Free Dixie Divas by Virginia Brown

sharply on the wood of the screen door, and waited expectantly. The only sign of indecision was the way her right foot tapped against the hickory plank floor.
    “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Sanders,” she called through the wire mesh, “it’s Bitty Hollandale.” After a brief wait, she turned to look at me. “I don’t hear a single sound. It’s like it’s deserted.”
    “Maybe he’s out back. Feeding chickens. Or the mule.”
    We walked around back, me in my sturdy Nikes and Bitty in her pretty Manolo Blahniks. It was obvious I’d chosen more wisely when she wobbled in a rut and nearly toppled into a lanky bush. Good thing I was there to grab her. While Bitty took the median between ruts that looked to be pick-up truck width, I crossed a small patch of dirt and grass to an L-shaped back porch that ran alongside what had to be the kitchen. In the past, kitchens were separate from the main residence for the purpose of fire safety. Not that it always helped.
    This kitchen had been connected to the house by a breezeway. It was just as well-kept as the front of the house, even though the surrounding yard looked like a hog-wallow. Well behind the house were remnants of chicken coops and out-buildings that had seen much better days. An air of desertion hung over them.
    “Nothing here but a couple of chickens,” Bitty said with obvious disappointment, and I turned to see her peer into a weathered shed with the door hanging by one hinge. “Oh, fresh eggs! There are several—do you have something we can put them in, Trinket?”
    “Forget the eggs, Bitty. I’m beginning to think something happened to Mr. Sanders. An accident, maybe. Didn’t he have a vehicle of some kind? A truck or car?”
    “I should know? Still, he had to have something. How else would he get into town to buy supplies?”
    There was no sign of a truck or car, not even a rusted one. I began to get the inescapable feeling that Sanders had been hijacked. No dog. No mule. No Sanders. As much as he took care of the house, he wouldn’t go off and leave it unlocked. While the area isn’t known for vandals or crime, most people at least shut their doors in chilly weather.
    “What’s that smell?” Bitty stuck her face up into the air and wrinkled her nose.
    “Chicken poop?”
    “No. Worse than that. Like . . . a cow lot. Or roadkill.”
    We just looked at each other for a moment. I could tell she was thinking the same thing I was thinking, but neither of us wanted to be the first to say it out loud.
    Finally I said, “Where do you think it’s coming from?”
    Bitty looked at the badly leaning shed next to the one housing chickens and fresh eggs. I drummed up my courage, forced my feet to move through the weed stalks and dirt, and went as close to the shed as I dared. I’ve always had a rather weak stomach. Someone can just talk about bodily fluids or what the contestants on Survival or Fear Factor had to eat to stay in the game—I really think most of television’s reality shows are created by sixth grade boys—and I begin to get queasy. My stomach rolls, my face feels hot, and it takes all my effort not to hack up a giant size hairball. Motherhood was a shock to my system. Only perseverance and love got me through it without barfing on my beloved child. But it’s been a long time since I had to deal with that sort of thing, and my once-acclimated stomach has reverted to its former intolerance.
    So I held my breath, stuck my head quickly into the shed, and hoped I’d find rotting fruit or cow patties, and let my eyes adjust to the dim light seeping through cracks in the weathered gray wall-boards. A dark, familiar shape lay on the floor of the shed, half-covered by a ratty old blanket, placed there on cushioning straw as if laid by loving hands. I stared a moment.
    Eyes watering, I pulled my head out of the shed and walked back to Bitty. She had a look on her face of hopeful expectation, and I slowly shook my head.
    Bitty put a hand to her chest and sucked