Moon Over Manifest

I went ahead and got a glass of water and the balm, even though I knew she was right. When the gash on my leg got bad and I was delirious with fever, the doctor had to lance it open to let out all the infection.

I gently dabbed on the salve, telling her about Mr. Underhill. She nodded but stared off disinterestedly. “Things are not always what they seem.”

“What do you mean? You don’t think it’s him?”

“The line between truth and myth is sometimes difficult to see.” As her voice got heavier, and her rocking more rhythmic, I could feel her heading into a story. “As much as we wanted it to be true, it was nothing but a myth.”

What was she talking about? What had been a myth? My insides got tight. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

But she went on. “Who would dare think the outcast and abandoned can find a home? Who would dream that one can love without being crushed under the weight of it? A miracle cure to heal the sick? Pah. What makes us think any of this could be true? And yet all of us, we participate in this myth, we create it, perpetuate it.”

Miss Sadie’s voice grew deep under the weight of the story.

“But what is worse—we believe it. And in the end, we are crushed by it.…”

Homecoming

OCTOBER 27, 1918

Saturday, the day before the homecoming festivities, was cool and overcast, but no one seemed to mind as everyone busied themselves with preparations for the big event.

Along with the changing color of leaves came a vibrant spirit among the people of Manifest. Men set up booths, hung strings of electric lights, and put the final coat of paint on the new gazebo. It was to be a grand affair, complete with a barbershop quartet, pony rides, caramel apples, a pie-baking contest, a bocce tournament, and an evening promenade under the stars. The women were busy baking, rolling, simmering their specialties. Whether they made Greek baklava, French galettes, Italian bread, or German bierochs, all wanted to impress the others.

Word had spread that Mrs. Cybulskis had gone into labor, and everyone saw it as a good sign that their First Annual Homecoming Celebration would also be welcoming a new life. They even dared to believe that their sons at war would soon return.

Jinx walked past the tented booths, through the open field near Shady’s place, and watched Paulie Santoni explain the rules of bocce to a group of young men. Paulie held a large hedge apple in his hand.

“Now, the first thing you should know is, the Italians, we invented the game of bocce.”

“Is this not just an overgrown game of marbles?” called out a young Frenchman.

Paulie grimaced. “No. Bocce takes true skill and years of practice. Let me explain.” He displayed the hedge apple. “Think of this as a bocce ball. You roll the ball and try to get it closest to the jack ball in the circle.” He cradled the hedge apple gently in his hands. “The ball, she requires finesse and caressing, you know, like a lady. This is why the Italians are so good at bocce. Watch. You don’t want to knock her out. Merely brush her cheek.” He curled the hedge apple behind him and let it fly a little harder than planned, knocking the smaller jack out of the circle.

The other young men—Frenchmen, Germans, Swedes, Greeks—all laughed. One boisterous Scot yelled, “Aye, that’s amore.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jinx saw Sheriff Dean watching him. As if that wasn’t uncomfortable enough, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else was also watching him. Someone in the shadows.

Just then, Jinx met up with Shady, glancing past him at the sheriff. Shady handed Jinx a pretzel, keeping a sausage for himself. “Compliments of Mrs. Akkerson.” He followed Jinx’s gaze. “Looks like you have a watchdog.”

Jinx took a bite and muttered with his mouth full, “Yeah, he watches every move I make, hoping I’ll do something he can arrest me for.”

“Word’s spread all over Manifest and beyond that you’re a con man par excellence,” Shady observed. “But the sheriff looks like he’s got more on his mind than cons.”

Jinx was quiet for a moment. “Shady, you’ve been real good to me. I think you should know I’ve got a few skeletons in my closet.”

Shady took a knife from his pocket, cut a chunk of sausage, and squinted across the field at Sheriff Dean. “Well”—he popped the bite into his mouth—“what do you say we throw the sheriff a bone?”

Jinx smiled. “What do you have in mind?”

“Just meet me over in the clearing, by that big sycamore tree where we were selling the elixir. Act like you’re up to something and make sure the sheriff follows you.”

A few minutes later, Jinx pulled his hat down over his eyes and gave a furtive look this way and that, then set off through the trees. He walked slowly and stopped every once in a while to make sure he heard the sheriff’s footsteps behind him.

As Jinx came upon the grassy opening, he saw Shady lowering himself into the grave that had never been filled after the quarantine.

“Shady,” Jinx whispered in a not-quiet voice.

“Over here,” Shady whispered back equally loudly.