Free Ferris Beach by Jill McCorkle
Authors: Jill McCorkle
my own imperfections and still I clung to Misty every step of the way. She didn’t seem bothered by her own appearance; if she ever did cry about the way she looked, she did it behind a closed door at 202 Wilkins Road, where no one could see or hear her. I sat under the house feeling trapped, wishing that Misty would come over, that I’d hear her familiar steps on our long gravel drive.
“Just make me,” Merle yelled, and I spied pale yellow hair as he crawled up closer to our hedge, but I didn’t move from my spot under the house. I scooped Oliver up in my arms and held him there, my breath warm in his fur. “I know you’re under there! Hey!” He stood then, just his eyes and the top of his head showing over the bushes. He waited for what seemed like forever. “Hey girl, I know you can hear me!” His words were slow and deliberate. If Misty had been there she would have asked him if that’s what he learned in the mobile speech trailer. “Do you hear me?”
“I don’t know if she does.” It was my father I could hear his footsteps just over my head as he crossed the back porch and stepped out onto the steps, the screendoor whining and held open. “But I sure do hear you and I can’t hear myself think.” I saw Merle’s head disappear and then there was that same scrambling sound as when he’d crept up to the hedge. “I think he’s gone now, Kitty,” he said. “Where are you? Under the house?” I heard him shuffling there, waiting, and I knew exactly what he looked like: coarse hair disheveled, pants baggy and wrinkled, faded bedroom shoes, but his white dress shirt with sleeves rolled three-quarter would look like it had just been starched and pressed. Even my mother pondered this phenomenon, this perfectly clean creased shirt like the eye of a storm, still and untouched. “Under the house,” I heard him say and the door creaked shut over my head. “Of course, the body is under the house. It came in a roll ofinsulation the day after the murder. Kitty? Kitty, are you down there?”
“Yes.”
“Well, come on out, honey. I think there was a boy over here to see you.” By then he had let the door slam shut, and he had gone through the side porch mumbling his nutty plot. I got to the top step just in time to see the back of his perfect shirt and to hear him trying to decide how many yards of insulation should have come on the roll.
“MMMMeeeeoooowwwwwww.” The leaves rustled again but I didn’t turn around. I ran inside, ignoring my father’s request that I roll him up in our living room rug and see if I could drag it.
That was three years ago. Now, I saw Merle run from the glare of the headlights and into the darkness of his yard and I knew the tea was over. I knew that within minutes Mama would be home and calling for me to come downstairs to set the table. I twisted the knob of my transistor, but it was still too early to pick up anything far from Fulton. The rain was pouring again, making my clothes and hair damp from the mist. Across the field, through the lighted window of the Huckses’ house, I glimpsed Merle’s pale yellow hair. He stood with his back to the window, and then his mother was there, placing her hand on the top of his head. I still caught myself thinking, from time to time, about when he called me ugly and trapped me under my own house. I was somehow surprised by the fact that he had spent so much time just trying to bother me. I had been afraid to go to school the next day but it turned out he just looked at me and grinned, handed me a piece of candy, an old hard-as-a-brick Mary Jane, all flat from being in his nasty back pocket. When he was safely out of view, I promptly threw that candy to the ground, and hoped that no one, not even Misty, had seen.
The phone rang, breaking the quiet rhythm of the rain hittingthe roof, and I watched Merle move away from his mother and the window and disappear beyond my view. “Katie?” My mother’s voice carried from where I knew
“Just make me,” Merle yelled, and I spied pale yellow hair as he crawled up closer to our hedge, but I didn’t move from my spot under the house. I scooped Oliver up in my arms and held him there, my breath warm in his fur. “I know you’re under there! Hey!” He stood then, just his eyes and the top of his head showing over the bushes. He waited for what seemed like forever. “Hey girl, I know you can hear me!” His words were slow and deliberate. If Misty had been there she would have asked him if that’s what he learned in the mobile speech trailer. “Do you hear me?”
“I don’t know if she does.” It was my father I could hear his footsteps just over my head as he crossed the back porch and stepped out onto the steps, the screendoor whining and held open. “But I sure do hear you and I can’t hear myself think.” I saw Merle’s head disappear and then there was that same scrambling sound as when he’d crept up to the hedge. “I think he’s gone now, Kitty,” he said. “Where are you? Under the house?” I heard him shuffling there, waiting, and I knew exactly what he looked like: coarse hair disheveled, pants baggy and wrinkled, faded bedroom shoes, but his white dress shirt with sleeves rolled three-quarter would look like it had just been starched and pressed. Even my mother pondered this phenomenon, this perfectly clean creased shirt like the eye of a storm, still and untouched. “Under the house,” I heard him say and the door creaked shut over my head. “Of course, the body is under the house. It came in a roll ofinsulation the day after the murder. Kitty? Kitty, are you down there?”
“Yes.”
“Well, come on out, honey. I think there was a boy over here to see you.” By then he had let the door slam shut, and he had gone through the side porch mumbling his nutty plot. I got to the top step just in time to see the back of his perfect shirt and to hear him trying to decide how many yards of insulation should have come on the roll.
“MMMMeeeeoooowwwwwww.” The leaves rustled again but I didn’t turn around. I ran inside, ignoring my father’s request that I roll him up in our living room rug and see if I could drag it.
That was three years ago. Now, I saw Merle run from the glare of the headlights and into the darkness of his yard and I knew the tea was over. I knew that within minutes Mama would be home and calling for me to come downstairs to set the table. I twisted the knob of my transistor, but it was still too early to pick up anything far from Fulton. The rain was pouring again, making my clothes and hair damp from the mist. Across the field, through the lighted window of the Huckses’ house, I glimpsed Merle’s pale yellow hair. He stood with his back to the window, and then his mother was there, placing her hand on the top of his head. I still caught myself thinking, from time to time, about when he called me ugly and trapped me under my own house. I was somehow surprised by the fact that he had spent so much time just trying to bother me. I had been afraid to go to school the next day but it turned out he just looked at me and grinned, handed me a piece of candy, an old hard-as-a-brick Mary Jane, all flat from being in his nasty back pocket. When he was safely out of view, I promptly threw that candy to the ground, and hoped that no one, not even Misty, had seen.
The phone rang, breaking the quiet rhythm of the rain hittingthe roof, and I watched Merle move away from his mother and the window and disappear beyond my view. “Katie?” My mother’s voice carried from where I knew