“Soon enough more cars will pass by. We’ll hear them coming, those gusts of wind. We’re going to get into one,” she said, holding out her thumb.
She had Howling and Feral stay to the right of her so her body would be a shield against any oncoming vehicles. She walked against traffic to better see cars approach. “One’s coming now, get ready,” she said, hearing it before seeing it.
When the lights flared and the engine bawled, Howling screamed his throat raw and Feral yelped before smashing his face into Vern’s thigh. Vern crouched and swept them both into her fold, a babe in each arm. “Just a little old car, that’s all, children. You don’t have to be afraid.”
“There was nothing little about it,” Howling cried. “You liar. I hate you.”
“It’s gone now, I promise,” she said, squeezing her fingers into the plush bun of coils tied up at the back of his head. “You’re right, it’s not little. It’s big. Big enough to carry us away to where we want to go. They don’t mean you harm.”
“But it smelled so bad,” said Feral. “What was that?” He was covering his nose and mouth with both hands as he gasped for breaths.
“Gas,” said Vern. Both children laughed, their fright forgotten. “Not that kind of gas, buttheads. Liquid gas.”
“Like diarrhea?” said Howling, still grinning.
Rolling her eyes, Vern shoved Howling away playfully. “Gasoline. I’ll explain it later, I promise. You just got to take it all in. The answers are gonna come.”
“They should call them skunks instead of cars,” said Howling. Feral nodded at his sibling’s sage declaration.
Cars, minivans, SUVs, and pickup trucks continued to barrel by, impaling the trio with light. The children shrieked away from the road each time. Though they’d barely left its borders more than twenty minutes ago, they already pined for the woods. “Can the skunks even see us? Why aint they stopping?” asked Howling.
Vern squinted ahead. “What is it, Mam?” the children asked, following her gaze.
A horse-drawn buggy rolled down the road toward them. Vern stumbled backward as two white horses galloped forward, tugging a wood-wheeled wagon. They slowed as they approached. Vern grabbed both her children’s hands. The wagon halted. A tall, lanky white man with black hair down to his ears, parted in the middle, stepped down. He held out a lantern in front of him, like he couldn’t see her or the children right there in front of him.
Vern held fast to her children and ran. It was a half-realized sprint, her joints sore and unsteady. The children, with their little feet, slowed her down further. She glanced back over her shoulder to get a look. The driver was back in his carriage, whipping the horses to move. “Giddyup!” he snapped.
The whip made a sound like cracking bone as it sliced the air. The horses whinnied and neighed. Their shod hooves trampled the ground. Vern decided to veer back into the cover of the trees, where the horses and wagon could not follow, but the next time she looked back over her shoulder, they were gone.
“Mam! Mam! What is it?” asked Howling, looking back at the direction from which they’d come.
Vern sucked down air. “It was nothing, baby. I thought I— I thought I saw something.” It was another haunting. They were increasing in regularity.
“Thought you saw what?” asked Feral.
“A ghost,” she said.
Feral nodded. “I hate ghosts,” he said, and then, afraid one might have heard him, he corrected himself. “I hate mean ghosts. I love you, other ghosts.”
“Leave us alone, mean ghosts!” Howling shouted. He picked up a wad of pebbles from the ground and launched them into the air. Feral joined in. So did Vern. She dug her hand into the hard, packed dirt and fisted a clump of it. She pelted it hard enough that if someone had been in the way, they’d have gotten a nasty bruise.
“Damn, Mam!” said Howling. “Wish I could throw like that.” He picked up a rock and launched it, and while it was a decent throw, it had nothing on Vern’s.
“We got to go,” said Vern. “That ghost won’t be bothering us no more.”
10
VERN’S BABES weren’t good babes in the traditional sense. They’d never needed to be good before, to behave. There was no father or grandfather or uncle looming in the corner with a belt, no mam or grandma or auntie with a hairbrush or wooden spoon waiting to pounce on their bare behinds, no teacher marking their hard work with a red pen, telling them, Indoor voices. They could hardly know what indoor was.