The Charmed Time 2m4216

The Charmed Time

A Novel

Jimmie von Tungeln

Copyright 2013 by Jimmie von Tungeln

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief ages quoted within reviews, without the express written permission of the publisher.

Wattensaw Press 503 Beard Lane Lonoke, AR 72086

All characters and events depicted are fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to actual events is unintended and purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-9898947-0-8

Book design: H. K. Stewart

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

To Brenda, of course.

Acknowledgements

An effort such as writing a book, no matter how modest, deserves recognition of the many “parents” that contributed to its nurture. So, at the risk of forgetting someone, I shall attempt such recognition. Thanks to: Scott, for legal insights and who, along with Perry, read the first things I ever wrote and showed to anyone, and, mercifully, didn’t laugh; Mike who, along with Brenda, read this book in serial form, always asked for more, and got it good and hard; to Bones and Sonny, real writers who offered encouragement and ; the of my writing group, H. K., Chester, Gary, Jim, and Toni who, alternately salved my heart or tore it apart, depending upon what it needed most on a given night; Reverend Jim, for theological insights; my Navy brothers, Wayne, Sidney, and the rest who shared good times and bad; Rob, my non-sailor fellow vet; in fact, all my brothers and sisters who served in Vietnam and who make up the true “Greatest Generation,” because it takes a lot of greatness to serve without thanks or appreciation. Their sacrifice stood as a beacon of inspiration during the lonely morning hours.

Prologue

Tattered sneakers pounded the cool damp of the delta clay. Late autumn mist played slow against the skin, challenging each step, making each life-breath wet and weak. The place was halfway between the danger and salvation. The path was clogged and rutted. Will, pure primal will, was the only friend. “Run, damn it!” The boy pulled his brother’s arm and yanked him forward. “We’re almost there.” The younger boy stumbled but regained his balance and moved forward, holding to his brother’s hand with one of his own and using the other for balance. When he tried to speak, the breath caught and gagged him as if some hand were reaching from his lungs and pulling the words back into his throat. The stalk of a long-dead cotton plant smacked across his face. Tears sprang to his eyes, blinding him. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m giving out.” “No,” his brother said. “You’ve got to keep going, or I’ll stop.” “No,” the other said. “You go. I’ll hide.” This brought forth another jerk from his brother’s arm. A few more steps and the sound of the danger filled the night as it sped across the dead plants. “Shhh,” the boy said in a whisper. “It’s not far.” They had nearly crossed the field by now, but the danger was gaining on them. They could hear it thrashing through the gray-black stalks. The fearsome sounds of its efforts sent spikes of fear through the boys like shards of ice. With each step, the sounds of the danger grew louder as it closed the gap. Then, a beckoning of hope flashed through the night as moonlight sparkled from a body of water ahead. The bayou. The two boys broke from the dead vegetation and sped across the turn-row toward the water.

“Come on,” the older whispered. “It won’t follow us there.” In seconds they had entered the forest bordering the murky waters. “Just a few steps more.” “I can’t,” the child said. “Leave me.” “Never,” his brother said. He stopped long enough to pull the boy into his arms and began stumbling toward the water’s edge. One step. Two steps. Three steps, and wetness climbed his legs as he stumbled and pitched himself and the other into deeper water. Behind them the danger made the turn-row and sprinted for them. The boy half-pushed and half-dragged his brother into the blackness, reaching and jerking the two of them along the cypress knees rising like guards in the dark. He ed through, testing each step. A large body of still water lay on his right, but the other bank loomed ahead. Behind him, the danger stopped at the water’s edge. This gave him the last measure of strength to make the far shore and to pull his brother up on the bank where the two of them struggled for breath. He had been right. It would not follow them across the bayou. They were safe. He looked at his brother and saw he was breathing between the sobs, and he gently wiped the hair from his eyes. “Go ahead and cry now if you want,” he whispered. “We made it.” The night shook as the danger raged from the other side. “You little bastards,” it screamed. “I’ll get you. You speak one word and I’ll get you. You just wait.” With that, the woods became quiet and safe. Then the older boy started crying.

1

Nelson watched the woman screaming and looked puzzled. Most in the courtroom believed the prosecution had proven the man guilty. The jurors themselves had all agreed on it. Nelson had brought up a point during the deliberations that he didn’t see a strong motive for such a crime. The others told him he just had a lot to learn about Southern men. And there hadn’t been much of a defense presented. What could the man’s attorney say—that his client had threatened to kill a man and then did, but that didn’t make a boy all bad? There wasn’t a lot of reason for anyone to be surprised. Still, the woman had jumped up in the middle of the courtroom, after the foreman announced the verdict and the judge had pronounced the sentence, and had begun screaming like someone hit by mortar fire. Then the boy started. First he ran down the aisle and tried to reach the guilty man and the bailiffs had to hold him back, him squirming and kicking like a wild thing, not a boy at all. Then he began to scream and the screaming caused everyone still in the room first to look and then to turn and hurry away. Sometimes, on quiet nights at Nelson’s home on the bayou, the woods seemed to echo the sound. “My daddy, my daddy. Don’t take my daddy!” That may have been a reason he became involved in the whole thing, that and the fact that the woman appeared at his place one night, without warning and seemingly out of nowhere. He was sitting on the screened porch having a drink, reading, and listening to the night sounds when she just walked into the front yard and stood there like a swamp spirit materializing from the earth of the delta, come to bring him tidings from the underworld. It startled him and he sloshed liquor on his shirt. He stared at her, and she stared at him for several seconds before either spoke. She broke the silence. “They’s killin’ me, or do you care?” “Ma’am?”

“These muskeeters.” “May I help you?” “Muskeeters.” She waved a hand in front of her face by way of explanation. “Won’t you come in?” “I reckon.” He approached the screen door and, opening it part way, looked in both directions. Seeing nothing, he motioned for her to enter. She darted in along with several mosquitoes. He took a sprayer from the table and attacked them with a few short pumps. Then he turned his attention to the woman. “Do you need help?” “You don’t me, do you?” “Maybe so.” “Then who am I?” He avoided the question. “Do you need help?” “You don’t know me, do you?” “It’s dark and you just walked up out of nowhere.” “You was on that jury.” “Were you . . . ?” “I’m the wife of the man y’all sent to prison. The one y’all sent up for no reason at all.” “The wife?” “Yon’t me to scream for you to prove it?” “No, I believe you. Don’t scream.”

“Scared that your neighbors might wonder what’s goin’ on?” “I don’t have any neighbors. Is there something I can do for you?” “I could tell it by the look in your eyes,” she said, staring hard into his face. He stared back. She looked sad in the dim light. Her hair was loose and fell over her shoulders in tangles. She wore no makeup. Instead, her face was covered in a light coat of dust, marked by tracks and splotches like the surface of some dead planet. Her clothes were as thin and shabby as her complexion. He noticed for the first time that she was clutching something wrapped in a worn grocery bag. “Is there something you want from me?” he said, eying the bag. “You was the only one who would look at me.” “I’m sorry. Is there . . .” She interrupted him. “Them others wouldn’t even turn my way. But you was puzzled. I could tell.” He looked at the ceiling and tightened the muscles in his face, trying to . “I’m sorry but I don’t recall.” “You had some doubt, didn’t you?” “Doubt of what?” “That he done it. Done what they said.” “Your husband?” “That he kilt that boy.” “That he was guilty?” “I seen you.” “Ma’am your husband, if that’s who you’re talking about, was found guilty in a

court of law.” “Armistead County Arkansas law,” she said. “That ain’t no regular law.” “Would you like to sit down?” he said, motioning toward a chair. “I’ll stand,” she said. “What I want to know is, will you?” He stood silent for a few seconds. Outside, a soft cleansing rain descended upon the delta. There would be less dust but more mosquitoes tomorrow. He shook his head slowly. “I can’t imagine what you want with me.” “I want you to think about what you done, you and them others.” “Are you talking about the other jurors?” “That’s what they called you.” “The jury, I and the others, found your husband guilty based on the facts presented.” “That’s jist it,” she said. “What?” “They was facts that never got presented.” “Facts like what?” “Like I knowed what time he started home that day,” she said. “I was at my Aunt Freida’s house, and he called over there from the phone at Barker’s grocery and said he was on his way home. And that was before they said he kilt that boy.” “Then why didn’t you say so?” “I would have if I could have.” “Then why didn’t you?”

“Hit’s like the lawyer said. ‘A wife ain’t allowed to testify at her husband’s trial.’” “His lawyer told you that?” “Hit’s the law.” He continued to stare at her as he placed a hand on the table to steady himself. Outside, the rain continued, making a soothing noise that covered the other nighttime sounds. Overhead, a ceiling fan clicked. Nelson sat in the chair and motioned again for the woman to sit. She shook her head. “I’m fine.” “Is there a reason you have walked all the way here in the middle of the night? “You may be my only hope.” “Hope for what?” “To see that things git made right.” “Made right?” “To git my husband out of the penitentiary and back home with his family.” “Now wait just a minute.” “No, you wait,” she said, tossing the grocery sack and its contents onto the table. “You ain’t been here long and you ain’t used to the ways around here. They’s different from most places. This county, Armistead County, is jist a boil on God’s butt. Least that’s the way I see it. Poor people like us gits the fartin’ end of the mule ever time. And you got a chance to do something about it.” “Do you think I’ll get involved in this again?” “Can’t say,” she said. “I figure if anyone will, you might.” “Well you are wrong.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” she said and then looked at the package on the table. “Would you do jist one thing?” “What’s that?” “Read that what I brung, there.” She pointed at the sack and then back at him. “You seem pretty smart compared to folks around here. Do me this one thing.” He looked at her, and she was looking at the package, and he followed her gaze, but said nothing. A mosquito flew close to his face and he swatted it away. “You read what’s in there,” she said. “Then tell me you ain’t gonna git involved, and I’ll never bother you again.” She stopped and placed her hand on her hip, striking a pose like an actress from a silent film. “That’s all. Jist read it.” “What is it?” “It’s one of them records they keep of what is said during a trial.” “A transcript?” “I reckon. My cousin works at the courthouse and she stole it.” “What do you mean, she stole it?” “They said it got lost, but she knew where it was hid. So she stole it.” “And you want me to read it?” “That’s all I’m asking.” “But I was there. I saw the whole thing.” “But maybe your mind wandered,” she said, turning toward the door. “That’s all. Jist read it.” She had reached the door when he stopped her. “Are you walking back in this rain?” “Part way. I parked my car up at Barker’s store so nobody wouldn’t see me drive up here. Ain’t rained in a month so I didn’t figure on this.”

“Could I give you a ride back to your car?” “No. Jist read that thing, that’s all.” “Wait,” he said. He walked to a coat rack, picked a raincoat from it, and brought it to her. “Wear this. Just leave it at Barker’s, and I’ll pick it up later.” She stood hesitating, as if caught in a moral dilemma of salvation-threatening proportions. She took it with a show of hesitation, examining it carefully and then looking back at him. “USN,” she said. “Them ain’t your initials. Ain’t your first name Gideon?” “United States Navy,” he said. “They let me keep it.” “Well, I’ll swan,” she said. She placed one arm into the garment, then the other. It hung over her small frame like a mother’s old clothes might cover a young girl playing make-believe. She wrapped the garment around her and looked him straight in the eye. “You read that thang.” Turning without another word, she opened the door and was gone. Nelson stood in the middle of the room and watched her figure recede into the mist like a dream fading. He looked at the package on the table and back outside. She had disappeared. He stared at the package as though it threatened to tilt the axis of the world. He moved away from it toward the kitchen but, at the last minute, turned to see if it was still there. It was. Sometime during the night, when the moon stood full in a sky cleared by a summer rain, an opossum moved along the edge of the bayou. Burdened with young in her pouch, she was slow, but moved with deliberation as she made her nightly visit to the water’s edge. From across the water, an aspiring bullfrog announced his availability. A competitor challenged, then another, until the banks rang with the hopeful echoes of male persistence. Far down the stream, an owl answered. These were normal sounds, but tonight, the young mother sensed a change and turned toward the house in caution. Across the lawn, a light shone dimly through the night. There, behind a screen, beneath a single lamp and a clicking fan, a man sat with a drink glass in his hand, reading.

2

The Peaceful Rest Nursing Home sat east of the City of Armistead, a half mile off the main highway. At first glance it appeared to have dropped from the sky into a soybean field, but on closer inspection, it seemed as if the plants had opened like waters parting to welcome the structure but threatened to take back the space without hesitation. A few trees dotted the perimeter as silent witnesses. The building consisted of a central hub with four arms extending from it. This allowed a central desk to monitor all hallways at once, a design that reduced the number of caretakers needed by three. It maintained a somber appearance, even on the sunniest days. Visitors favored brief visits and quick departures. Staff viewed their jobs as temporary if they were lucky. Residents most often did not live long after arriving. It was not regarded as a happy place by the residents of Armistead County. Nelson’s pickup turned into the gravel parking lot mid-morning after his nighttime visit. The truck’s aging springs protested a pothole, and Nelson bounced in his seat, cursing softly. He swung the truck in an arc, and then backed it under the shade of a pecan tree at the edge of the lot. After surveying his surroundings, he left the truck and walked toward the entrance carrying a grocery bag. So far, he had seen no sign of life. Already, the heat was building for the day, and life was slowing. The rain of the night before had been temporary and had furnished little relief for the suffering crops. As he looked around, there was no indication that the rain had even happened. He shuddered slightly and entered. Once inside, he eyed the room. There was a level of action that, while contrasting with the silent tableaux outside, remained slow and fluid, not indicating any sense of concern or urgency. At the edge of the waiting room, a man appearing to be in his late 20s sat in a wheel chair rocking back and forth and not seeming to notice a woman seated next to him, speaking earnestly. “Dora Smithers came by yesterday and asked about you. You Dora don’t you?” The woman continued talking as Nelson walked by. The man paid no attention to either of them, continuing to rock back and forth and emit soft

grunts. The woman choked back a sob as Nelson moved out of earshot. He walked to the central desk where a young woman in uniform studied a chart. Her head rested on one hand and her jaws moved with a slow and deliberate movement. She didn’t look up at him. “Good morning,” Nelson said. The woman moved her attention from the chart to him and eyed him with a combination of contempt and annoyance. She waited a few seconds before acknowledging his presence, a well-rehearsed act. “Here to see Misses Hartwell?” she said without displaying a shred of interest. “Yes,” said Nelson. “She’s where she been since you started coming here,” the woman said as she turned to look down one of the four corridors lined with rooms. She returned her attention to Nelson and eyed the grocery bag with disapproval. “She probably be expecting you.” Nelson didn’t respond. He faced the designated corridor and started toward it. When she was sure his back was turned, the woman at the desk turned to watch him. He walked with a slight catch in his right leg, not enough to be called a limp, but enough to draw her interest. She adjusted the chewing of her gum to match his pace and watched until he entered one of the rooms. Then she turned to her chart and made a notation. “Good morning,” Nelson said as he entered the room. “How are we?” “We are fine and you are right on time,” said a woman lying on a bed with a magazine spread before her. She looked frail in the morning light, her gray and black hair spread on either side of her face. A pair of thick-lensed glasses balanced on her nose, allowing the visitor to note that the sparkle of her eyes had not deserted her. She smiled and extended a hand. He took it and shook it gently. “The staff is as caring as ever.”

“If you cleaned as much crap and vomit as they do for the wages they receive you wouldn’t have much time for concern, either.” “Maybe not,” he said. He handed her the package. She made a show of being surprised. “What in the world?” “Just the weekly paper and some magazines.” “Bless you,” she said. “If I have to look at one more Readers Digest, I’ll croak. The Daily Guidepost is even worse.” He smiled and moved to the only chair in the room. “Are they treating you okay?” “They treat me,” she said. “That’s all I have a right to expect,” she paused. “But you treat me well,” she said. “What do I do to deserve it?” “Some dark sin from your past,” he said with a smile. “You know what I really appreciate about you?” she said. “No, what?” “That you are so damned punctual.” “Punctual?” “You know, dependable.” “Just a habit, I suppose,” he said. “What do they call it—obsessive compulsive behavior?” “No, seriously,” she said. “There isn’t much happiness in this place, but do you know who the happiest are? Would you think it to be the ones who receive the most visits overall?” “Maybe.” “No, it’s the ones whose visitors come when they say they will. They may not be the most frequent, but at our age, reliance is important,” she stopped talking and

turned away. Turning back with eyes that had lost some of their sparkle, she said, “Nothing is sadder here than to see a person wait for a promised visit from someone who doesn’t come. I’ve seen old men sit, with a suitcase packed, wait all day for a child who never comes to take them on that promised weekend visit.” “I’m glad that you see me as dependable,” he said. “How long have you been coming?” she said. “I was trying to just yesterday.” “Nine months or so,” he said. “And you have never failed on a promise,” she stopped and departed to another memory. He waited. “Timmie never made it anywhere on time when he was a boy,” she said finally. “A most undependable boy. Did they break him of that in the service? I do hope so.” Nelson thought for a moment. “Tim Hartwell was the most reliable person I ever served with,” he said. “Point-man, rear-guard, morning, or mid-watch, he was ‘all in a clove hitch.’” “Now what the hell does that mean?” she said, her face merry and attentive. “A clove hitch is a knot,” he said. “A very good, simple, reliable knot that never fails and can be untied easily. That’s a sign of a good knot, you know. It doesn’t get stuck and is unloosenable.” He stopped. “Unloosenable,” he said. “Is that a word?” “Oh, we’ll make it one,” she said brightly, enjoying his confusion. “Anyway, the old-time sailors thought so highly of the knot that they made it into a compliment. When they wanted to say a shipmate was dependable, they would say, ‘He was all . . .” “In a clove hitch,” she said, almost giggling. Then she became serious. “Did they say that about my Timmie?”

“Always,” he said. “You don’t know how happy that makes me,” she said. They sat in silence for a time. Nelson didn’t intrude on her thoughts. Finally, she spoke. “Have I ever told you how he changed?” “Changed?” “His personality. His habits. Have I told you how those changed?” “I don’t if you did.” “We had always figured he would farm with his dad,” she said. “He loved farming. When he was very little, he would cling to his daddy’s leg when he tried to leave for work. We would have to peel him away, him screaming at the top of his voice. When he was older, he would follow his dad to the field and stay all day if we let him. He was a born farmer. We never imagined another life for him.” Nelson listened but didn’t respond. “Then not long after he turned 16, he changed,” she said and stopped talking. “Changed how?” Nelson said, urging her to resume. “He got on this fitness kick,” she said. “Starting running around the farm . . . he called it jogging. First it was just short runs, but before long he would be gone for hours. The roads around our place stretched forever.” “That probably isn’t unusual,” said Nelson. “I always liked to stay in shape myself.” “It wasn’t just staying in shape,” she said. “He went a little crazy with it. We were letting him drive the car by then and he would go to Little Rock at least three times a week, and his friends told us he was going to a fitness center.” “So he was serious about it,” said Nelson. “They said he would swim for an hour and then lift weights and whatever folks

do at those places.” “That still doesn’t seem too unusual to me,” said Nelson. “Lots of young boys go on fitness binges.” “It got worse,” she said. “He started punishing himself.” Nelson leaned forward. “Punishing himself?” “He would get up in the middle of the night and sit outside in the cold with only his pajamas on. Just sit there and stare out into the night.” “In cold weather?” “In any kind of weather. I caught him one time pouring water on himself at midnight when it was 40 degrees outside. He just sat there shivering.” “Let me guess,” he said. “Then he decided to enlist in the Navy.” She turned and looked at him. “Is there something we could have done?” “Probably not,” he said. “It still breaks my heart,” she said. “And I think it killed his daddy.” “I don’t guess it would help to tell you that the Tim I knew almost always seemed happy.” “Not really,” she said. “But I know there are worse things than dying,” she looked away and turned back toward him, motioning toward the control room. “Was the boy in the wheelchair there this morning?” “As always,” Nelson said. That’s Johnny Stewart. He’s been here for a number of years.” “He seems young.” “To be in a nursing home?” “I didn’t mean . . .”

“Shhh. It’s all right.” “Is there a story there?” He redirected the conversation. “There is indeed. Would you believe that he was once the brightest boy in town? Class president. Honors student. Voted most likely to succeed in his senior class.” “What Happened?” “Who knows? Drugs? Some hidden disease? Women? He went off to college on an academic scholarship. Duke University, mind you. Was going to be an engineer.” She stopped. Her mind had left the room and had floated back several years to be in the presence of a young man with his whole life beckoning. “And?” “He came back like he is now. It is still hard for the folks around here to believe. He was the kind of boy that God had blessed with special care.” She stopped, and returned to Nelson. “But I forget. You don’t believe in God, do you?” “No, but it’s all right if you do.” “Well, most people in Armistead County would be suspicious of me. I’m a Presbyterian, you know, and there aren’t many of us left.” “If they are all like you, that’s a shame.” “You are sweet,” she said. The twinkle in her aged eyes appeared again. “I pray for you sometimes, but not for your soul—never went in much for some being saved and some being damned. God’s in charge, and I’m not even on the selection committee. Just happy to assume we’re all going to be okay.” She placed her hand over his. “But I do pray for your peace of mind.” “Thank you,” he said.

3

It was nearing noon when Nelson drove back through the city of Armistead. The town was quiet. As with many towns of the region, its physical appearance reflected the fact that modern history had exercised a cruel neglect and ed it by the way a shopper might ignore outdated merchandise. Buildings that had once housed businesses ing families now stood accusingly forlorn with their windows boarded. Others housed flea markets behind cracked windows. Spaced along the streets, rotted wooden flower boxes filled with trash, and with soil seeping from them onto the sidewalks, reflected some past attempt at revitalization. In the remaining buildings, second story windows were dark and dirty and the only sign of pride remaining were the blocks mortared into the top parapets displaying the original owner’s name and the year of construction. About half the downtown parking spaces were filled, but the sidewalks were empty. A bank sign announced the temperature at 97 degrees, another hot day in the making. In the center of the square sat the courthouse where the trial had occurred. Nelson looked it over carefully. Then he stopped at the city’s only traffic signal and waited as a ruddy-faced man drove an ancient John Deere tractor through the intersection. The man waved and Nelson waved back. After he ed the town square, he eased the pickup into a vacant spot on Main Street and went into the Cotton Bowl, the town diner. As he walked through the front door, he surveyed the room and spotted an empty table near the rear of the dining room. “Just have a seat anywhere, Hon,” a waitress in a gingham dress yelled to him. “Coffee?” He nodded and walked toward the rear. Before he reached the empty table, Nelson stopped. A man sat at the adjacent table alone, nursing a cup of coffee and reading The Armistead Announcer. Nelson approached the table and stood until the man looked up at him. A hint of a question spread over the man’s face, but he didn’t say anything. “Do you me?” Nelson asked.

The man studied him carefully. “I think so,” he said. “Wasn’t you on the jury with me at that Johnson boy’s trial?” “I was,” Nelson said. “May I talk to you for a moment?” The man didn’t say anything, simply motioned toward one of the empty chairs, and Nelson sat. “Thanks,” Nelson said. “What’s on your mind?” the other said. “Was that your first jury duty?” The man thought. “The first one here. I haven’t lived in this county long. I did sit in on a bank robbery case where I come from.” He wrapped both hands around his coffee cup and cocked his head to one side. “Why do you ask?” “I’ve just been thinking about it, that’s all.” Nelson said. “Was there anything about it that struck you odd?” The man pondered the question. “Nope. That boy was guilty as Judas, seemed to me.” He leaned backwards in his chair. The waitress appeared with his coffee. “You going to eat?” “Just coffee,” said Nelson. “How about you, Hon?” she said to the other man. Before he could answer, a large form appeared behind the waitress. She heard it approach and turned. A tall man in overhauls stood with an expectant, but puzzled look on his face. “Mr. Coats here?” he asked the waitress. “He sent word he wanted to talk to me.” “No, Ronnie,” she said. “But I know what he wanted.” The man didn’t say anything, but waited. Patience seemed to be his guardian angel.

“He wanted to know if next time you went to North Little Rock to pick up a load, you might drop a cabinet off at his sister’s.” The man thought. “I reckon,” he said after a few seconds. Nelson looked at the man carefully as if trying to place him. The man wouldn’t look at Nelson or his table companion, just at the waitress. “I’ll tell him you said so,” she said. “It’s out back and we can get someone to help you load it. Just any time.” He waited for further orders. “Your folks doin’ all right?” the waitress asked. “Most of them are,” he said as he realized his mission was complete. He turned and left. “I’ll have the plate lunch,” the man at the table with Nelson said. “All right, Hon,” she said as she wrote the order. “You okay?” she said, turning to Nelson and smiling. “Fine,” he said. After she left, the man leaned across the table and said in a low voice, “You know who that man was, don’t you?” “He looked familiar,” said Nelson. “That’s Ronnie Johnson,” the man said. “That’s Bobby Johnson’s brother.” “The one we sent up?” “That very one,” the man said. “Old Ronnie ain’t quite right in the head,” he said, pointing a finger to his temple. “Holds a steady job driving a feed truck, but he ain’t all there, from what I hear.” “He sat in the corner by himself during the trial,” said Nelson as his memory came into action.

“Never said a word to nobody,” the man said. “He didn’t testify.” “Nope.” “Neither did the boy’s wife.” Nelson drank his coffee, but waved away a refill when the waitress came by. “Well, I heard she kinda has a checkered past,” the man said. “If you , that’s what the Johnson boy and the deceased got into it over.” He drank his coffee. “Besides, what was she gonna say? ‘I wish he hadn’t a done it?’” Nelson didn’t answer. He ran a finger around the rim of his coffee cup and wiped it on the table cloth. “Is there something bothering you, buddy?” the man asked. Nelson shook his head, but then stopped and narrowed his eyes. “It’s just that most barroom arguments are settled right then and there,” he said. “Not after both parties are sober.” “I you brought that up,” the man said. “I reckoned then and still do, that it might have taken the boy awhile to get his courage up,” the man said. Nelson smiled. “No,” he said. “Courage fades with a clear head.” “You never have told me why you are interested in this now, three months after the trial,” the man said. “I had just about managed to put it out of my mind.” “It’s nothing. I just always like to feel I’ve done the right thing.” “You did . . . we did. That boy was nothing but trouble, and he is just where he needs to be.” “Did you ever wonder why the judge reduced his sentence?” “Felt sorry for him, I suppose. Maybe it was that commotion his wife and kid caused.”

“Maybe,” Nelson said. He finished his coffee and laid a dollar on the table. “Been nice talking to you.” “You take care now,” the man said. He returned to his newspaper. Nelson walked into a noontime heat that felt like the entrance to a blast furnace. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the light and walked toward his truck. A lanky hound dog walked the sidewalk ahead of him, slowly taking the air. He stopped when he reached Nelson’s truck, walked to it, raised a hind leg and anointed the rear tire. Nelson smiled and shook his head. “Welcome to the club,” he said. The pickup roared to life and Nelson eased into the empty traffic lane. He drove two blocks on Main and then pulled into the parking lot of the Armistead Post Office. Inside, he opened a mail box and retrieved three ads, a check, and a lavender envelope with a handwritten address, smelling faintly of perfume. The return address stated “Austin, Texas.” He smiled. Back in the truck, he pulled a Barlow knife from his pants pocket. He opened the blade and slid it carefully down the top of the colored envelope, taking care not to damage the return address. He pulled the contents out and read the short message. “Coming to a medical seminar at the University of Arkansas Medical Center in Little Rock on the 14th of this month. Will stay over Saturday and visit that awful place you are calling home now if the welcome mat is out. Will rent a car and find you. Please say yes. If you do, send directions and assurances that there will be neither snakes nor snake-handlers in the vicinity.” It was signed, “Love, -M-.” “Please say yes,” Nelson said to himself and laughed. He left town on the state highway headed west. At the city limits, a few large brick homes occupied oversized lots before the land gave way to row crops. As far as one could see, the land was flat and featureless, marked only by occasional islands of vegetation where someone had left a windbreak, preserved a home place, found the land too low to farm, or became embattled with feuding heirs. Soon, he could see the sinewy arm of the bayou edging the cotton fields. Opposite his road sat a combination convenience store, feed store, and hunter’s

supply with a large sign identifying it simply as “Barker’s.” There were three buildings, a large central one with a smaller one on either side. One had a loading dock and had a sign stating “feed” on its front. The other sat unopened and served as general storage. He parked the truck near the end of the main building and walked in. A thick-set African-American man behind the counter rose immediately and greeted Nelson with a smile. “Hey, sailor,” he said. “Off on shore-leave again?” “Hey, Barker. How’s business?” “Too goddamned hot to do business.” He paused. “Too goddamned hot to do anything. Least that’s what the old lady says.” “I can imagine,” Nelson said. He walked to the soft-drink section and retrieved a soda. He opened it and took a drink. “You have anything here for me?” “Matter of fact,” he said. He walked to the back of the counter area and pulled Nelson’s raincoat from a rack. He brought it back and tossed it on the counter. “The soda is free if you tell me how she got it.” “If I do, will you promise not to ask any more questions about it?” “Scout’s honor.” “I loaned it to her.” Barker took this in, started to respond, but gave out with a hearty laugh instead. “Fuck you, Nelson,” he said. “You wish.” “I got it figured out,” Barker said. “You was on a cruiser. You ain’t no carrier man. Right? A Bo’sun Mate on a cruiser.” “I told you I was an officer in the JAG Corps,” Nelson said. “Bullshit,” Barker said. “I can tell by lookin’ that you weren’t no ‘squat-to-pee’

officer. When you gonna tell me?” He looked at Nelson earnestly. “One shipmate to another?” “When I decide that it’s time for you to die,” Nelson said. Barker started laughing, but when he looked into Nelson’s face, the laughter faded. “I need some writing paper and an envelope,” Nelson said. “Sure thing,” Barker said. “Anything else?” “Do you sell stamps?” “I do. How many you need?” “Just one.” “Man, how am I gonna make a livin’ just selling you one stamp?” “Build a larger building?” Barker laughed. “I will tell you something though. In this county, it ain’t the best career move for a man to go loaning his raincoat to a woman married to a man doing hard time at Tucker Prison.” “If I were looking for a career here, I would be concerned,” Nelson said. “You know, if you was a little taller, I’d take you for a smart ass maybe even a bad ass.” “Now that you mention it though,” Nelson said. “What is the story on Mrs. Johnson?” “What you mean, what’s the story?” “You’re from around here. Did you know her before she was married?” “Man,” Barker said, thrusting a hand toward Nelson. “See what color that is? You think I socialized with that woman?”

“But you are Armistead County’s ‘gossip central.’” “Well,” he said. Then striking a pose, “I hear things.” “Like what?” Barker looked past Nelson to make sure no one had entered the store. “That she got beat up more for keepin’ them together than for spreadin’ them apart . . .” “Say again?” “You know there are some girls who have the rep but don’t take the step.” “You mean boys might assume things and get disappointed.” “Nelson,” Barker said. “Round here white boys don’t get disappointed. They get even. Now that’s all I’m gonna say about the esteemed Mrs. Johnson.” “What about her husband?” “Bobby?” “Yes.” “The one y’all sent to prison?” “That one.” “They say he went bad sorta gradual-like.” “Gradual?” “Like he wasn’t born that way.” “Wasn’t he working at the time of his . . . incident?” “He was. Folks say he had settled down a lot. They even say, some of them, that woman and kid had settled him down.” “So the crime may have been unexpected?”

“Pretty much came out of nowhere. Even though he had settled down, he had a habit of stopping in at the Gentlemen’s Club. They say his wife gave him permission as long as she had his paycheck first and he didn’t stay long.” “And maybe let her know when he left the club?” “You have been married. Haven’t you? I knew it.” “No. But I hear things.” Barker laughed. “Matter of fact, he used to stop in here sometimes and call, when he knew she was at her aunt’s house.” “Did he call from here the day of the incident?” Barker’s face changed instantly into stone. “I don’t if he did or not.” “How much I owe you?” Nelson asked. Barker told him and he paid. “May I use one of your tables,” Nelson asked. “Help yourself,” Barker said, motioning to a small area set up for dining. “If you need help spelling ‘intercourse,’ just yell over here.” “How about if I need help writing out ‘mind your own business?’ As in would you?” “And lose my ‘gossip central’ certification?” “You could lose worse.” “Anchors aweigh,” Barker said and began to straighten the contents of a counter shelf. Nelson sat at a table and wrote on a sheet of paper, “Yes, yes, yes, directions attached.” He took the lavender envelope from his pocket and used it to write an address on his new one. Then he took a fresh sheet and drew a rough, but accurate map showing the directions from Little Rock to his house on the bayou. He folded the contents into the envelope and affixed the stamp. He finished his soft drink and returned to the counter, tossing the used can into a trash can with a

loud clang. “Incoming!” Barker yelled, and both men laughed. Nelson started for the door, but then turned. “One more thing,” he said. “Man, who the fuck are you, Colombo?” Barker said. “The Johnson boy’s brother.” “You talkin’ about Ronnie?” “Yeah, Ronnie. What’s the story on him?” “Ain’t no story. Just a little on the light side of the cornbread, if you know what I mean.” “Did Bobby take care of him?” “What?” “If he is limited, as people say, in his mental capacity, who takes care of him?” “Now I know you wasn’t no officer,” said Barker. “Ain’t you learned anything in the time you been here?” “Such as what?” “Ain’t nobody takes care of Ronnie Johnson. He takes care of everyone else. He comes by here every Saturday morning, regular as clockwork, and hauls off my trash. Started doing it for my daddy while I was away. Won’t stop. If I offered to pay him, I ’spect he would slug me.” “There is one more question,” Nelson said. “If I answer it, do you promise not to ask another?” Nelson laughed. “Fair enough.” “Then shoot. I have work to do gettin’ ready for customers that might buy more than a ‘cocola’ and a stamp.”

“How would you explain to a stranger to this part of the country the success of a black man operating an empire like this?” Barker laughed from deep within himself. “My personality.” Then he turned serious. “My daddy ran this place for years, until I got out of the Navy. Success? He followed the ‘Negro Rule’ as he called it. This was back in the day, you know.” Nelson looked puzzled but stayed silent. “You never look rich around white people. He put his extra money in a Memphis bank and everyone thought that he was dirt poor and would surely go broke any minute. Nobody ever guessed, much less Albert Courtney and his crowd.” He looked at the ceiling. “Now that’s your last question.” “Anchors aweigh,” said Nelson as he left.

