The Summer That Melted Everything(14)

“We’ve got Popsicles.” I pulled the open box out of the freezer and peered inside. “Grape is all that’s left.”

I offered one toward him. He shook his head and asked again about her fear.

“I told ya, it has somethin’ to do with a fish.” I flung the box back into the freezer.

“But you don’t know for sure?”

“No, I don’t. Lay off it.”

“If I had a mother, I would know for sure why she was afraid.”

“Don’tcha have one?”

He shook his head low.

“I don’t know if that’s true, Amos.” Dad stood in the doorway of the kitchen with the sheriff beside him.

“Why’d you call him Amos, Dad?”

“I’m not Amos, sir.” Sal looked from the balding sheriff to Dad and then back again.

“You sure fit the description. Best start to come clean now, sonny.” The sheriff crossed his arms over his bulging stomach, his leaner days having been lost.

“Really, I’m not.”

“You said he matched the description. What was it?” I had asked Dad, but the sheriff was the one to answer, “A boy of thirteen. Black. Wearin’ overalls. No shoes. A runaway been missin’ for two months.”

“Is that all the description?” I looked at Sal.

“It’s enough, ain’t it?” The sheriff was the type of man who spit aggressively when outdoors. It was a great strain for him to keep from spitting when indoors, and I saw this very strain as he cleared his throat.

“Well, what about his eyes? Do they say if this Amos has green eyes?”

The sheriff looked annoyed with my questioning. “Listen, Fieldin’, they don’t say nothin’ ’bout eye color, but I’ve no doubt that there boy is this missin’ Amos.” His big lips pushed out in a sigh as he looked at Sal. “Your folks will be here tomorrow mornin’, rise and shine or rise and dull—either way, this little lie of yours will have run its course.

“In the meantime, since we’ve no holdin’ cell for little boys in our jail, me and Mr. Bliss think it’s a good idea for you to roost here till your folks arrive. Hear me, sonny?” The sheriff had hung onto the Arkansas accent of his roots.

“You can stay in my room, Sal.”

“He can stay in one of the spares.” Dad patted his tie, which was safe in his vest. “He probably wants his own room to himself.”

Sal looked up at Dad. “If it’s all right, I’d like to stay with Fielding.”

“I don’t know.” Dad rubbed some tension out of his shoulder. “It’s so terribly hot in here, isn’t it? Where’s your mother, Fielding? I should talk to her.”

“Somewhere in there. I think Madagascar. Or was it Spain?”

“Well, if that’s all, Autopsy, I best be goin’.” The sheriff adjusted his belt, the sweat marks beneath his pits looking like gigantic ponds. “Got a call on the way here about Grayson.”

“Mr. Elohim?” I glanced at Sal. “What about ’im? We just saw ’im.”

“Ah, that midget’s all kinds of crazy.”

Dad cleared his throat. “They like to be called dwarf, I think. Or maybe little person. Course, that makes them sound less than, doesn’t it?”

“First we lost ni—” The sheriff quickly stopped himself from finishing the word while glancing from Dad to Sal. “We lost the N-word, and now we’re losin’ midget. Next thing ya know, we won’t be able to call people ugly. It’ll be appearance impaired, or somethin’ political like that.”

“What’d Mr. Elohim do?” I asked again.

“Well, apparently he went into Juniper’s and took all the ice cream outta the freezers and from the back storage. Threw it in a pile in the middle of one of the aisles and used his big propane torch, you know the one he clears brush with, to set fire to it all. Store was unharmed, as the large exhaust fan in the ceilin’ sucked up the majority of the smoke. But I hear melted milk is everywhere.”

“So all the ice cream?” Sal slumped. “It’s all—”

“Been put to death.” The sheriff’s laugh sounded like a shovel scratching sandstone.

“Will you arrest him then, Sheriff?” Sal was as serious as they come. “Arrest Mr. Elohim for murder?”

The sheriff simply smiled, his crooked teeth small and gray. He shook Dad’s hand and hollered a farewell to Mom on his way out of the house.

“What a day.” Dad stepped to the freezer, grabbing out a Popsicle. “It sure is smoldering, isn’t it?”

Sal sat at the table, removing the bowl and spoon from his overalls and placing them in front of him.

“You still, uh, keeping that thought going?” Dad stood slurping the grape Popsicle, already melting. “That you are the devil?”

“I am the devil.”

Dad held the dripping Popsicle over the sink. “Prove it. Prove that you’re really him, really the Lord of Flies. Go on. Show me your horns.”

“I’ve never had horns. That’s always been something made up to decorate my story and clog my chance not to be a beast.”

“Well, what about your wings? You were once an angel, right? Wings can’t just be decoration of that story. So where are your wings, Lucifer?”