Page 36 of Stay Buried

And he’d shake his head, “No, not today.” Then he’d take a good slug of bourbon from his bottle in the sack.

“Please, Sad Willy. Please, please! We’ll give you a dollar.”

Eventually they’d wear him down. Or offer him something he couldn’t refuse. And he’d show them.

He’d unlace his boot, pull off his sock, roll up his filthy pants, and undo the straps, pull back the rubber sleeve that ran up his calf, and take off his left foot.

Some kids would squeal, some would just stare wide-eyed and silent.

“How’d you lose your foot, Willy?” they’d ask.

And each time, he’d tell them a different story.

“It got bit off by a crocodile.”

“Stepped on a land mine.”

“I got friendly with the wrong man’s lady and he come after me with a sharp ax.”

And then, sometimes, if he’d had enough drink to loosen his tongue, he’d tell their favorite story of all.

The true one.

“?’Twas the knackerman that took my foot. So you better take heed, you dirty little buggers. You better not mess with that old knackerman.” And the children would run off, terrified.

Now, as he shuffled past the Fitzpatricks’ house—saw Mini watching from the window and the red mark on the door—Willy felt dread down deep in his bones, all the way down to the phantom limb pain he sometimes felt in that old foot.

It had been just about two years ago when someone last got the mark.

The day was seared in his brain.

Because before then, he wasn’t Sad Willy. Before then, he was just plain Will, with two good feet, a wife he loved with his whole heart, and a good job at the clothespin factory.

Anna, her name was. His wife.

They had a white house over on Tamarack Lane. A garden out front where Anna grew climbing roses, delphiniums, peonies, asters. She delighted in telling him the names of each flower, heirloom varieties that had survived for decades. Anna believed that Boone’s Ferry was alive with history, that the place itself, even the plants and trees that grew there, held memories. The town clerk and record keeper, she was an expert on the history of Boone’s Ferry, going all the way back to the old trapper, Franklin Boone, who founded the town. At the time, the road through the mountains didn’t exist and the easiest way into town was across the river, and Boone had built a small ferry to get people and supplies across. It was a flat rectangleof boards, big enough for a horse and cart, maybe six men, and he used a long pole to propel the ferry across the shallow Bloodroot River.

Willy continued his walk, getting to Main Street now, thinking about little Mini Fitzpatrick, how she was the only child who was always kind to him. Whenever she skipped by him, she called out, “How are you doing today, Mr. Willy, sir?”

“Sad as always,” he’d say, giving her a wink. And he’d take off his hat and give her a proper bow, and if she had coins in her pockets, she’d drop one into his hat. Sometimes she’d bring him a piece of candy from Pops’s store: bubble gum, a licorice pipe, a round lollipop. She was the only child who gave him gifts like this. Thoughtful she was. Quiet. Not like the other kids, who stuck their tongues out behind his back, called him names, dared each other to ask him to take off his foot.

He’d heard Mini’s older brother, Finn, chide her for it. Finn, who had a funny cowlick that he was always trying to straighten. “You shouldn’t give him stuff like that. Shouldn’t even talk to him. If Papa finds out, you’ll be sorry.”

Willy was under the bridge, listening, but they had no idea he was there. That was the thing about Willy, he was nearly invisible. Even when he was right there in front of them, people tended not to notice him. But Willy, he noticed everything, was always listening: from his stool in the corner of Loon’s Call Pub, from his camp under the bridge, from the periodicals area of the library where he went on cold and rainy days, from the chicken coops and barns he sometimes slept in. Willy knew more about the goings-on of Boone’s Ferry than any other resident, he was sure.

“Sad Willy can’t help the way he is,” Mini had defended him from up on top of the bridge. She was dropping little flowers down into the water: forget-me-nots.

“Sure,” Finn said. “But what you’ve gotta understand is that you can’t help him either.”

They were quiet a second, and Willy could picture little Mini thinking, her face all scrunched up in concentration.

“Yeah, but maybe I can make him a little less sad.”

Willy’s heart felt heavy and warm when he heard this. And he was surprised to feel tears prick his eyes.

Finn cleared his throat. “Maybe he’s got a good reason to be sad.”

“Yeah,” Mini said. They were quiet. Another stem of blue forget-me-nots fell, hitting the water, floating right by Willy under the bridge. “Bea says he’s real lucky all he lost was his foot,” Mini continued, voice low, serious.