4

After Nelson left Barker’s, he drove the mile back into Armistead. He first stopped at the post office and mailed the letter he had written. Next, he circled the square until he found a parking place large enough for the pickup. He stopped the truck’s engine, picked up the envelope containing the check, and walked across the street to the Bank of Armistead. The bank occupied a building that must have been the pride of the town square when it was built. The building rose three levels, towering above its neighbors by a complete story. The upper floors still displayed the craftsmanship of a past era. Intricate brick patterns played around aggressive concrete window facings and a strong horizontal band of pre-formed blocks capped the upper parapet. A signature slab at its apex informed those below that it had been constructed by someone named Courtney in 1925. The bottom floor had been modernized, meaning that all original elements, those in scale and harmony with the rest of the structure, and complementing its design, had been replaced by a monolithic gray wall that shielded the interior from any with those outside the building. The changes had turned the structure from a handsome, friendly place with a happy facade into a foreboding tomb that, while attempting an aura of strength, warned the casual visitor away. Nelson stood for a moment examining the building, looked both ways, and entered. Inside, movement was fluid, as the few customers waited in teller lines and bank employees glided through the lobby as if on skates, each with a file or paper in hand and a serious demeanor. Those meeting Nelson smiled. One managed a sugary “Good morning, sir.” He walked to a central counter and retrieved a deposit slip from a bin and laid it and his check on the counter. Taking a pen from a holder, he completed the deposit slip and endorsed the check. He carried both to a waiting teller. “Good morning, Mr. Nelson,” she smiled. The glow on her face warmed him and he smiled back. She glanced at the items. “Deposit this?”

“Actually,” he said. “I need some cash back today. So just deposit part of it.” “Certainly,” she said, taking the check and deposit slip. She quickly processed the transaction and counted his cash. “Anything else today?” “That’s it for me.” He took the cash and turned to leave. “One moment,” she said, before he could walk away. “If you have time, Miss Fowler would like to see you.” She pronounced the “Miss” more emphatically than would have seemed necessary to a casual observer. When he stopped, she pointed to an area behind him. Nelson looked toward a row of desks surrounding the lobby. A neatly dressed and attractive woman, appearing to be in her mid-30s, was smiling and motioning for him to her. He nodded and walked that way. “Just a moment of your time,” she said as he reached her. She motioned for him to sit. As he did, she opened a file in front of her. “Just wanted to update you.” She stopped as if ing something. “And how are you today? Good to see you again.” “Fine,” he said. “Just fine.” “What I wanted to tell you is that your checking has built up to $10,000 again and I wondered if you might want us to put it in another CD?” “What are they paying?” She told him and he nodded. “Might as well.” “Great,” she said. “I’ll take care of it for you.” She stopped and regarded him with a sincere and serious look. “Actually,” she said. “You have a large enough now that we could place you in our financial management program and manage your funds in a more personal manner.” “You mean an investment ?” “Much like that. Our trust department would actively manage it for you for a small annual fee.” She picked up a sheet of paper and glanced at it. “We have been averaging a seven percent return with some years doing better than that.”

She started to retrieve papers from her top drawer. “I don’t think so,” he said. This took her by surprise, and it took her a few seconds to process it. “I beg your pardon. Is there a reason?” “I’m not sure how long I’ll stay in these parts, and I wouldn’t want to leave during a downturn in the market.” “Well,” she said. The look of disappointment seemed excessive. She recovered and leaned slightly toward him. “We are all hoping that you will make Armistead County your permanent home. We don’t see much ‘new blood’ here. This old county is like one of our bayous, nothing moves through it, and what stays in it gets stale and stagnant. So, when a mysterious outsider moves in, the natives hope he might stay.” She leaned further toward him, exposing her cleavage, touching his arm, and smiling through her eyelashes. “Some more than others.” “I see,” said Nelson rising, almost throwing her off-balance. “If I decide to stick around, you’ll be among the first to know.” “You have made my day,” she said as she stood and shook his hand, squeezing it before letting it go. Nelson left the bank building and found himself in the midst of a commotion. A Sheriff’s Department car, its blue lights still flashing, sat immediately behind a one-ton truck from Haskell’s Fish Farm. A stocky young man, who had been the driver, stood before two uniformed officers. Another man sat on the enger side of the truck and stared ahead. Both he and the driver appeared to be Hispanic. “What is your name, Taco?” The officer questioning the driver was of medium height. His stomach protruded well beyond his belt, which was cinched so tight as to create a cantilever of fat that spread like bread dough and shaded his feet. A nametag identified him as “Oliver, Chief Deputy.” When the driver said nothing, he jabbed a finger into the young man’s chest. “Com-pren-de?” The officer’s jowls shook with laughter as he turned to the other. “Guess we got a deaf-mute spic here.”

The other officer was tall and handsome, his uniform apparently tailored to fit him. When he smiled, he exposed a set of perfect white teeth. His badge stated, “Janson, Asst. Deputy.” He nodded. “I’m gonna give you one last chance to tell me your name before I start guessing,” the first officer said. When the man didn’t respond, the deputy began to punch him in rhythm to a litany of possible names, “Poncho, Sancho, Dumbo?” He stopped and turned to the other deputy. “Can you believe this beaner?” “Jose,” the young man said. “Jose what?” The officer turned to his partner again. “I guess he can talk after all.” The young man thought. “Jose Cuervo,” he said. That’s better,” the officer said. Then he noticed Nelson for the first time and spoke to him. “You need something, mister?” Nelson didn’t answer. He just looked at the officer with a calm expression. “This is law enforcement business,” the officer said. “You might want to move along. Everything’s gonna be okay.” Nelson didn’t move. The officer looked confused and turned to his partner. “What we gonna do with Jose, here? Driving through our town like he owns the place.” “We could take away his hot sauce.” “Then he wouldn’t know when he needed to take a shit,” the fat officer said. He spoke to Nelson, “Do you know how a beaner knows it’s time to take a shit?” Nelson stared at him with a disapproving look. The deputy continued. “When his asshole quits burning.” Both officers laughed and watched Nelson. His expression had not changed. He simply watched much as though the scene might be playing out in a theater, not on the streets of an American city.

“Mister, I asked you once if you needed something,” the fat one said. “Maybe you better move on.” Nelson still didn’t move. This flustered the officer. He looked from Nelson to his partner, then to the driver and the enger. “You get your ass out of here. Maybe I won’t tell Mr. Haskell you were speeding through our town.” “No speeding,” the driver said, fear spreading across his face like the shadow of a cloud scurrying across the surface of a lake. “You shut your goddamn mouth,” Oliver said and in the saying of it didn’t sound as confident as he had. “Now vamoose.” The driver hurried back to the truck and jumped into it in one fluid motion. In a few seconds, the truck started easing away from the square, the tanks on its bed spilling water on the hot pavement, causing puffs of steam to record its progress. A few minnows flowed out with the water and lay flopping and panting, their eyes wide in confusion. They soon quit moving, and the scene was calm. The officers watched and then turned to Nelson. “You have a nice day, sir,” the handsome one said. The other officer ignored him and returned to the car. The car moved away. The tall deputy on the driver’s side studied Nelson carefully as the cruiser moved by and headed for the highway. Only then did Nelson walk away. He hadn’t moved more than a few feet toward his truck before he stopped. He drew himself up to his full height and took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Goddamn it,” he said softly. Then he spun on his heels and walked toward the opposite end of the block, stepping smartly as if he were crossing a parade field. On the next corner, he came to a small brick building with a wooden sign identifying it as the office of James R. Caldwell, Attorney at Law. Nelson stopped in front of the entrance and made a visual sweep from side to side. There was no one observing him. He opened the metal door that had been finished to resemble wood and entered a small reception area. A young lady sat behind a neatly arranged desk reading a paperback book. As Nelson walked in, she quickly slid it into a drawer and smiled at him. “May I help you, sir?” Is Mr. Caldwell in?” “May I ask what this concerns?”

“Some business.” “Do you have an appointment?” She looked at a worn calendar on her desk. “No, I was just in hopes that he might take a walk-in question or two.” Her face brightened and she slid her chair away from the desk. “One moment please,” she said and hurried through door marked, “James R. Caldwell.” Nelson surveyed the room. The furnishings were shabby, but clean. Paintings purchased at a big-box retailer adorned the wall. A vinyl couch welcomed visitors. An end table offered the latest edition of Outdoor Life. It was what one might expect as the lair of a second tier lawyer in a small town. As Nelson walked toward the couch, the door opened. “Mr. Caldwell can see you now.” Nelson walked in as a man in his mid-30s scurried to arrange the mess that covered his desk. He wore suspenders with metal clasps instead of buttons and his white shirt had obviously been home-laundered. He watched his secretary exit the office, then moved around his oversized desk and extended a hand to Nelson. “Jim Caldwell,” he said. “And you are?” “Gideon Nelson,” he said, shaking the offered hand. “Wanted to ask you a few questions.” “Sure, have a seat.” The attorney pointed to a chair in front of his desk. He eased into an overstuffed office chair and leaned back, clasping his hands in front of him. “What can I do for you?” Then he seemed to something. “Coffee?” “No thanks,” Nelson said. “So, Mr. . . . ,” he glanced at a pad on his desk. “Nelson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He waved an arm across his desk. “Pardon my clutter. The courts don’t allow me much time to be tidy.” He waited for Nelson’s acknowledgement but saw none. The briefest hint of a questioning look crossed his face. “ How can I help?” Nelson looked straight into his eyes. “Actually, we have met before.”

5

Nelson parked in his usual place at the Peaceful Rest Nursing Home. The early morning air was clear with a slight wind from almost due west. A single cloud dotted the sky to the south and the temperature had already started to climb. From far away the sound of tractors floated across the delta as the farmers began to tease the dry soil in hopes of rain. On the seat beside him lay a roll of newspapers. He picked them up and swung from the truck. As he did, he stopped and allowed a spasm of pain to subside. “Crap,” he said to himself before starting for the entrance. He ed through the lobby, a quiet place this early in the day, and went straight to Edith Hartwell’s room. She was seated on her bed, wearing a bathrobe, her hair hanging in uneven strands. A wheelchair stood empty near the end of her bed. When she saw him, she drew in her breath quickly and frowned. “Gideon,” she said. “This isn’t your normal day.” She said it with more disapproval than surprise. He simply laughed and waved a large bundle of newspapers at her. “Then I’ll take these and leave.” She smiled at last. “Well, you are here now, so put those on the table and help me.” He laid the papers away and turned back toward her. He eased her legs onto the bed and helped position her on the pillow. He pulled the sheet and blanket in place and smoothed them around her. “So,” she said when fully situated. “To what do I owe the honor of an unexpected visit? And so early in the morning before a lady has completed her toilet?” “I had to make a run to Little Rock,” he said. “I thought I might catch you in some untoward activity, say a male visitor or something.” He smiled and she made a pouting expression. “Actually, I thought you might need something.” He

winked at her. “Oh, and I need some advice.” “Advice I have plenty of,” she said. “It’s humor and patience that I lack.” “Oh, I doubt that,” he said. “What can I advise you about?” she said. “You have no job and no love life.” She smiled and for a second the face of a young impish girl appeared. “At least none I know about. You seem in excellent health. And your physical appearance suggests that you take care to stay in shape. Your wardrobe is acceptable, but limited to jeans, knit shirts, and hiking shoes. What have I missed?” “I’m expecting a visitor, and I need to know where the closest place where one might find good wine.” “And of course you won’t tell me who the visitor will be.” “Maybe later,” he said. “The wine?” “Well, since the operative word is “good,” you won’t find it in Armistead County.” “I didn’t think so.” “The late T. J. Hartwell, who was my son and was Timmie’s dad, used to buy a bottle of fine wine for Thanksgiving,” she said. Her eyes suddenly misted. “Of course he stopped after Timmie went off.” Nelson waited. “I hear that the closest place with a good selection is the Springhill Liquor Store in North Little Rock. Just take the Springhill exit and go straight.” “Got it,” he said. “What else is troubling you, Gideon?” He seemed surprised by the suddenness of the question. He thought for a moment. “Why does Armistead not have its own police department?” “Oh,” she said. “And for a moment I thought it might be something important.

Excuse me while I click on the ‘strange question’ file.” She squinted and laughed. “Okay, why on earth are you interested in the fact that Armistead doesn’t have its own police force? Maybe you are considering running for mayor?” “Just curious,” he said. “Most cities the size of Armistead have a police department.” “It used to,” she said. “But then Uncle Albert—he was Judge Courtney then— talked Mayor Purefoy into doing away with it and contracting with the county for law enforcement, if you want to call it that.” “Uncle Albert,” he said. “Do you mean Albert Courtney?” “Yes, Albert Sr., the old man.” “Is he really your uncle?” “Oh no,” she said. “Everyone just calls him that because he runs the county.” She winked at Nelson. “The city, too. But why do you ask?” “Oh, I just saw a couple of deputies enforcing law, if you want to call it that, on the town square.” “Piggy and Pretty Boy?” “Who?” “The twin deputies of Armistead. Both of them so sorry the flies won’t light on them. A little fat ‘piggy’ one and a tall, good-looking one?” “That’s them.” “Bad actors,” she said. “Stay out of their way.” “I will,” he said, then added, “They testified at the Johnson boy’s trial.” “I hope the jury didn’t place any faith in what they said.” “Why do you say that?”

“Want to know a secret?” “What?” She motioned him closer. When she was sure no one else could hear, she whispered. “Things aren’t always what they seem in this county.” He sat. She seemed to want to talk, and he seemed ready to listen. “Something bothers you about that trial,” she said. “Why do you say that?” “A mother knows. Am I not a little like a mother to you?” He thought. “I should be so lucky,” he said. “Was it your first jury duty?” “First and last,” I hope. “I heard that the boy’s wife really showed out when they took him away.” “She did. So did the boy.” “So that bothered you?” “Yes.” “Good for you. Now the real issue is, can you put it behind you?” “I don’t know,” he said. “I went to see her husband’s lawyer today.” It took a few seconds for her to process what he had said. “Jimmy Caldwell?” “He calls himself ‘Jim’ these days, but yes. So you know him?” “I taught him in school,” she said. “He wasn’t a bad kid then, a little bit of a loudmouth but not bad.” “And now?”

“He doesn’t go to the bathroom unless he asks Uncle Albert first. Whether or not he is a good kid now depends on Albert’s wishes. He may do better in time. You know, a former governor of our state used to talk about a lawyer in a one-lawyer town who was starving to death until a second lawyer moved in.” “What happened then?” “They both got rich.” She laughed again and Nelson laughed with her. “Jimmie Caldwell is just waiting for the second lawyer to move to into town.” “Would he lie?” “In a second if Albert wanted him to. Why?” “He lied to the Johnson woman. And he lied to me.” “That doesn’t surprise me. What lies?” “These walls don’t have ears do they?” “Son, these walls know juicier secrets than Jimmie Caldwell’s legal proprieties. If somehow you could scrape all the conversations off these walls like layers of paint and repackage them, you would have an international best seller. But don’t worry. You can’t. Now I’m all in the mood for some gossip, so why don’t you humor an old lady?” “He told Savannah Johnson that she wasn’t allowed to testify at her husband’s trial.” “Is that all? She’s not considered much of a character witness. Could she have helped him?” “Maybe. She thinks so.” “Well, they couldn’t have forced her to.” “That’s just it. They couldn’t force her to, but she would have gladly volunteered. Now he denies telling her she couldn’t, says he asked her to but the very thought petrified her. Who would you believe?”

“Between a woman with a shady past and a jackleg lawyer?” “I don’t know if she has a shady past or not.” She stopped to think. “Fair enough,” she said. “What else did he lie about?” “He denied the existence of a trial transcript.” “Well there you go, line him up against the wall Romanoff style and shoot him.” She nodded her head in mock finality. He waited until she was through. “But there is one.” “How do you know?” “I have it locked away in a safe place at my house.” Edith studied him. He looked at her, patiently waiting until she had digested the information, processed it, and assigned it value. She moved her head a few inches toward him and frowned. “I’ll bet,” she said. “That from time to time during your life, people have, what was it that awful president from Texas said?” She paused, “. . . misunderestimated you.” “It’s something that comes in handy from time to time.” “I can imagine that Jimmie Caldwell was no match for you.” Nelson played with a button on his shirt. “Does he work for Mr. Courtney?” “Son, you don’t understand Southern towns like Armistead. They operate like layers on some of these computer programs. The longer you’ve been here, the more layers you know about. The richer you are, the more layers you operate within. And the more powerful you are, the more layers you control. You don’t have to work for someone to do work for them, that is, to do their bidding. A man like Albert Courtney never wants a large payroll. It costs too much. Leaves too much of a trail. He pays his lackeys ‘in-kind,’ so to speak. Jimmy is just one of his lackeys, just like the twin deputies and, some folks say, their boss, Sheriff Love.” “If Albert doesn’t pay him, how does he control him?”

“Oh,” she said, “If you were to ask Albert, he would be offended at the insinuation. He regards himself as a benefactor. A town like Armistead always has an Albert Courtney or two, the kind of man who will sell a poor black family a home ‘on contract,’ meaning they build up no equity. He will be lauded for helping the downtrodden achieve the dream of home ownership. Get plaques to hang on his wall. Get a signed photo from the governor. Then one fine day, after ten years, the family is late with a payment. That day, Albert orders the sheriff to go kick them out on the street and confiscate any marketable belongings so he can sell the home to someone else. After that he’ll preside over a Rotary Club meeting, drop a contribution off at his church, then drive home and take the widow woman next door a basket of tomatoes from his garden. How does he make sure Jimmy Caldwell operates properly? He funnels him enough piddling business to keep his practice afloat. That way, Jimmy stays in business and places his hopes on winning the lottery or a big personal injury case. He’ll be the town’s public defender as long as he gets the proper verdicts.” Nelson sat straight in his chair. “The proper verdicts?” “Let’s change the subject,” she said. “Now when are you going to tell me about this mysterious visitor of yours?”

6

Nelson left the nursing home and retraced his route. As he reached Armistead, he slowed to observe the slow pace of life in the small town. From the parking pattern, the most active place this morning was the Cotton Bowl. One could see the Sheriff’s Department vehicle driven by the twin deputies parked conspicuously by the entrance. A smattering of pickup trucks, most of them late models, lined either side. Moving past the site, he reached the town square and the courthouse, stately and impressive with a large American flag fluttering by its entrance. Though he had ed the building, Nelson suddenly slowed and pulled into an empty parking space. He sat for a moment and thought. Then, after slapping his hand on the steering wheel, he left the truck parked on the street and walked back to the courthouse. Inside, he found himself in a massive hallway with a tiled floor and high ceilings. It was dimly lighted by hanging fixtures of a long-forgotten era, and the place smelled of musty records and a century of human endeavor. He shuddered when he saw the sign directing the visitor to the courtroom where he had served as a juror. At the far end of the hallway, a sign said simply “County Judge.” He walked toward it, nodding to the workers who hurried past him carrying on the county’s business. Under the protruding sign, he opened a door, the top half of which consisted of frosted glass with the words “William A. Benson, County Judge” painted across it in gold leaf. A young woman behind a reception desk looked up cheerfully and asked, “May I help you, sir?” She was young and wore a tee-shirt advocating the “Armistead Armadillos.” Her blond hair was pulled into a pony tail and a vivid tattoo depicting some sort of floral design peeked from one sleeve of her shirt. “Is Judge Benson in, by any chance?” She eyed him with a look that flittered between curiosity and suspicion. “Did you have an appointment?”

“No, just thought he might have a moment.” “Do you have a problem that one of our people might help you with?” “No problem,” he said. “Just wanted to visit with him.” She looked confused. “You know that the judge has been out on sick leave lately.” “No,” he said. “I didn’t.” “Well, he has.” “I see,” Nelson said. “He is at home,” she said. “Are you a friend of his?” “No, just wanted to talk to him.” She looked Nelson over carefully, “Do you live around here?” “Out south of Barker’s place,” he said. “I’m not here with a problem. I only wanted to talk to him.” “About?” “Just wanted some information.” “You sure you ain’t got no problem?” “No problem.” “Just wanted to talk?” “Just wanted to visit with him. I haven’t lived in the county long.” She cocked her head to one side. She was thinking, and as she did, her face narrowed as if the process were so unfamiliar as to be painful. Then she relaxed and her face ventured close to a smile. “His place is a half-mile past the city limits sign going north,” she said. “The big place on the right. You might see him out by his pond fishing while the heat ain’t yet unbearable. If you do, he might

appreciate a visitor.” “Thanks.” He turned to leave and as he did, she spoke to his back. “Sir?” He looked around at her. “Yes, ma’am?” “Anything else?” “That’s all. Thank you.” “Anytime.” She smiled and fluttered the tips of her fingers in the form of a goodbye wave.

* * *

He had no trouble identifying the judge’s place. A white fence, made of plastic but designed to resemble the old fences bordering the horse farms of Kentucky, separated it from the highway. Two brick columns ed an open gate made of ornate wrought iron. A brass plate embedded in one of the columns announced simply “Benson.” Turning in and ing through the gate, Nelson stopped. An immaculate drive of white gravel curved toward a large, two-story house of white brick. On one end, a chimney soared above the rest of the structure and a porch held by two large columns framed the entrance. The drive skirted a man-made lake to its left, and along its far bank Nelson could make out a figure seated beneath an umbrella on a small pier, fishing. The drive circled near the pier, so Nelson proceeded slowly toward it. Halfway there, the drive crossed a narrow inlet of water that fed the lake. A sturdy timber bridge spanned the inlet and the pickup bounced over it with a rumbling noise. After the truck ed over the bridge, the white gravel hissed beneath the tires again until it came within speaking distance of the seated figure, who had turned and was watching intently.

Nelson stopped the truck and leaned out the driver’s window. “Judge Benson?” he said to the seated figure. “You’ve guessed right,” the man said. “And who might you be?” “Gideon Nelson. May we talk?” “Are you an honest man?” “As honest as the next,” said Nelson. The judge chuckled. “Then come and me.” He motioned for Nelson to pick up a folding chair from a pile stacked near the pier’s railing. “There is always room for an honest man on this pier.” The judge was a handsome, older man with a full beard and hair that was much longer than one would expect for a small-town politician. Both hair and beard were pearly white. He wore a faded bathrobe and slippers. His hat was from a different era, a white, oddly shaped thing of white material and a wide flat brim. He waved again for Nelson to him, as if he might have been expecting just such a visitor. Nelson moved his truck as close to the edge of the drive as he could, and stopped the engine. He left the truck and walked onto the pier and toward the judge, retrieving a chair from the stack as he went by it. He moved to a spot on the judge’s right and began unfolding the chair. He could see that the judge’s left leg, protruding from beneath the robe, was wrapped in bandages to a point just above the ankle. The judge extended his hand and Nelson shook it. “Do you like to fish?” “Haven’t done it much since I was young,” said Nelson as he sat. “Of course you do,” the judge said. “Wait just a moment.” Moving his fishing rod to one hand, he reached into a pocket and retrieved a cellular phone. With his thumb, he punched in a single number, then placed the phone to his ear. After a short pause, he spoke into it with an authoritative voice. “Millard, rig up another rod for catfish and bring it down here.” He waited while the voice on the other end spoke. “Not much longer,” he said into the phone. “Now you do what I told

you.” He thumbed another button and thrust the phone back into his pocket. He turned to Nelson. “Sir, I have already forgotten your name. Would you grant an old man a favor and give it to me again?” “Gideon. Gideon Nelson.” “And of course you know me?” “Judge Benson.” “Himself,” said the judge. “And how can I be of service?” As Nelson began to talk, a figure emerged from the back of the house and, standing near a corner of the building, watched the two figures on the pier intently. It was a man of indeterminate age, dark-skinned and dressed in work clothes resembling those of maintenance workers. An embroidered patch above his shirt pocket identified him as Millard, the recipient of the recent phone call. He carried in one hand an expensive casting rod with a hook, weight, and bobber dangling from its tip. A rusty syrup can hung from the other hand. Millard stood, straining to hear the conversation occurring on the pier. Failing, he resorted to a ploy ed down through generations by those who serve the mighty and powerful. He began moving silently along a path that would bring him to where the two sat without being seen himself. Making no sound, he came within earshot and stopped, like a deer in the forest taking of its surroundings. “So you were only in the county three months when we called you for jury duty?” Judge Benson was saying. “You’re a lucky man. Some people never get that honor.” “Not much of an honor, sending a man up for life,” Nelson said. “Oh, he’ll be eligible for parole in 20 years or so.” “I’m sure that is quite a comfort to him,” Nelson said. “Now you say you talked to young Jimmy, the public defender?”

“I did.” “And?” “I had some questions.” “Such as?” “Why he didn’t put the boy’s wife on the stand. She might have provided some information that the jury could use.” “And he said?” “He said she refused to testify.” “So there you have it.” “No, I don’t,” Nelson said. “What if she tells a different story?” “Such as?” “That the lawyer told her that a wife can’t testify at her husband’s trial.” “You mean,” said the judge, “that she can’t be compelled to testify against her husband.” “No,” Nelson said. “That’s not what I mean.” “Well,” said the judge, and then without turning he spoke in a loud voice, “Bring it on down, Millard. Don’t stand there dawdling.” Nelson turned to see the man approaching, the rusty bucket making a creaking sound as it swung from his hand. He nodded to Nelson without speaking and thrust the fishing rod toward him. Nelson took it and examined it. The rod was dark fiberglass and the reel was in pristine condition. Millard sat the bucket beside Nelson’s chair and stepped back. Nelson looked inside the bucket and saw a pile of what looked like small sausages. “Chicken livers,” the judge said. “Millard wraps them in old patches of pantyhose so they’ll stay on your hook. Messy things, but the catfish love them.”

Before Nelson could respond, Millard stepped forth and thrust his hand into the bucket. Without speaking, he retrieved one of the baits and, grasping the hook on Nelson’s fishing rod, threaded the bait on the hook in one swift motion. He took the rod from Nelson and, stepped to the edge of the pier. Holding the bait in front of his face, but over the lake, he spat on it. Dropping it, he drew a length of line out from the reel, and cast the bait, weight, and float some 30 feet out into the lake. Reeling off more line, he stepped back and placed the rod into Nelson’s hands. Then he smiled. “And the secret is?” said the judge. “One must spit on the bait,” said Millard, speaking for the first time. “Or else one’s chances of catching a substantial fish are significantly reduced.” “And don’t you forget that, young man,” the judge said. “You must put a little of yourself into the game, or you can’t win.” He turned to Millard. “Millard,” he said in a grave voice, “This is Mr. Nelson, who moved to our county about a year ago.” Millard gave what might have been judged as a slight bow. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” he said. “As I am yours,” said Nelson. “Will there be anything else?” Millard turned to the judge stiffly. “If we are still here in a bit, we may take coffee down here.” “It would be my pleasure,” said Millard nodding to Nelson. “I hope your life in our county will be a fulfilling one.” “Don’t overdo it, Millard,” the judge said. “And be on the lookout. Ronnie Johnson is bringing us a load of outdated catfish food that he talked the feed company out of.” “I’ve been expecting him,” Millard said. After he left, neither of the men spoke for a minute or so. Finally, Nelson broke the silence. “I’m not sure he approves of me.”

“Millard? He’s just a bitter old man. He doesn’t approve of anyone.” He paused and looked at Nelson. “Actually, I think he rather liked you. He doesn’t bait a hook for just anybody.” “He seems . . . ,” Nelson groped for the words. “Educated?” the judge said. “He actually has a Master’s degree in English from that colored college in Pine Bluff. Taught school for a while.” He noticed a puzzled look on Nelson’s face. “Wasn’t making any money so he took a job as a waiter at our local country club.” “How did he come to work for you?” “Oh,” said the judge. “He doesn’t work for me. He’s incarcerated.” “Incarcerated?” “Yes. He cold-cocked Teddy Colclasure one night for calling him ‘boy.’ Knocked him flatter than a week-old pancake. The jury sentenced him to ten years.” “Hard labor?” “No, just the county jail.” “And?” “Albert Courtney said he could come out here and work under house arrest.” “How long has he been here?” “Let’s see,” the judge said. He thought. “Going on 12 years now I think.” Nelson started to say something but the judge interrupted him. “So you think maybe our criminal justice system has come up short with this Johnson boy?” “I just have lots of time to think about things, “Nelson said. “Maybe more time than most people.” “But you don’t seem to know a lot about what goes on in our little backwoods county.”

“I don’t get out much,” said Nelson. “I don’t know,” said the judge. “Sometimes minding your own business can be a comfort.” He looked out toward the bobber on Nelson’s fishing line. “Now if one of our massive catfish hits your line, set the hook and let him run. You can’t manhandle one of them with strength alone.” He gave his own line a couple of quick jerks to make sure the line wasn’t snarled. “Have you talked to Uncle Albert about your questions?” “Albert Courtney?” “Yes.” “Why should I talk to him?” “He sort of looks after things while I’m out of service,” he said. He pointed the bandage that protruded from his robe. “Busted my damn leg getting off a tractor. It’s gotten infected and they can’t seem to get it to heal. I’ve been out of commission for over a year, what with operations and all.” “Why Albert Courtney? Is he on the Quorum Court?” The judge laughed. “Oh, no,” he said. “Albert would never run for office. Beneath his dignity. He only became a judge when he was appointed to fill a vacancy, but his family has run this county for three generations, so it is only natural.” He dropped his chin onto his chest as if he had suddenly grown weary. “Now,” he said softly. “They tell me that he has brought his boy back home so Albert can start training him to run things.” “Back home?” “Yes, the boy had a run-in with a local family. A bunch of no-goods who wanted to get at Albert through the boy, so they started up a mess.” “What kind of mess?” “It was redneck business,” the judge said. “We got rid of them. The Courtney boy took a job in Minnesota for a while so his family could get over it.” “What . . . ?” At that moment, the float on Nelson’s rig skidded across the water

a foot or so then disappeared below the surface. Instinctively, Nelson flicked his wrist and, in a quick and powerful motion, set the hook. “Hot damn,” the judge yelled. “You got him! Now let him run.” Nelson already held the rod tightly in his hands and was watching the line peel from the reel as the drag gave way. The line moved back and forth as the fish changed its direction in an effort to free itself. “Be patient,” said the judge. “He’ll give out before you do.” He grabbed his phone from the robe’s pocket and punched the speed dial. He watched Nelson patiently playing the fish until Millard answered. “Get down here and man the net,” he shouted. “We’ve got a big one hooked.” Nelson cranked the reel a turn as the fish’s movement slowed. Each time the fish stopped, he reeled in more line until the fish began to move closer to the pier. “Leave him in the water when he stops,” the judge said. “That line ain’t strong enough for you to lift him out of the water. Millard’s bringing you a net.” The fish had surrendered and waited at the edge of the pier. Nelson could see a long gray shape in the water as he let the fish swam slowly back and forth. Millard appeared from behind him and rushed toward the fish with a large net on a pole. He watched the fish for a moment and then placed the net behind it and captured it with a swooping motion. He deposited the fish on the pier where it flopped in desperation, its primeval eyes staring into an unknown world. Its mouth and gills pumped in concert, futilely seeking life-giving water. “A nice one, sir,” Millard said. “Nice one hell,” the judge said. “That’s the biggest goddamned catfish we ever caught here.” He looked at Nelson. “Son, you’re gonna eat for a week.” Millard bent over and caught the fish by its gills and held it up with some effort. “Going to exceed five pounds,” he said. He pulled a set of pliers from a pocket and twisted the hook from the fish’s mouth. “We’ll dress him and put him on ice for you,” the judge said. “Won’t you, Millard?”

“It would be my pleasure, sir.” “Is it my fish?” Nelson stood and set the rod in his chair. He examined the fish closely. “You caught the goddamned thing,” the judge said. “Guess that makes it yours.” “Will it live if we throw it back in?” “Live? Hell boy, that’s the fish of a lifetime,” the judge said. “You ain’t throwing him back, are you?” “If I may.” “You may, sir. He will live,” Millard said. “You stay out of this,” the judge said to Millard. He turned to Nelson. “You mean you would throw a fish like this back?” “If you will allow me,” said Nelson. “Well I never,” the judge said. He nodded to Millard who took the fish to the edge of the pier and gently lowered him into the water. It gave a jerk and swam away. Nelson watched the gray form disappear. “I’ll swan,” the judge said. “A man who would free murderers and catfish ain’t to be trusted,” and he laughed. “Too hot for coffee now,” he said to Millard. “Bring us down some ice tea.”

7

The man took careful aim and slapped the boy hard across the cheek, snapping his head to one side and sending a wad of mucus across the room. “Disgusting,” he said. “Do you hear me?” When the boy didn’t answer, the man slapped him again, this time from the other direction. “Do you hear me?” This time the boy nodded. Tears dripped from his chin from closed eyes. “Then say it.” “I hear you,” the boy said between sobs. The man grabbed the boy by the shirt and flung him into a wall. A garden hoe fell to the floor, and the man kicked it aside. The boy slumped to the floor and sat with his knees pulled close to his chin. “I oughta kill you is what I oughta do,” the man screamed. “Just kill your sorry little ass and be done with it.” He kicked the boy in the ribs, a careful blow designed for maximum pain with minimal damage. The boy rolled to his side and lay in a fetal position, jerking from the pain. The man began to pace across the room, back and forth, muttering as much to himself as to the boy. When a discarded paint can appeared in his way, he kicked it hard, sending it bouncing across the wooden floor into the boy’s head. “This family,” the man said. “This family.” When his pacing took him near the boy again, he kicked him in the seat of the pants and kept walking. “This family,” he said. “Do you think this family has a place for someone like you?” He walked to the boy and bent from the waist so his face was near the boy’s ear. “Do you?”

The boy whimpered an answer. The man walked to the far wall where a collection of aged tack apparatus hung. He selected a harness belt, thick and cracked from age and non-use. He swung it through the air and smiled at the whistling sound it made. He walked back to the boy, who stared with wild, open eyes. “I’ll show you what families like ours do with people like you,” and he raised the belt high. Across the manicured lawn, past the well-tended landscaping, and in the house, a woman sat at a kitchen table with her head leaning on one hand, two fingers pressed against her cheek and pointing toward heaven. Her eyes fixed on a place far away. She flinched with each scream. A tear tried to escape an eye, but she brushed it away. She continued to stare into space as the screams continued, accompanied by shrieks begging for them to stop. “That’s enough! That’s enough!” The sound circled the yard and rushed through an open window like a runaway train. They reached a peak and then, after what seemed forever, weakened. At last, quietness seeped into the room and peace came. Then the sound of the opening of the door to the shed filled the night, followed by rustling and footsteps, and the clank of a metal lock. It was over and she waited. It took minutes before she heard the steps on the back porch and the screen door open. She looked toward it as the boy stumbled through, his hair matted and a smudge of blood covering his upper lip. His face was covered with dust and lined with the tracks of tears. “Let me get you cleaned up,” she said, rising. “In a minute,” the man said, coming in behind the boy. “First, let us pray.”

