Darcy Miller

By Chuck Hughes

Darcy Miller

Bad things happened. Only the straw man saw.

Twelve-year-old Charlie Colby’s discovery of Elwood Johnson’s frozen body in the wooded area near the Davis farm, his head crushed from a fallen tree branch after a sudden N.C. ice storm, heralds the return of Sue Ann Colby and her son’s nightmare.

The return of Darcy Miller, Sue Ann’s sudden unexplainable illness, Charlie’s missing brother, the mysterious death of James “Farts” Bagwell collide and draw Social Worker Darlene Palmer and Detective Casey Larsen into the lives of the Colby’s and their mysterious past.

All Darlene Palmer knows is that the inexplicable entwinement of Darcy Miller and the Colby family is the key to the mystery of both their present and their past. All Detective Larsen knows is that whenever an unexplained death occurs in the small town of Kernersville, Charlie Colby and Darcy Miller are somewhere around.

Darlene’s drive to unravel the mystery of the elusive specter, Darcy Miller and the disappearance of Charlie’s younger brother, Andrew, takes twenty years and a frightening visit to a small Georgia town where she discovers that when multiple entities strive for dominance of the psychic realm, the world becomes a mystifying and frightening place. When one of the personas seems ageless, the frightening becomes terrifying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 10, 2008
• ISBN: 9781440108655

Chuck Hughes

In 2006, Chuck Hughes and two friends opened their first restaurant, Garde Manger, in old Montreal. They haven’t looked back. A fanatical clientele made up of locals and tourists keeps the place hopping; everyone is in search of Chuck’s magical take on comfort food classics. Chuck defeated Iron Chef Bobby Flay in the battle of Canadian lobster and starred in The Next Iron Chef: Super Chefs. His show Chuck’s Day Off airs in over eighty countries including the U.S. (Cooking Channel) and Canada (Food Network), as does his follow-up series, Chuck’s Week Off. Recently he completed the first season of his primetime show, Chuck’s Eat the Street, for Cooking Channel, and he is currently discussing another series for Food Network Canada for 2013.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The fields were brown. The little fescue that had survived the harvest quickly bowed to the winter coldness. Still, December had been seasonable enough for North Carolina with a cold day here, a warmer day there. However, the first week in February brought with it a cold draft out of Canada. It began just as the weatherman had predicted, light rain, a dusting of snow, temperatures in the mid-thirties. It didn’t end that way. A wayward rainstorm swept up from Atlanta. Southern storms are treacherous that way. They always bring the unexpected. This one was no different.

The threat of torrents of rain colliding with the icy winds lying in wait over North Carolina’s piedmont sent the residents of Kernersville stampeding towards the local Food Lion. Within hours, the bread shelves and cooler boxes were bare. It seems to be a law of nature, the hoarding of milk and bread at the first hint of bad weather.

At the first signs of nature’s assault, Elwood Johnson rushed to finish his chores at Davis’ Farms. After dumping several buckets of oats and a busted bale of hay into each stall, he quickly herded the horses into the barn.

He had barely finished scattering knee-high stacks of hay to feed the cows left to pasture when the low-hanging clouds released their fury.

By the time he bedded down the John Deere tractor, the temperature had dropped another ten degrees. Rain turned into snow, snow into sleet.

His chores finished, Elwood pulled his smelly sweatshirt tightly over his head. Over this, he wore a plaid coat almost as tattered as the sweatshirt. This would have been warm enough for most wintry North Carolina days, but it was no match for the onslaught of cold that was on its way.

Head tucked deep into his wool collar, Elwood trotted down the ice-covered path.

Elwood’s gettin’ on home, he muttered as he looked nervously up at the cloudy sky.

Summer thunderstorms frightened him; winter storms terrified him. He had heard stories of people getting lost in the snow, stories that made his skin crawl and his guts grumble.

Ya know, Elwood, Clem Jansen once told him from his perch on the porch rail of Carter’s hardware store, I’ve heard wolves a howling out there in them woods next to old man Davis’ place. I ’spect they could account for some of his missing animals.

You’re right about that, Clem, Walter Dooley agreed with a wide grin. Wouldn’t surprise me none if they tired of beef and started yearning for something on two legs.

Remembering the story sent a cramp through his bowels.

No wolf’s gettin’ Elwood, he whispered as if there were long ears listening and long teeth waiting in the woods. Not today. Elwood’s goin’ home where he’s gonna be safe.

