lot and bags under his eyes. His rumpled shirt wasn’t tucked in evenly, and one pocket of his pants had been torn and sewed back with the wrong color thread.

  “Sheriff, I been thinking and can’t see why—” He stopped and looked hard at Creed. “Who’re you?”

  “This here’s Creed Raines. He’s helping me with the investigation.” Virgil smiled and looked at Creed from the corner of his eye. “He’s what you might call a plainclothes policeman. Knows his way around Rich Mountain.”

  Earl shifted from foot to foot and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “If you say so. I’ve been thinking about what you asked—about who might want Eddie dead. And I can’t come up with anyone. He might not’ve been the most popular man around, but nobody was mad at him or out to get him that I can think of.”

  “What about women troubles?” Virgil asked.

  Earl shrugged. “I think he’s got a girl up in Pittsburgh. He’s always been pretty tight-lipped about his personal life.”

  Virgil sat in his swivel chair and leaned it back until it groaned under the strain. “Creed, I don’t guess you’d have heard if the Hacker boys were up to anything? And by anything, I mean the kind of anything they might not want someone from the government to stumble upon.”

  Creed shook his head. “I don’t think so. Clyde’s running his usual operation, but it’s over on the other side of the mountain. Can’t think why any of those boys would’ve been down near that part of the river.” He kept an eye on Earl as he talked. The man was getting paler by the minute, and sweat was beading his brow, even though the day wasn’t all that warm yet.

  Virgil grunted and put his feet up on the desk. His chair protested. He turned his attention back to Earl. “The pair of you been in the area long?”

  The man started looking even twitchier. “About a week. This area looks real promising for a self-sustaining community. Several folks have signed on to sell their land—we just need that Westfall tract and maybe one other to finish it out.”

  Virgil dropped his feet to the floor. “That land’s been in Hadden’s family since before the War Between the States. He gonna sell?”

  Earl buried a hand in his hair again. “We haven’t gotten that far in negotiations. Eddie and I were scouting the land first.”

  “Did Hadden know you were out there poking around?” Virgil sat up straighter.

  “We, uh, sent a letter letting him know the, uh, approximate dates we’d be around.”

  Virgil shuffled his feet and stood. “Which is to say you were trespassing on Westfall land.”

  Earl braced his hands on his hips. “Now, hold on there. We’ve got governmental authority to be on that land. Sending a letter was a courtesy.”

  Virgil shook his head and looked at Creed. “That’s like pitching a rock into a beehive to let the bees know you’re coming after their honey.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Son, you and your partner just may have aggravated the wrong landowner.” He sighed. “Creed, will you come with me to talk to Hadden? He might not shoot me right off if there’s a witness present.”

  Now Earl’s eyes were so wide they looked mostly white. Creed kept a straight face. Virgil was mostly just scaring the government man, seeing how he’d react. It would’ve been funny if there hadn’t been a dead man involved. “Be glad to run out there with you. Want me to come armed?”

  Virgil snorted and gave Creed a sideways look. “Guess not. Might give ole Hadden the notion we want a fight.” He squinted at Earl. “Where you stayin’?”

  “Hotel just this side of Elkins.”

  “Fine. I’ll be in touch.”

  Earl wet his lips. “What should I do until then? I’ve got to report this, but I’m not sure what to say.”

  “As little as possible would be my recommendation,” Virgil said as he waved Creed to follow him out to his car.

  five

  Mother was watching him like she was the warden and thought he was about to make a jailbreak. Loyal lounged in the swing on the front porch, tossing a baseball in the air and catching it over and over. He’d bounced it against the wall for a while, but Mother made him stop “that racket.” He smiled. Maybe sometimes it was good not to be able to hear. While he’d been hoping Father would take him along wherever he was going, he’d made the sign for stay. And he’d used the right one.

  Now it was Saturday afternoon, and he was a prisoner on the front porch. He saw someone walking along the street and sat up. It was Reverend Harriman, the pastor of their church. Loyal slouched again. If he was headed to their house, it was almost certainly to see Mother.

  As he drew nearer he waved at Loyal, who gave a halfhearted wave back. Church was usually pretty boring. The singing was okay—he could feel the vibrations of the old organ—but watching the pastor talk and talk and talk took focus and concentration and usually wasn’t worth the effort. At least he waved his arms around some.

  Reverend Harriman turned in at their gate and stepped up onto the porch. He waved again, as though he needed to make sure Loyal was looking at him. “Is your mother at home?” He spoke slowly, shaping each word. Loyal was almost willing to bet he was yelling. A lot of people thought they had to talk slow and yell when you were deaf.

  He nodded and pointed inside, but before the pastor could get the door open, Mother was there and stepping outside. She smiled and waved the reverend over to a rocking chair. She settled into one beside him and talked animatedly, clearly happy to see the man. Loyal stopped paying attention, returning his focus to tossing the ball.

  Then he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Mother was trying to get his attention. He made the sign for what? She tightened her mouth and signed. Sit up straight and pay attention when the pastor is here. She smiled. You’re being invited to a church activity for youth.

  Loyal raised his eyebrows and signed, What activity?

  Mother gave her head a little shake. If you were watching, you’d know.

  He looked chagrined, made a fist and circled it in front of his chest twice. He’d apologize a hundred times if it meant he might get to set foot off the porch.

  Mother nodded at the pastor, who turned to Loyal and began that painfully slow way of speaking, which actually made it harder to understand him. “The school is allowing us to use the gymnasium for youth activities. Would you like to join us for a volleyball game?” He nodded and raised his eyebrow
s, miming the motion of serving a volleyball.

  Loyal nodded his head while making the sign for yes. Mother managed to look pleased and worried at the same time. You’ll be okay? she signed. You don’t have to go.

  Loyal cocked his head and looked up as though pondering the invitation. He grinned and jumped to his feet. Mother bit her lip, then gave him a hug that wasn’t altogether welcome. He wished she’d treat him like the other boys. Most of their mothers were probably glad to get their kids out of the house.

  Mother talked earnestly to the pastor for a minute or two, then hugged Loyal again and waved him off along with Reverend Harriman.

  Though the school wasn’t far, Loyal could tell the pastor wasn’t altogether comfortable walking with him. He’d run into this before. Hearing people liked to talk and talk, which meant his silence often made them feel awkward. Harry Davidson—one of his buddies at school—had explained it to him. Harry said it was fun to make hearing people uncomfortable. They do it to us, he’d signed. Yet Loyal didn’t see the fun in it. Nor did he know how to make people more comfortable. It’s just the way life was, he guessed.

  At the school, there were already a dozen or so kids milling around. Loyal had seen most of them at church but didn’t interact with them much. He only saw them when he was home from the West Virginia School for the Deaf, and they usually didn’t pay much attention to him. Unless it was to make fun of him, like Michael Westfall often did.

  As if the thought conjured the boy, Michael stepped into the gymnasium with his sister, Rebecca, close behind. Michael strutted out toward the volleyball net and began talking and waving his arms around. Reverend Harriman quickly stepped up and took charge, apparently making Michael the captain of one of the teams. He chose another boy for the other side, and they each picked five players to round out their teams.

  Loyal didn’t get picked. He sighed and leaned against a wall where he could watch. It had probably been a dumb idea to come here. It was only because he’d been so bored at home that he’d done it. Probably the best he could hope for was that no one would make fun of him.