Ontonagon was a small, gray town where no one would stay, if they had the chance to leave. The weather-beaten streets were consumed with people who wouldn’t bother talking to nobody, and would rather just head to the store without any bothers from anyone in the town.
Every day was the same routine, and today, not unlike any other Tuesday; I was to pick up one carton of one dozen eggs, one loaf of whole wheat bread, and 2 gallons of milk from the market on the corner of Main Street, whose name was as original as the times that were spent on it.
I stepped out to the front porch of my average house, and noted the sky’s color. Gray. I examined the clouds for any sign of the sun underneath ‘em, but with no prevail, I proceeded to make my trip, two lefts, one right, and another left. I counted my steps as I walked. Three hundred forty six, three hundred forty seven, three hundred forty-I felt a tap on my shoulder. A delicate tap, a one finger, soft, but demandin’ tap. I stopped in my tracks. Bewildered, I turned around, to find a girl, but not just any girl. This girl was wearin’, get this, a cotton candy colored pink dress. Now I don’t know about you, but in my dead beat town of Ontonagon a girl won’t be caught dead wearin’ pink. Pink was for flowers that grew in far off places, and cotton candy at carnivals in happy towns. But pink was not meant for gray towns like Ontonagon, and that’s why nobody ever dared to wear it. This audacious dress had precisely seven buttons that traced all the way up to her collarbones. The sleeves reached the top of her elbows, and the hem stretched all the way down, to her Band-Aid clad knees. Her golden hair was plaited into a braid that she pulled to the right side of her face, which wore a smile-something I hadn’t seen in a very, very long time.
She outstretched a hand and blurted out “Hi! How are you? Wow, there is nobody walkin’ around here. You are the only person that I saw that would be around my age. I just moved here. My name is Macy Newman. I’m 15 and ¾ years old and I just moved here from Larceny, Louisiana, Home of the Happy! I love to play the piano and read books, my favorite is To Kill a Mockingbird by-”
“I’m doin’ fine. My name is Peter Douglas, not like you asked, and what you do in your spare time has no business with me, but I would read Mark Twain over Harper Lee any day. Welcome to Ontonagon, Tennessee, Home of the Unhappy and Dreary, hope you find your way nicely. Now, goodbye.”
I turned away, what step number was I on again? When a delicate hand grabbed my arm, and demanded that I turn the opposite direction.


“Well Peter Douglas, the man with two first names, I would like you to show me around.”


“We all ‘would like’ things in this world, for example I ‘would like’ to walk to the market in peace.”
“Well aren’t you a great big bottle of sassafras. Peter Douglas, I want to know this town like the back of my hand by the end of this summer, and I want you to show me. Pretty please, I won’t talk for a darned second!”
“I think you would be better off not knowing this town.”
“So you’ll take me! Thank you, Peter Douglas.”
She took my arm, “You know, when my papa told me we were movin’ to this town, I espected it to be hoppin’, at least that’s what I was thinkin’ all of Tennessee was like, you know, when you see them movies bout Nashville. Have you ever been to Nashville? I’ve been wantin’ to go there my whole life. I mean Louisiana’s good n’ all but I want a place that’s hoppin’-”
“I thought you wouldn’t and I quote ‘talk for a second’.”
“Well, Mr. Peter Douglas, at least if you’re gunna quote me, quote me correctly. If I do recall, I said that I would not talk for a “darned second”, but that of course was an empty plea so you would take me around Ontonagon, I can’t hold my tongue for one second, usually, where is that market anyway?”
“Excellent question, Macy Newton. We’re actually on Main Street right now, and it’s about a quarter mile ahead.”
“Did you just say Macy Newton? You just said Macy Newton. Now you, Peter Douglas are not payin’ attention to one word I’m sayin’! My name is Macy Newman and I am 15 and-”
“Three quarters years old. Yes. I know. Now, please, I beg of you, stop your chit chat.”
“You said this was Main Street? This street don’t look “main” at all. It looks like a dead end. I don’t even see one whole person on this entire street. Where did you say the market was? A quarter mile ahead?-”
“Shush. Wait a second. Do you hear that?”
“I don’t hear nothin’ Peter Douglas. All I hear is the-wait.”

Her voice turned to a whisper “I do hear somethin’.”
I carefully put my right index finger to my lips and opened my eyes wide. With my left hand, I motioned to the corner of Maple Street (I told ya originality was not our strong point) and slowly and quietly tip toed ‘round Nat’s Grocery to a shabby alley that was dirtier than my own house. You could probly hear the the yellin’ from a mile away, not like anyone was ‘round to hear it. Me ‘n Macy peeked ‘round the corner of the alley, and listened, tryin’ ta make out the violent yellin’ for words.
“I’ll ask ya again. Why were you in New York City last week?” a man thundered, pushin’ a small woman against the alley wall.
“I went for work, Bo. I told ya. I went for work.”
“Oh bull s*** Savannah, bull s***.” He took his hands off her and paced around the length of the alley.
“You mean to tell me that a big name from New York City was interested in you. You a nothin’, nobody girl from Ontonagon Tennessee.”
The woman started crying, “Yes. I-I do mean to say that.”