The road towards home brought him by the abandoned shed in the wooded area next to the farm. This was his place. He had paid for it with untold hours of sweat equity. His hands had covered the holes in the rusted roof with tin scraps left over from the last roofing of Mr. Davis’ house. His hands had nailed the plank siding to the log studs. His hands had framed the sagging door using wood and hinges, leftovers from the rebuilding of the burned-out barn two years ago. Here there were no grumbling bosses, no town boys causing him trouble.

Any other day he would have stopped, made a fire in the shed’s wood stove, opened one of the cans of beans he stored there and dreamed of the great things that he would do one day. Elwood’s goin’ to discover Canada or Texas or something, he would say followed by a loud belly laugh as he flipped cold beans into his mouth with the tip of his knife.

Ain’t got no time for beans today, he said as he inspected his supply of logs lined up neatly behind the shed. As a final thought, he checked the padlock on the door. Satisfied that neither storm nor thief could do his haven harm, he tugged his coat close and turned back towards the snow-covered road and home.

Then his eyes locked onto the footprints. Ears alert, eyes narrowed, he inspected the distortions in the snow as they circled the shed before trailing off towards the woods.

Come here, Elwood!

Elwood froze as he anxiously searched for the familiar voice. He couldn’t see anyone, but the sound was coming from the large oak at the edge of the woods where the footprints also ended. Crunching through the carpet of sleet-covered snow, he rushed to the tree to catch the intruder before he could spit out his insults and run away.

Elwood. The voice teased.

Reaching the tree, he shouted, I g-g-got y-y-you n-now. Elwood g-ggot y-y-you.

The sound of wood denting thick bone cut off his words sending him sprawling to the ground convulsing in a pool of blood.

Then he was still.

Only the straw man saw.

CHAPTER 2

Sue Ann Colby lifted her son’s chin bringing his eyes in contact with hers. Pay attention, Charlie. I have to tell you something, she said softly. Charlie knew that when his mother spoke in her slow, hushed words, it meant listen carefully; this is important. When she added a chin lift, it usually meant it was not only important, it was also sad.

Charlie took a deep breath and bit down on his lip. A myriad of things he might have done over the past week swept through his mind, but he could not think of anything that warranted an important and sad talk.

Friday, we have to go to Elwood’s wake—

A wake? His eyes widened in excitement. Ain’t they for dead people?

Sue Ann added a soft smile to the chin lift. Yes, Charlie, they are.

You ain’t going to die are you? No, Charlie, she said as she replaced her chin grip with a gentle pat on her son’s head. I’ll always be right here with you.

A salty taste hit his tongue as his teeth sunk into his lip.

And I want you to be on your best behavior, you hear? Sue Ann said firmly.

Charlie slumped onto the flattened couch cushions.

Can I touch him?

No, Charlie Colby! Why would you ask such a thing?

Why not? If he’s dead what does he care?

That’s not the point, Charlie. It’s just that—

If I can’t touch him, I don’t want to go.

Charlie, you’re being silly now.

Charlie’s eyes roamed the room.

Spider in the corner.

Charlie, it’s like this . . .

I’ll catch it later

When families are left behind, they need to tell their loved ones goodbye. A funeral lets them do that. You’ll understand when you grow up.

If I was a fly, you’d eat me!

But I am grown up. I just don’t know why they have their funeral thing in the dead person’s home.

Where did the spider go?

Things are getting more expensive nowadays, and it costs less than viewing them at Oscar’s Funeral Home. When Charlie started to walk away Sue Ann grabbed him by his shoulder. Charlie, are you listening to me?

There he is. Can’t hide from me.

Charlie scratched his chin with his nail-bitten fingers as he turned away from her mother’s scolding eyes. When she pulled him back, he shouted, Why don’t they just bury ’em and get on with it!

That’s an awful thing to say, Charlie Colby!

That’s what Mr. Dooley said, the boy muttered. Just bury ’em and get on with it.

When did you hear that nasty old man say such a thing?

Spider, I still see you.

I don’t remember.

But Charlie did remember. It was June a year ago. He was stomping bugs out on the front stoop of Carter’s Hardware while his mother was picking up groceries. Walter Dooley, Clem Jansen, and Odis Davis were loafing on the store’s porch passing the time reliving Bobby Pringle’s accident.

Walter, a newspaper in hand, legs wrapped pretzel-like around the legs of the straight-backed chair, argued the accident was the worse he ever saw. I ain’t never seen such a mess, he said then pushed a plug of tobacco into his cheek.

I’ve seen a lot worse, Odis said leaning back in the lone wooden rocker, one booted foot on the weather-beaten deck planks, the other on the porch rail.