8

Nelson returned from Little Rock at mid-afternoon. At Barker’s, a single truck, belonging to the electric cooperative, was parked near the entrance. Nelson exited the highway and parked his pickup in his normal spot. He swung from the truck and checked the contents in its bed. Walking into the store, he saw a large, muscular young man talking to Barker. He nodded in their direction and walked to the soft drink area. He retrieved a soda, turned to face the two men, and nodded. “Come over here, Boats,” said Barker. “Want you to meet one of Armistead County’s finest.” As Nelson walked over, the young man stepped forward and extended his hand with a smile as unpracticed as it was disarming. “Matt Smithey,” he said. “Elvis here tells me you were in the Navy with Timmie.” Nelson shook his hand and regarded the man for a moment. “I served with Tim Hartwell, if that’s who you mean,” he said. “Where?” “Overseas.” “I mean,” the young man said. “Were you with him when he got killed?” Nelson looked at Barker, who was standing behind the other. Barker shook his head and shrugged. Nelson looked back at Smithey. “I was with him when he was wounded. I wasn’t with him when he died.” He turned to Barker, “Do you still have some of that so-called ‘rat cheese?’” “I’ve always got rat cheese,” Barker said. “Timmie and I were best friends from the first grade on,” said Smithey. “We did everything together, football, scouts, camping, fishing. You name it.”

“He was a good man,” said Nelson. “Slice me up a pound of it,” he said to Barker. “You got it,” said Barker. “Matt here is the new meter-reader for the electric utility. Just started this week.” Nelson smiled. “That so?” “Yes, sir,” said Smithey. “Mr. Barker told me where you live,” he smiled again. “I’ve got to finish my run up to the county line, and then, if you are home I’ll come out and you can show me where your meter is.” He stopped and eyed Nelson, his face showing suspicion. “You got any dogs?” “No dogs,” said Nelson. “I do have an attack possum.” He laughed. “But she is with child, . . . children, at present and not in fighting mode.” “Was Timmie a good fighter?” “I’m sure he was,” said Nelson. He looked toward Barker who was at the back of the room slicing cheese. “Don’t slice that too thick.” “Just the way you like it,” he said, yelling back to the front. “Not too thin, not too thick, just the way you like it.” The front door of the store opened and an African-American boy of about 16 walked in. He looked at Nelson and nodded. “Mr. Nelson.” Next he looked at Smithey and his face brightened as if energized by a switch. “Matt,” he said. “Martin,” Smithey said. “How you been.” “Great,” the youth said. He yelled toward the back. “Dad, I’m back.” “Did you do everything I asked?” “Mostly,” he said. Turning to Smithey, he smiled again. “What are you doing now?” “Reading meters for the co-op.” “Neat,” the youth said. “We’ll get to see you a lot.”

“At least once a month.” Barker walked to where they were standing and laid the package of cheese on the counter. “I used to have a girlfriend,” he said. “When we were really broke, she would say, ‘If we had some cheese, we could have some cheese and crackers, if we had some crackers.’” He pointed at the cheese and then said to Nelson, “Now you got some cheese. Do you need some crackers?” Martin interrupted. “Was that Mom?” “Uh, no, Martin,” Barker said. “That was pre-Mom and don’t go repeating it.” “Man, I love to get shit on you,” said Martin. “Just ,” Barker said, smiling. “It still ain’t too late for me to name you Elvis Jr. Now ain’t you got some things to finish?” “Yes, sir,” said Martin. He said to Smithey, “Maybe sometime when you aren’t in a hurry, we can the football around.” “I’d like that,” Smithey said. “Now I guess we’d both better get to work.” Marin nodded his head as if he had just been given a direct order from the world’s real authority. The two walked out together, and once outside began to talk with animation. “I think your boy has a hero,” said Nelson. “Smithey? That man ought to be playing football for money on Sunday, not reading meters.” “An athlete?” “The best this county ever produced,” he said. “The good lord put magic in that boy.” “Why isn’t he?” “Why isn’t he what?” “Playing on Sunday?”

“Don’t rightly know,” said Barker. “He went to the University of Arkansas and was All-Conference his sophomore year. Defensive end. The pros were already interested.” “And?” “Next thing you know, he’s back in Armistead. Nobody knows for sure what happened. Injury or something. But he sure hasn’t had any trouble getting a job.” He stopped and walked quickly to the door and yelled toward where the two were still talking. “You get to work now,” he said. “Both of you.” He walked back in. “Trouble is,” he said to Nelson. “Matt has more trouble keeping jobs than he does finding them. Things have always been a little too easy for him.” Nelson didn’t say anything. “There’ll come a day,” Barker said. “When the luster wears off and he can’t live on his famous name anymore.” Nelson nodded in agreement. “Speaking of names,” he said. “How in the world did you end up with ‘Elvis?’” Barker laughed. “You mean how did a man as black as me get named after a white cracker?” “Something like that.” Barker laughed again. “My mamma thought he was a colored man, she told me, until she saw him on the Ed Sullivan Show and by then she had made a stupid teenage pledge that her first son would be named . . .” “Let me guess. Elvis.” “The hound dog man himself.” They both laughed. “Do you know a lawyer named Jim Caldwell?” “You mean ‘Jivin’ Jimmy’ the bullshit artist?”

“Sounds like he might be the one.” “Yeah, he went to school with my little sister. Always trying to get in her panties. I had to talk to him about miscegenation and all that.” “Sounds like a prince.” “Oh, he tried it on all girls. Wasn’t nothing special about her,” Barker said. He cocked his head to one side. “Never worked for him, though. Still don’t, I hear.” “Would he do something dishonest?” A car pulled up to one of the store’s gas pumps, and it gave Barker a reprieve while he checked out the owner. Seeing him using a credit card for the purchase, he turned back to Nelson, narrowing his eyes, “What do you mean, dishonest?” “He was the defense attorney in the Johnson boy’s trial.” “He is the defense attorney in everyone’s trial. What’s special about that?” “I think he may have lied to the Johnson woman. I know he lied to me.” “You talked to him?” “I talked to him.” “And you know he lied?” “He told me that there was no transcript made of the trial because it wasn’t appealed. I know better.” Barker thought. “Have I mentioned Negro Rule Number Two?” “No. Is there one?” “Yes. Don’t ever get involved in white folks’ business.” He began to wipe the counter as a sign that the conversation had ended.

* * *

Nelson drove slowly back to his place. The late summer sun was still high in the sky, unthreatened by a single cloud. The crops lay parched on either side. The brief evening rain of a few days earlier had done little for their prospects and the leaves of the plants drooped without hope. Cracks had begun to appear in the surface of the fields. Nothing stirred. In fact, the heat was so heavy that it seemed impossible that anything could stir. Far off, a “dust devil” swirled across a field like an infant tornado, displaying the proper physics but lacking the power to change the world. Nelson parked his truck and as he stepped out, he saw the electric utility truck approaching. He stood in the front yard and waited until Matt Smithey had parked the truck and walked over. Matt surveyed the place and appeared to approve. He smiled and gestured. “Nice place here, sir. Do you farm?” “No, I only have 20 acres.” “Beautiful place. Do you like to camp?” “Not in these mosquitoes.” They started to the side of the house where the electric meter was mounted. Matt took on a serious, almost pedantic tone. “No, you have to get a little north of here and away from the bayou to camp without the mosquitoes.” He continued talking as he read the meter. “Of course when winter gets here, you can camp anywhere, even along the bayou.” “You camp in the winter?” “Me and Timmie would camp anywhere, any time,” he said. Some other boys would go with us but it was always me and Timmie. And Mr. Albert Junior, our Scoutmaster. ” He stopped. “Say, what happened to your barn?” “It burned before I bought the place,” Nelson said. “Been meaning to clean it up.” “Maybe I could come out and help you on my day off,” Matt said. “Maybe so,” Nelson said. “Barker says you were quite a football player.”

“I was lucky to have good teammates,” Matt said. “Those boys could make anybody look good.” “What ended it for you? Injury?” The young man stopped and looked Nelson square in the eyes. “If I tell you, promise not to repeat it?” “Promise.” He looked at the ground and kicked a stick by his foot. He shifted his weight from one foot to the next and looked around at Nelson’s house and the fields beyond. “Love,” he said finally. “You were in love?” “Yes sir.” “Who was she?” “Oh, she wasn’t a girl. It’s this country here,” he said, waving his arm in an expansive motion so that it described his entire surrounding. “I just love this county.” Nelson didn’t say anything. “You know how some people say they love the mountains?” Hearing no reply, he continued. “On a late summer’s afternoon, you can look at the clouds here and they will be your own mountains. You can just sit and watch and be anywhere in the world. There is no place quite like it.” Nelson contemplated at length what he was hearing before he answered. “It must be nice to love a place that much,” he said. “Oh, yessir, it is. That’s why I didn’t go in the Navy with Timmie.” He caught himself. “Well, that and I got a football scholarship.” “You and Timmie were that close?” “Yes, sir,” he said. “But it was hard enough for me to go all the way to

Fayetteville away from here. I couldn’t imagine going all the way to San Diego.” Nelson stood processing all this information. The young man was quiet now, apparently deep in thought. When he spoke at last it was in a quiet, almost referential tone. “I’ve wondered a thousand times if he might be alive if I had been with him.” He broke the spell suddenly and smiled. “Well,” he said. “I don’t guess they pay me to talk. Be seeing you.” They shook hands again. Nelson watched the truck disappear toward the highway. He started toward the house taking deliberate steps until he reached an empty five-gallon bucket lying in his way. He stopped and kicked the bucket hard, sending it across the yard. As soon as he kicked, he bent over as a spasm of pain struck his lower back. He stayed motionless for a full minute and then stood straight. He took two deep breaths and relaxed. Next, instead of going to the house, he wheeled and walked to his truck. He opened the door and grabbed a pair of work gloves from the seat. He put them on as he marched to the pile of charred lumber and concrete blocks where a barn once stood. Nelson surveyed the mess briefly and then began to pull blackened segments of boards from the wreckage and stack them according to their length and condition.

9

Nelson continued cleaning the debris of the barn into the next day. That day was again hot without a cloud. A slight breeze puffed across the landscape from the southwest. He took advantage of the relative comfort of the morning hours and kept working. After lunch, as the heat of the day became oppressive, he showered and rested. In late afternoon, as he sat on his porch, he saw a white car turn onto the road leading to his place. It veered onto his drive, followed by a cloud of dust, and pulled to a stop behind his truck. He stood and watched as Morgan Fowler emerged from the car, stretched to her full height, and smiled. “Hello in there,” she said. Nelson walked to the door and opened it. “Hello,” he said, motioning for her come in. “What brings you this far from town?” Morgan turned to the rear door of her car and opened it. She reached in and picked up something. Closing the door, she walked to where Nelson was standing and handed him a rectangular package wrapped in a neutral color and topped with a brown bow. “Beware of bankers bearing gifts,” she said. Nelson held the door for her and motioned her into the living room where the air conditioning system purred quietly. He looked at the package, frowned, and looked at Morgan. She laughed as she took a seat on his couch. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s from the bank, not me.” “From the bank?” “One of the things I get to do is called customer relations.” She dropped her chin and looked at him with one eye. “Sometimes it’s more pleasant than at others.” “The bank sent this?’ “Oh yes, the bank. Want to know what it is without looking?” “I am curious,” he said.

“It’s a book,” she said. “A copy of The Purpose Driven Life by some preacher. “Like I said, it is from the bank.” She raised her eyebrows and smiled again. “If it was from me, it would be a bottle of Jack Daniels.” Seeing his suspicious look, she said, “That is your favorite, isn’t it?” Nelson said nothing. “Anyway,” she said, raising her head to look at him squarely. “The bank manager saw me working a Sudoku puzzle and told me to get out and make with some of our better customers.” “And that includes me?” “Perhaps not moneywise,” she said. “But our real big-money boys all dip snuff, smell like a deer camp, and have these octopus-like arms with big meaty hands that make personal visits unsafe for a lady like me.” She stopped and thought. “Of course I could visit while their wives are home, but that would make it even more dangerous, especially since that is usually where their big money came from and Southern women are the meanest on earth.” She crossed her legs, an action that made her short skirt ride up and reveal more of her legs. They were shapely and formed at a perfect juncture between thin and plump. Her height would have been around five-nine, an inch shorter than Nelson. She wore a short-sleeved top that clung to her without making a wrinkle, giving the impression that it had been woven in place instead of pulled over her head. She had “made for men” breasts: full but not cartoonish, a handful—no more, no less. Her skin was clear and slightly on the dark side of white. Her makeup was expertly applied, which is to say it caused one to wonder if she were wearing makeup at all. Her lips were full and modestly tinted to match her auburn hair which was formed into a bun, promising the night of a lifetime for the man who saw it fall free. A pair of pearl ear rings and expensive-looking spike heeled shoes completed the project. She made no attempt to pull her skirt to a more modest position and seemed to enjoy the fact that Nelson was processing her appearance. She waited until he was finished. “Of course,” she said. “That poses no problem as far as you are concerned.” “No problem,” Nelson said, suddenly jarred back into the moment. “I mean . . . problem?”

“With a wife.” “Wife?” “As in, you don’t have one stashed away somewhere.” He finally saw her meaning. “Oh, no,” he said. “No wife.” “An ex?” She placed her hands on her lap and assumed the expression of innocence. “A man with an ‘ex’ is more dangerous than a married one.” “No ex,” he said. She dropped her innocent expression and leaned forward. “Gay?” “Are you developing information for the bank?” “Not entirely,” she said. “But it is important to know your customers. Nobody seems to know much about you. The only time anyone can recall seeing you was in the jury box at Bobby’s trial.” “Bobby? Did you know him?” “I know everybody,” she said. “Did you enjoy the experience?” “The experience of what?” “Sitting in on a murder trial. That must have been exciting.” She leaned forward and her skirt slid up another half-inch. “I’ve been called to jury duty but I’ve never served. The bank takes care of that. I think it would be great fun to watch the lawyers go at one another. What did you think about Jimmy Caldwell? He has the biggest crush on me.” “Would you like something to drink? “It is a little early in the day for Jack Daniels.” “I was thinking of a soda.” “A beer would be nice.”

“Wait one,” he said. He went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Bud Light, two glasses, and a Diet Coke. As he filled the glasses, she swept her hands across her hair to make sure all was in place and made sure the top of her blouse was even. She had not straightened her dress but had crossed her legs at the ankles, creating a slight separation of her legs from her knees to her thighs. She placed her hands in her lap and watched him as if she were royalty. He filled the glasses and handed her the beer. “This brand okay?” “Cold is okay on a day like this,” she said. “Warm is better at night.” She accepted the glass took a tiny sip, immediately wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “Thank you. Now, tell me about yourself.” He poured his soft drink. “Nothing to tell. I lead the most uninteresting life you could imagine.” “Oh,” she said, “I bet that’s not true. Where is home for you?” “The Northwest,” he said. “Could I ask you a question?” “Business or personal?” She smiled and gave what could have been interpreted either as a wink or a clenching of her facial muscles. “Personal will cost you more than business.” “General,” he said. “It’s just that I keep hearing the name of Albert Courtney. Who exactly is he?” “Albert or Albert Jr.?” “The one they call ‘Uncle Albert.’” “Oh, he is the county patriarch. His family came here with the federal land grants in the 1830s and has been here since. He is very rich, very powerful, and very good to the citizens of Armistead County.” “Good in what way?” “He sort of looks over things, you know. Makes sure the county gets treated properly by the rest of the state. He is personal friends with the governor. He

helps keep undesirables away. Preserves our peaceful lifestyle.” She sat her beer on an end table. “Have you met him?” “No. I don’t believe I have.” “You would like him. Sort of reminds you of Andy Hardy’s dad in those old movies.” “And he exercises a lot of power?” “In a good way. And he sacrifices for the good of us all. He even made Albert Jr. serve a stint in the Air Force long after the draft ended. Said we all should serve if we expect to enjoy the benefits of this country.” She uncrossed her legs, pulled the hem of her skirt down and stood. Walking slowly, she examined a shelf filled with books at one end of the living room, slowly reading the titles. “Dickens, Dickens, Dickens,” She said. Next, she studied a framed collection of military insignia mounted on a wall in the center of the room. “You were a war hero, I hear.” “Hardly. Where did you hear that?” “From Rick Duffey, reporter for the Armistead Announcer.” “Who the heck is he?” “Young fellow, just out of journalism school for a couple of years and trying to make a name for himself.” “And he mentioned me to you?” “He came into the bank and asked about you. Of course we couldn’t tell him anything.” “Why would he ask about me?” “Don’t know. I assumed it was a human interest story. He writes pieces about interesting people in the county from time to time.” “Is he a tall kid with long hair and horn-rimmed glasses?”

She thought. “Yes, that’s pretty accurate.” She studied the articles mounted on a velvet background in the military display. “I him from the trial,” Nelson said. “I assumed he was from the statewide newspaper.” “Nope,” she said. “He’s our little hometown muckraker, or at least he would like to be. If Uncle Albert didn’t make the publisher rein him in from time to time, he could embarrass us all.” She turned. “Don’t you read our little weekly rag?” “Not really,” he said. “Well you should.” She turned back to the wall hanging. “Say, what are all these things?” “Oh, just a display of military memories that a friend made for me. I normally keep it hidden away.” “Why did you hang it now?” “Just doing a little redecorating.” He rose and walked to where she was standing. “So is Albert Jr. an attorney, too?” “No, he manages some of Uncle Albert’s business interests. That is, since he has been back.” “From the Air Force?” “No. There was some trouble from a sorry bunch of characters that were mad at Uncle Albert because of some financial matters that didn’t go their way. They tried to get at him by dreaming up some stuff involving Albert Jr.” “What kind of stuff?” “Just silly stuff, all lies they itted later, but it upset Albert Jr.’s family so bad that he took an out of state job for a couple of years.” “Sounds like an interesting county,” he said. “We have our moments,” she said. “What is that purple thing with the two stars

in it?” “Oh, he said, “That just means I got the Good Conduct Medal twice while I as in the Navy.” She looked at it more carefully. “I would have pegged you for a man more likely to win the ‘Bad Conduct Medal’” She turned away from the display and flashed the now familiar smile. “It’s easier to fool the Navy that it might be to fool you,” he said. “What’s that silver thing?” “That’s the award I received for completing Non-commissioned Officer School,” he said. “Every enlisted man gets one if he stays in long enough.” “I like an educated man,” she said. “From the looks of things, you were a pretty busy little sailor.” “The Navy likes for a person to keep busy,” he said. “I’ll bet your parents are proud,” she said. “Parents are proud when their sons become doctors or lawyers, not when they become sailors.” “Yours weren’t” “Your beer is getting warm,” he said. “Could I get you a fresh one?” “No, I have to be going, “What does this mean?” she said, pointing to words stitched across the bottom of the velvet background in gold letters. “The Only Easy Day was Yesterday?” “It’s just something they teach you in Navy Boot Camp,” he said. “Sounds strange to me,” she said. She walked toward the door and, looking through the screen, saw where Nelson had been stacking the debris from the barn. “I see you are cleaning up the mess from the previous owners.” “I thought it was about time,” he said. “Did you know them, the previous

owners?” She laughed. “Hon, I didn’t know them but everybody in Armistead County knows about them. Do you really try to be uninformed and ignorant?” “I try to mind my own business.” “Well wasn’t it some of your business that you bought this place so cheap?” “I never thought about it. Did the other owners do something?” “I have no idea what the other owners might have done,” she said. “They were two women out of Memphis. Had the same last names so everybody thought they were sisters. Inherited the land, so they said. They built this house and that barn and had two of the prettiest matched chestnut mares you ever saw. They loved to ride those horses around these old farm roads and didn’t seem to bother a soul.” “So what happened?” “What happened was, somebody saw them dismounted one day at the back of a field.” “And?” “It turned out they weren’t sisters at all but had changed their names to match.” She stared into space and took on a look of exasperation. “Do I have to draw a picture for you?” “I don’t think so,” he said. “So all of a sudden they weren’t exactly the kind of folks who were welcome in the county?” “It’s not like they weren’t warned,” she said. “They started getting little notes sent to them. Instead of paying attention, they went to Sheriff Love and he sent them to Uncle Albert.” “Did he stop the harassment?” “He told them he would find a buyer for their place at a profit if they wanted to leave.”

“And they didn’t?” “No, they told him they were going to Little Rock to report it to the State Police.” “Did that help?” “Are you serious? They were told that no crime had been committed. Not only that, while they were gone the barn burned.” He looked stricken. “The horses too?” She seemed surprised at the question. “We may be rednecks,” she said. “But we are not monsters. The horses just disappeared.” “And so did the women?” “So did the women, and it was good luck for you, getting the place for a song. And I, for one, am glad you did.” Before he could move, she spun around and kissed his cheek. “Back to work for me,” she patted his cheek where she had kissed him. “Invite me again some time.” With that she turned and left. Nelson stood motionless as the car moved away toward town. When it had disappeared, he walked to the edge of the porch and looked out over the remains of the barn. The muscles in his jaw pulsed several time as he contemplated the scene. Turning slowly, he walked back into the living room and stood before the display of his Navy career. He studied it carefully as his jaws began their tensing and relaxing motion again. “Stupid bitch,” he said.

10

The next day began with an overcast sky. Farmers know it as teasing weather. There would be faint clouds with no rain, creating familiar hopes, but denying sustenance, like music heard from too far away. In the afternoon, distant thunderclouds might rise in giant columns, bringing relief to one family but stopping at the property line of the neighboring farm, letting the dust grow thicker on one while the sweet smell of a summer storm filled the air on the other. Then the cloud-columns would collapse on themselves from their own weight, marking an end to any promises. There was nothing of general good in days like this, just selective good fortune and the taunting of those who prosper or perish by the fickle heart of nature. Farmers leaned on the beds of trucks parked along turn-rows on days like this and talked about years when it had been worse. Nelson rose early. He worked on cleaning up the barn until it was time that people should be at work and then he showered, shaved, and drove into town. He stopped at the post office and asked directions to Savannah Johnson’s house, but instead of going there he turned off the main square and parked in front of a onestory building with a modest brick front. The rear of the building extended to an alley, and a gravel parking lot adjacent to it contained three cars and a large delivery truck. A weathered sign on the front identified the building as the office of the Armistead County Announcer. Inside, a long counter separated the front of the office from the rear. A stack of newspapers lay on the counter, along with a selection of writing tablets, pens, and other office supplies. A middle-aged woman with short-cropped gray hair looked up from a desk as she saw Nelson. “Could I help you?” She arose and walked to the counter bringing an order blank and pen. “Is Rick Duffey in?” “Is he expecting you?”

“No, I just wanted to talk to him.” “Is it about a news release?” “Just wanted to talk to him.” She looked at him hard now. A major decision was in the making. She put the order blank on the counter and glanced toward a hallway leading to the rear of the building. “And you are?” “My name is Gideon Nelson.” “And this is about?” “Why don’t I just tell him myself? I think if you’ll mention my name, he will want to see me.” Apparently not accustomed to resistance, she tapped the pen she was holding on the top of the counter and considered her options. She looked Nelson over for a final time and smiled. “Let me see if he is in. Sometimes he sneaks out the back door about this time of day and heads for the Cotton Bowl.” With that, she spun and walked toward the hallway. Stopping, she looked back at Nelson. “Gideon . . . ?” “Nelson,” he said. From out near Barker’s Store.” “Oh, yes,” she said. While she was gone, Nelson took in his surroundings. There was that smell that only exists in print shops—printer’s ink. It is said that it can invade a person’s bloodstream and drive that person crazy, if not crazy at least bedazzled by a quest for something, some thrill or emotion that can only be obtained through producing the printed word. A sheet of newsprint announcing fees for ads adorned the wall behind the counter. A collection of calendars, displaying a gradual degradation from new and crisp to yellowed and wrinkled announced the schedules and scores of the Arkansas Razorback football games from present time to the 1960s, a print museum that encapsulated in the briefest space imaginable all of the hopes, defeats, joys, bitterness, and eternal optimism of

humankind itself. The past year had been a miserable one for the team. Nelson studied the results and, as the woman returned, nodded to the calendar. “Maybe next year,” he said. “I wish,” she said. “They screwed the pooch when they let Matt Smithey leave.” She motioned toward the hall. “He’s waiting on you. Last office on the left.” Nelson thanked her and walked through a swinging gate that protected those inside from outsiders, a bulwark as fragile yet imposing as the First Amendment itself. He found himself in a long hallway ed in cheap imitation wood. There were offices on each side, each with a small plaque at eye-level announcing the occupant. Nelson ed one announcing Fred Turner, Publisher and Editor, Cheryl Turner, Manager, and Stockton Tibbs, Advertising Manager, before he reached the one marked Rick Duffey, Reporter. His was the last office; beyond it the hall opened into a large room filled with boxes and assorted supplies. He entered the office to find a man in his late 20s seated behind a metal desk that appeared to have marched in from a military surplus sale. An Apple computer took up most of the space on top of the desk, and shelves covered every wall. They were filled with books, newspapers, magazines, cameras, and other paraphernalia associated with the business of reporting the news. The young man rose and offered his hand to Nelson. They shook and eyed one another for a second, each assessing the other. “Rick Duffey,” the man said. “Gideon Nelson. Pleased to meet you.” “Please sit,” Duffey said, motioning to a plain metal chair in front of the desk. He was neatly dressed in a shirt that had probably been purchased from a “bigbox” chain and khaki tros. He wore a pair of Nike running shoes and sported dark-rimmed glass that seemed to add a couple of years to his boyish appearance. When Nelson was seated, he slid his computer to the right, being careful not to reveal its screen. “What can I do for you?” “I heard you have been asking about me, and I wondered why?” “And you heard this from who?”

“From whom,” said Nelson smiling. “Where did you go to journalism school?” “At a small state university,” he said, returning the smile. “But I have a master’s degree from Ole Miss.” “Not the U of A?” “No, they had their hands full accommodating Matt Smithey,” he said. “I thought I would leave them to the task.” “You and Matt aren’t the best of friends?” “Oh, he never physically bullied me like the other jocks did. At least not for pleasure, only from a sense of duty. Mainly . . . just excluded me from things, you know.” “What kind of things?” “Things that are only important to an adolescent. Clubs, parties, scouts, sports that I might have had a chance in, say soccer or baseball. All that was a closed society that one had to wrangle an ‘invite’ into.” “You knew Timmie Hartwell, I suppose.” “Good kid,” said Duffey. “Matt’s Shadow, we used to call him.” “They were inseparable?” “More like complementary,” Duffey said. “Matt would have probably been a real bully if Timmie hadn’t nourished the ‘better angels of his nature.’ And Timmie wouldn’t have developed into a hero if Matt hadn’t pushed him to excel. Of course you know about Timmie, right?” “So why are you interested in me?” “I’m interested in every person in Armistead County,” Duffey said. “There aren’t too many and I have to dig up what I can.” He picked up a reporter’s notebook that lay on top of his desk and placed it in a drawer. “There is a rumor going around that you might be some sort of war hero yourself.”

“Well, let’s squelch that rumor right now,” said Nelson. “I’m the farthest thing from a war hero you can imagine.” “Furthest thing,” said Duffey. “Farthest implies a measurable distance.” “Touché,” said Nelson. “See,” said Duffey. “All that education didn’t go to waste.” “Education never goes to waste,” Nelson said. “It may lie fallow at times . . .” Duffey interrupted him. “You mean like while someone toils away at a lowpaying job for one of the last family-owned county newspapers in the South.” “I didn’t mean that.” “Oh, don’t worry,” said Duffey. “I get it all the time. ‘Why ain’t someone with your eddication workin’ in Little Rock or Memphis or up Nawth somewhur?’” He laughed at his own skill with a Southern accent. “And you tell them?” “Usually to ‘fuck off’ unless it’s one of my high school teachers, and then I just talk about how much I love the South and my old home town and want to be the Arkansas William Faulkner.” He laughed, then grew serious. “But what brings you to our little ‘postage stamp of native soil’? They say you are related to Edith Hartwell.” Nelson frowned. “Is there some international headquarters where this mysterious ‘they’ resides? Are there branch offices in each county in America? Is there some sort of intricate communication network to which only journalists and gossip-mongers have access?” “Trade secret,” Duffey said. “But I can tell you aren’t privy to it. Hell, you don’t even have a phone, cell or land-line. Probably don’t even own a computer, much less an iPad.” “Have you been checking?” “I’ve been trying to you.”

“Why didn’t you just drive out and see me?” Duffey pointed at his computer. “I swear it’s on my ‘things to think about doing’ list. Just as soon as I finish covering the marriage of Albert Courtney Jr.’s oldest daughter.” Nelson pulled his chair closer to Duffey’s desk. “That must be a job. I hear the family swings a lot of weight around here.” “You can’t imagine,” said Duffey. He lowered his voice and looked toward the door. “The old man is an asshole, but Little Albert’s okay.” Nelson tacked suddenly. “Do you me from the Johnson boy’s trial?” “Oh yes. That’s where you came on my radar screen.” “Because I was new to the county?” The question caused Duffey to think. “No,” he said after reflecting. “Everyone on that jury was new to the county. Now that I think about it, that itself was a little weird.” “So why did you notice me?” “You seemed to be the only one paying attention.” Nelson rose, walked to the door and looked both ways. He turned to Duffey. “Is anyone else here?” “Just Mizz Cheryl up front.” “Does she stay up front.” “Not unless she has to, but she has to today since everyone else is gone except Ace Reporter.” “And Ace Reporter doesn’t tend the counter?” “Part of my employment contract,” Duffey said, laughing. As Nelson returned to his seat, Duffey looked at him suspiciously. “My highly-honed reporter’s skills tell me something is on your mind.”

Nelson took time to answer. He was evidently sizing up Duffey, and sizing up people seemed to be a serious matter with him. His head finally gave a slight jerk in the form of a nod, and he spoke. “I have this weakness, or strength . . . whatever you want to call it, of making quick decisions about people.” “Part of your ‘war-hero’ background?” Nelson ignored the comment. “I sense you can be trusted.” This drew Duffey’s attention. “So, trust me.” Nelson learned forward. “Have your highly-honed reporter’s skills ever told you that something just ain’t right in Armistead County?”

* * *

They talked for half an hour before Nelson stood up to leave. “If I decide I can trust you further, I’ll tell you more later,” he said as they shook hands again. Duffey walked Nelson to the swinging door and watched him leave. “Was telling me about a fishing experience he had out to the Judge’s farm,” he said to Cheryl Turner. “I told him the fish had to be much larger than five pounds and the rattlesnakes had to be longer than six feet before they made the news in Armistead County.” “It took him a while to tell you a fish story,” she said. “I think he may have made up some extra details,” he said. “Man might have a little ‘newspaper DNA’ in him, reckon?” He laughed. She sniffed and returned to editing copy. He walked back to his office, paused at the door, and waited a few seconds. He looked both ways and, neither hearing nor seeing anyone, turned quickly into his office and picked up a weathered briefcase hidden beneath a pile of discarded newspapers. Placing the case on his

desk, he opened the clasp and raised the cover. After fumbling through the contents, he retrieved a file folder stuffed with pages of type and old news clippings. He placed the file in his top desk drawer and placed the briefcase back in its hiding place. He walked back to the door and checked the hall again. Satisfied that he was alone, he closed his office door, returned to his desk, pulled the file from the drawer, and began reading through its contents.

11

To get to where Savannah Johnson lived, Nelson drove past Barker’s store for a mile and turned onto a road that barely earned the designation of “all-weather.” Dust boiled behind him and he closed the driver’s-side window to keep it out of the cab. As the heat built, he turned a corner and came to a house-trailer that was probably old when Nelson was born. The siding had aged into some unrecognizable color, and the remaining few sheets of underpinning were pitted and rusted through in places. Automobile tires had been placed on the roof, and a shabby deck and stairs graced the front door. The yard was clean, and parked to the side of it were two vehicles. One was a Toyota compact from the late 1990s, its hubcaps missing and its finish reduced to a dull, faded coating. The other vehicle was a late-model pickup truck with a long bed and in immaculate condition. Nelson pulled his own truck to a spot beside the two vehicles and came to a stop. As he exited his truck, Savannah and Ronnie Johnson stepped from the trailer onto the deck. They stopped and eyed him as if he had interrupted a game they were playing. “It’s me, Mrs. Johnson. Gideon Nelson.” “I know,” she said. “This here is Bobby’s brother Ronnie.” “Good to know you,” said Nelson. “Could we talk for a few minutes?” Savannah looked at Ronnie. He showed no expression. He simply continued to eye Nelson. Seeing no signal, Savannah turned back to Nelson. “I reckon,” she said. “It’s hot inside. Why don’t we set out here in the shade?” She motioned toward a large oak tree at the end of the yard with several metal folding chairs under it along with a table fashioned from two-by-fours. She touched Ronnie’s arm. “Come on,” she said. He nodded and descended the steps slowly, never taking his eyes away from Nelson. The three walked to the spot she had indicated, and Savannah picked up a discarded bath towel from the table. “Dust that chair off before you set in it,” she

said. “You’ll git your pants all dirty. The dirt around here sticks to a person more than it does most places.” Nelson took the rag and did as he was told. He then handed the rag to Ronnie who brushed his chair, still not having spoken. Savannah cleaned hers last and the three sat. For a long several seconds nobody broke the silence. “I don’t have no cold drinks or nothin’ to offer you.” “That’s no problem,” Nelson said. “I get a small check on my boy,” she said. “And Ronnie helps me. Some other folks do, too. But there ain’t much left over for things like cocolas.” Then she turned to Ronnie and said, “This here is Mr. Nelson. He was on the jury when they had Bobby’s trial.” Ronnie finally spoke. “I know,” he said. “I was there the whole time.” Then he went silent again and resumed staring at Nelson. “Well he may be gonna try to help us,” said Savannah. She looked at Nelson. “Ain’t that right?” “I don’t know how much help I can be,” he said. “But I have done some checking. Seems . . .” Ronnie interrupted him. “You voted him guilty along with the rest,” he said. He said it not in an accusing manner, but rather like he wanted to make sure they were all playing by the same set of rules. “That’s what sent him to the penitentiary.” “We, I and the rest, voted the way we thought was proven by the evidence,” Nelson said. “Some of the strongest was the testimony of unrelated people in the Country Gentleman—those who saw Bobby and Tyrone Davis arguing.” “Don’t men git to drinkin’ and arguin’ in the Country Gentlemen all the time?” “You were at the trial,” said Nelson. “Every witness, including the bartender, who wasn’t drinking, told the same story.” “The same story,” said Ronnie, as much to himself as to anyone else.