He hit her. Real hard. Right across the face, and he left a big red mark right there to prove it. Macy found my hand and grasped it real tight. She was scared. So was I.



“Let’s get out of here,” I whispered tensely “We don’t need to see any more of this.”



I pulled Macy away with me, and we turned the corner of Nat’s Grocery, and ran. We ran like nobody’s ever run before; past the Laundromat, Clark Library, and two people, who were not together, of course, and who didn’t even bother to look up at the two lunatics runnin’ for their lives. We only stopped when we saw the sign. The one sign that dictated my misery, and the sign to freedom that I’ve only passed a few times in my whole entire life, “Welcome to Ontonagon”.



“I know somewhere we could go” I said, and took Macy to the one place where I could escape the gray of Ontonagon and read Mark Twain and laugh like a somebody from out of town because if you’re a nobody from Ontonagon you have no reason to laugh.



After a nother mile of runnin’, we reached the spot, and not once had Macy Newman spoken one whole word. Until now.



“Where are we goin’, Peter Douglas?”



“Call me Peter”



I stepped over the familiar wooden fence that was none more than two feet tall. And still holdin’ Macy Newman’s hand, I guided her to the tree by the pond where the flowers grew and where there was peace and quiet. I smiled.



“So should we call the sheriff, Peter?”



I laughed, “We don’t have a sheriff.”



“Then we’ll need to do somethin’ about this ourselves.”



“Wait, what? You’re kiddin’, right. We can’t jus’ confront the guy-”



“Bo, his name was Bo, not ‘the guy’.”



“Okay, Bo. We can’t jus’ confront Bo, you saw what he did to that woma-”



“Savannah, her name was Savannah.”



“Look, if you would stop correctin’ me, and you just listened, you would understand that what you sayin’ is crazy. We can’t go to a sheriff, and we can’t go to the FBI, and we are not, absolutely not goin’ to confront this man, sorry Bo, by ourselves.”

“If you don’ wanna do it, then I may jus’ do it by my own self. You know, it just ain’ right to watch a whole crime go by without doin’ nothin’ a bout it. But darn, isn’t this place beautiful. Who knew that such a quaint lil pond could dally so near to Ontonagon, no offense. I jus’ mean, Ontonagon is so, okay, this may sound weird, but gray. See, even you are wearin’ gray. In Louisiana, ain’ nothin’ even near to the color gray-”

Her talking went on for a while. And when I say a while, I mean a while. But, it’s funny cause neither of us even noticed. The sky turned gray and the air felt cold and I tapped Macy on the shoulder to let her know it was time to go.

She lef’ me with a “Now, if you do care to join me in my detective work, I’ll be at Nat’s Grocery at 11:00 am.

I’d not even realized that I hadn’t come home with the one carton of one dozen eggs, one loaf of whole wheat bread, and 2 gallons of milk. My mama wasn’t too pleased with me either, but I’d come to realize that a life in a gray town, in a gray house, with a gray sky ain’ the way to live, an’ a life of adventure would be so much more excitin’ than a life of routine. So I decided to go to Nat’s Grocery at 11:00 am on Wednesday mornin’, instead of countin’ my steps to the Laundromat.

I wore a green shirt to my trip to Nat’s Groceries, and made sure I got there exactly 12 minutes early. I didn’ wanna miss her, because I most certainly didn’t want her walkin’ up to a violent man all alone, but mostly, because I wanted to feel the cheer that consumed her body and the I wanted to wear a smile, like the one she wore almost all the day.

Macy Newman skipped to the corner of Nat’s Groceries at exactly 11:01.

“You’re late, Macy Newman.”

“Well, I didn’ know there was any body that I would be late for.” She touched her pale yellow dress and swung it a bit, as her face turned from its porcelain color, to beet red.

She smiled, I smiled. And if someone from Ontonagon passed, they would wonder what on earth possessed us to smile.

“I think thas’ the shortest sentence you ever said, Macy Ne-”

“Shush for a second,” she pulled my arm “Do you hear that?”

We tiptoed past the alley, all the way down to a swampy lookin’ area that was filled with gray dirt everywhere. And who did we see but, our good old friend, Bo. With a shovel. Digging a, get this, hole. Macy let go of my hand. She strutted determinedly past me-

“Macy. What in the hell, Macy. Get back here. What do you think you’re doing, Macy. You could get killed.”

“Then come with me, Peter Douglas.”

I did.