Clem, whittling at the peel of a deep red Wine Sap apple, joined in the discussion. Not a lot left to bury, he said as he cut a slice, speared it with the tip of his pocketknife, and pushed it into his mouth.

No shit, Walter added. Might near cut the man in—

Clem nudged the old man and shot a glance towards Charlie.

I suspect the boy’s heard worse, Walter said as he spit a glob of tobacco juice over the railing into the dust.

I seen it! Charlie said as he crunched a beetle trying to feed on one of the dead ants. He got hit just over from my house.

When Charlie heard the crash that afternoon, he ran across the street to Partridge Road. A crowd was already gathering, but he managed to edge his way up front. There on the road, blood gushing, bones poking from one arm, guts splattered all over one of the Weaver boy’s pickup trucks, was Bobby Pringle. Charlie had never seen the insides of anything before, except the hog out on Davis’ farm during butchering season.

Old man Davis had let him touch the hog, but Charlie couldn’t get close enough to touch Bobby. Still, Bobby looked a lot like that hog with his belly hanging open.

You boys goin’ to the wake? Clem asked.

Hell no! Walter said as he folded up the sports page and tossed the rest of the paper to Odis. I don’t see no need sittin’ up looking at ’em all night while folks drop in like it was a social occasion. And I certainly don’t see paying Oscar to lay ’em out in his fancy funeral home.

After pushing the wad of tobacco deeper into his cheek, he spat a jaw full of tobacco juice ten feet from the porch, then wiped his gruffly beard with his shirtsleeve. Continuing his outhouse wisdom, he added, No, sir! Just bury ’em and get on with it, I say.

I just remember him sayin’ it, Charlie mumbled. Then putting away thoughts of Bobby Pringle and slaughtered hogs, he turned his attention back to the spider. It had retreated to the center of its silky web waiting for the slightest quiver of one of the web’s sticky strands. Suddenly, the hairy-legged insect scurried towards the edge of the web where a fly had made a fatal mistake.

As Charlie studied the hunter and its prey, Sue Ann gathered an armful of clothes and headed to the kitchen where the washer shared equal status with the cook stove, the metal-legged table, and the three matching chairs. Over the splatter of water filling the tub, she shouted back to Charlie.

I don’t want you listening to such trash talk. You hear?

I hear, Charlie said as he plucked the spider from the wall and squashed it between his fingers.

Goodbye spider. No more flies for you.

A minute later, Sue Ann was back.

Might as well take off that shirt and let me wash it while I’m at it, she said. And I mean it about listening to Mr. Dooley. The old man should hang his head in shame for talking such nonsense . . . let’s wash the pants too . . . Wakes and viewings are good and proper things, important things.

She shook her head and muttered something Charlie couldn’t quite hear as she headed back to the kitchen with Charlie trailing behind.

They don’t care, he said as he slipped out of his patched-up jeans and tossed them on the washer.

Of course they care, Charlie. Of course, they do.

Dead things don’t care about nothing.

Sue Ann grabbed his chin again.

Charlie, wakes aren’t for the dead. They’re for the living. Helping people say good-bye to someone who dies. Funerals and such help the family rid themselves of all their pent-up emotion and grief, and they—

Charlie pulled away again. That’s fine for them who might have loved the dead person, but it don’t do no good for someone who might not have even liked him.

Sue Ann shook her head, partly in amusement, partly in frustration. That’s another thing wakes are good for, she said. They give a person an opportunity to put away their feelings of anger or dislike.

Maybe a spider wake . . . A butchered hog wake.

In the end, Charlie decided there was a more important reason to go. He would see how well they had patched Elwood up. He might be able to sneak a touch.

CHAPTER 3

If it hadn’t been for the freezing weather, Elwood would have been too mushy and smelly for anyone to look at much less touch. But it was freezing, and he was fresh, just as fresh as one of Violet Tisdale’s freshly baked pies.

Charlie wasn’t surprised when he saw how good Elwood looked in the old brown suit and the one size too small, white cotton shirt his mother pulled out of the rarely opened suitcase hidden deep in her closet. Charlie’s red and blue striped tie, the one he wore on the rare occasion that demanded such dressing up, finished off Elwood’s ensemble.

Despite the shirt gripping his thick neck as if trying to make him look deader than he was, Elwood looked prim and proper. In fact, he looked the best he had ever looked.

However, a lot of Elwood’s new look had to be credited to Mr. Whitley. He was widely known for his putty and wax skills, all of which he needed to cover up the large gash over Elwood’s eye and his chewed-up nose and cheek.

