Dirty Faces - Book 2

Chapter 32: The Shack

Chapter 32: The Shack

Tommy's insistence that they be quiet didn't make much sense, seeing as what little breeze was present was enough to create a symphony with the countless rusty wind chimes hanging from the shack's eave. To look so solitary, it sure was a noisy place. They stepped out of the woods and began traversing the patches of dirt interspersed with various bushes that must have been meant to be the yard. Nearer the shack, the shrubbery took on a more cultivated quality, and Ginny recognized some of the plants Mama and Aunt Betty used to season food.

A chicken ran in front of them, and after the initial start, Ginny noticed, amidst the clamor of all those chimes, chickens clucking and squawking. Flush with the side of the shack, a wooden barrel collected rain water, and a little further back, a rough chicken coop, in disrepair but definitely still in use, stood. The shutters on the shack's lone window were open, but none of them dared look inside.

A silent argument took place between the three as they stood before the door: Tommy was the oldest, so he should knock. It was Rowdy's grand idea they come here, though, so he should be the one who did it. But really, it was all for Ginny's sake, and allegedly, she was family, so she should probably knock. Finally, Tommy assumed his historic leadership role and stepped forward. His features had matured in the past two years, but the way he approached that door looked to Ginny every bit the little boy in that old gray house, about to open the closet which bore the fearsome possum. That seemed like forever ago.

He knocked, and there was movement inside. Ginny swallowed. The knob turned; her pulse quickened, and the boys released a pair of ever-so-quiet gasps. With a groan from the rusty hinges, the door opened, but only a crack. "Who's there and what's your business?" said a voice that reminded Ginny of a crow's caw. They were without words. Ginny looked frantically at Tommy.

"Eh, er, we're looking for Aunt Virgie," he managed. "Might that be you?"

The end of a double barreled shotgun poked through the crack. "I asked you first."

"My-my-my name is Tommy Montgomery. You−she helped me a long time ago. I've brought my friend, hoping you−she could help her, too. Her name's Ginny Paserella. And we also brought our friend Rowdy Riley."

The gun retracted, and there came a long, low growl from the ancient hinges as the door opened. And there she stood, every bit the spectacle Ginny had imagined and yet nothing at all what she'd expected. Judging by her wild hair, she was clearly a relative. It was gray set off by shocks of white, and probably hadn't seen a brush or comb in a couple decades. Various little trinkets were braided in here and there: feathers, beads, dried flowers, something that looked like a fishing lure. A small animal could make a fine home in that mane.

She was a tiny little thing. The shotgun she clutched was as long as she was tall, and she was clothed in something like a gown made entirely of sackcloth. The wrinkles in her face were so deep and many that one could scarcely make out any definable features, but her olive complexion was undeniably that of Ginny's father's family. "Show me the girl," she commanded.

The cloudiness of her eyes and the vacant, un-following gaze told them that her vision had long since left her. Ginny looked to her friends, who could only shrug, and stepped forward. The old woman raised her hands to Ginny's face, and began feeling her every feature. She resisted the natural inclination to grimace, but nonetheless stiffened as the gnarled fingers with the long, filthy nails felt about her face. Somehow, those unseeing eyes managed to soften. "You've got the look of my David."