Moon Over Manifest

“And on that day,” Lettie continued, “the Barber of Seville took out his razor and waited for the next sorry soul to come darken his doorway and occupy his chair. He got the man all lathered up for a shave, but left his throat clean, then—”

“My word, Lettie! You have some imagination,” Ruthanne said. “I think he’s just a barber. Let’s go check out the post office.”

But something caught my eye in the shop window. It was a picture. I crept around to the front of the store. An old picture of a group of men wearing overalls and miner’s hats. Each looking into the camera. Looking at me with—what was it? Hope, desperation, defeat? I couldn’t tell.

I looked up to see Mr. Cooper staring at me through the store window.

Suddenly, I realized that Lettie and Ruthanne were gone and I was alone. I ran to find them, my heart pounding like a drum. Mr. Cooper didn’t seem like a cold-blooded killer, but then, I didn’t know any cold-blooded killers, did I? And he’d seen me looking in his store.

I crouched my way through a couple of backyards, getting scratched and scraped by fences and bushes. Then I heard a low growl. It was a bulldog, his slobbery mouth and bared fangs not two feet behind me. I made a beeline for a porch railing and jumped just in time to keep my pant leg away from his snapping jowls. I clung to the railing, not taking my eyes off the angry bulldog.

“Go on,” I said in a hushed voice. “Go on, get.” He stood his ground and growled, like he’d rather wait me out.

I let my breathing slow a bit and straddled the railing only to have my heart speed up again. I noticed the faded porch with its ornate woodwork and realized I was at the worn-out gingerbread house that belonged to the stony lady who always sat on the porch. What if she was across the porch? Looking at me? I brought my other leg around and there she was, right where I’d seen her before. In her rocking chair, staring off into nothing.

I’d either have to climb over the railing and get down the way I’d come or walk past her to the steps. I peeked back over the porch. The bulldog flapped his jowls and barked. I’d try the steps. I tender-footed across the porch to the steps; then her chair creaked, and without my willing it to do so, my body turned around, and my eyes looked straight at Mrs. Evans. And Mrs. Evans was looking straight at me.

Not knowing what to do, I checked my arms and legs. They still moved, so I hadn’t been turned into a statue. For a time, neither one of us said anything. Then I said the only words that came to mind. The ones Shady’d been telling me to say to anyone I met for the last few weeks.

“Shady’s having a service at his place this Sunday night. He’d be pleased to have you.”

I didn’t wait for a response. I just took her porch steps in one leap and was off, not stopping till I ended up with skinned knees and elbows in the alley beside the post office.

“Abilene.” It was Lettie. “Over here,” she whispered loudly.

“What took you so long?” Ruthanne scolded. “I thought you were right behind us; then you were gone.”

I was breathing too hard to answer but crept around to the side of the post office. Ruthanne used her forearm to wipe the dusty window, only to find that there was a cabinet blocking the view on the inside.

“Come on,” she whispered. “We’ll have to go around front to get a better look.”

“At who?” I asked.

Ruthanne placed a finger to her lips. She peered around the corner of the building like she was waiting for some incoming artillery. Then she made a break for it and ended up with Lettie and me beside her, peeking in the front door.

“Him,” she answered, pointing to the very tall, very thin man behind the mail counter. He wore suspenders over his white shirt and, even without long sideburns, bore a remarkable resemblance to Ichabod Crane of the Sleepy Hollow legend.

“Ivan DeVore?” Lettie said as if considering him the Rattler was akin to suspecting Santa Claus. Ruthanne had mentioned him before, but we’d never gotten around to spying on him.

“Think about it,” Ruthanne replied, not taking her eyes off the man. “He’d have known of all the mail that came in and out. He was the telephone operator and he ran the telegraph machine. So he could click, clickity, click whatever information he wanted to whoever he wanted and no one would be the wiser.”

We watched Mr. DeVore move efficiently about the room, placing one letter in this box and another in that. Then he tapped on the counter, like he was debating something. Finally, he removed a key from his pocket, unlocked the top drawer of his desk, and took out a single sheet of yellow stationery and a matching envelope. Then, with a half smile, he penned a brief note, placed it in the envelope, and, after a suspicious look this way and that, quickly stuffed the note into one of the boxes on the wall.