No, it wasn’t surprising how good Elwood looked lying there in his fancy casket with its puffed-up satin pillow like a traveling Bible salesman who had stretched out to take a nap. What did surprise him, however, was seeing Darcy Miller there.

The first time the burly, shaggy-haired boy burst into his world, seemingly out of nowhere, was that day when things went bad for Andrew, and he went away for the first time. Charlie was terrified when the strange boy, laughing, jumping around in some type of jig, first showed up. Later, the newcomer explained how he was going to be his friend, how he was going to be looking out for him. You just have to listen to me, that’s all.

Darcy hadn’t been around for a long time and Charlie had forgotten about him. He closed his eyes as the faint memory of the irritating boy teased its way back into awareness. The memory sharped . . . Darcy always got him into trouble. Go away! he whispered as he tried to put the thought back into its hidden place where it would sleep until it could escape again.

Charlie had reason not to like Darcy then, and time hadn’t changed anything. Now he was back, showing up out of nowhere just as suddenly as he had left and right here of all places, here at Elwood Johnson’s wake.

Why are you back here? Charlie asked accusingly. You never liked Elwood.

Darcy cupped his mouth to muffle his laugh. Maybe I’ll like the retard more now.

Sue Ann shot Charlie an icy glare from across the room. Charlie grimaced. If she saw Darcy, he would be in for a tongue-lashing. Just the mention of Darcy’s name would put a deep wrinkle in her brow and a frown on her mouth.

Whatever the reason, Darcy was there, unwashed with stringy, uncombed hair dipping over his cold, sunken eyes. He was even wearing the same knee-worn jeans and the same dirty tee-shirt he always wore.

Heck, Charlie thought, even I got on a clean shirt and my hair slickened down and combed.

Even Elwood’s week-old remains looked better than Darcy did. But such things never bothered Darcy Miller.

Charlie looked over his shoulder at him and scoffed.

You better go on. If my Mom sees you, I’ll be in trouble.

Darcy returned the look with a patented go-to-hell look of his own. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble on account of me.

Charlie gritted his teeth and walked towards Elwood’s coffin that was shoved up against the far wall. Piss on you, Darcy Miller, he muttered as he stood on tiptoes to get a closer look at Elwood’s pickled remains. Then he turned to the puzzle of where Darcy had been for the past year and why he picked tonight to come back.

Charlie!

No answer.

What is he up to? Sue Ann wondered.

Charlie! she said this time with more urgency.

Huh.

Charlie, Mrs. Johnson was talking to you.

Sue Ann turned to the short, heavyset woman with strands of oily hair hanging over droopy red eyes. Martha, you have to forgive Charlie, she said with a note of embarrassment. He was Elwood’s friend.

It’s okay, Martha whispered as she patted Charlie on the head. I’m glad you found my boy before . . .

She sniffled then wiped the dribble from her nose with her Sunday linen handkerchief.

I know it must have been a terrible thing for you to run up on him like you did, but I am grateful he was found. As hard as it is knowing it would be even worse not knowing.

Martha dabbed at her eyes with the time-stained handkerchief then buried her head in her hands.

There, there, Martha, Sue Ann said as she cushioned the woman’s head on her shoulder. He’s in God’s hands now. He’s finally happy. Why I bet he’s one of the smartest in his class in heaven.

Charlie tugged on his mother’s arm, but she ignored him and kept trying to comfort Martha who was now crying uncontrollably. He tugged again.

Charlie! What is it? she said as she asked as she gave him an annoying look.

Why is she grateful? Charlie asked.

Because she is.

But why?

Excuse me, Martha, Sue Ann said, I need to show Charlie where the bathroom is.

But I don’t have to—

Yes! You do!

But I went before—

She gripped Charlie’s arm and pulled him towards the hallway. Just hush! Once out of the grieving woman’s earshot, she released his arm. Charlie, she’s glad you found her boy before the animals could . . . could—

Eat him?

Don’t say such things, Charlie. Having to hear over and over about the condition her boy was in when you found him just makes things worse for Mrs. Johnson. So let’s not cause her any more grief than she’s already having.

But she seen him when he was brought in, didn’t she? She knows he was worm-eaten dead when I found him.

A glance back at Martha, hoping their words had not carried into the living room, Sue Ann found the grieving woman cradled in the arms of another neighbor. Hush, now, before Mrs. Johnson hears you, Do you hear me?

Wouldn’t she be better off if she never knew? Charlie muttered.

