When the Spirits Testify
Part 3- The Road Sign
Weeks passed, and Old Tom carried his grief like a sack of wet feed, heavy, cold, and impossible to set down. The farm went on in its rhythm. Cows needed to be milked, fences mended, and seed spread across the fields. Still, everything felt muted, knowing the Coopers’ light had been taken from the world.
Nights were the hardest, and sleep never came easily, his mind turning and churning like a plow in wet clay. Some nights, he jolted upright, chest heaving, certain he had seen Cooper’s silhouette in the doorway. Tom would lie still, holding his breath, the old house creaking around him as if listening too.
One night, unable to hold the weight inside, he turned on his side and spoke into the quiet. The porch light’s faint glow spilled through the curtains, drawing pale lines across the quilt.
“Rosie,” he whispered, voice tight, “I think I’m losin’ my mind. I keep seein’ him.”
She lowered her Bible, her finger keeping the place, and peered at him over the top of her glasses. “You keep seein’ who?”
“Flickers of Cooper. At the barn. In the yard. Sometimes standin’ right here in the house. I swear he’s there, Rosie.”
She closed the Bible carefully and reached for his hand, her thin fingers warm and sure against his work-worn ones.
“Maybe you’re not losin’ it, Tom. Maybe you’re seein’ true. The veil’s thin sometimes. I think the Lord lets spirits walk when there’s somethin’ we ain’t heedin’.”
Her words sank into him like seed in freshly plowed ground, restless and alive. He lay awake long after she drifted into sleep, staring into the dark, wondering what it was Cooper needed him to hear.
Tom wasn’t the sort of man who could just sit still and listen, even when he knew sometimes that’s exactly what God calls us to do. He was certain, though, that his hands and feet could not be idle. There was work to do. So he set a basket in the truck with biscuits still warm from Rosie’s oven, boiled eggs, and jars of beans from the cellar. He climbed into the old pickup and drove the familiar road to the broken house where Cooper’s body had been found.
When he pulled in the driveway, his stomach churned. He took a deep breath and sent up a silent plea to God to give him the strength and the wisdom to do what needed to be done.
Two men stood on what was left of the crumbling porch and eyed him with suspicion with their hollow faces and sharp eyes filled with hunger and shame.
“What you wantin’, old timer?” the older of the two said through blackened teeth.
“Just thought I’d bring somethin’ by for y’all.”
“What’s in the basket?” the younger man asked. He looked the worst of the two, barefoot, with holes in a shirt.
“It’s just some food from me and the missus. I’ll just leave the basket here. Y’all leave it on the porch and I’ll collect it in a day or two.”
They both nodded, not sure what to say. They didn’t trust kindness. It never came without a price. Tom didn’t press them. His heart raced as he placed the basket on the stoop and walked back to his truck, then drove away.
As soon as Tom’s truck pulled away, the men picked up the old wicker basket and pulled back the worn tea towel covering it. The smell of warm biscuits hit them in the face. Steam curled in the air, carrying the scent of butter and home. They both took one and ate it slowly, savoring the food. Behind their sunken eyes, you could see old memories dancing.
They called to the few others in the house, and they joined them on the porch. The older man, Pete, his name was, looked back down the road the way Old Tom had gone. He couldn’t help but wonder why Tom had shown such an act of grace. He remembered how Cooper went on about the old man and how they had loved him. Pete could see why the boy had looked up to him, but he shook off those thoughts as they drifted toward the hurt of losing Cooper.
He had been a light in the darkness for so many, always smiling, so gentle in a world that was too harsh. He had deserved better. They all knew it. But they didn’t want to dwell on it. Looking too hard meant they had to look at themselves, and that was a mirror none of them wanted to face.
No, instead, Pete turned back, grabbed another biscuit, and took a bite. The buttery confection melted in his mouth. He closed his eyes and remembered his grandmother and fought back the tears forming.
Old Tom came back a few days later with more. Then again. Weeks ticked by in this rhythm-- food left, silence given—and little by little, cracks formed in the hard shell. A nod here, a muttered thanks there. Then, finally, words. Stories spilled out like water through a split barrel, each one heavier than the last.
Pete had broken the dam with his thanks. He was grateful not only for the food but for the memories it brought back. He hadn’t had someone offer him that sort of kindness in so long. He asked Tom to pass the thanks along to his wife.
“Those are the best biscuits I’ve had since I was a boy. Tastes just like my Gran’s,” he’d said.
The younger man, who seemed to stick with Pete, shot him a glance. Pete never talked about his life, especially not about when he was younger. They knew he’d gone to Vietnam, but they knew nothing of his time in the war, apart from what they gathered from the screams that came at night when he finally fell asleep. Whiskey used to chase away the sleep that crept in, then he needed something stronger. The dope kept his eyes wide, but he couldn’t stay awake forever. He knew he had to sleep occasionally, or he’d start to see those fires again—the burning, the screams.
