My sister, Mary Beth, has a gift. I wouldn’t call it a gift, but Momma always says, “Now, Penny, the Good Lord doesn’t make mistakes.” Well, I can think of a few mistakes I’d like to ask the Good Lord about, but I didn’t get all the way to the sixth grade at Andrew Jackson Middle School without learning a thing or two about sassing Momma. So I guess the fact that Mary Beth can see the future is a gift. Leastways, in Momma’s eyes.
Momma believes that Mary Beth is a prophet, like those ones in the Bible. And if you know anything about those fellows then you know they never had a good word to say. That’s pretty much Mary Beth to a T. If Mary Beth sees something, you can be sure it’s gonna be bad news.
When Mary Beth got that funny look on her face, Momma dropped the frying pan and came running from the kitchen to find out who was the next goner in our little town of Pine Mountain, Tennessee.
“Mary Beth! What is it, baby? What do you see?” asked Momma.
“It’s John Wesley McCutcheon,” said Mary Beth. “He’s gonna get a train injury.”
“Lord, have mercy!” said Momma. She fell into the chair with a plop. Momma looked like she was about to throw up.
“Mary Beth,” said Momma, “are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yep,” said Mary Beth. “Train injury.” And that was that for poor John Wesley.
John Wesley’s daddy didn’t see it quite that way. It didn’t take long for Mr. McCutcheon to hear the latest Mary Beth prophecy. And he was madder than h-e-double hockey sticks when he showed up at our door.
“Deborah,” he said (even though everybody calls Momma “Debbie”), “that daughter of yours has gone too far this time.”
Mary Beth stood in the hallway, taking it all in. Maybe it’s because she has the gift, but you’d never know Mary Beth was just seven. When Mr. McCutcheon glared at her, she never even blinked.
“My son,” said Mr. McCutcheon, “is just eight years old. He’s at home right now, crying his little eyes out. And his momma is beside herself.” Another glare shot across the room toward Mary Beth.
Momma looked about to cry herself.
“Maybe she’s wrong,” said Momma.
Now they were both looking at Mary Beth, who took the opportunity to add a little something.
“A train injury right before Halloween,” said Mary Beth.
Mr. McCutcheon slammed his fist on the table. “Is that what you think this is, young lady, a Halloween prank?!” He jerked the door open and stomped out.
Momma and I looked at Mary Beth, standing there with her thumb in her mouth.
“You better be right about this one,” said Momma. Which I thought was kinda funny. ‘Cause if Mary Beth was right, little John Wesley would be trick-or-treating as a ghost this year.
It wasn’t long before the whole town was talking about the train injury. The fact that Pine Mountain has no train station came up again and again. After all, as long as John Wesley didn’t go anywhere, how could he die of a train injury?
But then, people started talking about trains and such, and the next thing you know, Mr. McCutcheon offered to give folks in Pine Mountain five bucks for any train they brought to McCutcheon’s Furniture. Kids were hunting in attics, and sandboxes, and everywhere in between looking for trains. Some kids made twenty bucks off the deal. Mr. Leroy Tuttle even gave his Word of Honor that he would lock his antique train set in his storage house till November first.
But that wasn’t enough. A week or so before Halloween, Momma walked in the door, busting with the latest gossip.
“Girls, you are not going to believe what Mr. McCutcheon has done now!” Momma set the bucket of chicken on the table.
“You remember that Mr.Trane who lives on Third Street? Well, he’s up and gone now! The whole family’s moved clear across the state. Courtesy of Mr. John McCutcheon.”
Mr. Trane’s one of those guys who works on power lines. Or used to before he moved. So I figured this was pretty good thinking on old man McCutcheon’s part. Maybe he believed my sister had the gift; maybe he didn’t. But he sure as heck wasn’t taking any chances.
By the time the Pumpkin Carnival rolled around, on the evening before Halloween, you could cut the tension with a knife. The last couple of days had been trying, to say the least. From the time little John Wesley got up in the morning till he went to bed at night, his mother shadowed him. That didn’t keep John Wesley from being a brat, but so far, it had kept him safe from a train injury. Just one more day, and then everyone could relax.
As usual, John Wesley whined non-stop, even at the Carnival. I guess having your momma tag along all night long can suck the joy out of any occasion. But he was getting on my last nerve by the time we lined up to ride the Hay Wagon of Horror.
Mary Beth and I scooted up to the front of Mr. Cole’s truck and found a bale to sit on. It wasn’t a minute before every bale was taken, with John Wesley hopping up to the last seat at the end of the truck bed. His mother stood at the fence post with Mr. Cole’s wife.
Mr. Cole drove the truck along the winding dirt road that cut through the field while all of us kids bounced along in the back. It was a stretch to call this ride the Hay Wagon of Horror when everybody knew it was high school boys dressed up in masks, popping up now and then as we passed by. But then out of the blue, Mr. Cole’s dog, Bertie, took off across the field and high-tailed it straight towards the truck. Bertie must have smelled a rabbit or something, because she sure wasn’t stopping for the Hay Wagon. If Mr. Cole hadn’t turned his wheel when he did, we would’ve had one gen-u-ine horror right there in the middle of the field.
We all held on for dear life when the truck swerved. Except for John Wesley. He went sailing through the air, legs and arms flying every which way, till he landed with a thud. His pointy head smacked the ground with a loud wham! Poor little John Wesley didn’t look so good. Well, that’s that, I thought. But then his eyes blinked open and he commenced to moan. Next thing you know, goblins and ghouls and Mrs. Cole’s wife and Mrs. McCutcheon, screaming her fool head off, came running from all over that field.
Mary Beth smiled a little around the thumb hanging from her mouth. Momma’s little prophet was awfully proud of herself, watching folks crowding around the almost-dead John Wesley. But I wasn’t the least impressed.
“Fer cryin’ out loud, Mary Beth,” I said, turning around, “when the Good Lord said brain, you thought He said train.”
See what I mean about mistakes?