“Yes, the same story,” said Nelson. He made sure that both of them were paying attention. “That Bobby jumped up and pointed a finger at the Davis man and said ‘If you ever say anything about that again, I’ll kill you.’ Then he followed him out of the club, still yelling that Tyrone better keep his mouth shut, or else.” He waited for this to with the other two. “That’s more than a little barroom argument.” Ronnie and Savannah looked at one another. For the briefest flash, Ronnie seemed as if he might say something. Instead, he slumped in his chair. “Well he never done it,” he said. “That’s what I told him,” said Savannah, closing that avenue of conversation. “And I asked him to read those papers they made of the trial.” She turned to Nelson. “Did you? Did you read them?” “Yes,” said Nelson. “I read them.” “Then you know he never done it,” said Ronnie. “I can’t say so from just reading the transcript,” said Nelson. “But there are some things that bother me.” “I told you he was going to help,” Savannah said. She blurted it out the way a schoolgirl might shout out an answer before anyone could beat her to it. “I have talked to some people,” Nelson said. “They don’t seem to do things in this county the way folks normally do them.” “I told you that the first time we talked, didn’t I?” Savannah was still excited. “What kind of things?” Ronnie interrupted her. “For one thing, the transcript that you gave me isn’t supposed to exist,” said Nelson, addressing Savannah. “They told me one was never made since they don’t go to that expense unless the trial is appealed and this one never has been.” “So what does that mean?” Ronnie leaned forward slightly. “I’m not sure,” said Nelson. “But it would appear someone sure thought the

decision would be appealed, or else they wouldn’t have gone to the expense of having a transcript made.” Savannah was more excited now. “So we should tell Lawyer Caldwell about that?” Nelson raised his hands in a calming gesture. “I don’t think we should say anything to anyone right now.” “Well Bobby never done it,” said Ronnie sitting back with determination. Then he appeared to have an idea. “You could tell Mr. Albert about it.” “Why do you think Mr. Albert would help?” Savannah interrupted. “He’s helped us all along. Well, his son has really.” She paused and looked at her brother-in-law. “Ronnie don’t want us to take no charity but I take the food and things Little Albert brings me.” “Don’t bring that up,” said Ronnie. “I won’t,” said Savannah. “But Mr. Albert, he could help. Do you know him?” “Only by reputation,” said Nelson. “You got to find out why them folks was lying,” Ronnie said. “Somebody put them up to it.” “But I told you,” Nelson said. “The witnesses in the bar all agreed, and some of them had not been drinking.” “They’re not the ones I’m talking about,” Ronnie said. “You mean the deputies and the other witnesses?” “I mean,” Ronnie said. “That Bobby is innocent of doing what y’all said. So that means somebody lied.” “Now we ain’t accusin’ no one person,” said Savannah. “But Ronnie has a point.” “If Bobby was innocent,” said Nelson. “Then yes, Ronnie has a point.”

“I got to be going,” said Ronnie. “I promised Mizz Sawyer I’d pick her up a case of Cokes at Barker’s.” He rose and looked at Nelson. “Bobby never done it,” he said. “And you all was wrong to say he did. “ He patted Savannah’s shoulder. “But if she says you might try to help now, I don’t reckon I mind. His boy needs his daddy back.” He looked down at Savannah and put a hand on her shoulder. “Savannah here does, too.” “I’ll keep checking into it,” said Nelson. “But I can’t promise anything. The facts were pretty strong against your brother.” “Facts is like everything else,” Ronnie said. “They work best for them that owns them.” With that he turned sharply and left. As the dust chased Ronnie’s pickup toward the highway, Savannah turned to Nelson and spoke tenderly. “He took this thing pretty hard.” “I can imagine,” said Nelson. “I guess those boys were pretty close.” “Like brothers,” said Savannah, laughing at her own joke. Then she was thoughtful. “But they weren’t that much alike. It was hard getting Bobby to hold a job. He would work for a while, then git mad and quit. I just about had him broke of that when . . .” She stopped and dabbed an eye with the back of her hand. “Before this trouble come along. Ronnie, now, he works his butt off, always has. Half the time without gettin’ paid for it.” She leaned toward Nelson as if she were about to tell a secret. “He wasn’t always that way,” she said. “Who wasn’t always what way?” Nelson was confused. “Ronnie,” she said. “You know, slow.” She leaned back in her chair. “I didn’t know them when they was boys, but they tell me he was normal at first but had a bad case of pneumonia that turned into something worse that nearly killed him. Fact is, three times they thought he was dead. But he got well and when he did, his brain didn’t work quite right.” She paused to let that much sink in. “So it wasn’t something he was born with. That’s why folks around here figure it was all right for him and Laura Sue to have children.” “So he has a family?” “An angel for a wife, and two of the finest boys you ever seen. That’s where my boy is today, over playing with them. Ronnie’s raised them up to be good boys.”

She looked out over the yard and into the fields beyond. “That’s why it’s so goddamned pitiful.” “About Bobby?” She looked at him sharply as if he might be kidding her. Seeing that he wasn’t, she spoke rapidly. “That, too, but ain’t you heard?” “Heard what? I don’t keep up with things around here all that much.” “Ronnie’s got cancer. He ain’t got long to live at all.”

12

Nelson left Savannah’s house in mid-afternoon, a time when motion seemed to stop in Armistead County. There were few vehicles on the road, and those moved slowly, their operators in no hurry to arrive at a destination for dread of physical activity. It was the slowest time of day at Barker’s store, but as he pulled in, Nelson saw a five-year old Honda Civic parked by the feed loading dock. As he entered the store, he saw Elvis Barker, Rick Duffey, and Martin Barker at the counter talking with a great deal of excitement and animation. “Hey Boats,” Elvis yelled. “Come here and look. I want to show you something.” Nelson walked to the counter where the three were huddled. Martin and Rick parted to let him approach. “Mr. Nelson,” Martin said, nodding. Rick Duffey extended his hand to be shaken. “We meet again,” he said. Nelson returned their greetings and then turned to Elvis. “What’s up?” “Just that my son, Martin Barker, is a genius. That’s all. He goes to the Math and Sciences School in Hot Springs, you know.” He smiled toward Martin and waved at a small circle covered with mesh that had been installed in a box near the cash . “I didn’t know,” said Nelson. “Congratulations.” Martin beamed. “So what is that?” “Simply a voice-activated automatic order-recording device,” Barker said. “Want to see it work?” “Sure,” said Nelson. “We were just going to try it out,” said Barker. “Now watch this.” He stood straight and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth to remove any

contaminants. “Now, suppose I am real busy with customers, but Duffey here buys my last bag of cattle cubes.” “Okay,” said Nelson. “But I don’t use cattle cubes,” Duffey said. “Well goddamn it, pretend,” Elvis said. He looked at Martin. “You didn’t hear me say that.” “No, sir,” said Martin. “Now you gotta watch,” said Barker. “Watch real close.” He pretended to wait on Nelson but then turned quickly to toward the screen and spoke into it. “Place an order for 24 more 50-pound sacks of cattle cubes.” Then he turned quickly to Nelson, “Is there anything else for you today?” He then spoke to Martin. “Now go.” Martin ran quickly to a door leading from the rear of the store. Nelson watched without saying anything for what was coming next. Nobody spoke for the minute or so for Martin to come bounding through the door and up to the counter carrying a sheet of paper. Barker grabbed it from his hand. “See this?” He held the sheet out long enough for Nelson and Duffey to read it. Across the top read, in bold type, “Barker’s Store Order Summary.” Beneath that was the numeral one followed by “Place an order for 24 more 50-pound sacks of cattle cubes.” He didn’t say anything else, just held the sheet as if it might be proof of royal birth. Martin looked from Nelson to Duffey to see who would pet him first. “That is really something,” Nelson said at last. “Wow,” said Duffey. “Could you rig one up in my car so I could just shout my stories in?” He winked at Elvis. “It would leave my hands free for other things.” Martin narrowed his eyes in thought. “Probably,” he said. “I have it fixed so it can run off a battery.” “Would you gentlemen agree that it might be as simple to write it on a note pad,” a deep voice said from a far corner of the grocery. Nelson turned to see Millard, the county judge’s handyman who had been seated out of view the whole time.

“But you don’t have to use your hands with this,” Barker yelled back. Nelson motioned toward Millard and looked at Barker. “I thought he was incarcerated.” “You might as well try to incarcerate a woodland sprite as that one,” Duffey said. “Hey Millard, you aren’t one of those Luddites, are you?” “Hardly, my young friend,” said Millard as he moved out of the shadow toward the counter, carefully watching the front of the store. “I thought the cotton gin was a particularly useful invention as it freed my people from the agony of sitting in the shade and picking cotton seeds from the fiber by hand.” “And allowed them to be used for more productive things, like clearing timber or chopping sugar cane,” said Martin. “You have taught this young one well,” said Millard to Barker. He looked at Nelson. “And how goes your search for the truth, catcher of great fish?” “The truth is harder to catch in this county than the fish,” said Nelson. Millard laughed. “Truth is as truth does,” he said. “Does the judge let you out?” Nelson looked from Millard to Barker and the other two. “The judge drops hints, and I act upon them,” Millard said. “Are your questions being answered?” “What questions?” “The questions to the answers you seek.” “With other questions mainly,” Nelson said. Millard leaned toward him in a conspiratorial manner. “ this.” He paused for effect. “Love,” he said, pointing a finger at Nelson’s chest. “Love makes this county suffer.” At that moment, a convertible full of noisy teenagers pulled up alongside one of

the store’s gas pumps. Everyone stopped to watch the commotion as the travelers argued over the collection of money. When a sufficient amount had been collected, and one occupant assigned to the pump, the noise abated. Nelson turned back to the group in the store and saw that Millard had disappeared. He looked at Elvis, who shrugged and turned toward a young man with sandy hair and freckles as he bounded into the store and handed Elvis the gas money. “Hidy, Mr. Barker,” he said. “Martin.” The two Barker’s nodded in return. Elvis took the money, a wad of crumpled bills lying on a bed of loose change and began to count it. “How you, Sam? Looks like you’re enjoying the summer.” “Until football practice starts.” The youth turned on his toes and sprinted for the door, but suddenly stopped and spun around. “Hey, Martin, did you hear that the scout troop is going to start back up?” “Lots of good it will do me over in Hot Springs,” Martin says. “Besides, Simon Legree here wouldn’t let me anyway.” He pointed at Elvis. “I ’spect he needs math more than he needs to know how to start a fire the way his ancestors had to,” said Elvis. “Oh please,” said Martin. “Well, see you later.” With that, the youth was gone. When the store fell silent again, Nelson addressed the group. “What the hell did Millard mean about love making the county suffer?” “Man, you go trying to decipher what Millard says, and you’ll find it a full time job with little reward at the end of the day,” said Elvis. “The sheriff’s name is Love,” said Duffey. “That’s right,” said Nelson. “But I’ve never seen him. He didn’t testify at the trial.” “He doesn’t testify at trials,” said Elvis. “He sends his deputies, usually the twins.”

“Do you think the sheriff is up to something?” Martin had suddenly become interested in the conversation. “Ain’t you got something to do?” Elvis cut Martin off before he could form a follow-up question. “Why don’t you go find Charlie Noble?” “Aw, Dad.” “Don’t you ‘Aw Dad’ me. You may be a genius, but you ain’t man enough to go breaking our honored rules of behavior. This is men-only stuff. Now, git on.” Martin left sullenly. Elvis waited until he was sure the boy was out of earshot. “Don’t much happen around here that the sheriff doesn’t know about. But you be damned careful before you mess with the sheriff’s department. Now that’s all I plan to say.” “One question for either of you,” said Nelson. “Where exactly is the site where they found the body of Tyrone Davis?” Elvis looked surprised. “That old black church?” “They said in the trial it was a place called Hebron Chapel.” Duffey spoke up. “You’ve never been there?” “No, they talked about taking the jury out there by bus during the trial.” “But they didn’t?” “Never saw much sense in it, I suppose,” said Nelson. “It seemed such an open and shut case. They had a Google Earth aerial of the site with an “X” marking the spot where the body was found and a “W” marking the spot where Bobby Johnson dropped his shovel.” “Except his brother says he never,” said Elvis. “What else would a brother say?” Duffey placed a five-dollar bill on the counter. “That’s for my gas, and I need a receipt for the ever-vigilant Mizz Turner.” “My brother would say, ‘I always told you so,’” said Elvis, taking the money and

laughing. “So where is the place, exactly?” Nelson watched Elvis, who took his time writing out a ticket for Duffey. “I know it’s out in this part of the county somewhere.” “It’s at the far corner of the Courtney farm,” Elvis said. “There is a one-acre square that was carved off by one of the Courtney ancestors so his slaves could build them a little church. First one was made out of logs. They tore in down later and built one out of store-bought lumber. It burned and so Uncle Albert’s daddy built them a better one. Then the hands all moved away, and nobody went to church there anymore. Little Albert takes the scout troops out there camping since it s the Courtney place and they can wander all over it.” “Little Albert?” “Little Albert Courtney,” said Duffey, interjecting himself into the conversation. “As civic-minded as his daddy is greedy. The Chamber of Commerce’s Man of the Year on two different occasions. Of course Uncle Albert has been named three times, not because he earned it but because he didn’t want Little Albert showing him up.” “Anyways,” said Elvis. “That church ain’t too far from your place. Go on past the bayou for a half-mile and you’ll see a road turn off to the left. Take you right to it.” Duffey, who had started for the door, turned. “Want me to ride out there with you?” “I figured you were on some hot lead,” said Nelson. “I wouldn’t want to hold up the news.” “I have to interview the lovely Miss Amanda Courtney to get the details of her forthcoming wedding is all,” said Duffey. “Trust me. I’m in no hurry.” Elvis laughed. “Up yours, Barker,” Duffey said. They both laughed.

Nelson looked confused. “Is there something I should know?” Elvis and Duffey looked at one another. They laughed again. Finally Elvis shrugged. “She’s a white lady. You tell him.” “It’s just that the aforementioned Miss Courtney is, by general agreement, the biggest bitch in Armistead County. Unfortunately, she is in summer residence here, a fact which strikes dread into the hearts of our womenfolk and causes grown men to tremble.” “In summer residence?” “She lists her official residence as the Chi Omega House in Fayetteville.” “She once had her granddaddy threaten to sue Duffey for reporting that the son of a pro basketball team’s owner had broken off his engagement with her,” said Elvis. “She calls Barker that ‘spear-chunking little store clerk,” said Duffey. Nelson looked at each of them in turn. “You seem to wear her disapproval like a badge of honor.” “Oh, you’re nobody in Armistead County until Amanda Courtney has insulted you,” said Duffey. “When she heard about Timmie Hartwell’s getting killed, she said ‘Well at least the little creep won’t be bothering me asking for dates anymore.’” “And she is Albert Courtney Jr.’s daughter?” “That’s what is so strange. She’s as bad as he is good. It’s more like Uncle Albert is her father instead of Little Albert.” “Why didn’t the son of the ball team’s owner marry her?” “They say,” said Duffey. “That Amanda blackballed the boy’s sister from induction into the sorority. Caused so much family turmoil that Daddy pulled the plug.” “Hell, I heard she blackballed her own sister,” said Elvis.

“Now,” said Duffey, “there are those who claim the sister blackballed herself, saying that living 18 years with Amanda was enough.” “It wasn’t her first love anyhow,” said Elvis. “No,” said Duffey. “She had other plans at one time.” Nelson waited. “She had eyes on Matt Smithey,” said Elvis. “But after he quit college and came home, he dropped her. Guess he knew that he would never be able to her in the manner she demanded.” He cocked his head to one side. “They say it nearly broke what es for her heart.” “My guess is, he was just following Uncle Albert’s orders,” said Duffey. “Anyway, this latest fiancé is a perfect match. He’s a hot shot stockbroker in Little Rock. If she ever gets through law school, maybe she can keep him out of prison and he can keep her in jewelry.” “If you don’t mind my saying so,” said Nelson. “You folks have built a nice little county here.” “Don’t blame me,” said Elvis. “My folks was brung here under duress.” Nelson laughed and turned to Duffey. “If you want to go for a ride, come on.” Turning to Elvis, he said, “Can Duffey leave his car here?” “Feel free,” he said. “It will make it appear I have a paying customer at last.” With that, he waved his hand in farewell as if he were the Pope dismissing a supplicant and turned his attention back to Martin’s latest invention.

13

The sun rose next morning on a still-parched landscape. As it rose over the horizon, no cloud blocked or diffused its entry. Its rays did not flash dramatically into sight. Rather, the sky lightened slowly, awareness growing like a distant sound coming near. When the sun stood well over the edge of the earth and had begun to warn Armistead County of another day of its cruelty, a red-tailed hawk flew beneath it, slowly, patiently, searching and waiting while wasting no more effort than necessary, watching as the day began to illuminate the rows of soybeans where a meal might hide, soaring effortlessly and noiselessly, in no hurry but ever vigilant for the slightest movement. As it floated over a lonely house perched on the edge of a bayou, a single figure emerged and reviewed the surroundings. It walked to a blackened rectangle between the house and the bayou and stood before it. As the hawk made lazy circles, the figure made turns and spins, extenuating each with sharp movements of its limbs. The hawk watched briefly and then soared toward a distant field. When the hawk returned the figure was walking from the house. It moved slowly to a waiting truck, climbed into the driver’s seat, and started toward town. As the truck turned onto the main highway and ed Barker’s Store, a car eased from behind a building and followed, keeping well back as they entered the awakening town of Armistead from the west, eased through its half-deserted streets, and continued eastward. When the truck turned onto a side road, the car followed until the truck pulled into the parking lot of an X-shaped building and stopped. The second vehicle slowly moved on, its occupants watching and learning. As Nelson entered The Peaceful Rest Nursing Home, the familiar scene met him. Visitors and residents filled the main room. The stale smell of cleaning material infused with the rotten odor of human deterioration filled his nostrils. The silent young man in the wheelchair sat in his normal place, rocking his body forward and backward while staring blankly into space. Today, a different person sat at his side, this one a younger woman in her early 30s, near the age of the young man. As Nelson walked past them, the woman was close to tears.

“Charlie, if you could just say one word to me, I would . . .” She stopped as Nelson walked by and then she began to sob. He hurried to the desk. The receptionist was talking to another worker and ignored Nelson, so he moved past and went directly to Edith’s room. As he neared it, he heard voices. He turned around and went back to the desk where the receptionist was still busy describing to her friend the results of a recent date. “That man is so stingy I bet he won’t pay attention,” she said, laughing. “Girl, at least you got you a man,” said the other. “Hey!” said Nelson with a force that startled the two women. They turned to look at him the way cats might regard someone intruding on their meal. Neither spoke. “Someone is in with Mrs. Hartwell,” he said. “Is it the Doctor, or a nurse? Should I wait?” Had he asked when the next eclipse would occur, he wouldn’t have received a blanker stare. “Pardon me?” one asked indignantly. “I’m here to see Edith Hartwell,” he said as though it were his first visit. “Someone is with her and I don’t want to intrude if it is staff on an official call.” The receptionist sniffed. “Just some other folks visiting,” she said. “Like a carnival here this morning.” She turned back to her friend. Nelson walked back to the room and entered to find Matt Smithey and a man in his mid-50s standing by Edith’s bed. The man was well dressed and cleanshaven, his hair meticulously groomed. He wore a knit shirt with the logo of Nelson’s bank embroidered on it and khaki pants. A wedding band was his only adornment. He turned to look at Nelson and smiled warmly. “Hello,” my name is Al Courtney.” He extended his hand and Nelson shook it. “This is Gideon Nelson,” Edith said. “He and Timmie served together in the Navy. “Gideon, this is one of my best friends and this,” she said pointing to Matt Smithey. “Is Timmie’s best friend Matt.”

“I have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Nelson,” Matt said, flashing a smile. “Good to see you again.” “Matt,” Nelson said. “I feel as though my cup overfloweth this morning,” Edith said. She looked at Nelson, “Albert Jr. usually comes on Sunday afternoon after church,” she said. “He’s teaching his Sunday School class again.” She gave him a wink. “And he also teaches the interdenominational Bible-study class I used to attend. He brings me a report each week. He’s much in demand as a leader.” Courtney laughed. “And that is because?” “Because you are so good at it.” She beamed. “Not because no one else will volunteer?” “Maybe that too,” she said, still smiling. Nelson looked at Smithey who hastened to explain his presence. “I was running the route this side of town and just stopped for a moment and ran into Mr. Al,” he said. “And this is Nelson’s normal day,” said Edith. “I am truly blessed.” She smiled the smile of the elderly who have learned to appreciate life’s small offerings. She looked at the three in turn. “My friends, all,” she said. “Guess I’d better be going,” Matt said. “Things are electric in Armistead County.” He laughed and then broke into a large smile. “Good to see you, Matt,” said Courtney. “Glad you like your new job.” “It’s a job,” said Smithey. Then he addressed the group, “Y’all take care. Mizz Hartwell, don’t be such a stranger.” They all laughed as he left. “Edith tells me you have been in our county for less than a year,” said Courtney. “Since January.” “Just in time to prepare for one of our Southern summers.”

“Just in time,” said Nelson. “This one is a beaut,” said Courtney. “Worst one in a few years.” He turned to Edith. “Darling, I must go and leave you now.” He looked at Nelson. “I have a daughter getting married, and I am not sure any of us will survive.” “You must be proud,” said Nelson. “I won’t be proud until I see the car with ‘Just Married’ clank off with the tin cans rattling behind it,” said Courtney. “We still cling to the old ways around here,” said Edith to Nelson. “That’s nice,” he said. “So you rest,” said Courtney. “And I’ll be in Sunday to report on how the class analyzed the ‘thorn in Paul’s side’ and,” he winked at Nelson, “what gossip ed before we got started.” He took Edith’s hand and held it warmly. “We miss you,” he said. “Tell everyone I miss them,” she said. “Mr. Nelson,” he said. “I wonder if I might speak to you outside for a moment?” He looked at Edith quickly, “Man talk. Might offend your ears.” “Albert Courtney Jr, I taught you in the sixth grade. You’ve never offended my ears in your life.” “Well maybe it’s some bank business then,” he said, laughing. “Dad has put me back on the payroll there.” “Out with the both of you,” she said. “Gideon, I’ll wait for you.” “Good,” he said as he followed Courtney out. “When they were in the parking lot, Courtney leaned against the back of Nelson’s truck and fished a package of cigarettes from a pocket. He offered one to Nelson. “Smoke?” “No thanks,” Nelson said.

“Mind if I do?” “Go right ahead.” Courtney lit the cigarette, drew in, and exhaled. “Not many people know I do this.” He looked toward the building. “Edith would whip my ass.” “She seems fond of you,” Nelson said. “Probably more so than I deserve.” “I suspect she is a fair judge of character.” Courtney didn’t respond. “Tell me,” he said. “How do you find our little county?” Nelson thought. “I don’t really have much to compare it to. I’m a city boy myself.” “Up north I imagine from your accent.” “But I imagine life in a small county is comfortable for those who grow up in it,” Nelson said, ignoring the invitation to elaborate. “You served with Timmie Hartwell,” I hear. “I had that honor.” “Sailors,” he said, as if the word evoked some long repressed memory. “The Navy never appealed to me, nor did the sea ever call . . . afraid of water. My scouts still tease me about it. Served in the Air Force myself. I didn’t have to, but Albert Sr. believes in the biblical adage that ‘from those to whom much is given, much is expected.’ I guess your dad felt the same way.” “I just wanted something to do,” Nelson said. “I suppose you were an officer?” “No, enlisted just like you,” he said. “Straight out of high school. Albert said I needed some seasoning, but I expect it was the prospect of the GI Bill that motivated him as well.” He drew on his cigarette again. “He’s tight with a dollar, you know.”

“I don’t know him at all.” “I’m sure you have heard some of the stories,” said Courtney. “Hell, some of them may even be true.” “I have heard his name mentioned.” “You know,” said Courtney. “A small town is like a big family. Folks need to feel they belong to something.” He looked at the end of his cigarette. “They need a patriarch, too. And, in this county, that’s Dad, for better or worse.” “He seems to pull a lot of weight around here.” “He manages the family, and they take care of one another. You should have seen the way they stood up for me when outsiders threatened. To a person, they came to my defense. Even our local state legislators.” “That was good for you,” I suppose. “Oh, it was a small fight in a small pond,” said Courtney. “Redneck shit. What was important about it was the way everyone ed me.” “I guess Bobby Johnson didn’t deserve such ,” said Nelson. “Nobody testified on his behalf.” Courtney looked at him quickly, as the conversation sharply set a new course. “There wasn’t much good anyone could have said on his behalf. Nor his wife’s. Now, the brother, . . .” “He seems like a good man,” said Nelson. “Bless his heart,” said Courtney. “He does the best he can with what he has. Always held a job. He can’t be held responsible for Bobby.” “Were they close?” “Brothers are almost always close,” said Courtney. “I know my brother and I were.” “Were?”

“He was killed when I was five. Fell out of a barn just a week shy of his 13th birthday.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Nelson. “Thanks,” said Courtney, then he stopped. A Sheriff’s Department car eased down the road in front of the nursing home, headed in the direction of the main highway. Nelson saw the two deputies that he had last seen on the town square eyeing him. When the driver saw Albert Courtney Jr., he accelerated and the car quickly moved out of sight. “Two of Armistead County’s finest,” said Courtney sarcastically. “I heard your dad was the one who brought them here.” Courtney looked surprised. “No,” he said. “Dad got rid of the old police department, but that was because of the new police chief they hired.” “He didn’t think he was qualified?” “Oh,” said Courtney. “Qualifications didn’t have anything to do with it. It was the other thing.” “The other thing?” “You don’t know?” “Know what?” “Who the police chief was?” “That was before my time.” “Honestly? You don’t know?” “Honestly.” “It was Willie Barker, Elvis’ younger brother.” Nelson stared at him.

“Look,” Courtney said. “I’m not proud of this. But he is my dad and I have to take the good with the bad.” “The bad?” “Dad said he couldn’t do anything about a black president, but he would be goddamned if he would have a black police chief.” “And that was all?” “Well, he didn’t use the word ‘black.’” “I mean that’s all it took to change the way the county enforces the law?” “A visit to Mayor Gaswell Purefoy’s office, a deal with Judge Benson, and the next thing you know, we have Sheriff Love, and Willie Barker has to take a highpaying job with the FBI in Washington. So it all works out best for him, I reckon.” “I hope it works out best for the county,” said Nelson. “Let us pray so,” said Courtney. “Well, hey look, I’ve got to go. Just wanted to tell you that if there is anything the bank can do for you, just let me know.” “Miss Fowler takes good care of me.” Courtney laughed. “Not as good as she would like, you old sea dog.” He slapped Nelson on the shoulder as he dropped his cigarette and ground it into the gravel. “You take care now. I must go foreclose on a mortgage. As our friend Dickens would say, ‘Call me Pip.’” Nelson returned to Edith’s room as a nurse was leaving. “I have had my morning medication and I am ready to rock and roll,” she said. “You certainly seem perky today.” “How could I not be with all these fine visitors?” “Did you have a nice visit with the others?” “It’s always nice to see those boys.” She turned on her side so she could see him

better. As though clouds had moved in, her mood of gayety ed. “Gideon, why can they not tell me what Timmie was doing in the Navy? I mean what his job was? I don’t know what either one of you boys did.” Nelson sat beside her bed and looked at her gently. “Edith, young boys with good upbringing and from stable environments get picked for security clearances and your grandson was no exception. It was your upbringing that helped get him a top-secret clearance.” “And you?” “I fooled them.” “Don’t kid me this morning, Gideon. Not this morning. Please. Will I ever know how Timmie . . . ?” She stopped and collected herself. “How Timmie died?” “He died bravely. You know that from the commendations he received.” “Did he volunteer for something dangerous?” “It is all dangerous—military service,” he said. “It’s just dangerous in different ways. On any given year, men get blown off the decks of aircraft carriers and are never found. Planes malfunction on training missions while their crews are stationed safely in-country.” “But their families know what they were doing.” “Edith, you are punishing yourself.” “I know. I know.” She looked away for a moment. “But this stuff about a stable environment . . .” She looked toward the door. “That may not be the most accurate image of the county. I hate to say it but it might not be.” “What do you mean?” “So few of our young men seem to reach their full potential,” she said. “It’s almost like a curse on the county. Even Albert Jr. had to leave for a while to avoid it. He saw life disrupted for his whole family.” “Surely some of the men do well.”

“Sometimes, but it is only the ones you would least expect to . . . the ones with the least potential are the ones who do well. Look at Ronnie Johnson, for example.” “Elvis Barker’s son seems destined for greatness.” “And do you want to guess how much the good white people of Armistead County care about the future of a black boy?” He didn’t answer. “I tell you, Gideon. Sometimes, like I say, I wonder if there isn’t a curse on this county.” “There is no such thing as a curse, Edith.” “Could I tell you a story, a true one I might add, that might make you change your mind?” “I have all day,” he said, settling back.

14

Edith raised the upper part of her body and placed both pillows under her head. She adjusted herself so she faced Nelson directly and clasped her hands in front of her as if she might pray. In a voice designed to carry no farther than the short distance to his ears, she began her of what had been known in Armistead for years as the “The Stubblefield Stoning.” “I spent most of my life as a teacher,” she said. “A great part of it as a widow. My daughter-in-law—the mother of my grandson Timmie—died when she was 29 years old and Timmie was only two. My husband had died the year before, so I moved in with my son and raised the boy. I chose to continue my teaching career so as not to be a financial burden. It was a decision that was to bring me great comfort in life, and it afforded me one of the best views into the life of a small community that one might wish. It was a decision that also provided an insight into the future glory or the future darkness that would mark the individual lives of our county’s young people. That could be a heavy burden at times. “The incident of which I speak happened during those bleak years near the end of the 1980s when our people seemed to march in lockstep away from the values that had carried our country from the Great Depression through World War Two. There seemed to be a festering sore in our national psyche, something that stirred a belief in us that the old ways of caring for one another were gone. It wasn’t a trend that was talked about, or decided upon in capitol buildings or the great halls of justice. It was just a sense of not belonging to the community of man, but to the community of selfish motives. We, of course, thought Armistead County was immune to such trends. “My career as a teacher was nearing its fourth decade, and I could anticipate retirement in a few more years. That is a period in one’s career where sudden deviations from the normal and uneventful routine of affairs are to be avoided if at all possible. Resistance to the established norm is a privilege of the young. “Which is exactly what happened. Hand me a bottle of that water, please.

“It all began with the hiring of Jane Starkweather as a fifth-grade teacher. She was young, unmarried, and, due to a temporary shortage of eligible local college graduates, a stranger to our community. At the time, the school year was hardly a month old. Fall weather was late in coming and the weather hot and stifling. Miss Starkweather was a prim young thing, with straight black hair and a boyish figure not complimented by the way she dressed. Although the semester was young, she had begun, as some young teachers do, to develop an intense hatred of the children in her charge. She was a type well known to us veterans as one who would quickly cycle out of a teaching career, perhaps out of education entirely, but more likely into the istration of it. That’s where the true haters of the educational process reside. I’m half-joking of course. “But on the day that our story begins, she was a teacher and, as teachers in our little kingdom were required to do back then, she found herself standing playground duty. This consisted mainly of maintaining calmness on the playground by one’s mere presence on the scene, breaking up scuffles, attending accidents, or reporting chronic misbehavior. It was a task that even a novice teacher should have performed without difficulty. “Now, sometime in the past, the school board had expanded our school property by acquiring an ading parcel. It had closed the street separating the new property from the main school site and turned all the excess land into playground —that is to say, all except one oversized corner lot. It remained occupied by a rambling old two-story home that gave every appearance of having been one of the first buildings constructed in our city. No drop of paint had ever hampered, in the least, its gradual decay. A tin roof graced the structure and two large chimneys rose above it like battlements. A high wooden fence surrounded the home on the sides ading the playground. The fence was well advanced in its decay as well. As the boards rotted and fell, one by one, they lay on the ground allowing glimpses here and there of an eerie atmosphere within. The foreboding atmosphere benefited from the fact that the property lay at the edge of town and fronted, on the side opposite the school, a large area of low, undeveloped land. It suggested a medieval image of a decayed castle on the edge of the dark forest. “No child would approach this corner of the playground. They spoke mysteriously of those who had ventured too close and had been snared by the witch woman and her evil husband who lived within. “The older teachers avoided the subject of the house. They had grown

accustomed to seeing the line of boys and girls crossing the street to avoid using the sidewalk in front of it. They hardly noticed anymore when a group of sixthgraders would terrify a first-year pupil by threatening to push him or her inside the fence. As is true of many of our myths, the teachers knew that the fear and dread existed only in the minds of children, but they, themselves, carried some distant whiff of belief that undermined the truth. In fact, most teachers appreciated the buffer imposed by the property and the implied threat that helped keep children locked safely within the bounds of acceptable behavior. “Jane Starkweather was to change all of this in the most terrifying way.” She paused for several moments. “What? No, I wasn’t asleep, just trying to get the sequence established. But let me speed the telling in case I do grow drowsy from the medication. “It happened when one of the boys kicked a soccer ball that veered oddly and bounded directly through a gap in the wooden fence guarding the witch’s house. Now, it was an accepted practice that the playground teacher would be enlisted to receive such errant objects. In fact, it was a tradition long enjoyed by the children, who did not fail to notice that some teachers, more than others, made a hasty retreat following the retrieval. Like most magical beliefs, the fun is harmless until it becomes sinister. “And that is what happened on this day. Oblivious to tradition. Jane Starkweather stared in disbelief at the child who reported the missing ball. She was incapable of understanding the request of a young boy who stood before her, nor did she respond to the request that she ‘get our soccer ball from inside the witch’s house.’ “The boy making the request was part of a small band of sixth-graders who should have, no doubt in the estimation of Jane Starkweather, outgrown such superstitious nonsense. This caused a standoff whereby neither party would make the slightest movement toward retrieval of the lost object and resolution of the problem. As one of its had received a serious challenge, the youth’s group assembled around him in a show of solidarity that Jane Starkweather must have found disconcerting. Grabbing the young man by the sleeve, she marched him to where the missing board allowed entry into the yard beyond and ordered, yes ordered, in her most authoritative manner, that he go and get his soccer ball.