Charlie, even if the news is bad, sometimes it’s easier knowing than not knowing. That’s all Mrs. Johnson is trying to say. She’s just grateful that she at least knows.

Would you want to know? Charlie asked.

Sue Ann took a deep breath then looked down at her son, her bottom lip curled. Yes, I guess I would, but this isn’t about me, Charlie, and it’s not about what I would want to know or not know. It’s about poor Mrs. Johnson. She rambled on about the knowing and not knowing of things while Charlie mimicked her nods. He had learned it was easier to do that than to try to get a real answer.

Sue Ann licked her palm and ran it over his cowlick before taking him back into the viewing room.

Dry-eyed now, Martha Johnson joined them and patted Charlie on the head again. The cowlick took notice.

Elwood didn’t have many friends, stuttering like he does . . . like he did, and being slow and all. She said. He spent most of his time working or up at that shack of his. She put her face in her hands and moaned. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, if I listen real hard, I can hear him shuffling about the house like he always did, she said as tears flowed like a miniature stream down her cheeks. If you hadn’t found him when you did, Lord knows how long he would have been out there. If it wasn’t for you, there would not have been anything left to bury

Charlie scratched his nose, nodded a final time then muttered, Yes, Ma’am. He was eaten pretty good already. I’m just glad I was the one that—

Before he could finish his words, his mother guided the grief-stricken Mrs. Johnson back towards Elwood and his fancy casket. I think Charlie is a little upset, Martha. It’s best I take him on home.

It was just as well they left, then he could think about all the day’s funny things that were creeping through his mind, things like Elwood’s new plastic nose, Mrs. Johnson’s chants about wanting to know about things she shouldn’t want to know about, and her tear-stained, faded handkerchief she was waving about. Then there was the size seventeen neck she stuffed into a size fifteen black dress.

Charlie struggled to choke back the growing giggle inside him, but Junior Clancy and his brother making faces at Elwood didn’t help any. His giggle found its way out. His mother’s over-the-shoulder glare served as a warning for him to sit back down and be quiet.

Charlie closed his eyes and sighed. Think about something else. He slouched into an empty chair he found folded up in a corner, the kind that’s kept hidden away until brought back to life when it was needed. While scratching the itch that had found its way from his nose to his ear, he glared at Mrs. Johnson sitting in an overstuffed chair at the head of Elwood’s casket. He shook his head. You think you know everything about your Eldwood, but you don’t.

By now, Sue Ann had passed Mrs. Johnson on to the preacher for more professional comforting and was walking back towards Charlie with a glass of sweet red soda in one hand and a paper cup of cooling coffee in the other. We won’t be here much longer, she said as she handed Charlie the sugared drink then sat down and put her arm around his neck.

Charlie squirmed.

Are you okay? she asked.

He forced a smile and nodded.

While he drank the syrupy punch and his mother shuffled through her purse looking for whatever it was she was for looking for, Charlie watched the people coming and going. He had a fascination with faces.

Otis Davis was frowning at the Clancy boys. Walter Dooley had popped a bump on his face and was examining its contents. Ada Myers was adjusting the clip holding her swirls of blonde hair in a bun, while Clem Jansen whispered to her flashing his gold tooth with each grin. And everyone was eating, eating and crying and comforting, then eating some more.

Sometimes it looked like they didn’t know which one to do next. But the food was one reason he was there besides seeing Elwood boxed up like a fancy package ready for shipment.

As he pondered the mysteries of people, Junior Clancy, and his brother Belford, ran by whispering dares to each other to touch the dead body. Although Junior was ten, two years older than his brother. Although he was the younger boy, he took the challenge and scrambled off and stood on his toes to see inside the coffin.

Go on sissy. I dare ya, Junior taunted when Belford hesitated.

Charlie watched to see if the daring would fade once Belford looked down into the cold, waxy face of death. It didn’t. Scrunching up his face, he raised his hand towards Elwood. His hand wavered for only a minute then shot forward. A minute later, he was running back to his brother. I done it, now you do it, he demanded.

His brother’s face paled. I ain’t as dumb as you. Everybody knows it’s bad luck to touch dead things, then he ran off with shouts of ‘sissy’ following him.

Charlie felt another giggle building.

Are you sure you’re okay, Charlie? Sue Ann asked as she sat her coffee on the floor and pressed her palm against his brow. Are you taking your pills?

Between quick nods of his head and a deep yawn, Charlie asked, Ain’t we ready to go yet?

We can—

A loud noise from across the room stopped her thought. Looking around, she saw Reverend Jamison pushing his way through the crowd of people. Give the poor woman some air, folks,