When the night took him, he was back in the jungle, gunshots ringing out, fear gripping his heart. He had to hide. They were coming. He always woke in a puddle of sweat and would take off walking toward town, cardboard sign in hand,” Veteran anything will help.” Some people pitied him. Some gave to him and thanked him for his service. Most looked at him with disgust. He knew what they thought. Hell, he didn’t blame them. He was just an old junkie. They weren’t wrong, he told himself. But it didn’t matter. To Pete, he might as well have still been in the jungle, because he was still just doing whatever he could to survive.
After that, Tom heard more and more stories. He learned the young man who was often with Pete was named Caleb. Not long ago he had been the county’s golden boy, fast as lightning on the football field, until his knee gave out. Doctors handed him pills, then cut him off. Meth filled the gap, and now he haunted the corners of the trap house, dreams gone sour. Old Tom remembered him from when he was young, but to look at him now, he was almost unrecognizable.
Missy had grown up in foster care, shuffled like a worn-out card deck. None of them were true homes, none were nice or caring. To some, she was just a dollar, to others, she was a punching bag, and the worst was when she was a soft place for a man’s hands. It wasn’t any wonder she had found a man too old for her who promised love but gave only dope and bruises. Her little girl lived with an aunt now, and Missy hadn’t heard her laugh in years.
Owen had been crushed at the mill, back broken under a falling log. Worker’s comp turned him away, and the clinic handed him bottles until they didn’t. The sheriff himself had pointed him toward Dr. Stanley. “He’ll take care of you,” the sheriff had said. And he did, but for a price Owen was still paying.
Tom listened. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t scold. Just passed out biscuits, offered water, and quietly took notes, each name and sorrow tucked into his pocket notebook like a prayer. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
It was then that he noticed Jesse Lee.
He was sixteen at most, though his eyes were older than Tom’s own. He was rail-thin, shoulders sharp beneath a shirt two sizes too big, sneakers worn down to the threads. He hardly spoke at first, just sat near the edge of the porch, wary as a stray.
Every once in a while, his low voice would tremble through the conversation, and his story unfolded.
His mother had sold more than just dope. Men came and went, leaving the boy to hide under beds or slip out the back door when the house filled with smoke and sweat. His father was long gone, dead, in prison, or just vanished. Jesse never knew. Some nights, fists rained down on him, and his mother just watched, a drunken smile on her face. He wished that had been the worst of it.
One night, a man came in, folds of cash in his pocket. He took his mother to the back room, and when she came out, she cleared the house but told Jesse Lee to go to her room. As he walked down the dark hallway, his heart pounded in his ears. She shoved him through the door. There the man sat on the bed, suit jacket thrown across the chair, pants to his ankles. Again his mother watched, cash in hand and a smile across her face.
Once it was over, “That’s a good boy,” she said and gave him five dollars. “I’ll double that next time,” her voice dripping with honey and liquor.
He looked down, and anger flared. He knew he had to run. Later that night he slunk into her room. She lay passed out on the bed, empty liquor bottle and cash beside her. He picked up the bottle and raised it above his head. For a moment, he saw himself bringing it down, but his hand trembled and he dropped it to the bed. Instead, he took the cash, packed a bag, and took off.
He caught rides on coal trucks, slept in sheds, and drifted from one hollow to another. One truck driver had given him some speed, and at twelve years old, it spiraled out of control. The money didn’t last long. He stole meals where he could, took work for a dollar or two, and slept under bridges when there was nowhere else.
Tom’s chest tightened as he listened. He saw Cooper in him, just another boy left to fend against shadows no child should face.
So Tom did what he knew how. He found Jesse small jobs on the farm like stacking hay, cleaning stalls, and patching the fence. He bought him shirts and jeans from the thrift store, boots from a secondhand shop. The first time Jesse looked at himself in the mirror wearing those clothes, his shoulders straightened, and for a fleeting moment, Tom glimpsed the boy he might’ve been.
Sometimes Jesse smiled, and when he did, it lit his face with the ghost of a childhood he’d never truly had.
Still, no one breathed a word of Marlene Loveless. No one dared mention the garage.
One sweltering afternoon, Tom drove back from the feed store, the truck bed heavy with sacks of grain. He prayed as he went, muttering low, eyes lifted briefly skyward.
When he looked back to the road, his chest seized.
A figure stood in the middle of his lane.
Tom slammed the brakes. Tires screamed, gravel spat out like sparks, and the truck fishtailed before groaning to a stop mere feet away.
His heart still racing, Tom realized it was Cooper.
No words. Just the boy’s sad eyes and the tilt of his chin. Then Cooper turned his head slowly and raised one hand, pointing straight at Marlene Loveless’s tall white house, porch light burning against the dusk.
Tom’s breath came ragged. By the time he blinked, the road was empty.
That evening, unease gnawed at him. He couldn’t shake the worry for Jesse Lee. As night settled, he loaded another sack of food into the truck.
From the porch, Rosie called, “Where are you going this late, Tom McAllister?”
“I’m goin’ to drop off this food, then I’ll be back home,” he told her, determination in his voice, but it was laced with something else she could hear. Fear. Dread. She wasn’t sure.
“Can’t it wait ’til mornin’?” she worried after him.
“No, I don’t think it can. I don’t want to wake up in the mornin’ and it be like Cooper…” he trailed off.