“The rest is the stuff of legend. Challenged, and fearing a loss of face in front of his peers, the young man ‘screwed his courage to the wall,’ so to speak and edged sideways through the gap. As he disappeared, a murmur arose from the assembled children, we were told, a manifestation of dread that Miss Starkweather chose to ignore. “The time of retrieval is, to this date, a matter or controversy. Some say it only took a few seconds. Others say it was several minutes before a red-faced boy slipped back onto the playground with soccer ball in hand. Jane Starkweather smiled and explained to the group that silly fears were just that, silly. “I can tell you are getting restless. Let me get to the good part. See, it would have ended there with perhaps a slight hope of a gain in maturity for the kids. Jane Starkweather, however, chose escalation. After numerous complaints made with increasing degrees of intimidation, our long suffering principal, Edna Marshall, decided, reluctantly, to respond. There is an element in us, I suppose, that fears a balanced universe. Perhaps it evolves from some primordial fear that an unstressed life is a careless and often short one. Perhaps it is a moral urge to move from a sinful state to a blessed one. I shall leave that question for you younger minds to ponder. I will simply relate the speech made by Principal Marshall to each class in the school a week following the incident I have described. “She began by acknowledging that an unreasoned fear had developed among the children in regard to the house on the corner of the playground. She then cut right to the matter at hand—I of course can only report the following as she imparted it to my class; she may have altered it to fit the various maturity levels. ‘Children,’ she began. ‘We have known for some time that certain, shall we say, stories have grown up about the house on the corner of the schoolyard.’ She paused to judge the level of agreement as much as for dramatic effect. ‘The truth is, as some of you I am sure know, that the house is occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Stubblefield. What you may not know is that several years ago they donated to our school the entire block where the playground and the house sit.’ “Whether or not any of them actually knew this or not is open to conjecture. The fact was that now they all knew, as she continued. ‘All they asked was that they be allowed to live in the house for the rest of their lives. They are old and cannot get out. You never see it happen, but their daughter comes every evening when she gets off work to take care of them. During the day, do you want to know

what they do?’ “In my class, I can report that not a single person responded to the question. Undaunted, however, Principal Marshall continued. ‘They sit at their window upstairs and watch you play. It brings them joy, we are told, a great deal of joy.’ She stopped here to let things sink in. Then, in what she calculated, I am sure, to be the coup de grace, she onished the children. ‘Can you imagine how much it hurts them to see you behave as if they are wicked people?’ “None of my students confessed to such an imagination. I know not of those in other classes. The principal concluded with a challenge, the strength of which might have sent a squad of soldiers over the breastworks. ‘Being the wonderful children that you are, I know that in the future, you will show them the respect and love that they deserve for being so good to our school.’ “This concluded, we all assumed L’affaire Stubblefield. But our imaginations proved lacking for the challenge. “It turns out that in one of those mischievous tricks that a sometimes uncaring cosmos plays upon us, Jane Starkweather drew playground duty during the next recess. By all s, she walked onto the playground with the air of one who had just cleansed a little portion of the world of the sin that with humans brings about. She clasped her hands in front of her as if she might have been in love. Had she been another person, she might even have whistled. Being immersed in her glory, it apparently took her some minutes to realize that something was not right on the playground. Her mind probably fought to maintain its elevated condition, but curiosity began to pull it down. Something was wrong all right, but what was it? And then it came at her, shouting from the sky. There was no laughter. We are told that it was deathly quiet. She no doubt looked to see the children gathered in small groups around the house. “One can imagine the scene in which none of them were talking. Most were walking back and forth watching, as if they were seeing the place for the first time. The girls, I feel sure, began gathering back toward the school building, as if they were aware that something sinister was about to happen. Jane must have watched with mounting interest as tension built between the young boys and the sad building whose mystery had been explained away so easily. She sensed power, I am sure, like the sweetness before a summer storm, of a great secret struggling against its death. Perhaps, I have thought since, that the struggle

became dear to her. She could not stop it, would not have willed herself to stop it because its power was now within her. I can see her waiting and watching for the outcome as a general might watch the flow of ant-like figures racing to the top of a ridge. “Near the far side of the house stood a pile of broken bricks, the residue of an expansion to our main school building. The group of boys that included the hapless fellow who had been forced into the nether kingdom of the evil place by Jane Starkweather, walked slowly to the bricks. Moving forward from the group, he chose one carefully and turned to face the house. As all other movement stopped, he took careful aim, and with his tiny arm straining to its fullest, launched the missile over the fence. It seemed to hang in the air forever, I imagine, before it described a lazy arc downward and into the house. It struck with a thud, and from the point of impact, there issued a thick cloud of brown dust. “By this time, the other teachers knew, by those special sensors available only to those with prolonged responsibility for children, that something was wrong. We rushed to the playground in time to witness the rest of what happened. The first puff of dust seemed to be a signal to the boy’s comrades, for all at once they all rushed over and began choosing bricks for a general onslaught. The house seemed to shrink against the attack with the staccato thumping of brick against wood and the musical tingle of breaking glass. The sky filled with stone as the battle increased in ferocity. As we reached the site, Jane Starkweather stood with her eyes rolled upward in their sockets. She began to rock from side to side and moan softly. “The last brick left a soiled red hand and flew into the side of the house. As we istered to Miss Starkweather, the exhausted boys fell in one another’s arms and strained for breath as white-hot tears cut trails through their dusk covered faces. “Jane began to blubber, her sticky saliva making small bubbles as she tried to speak. There was no sound from the house as the teachers led the sobbing woman inside to start the long wait for help to come. The Stubblefield stoning was over. I can only guess that maybe we don’t like it when our myths are destroyed. No other reason ever appeared to explain the incident. “Your question might well be, ‘What happened to the boys?’ There was general

agreement as to the action that ensued but little insight into the individual participants. Not a single child bore witness against another for public record. Only by piecing together snatches of dialogue were the teachers able to piece together the story, although the resulting was primarily a second-hand one. Miss Starkweather was, of course, incapable of discussing the affair. In the end, the authorities decided to let the matter sink of its own weight. The children went about their routine activities, school, sports, music, scouts, and other pastimes. Eventually, they graduated. Of those I know were the instigators, not a single one has enjoyed a day of success in his adult life. A greater collection of alcoholics, wastrels, drug addicts, and ne’er-do-wells you will never find. It was as if they threw away their souls that day, along with the bricks. “Now you know of our little family secret, and I am tired from the telling.” “Anyone in the group that I might know?” Nelson asked the question quickly, but Edith was already asleep.

15

Nelson left the nursing home as the sun was speeding higher in the delta sky as if it were trying to escape with the parched earth. He lowered both windows in the truck, but there was no relief from the heat, just a hot blast across his face spiced with the earth’s detritus. He approached the town of Armistead slowly and wondered through the dead streets of downtown that in years past would have danced with life at this time of day. The dog that wandered the square rested near the front of The Cotton Bowl, hoping for a treat. Two pedestrians walked along a sidewalk toward the bank. The rest of the square was deserted. Nelson stopped at the post office and was rewarded with a lavender envelope like the one he had received a week before. Carrying it to the truck gently, he opened it and read: “Will be finished with the conference Saturday morning. Have a rental car reserved and will motor to your hideaway by midafternoon. Please make no special plans, but one might expect decent vintages and not to be subjected to Jack Daniels and Diet Coke. I hear that is your official “state drink.” Ughh! Love and kisses. It was signed simply “-M-” with a flourish that made Nelson smile. He placed the letter on the truck seat and eased out of the post office parking lot. As he did, the sheriff’s car that had patrolled the road by the nursing home left a parking space on the town square and followed him to the city limits. Then the driver turned it around in the middle of the highway and drove it back to the post office. A figure emerged from the enger side and walked into the building. It was a busy time of day for Barker’s as Nelson neared the store. The parking spots were full, and cars waited in front of each gas pump. Nelson ed it by and turned toward his home. As he did, a vehicle left Barker’s and followed him. It stayed well behind Nelson’s truck and the dust that it produced. Reaching Nelson’s house as he was stepping out of the truck, the driver eased the car to a stop beside him. A window lowered and Rick Duffey’s face appeared. “Up early, aren’t you sailor?”

“An old habit,” Nelson said. “From your Navy days, I suppose?” “Or maybe from a life on the run.” He smiled. “Want some coffee?” “Too goddamned hot for coffee.” “Too early for beer.” “Soda?” “Come in and make yourself at home.” Duffey crawled from his car and looked around. “What the hell do you do out here all day long?” Nelson pointed toward the remains of the burned barn. “Been cleaning up the mess made by your gentle country folks,” he said. “I read. And would you believe I worked all spring trying to put in a garden?” “How did that work out for you?” “After the heat got it, there was just enough left to feed the grasshoppers. They complained a bit about the shortage and left. Since then, it’s just been me and the bayou creatures.” “Most folks around here have given up on gardening,” Duffey said. The cropdusters kill all the vegetables. It’s one more thing that the old folks start ing when one of them says, ‘Things ain’t like they use to be.’ Sad in a way.” “Is there anything in this county that isn’t sad?” Nelson had stopped and turned suddenly, catching Duffey off guard. “Let’s see,” he said. “We should consider the nuptials of Amanda Courtney and the possibility that they may remove her from any other with us as a potentially joyous expectation.” He squinted. “And of course there is the fun of trying to figure out just who the hell you are. Some folks even hope you have come to save us.”

“More likely to destroy you,” Nelson said. “Especially if you don’t stop prying.” Duffey laughed. “That’s right. Go ahead and ruin what little fun we have.” They walked to the house and Nelson motioned him in and offered him a seat on the porch. He flipped a switch on the wall and a ceiling fan began to spin. Duffey didn’t sit. Instead he followed Nelson into the living room and waited while he walked into the kitchen and grabbed a couple of sodas from the refrigerator. “It’s not against the law to run your air conditioner this time of year, you know,” he yelled at Nelson. “You folks are too hung up on creature comforts,” Nelson said as he walked back into the living room and handed Duffey a Diet Coke. Duffey took it, grimaced at it, and walked to where the framed tribute to Nelson’s military career hung. “So you really were a military hero,” he said. “Are you ever going to it it?” “Never,” said Nelson. “Elvis Barker has changed his mind, and now he thinks maybe you were an officer.” “Elvis Barker has too much time on his hands.” Duffey laughed. “Not this morning, he doesn’t. I think he is putting Martin’s latest invention to good use.” Nelson eased Duffey away from the display and toward the porch. They sat at the table beneath the fan. Neither spoke for a few seconds. “I don’t image you braved the heat and dust to come out here and have a ‘coke-date’ with me,” Nelson said. “You’re on to me,” Duffey said, laughing. “Actually, I wanted to tell you that I did talk to one of the sheriff’s deputies about the investigation of the murder site as you asked me to.” “Not those . . .” “Not one of the twins, no,” said Duffey. “Believe it or not, there are of

law enforcement in this county that do exactly that.” “Exactly what?” “Enforce the law. Nothing like the way those two do that you are referring to. The twins are sort of a ‘black ops’ strike force. You probably know about those, don’t you?” He waited for an answer. “So what did this honest deputy tell you about the investigation?” Duffey sighed. “Nothing. He knows nothing. Seems that the sheriff placed the twins in complete charge, and they were the only ones allowed on the scene, at least until the coroner got there.” “No one else saw the scene?” “Not until the body was removed and the scene was unsecured.” “So those two pretty much had control over what was eventually presented at the trial?” “Pretty much.” Duffey sat his drink on the table and leaned toward Nelson. “Say, do you think we may have a story here?” “Can’t tell,” Nelson said. “But we have our agreement that, if we do, it’s yours.” He stopped dramatically. “If.” “If what?” “You shut the fuck up about my military career.” “What military career?” Duffey said, smiling. They continued talking as the sun grew higher. Finally, Duffey announced that he had to leave. “Going to Little Rock to interview the lovely Amanda Courtney’s fiancé,” he said with no joy in his expression. “Reporters do live an exciting life,” Nelson said. “Screw you,” said Duffey, finishing his soda. Suddenly his face brightened. “Oh,” he said, “I almost forgot. I brought you something.”

Nelson eyed him with suspicion. “What?” “Wait one,” Duffey said. He stood and walked quickly from the porch and to his car where he retrieved an object in a plastic grocery bag and brought it back into the house. “Here,” he said, handing the sack to Nelson. “This is for you.” “What is it?” “Look and see.” Nelson fished a hand into the bag and pulled out a cellular telephone. He held it to the light and examined it as if it were an object he had just recovered from the bowels of the earth, waiting to explode at any second. “Just what I always wanted,” he said sarcastically. “I know, I know,” said Duffey. “You pride yourself in being disconnected. But if we are going to be partners, we have to stay in touch.” “Partners? Stay in touch?” Nelson eyed the phone. “It’s just a cheap pre-paid,” Duffey said. “My present to you. Punch the button that says ‘s.’” “I know how to use a cell phone,” said Nelson. “I just don’t like to.” But he pushed the button. A list of two names appeared, “Barker’s” and “Duffey.” “Now the three amigos are connected,” said Duffey. “Connected to the two of you,” said Nelson. “What greater joy could a man expect?” “Sort of like being in a fraternity, eh?” “Sort of,” said Nelson, laying the phone on the table. “What can I say?” “Oh, please don’t say ‘thanks.’ It might make your face fall off,” said Duffey turning toward the door. “Now I have to go to Little Rock.” “I’ll just sit here and wait for your first call,” said Nelson.”

“If it weren’t for me, you know what might happen?” “No. What?” “You might just turn into one of those toothless old farts with a long gray beard who sits out here alone at night drooling all over himself while teenaged boys drive their girlfriends by your house trying to scare them into putting out.” “It would be providing a service,” Nelson said. “Now go and interview your debutante’s paramour.” After Duffey left, Nelson went into a back room and came back with a box he placed on the kitchen table. It was filled with bottles, and Nelson began to pull them out one by one. White wine he placed in the refrigerator, and red wine went onto a nearby shelf. Two bottles of Jack Daniels went beside them. The third, he left on the table where he studied it for a moment. Then, as if a light had gone off, he reached for the cell phone still lying on the table. He picked it up and punched it twice with a finger. Then he waited. “Elvis,” he said after a short time. “Nelson.” He paused. “Yes,” he said. “He gave it to me.” He paused again. “Fuck you, too,” he said. “Listen, I have that bottle of whiskey you wanted me to pick up. You want me to bring it now?” He listened for a moment. “Well I didn’t intend to tell her about it,” he said. “Okay, I’ll have it in my truck when you want it.” He listened again. “Fine, we’ll do that.” Just before punching off, he said as though imparting a secret, “Want to know what he called us? Duffey. The ‘three amigos.’” He laughed. “Well that’s what I thought, too.” He put the cell phone on the table and put the remaining bottle of whisky into the bag that had held the cell phone and took it to his truck where he wrapped it in an old military blanket and stored it behind the seat. He spent the rest of the day cleaning the house and inventorying supplies. As the population of the county began to finish work and return home, he quit and poured a generous helping of Jack Daniels over a glass of ice and sat on the porch beneath the swirling fan. The sun began to ease toward its final resting place of the day as the air grew still and heavy. The combination of heat and lack of moisture had brought about one benefit. There were no mosquitoes spoiling the peace. Along the bank of the bayou, the mother opossum carried her concealed brood to the water for her nightly succor. The sounds of the delta

began to fill the evening as a full moon in the east began to illuminate the orderly patterns of parched crops. Once, Nelson stood and walked into the living room, holding his drink. He stood before his military display, drinking quietly and slowly. Finally, he raised the glass and tilted it toward the display. “Anchors aweigh,” he said to the silent collection, then, “Fuck you.” He refreshed his drink and returned to the porch where he sat with whatever thoughts might invade the memory of a solitary man. Some time ed, and an observer might have thought he was asleep except that for the occasional lifting of the glass. He emptied it and laid it on the table, still deep in thought as life began to settle for the evening. The cell phone began to ring.

16

The boy curled himself into a small ball in the corner of the shed as he heard footsteps approaching. He knew better than to stand and would have been too weak to at any rate. He trembled as he heard the sound the key made as it was inserted into the lock. Then the chains rattled and the door swung open. The man entered. The boy could scarcely see him in the dark, but he didn’t need to see. “You hungry?” The man came near him and swung a pungent ham and mustard sandwich in a large arc by the boy’s face. With his free hand, he followed the arc of the sandwich and slapped the boy hard across the face. “I asked if you were hungry,” the man said. The boy whimpered and sniffed. “Yessir,” he said. “I would reckon you are,” he said. He walked to the door and faced outward. The boy could see him more clearly now as moonlight filled the room. He saw the man make a swift motion and he heard the sandwich hit the ground between the shed and the house. The he heard the sound of dogs racing toward the sandwich and the growling and scuffling as they devoured the surprise treat. “Have you repented?” “Sir?” The man slapped him again and followed it with a kick into his buttocks. “I asked if you have repented.” “I guess so,” the boy said. The man bent over to where his face was less than a foot from the boy’s. “I didn’t ask you to guess,” he said, punching the boy in the midsection.

“Have you repented?” “Yes sir, I have.” “And what have you repented of?” There was silence. The boy whimpered. “Sir?” “What sin have you repented of?” “All of them?” “When you get down to the right one, we shall dine,” he said. “Then, maybe someday, you will be fit to sit at the master’s table with the chosen ones.” He kicked the boy again and turned around before walking to the door and outside. The boy heard the chains rattle again and he began to sob. Through the closed door, he heard the man begin to sing the old hymn “Come and Dine.” The sound faded into the distance, and the boy closed his heart to the world.

17

Nelson’s truck didn’t stop at the highway. He slowed to where he could see both ways and executed a sharp turn to the right, fishtailing onto the asphalt and showering gravel behind him. He gunned the pickup and raced into Armistead. As he ed Barker’s, he could see with peripheral vision Elvis and Martin standing on the porch of the store. He waved through the window and sped on. When he reached the Armistead city limits, he slowed to five miles over the legal speed limit. Easing through town, he dodged other vehicles and jumped traffic signals. Reaching the eastern city limits, he gunned the truck again and roared down the highway until he reached the road leading to the nursing home. He executed another skidding turn to the right and covered the short distance to the parking lot. He slammed the brakes and skidded to a stop at an angle within the nearly deserted lot and jumped from his truck. He ran into the lobby and headed toward the hall leading to Edith’s room. A night orderly stepped in front of him before he reached the hall. “Visiting hours are over, sir. May I help you?” “Yes,” Nelson roared at him with a force that backed the man into the wall. “You can stay out of my goddamned way.” He ran down the hall to Edith’s room. She was lying on her back. A soft night light illuminated the room. She looked small and pale as she turned her face toward Nelson. “They called me from Barker’s,” he said. “I came straight here.” “Called you?” She cocked her head to one side as if he might be someone she didn’t know.” “I have a cell phone now,” he said. “I didn’t know.” “It’s nothing,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Those men,” she said. “Those awful men came here.” “What men?” “Those deputies. The twins.” “They came here?” “They . . . ,” she stopped and steeled herself as a person about to relate something shameful beyond comprehension. “They touched me.” “The deputies came here and touched you? Why?” “They held my hands like they knew me. One on either side of the bed.” “Edith,” Nelson said. “I’m here now and you’re safe. Take a breath and tell me what happened.” “Those awful men,” she said. “Yes, they came here. Then what happened?” “They asked me about you.” “About me? What?” “They wanted to know who you are.” “Why would they ask that?” “They told me that I didn’t know what you did.” Nelson pulled a chair close to her bed and sat. He moved his face close to her so that the effort of telling would require no more energy than breathing. “What did they say to you?” She looked at him, and her eyes, which had once sparkled with the pleasure of simply living, grew liquid and gray, like her hair. She reached a hand and touched his cheek, and it made Nelson flinch. She smiled so faintly that had he been any farther away, he would not have noticed it.

“They said that maybe you got Timmie killed in Afghanistan,” she said, her hand still caressing his cheek. Nelson didn’t say anything. He took her hand from his cheek and held it. “Why would they tell you that?” “Oh,” she said. “I have always known you had a secret. Do you think a woman can be a wife, mother, and grandmother and not know the turmoil that troubles a man’s soul?” She looked past him and then back directly into his eyes. “It is true, isn’t it?” Nelson squeezed her hand. “Tim was killed while we were on a mission that he volunteered for—a dangerous mission. He was under my command when he was hit. His actions were responsible for saving the lives of seven men on our team.” “But Timmie died.” “Tim Hartwell died a hero. He died a savior to seven families.” “And a curse to you.” “Tim Hartwell could never be a curse to anyone.” “And that is why you came here to be with me during my end time.” “Did those men hurt you in any way?” “Their touch still burns, but I’m okay. They said they would be back.” “Can you sleep tonight?” “It is not I who will have trouble sleeping tonight,” she said, and smiled with the knowing.

* * *

Nelson drove back into town slowly. As he eased through the town square, a

sheriff’s department car sat facing the main street at a perpendicular angle. Nelson saw the twins sitting in the front seat. When he was two blocks distant, the car pulled out behind him and followed him, keeping the separation constant as it followed him into the county. It was dark, and the full moon rose behind them, illuminating the cotton and soybean fields that rolled by in the night. When Nelson reached the road to his place, he didn’t turn. Instead, he continued on as the sheriff’s car followed him. Soon, he reached the road that led to the abandoned church where Tyrone Davis’s body had been found, where the murder took place that landed Bobby Johnson in prison. There, Nelson turned and followed the road to the church. When he reached the old building, it was bathed in moonlight, causing it to take on a glow like some structure from a place unearthly yet familiar. A superstitious visitor might expect, on this night, to hear the plaintive voices of slaves singing songs about a better life to come some glad day. Outside Nelson’s truck, the sounds of the delta nightlife erased any chances of hearing ghosts singing. Nelson stayed out only long enough to pull a set of leather gloves from behind the truck seat. He also retrieved the bottle of whiskey he had placed there. He put one glove on, and used the other to wipe the bottle clean. He laid it in the seat and got back in the truck. He started it, backed up, and swung it around, lighting the church from end to end in the process. Then he headed back toward the highway slowly. Halfway back, he rounded a curve to see the sheriff department car blocking the roadway, its parking lights glaring in the night. The nearest doors were open so the scene was further illuminated by the interior lights of the car. Two uniformed officers leaned against it, the short porky one and the handsome one—the twins. The short one motioned for him to stop. He did, and before they could move, he opened the door and swung from the truck. He eased the door closed, then covered half the distance between them before the short one held up a hand. “Evening officers,” Nelson said. “Mr. War Hero,” the short one, the one named Oliver, said. Nelson didn’t respond. The taller one, Janson pointed, at him. “Careful, Russ, he looks like a bad ’un to me.” “I thought you fellers was all six feet tall or more,” said Oliver.

Nelson still didn’t respond. He looked from one to the other as if he expected an answer to a question he hadn’t asked. “He’s the silent type,” Janson said. Then Nelson spoke, “Is there something I can do for you officers?” The two stood up from leaning against the cruiser as though they had received an order. They walked in unison toward him. As they got closer, they moved laterally apart from one another. Oliver walked directly into Nelson’s space as Janson stayed to one side. “You can tell me that you’re going to get your war-hero ass out of Armistead County and be fuckin’ quick about it,” he said. “Now why would I want to leave such a nice place with such charming people?” This angered Oliver, and he stepped close. “Listen asshole,” he said as he jabbed a hand toward Nelson’s chest. It never reached its target. Nelson’s left hand shot upward from his waist and the edge of it slammed into Oliver’s elbow, causing a nauseating snapping sound that rebounded through the dark woods. Simultaneously his right foot swung parallel to the ground into Oliver’s left knee making a similar snapping sound followed by a thud as Oliver’s body hit the ground like a sack being dropped. Janson, who still stood to one side smiling, started to move, but too late. Nelson planted his right foot and swung his body in reverse with the left leg elevated so that the heel of its foot caught Janson in the midsection, doubling him over. A chop to the back of the head sent him to the ground. Perhaps 10 seconds had elapsed since Oliver had made his move, and now both officers lay on the ground moaning and writhing. Janson was puking into the ground. Oliver held his elbow and sobbed. Nelson stepped back to his truck and put on his gloves. He returned to where Oliver lay and rolled him onto his back. He pulled the officer’s gun from its holster and held it in a gloved hand. He turned and took Janson’s as well. Walking to the cruiser, he tossed both of them into the back seat. He opened the enger door and verified that the video camera had not been operating.

As the officers continued to moan, he walked back to his truck and picked up the bottle of whiskey from the seat. He turned to see Oliver trying, with his one good arm and one good leg to stand. A quick kick to the stomach sent him to the ground again. Nelson stood over him and opened the bottle, then poured a stream of liquor onto the deputy. Bending on one knee, he lifted the deputy’s head and poured some liquor into his mouth. Oliver clenched his teeth and tried to spit it out. Nelson calmly set the cap back on and set down the bottle. He gave Oliver’s nose a whack with edge of his gloved hand, breaking it and sending blood and mucus flying. “I don’t like it when people refuse my offer of a drink,” he said. “Now open your fucking mouth.” Oliver did as he was told and Nelson poured a generous amount into the deputy’s mouth until he began to gag uncontrollably. He waited for the man to regain his breath and repeated the process. Satisfied, he replaced the top, stood, and walked around until he found a stout piece of limb that had fallen from a tree. He picked it up and walked back to Oliver. Standing over him, he said, “Repeat after me.” Oliver grunted. Nelson whacked him across the ribs with the piece of wood. Oliver screamed in pain. Nelson bent over him. “Ready?” Oliver nodded. “Gideon Nelson is not an 82-year-old lady.” Through the blood, snot, and whiskey, Oliver performed a able act of repetition. When he had finished, Nelson slammed the wood into the side of his face, rendering him unconscious. Then he turned to Janson. “I’ll drink, I’ll drink,” Janson said. “Don’t hit me again.” “That’s a good lad,” said Nelson, uncapping the bottle. Janson pulled his hands from his side and grabbed the bottle. He took several gulps before he, too, began to gag. When the gagging stopped, Nelson motioned for him to drink again and he did. Nelson gently took the bottle from the deputy as if he were a nursing infant. He returned the bottle to the truck and came back to stand over the deputy. “Now the recitation,” said Nelson. “Gideon Nelson is not an old woman,” he said. “Gideon Nelson is not an 82-year-old lady. Get it right.”

“Gideon Nelson is not an 82-year-old lady,” Janson said, the liquor beginning to take hold. “Perfect, my pretty lad,” Nelson said, and drawing his hand high into the air, slammed it into Janson’s open mouth, sending blood and teeth into the delta dirt. Janson was out cold as well. Methodically, he took the section of limb and scarred the knuckles of each deputy’s right hand. He threw the branch on the ground between them. He poured the remainder of the whiskey around the scene. But, when he started toward the cruiser, he stopped quickly, bent from the waist, and grabbed a place on his lower back with his hand. He took several deep breaths, his face growing stony and pale with each. As he massaged his back, his breaths become more even and he stood straight. Stable again, he limped to the car. The deputies had left the car running, evidently not expecting the mission to require a great deal of time. Nelson crawled halfway into the driver’s seat, put the car in low gear, and swing the steering wheel hard to port. He raced the motor and the card sped through the night until it plunged into the bayou. He jumped aside as it hit the water, wetting only his feet. He left it there, still running, and climbed into his truck and started back to the highway. When he was sure no cars were on the road, he turned and proceeded to his house, the bayou water dripping from his pants onto the floor of his truck. When he had arrived, he opened the glove compartment and took out his cell phone. He punched it twice and waited for an answer. “This is a concerned citizen,” he said. “I just witnessed two sheriff’s deputies apparently drunk and fighting on the old Hebron Chapel road. You should call 911.” He punched the phone off and when it began to ring, he ignored it. Nelson burned the gloves and broke the whiskey bottle into small pieces before placing it in the trash. Then he went to bed and, despite Edith’s prophecy, slept soundly until daylight.

18

Saturday’s sun rose in harmony with its recent predecessors. A cloudless sky offered an early sign of another dry, hot day. Nelson rose early and finished cleaning his quarters. He turned on his air conditioning system. The unit roared to life and began pumping cool air into the dwelling as he closed windows and turned off ceiling fans. He arranged his dishes and set cloth napkins on the dining table. When he finished, he went onto his porch with a cup of coffee and watched the delta countryside come alive. By mid-morning, the early rush at Barker’s would have eased, so Nelson washed his coffee cup, placed it neatly in its place, took a sheet of paper from the table, and drove to the store. Only one car was there, and he recognized it immediately. He smiled and walked through the door. Elvis, Martin, and Duffey were enjoying an animated conversation as he entered. It stopped immediately. They turned to him and a broad grin spread across each face. Without signal, they began to clap toward him. “You lads been in the cough syrup already?” “Duffey here is headed for his first Pulitzer,” said Elvis. “Have you heard the news, Mr. Nelson?” Martin looked from Nelson to Elvis, then to Duffey, handing the opportunity for exposition to them like a runner might hand off a racing baton. “I don’t hear much news, and . . . ,” “Come off it, Nelson,” Duffey said. “And I don’t care much for the hearing of it.” “Martin,” Elvis said. “Why don’t you go work on some new invention, say a personality transplant for people with no sense of humor.”

“Aw dad.” “Out with you,” said Elvis. Martin looked at the other two for . Seeing none, he ambled from the room slowly, adopting an independent air and swagger as if it’d been his idea to leave. When Martin was through the door, Duffey moved closer to Nelson. “Did the ambulances wake you up last night?” Nelson ignored him. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the sheet of paper he’d placed there. He unfolded it, handed it to Elvis, and asked, “Do you have these things?” Elvis took the list and studied it, “Well crack my chitlins,” he said. “Has Boats learned to cook?” Before he could answer, Duffey interrupted. “Why does he call you ‘Boats’?” Elvis broke in. “It is short for ‘Bosun’s Mate,’ the most honored rank in the United States Navy,” he said. “Perhaps in the entire military. Right, Boats?” Nelson ignored them both. “You have them?” he said, pointing to the list. “Oh yes,” said Elvis, “This is your Armistead County headquarters for one-stop shopping, news, and gossip.” He left the counter and began collecting items. When he was out of earshot. Duffey leaned toward Nelson and whispered. “Thanks. On behalf of the entire county, thanks.” “Did you do that favor I asked of you?” Nelson said. “Yep,” Duffey said. “You have to understand that I wasn’t the reporter then. Fred Turner, the publisher himself covered the trial. It was a short one. A trial involving a Courtney wouldn’t take long in Armistead County.” “And the jurors?” “Look,” said Duffey quietly. “This is between us right? I had to sneak in and look at his notes.”

“Between you and me, I promise,” said Nelson. “I didn’t recognize a name on the list. Most of them have moved away by now. They were all new to the county back then, transient types who move in and out.” “And the character witnesses?” “Reads like a ‘who’s who in Armistead County.’ The local state representative, our senator, the local doctor, every rich farmer in the county, and there are a lot of them.” “What was it about?” “Something about the scouts getting hold of liquor while they were camping, at least that’s all the grand jury handed down.” “And?” “Every one of the other scouts testified that the boy making the charge brought a small jar of whiskey with him on the outing, and they ratted him out immediately. Took care of the problem internally, so to speak.” “Why were the charges brought?” “There is a family in Burgansville whose are, as they say in the South, ‘lower than whale shit.’ They tried to borrow some money from Uncle Albert’s bank to save their family homestead.” “And?” “Uncle Albert and Al Jr. tried to explain that the bank wouldn’t do it, couldn’t loan him the money, they said, because there was no way the family could pay back the loan. Seems they already owed more on the place than the bank thought it was worth. As they were leaving, the head of the family yelled at Albert Jr., ‘We’ll get you, you son of a bitch.’ Loud enough so’s everybody heard.” “Sounds like a man with anger problems,” Nelson said. “Of course he denied saying it, but every bank employee and a customer that

was there at the time said he did.” “So it was a small fracas in a small county?” “That it was. Seemed to be a classic case of rural retribution. It’s not like it used to be. We bear false witness against our brethren now. Or take them to court. We used to just burn their barns.” He stopped and thought. “Well, sometimes we still do. Only in special cases, though. Now why were you so interested in our dirty laundry?” “Just trying to be a good citizen.” “Then you better service that banker woman before she busts,” said Elvis, who had returned in time to hear the last comment. “Fred Janson ain’t going to be doin’ it any time soon.” He looked at the groceries on the counter. “But then maybe that’s who this fine meal gonna be for.” His face suddenly broke into a large smile. “Hell,” he said, “It all starts to make sense now.” “Yeah,” Duffey said, catching the joke. “Get rid of the competition, military style. Just another mission, huh?” “Can’t you just see it?” Elvis was getting giddy now. ‘Wham, bam.’ Then he looks down at them little gonads and says, ‘The coast is clear now boys.’” “Anchors aweigh,” said Duffey, giggling uncontrollably. “You lads are in dire need of a hobby,” Nelson said. “Oh hell,” said Elvis, still laughing. “We got one.” He winked at Duffey and then looked back at Nelson. “And, as my old man would have said, ‘You is it.’” “Fuck you both,” said Nelson, laughing. “Boats,” Elvis said. “Are you ever gonna tell us what you did in the Navy, or we just gonna have to wear your ass down?” “Okay, I surrender,” said Nelson. “I was in charge of troop entertainment— putting on shows and such.” He shrugged at Elvis. “Simple as that.” “Entertainment?”

“Yep. Seems I still have the knack, too. How else could I have become the main attraction for an entire county in such a short time?” “Boats,” said Elvis. “You just won’t do.” As they laughed, two figures were meeting in a windowless office in a building in downtown Armistead, the only light coming from a small desk lamp on an ornate desk. One figure sat behind the desk, his arms resting on it. He calmly tapped a pencil on a pad in front of him. The other sat in a richly upholstered chair with his face less than three feet from the first man. They talked of serious matters in the dim light—two warriors plotting strategy. The one behind the desk, whose face was in the dark, spoke. “You mean he managed to beat the crap out of both of them at once? And both of them armed?” “Apparently,” said the other. “But don’t expect them to it it. They were fighting over a woman is their story. I don’t think anyone, even you, will get them to change it.” “Oh we could,” said the first. “But it would require a lot of work. And I don’t like to work that hard. I’m getting old, I guess. Let’s approach it from another angle.” “Another angle?” “Another angle that doesn’t pit us physically against a former Navy Seal.”

