Free Scary Creek by Thomas Cater

around. What the fire did for the flesh,
the brandy accomplished for the s pirit . She topped her cup off with a squirt of whip cream
from an aerosol can and crawled into the narrow space in Virgil’s chair.
    I felt a little envy at the sight of that domestic
scene, but he seemed somewhat reluctant to appreciate it or her. Virgil sipped
his drink. I began to suspect that I had worn my welcome as thin as a pair of
old polyester pants when Violet spoke.
    “Do you remember Amy Taylor, the black lady who used
to care for Elinore? She still lives in the alley behind the elementary
school.”
    Virgil’s interest had piqued long ago.  “I’d forgotten
about her,” he said, sounding very tired.
    “So has everyone else,” Violet said, eyebrow arching
in disdain. “Her mother took care of Elinore for a few years, and when she
died, Amy took over. She’s bed-ridden now, but her grandson keeps me posted on
her health.”
    “ Do you think
she’s well enough to have visitors?” I asked.
    “We can always try,” Violet replied. “She can only say
no.”
    Crawling out of her nest, she thumbed through a thin, pint-sized
phone book. “Only one Amy Taylor here,” she said. “It’s got to be her.”
    She dialed, got an answer and introduced herself. The
listener was patient, cooperative, politely indulging her every word. He agreed
to a meeting. She laid the phone back in its cradle.
    “Your luck has changed, Charles. Her grandson said 'she’s
feeling fine and would enjoy the company'. The Ryders are her favorite topic of
conversation and if we come right away, we might catch her between naps.”
    It was no easy task giving up the comfort of the fire
and the brandy to delve more deeply into the cold gray past of the Ryder
family. I felt once more like a warrior summoned to an unpopular battle. To
ensure his commission, Virgil, too, felt an uneasy need to respond. We stirred
half-heartedly into action.
    “Give me a second,” Violet said, “I’ll call mother and
tell her I’m going to leave the children with her.”
    We returned to the chairs smiling and grateful for the
fire and brandy and waited while she prepared their two munchkins for travel.
    It took less than 20 minutes to clothe the kids, drop
them off at grandma’s house and drive to Amy Taylor’s home, a small wood-frame
house sitting on the edge of a weedy lot behind an abandoned elementary school.
    “It used to be the ‘colored’ school,” Violet said.
“Now it’s used for storage. Once there were about two dozen black families
living in town, but the Great Depression drove them away. Now there are only
two or three.”

 
     
    Chapter Six
      We gathered on the front porch and Virgil knocked.
Barely a minute passed before a man in his late forties appeared at the
door and invited us in. Amy Taylor’s grandson clenched a briar pipe between his
teeth, sported a thick, neatly trimmed mustache and wore a knitted cardigan
sweater. We shook hands and filed around our host and into the living room.
    Amy was in reclining in a hospital bed. Living
arrangements had been modified for her comfort. Photos of past and present
generations crowded tabletops and dressers. There were pictures of young black
women with small babies, and older black women with grown children. There were
black soldiers, sailors, pilots, hardened veterans, innocents, scholars and professionals.
The branches of the family tree were abundantly fruitful.
    She extended both her sagging arms to Violet in a
greeting. Virgil and I grinned, nodded painfully and tried to make small talk
with Rodney, the pipe-smoking grandson. Once chairs were in the proper place,
Rodney turned the lamplight on and the TV off.
     “Do you know how long it’s been since we talked?” Violet
asked.
    The old woman nodded and her eyes moistened.
    “Do you remember Virgil, my husband?”
    He took her hand as if he were picking up a sparrow.
    “And this is Mr. Case. He is the gentleman who wants
to know about the