She nodded, knowing. The words didn’t need spoken. “You be careful and hurry back to me,” she insisted.
“I’ll be back soon, ol’ girl. I promise.”
He crossed the yard and met her on the step, kissing her forehead, and she blushed like a schoolgirl.
Tom swelled with love for Rosie as he climbed into the old truck and drove back toward the broken house. With a sideways glance, he saw Cooper sittin’ there beside him. No words, just looking ahead.
Tom parked down the road as he saw Jesse slip out the back, straddling an old bike. The boy glanced once over his shoulder, then pedaled hard into the night. Tom followed at a distance, heart heavy in his chest.
Jesse rode straight to Redline Garage. In a flash, Cooper was no longer in the seat beside him; instead, he was beneath the security light that began to flicker. He stood motionless, glaring at the door.
Jesse slipped through the door, never noticing the spirit mere inches away. He stayed only minutes and came out with his pocket bulging. He pedaled away quickly, head low. Tom’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel.
He told Rosie what he’d seen that night as they lay in bed. “You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?” he asked her.
“Well, no more than I ever did,” she chuckled.
He elbowed her playfully.
“No, you’re not crazy,” she said, laying the Bible she’d been holding down. “I’ve known for a long time that somethin’ wasn’t right. This town is like a rotting apple. It’s easy for everyone to see the darkening on the skin, like a bruise that runs deep, but the rot’s comin’ from within. Something burrowed deep inside. And it doesn’t surprise me one bit that Marlene Loveless would be right smack-dab in the middle of it all.”
“No one will ever believe it, will they? She’s got everyone in this town fooled. They think she’s just an upstandin’ citizen.”
“Upstandin’ citizen, my patootie,” Rosie said.
Tom snorted.
“Anyone who spends any time with that woman and has an ounce of Godly discernment could see exactly what she is.”
“That’s the problem,” Tom sighed. “Most people only see exactly what they want to.”
The next morning, Tom showed up with a basket of food. Jesse smiled and took a biscuit from Tom’s hand.
“Jesse, where’d you go last night?” he asked gently.
The boy froze, shoulders tightening. For a long moment, Tom thought he’d bolt. But then Jesse let out a long, tired breath.
“The garage,” he whispered. “That’s where we get it. They front it easy if you can’t pay right off. But you never get out from under it. Not really. You always owe more.”
His honesty cracked something open. Another voice joined in from a young, gaunt woman. She would have been pretty once. You could still see it, but now the skin stretched too thin across her face, and sores lined her arms.
“Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes Tater’ll let you work it off,” she smirked.
Her eyes were glassy, her words falling slow.
“Ha, not all of us,” Jesse scoffed.
“Some of us won’t do that kind of work either, Janelle,” added another young girl. She didn’t appear to be high, or maybe just not as strung out. She was dirty, though, hair a mess. Tom hadn’t seen her here before; she must’ve been new to the house.
“Give it time, Annie. You’ll get the itch too,” sneered Janelle.
Together, their stories painted the picture Tom had already suspected. The Loveless family feeding on the broken, their greed fattened on other people’s ruin, debt and dope binding them tighter than chains.
Without another word, Tom headed for the truck. Anger burned hot in his chest. He climbed in and drove straight to Marlene’s. He’d expected to see Cooper beside him, but the passenger seat was empty, and somehow the pain of that made his anger burn brighter.
The white house stood proud on Main Street, geraniums blooming neatly in their pots, lace curtains glowing softly behind the windows. To any passerby, it looked like the picture of respectability.
Tom slammed his truck door and headed up the walkway.
But on the porch, Tom saw her, a woman he recognized even though she’d been dead for years. It was Darlene, Marlene’s sister. Tears streamed down her pale face, silent sobs wracking her.
Tom mounted the steps, fury carrying him forward. He reached for the screen door, ready to tear through and lay Marlene bare.
But in a flash, Darlene’s spirit barred the way. Her eyes were wide, pleading, her form solid, as if the door itself had fused shut beneath her hands. Tom pulled, yanked, muscles straining, but the door never opened.
Then, from nowhere, something fluttered loose. A folded slip of paper drifted to the porch boards at his feet.
Tom stooped, hands trembling, and picked it up. He didn’t open it, just shoved it into his pocket and stepped back, breath sharp in his throat.
Through the window, he saw a curtain twitch. Nicky’s face peeked out, fear etched deep. Behind her, Marlene’s voice cut the quiet like a blade.
“Who was it?”
“Salesman. He’s leaving now,” Nicky lied, voice steady though her hand shook on the curtain.
Marlene sniffed, her words sharp as vinegar. “Good riddance. Ain’t nobody got time for peddlers.”
Tom nodded his head in Nicky’s direction and headed back down the steps. At the end of the drive, Darlene appeared again, this time a look of determination replacing the tears on her face. His eyes locked on hers as he walked by, and she fell into step behind him.
His anger still blazing as he opened the truck door, the air around him thick with the hum of the unseen. He stuck his hand down in his pocket, gripping the scrap of paper. Then he climbed in, and the engine roared to life as he headed home. This time, he turned to see Cooper sitting beside him once more.