19

Nelson returned to his home after mid-morning. He inspected the place again, then showered, shaved, and put on dark tros and a knit shirt with a naval logo. He took a pair of black, lace-up shoes from a box in his closet and gave them a light waxing and shining. Then, after checking the condition of his kitchen once more, he took a thick book from a shelf and started to read. He read the first few words aloud and solemnly, as though bestowing a blessing. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity. . . .” He nodded and continued to read, but silently. Shortly after noon, he heard a car slow at the highway and turn onto his road. Seeing the ubiquitous cloud of dust, he stood and returned the book to its shelf and walked to the door. A late-model car edged cautiously into his yard and stopped. After the dust had settled, the driver emerged. It was a tall, handsome man in his mid-30s dressed in the preppie style of the financially secure. He stood at the front of his car as Nelson came down and stood in front of him. “Gideon,” he said. “Merlin,” Nelson said, and at that moment the two rushed into one another’s arms, embracing tightly as each patted the other’s back. “Gideon Nelson,” the stranger said, as a tear eased down his cheek. “Merlin, Merlin,” Nelson said. They held their embrace. “Okay, okay,” said a voice behind them. “You’ve made me jealous, and now you’re making me horney.” At those words, the two parted. Nelson turned to see a round, pleasant man’s face leaning from the enger’s side. “We’re not even hunching one another yet,” Nelson yelled toward him. “And perhaps you just better not.” The man opened the door and stepped out. He was short, on the pudgy side, and in his late 30s. He had a loose fitting silk shirt flowing free over linen tros. A stylish pair of sandals completed his

wardrobe. “Luther,” said Nelson. He stepped quickly to where the man stood and took him in a fierce embrace. “Luther.” He said. “Luther Burnett.” “Now you can hunch me all you want,” he said. “I’m sure that Merle wouldn’t mind it if I pick up a sailor while I’m in Arkansas.” Nelson stood back and looked at him. “You look great,” he said. “I am great,” Luther said. “I’ve been great since you took care of my little problem.” “I thought we weren’t going to mention that again,” Nelson said. “Mum’s the word,” Luther said, making a zipping motion across his mouth. “Just wanted to thank you once more.” Nelson turned back to Merlin. “Any trouble finding the place?” “None,” said Merlin. With a sweeping look, he took in Nelson’s home place. “I simply asked the young man at the car rental how to find the closest thing to Hell within driving distance. He directed me straight here.” “Same old Merlin, eh,” Nelson said to Luther. “You can’t imagine,” said Luther, raising his hands in a gesture of supplication. “Next time I’m getting myself a younger, stupid one. I’ll just let him play video games until I need him.” He stopped and looked around. “Can I ask one favor?” Nelson smiled at him. “What’s that?” “Could we get out of this goddamned heat? I’m beginning to sweat.” Merlin walked to Luther and placed an arm on his shoulder. “You think this is heat?” “Oh pulleeez,” said Luther. “One Afghanistan story and I swear I will walk back to Texas. Your clothes,” he said, looking up and smiling at Merlin, “will be in the front yard.”

“Into the house lest we foment a divorce,” said Nelson. The three went inside, each talking at once.

* * *

Later that evening, after a meal produced by Luther, the three sat in the kitchen and caught up on their lives. “Doctor Boy here,” said Luther. “Is moving straight on toward a career in surgery. I, for one, have forbidden any muscles, bones, or internal organs to misbehave until that great day occurs.” Nelson walked to the sink to mix another drink. He looked over his shoulder to Merlin. “How much longer?” “Probably a couple of years before I can be board-certified, if I make it.” “You’ll make it,” said Nelson, returning to the table with his drink. “If he knows what’s good for him, he will,” said Luther. Nelson laughed before he sat, “Anyone need more wine?” “Not for me. It makes me silly,” said Luther. He thought. “Well, sillier.” “In a moment,” said Merlin. “If I do get certified, my first operation won’t be on this one.” He pointed to Luther and winked. Turning back to Nelson, he said, “You’re going to come and let me take that awful thing out of your back.” “Why didn’t you just take it out the first time you had a chance?” “I took out all I could,” said Merlin. “That piece is too close to your spine to be removed in the field. I was only a medic, ?” He looked at Nelson with a questioning look. “I suppose the VA doctors haven’t taken it out?” “They’ve been busy with boys who have bad dreams,” Nelson said. “So I am

saving myself for you.” “I guess my appendix will have to wait for Gideon,” Luther said, pretending to pout. “I appreciate it,” said Nelson. “But I’d best not return to Texas. ?” He looked at them, his gaze shifting from one to the other. “Oh, your little Texas problem left the state,” Luther said. “Never to return as long as I am there. And Austin is a great place to live. Unless this one . . . ,” he pointed at Merlin, “receives a position at the Harvard Medical School, we’re in Texas forever.” He furrowed his brow. “We have a gay governor, you know.” “Now Luther, you don’t know that for sure,” said Merlin. “Everyone knows that,” Luther said. “Even his wife.” “See what I have to put up with,” Merlin said as he patted Luther’s hand. But the first part is definitely true, Brother-man lit out, as they say. And you’re going to have the last piece of Afghanistan removed.” “The last physical piece,” said Nelson. “Don’t tell me you are still blaming yourself for our little misadventure,” Merlin said. “Who else would I blame?” “Gideon, Gideon,” Merlin said. “That was a long time ago.” “Doesn’t seem like it, does it?” “If you had seen as many sick people as I have since, you wouldn’t say that.” “Anyway,” Nelson said. “If you remove the shrapnel, I might have to go back to work. I’ve grown accustomed to this life of leisure.” “Are you still looking after Tim Harwell’s grandmother?” “Yes, and not very well I’m afraid.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you are about to say, ‘Just like I didn’t take good care of her grandson’?” Merlin looked at Nelson sternly. “And yes, I’ll take some more wine now. Pick out one that goes well at a pity party.” Nelson went back to the counter and refilled Merlin’s glass. “If the war stories are going to start now,” Luther said, rising, “I think I’ll go out on the porch and catch up with my needlework. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll get to see one of these Arkansas mosquitos fucking a turkey. I am told it presents quite a spectacle.” “They are all busy cracking hickory nuts this time of year,” Nelson said as he returned the table. “But the gnats around here are trained to sing Stephen Foster songs, and they will if they like you. Just sit real still until they become accustomed to your face.” “I know why the Taliban never killed the two of you,” Luther said. “It has done much more harm to America to have you both back here amongst us decent souls.” He walked back toward the guest bedroom. They sat in silence for a few moments. Luther came through carrying a large cloth bag. Stopping in front of Nelson’s military displays, he said, “Well I see my work wasn’t wasted. Did you hang this up just for my sake?” “Oh, it’s been up for awhile. Thanks again for making it for me.” “It’s the least I could do,” said Luther. He went onto the porch, closing the door behind him. “I think he wanted to hear the night sounds,” Merlin said. “Sometimes I think he misses Georgia.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Now how much does Hartwell’s grandmother know?” “She has put most of it together. I planned to take you to see her, but I don’t think she is quite up to it now.” “Does she know that Hartwell saved my life? And the lives of six others?” “She does.”

“Does she know that if he hadn’t saved my life, you would be dead?” “I don’t think she knows that part, nor does she need to.” “Damn it, Nelson, we were pinned down and as close to destruction as I ever want to be. All you did was to ask for a volunteer.” “That’s what troubles me,” said Nelson. “I knew he would be the first to want to go. I should have picked someone else, someone more experienced.” “Neither experienced people nor sane people take the kind of chances it took to save us. Fortunately for me, Hartwell was young, and you are crazy.” Nelson ignored the comment. “Don’t you ever think of it?” “I think of it every goddamned day,” Merlin said. “Then I think about how, if I stay focused, I may yet save hundreds of lives. I use my mind on doing good things for people. Why don’t you try that?” “Is that when you decided to become a doctor, after you got out of that scrape?” “I decided when I was five years old that I wanted to be a doctor. It was when we got back from ‘that scrape,’ as you put it, that I decided I might actually become one.” Outside, the sounds of night grew louder. Nelson said, “When did you decide to become a medic?” “When I realized I couldn’t go to college on my own, and that my mother couldn’t help me. I enlisted so that Uncle Sam could help put me through.” There was a long pause, and he said quietly, “Have I ever told you about my mother?” “Just that she had to raise you alone after your dad died.” “She raised me on a waitress’s income,” he said. “Sometimes she held down two jobs when we really got up against it. And she never once complained.” “Is she still alive?”

“No, she died a few years ago. But she lived long enough to see me graduate college and get accepted to med school.” “Did your mother know of your, uh . . .” “That I was gay?” “Yes.” “She did. After I stored up enough nerve to talk to her about it.” “How did that go?” “Splendidly,” he said. He took a sip of the wine and looked at the ceiling. “She just said ‘son, if that is what you are, why would I change it?’ And that was it.” “That’s all that was said?” “No, she asked why I hadn’t told her before. She seemed a bit disappointed.” He smiled. “So I told her all about the anxious nights. About dreading her reaction. I even told her about talking to the school counselor.” “The school counselor?” “I trusted him,” he said. “Unfortunately.” “What happened?” “He called me in the next day, and there was a preacher in his office. It got pretty bad.” “Let me guess. He wasn’t sympathetic?” “Nope. He told me if I didn’t rid myself of this sin, that God would be angry and would never let me come and live with him in Heaven.” “You are kidding.” “Nope.” He twirled the glass in his hand. “Want to know what Mom said when I told her about it?”

“Sure.” “She said, ‘son, even if that were true, it just means that God doesn’t love you as much as I do.’” Neither spoke. Merle walked to the window to check on Luther, and returned to the table. “I think he likes it here,” he said. “Of course you could torture him Torquemadastyle and he wouldn’t it it.” “Did your mother ever meet him?” “Yes, not long before she died.” Nelson took a drink. “Did she approve?” “Anyone who knows as much about embroidering as Luther does was bound to win my mother’s approval.” He nodded his head. “In a word, yes. They became best buddies.” “How is he doing?” “Oh, fine. I’ve never seen him more content. That is . . . since you ended his torment. Sent his brother packing.” “Why would a brother want to do those things to his own flesh and blood?” “I suppose he never got over the fact that Luther was the way he is. Maybe he thought it dishonored the family. Maybe he hated the fact that Luther’s parents accepted him the way my mother accepted me. Maybe he feared it was hereditary or maybe some hate-filled redneck preacher told him it was a sin. Who knows what darkness lies within another person? The important thing is that he won’t ever bother Luther again, thanks to you.” “Merlin,” Nelson said suddenly. “How does sickness start? I mean the kind of sickness that can affect a whole community?” “You mean like a pandemic?”

“I suppose so. I mean a sickness that just seems to linger in a community over generations.” “That doesn’t sound like a pandemic,” he said. “They’re infectious and contagious, usually moving rapidly. Instances of cancer may be concentrated, but not because they’re infectious.” “So it could just happen?” “Nothing ‘just happens,’ Gideon. There is always a cause, even if the sickness only occurs in one individual. When a disease occurs beyond the limits of statistical predictability, there is a larger, communal cause, but there is always a cause.” “I see,” said Nelson. “Why do you ask?” “Just wondering.” “Nelson,” Merlin said. “Cooped up with you for weeks on end gave me some insight into your thinking. If you don’t mind my pointing it out, your rigging isn’t tight. Share?” “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just that I came here hoping to be some comfort to Hartwell’s grandmother. I didn’t have anything better to do. It seemed a way to do something good while I minded my own business.” He drank again. “Now, there are some who want me to get involved in a local squabble.” “And you don’t want to get involved in other people’s problems.” “I’ve done it twice,” Nelson said. “And as you well know, the first time got a man killed, and the second time got a man crippled for life.” “Maybe,” said Merlin. “Just maybe the third time will be the charmed one.” The darkness settled in around the two old comrades, and they talked until the weariness of the world lifted from them. Then they embraced again and parted for a welcome sleep.

20

The next day promised no change in weather. Merlin and Luther prepared to leave after breakfast, but the heat had settled on the land so despairingly that Luther refused to leave the house until Merlin had started the car and the air conditioning had begun working. Before leaving, Luther hugged Nelson. “Giddie,” he said, raising his head to look into Nelson’s face. “This place is unfit for human habitation. Please say you’ll move to Texas and be near us. We know this adorable couple, and they invite us over for the best Southern cooking you have ever tasted. Almost as good as Mummie’s. You would just love them.” He narrowed his face in thought. “Their only weakness is that they’re straight, like you, but . . . nobody’s perfect, right?” “You are about as close as it comes,” Nelson said, and he smiled at each of them in turn. “The both of you. You almost make marriage tempting.” “Don’t you dare make me cry,” said Luther, but tears were already sliding down his face, streaking the light coat of makeup he had applied that morning. He spun around to face Merlin. “Merle,” he said. “Get me the hell out of here.” So they left, and Nelson went back inside. He collected and washed the breakfast dishes then made a fresh pot of coffee. When it was ready, he poured a cup and sat at the kitchen table, drinking it while staring at the display of his military career. When the cup was empty, he sat it on the table, walked to the display, and gently lifted it off the wall. He took it into his bedroom where he stored it in a closet. Then he returned to the kitchen, filled another cup, and retrieved the book he had been reading the day before. As the sun scorched the earth outside, he read and slowly sipped his coffee. Periodically, he would look up from the book and stare at the place where his medals had hung. Then he would continue reading. By late morning, he had emptied the pot of coffee. He returned the book to its shelf and placed the dishes in the kitchen sink. He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. Looking at himself in the mirror, he grimaced. “War hero, eh?” he said to his image. “Well, why don’t you shave, Mr. Hero?” Then he

did. When he finished, he put on a clean shirt and tros and drove into town. The morning crowd was thinning at Barker’s, but he ed by and drove into Armistead. Nor did he stop there. Instead, he drove to the nursing home, parked, and walked into the lobby. Everything looked normal. The rocking boy sat in his usual spot; only this time he was alone and speaking softly to himself, saying over and over, “We are the Eagles. We are the Eagles.” Nelson avoided the front desk and walked straight to Edith’s room. When he entered, he met a stocky woman, probably in her 60s, removing the sheets from Edith’s bed. She looked at Nelson and said, “May I help you?” A smile spread across her ebony face. “I came to see Mrs. Hartwell,” he said. “I can come back later.” The smile instantly changed. A hurt look settled on her and she bent slightly toward Nelson. “Oh my,” she said. “Is something wrong?” She shook her head from side to side as though she were about to onish a child. “You don’t know, do you?” “Know what?” “Honey, Miss Edith ed,” she said, her eyes growing moist. “ed?” “Early this morning. She ed over to live with Jesus.” “ed? You mean died?” His face took on a stricken look and he placed a hand on the bed as if to steady himself. “When exactly?” “They pulled the pillow out’n from under her head about six o’clock,” she said. “I was there.” She took on a conspiratorial look. “If I stand real still, I can see the spirit leave when they . And I saw Miss Edith’s clear as day. None of them others seen it, not even the nurse. But I did. I seen it, and it looked happy. My Jesus, but did it look happy. I bet she done found her Timmie waitin’ on

her.” “You’re telling me Edith Harwell died early this morning. You’re sure?” “Dr. Dennison come in around 7:30 fore he went to the office and ‘nounced’ her. Then they took her to the funeral home.” She placed the soiled sheets on the bed and looked him over carefully. “You kin?” “No,” he said. “Just a friend.” “She had lots of friends,” she said smiling. “Why Mr. Courtney himself came to see her just yesterday.” “Al Courtney?” “Naw, sir,” she said, clearly offended. “Mr. Albert Senior. The real Mr. Albert. First time I ever seen him in this place, and I been workin’ here 25 years.” Nelson still appeared to be stunned. “What did he want?” She stood back a step. “Now, baby, I don’t get involved in these folks’ business.” “No,” he said. “Of course not.” He stared into space and then at her. “There’ll be a funeral?” “Why sure,” she said. “But you gonna have to ask in at the funeral home about that. We won’t know anything ’bout no services.” “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve been very kind.” “Now bless you, honey,” she said, and looked at him with a kind smile. “You just that she’s up in Heaven with Timmie and Jesus now, lookin’ right down on you. So if you want Miss Edith to stay happy, you get right with the Lord yoreself if’n you ain’t already.” Nelson nodded and walked back through the lobby for the last time. He stopped midway and looked around. The rocking boy was still saying to himself, “We are the Eagles. We are the Eagles.” The receptionist and her friend were talking about their men. Some residents sat and relived an old memory or, maybe, stared into some place that would forever be dark and silent to them. Some sat talking

to visitors. Nurses and attendants scurried through from one wing to another. A mother chided her daughter for not raising her children properly. A daughter reminded her father to take his medication. A teenaged girl punched on a cell phone while her parents visited her grandfather. The current of life flowed on as if Edith Hartwell had never made a ripple in its path. He blinked once and left. Back in his truck, Nelson sat for several moments staring straight ahead. Then, as if ing something important, he reached into a pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He punched in a number and waited. When a voice answered, he said, “Busy?” He waited for a moment. “Then why don’t you drive out to Barker’s and meet me there. I have some news.” Barker was dealing with his only customer when Nelson arrived. Duffey had gotten there before him and was drinking a soda. They waited until Barker finished and ed them. “What’s up, Boats,” he said. He looked at Duffey. “Don’t forget to pay for that before you leave.” “Nelson’s paying,” he said. “He invited me.” They both turned to Nelson. “Edith Hartwell died this morning,” he said. “No,” said Barker. Duffey stepped forward “Timmie’s grandmother?” “Early this morning I was told.” He turned to Elvis. “What does it mean to ‘pull the pillow?’” “Who you been talking to?” “A lady at the nursing home.” “That’s old folks stuff,” Elvis said. “You supposed to pull the pillow out from under someone’s head when they die. Did they cover the clocks?” “I don’t her ever having a clock,” Nelson said. “You’re supposed to turn them to the east too, but I ’spect they weren’t allowed to touch her.”

“Her spirit looked happy when it departed,” Nelson said. “At least that’s how it was reported to me.” “I’m sure it was,” said Barker. “She was one fine lady. And she had seen her share of troubles.” “I’ll bet Mr. Turner does the obit himself,” Duffey said absentmindedly. “Jesus, Duffey,” Elvis said. “Can’t you stop being a reporter for one minute?” “That, my friend,” said Duffey. “Is the exact minute when the world leaves you standing in the dust with surprise written all over your face.” “They said Uncle Albert came to visit her yesterday,” said Nelson. “That figures,” said Elvis, as much to himself as to the others. Nelson attention perked. “Why do you say that?” Elvis looked at him and frowned slightly, gradually lowering his eyes. “Oh, nothing,” he said. “I think they had known one another for a long time.” He began dusting the counter. “So, does that mean you might be leaving?” “Haven’t considered it yet,” said Nelson. “This was a shipwreck to me, and I haven’t thought of anything else.” “People die and we have to get used . . .” Duffey began but stopped as Nelson turned to him with a look as hard as cold granite. “I’m going back out to the church,” He said to Duffey. “Want to go?” “Why not? But pay Elvis for my Coke.” They left and rode in silence until they reached the spot where Nelson had confronted the deputies. The ground exhibited the results of the cruiser’s having been pulled from the bayou. Otherwise, no signs remained of the violent intercourse that had occurred there. “I still wonder,” said Duffey almost to himself. “Wonder what?”

“I wonder why those two idiots drove all the way out here to fight it out.” He grinned. “Beats me,” Nelson said as he pulled up to the church and parked. The building looked tired and worn. The tin roof gave off a dismal glare in the direct sunlight. Several windows had been broken. The door to the narrow sanctuary was partially open and the two walked inside. The pews and pulpit had been removed long ago and the room was empty except for two folding tables, a group of metal chairs arranged along the wall, and what had been, at one time, a ping pong table. A door led to the classroom wing that ran perpendicular to the sanctuary. Over it, someone had used a marking pen to draw a crude outline of an eagles head. Dust marked the path of sunlight streaming through the windows, and the place gave off a tired smell of neglect and disrespect. “What are you looking for?” Duffey pulled a metal chair toward one of the tables and dusted it off with his handkerchief. “These old walls aren’t going to tell you anything.” “Nothing in here, really,” said Nelson as he suddenly spun and walked back toward the outside. “Well, hell,” said Duffey, rising and following him. Outside, Nelson stopped and began to walk around the church clockwise. As he reached a point near the middle of the rear of the main building, he stopped and pointed off in the distance. “There,” he said. On a slight rise and at an angle, Duffey could see two dilapidated white structures a hundred feet or so from the church. The roofs were caved in and the doors had long-since been removed. They lay within the cover of a large group of oak trees, hiding them from a prying world. “Outhouses,” Duffey said. “I know,” said Nelson. “Come on.” He scampered up the rise and stood directly behind one of the buildings and then the other. He motioned for Duffey to do the same. “Uh, and I am learning exactly what?”

“What do you see happening in front of the church?” Duffey looked at Nelson to make sure he was serious. “Nothing, sir,” he said with a mocking tone. “You can’t see the front of the church from here.” “Ferdinand Simpson could,” said Nelson. “At least he testified in court that he had been on a rabbit hunt and stopped to use one of these when he heard voices.” “I do seem to that,” Duffey said. “Old Ferd, the sorriest son of a bitch in Armistead County, but the prosecution’s star witness.” “And he said under oath . . . ?” Duffey strained to summon the memory. Suddenly, understanding burst from within him like puss from a long-festering sore. “That he stood behind one of the outhouses and watched Bobby Johnson and Tyrone Davis having a big cuss fight on the day the murder took place,” he said, excitement building within him. “Exactly,” Nelson said. “Oh, holy shit,” Duffey said.

21

Nelson arrived early for Edith’s funeral and took a seat near the back of the sanctuary. Few people had arrived, and those were conversing in low tones. Aside from the low hum of conversation, the air was quiet and heavy, settling over the crowd like a soothing salve and encouraging contemplation. Nelson sat quietly alone. As the crowd filed in, more than one head turned to look and then ask a companion the identity of the stranger. The casket lay in front of the pulpit area at the end of the center aisle, unopened. Flowers covered it, almost gaily in their effect, and some of those entering the sanctuary walked slowly and stood before the casket before taking their seats. Someone stopped beside Nelson and he turned to see Albert Courtney Jr., who leaned over to say, “Just thought you should know, there are some folks in the county who want to appoint you king, now. Makes me jealous.” He smiled. A woman his age and a girl of near 20 had stopped in the aisle and stood waiting for him. He waved for them to proceed to the front and be seated. Nelson ignored the statement. “Looks like there will be a good crowd for the show,” he said. “Edith would be pleased.” “One can do worse on earth than to leave generations of devoted followers,” Courtney said. He bent closer. “Dad couldn’t make it. He had to attend a meeting of some state commission, I can’t which.” He looked toward Edith’s casket. “He serves on so many. But he would have been here if he could have.” He looked to see if anyone was near. “As the gay guy who worked in the brothel said, ‘we must serve when we are called.’” Nelson stared straight ahead as the joke fell, sodden and unacknowledged, to the floor. Courtney shrugged. “I’m a poor Dickens, don’t you think?” He moved on to his wife and daughter. Nelson watched as the church continued to fill. From behind him, a hand touched his shoulder. He looked around to see Morgan Fowler standing in the aisle.

“May I you?” He rose and stood in the aisle until she was seated. He sat and she moved closer to him and whispered. “Nice to see you, even if it has to be at Edith’s send-off. Was she a relative of yours?” “Just a friend,” he said. “That doesn’t narrow it down much,” she said. “She was a friend to everybody. How well did you know her?” “Just a ing friendship,” he said. She made a slight motion and moved closer to him until their hips were touching. As she did, a tall woman with long auburn hair stopped beside them. She leaned in toward Morgan, her hair brushing against Nelson’s face, and said, “I want that money we spoke of transferred to my Fayetteville by the end of the week. Do you understand me?” Morgan blushed a deep red. “Yes Miss Courtney. I’ll take care of it.” “See that you do,” the woman said. She waited a few seconds for the sanctified air of the church to disinfect her after the ordeal of speaking to a lower-order human. Then she said to Nelson, who had turned to look at her for the first time. “And you are?” “Gideon Nelson,” he said. “Friend of the deceased.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and bent toward him. As she leaned over, the force of the leaning and the effects of gravity combined to cause the bodice of her black dress to fall, revealing almost all of two tanned and ample breasts, casually covered by a lace-lined black bra. “I’m Amanda Courtney,” she said. The announcement sounded ceremonial and not instructional. “And you are the man who lives in the house the bull-dykes built.” “I live out near Barker’s store,” he said. “Of course you do,” she said. “Did you know that I ride my horse there sometimes, or at least I used to before my engagement . . .” Her eyes flicked toward Morgan, “began to take up all of my time. I was the one who caught

those awful women in the act.” She moved in closer to him. “Do you like to ride?” She looked fully at Morgan this time and then back at Nelson. “Horses, I mean.” She opened her eyes wide with the question. “Afraid not,” he said. “An old injury prevents it.” She studied him for a second. “Pity,” she said. Then she stood with a regal flourish. “Enjoy your stay in our county,” she said and continued down the aisle to her family. Her dress, which could serve equally well at funerals or cocktail parties, and which fell midways along her tanned legs, swayed a message of hope with each step. “Bitch,” Morgan said under her breath. “Goddamn sorry rich-assed bitch.” Nelson leaned his head toward her. “I don’t know much about churches,” he said. “But I suspect that is not the kind of language one normally expects to hear in one.” “You almost witnessed the first bitch-fight to ever take place in the sanctuary of a Presbyterian church.” “An honor that I’m sure the would be glad to forgo.” “That goddamn bitch will get hers someday.” The area around them had not completely filled, so Morgan was free to continue. “Those ‘awful women’ as she put it, had finished a long nursing career at the St. Jude Children’s Hospital in Memphis,” she said. “You know what they do there, don’t you?” “I assume they care for children,” Nelson said with some hesitation. “Children with cancer and other dread diseases. Could you even imagine?” “No,” he said. “Or could you imagine how a person might like to retire and rest in peace and quiet after a career like that?” “No,” he said but then stopped himself. “Well, maybe.” He paused again. “Actually, yes, I think I can.”

She started to say something else, but at that moment, organ music filled the sanctuary. The crowd, which had almost filled the church by now, grew silent. After a few moments, the minister entered the pulpit area from a back door and took as seat facing the audience. He was a tall, pleasant-looking man with ample grey and black-specked hair that matched a neatly trimmed goatee. He straightened his black robe, and sat calmly facing the audience with his Bible in his lap. The choir followed and filled the rows behind the pulpit. The minister stood and motioned for the crowd to stand. From the rear, and in accompaniment to the music, an usher escorted two young couples to the front row of seats. “A niece and nephew,” said Morgan in a whisper after they ed and before the congregation was seated. “Her only relatives. Would you believe that they showed up at the bank this morning as soon as it opened wanting to know when they could get their hands on her money?” Nelson stared straight ahead and said nothing. “They were sure shocked to find out how much the nursing home care had eaten up. Demanded a full ing.” He ignored her, and she went silent as the service began. There followed music and then readings from the scriptures, an exercise in which the pastor spoke and the audience responded. Next came a hymn. Morgan took a hymnal from a rack attached to the pew in front of them. She insisted on placing it in front of both of them, as if he might actually sing. He looked straight ahead. She sang with a bright clear voice that blended perfectly with the sounds of the choir. Nelson looked at her in surprise and smiled. Encouraged, she sang louder until the space around them vibrated with her efforts. When the music stopped, they all sat and the pastor stepped forward again. He collected his thoughts and spoke in a melodious voice. “Friends in Christ: We gather together this day in witness to the resurrection of our Lord, and to give thanks for the life of a woman you have known . . . ired . . . respected . . . and loved: Our sister In Christ, Edith Hartwell. “In acknowledging the reality of her death we also acknowledge that in Christ we are part of one great family: we share each other’s sorrows just as we share each other’s joys. Therefore we can say to all who mourn: ‘Your loss is our loss, your sorrow is also our sorrow.’

“But even in the face of death we cannot forget our Christian faith: We believe that death, for the Christian, is neither an ending nor a defeat, but an event we can face without fear and without bitterness. We believe that they who have died have gone to their rest. They are where no harm can ever touch them. They are safe in the mercy and love of God.” At this point, the pastor stopped and addressed the crowd the way he might talk to his best friend over a glass of wine. He removed his reading glasses and looked at the ceiling of the sanctuary, shook his head, and returned his attention to the congregation. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose a child, in Edith’s case a grandson—a grandson whom she had raised, a grandson in the full bloom of young manhood with his life before him—to lose that grandson on a foreign field halfway around the world. I can’t fathom what it must have been like for Edith to await news of Tim Hartwell’s condition and then, finally, to be told that he was lost to her forever in this earthly life. “We read in the Old Testament how King David surprised his servants by arising and taking food when informed that his son, who had suffered from a lingering illness, had finally died. The Book of Samuel tells us that he told those servants, ‘While the child was still alive, I fasted and wept, for I said who knows? The lord may be gracious to me, and the child may live. But now he is dead, why should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he will not return to me.’ “Like King David, Edith rose from her mourning, washed herself, and feasted in the warm love of Christ our Redeemer. For Edith accepted the Christian belief that the resurrection should lead us to rejoice that our loved one has departed the church militant and entered the church triumphant, just as she has, and so we rejoice for her today. As we can all testify, she devoted the rest of her life to becoming a source of comfort to others, and by sublimating her own sorrows to the service of her community and her church. There is not a heart in this room that she didn’t touch.” He looked out over the congregation and then continued. Memories flitted about the sanctuary like a flock of butterflies looking for a place to land. Morgan placed her hand on Nelson’s. He didn’t move it. The service nearing its end, the pastor closed his Bible and looked out across the crowd again. “May we all find comfort in the fact that should we, like our dear

sister Edith, be burdened with a weight too heavy for one person to bear, there will always be someone to share that burden. For, as our Redeemer has told us in the book of Matthew, ‘my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.’ Edith would want us to that. Amen.” The crowd stirred and rose for a final hymn that invited those assembled to “Abide With Me.” Then the pastor phrased a benediction and the family exited. Nelson watched with interest. Morgan still held his hand as they stood waiting. She squeezed it firmly, rose on her toes, and whispered, as the rest of the crowd began to leave, “I’m off for the rest of the day.”

22

Nelson awoke the next morning at daybreak to the hum of the air conditioning system. Soft feminine smells lingered next to him and he reached to the other side of his bed. His hand touched a piece of paper folded in half and he took it, rose, and examined it under a lamp. “Ahoy sailor,” it read. “This pirate had to sneak back into Armistead ahead of the prying eyes of the coffee shop crowd. All I can say is, ‘It was a lovely cruise,’ or how did you put it? ‘Gunnels awash!’ Again soon, please?” It was unsigned. He smiled and rubbed the stubble that had appeared on his face overnight. He breakfasted and walked outside for his morning exercise routine. Afterwards, he showered and dressed in khakis and a polo shirt. He burned the note that had been on his bed and cleaned the empty drink glasses and beer bottles scattered carelessly around. After giving the interior a careful inspection, he left and drove into town. By this time, it was late morning and another day of stifling summer heat lay on the delta, mocking the tired crops as a bully might taunt its prey, daring it to show signs of life. Once in the city, he parked in front of the courthouse and walked across the street to a large building marked “Armistead County Sheriff’s Department.” Walking in, he stopped at the door and reviewed his surroundings. He stood in a large room with low ceilings. A short railing of dark wood surrounded the room, allowing space for desks, filing cabinets and office equipment. In front of the wall, and in the center of the room, sat a large receiving desk. Nelson walked to it and asked a uniformed receptionist if the sheriff might be available. He gave her his name. “Is he expecting you?” “Probably not,” said Nelson to the severe looking woman of indeterminate age with short-cropped black hair. “But I would appreciate a few moments of his time.” She picked up the phone on her desk and punched a button. Almost immediately she spoke, “A mister . . . ,” she began, then stopped.

“Gideon Nelson.” Her head snapped toward Nelson. Quickly, she regained her static look and said into the receiver, “Mr. Gideon Nelson would like to see you.” Somewhat surprisingly, she motioned Nelson toward a door marked “Sheriff Gladson Love,” at the corner of the walled off area. Nelson looked around. Two uniformed deputies were filing papers quietly as another talked softly on his phone. None of them looked at Nelson or appeared to show any interest in his arrival. He walked past the receptionist toward the sheriff’s office. Nelson entered a ed office warmly decorated with awards, photos, and displays of various weapons, both modern and antique. Behind a polished walnut desk sat a grossly overweight man in his early 60s. He wore a brown uniform tailored to fit his enormous girth. A roll of fat completely covered the front of the belt of his pistol holster. His face was a puffy white, with no clear demarcation between his chin and his neck except for a tiny dimple where the chin had once been. It, the dimple, moved in a narrow circle when he moved or spoke. Dark eyes peered from caverns of flesh and a thin line of blond-white hair was swept across an almost bald head. A hand lined with thick, bloated fingers motioned for Nelson to take a seat in front of the desk. The sheriff clasped his hands and placed them on top of his enormous belly. “Mr. Gideon Nelson,” he said. “Your name has preceded you. Perhaps you have heard the news no doubt?” “Sir?” “That I am short two deputies. And maybe, just maybe, you are looking for a job.” Nelson didn’t respond. He looked directly into the sheriff’s eyes. Each man sized up the other. Nelson outwaited the sheriff, who said, “Or perhaps you would like to cripple me for some imagined insult.” The sheriff stared back at Nelson and smiled. “Go ahead. It doesn’t matter.” His body relaxed as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders and that the next few moments, no matter what they brought, would provide relief to a festering sore. “Why would you think I want to harm you?”

“Everyone in Armistead County wants to harm someone,” he said. “Or haven’t you learned that by now?” “I’m not here to harm anyone,” Nelson said. “Good,” said the sheriff, his dark eyes sparkling in concert with the dancing chin. “Is there anything I can do for you in particular? Or is it just ‘Meet Your Elected Officials Day’ in the burgh?” Nelson smiled. “I served on a jury recently.” “Is that all you wanted me to know? If so, thank you for your service.” “The Bobby Johnson trial.” The sheriff looked at the ceiling, deep in thought. “Ah yes, the murder of young Tyrone Davis.” “That’s the one.” “You were on the jury?” “I was.” “I didn’t go to the trial,” the sheriff said. “It was a simple case of two ruffians settling a disagreement. It was handled by my deputies.” He twirled one thumb around the other in his clasped hands. “That’s something I wanted to ask you about, the trial.” “Why I didn’t go, or why Bobby Johnson took it upon himself to whack young Tyrone Davis?” “Both, maybe.” “Taking the last first, the popular belief is that the two had a falling out over a romance.” “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” “They had been best friends growing up, you know.”

“No I didn’t.” Nelson watched the sheriff carefully. The man didn’t avoid eye nor did he fidget. He responded much like a primitive story teller might recite a myth to a group of young men gathered to begin the rites of manhood, slow and with a drama that ennobled the telling. “Did everything together. Grew up together. School, baseball, scouts, adolescent angst, the complete adventure.” “And then?” “Seems they both had an eye on Savannah Watson,” the sheriff said. “As pretty a thing as ever walked out of a cotton field, sick unto death of plowing, and giving much evidence of waiting to be plowed herself, perhaps in the eyes of some, wanting to be plowed.” His eyes left Nelson’s and drifted off to a memory, no doubt one of a young, dark-haired woman, barefooted with seemingly neverending legs, wearing a thin blue dress over full, but incarcerated breasts that seemed hell-bent on escaping captivity, breasts that happily mocked gravity with each step. “Of course,” he continued, “she would have been courted from higher up the food chain had she been more polished.” He paused for effect. “We have a wellestablished social order in our county.” “So what happened?” “Girls like that don’t fare well in school,” he said. “A reputation develops. If they conform to it, they’re whores. If they don’t, they’re bitches, or worse, teases. They’re bound for social purgatory either way.” “And?” “She dropped out of school and went to work at the shoe factory.” He was studying his hands but looked up at Nelson. “We had jobs in the county back then, and she, as I say, had one. But the job left, and she chose not to move to Mexico with it. Anyway, Tyrone Davis seemed to win the courting match while Bobby Johnson went through his wild phase. She and Tyrone were seen everywhere together.” “How long did that last?”

