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“Y…yes ma’am. My name is Billi Ellis, and this is Finn Hardwick. We wondered if we could talk to you about the hospital fire from ’68. Finn here is writing a newspaper article about it and…”
“I got no use for that subject. Now get off my property.”
She makes to close the door in our faces, voice firm and final, but Finn thrusts an arm between her and the door.
“Ms. Gertie, if you wouldn’t mind sparing me a minute of your time, I’m told you’re somewhat of an expert on the subject, and I would really like to talk to you.”
Maybe it’s the way he addresses her with respect. But the door doesn’t close; instead, she studies us from behind a one-inch slit, a single beady eye roaming up and down until it seems to settle on Finn’s chin. A shiver slithers down my spine, a warning, an omen. What if she really is a witch?
“What’d you say your name is?” It isn’t a question delivered to him. It’s an order.Spill your name or else.
Whether he means to or not, Finn grips my hand a little tighter.
“Finn Hardwick, ma’am. I work for theHouston Chronicle, and I’m assigned to write an article on the hospital fire. I drove up here a few days ago to interview the town residents.”
She laughs, quick and bitter. “Good luck with that one.” When Finn doesn’t respond, her eyes flicker with something I can’t name as they scan his face. “Hardwick? You any relation to Jack?”
I hear Finn’s slight inhale, stuttering and thin. “Jack is my dad.”
The door opens ever so slightly, a hesitant invitation. The old woman says nothing as she takes him in. It’s puzzling, her interest. According to everyone who lives here, she’s never been interested in anything in this town before, except getting even with it.
“Your father, huh. Well, get on with it. What do you want to know?” Her warning softens into a hum of curiosity. I feel it. Finn feels it. The possibility that the woman who never talks to anyone just might talk to us.
“Someone tells me you have firsthand information of the events that took place that day, so I want to know your version of the story.”
“Someone who? Jack?” She fairly spits his name, and I feel Finn flinch.
Finn clears his throat. “No, my father died a few months ago. A Mr. Paul Ford gave me your information. Spoke very highly of you, actually.” I know enough about Finn to know he’s uncomfortable talking about his father, and I know enough about journalism to know a reporter never reveals his sources before publication. This conversation can’t be easy on either count.
“Jack’s dead?” It’s a harsh way to put it, like a slap, and I’m concerned for Finn. But for a moment, Sally’s the one who looks hurt. Maybe disappointed. The look passes in a blink as she loudly huffs. “Paul would speak highly of me because he knows.”
Finn shifts his weight and pulls out a pen from his front pocket. “Well, that’s just it, Ms. Gertie. I have no idea what Paul knows about anything. The information I have about the fire is muddy at best, and I would love your help to clear that image and put the pieces together. Can you tell me what you remember about that day? I’m aware you weren’t there, but—”
The door flies open, and I’m struck mute. Frozen in place with twenty-seven years of fear wrapping around my neck in a chokehold and locking my body down. This is the moment she kills us. Right after, she’ll bury us in her backyard where no one will find us because no one comes out here. Dirty Sally up close is all at once terrifying.
But then…not at all what I’ve come to suspect.
Her wiry gray hair is pulled back into a severe bun, a few little flyaways daring to escape around her ears. She wears a bra underneath a yellowed unbuttoned shirt that saw better days back in the seventies. Her feet are covered in mismatched socks with holes at the big toes. She’s stooped and sagging, leaning to one side a bit, wrinkled and bitter, beat down and tired. There’s a fire in her eye that screams she’s a fighter. A gleam behind her irises suggests she might have been beautiful once upon a time, back before the town slapped her with a label, threw stones at her house, and burned her at the proverbial stake.
God would be ashamed of all of us. I’m more than a little ashamed of myself.
Sally stands in front of us, pulling her shirt closed around her, chin jutted out and mouth set in a hard line, raging mad and ready for a battle. And then she turns her glare on me.
“The hell I wasn’t there. I was at the hospital that very day, smack dab in the middle of it, front and center to the biggest cover-up there ever was. That fire was no accident.” My blood grows cold at her accusations, but it bleeds ice at her next words. Her stare reconnects with Finn’s face, but the words are directed at me.
“This town is made up of nothing but a bunch of thieves and murderers, and your daddy knows all about it.”
I’m still shakingat her words, but I’m trying hard to hide it. This isn’t about me. It’s about Finn’s article, and he won’t get it written if she kicks us out of her house.
We’re sitting on what can only be described as a settee, a green sofa so old and filthy it looks like it was pulled from the dump a few decades ago. I grimaced when she offered us a seat, but Finn lowered himself with ease and whipped open his notebook like this was an everyday part of the job. The guy drives an Audi, so I know this isn’t his usual lifestyle. I don’t drive anything close to an Audi, and I’m so uncomfortable I want to scratch myself from head to toe. Cobwebs decorate the walls in the way most people might hang pictures. A broom stands against a far wall, but it’s covered in dust like it’s merely a part of the scenery. The floor is made up of scratched hardwood scattered with a few tattered accent rugs. The heater is nonexistent or turned off. A biting chill blasts through the walls. I sit next to Finn and scoot close to steal his body heat.
Dirty Sally walks with a limp, her gait a curious shuffle-hop that was a bit uncomfortable to watch. She also lives surrounded by dirt, and we’re sitting in it with her. The only difference is she seems unaffected by the temperature while I’m working to not visibly shiver. I scoot a little closer still, forcing my mind to think about what we’ve established so far.
It’s clear that she hates my father. What isn’t clear is how a man who’s only been in office this side of ten years could have looked the other way on anything that happened three decades ago. Back then, my father was focused on getting his master’s degree in physics at Oklahoma State University, had just married my mother, and wasn’t even considering a career in politics. His own father had been a state representative for eight years, and the highway commissioner for twelve, and my dad swore he never wanted to follow in those footsteps. Too much travel, too much time away, too many opportunities for…extracurricular activities. Even the roundest, baldest man looks attractive in power, and my dad knew it.
It’s a very fine line between what you want and what you end up with.
Nowadays, there’s a running joke between my father and grandfather at every holiday gathering.“Remember when you insisted you didn’t want this life, son? Turns out the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all.”