“You’re asking a lot of questions,” the sheriff said. “About a trial that is over and done with.” “If you don’t mind, sir,” Nelson said. “It’s important to me.” His eyes narrowed on Nelson’s face. The eyes were still for a moment, then began to dance again. “It lasted until a couple of years after Bobby and Tyrone graduated. Then one morning, the news swept through the Cotton Bowl, like a tornado from Texas, that Bobby and Savannah ran off and got married. He and Tyrone were never close after that.” The sheriff narrowed his eyes in thought. “Not sworn enemies or anything. Just quit hanging out together. Then Bobby seemed to straighten up.” “Until the murder?” “Until the murder, which occurred, as you well know, after a shouting match in our local beer t. It appears that the old romantic rivalry no longer lay dormant, but had erupted into some veritable volcano of ion. Next day, one of the participants lay dead, or, as the Apostle Paul might say, ‘no longer discomforted by the ion.’ So, you and the other jurors were called to bring about resolution.” “What would you say,” Nelson said. He spoke quietly, choosing his words with extreme care. “What would you say if I called it ‘the alleged murder?’” The sheriff didn’t seem surprised by the question. He pondered it and responded in a soft voice. “I would suggest that you consider the wisdom of minding one’s own business in Armistead County. That practice has brought me to within five months of a comfortable retirement.” He nodded toward a photograph on his desk, and both men took a break from the conversation. Nelson leaned back and studied the photograph, one of two that sat facing at an angle toward the visitor. It was a group shot of the sheriff, in civilian clothes, standing at the side of a gray-haired lady of his age, both surrounded by a large group of men, women, and children. It was a typical family photograph that one might expect to see on any man’s office desk. The one on the other side was a grainy, black and white print, enlarged well beyond its capabilities, of two young men in filthy combat attire, holding M-16 rifles, and standing in front of a cratered landscape, with a makeshift shelter to one side. The remnants of what had been jungle growth lay denuded, broken, and twisted around them, the ground scarred and bare as well.

Both were unshaven and the smiles on their faces suggested cheap makeup applied as a temporary disguise. The sheriff broke the silence. “As for why I let others handle the trial? May I ask you something, Mr. Gideon Nelson? Do I look like the sort of person who could effect a hoax of the magnitude you are suggesting? Or do I look like a tired old man who might let others lead the next patrol?” Nelson looked at his own hands and then at the sheriff without responding. “You can be honest,” the sheriff replied. He pointed at the photograph on his desk of the two young men. “There I am the day after the siege of Khe Sahn was lifted.” Indeed, the man on the right was a 20-something Gladson Love, or simply, “Love: USMC.” “Maybe back then I would’ve had the gumption were I to have had the desire, but . . . ,” he closed his eyes to mask an internal struggle, then continued. “May I suggest something to you, one old vet to another?” Nelson was still studying the photograph as if looking at it had drawn his attention to somewhere far away. He answered absentmindedly. “What?” “Pray that you never reach the point in life where you love security and predictability more than honor.” He paused and leaned back in his chair. “Now,” he said. “Are you interested in the deputy’s job or not? I have business to take care of. I’ve already missed the coffee break at the Cotton Bowl, and that’s where I receive most of my crime-related leads.” Nelson rose. “No, sir,” he said. “But thank you for the offer.” He stood up straight and looked at the photograph again. “I’ll be going now.” “Did you find what you came after?” “I . . .” Nelson began, but stopped and considered the phrasing of what he was about to say. “I didn’t find what I expected, but I found what I needed.” “A man could do worse,” the sheriff said. Nelson nodded in agreement, turned, and walked to the door. He had started to open it when he stopped and turned back to the sheriff. “Semper Fi,” he said.

“We’ve got to get out of this place,” the sheriff said in a soft voice as a bloated hand saluted a farewell. Nelson smiled to acknowledge that, although he was of a different era, he recognized the anthem of the Vietnam Veteran and returned the salute. He made the trip back to his truck slowly. The town square dog watched him without a great deal of interest, patting his tail, but not rising as Nelson walked by. From the dog’s viewpoint, he saw a man deep in thought and walking almost as if the mere walking were a burden. There was no chance for a treat from this one. He sank back into slumber. Nelson drove out of town slowly. This time, no one followed him. It was late morning by now, a time when Barker would be recovering from the morning traffic. When Nelson reached the store, he pulled in slowly and parked. He waited until the lone customer there had left before he entered. Barker was arranging a display when he saw Nelson. “Lover boy,” he said. “Did we drag our anchor last night?” “Tell me something,” said Nelson as he walked up. “Have you ever known Millard to be full of shit?”

23

“Man,” Elvis said. “Millard ain’t nothing but full of shit half the time.” He finished working on the display and walked to the soft drink area. “Want one?” Nelson thought, then nodded. Elvis took two Diet Cokes and brought to them back. He set them on the counter and pushed one toward Nelson. “What has Millard lied to you about this time?” Both men opened their drinks and drank. Nelson sat his bottle down and weighed his words before speaking. “He set me a false heading on Sheriff Love, that’s all.” “Old ‘Tub-o-Love?’ Is that where you been?” “Yep.” “What’re you doing, turning yourself in for fornication without authorization?” “Not much goes unnoticed in this county, does it?” “Big secrets maybe. Not small ones, especially small ones that concern strangers that won’t even tell anyone what they did in the war.” “I told you I was a JAG Officer.” “Sheeit,” said Elvis. “Now I am about to decide you was an officer. They always was the ones who got the pussy.” He leaned over the counter and pointed his drink can at Nelson. “I even hear that Amanda Courtney’s been oiling up her saddle to take you ridin’.” “This really is ‘gossip central,’ isn’t it?” Nelson waved an arm to indicate their surroundings. “We all got to do our part,” said Elvis. “Now what did you and ‘Lardo’ talk about?” “Ease your rigging on the sheriff,” Nelson said. “I found him to be a decent, but

defeated person.” “Oh, he is,” said Elvis. “Decent that is. Everybody kids him about his weight. He don’t mind. But yes, he’s not a bad one as law enforcement officers go. Word is, it wasn’t him who hired the Twins.” He narrowed his eyes and looked at Nelson. “You size folks up pretty fast, don’t you? I mean one meeting, and you and Rick Duffey are best buds. Now you got the sheriff pegged.” “Trust me,” said Nelson. “The ability to ‘size folks up pretty fast’ as you say, was once part of a skill-set crucial to my survival.” He drank from his soda. “It’s a habit I hope to maintain.” “How about me?” “What about you?” “Did you size me up?” “Oh yes,” Nelson said. “I knew you were an asshole the minute I met you.” Both men laughed and were still trading insults when Rick Duffey walked in carrying a newspaper. He walked to where they stood and held up the front page. The two top stories were, “Longtime Educator Dies,” and “Miss Courtney to marry.” “See,” he said. “One of my pieces made the front page.” Then he turned to the second page. Under the reports from a number of local churches was a brief headlined, “Deputies Under Investigation.” He folded the paper and placed it under his arm. “I’m smelling ‘Pulitzer’ here, fellers.” Elvis snickered. “Will it be the first engagement announcement to win?” “Oh,” Duffey said, “the Commercial Appeal in Memphis has ed me about expanded coverage of the deputies’ mishap.” He pursed his lips and frowned. “None of our statewide papers were interested.” He had started toward the soft drink area but turned. “But,” he said, “the Courtney announcement sold like pussy on a troop ship.” “Well, exposure is exposure,” Elvis said.

“Long live the bitches of Arkansas,” Duffey said, raising a soft drink can in a mock toast. “Speaking of Miss Courtney.” He looked at Nelson. “Have you nailed her yet?” “No,” said Nelson. “I remain among ‘the few, the happy few.’” Elvis raised his drink. “To the happy few,” he said. As the men made the toast, the store’s door opened and Matt Smithey walked in. Seeing the raised cans, he laughed. “Did I miss something?” “Nelson is setting goals for the future,” said Elvis. “How is Matt today?” Matt studied them. He appeared to want to ask a question, but didn’t. He walked over and shook hands all around. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just fine.” He was dressed in his work uniform and it barely covered his huge frame. It looked as if a strong flexing of his muscles would send fragments of cloth flying in all directions. “I was just driving my route and I saw Mr. Nelson’s truck here. I had a message to deliver in case I saw him.” Nelson leaned forward. “What’s up?” “I was reading the meter at Savannah Johnson’s house,” he said. “And she said if I saw you, would I tell you that she needed to talk to you.” “Me?” “Yes sir. She didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask her.” He turned to Elvis. “Where’s Martin?” “Gone to Little Rock with his mom to buy some back-to-school clothes,” Elvis said. “Tell him I want to toss the football before he leaves for school,” Matt said. He turned to Duffey. “How’s the newspaper business?” “Slow now,” Duffey said. “Heard any good gossip? I could sure use me a hot summer crime of ion.” “Oh no, sir,” said Matt. “People don’t share much with a meter reader, and I

don’t get out much when I’m not working. Hope all the news is good news, though.” “It would be nice,” said Duffey. “But the unfortunate truth is . . . good news doesn’t sell.” “No, sir,” said Matt. “I don’t guess it does.” He looked at each of them and shrugged. “Got to go,” he said. “Big route to cover today.” After he left, Elvis sighed. “Can you imagine that boy reading meters? He ought to be reading quarterbacks’ eyes.” “But,” said Duffey, “you have to accept the possibility that, if that were the case, he might also be the one about to marry the beguiling Miss Amanda Courtney.” “One could do worse in Armistead County than be romantically involved with a Courtney,” said Elvis. Then, thinking better of it, “Eeeeuww.” Duffey laughed. Nelson smiled but seemed, mentally, to be somewhere else. He placed a hand on his face and squeezed as if the motion might remove a malignant thought. Elvis noticed and waited until the moment had ed. “You seem like the air has been stolen from your sails, Boats. Want to tell us what’s gotten you down?” Nelson shook his head and finished his soft drink. He walked to a large trash can at the end of the counter and dropped the can with a loud bang. He studied a display of cigarette lighters on the counter and commented without feeling. “Just feel like I’ve lost headway,” he said. “Plus, I lost a good friend who deserved better than to die alone in a nursing home.” He turned back toward them. “I did have a ‘weak-moment frolic.’ But then you both already know all about that.” “Ace investigative reporter,” said Duffey, saluting with his drink can. Elvis saluted as well. “Gossip Central,” he said. Nelson had discarded his can, so he saluted with his hand. “To wasting our lives,” he said somberly. “Now I shall go and visit the prison-widow Johnson. Perhaps she has news that will cheer me up. Good-bye to dear friends all.”

“Anchors aweigh,” said Elvis.

24

Nelson arrived at Savannah’s place at late afternoon to find her sitting under the oak tree fanning herself against the fearsome heat. As Nelson stepped from his truck, she motioned weakly for him to her. When he took a seat, he saw the face of a young boy peer from around one corner of the trailer. Nelson recognized him as the boy who had created the commotion following the trial. If the boy himself made the connection, it did not in his face. He watched Nelson without expression as if he might be chaperoning the meeting. Savannah continued fanning with the same defeated look she had displayed when Nelson arrived. He waited until she was ready to speak. “I reckon Matt Smiley found you.” “Yes, ma’am.” She drew a deep breath. “First, let me say that me and Ronnie are thankful that you looked into this business about the trial.” “I’m afraid I haven’t found out much yet, but . . .” She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Fact is,” she said. “We want you to stop looking.” Nelson looked surprised. “Stop?” “Yes, sir,” she said. “We both want you to.” “May I ask why?” She answered in a sharp tone. “You can ask all you damn want to, but the fact is, we just want you to stop.” Nelson looked out over the yard toward the trailer. The boy’s face had disappeared. Across the fields beyond the trailer, waves of heat bore down on the

crops like layers of blankets. The world seemed trapped and suffocating. He nodded toward Savannah. “Of course I shall consider your wishes.” He raised his eyes upward in thought. “You say Ronnie agrees?” “As good as he’s able,” she said. “You know he’s taken a turn for the worse.” “No, I didn’t,” said Nelson. “The cancer?” “That mainly. Other stuff, too.” “Mrs. Johnson,” Nelson. “I respect your decision. But can you tell me more about why the change of heart?” “Ain’t no change of heart,” she said. “Hit’s a change of mind.” “Any particular reason?” She sighed and the sigh was immediately sucked into the summer heat as if it were a sacrifice to the god of conversation. “You know about parole, don’t you?” “Parole?” “That’s where you git out of prison early if you . . .” “I know what parole is,” he interrupted. “Are you telling me that Bobby is getting paroled.” “No,” she said. “I’m telling you jist the opposite.” “I’m confused.” “I’m telling you that they told him there weren’t gonna be no talk of parole as long as you was pokin’ around where you had no business.” Nelson leaned back and allowed the words to soak in. In the distance, a lone hawk circling above a field spied a creature below and instantly went into a steep dive, his wings folded behind him in order to reduce friction. Nelson watched the flight of attack until the hawk disappeared below the tree line. He drew a hot, moist breath through his nostrils and exhaled. “So they threatened him?” “They didn’t threaten him,” she said. “They just told him, plain and simple.”

“Is there anyone you can report it to? I mean, the authorities? That has to be against the law.” “Uncle Albert, he’s on that board that sets paroles,” she said. “But he don’t know us from Adam’s house cat and besides, . . .” “Besides what?” “Me and Ronnie thinks that I might need him more when the actual time for parole comes. We shouldn’t bother him now.” Nelson watched the hawk reappear above the tree line without a victim in its clutches. It rose high in the heated air and began its patient circle again. Somewhere below, there was a prey that would not be as quick next time, or as lucky. Nelson looked at Savannah, who had begun to weep silently. “Mrs. Johnson,” he said. “Oh for god’s sake, would you please call me Savannah,” she said between tears. “Ever body else does.” “Savannah,” he said. “May I offer one bit of advice to you and Ronnie about when the time for a parole hearing does come?” “Ronnie ain’t gonna be here then,” she said. “They done told him he’s got a month, maybe two left. He can’t even leave the bed now.” “Then you must ,” he said. “The hardest hurdle you are going to face is explaining why Bobby and Tyrone Davis got into such an argument about you in the bar the day before the murder, and that’s something only you may know.” She snapped around to face him and her eyes framed the question before she said it. “Me?” she said. “What about me?” “The cause of the argument. Why Bobby and Tyrone became angry. Wasn’t it because of you?” “Me?” she repeated as though she heard the question but it was refusing to in her mind.

Nelson grew impatient. “The two were arguing about you after they’d been drinking in the bar.” “About me?” she said. “Why would you think they were arguing about me?” “Well,” said Nelson. “It’s common knowledge that you dated Tyrone before you married Bobby.” “Me?” She exploded. “Me date Tyrone Davis?” “Well, didn’t you?” “Date him?” “Yes.” “We hung out together, Mr. Nelson. “Tyrone was Bobby’s best friend, and when Bobby would go off on one of his wild sprees, why, Tyrone would stand by me until Bobby settled down. He was a friend who comforted me, that’s all.” Nelson sighed patiently. “I don’t want to pry, Mrs. John . . . , Savannah. But is it possible that maybe, maybe just once, the comforting led you where you didn’t intend to go?” “Is that what people thinks?” “It seems that some think you and Tyrone were a couple before you and Bobby were.” “Oh, lord,” she said, and her entire body seemed to deflate until it seemed only part of itself, like a party balloon after the guests have left. “Oh, shit,” she said. “Oh shit, shit, shit. Folks don’t know a goddamn thing, do they?” She shook her head, looked at the sky, and asked the world, not just Nelson. “They really don’t know, do they?” Nelson touched her hand to bring her attention back to him. “Know what?” She looked at him and tears again began to fill her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Nelson,” she said. “I never told nobody this in my entire life.”

“Told them what?” She took a long, deep breath, which seemed to re-inflate her. She raised her head defiantly and looked full-faced at Nelson. “Tyrone Davis,” she said, “didn’t even like women that way.”

25

“I’ve tried everything I know,” the man said. “I’ve tried to beat it out of you. I’ve tried to pray it out of you.” He stopped and looked toward heaven. “Lord knows, I’ve tried to pray it out of you.” He returned his stare to the boy. “God didn’t listen for some reason. Then I tried to starve it out of you.” He stopped and leaned across the table at the boy seated on the other side. “Pay attention, goddamn you.” He swung a hand across the table and slapped the boy hard across the face. The sound echoed through the small shed, across the tack hanging orderly along the wall, across the sacks of feed, off the implements leaning haphazardly in place, and back to the red face of the boy, who whimpered and lowered his head. “Has anything I have tried so far worked?” The boy wouldn’t look at him directly. “I don’t know, sir,” he said to the table. The man slapped him again. “Now listen to me, boy,” he said. “Look me in the eyes like a man.” The boy raised his eyes to meet the man’s. One of his hands started for his face as a protective gesture, but force of will returned it to his lap. He waited. “I want you to look around and think,” the man said. When the boy started looking at the contents of the shed, the man slapped him again. “Not in here,” he said. “Think about the whole thing. Think about the opportunity you have.” “The opportunity?” “The opportunity.” Neither spoke for a moment. The man stood and walked around behind the boy. He placed his hands on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed. “Think about it all,” he said. “Think about every bit of it. Just imagine yourself as a man.” He slapped the boy from behind. “A real man,” he said. “It’s yours. All of it and what it can bring you.” He slapped him again. “Are you thinking of it?”

The boy nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Then keep thinking,” the man said. “I’m going to give you some time.” He reached behind him and plucked a small length of chain from the wall, the kind of flexible chain used for hanging baskets of spring flowers from porches. He struck the boy across his back with it three times. “Think about having it all, or having this,” he said as he struck the boy again. He pitched the chain onto the table and walked to the door. As he opened it, he turned to the boy. “You think about it while I’m gone,” he said. “Your mother and I will be in the house praying for you.” In the stillness, the boy stared upward, at nothing at all. Then he lowered his gaze. As the stillness settled around him, he reached a hand slowly, tentatively, toward the chain. His hand closed around it and he pulled it toward him. With effort, he arose and began to circle the table. Three times, he made a complete revolution and each time, as he reached his starting point, he looked at the chain he held in his hand. On the fourth round, he began to whip himself. At first, he struck slowly and without harm. Then, he increased the force of the blows until the chain was whistling through the dust and landing on his back with a sharp snap. He circled the table three more times, increasing the force of the flagellation with each step. Then he stopped. He laid the chain on the table and removed his shirt. He folded it, placed it on the table, and took hold of the chain again. Again he circled the table lashing the chain across his back. This time it made a wet sound as it slapped across his back. He circled the table until a tickle announced that he was bleeding. He returned the chain to the table, walked to a shelf and took a bottle of animal liniment from it. He opened a cabinet door, brought out a towel and soaked it with the liniment. He only winced once as he rubbed the wet towel across his back. His face then turned stony and void of expression. With a hand holding each end of the towel, he raked it back and forth across his back until it was clean. Then he returned the items to their places and put on his shirt. He sat, and began to hum softly to himself. He was in this position when the man returned. He walked in gently and stood at the table across from the boy. He only said one word. “Well?” The boy stood and looked at the man. He never raised his face completely, only enough that his pupils glared from beneath the hood of his eyebrows. From this

position, he looked the man in the eyes. “I’m ready now, sir,” he said.

26

Came the dawn, and Nelson rose with it. It was still dim outside as he walked onto the porch with his coffee. Mornings were coming later now as the dog days of summer settled in. They were cooler on some days as well, thanks to the longer nights. This morning, he left the porch and walked to a sitting area he had constructed near the edge of the bayou. Taking a seat, he sipped his coffee in the cool morning air. Night sounds were diminishing, and a peaceful restlessness settled on the water in front of him. He half-dozed in its comfort. As he sat watching, small circles began to appear in the dark water near the opposite bank. He transitioned from half-awake to fully alert as the circles changed into a gurgle and bubbles burst from the water. Something was about to happen. The water had changed from perfectly calm to disturbed, and now to angry in one lone spot beside the remains of a large tree that had fallen into the bayou long before Nelson’s time. He leaned forward to watch. Something indeed was about to happen. The surface of the water began to move in waves and then broke with a splash, scattering pale brown foam in a circle. A black patch appeared, a small mound of black fur no larger in circumference than a small saucer. It, too, moved, creating a larger disturbance and frightening a bird nesting in a nearby tree. The circle rose and became a mound of black, water streaming from it in sheets. A pair of claws broke the surface and dug into the tree. A head followed and a long body. As the rear legs broke from the water, a creature the size of a young pig clambered from the water and on the log. As it shook water from its body, a flat tail announced its identity. “Son of a bitch, a beaver,” Nelson said to himself as the creature rose on its legs and, with full majesty, announced its arrival to the world. Nelson studied it with a cocked head, then rose and went back into the house. After exercises, he showered and finished the morning coffee. He cleaned the morning dishes and started toward the door. Just before he reached it, he stopped, thought, and then spun around decisively. He walked to his bedroom, opened the closet door, and took the frame containing his military decorations. He held it in front of him and studied it. Then he took it back into the living

room and hung it where it had been before. He stood back and studied it again. Quietly, he saluted it and left.

* * *

Ronnie Johnson’s house was not far from Savannah’s. It was on a homestead originally owned by the Johnsons. Ronnie and his family lived in the family home, a white structure facing a farm road and fronting fields that were now leased to local farmers. Ronnie’s truck sat parked to the side of the house. The sounds of children playing came from behind the house. Nelson parked his truck in front and walked up onto the front porch. He knocked on an ancient screen door of blackened wood and heard scuffling from within. In a moment, a woman wearing a faded bathrobe opened the door. She looked at Nelson and cocked her head to one side. She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “Help you?” “My name is Gideon Nelson, and I’d like to visit Ronnie if he is able to see visitors.” She studied him briefly, and then looked past him both ways. “Won’t you come in,” she said, pushing the screen door open. He walked in and she closed the door behind him. She led him through the room until he disappeared into the darkness. There he sat on a threadbare chair and talked to Ronnie Johnson.

* * *

Later Nelson was recounting the visit to the two men at Barkers. “He told me a lot,” he said. “But what is more interesting is what he didn’t tell me.” “I’m confused,” Elvis said.

“Sounds like a script from a ‘Thin Man’ movie to me,” said Duffey. Nelson had phoned them after leaving Ronnie Johnson’s house. They had all agreed to meet at the store at closing time. He had gone home then and spent the afternoon on his porch, staring out over the bayou. The beaver was gathering sticks with determination, placing one upon the other so that they fit and made a workable structure. From time to time, it stopped and stood, iring its work. Then it would begin fitting sticks together again. Nelson watched the progress until it was time to meet the others. Now they sat together under a dim light in a corner of the store where outsiders could not see them. To all outward appearances, the store was closed. Elvis called the place where they sat his “collusion corner.” “He’s in pretty bad shape,” Nelson said. “He’s weak, but glad to see a visitor. His wife said that he had foregone the radiation and chemo. ‘He’s ready,’ she said.” The group sat silent. Duffey drummed his fingers on the counter. “So why did you call us?” “I just wanted someone to hear this,” Nelson said. “Someone with roots in the county. It isn’t something that only an outsider should know. I might pack up and leave at any time. Ronnie might die. Bobby could keep it locked up inside, and the county at large would never know.” “A newspaper reporter and a black man,” Duffey said. “Hardly a composite representation of this little corner of God’s garden.” “Hush, Duffey,” Elvis said. Then he nodded toward Nelson. “Go ahead.” “Turns out, Savannah wasn’t being completely truthful. Maybe she was exaggerating for emphasis. But maybe she was able to see that she would still have to live in the county after Ronnie died. Anyway, she made it sound as if they’d both agreed to call off the chase. Ronnie told me he only agreed to let her make the decisions—that she would have to make them soon anyway, so it was best that she start now. “He told me there was something evil in the county. It’s interesting that Edith Hartwell once pretty much told me the same thing. Ronnie said it went way back for him, but he thought it went back even before his time. He called it ‘the

danger,’ said it chased them once, him and Bobby.” Elvis interrupted. “Chased them? What, like tried to hurt them?” “Tried to stop them from telling what they knew was the way he put it.” “Who? What?” “That, he wouldn’t tell me,” Nelson said. “When I pressed him for names, he said ‘I’ve got two children that have to live in the county when I’m gone. I can’t ruin their future. You’ll have to find it for yourself.’ That’s as much as he would say about the person. “What he did tell me was that it started when they were both young. They hung out with a gang of boys and started doing things with them almost every weekend. At least Bobby did. Ronnie said he liked to fish and hunt by himself and didn’t run with them as much as Bobby. That’s how the trouble started. Did you know that Ronnie wasn’t always mentally limited? It’s true. This all happened before he got that way.” He stopped. “No, Duffey, don’t take notes. Just listen. “Seems Bobby had gotten so tight with the group that they were going to initiate him in to some official status. Ronnie went with him the night of the initiation. It started out like the other excursions, but about dark, those being initiated were led away, and the others were left to wait around a campfire. “Sometime later, Ronnie couldn’t exactly how long had ed, he heard a scream and he recognized it as Bobby’s. From there, his gets a little sketchy. I don’t know how much he didn’t and how much he chose not to tell, but the first thing you know, he and Bobby are running like hell to get away from ‘the danger.’ There was something in the telling that involved a place called ‘The Hole.’ Either of you ever heard of such a place?” “Sure,” said Elvis. “It’s about a half-mile north of that old church you been going to. It’s a place in the bayou where they say some millions of years ago or so a sink hole appeared right where the bayou takes a bend.” “I’ve also heard it’s a remnant of the New Madrid Earthquake,” Duffey said. “But anyway . . .”

“Anyway,” said Elvis, continuing, “it’s a big hole in the bayou, and if you didn’t know about it, you would never know it’s there until you slipped into it. Nobody knows how deep it is.” “That makes sense then,” Nelson said. “Ronnie hinted that he and Bobby ran that way because they knew where it was safe to cross and the danger chasing them didn’t. When they crossed over to safety, the danger stopped. That would make for a happy story, I suppose, except for the fact that Ronnie took sick from the exposure and never was the same afterwards. That’s about the extent of what he told me.” “He wouldn’t say who or what this danger was?” “Not a hint.” “Did he say what made Bobby scream?” “Sort of.” Duffey leaned forward. “Now what the hell you mean, sort of?” “He wouldn’t say exactly what they were doing to him, but what he did say drove ice down my spine.” Elvis looked somberly at Duffey and back toward Nelson. “And what did he say, exactly?” “He said, and these are pretty much his exact words, ‘They were doing something to him that Bobby would rather go to the penitentiary than to have anyone know about it.’” The room was silent. In a corner, a refrigerator kicked on with a suddenness that made the three men start. Outside, stars were becoming visible, twinkling like the eyes of happy children hiding in the dark. A lone car ed, moving someone from one experience to another along that dark road. In the store, three men sat with thoughts as disparate as the different destinations to which the highway might lead. Each stared straight ahead and wouldn’t look at the others. Finally, Nelson spoke in a soft voice that boomed in the stillness. “I swore I would never get involved in someone else’s problems. Every time I do, I end up

getting someone hurt or hurting someone beyond the point of necessity. I just wanted to be a comfort to an old lady that had lost a grandson who had been under my command. Wasn’t that enough?” Though he asked a question, the others showed no response, as though they knew it wasn’t directed at them. As the room became still again, he said, “Twice I’ve gotten involved in saving someone, and twice it has caused me grief. So I’m about to wade in for the third time. I’m just asking that you wish me a following wind, not that you me.” “I just want to spend some quiet time honing my skills,” Duffey said. “Maybe do an editorial column someday, or teach. I don’t have the nerve to be an investigative reporter. Someone says ‘boo’ to me, and I nearly shit my pants.” He drummed his fingers on the table again. “But fuck it,” he said. “I’m in.” “Y’all will need some black folks’ wisdom to guide you if you gonna mess around with these people,” Elvis said. “Why the hell couldn’t you just sit out there and learn to grow you some collard greens?” he said to Nelson. “Damn.” “Does that mean you’re in?” “Fuck yeah,” I’m in,” Elvis said. “Would I ever up an opportunity to do something really stupid? I once ed the United States Navy when there wasn’t even no draft.” “You’re in? For sure?” “What do I have to do, cut my finger and let our blood flow together? You be part ‘brother’ then.” “If you’re in, I have a big favor to ask you.” Elvis nodded. “But first,” Nelson said. “A question.” “What question?” “What about the rule against getting involved in white folks business?” “Oh,” said Elvis. “There is this third one, Negro Rule Three. We don’t tell many white folks this one.” He paused and reflected. “It comes from the philosophy of

my son’s namesake, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.” “And it is?” “White folks’ shit gotta stop someday.”

27

Nelson spent the next several days completing the clearing of the burned barn. When he had the material stacked, a truck appeared one morning and a group of Hispanic workmen loaded all the ruined material and hauled it away. Next day, a truck carrying a small dozer came, and a crew scraped the area clean and leveled it. By week’s end, little evidence remained that a barn housing living things had stood on the site. The small house stood alone on the banks of the bayou, its handsome proportions and soft colors remaining as the only reminders of the love that had built it. Evenings would catch Nelson watching the beaver at work. Its structure barely extended into the main channel, and since a bayou holds, rather than moves, water, the beaver did not threaten the harmony of its surroundings. Each morning, Nelson conducted his exercise routine. Each evening he read. He made several trips to Little Rock during this time, day-long excursions that involved business. On some trips, he carried white garbage bags filled with material destined for some charity. He stopped often at Barker’s, sometimes after hours where he and Barker would sit talking until late. Other activities were confined to almost daily trips to the post office. After one trip there, he had stopped at the bank to deposit his monthly check. Morgan was displeased with him, waving him to her desk and unloading quietly. “I haven’t heard a word from you,” she said under her breath as she appeared to be showing him the latest rates on the bank’s certificates of deposit. She smiled as she whispered. “Was it just a one-night stand for you?” Nelson looked around the bank. No one seemed interested in their conversation. “I’ve been busy,” he said. “Had some loose ends to attend to. I did some work around the place.” Morgan smiled as she pointed to the chart. “I’ll make you think ‘loose ends’ if you don’t call me pretty soon.” Then she placed the rate chart on her desk. “What business?”

“Wrapping up some things involving Edith,” he said. “Nothing that would interest you.” “Everything interests me,” she said, smiling with fury. “Are you planning to skeedaddle?” “You would be the first to know,” he said. “Do you know anyone who wants to buy a small place on the bayou, only used a few times?” “You bastard,” she said under her breath. She forced another smile on her face and tilted her head to one side. “These have a ‘no-call’ feature,” she said as a coworker ed near her desk. “That means you are guaranteed the interest until full maturity.” After the other had ed, she whispered sweetly, “And trust me, I know all about ‘full maturity.’” “Received and acknowledged,” he said, beginning to rise. She placed a hand on this arm, motioning for him to stay. “Anything else occupying your time other than this business for Edith?” Nelson looked concerned. He looked to make sure no one was watching. “One other promise to keep for a friend,” he said. “But you don’t want to know anything about this one, and . . .” He stopped and looked around again and, leaning toward her, whispered, “You probably don’t want to see me again until it’s done. So don’t think I’m avoiding you, but you shouldn’t come to my place or try to me.” His voice was cold and his eyes had a vacant stare. His tone was so solemn that Morgan didn’t respond as he stood and offered her his hand. She shook it in obvious confusion and watched him leave. As he neared the bank doors, a figure emerged from a hallway and confronted him. It was Albert Courtney Jr. “Gideon,” he said offering his hand. “So nice to see you gracing our little establishment.” “Mr. Courtney.” “Oh please, Al,” the other said. “That’s what everyone calls me.” He pumped Nelson’s hand again before releasing it. “Even the employees, though I tried to get them to use ‘Your Excellence,’” he said laughing. “Miss Fowler took good care of you as usual, I hope?” He winked.

“Absolutely.” “Been thinking,” Courtney said. “Could we get together and talk sometime?” “About?” “Things,” Courtney said. “Just things. Edith, rest her soul, was not the only friend you have made in Armistead County.” He looked toward Morgan’s desk and then motioned for them to move away from the entrance and stand in a secluded corner of the lobby. “We need good people in the county,” he said. “Quite frankly, there are those who hope you have settled here permanently.” He moved toward Nelson slightly and took on a conspiratorial look. “Lots of opportunity for a young man with a head on his shoulders. As Dad himself said, ‘a man like that makes himself noticed in Armistead County,’ and he ought to know.” “Maybe coffee sometime,” Nelson said. “May I dare hope soon? Can I get a promise?” Nelson laughed. “You’re a good salesman, Mr. . . .” He caught himself. “Al. I promise you that we’ll meet soon.” “As the condemned man said when offered a new rope for the hanging, ‘Fair enough,’” said Courtney. “Forgive me, but I do love to imitate Charles Dickens.” He placed one hand on Nelson’s shoulder and shook with the other. “I’ll bet you read him, too, don’t you?” “On occasion,” said Nelson. Then he turned and left. That had been a week ago. On this day, Nelson didn’t turn toward Armistead. Instead, he continued west and went into Little Rock. Late that afternoon, he stopped at Barker’s as Elvis was closing. He parked behind the store and sat in the “collusion corner” until the store was secured and Elvis had cut the power to the external lights. As he walked toward the corner, Elvis detoured briefly behind the counter and emerged with a half-filled bottle of Jack Daniels Whiskey. He carried it with him to the coffee area where he took two cups from a stack. Returning to the table, he sat everything down with a bang. “Fuck a Diet Coke,” he said. “I’ve had a rough day. How about you?”

“Hoist the battle flag,” said Nelson as Elvis offered him a cup. Elvis filled both their cups with an inch of liquor. He motioned for Nelson to share in a toast. “To the girls of Subic Bay,” he said. “And to all them West Pac Widows that knows how to keep secrets.” “To good friends all,” said Nelson. They tossed liquor down and Elvis refilled the cups. They sat quietly, sipping the liquor this time. After a moment’s silence, Elvis spoke. “So how goes it?” “So far, so good,” he said. As the darkness settled on Armistead County, the two men talked about plans, about the Navy, about old loves, and about adventures, both imagined and real.

28

As the weekend approached, Nelson continued to discard belongings and carry out improvement projects around his place. The summer bore on, offering little relief from the stifling drought that had fallen upon the county. At the coffee shop, and at Barker’s, even at the bank and at the nursing home, long-time residents talked about the weather and how, if relief didn’t come soon, disaster was certain. Farmers no longer talked about years when it had been worse. This was the worst. This year would set the new base and would be the stuff of legends, even myths. It would be the year that those who were young now will talk about, when they had grown old, relating experiences to the young. This would be the example of what hard times were like. They will tell how a person lives through them, how a year like that either makes people stronger or breaks them forever. It was a year that frightened even those who were hard to frighten, a select group that includes almost everyone who has ever worked the land for a living. Nelson visited the local real estate office and quietly put his place on the market. He arranged with the owner to keep the listing confidential until he told him otherwise, but that, if a prospect were to appear, he should Nelson and let him know about it. The owner winked in understanding and swore himself and his staff to secrecy. “We know how to service clients,” he said in parting. Two days later, returning from the post office, Nelson saw Duffey’s car parked at Barker’s and pulled in. Duffey was leaning on the counter talking to Elvis when he saw Nelson enter. He stood and waved. “Hey Nelson,” he said. “Hear you have your place up for sale.” Nelson lowered his head and shook it. “You want to buy it?” “On an ace reporter’s salary? Get real.” “I’ll throw in the furniture.” “How about the visitors’ es?”

“You’re on your own there.” “Drats.” Nelson looked around the store. The three were alone. “Have you done what you promised?” “Cost me every cent I could beg, borrow, or steal,” he said. “I could have told you those cheapskates at the newspaper office wouldn’t spring for it. Thanks for the part of the cost you loaned me.” “If it all works out, you’ll think it’s the best investment you ever made. And you?” He turned to Elvis. “All squared away.” Nelson took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We ain’t exactly a ‘Green Team’ are we?” Duffey perked up. “What’s that?” Before Nelson could answer, Elvis spoke up. “Let me,” he said to Nelson. Turning to Duffey, he said. “It’s the best of the best of the best,” he said. He looked at Nelson. “And I finally found out what Boats here, along with Timmie Hartwell, did in the United States Navy.” Nelson studied him for a moment. “Don’t believe everything you hear in Armistead County,” he said. “Oh,” said Elvis. “I got it from a reliable source.” “Then I hope you are better at keeping secrets than our local real estate salesman. Just know that I was a swabbie like you for four years.” “I’m good with secrets when I have to be, Boats,” Elvis said. “And I have one here for you.” He reached under the counter and produced a sheet of notebook paper folded in half. A strip of transparent tape sealed the two halves. He handed it to Nelson carefully, as if further touch might burn his fingers. “I didn’t read it and Ace Reporter here don’t know nothing about it.”

Nelson nodded, folded the paper again, and placed it in his pocket. “Oh hell,” said Duffey. “Am I going to have material for a follow-up story on Amanda Courtney’s engagement announcement?” “Calm down,” said Nelson. “You’ll know all about it when the time comes.” The three looked at one another for any sign that something wasn’t right, and each relaxed. Nelson broke the silence. “Are we all still in?” “Fucking ‘A,’” said Elvis. Duffey followed. “Why not?” “Then damn the torpedoes,” said Nelson. “I think things are going to happen pretty fast now.”

* * *

He didn’t look at the note until he arrived home. After parking the truck, he went inside and mixed a drink. Only after he had moved onto the porch and taken a seat did he take the sheet from his pocket and unfold it. He reached into his left pants pocket and produced a pocket knife with which he slit the tape. He placed the knife on the table, opened the page full, took a drink and read. “Catcher of Great Fish: I did not deceive you sir. Love in Armistead County is hidden quite deeply at times. Keep looking. Your friend, Millard.” Nelson laughed to himself and tossed the note on the table. Then he pulled a business card with a note wrapped around it from the same shirt pocket. As he left the post office that morning, Morgan Fowler had waited for him at the door. She had placed the card and note in his hand, pulled his face to hers, kissed him, and spun away to her car. He unwrapped the note from around Morgan’s business card, turned it over and read, “Please don’t break my heart.” After reading this note and placing it on the table with Millard’s, Nelson reached

into a back pocket and pulled out a letter that he had received that morning at the post office. He had thrust it quickly into the pocket when he saw Morgan. Now he examined it carefully. It was addressed to him with crude, block handwriting. There was no return address. The envelope was a business type, with a security interior that prevented him from determining its contents. Nelson reached for his knife and carefully slit the top of the envelope. He retrieved one white sheet of paper with a pencil-written note in the same handwriting as the address. “Mr. Nelson,” the note began. “I think from things I here around town that you are not satisfied with the way the Bobby Johnson trial went. This has caused me to think and to come to face a thing that is on my mind. I know something that involved Bobby, Tyrone, and, yes sir, Timmie Hartwell too. I have held it in for years but hearing about you’re efforts has placed me in position to come clean about it. You will understand why I can’t tell anyone in the county but I could confine in you for you are a stranger, and a brave one. If you will meet me at the old Hebron Chapel Church this coming Saturday night at six o’clock pm, I can tell you much that you want to know. Alone. I think you know by now how much danger this places both you and I in so please don’t tell anyone. I beg, anyone.” It was signed, “Matt Smithey.” Nelson retrieved his cell phone and punched in a number. In a moment, he spoke into it. “It’s time for us to go in harm’s way.” He paused. “Affirmative.” Then he disconnected and began to enter another number.

29

Saturday’s sky turned overcast, offering a ray of hope for the county. As thick white clouds moved in lazy arcs across the sky, there were brief respites from the sun’s brutal heat. Farmers in the field would stop their work and look upwards, not daring hope, but still sensing a change. People began to emerge from their homes and start projects that had been neglected. Children played games with added intensity. Birds that had lately shunned the heat of day struck up familiar tunes. It was a day of faint hope as Nelson drove into town and parked along a street near Broadwell’s Funeral Home. As he entered, a sound system pumped soft organ music through the rooms. People stood around in groups or pairs talking, laughing, some shaking hands and some hugging. The smell of flowers permeated the atmosphere in a brave attempt to mitigate the sorrow of loss. A few heads turned toward Nelson, then, making no connection, returned to their conversations. Death brings a need for the familiar, not for the unknown, nor for strangers. Nelson looked around. A young man dressed impeccably in a black suit approached and offered assistance. “Mr. Broadwell asked me to stop by the afternoon,” he said. “Gideon Nelson is the name.” “Oh yes, sir,” he said. “He is in his office and told me to bring you there.” He led Nelson down a long hallway and motioned toward the last door. “He’s expecting you.” Nelson rapped on the door and a voice responded, “Come in.” He entered to find a man well into his 70s seated behind an ornate walnut desk. The room was decorated in soft hues and lit only by a small lamp on the desk. The man arose and extended his hand. Nelson temporarily recoiled from the overpowering smell of cologne, a habit of the elderly and overly somber, but he shook the man’s hand sincerely. “I’ll bet you are Mr. Nelson,” the man said. “I’m Richard Broadwell.”

“Gideon Nelson, you are correct,” Nelson said, following the man’s motion for him to sit. “You told Elvis Barker you wanted to see me.” “Yes,” said Broadwell. “I have something for you. He reached down and opened the large bottom drawer on the right side of his desk. He drew from it an object within a triangular plastic container. It was a tightly and properly folded American flag. “Edith Hartwell left instructions that you were to have this.” He handed it across the desk to Nelson. “It’s Tim’s flag that she received at his funeral.” Nelson looked stunned. He held the flag is if it might burst into flames. “Didn’t she have a family member to leave it to? There must be some mistake.” Broadwell glanced toward the door of his office. “You knew Edith well, didn’t you?” “My honor,” said Nelson, still staring at the flag. “Did you ever know her to make decisions lightly?” Nelson shook his head. “Between the two of us,” Broadwell said. “I think she was afraid her kin would toss it in the trash as soon as her funeral ended.” He picked up a fountain pen from his desk and studied it. He laid it back down and looked at Nelson. “From what little I know about you, I don’t think you would do that.” He stood. “Now,” he said. “I hate to be brief, but I have two visitations going on and these folks expect to see me attending to them in their time of loss.” He leaned forward with both hands on his desk. “You know about responsibilities, don’t you?” “I do,” said Nelson. “Thank you.” He rose, shook hands, and walked back into the heat. He didn’t drive straight through Armistead when he left. He had one more appointment, an appointment that took more than an hour. Then he went home. Back at his house, Nelson changed into a pair of jeans and a black knit shirt. He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, dried it, and combed his hair. He went into his kitchen and sat at the table where Tim Hartwell’s funeral flag and a brown leather briefcase lay in front of him. He studied them both. The briefcase was an ordinary one, save for a mesh cover that folded

across one side, apparently designed to hold documents that the carrier might need quickly. Nelson continued to study the two objects, stopping frequently to check the time. As the sun began to ease toward the horizon, he took a soft drink from the refrigerator and drank it on the porch as he watched life in and around the bayou start to quicken. Two hours later, he locked the house and headed out. He arrived at the church early, parking his truck in a conspicuous location. He emerged, carrying the brown briefcase, and looked slowly around him. He left the truck but, before entering the church building, walked completely around it, making a careful inspection. When he arrived at the entrance, he looked around once more. The huge stand of oaks that surrounded the building had placed it in the shade for more than an hour. When he entered the sanctuary, the temperature was surprisingly comfortable. A soft evening breeze filtered through broken window panes, and the room was quiet and still. Three tables sat in a triangle formation, about 20 feet apart. Nelson arranged them so they were closer, but still safely separated. He sat at the one closest to the pulpit area, at the apex of the triangle, and laid the briefcase in the middle of the table, the mesh facing up. The entrance to the church was directly in front of him. The other tables sat opposite from one another and near the side walls. The door to the Sundayschool wing was to his immediate right and opened halfway. He nodded and took mental note of all distances and headings. Then he folded his arms and waited. He sensed the approach of a vehicle seconds before he heard it. The sound was not steady, but reflected the rough condition of the road leading to the church. As the vehicle drew nearer, the sounds of tires hitting bumps and the engine slowing and accelerating became clearer. Then the vehicle arrived at the church and stopped. There was a pause and a door opened. Scuffling ensued and a brief time ed. Then the door slammed shut and footsteps approached. The stairs leading into the church groaned as footsteps sounded on the wood. The bright entrance to the sanctuary turned completely dark as Matt Smithey entered and blocked out the sunlight. He stopped to allow his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkened interior, saw Nelson, and walked forward. “Mr. Nelson,” he said, nodding. “Did you come alone?” “I did,” said Nelson. He motioned for Matt to take a seat at the table to his left. “Good to see you, Matt.”

The huge figure sat, carefully. He was wearing jeans, a t-shirt advertising the local football team, and running shoes. An Arkansas Razorback cap sat far back on his head, the bill pointing upward. He had sweated slightly on the trip there and the muscles in his arms gleamed in the darkened room. “I hope you will think so when we’re through,” he said. “What’s on your mind?” Nelson got right to the point, and Matt appeared relieved. “I know you and Timmie were friends,” Matt said. “Shipmates,” said Nelson. “We were on the same team.” “Navy Seals,” Matt said. “Navy Seals.” “You came here on of his grandmother.” “Correct.” “You didn’t come here for no other reason?” “For what other reason would I have come?” Matt thought. “Maybe to find out more about Timmie?” “I knew all about Tim Hartwell that I needed to know.” “So all this poking around into the death of Tyrone Davis just happened after you got here?” “What poking around?” Matt laughed. “Mr. Nelson, everybody in Armistead County knows you been asking questions ever since that trial.” “Maybe I’m just a naturally curious person.” “Did Timmie ever tell you about me and him?”

“Not that I recall,” said Nelson. “Or me and him and Tyrone?” “No, I’m positive about that. Why do you ask?” “We were all best friends,” Matt said. “You didn’t hardly ever see one of us without the other two.” He stopped and looked around. “There were some other boys, too. We had a club, sort of.” “What kind of club?” “It was part of our scout troop,” Matt said. “We were the leaders.” He looked around. “A scout had to be invited to move up into our group. Had to be initiated and all.” Nelson leaned forward, suddenly showing more interest. “Initiated?” “Yes sir.” “Was Bobby Johnson initiated into it?” Matt didn’t respond. “Was he?” “Bobby didn’t quite measure up,” Matt said. For the first time, he began to fidget. “Bobby has had a hard life. I had one, too,” he said. “So did most of the boys in our club. That is what brought us together. My daddy drank pretty much to the point that I didn’t really have a family, at least until I got in the scouts. I still have scars from my upbringing. Timmie’s mama died. Bobby had to work all the time. Most of us had a hard life.” “From what I understand,” Nelson said. “Bobby is still having one.” “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Matt said. Nelson leaned back in his chair. As he did, Matt relaxed as well. “So,” Nelson said. “Talk to me.” The room was getting darker. Matt’s face was dark against the glare of the light

from the entry. His faced turned red as he struggled for the correct words. He looked at Nelson as though he expected help in disgorging his story. Seeing none, he continued. “Bobby and his brother were part of our troop. I didn’t like them all that well, but Timmie and Tyrone did. They wanted to bring them into our club, but I didn’t. So, we made a bargain.” “You compromised,” Nelson said. “That’s what you might call it,” Matt said. “We decided to let Bobby in but not Ronnie.” He seemed to something. “Did you know he wasn’t retarded then?” “Yes,” said Nelson. “Go on.” “Well, we set up the initiation but Ronnie came in and broke it up.” “Bobby didn’t get initiated?” “No, sir. Not fully.” “But he and Tyrone remained friends?” “Yes, sir. Until they had a falling out.” “And Bobby ended up killing him?” Matt had been staring at the ceiling. He snapped it down and glared at Nelson. He cocked it to one said as if totally confused. Then his expression changed to one of distrust, as if he were trying to determine if Nelson was deceiving him. Finally, it took on a peaceful expression. An almost-smile flashed across it. He leaned forward. “Bobby never killed anyone,” he said. “Much less Tyrone Davis. Bobby wouldn’t have let one little argument make him do that.” “You seem pretty sure of that,” Nelson said. “Oh, I am,” Matt said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“What?” “That if Savannah told you Bobby never did it, she told you right. Bobby never killed Tyrone.” “How do you know?” “Cause I did.” Nelson let out a breath. “Oh shit,” he said. Matt was looking at him the way a child who has just given an answer to a teacher might look, waiting to know if it was correct. Nelson shook his head in response. Matt’s expression became blank as he lowered his head and looked at Nelson from beneath his brow. Nelson placed both hands on the table in front of him. Finally, he said simply, “Why?” Matt didn’t raise his head. Still, when he responded, his voice was firm and full so that it boomed around the sanctuary. “Because,” he said. “I was told to.” “Told to?” “Yes.” Nelson seemed thoroughly confused. “Who told you to?” A loud voice erupted from outside the entrance. “As the baby Jesus said when the Virgin Mother asked what was making her tummy hurt . . .” When the two looked toward the voice, the barrel of a pistol broke the plane of the entrance, then a hand, an arm, and finally, the full body of Albert Courtney Jr. appeared. He moved forward with the pistol aimed directly at the back of Matt’s head. “That would be me.”

30

Nelson didn’t move as Courtney walked toward Matt. The pistol he pointed at the young man’s head was a Beretta 92FS nine-millimeter semi-automatic with a 15-round capacity, an ugly thing and deadly in the hands of someone knowing how to use it. Courtney moved his free hand to the pistol in a shooter’s pose. Matt didn’t turn to look at him. He sat with his hands on the table and watched Nelson. The only sound in the room was the scuffling of Courtney’s feet as he continued toward Matt. When he was five feet away, he started to swing the pistol so that it pointed away from Matt and toward Nelson. He moved directly beside Matt and nudged him with his leg. Matt rose and turned toward him. While each kept an eye on Nelson, they kissed full in the mouth. Then they concentrated their full attention back to him. “Good job, Sweetie,” Courtney said. Matt grinned. “Did I do okay, Papa Al?” “As always. Take a seat and watch the show,” Courtney said. Matt sat down and Courtney smiled at Nelson. “Don’t think about starting any of your he-man shit,” he said. “I’m a crack shot, and Matt here can still do the 40yard dash in four-and-a-half seconds.” He eased away from Matt, placing Nelson halfway between the two. “In short,” he said. “You’re fucked.” “It would appear so,” said Nelson. He fidgeted slightly. “Then you probably wouldn’t mind telling me what happened.” “You made a mistake,” Matt said from where he sat. “And that was?” Matt looked at Courtney who said, “Go ahead. Tell him.”

“You fucked with the Eagles.” Nelson turned his gaze from Matt to Courtney and back. He turned his hands upward as they rested on the table. “The Eagles?” “The Eagles.” Matt smiled. “And what are the Eagles?” Matt looked at Courtney who nodded. “Our band,” he said. “The best group of boys in the county. The deputies you beat up were Eagles.” “The elite,” said Courtney, “of Boy Scout Troop . . . ,” and he called out the number. “And you were the scoutmaster,” Nelson said, looking at Courtney. “He was our dad,” said Matt. He, too, looked toward Courtney. “He was the closest thing to a real dad that most of us ever had.” “So your dad here told you to kill Tyrone Davis? That’s some kind of parental guidance,” Nelson said, staring into Matt’s eyes. “Mr. Nelson, did you ever have your dad beat you with a broken chair leg?” “No.” “Did you ever have your dad slam you down so hard that you bounced across the floor and into a wall when he was way past good and drunk?” “No.” “Then don’t . . . ,” said Courtney, interrupting before Matt could continue, “talk to this boy about parental guidance.” He held the gun trained on Nelson’s head, but his hand shook slightly. “Mine was an expert at guidance. He didn’t like the way I was, so he tried to beat it out of me first and then starve it out of me. When that didn’t work, he offered me his empire.” “And?” Nelson said. “By that time, I’d figured out I could have it both ways . . . I could have the

empire and have me a band of young boys to guide through life as well.” “And Tim Hartwell was part of that band?” “Timmie was never as enthusiastic as I would have liked,” Courtney said. “Now Matt here, he was the real star. Timmie hung around mainly to bask in Matt’s glory.” Matt interjected. “Folks always thought I was born with athletic talent,” he said. “But I learned to take pain early on, and the rest was just working on a chance to get even.” “And Tyrone Davis?” “Ah, Tyrone,” said Courtney, as if ing a pleasant evening. “He broke the rule.” “What rule?” “The rule about falling in love with someone outside of the Band of Eagles.” Nelson was intrigued now. “Not a woman, though?” “Oh no, some fag in Little Rock,” Courtney said. “See, Tyrone wanted to get married. Of course you can’t do that in this state, but he was going to ‘partner up’ so to speak. Make it formal. Maybe even go to some other state and make it legal there.” “And that was against the rules?” “Maybe. Maybe not,” said Courtney. “What was against the rules was partnering up with an honest man.” “What do you mean?” “This Little Rock queer wanted Tyrone to ‘come out.’ Make a public announcement. Act happy about the whole goddamn thing.” Courtney’s face turned cold. “That’s what was against the rules.” “And he told Bobby Johnson,” Nelson said.

“That little asshole,” said Courtney. “I should’ve killed him and his fucking retard brother when I had a chance.” “That’s what Bobby and Tyrone were arguing about at the Gentlemen’s Club,” Nelson said. “Came in right handy, didn’t it, that little argument.” “But tell me,” Nelson said. “Matt here doesn’t seem all that bright. How did he arrange it with you out in Minnesota?” Matt stiffened, but Courtney motioned to him. “He’s trying to get your goat.” Matt relaxed, then said, “It was easy. I called them both and said we three needed to get together because something really important had come up. Something that could harm us all. I told Tyrone we were meeting here, and I told Bobby we were meeting up by ‘The Hole.’” “The sink hole?” Courtney interrupted. “Yeah, the place where the little Johnson shits got away from me. They knew exactly where it was and I didn’t. So they crossed and I couldn’t.” He stopped when he began to become agitated. “Go on, you might as well let the son of a bitch know it all. It ain’t going to help him.” He smiled at Nelson. “He’s got his own appointment with The Hole.” “Anyway,” Matt said, “it was easy after that. Of course Papa Al here spread a little money around.” “So it wasn’t your dad that orchestrated all this,” Nelson said to Courtney. “My dad? That old fart goes to meetings and does what I tell him to do,” said Courtney. “Now you tell me something. Why weren’t you more surprised when I walked in?” “Pretty simple,” Nelson said. “Just a little deduction here and a little deduction there.” Courtney stepped to the third table and sat. He placed the gun on the table to rest his arm. “Don’t get any ideas,” he said. I was captain of my air wing’s

marksmanship team, and I can fire this weapon faster than you can move.” He put a hand on the black plastic stock of the pistol. “Now tell, me. What little deductions? I wasn’t even in the state when the trouble went down.” “It started with the transcript that didn’t exist.” “That goddamned Jimmy Caldwell and his goddamned transcript,” Courtney said, seeming to be on the verge of exploding. “Well, it got lost and if it ever shows up, we’ll drop it down in ‘The Hole’ with you.” He calmed a bit. “That greedy fucking ‘would-be’ lawyer. He just knew we would pay for an appeal. That’s how come the transcript was made.” He laughed. “You should have seen his little piss-ant face when I told him Uncle Albert didn’t see the need for an appeal. After he had paid to have the transcript typed. But . . .” He laughed again. “No appeal. No need for a transcript.” He motioned with the barrel of the pistol. “But you didn’t stick your nose into this because of an unnecessary transcript. What set you off?” “I decided you were an evil son of a bitch,” said Nelson. He said it calmly and smiled when Courtney stiffened. “Why me?” “Elvis Barker is the closest thing I have to a friend in this county,” Nelson said. “And he didn’t know whether I was enlisted or an officer in the Navy, but you did. You were also a little too interested in my reading habits.” “So?” “So, I had a friend who had a friend who had ways to check phone records.” “And?” Courtney was beginning to get interested. “You made lots of calls from Minnesota to Arkansas around the time of the murder. Most of them to a couple of people.” He waved a hand toward Matt. “Einstein here was one. Tyrone Davis was the other.” “Son of a fucking bitch,” said Courtney. He looked at Matt. “You moron.” He said to Nelson, “The cocksucker called me five times a day.” “I know,” said Nelson.

Matt looked hurt. He turned to Courtney. “Why were you talking to Tyrone? “Fuck you,” said Courtney. “I decide who talks to who.” Without any emotion, he said, “But if you want to know, I was offering to fly him up for a wild weekend of the wildest sex he would ever have. Then I would have killed him myself.” “But he didn’t?” Matt was slumping in his chair. “No he didn’t, and I was really disappointed because you know what? That boy was the best I ever had. And I’ve had my pick of the young boys of Armistead County for 30 years.” He relaxed slightly from the effects of his memories. “Too bad that he had some old fashioned idea about being faithful to his man.” Courtney suddenly seemed to realize that the conversation was veering off course. He turned back to Nelson. “But a former navy enlisted man can’t order up phone records. How did you?” “I have friends,” Nelson said. He turned toward the door leading to the Sunday school wing and said in a loud voice, “Have you heard enough?” “Quite enough,” a voice replied. Before anyone could move, a figure sprang through the door and aimed an automatic pistol at Courtney’s head, from just a few steps away. The visible portion of the man’s shirt was drenched in sweat. Most of it was covered by a black protective vest with large yellow letters stating “FBI” across the front. The man repeated the identification orally. “FBI,” he said. “Nobody move.” He moved a step closer to Courtney, who had stiffened. “Please, please go for it, Albert. It would make me so happy.” Courtney froze, then slowly moved his hand away from the gun. When Matt stirred, Courtney said slowly, “Matt, I don’t think he can get both of us.” “He won’t have to,” a voice said from the church entrance. “I’ll get Matt in the leg so he can stand trial while Tom takes care of you. The speaker was dressed identically to the first agent. He was a tall African-American, and his pistol was aimed directly at Matt. He was the only one in the room who moved, sliding carefully to where Courtney sat. Reaching him, he took the Beretta from the table, moved across the room, and placed the gun next to the briefcase where Nelson sat. “Al,” Nelson said, after taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “You told

me to call you Al, if you . I’d like you to meet Tom Benson, the Special Agent in charge of the Little Rock office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He waved toward the first agent. “I believe,” he said. “You know the other one.” Courtney turned to face the other man. Recognition was instant. “You!” He said. “I believe you do indeed Dubois Barker, Elvis’ brother.” “Oh he didn’t call me Dubois,” the man said. “He called me that little . . . well, let’s just say he had a special name for me when I tried to the scouts.” He patted Courtney under either arm. “How’s it hangin’, Papa Al?” He reached to the radio attached to his vest near his chin. “Grunt One,” he said speaking into the mike. “This is ‘Preacher,’ all secure. Come on in.” “Papa Al?” Matt looked stricken and confused. “Shut your fucking mouth,” Courtney said. He looked at Dubois Barker. “You’ve got nothing on me.” “Oh, I heard plenty,” said Agent Benson. “What you heard don’t mean dip shit in Armistead County,” said Courtney. “Oh, I imagine it will,” the agent said. “Besides, I may have more fun than just testifying against your sick ass.” He looked over toward Nelson. “Did it work?” Nelson laughed and flipped over the mesh cover of the briefcase in front of him to reveal a device connected to two small microphones. He disconnected those and opened the case. Inside were two small flat speakers, to which he connected the device. He punched a control, and a clear voice with a slight background of static filled the room. “Mr. Nelson,” Matt’s voice said, “Did you come alone?” Then Nelson’s, “I did.” Nelson stabbed a control a few times, and the group heard Matt again, “We were all best friends, You didn’t hardly ever see one of us without the other two. There were some other boys, too. We had a club, sort of.” He stabbed the control several more times and Courtney’s voice was plain. “Go

on, you might as well let the son of a bitch know it all. It ain’t going to help him. He’s got his own appointment with The Hole.” Nelson turned off the device. “I think we got it all,” he said. Dubois Barker smiled at Courtney. “Thank my nephew,” he said. “Another little ‘pickaninny’ you wouldn’t have let into the scout troop.” Courtney didn’t say anything. Outside, they heard the sounds of vehicles arriving and doors being opened and shut. “Mr. Courtney?” Matt was whimpering now. “I told you once to shut up,” Courtney said. “What are the feds going to do, get us for violating someone’s civil rights by not letting them into the scouts?” “Oh, we have some local presence,” Agent Benson said. At that moment, heavy footsteps sounded on the church porch along with a breathless, “Jesus H. Christ, you didn’t tell me there were going to be steps.” The figure of Sheriff Gladson Love filled the doorway and walked into the sanctuary, gasping for air. Courtney grew furious. “How, how . . . ?” he began. “It was simple,” said Agent Barker. “Acting on a tip from concerned citizens in Armistead County, we were able to trace some phone records and to obtain a near ‘deathbed statement’ from one Ronnie Johnson.” “That fucking retard,” Courtney said. “Try getting his testimony to stand up in court.” Barker ignored him. “It took us multiple interviews to convince him that his family wouldn’t suffer if he told us everything.” He looked around the room slowly. “It’s amazing the level of fear that can cover a county.” He shook his head and spoke to Courtney. “You had almost everyone cowed. Anyway, Ronnie Johnson was the first to cast off the shackles. Then Sheriff Love here. So, we have pretty well tied things up.” He patted the sheriff on the back. “Sheriff,” he said. “Would you do the honors?” “My pleasure,” the sheriff said. “Up against the wall redneck mothers,” he said,

laughing so his huge belly shook and seemed to move the whole building. “That’s a song by Jerry Jeff Walker, an old idol of mine. I always did want to use it.” As the agents prodded the two prisoners into position, the sheriff listed the charges and recited the Miranda rulings, adding, “You also have the right to not be shot in the foot for disparaging the sheriff’s weight or not to be shot in the ass for farting while the sheriff is attaching the handcuffs.” Everyone laughed except Al Courtney and Matt Smithey. As the two were led through the church exit, the night exploded with flashes of light. Rick Duffey was standing to one side of the steps with an expensive new camera firing shots in quick succession. After several, he changed controls on the camera and it lighted the scene for video mode, “Mr. Courtney,” Rick shouted. “Would you like to comment on charges being brought against you?” “Fuck you, you little nobody,” Courtney shouted into the camera. Duffey lowered it. “Do you wish now maybe you had let me in the scouts?” “Shut up, Ricky,” Matt said as an agent was pushing down on his head and placing him in the back seat of a cruiser. “You asshole.” Before the agent closed the door, Duffey snapped off several shots of Matt. “You always did photograph well,” he said. “Wait till your fans see these.” Matt turned his head to avoid the camera. Duffey spun around to the other car where Al Courtney was sitting. “You’re going to be ‘Man of the Year’ again in Armistead County,” he said. Courtney glared back as the agent closed the door. The excitement was coming to a close. In the background, the darkness surrounded the church in peace once more, a responsibility that it had carried out faithfully for years, on nights of love, hope, harmony, and even—like this one— infamy. Everyone was silent except for Matt Smithey, who kept shouting, “Papa Al? Papa Al?” as the agents drove the two away in the separate vehicles. When the vehicles reached the state highway, they turned in opposite directions.

31

Nelson slowed the truck as he reached the Armistead County line. The days were shorter now and darkness would settle on the delta soon. On both sides of the highway, crops stood proud and green in the late evening’s glow. Water sparkled in the ditches and tree leaves swayed gracefully in the late summer breeze. He reached to the seat on the enger side and grabbed his cell phone. He punched a number and waited. “I’m here.” He said. He waited and then, “Will do.” When he reached the road to his place, he didn’t take it. Instead, he pulled into Barker’s. It was closed for the day, so he parked behind the store. He knocked on a rear door and, after a minute’s wait, Martin Barker opened it. “Mr. Nelson,” he said. “So good to see you. Come on in,” he said, extending his hand and shaking Nelson’s. “Good to see you, Martin. I think you’ve grown in a month.” This pleased Martin and he quickly led Nelson through a storeroom to the “collusion corner.” At it sat Elvis, Rick Duffey, and Millard. Martin took a seat and motioned for Nelson to take the remaining one. Before sitting, Nelson shook hands around the table. Each man commented. “The conquering hero returns,” said Duffey. “Welcome back, ‘catcher of evil things,’” said Millard. “Where the fuck you been?” Elvis said and quickly looked at Martin. “You didn’t hear that.” Elvis pointed at his son and said to Nelson, “He’s a man now, or will be as soon as we circumcise him.” “Aw dad,” Martin said.

“Oh right,” said Elvis. “We done took care of that. Then we’ll just tattoo ‘I got herpes’ on your forehead.” The men all laughed. They were in good spirits. Each had a glass of whiskey in front of him except for Martin, who had nothing, and Duffey, who had a beer. Elvis pointed at Martin and then toward Nelson. Martin nodded, stood up and retrieved two more glasses. He sat one in front of Nelson and, looking with a plea in his eye toward Elvis, sat one in front of himself. “Your mama find out and you a dead jigaboo,” he said. Martin nodded energetically and Elvis poured a small finger of whiskey into his glass and then two full fingers into Nelson’s. “To the rain,” Elvis said, and they all raised their glasses and drank. Martin immediately began to gag in a performance that the others enjoyed immensely. “So where have you been?” Duffey said as he reached under the table and pulled up a worn briefcase. He pulled a folded newspaper from it and handed it to Nelson. A glaring headline graced a story bylined “Rick Duffey, staff reporter.” It read, “Indictments Continue.” Nelson laid it in front of him. “I’ll read it later.” “You were about to tell us where you’ve been for the last month,” Duffey said. “Just travelling around looking at America,” said Nelson. “It’s still out there, you know.” “I even hear that it is headed for a command appearance in Armistead County,” said Millard, raising his glass again. Everyone toasted and all drank again save Martin, who quietly returned his glass to the table. Nelson looked at Millard. “So how is the judge?” “The judge has been cleared by the doctors and is back on the job,” said Millard.

“Thank you so much for asking.” He drank again. “He freed me you know.” “That’s good,” said Nelson. “So what are you doing?” “Oh, I still look after the place for him,” he paused and winked. “But I moved into the main house.” Nelson nodded congratulations. “What’s more,” said Millard. “He’s letting me accumulate a library for us. And Martin is teaching me to use the computer.” “Oh, hell,” said Elvis. “The world is in for it now. Turning to Nelson, he asked, “How much do you know about what’s been happening?” “Absolutely nothing,” he said. “I gave Agent Benson my cell number and expected he would call me back at any time.” “According to ‘Brother-Man,’ they decided it might be best if they used you as a witness only as a last resort,” Elvis said. “No offense intended.” “None taken,” said Nelson. “But,” Elvis said. “Turns out they didn’t have to.” “They didn’t need me to provide evidence?” “That, Boats, is an understatement.” “I don’t understand.” “Hell hath no fury,” Duffey said. “And all that.” Nelson threw up his hands in exasperation. “They kept Matt and Al separated,” Elvis said. “It didn’t take but a little insinuating that Al was claiming all those phone calls were an attempt to talk Matt out of doing something, and he started playing defense like he hadn’t done since he left the university. “A funny thing happened then. Have you ever seen a stream that was stopped

up? Not a bayou but a real stream that is supposed to move old water out and new water in? It gets stopped up and pressure builds until something gives way and all that accumulated power surges forth, in this case the accumulated shame and hurt of nearly 30 years.” He stopped. “Another drink?” Then he continued. “So far 10 men have come forward to accuse the ‘Man of the Year’ of everything from providing alcohol to minors, to contributing, to rape. They say there may be up to 20 more. “After the first few, Al began to cop, and he is already facing enough time to be in jail several years past his next lifetime. It’s like a big boil burst in this community, and everything is coming clean. If it weren’t for the funerals, folks might even feel better. “What funerals you ask? First of course there was Edith Hartwell. Of course you knew about her. Then, sad to say, Ronnie Johnson ed. But guess what? Bobby was let out in time for it. He was right there on the front row with his wife and son. Folks are still talking about that funeral. Seems like everyone in the county was thinking that he or she would be the only one going. I know I did. Hell, I didn’t even know if they’d let black folks in that church. I closed about an hour before the funeral and started there, but when I got to where you turn off to the church, there wasn’t a place to park anywhere. That got me curious, so I walked half a mile to see what was going on. Get inside the church? Forget about it. By the time I got there, the crowd was lined up 15 deep outside the door, and by the time the music started, I was in the middle of the crowd. When the service was ending, you could have heard the folks singing “Farther Along” in the next county. Ain’t never been a funeral like that in Armistead County, and there ain’t likely to ever be another one either. “There was one more. You had been gone about three weeks when Uncle Albert went down to his office one night, turned on a single desk lamp, took a pistol from out of his desk, and killed himself. That was a sad one. Didn’t fill up three rows at the funeral. Duffey here first reported that the governor was coming, but I guess he heard about the mess and decided against it. They buried Uncle Albert a few days after they buried Ronnie.” He paused, and Nelson asked if anything else had happened. “Anything else? Ain’t that enough? Oh, there are a couple more things. Expect

someone to you about running for sheriff. Turns out Sheriff Love was keeping something from us cause he didn’t want to take any attention away from Ronnie Johnson. He has some strange form of cancer. They say it probably goes back to Vietnam. Maybe connected to him gaining all that weight. Anyway, the VA is going to take good care of him. So he had no reason to worry about his security in the first place. “Finally, if you want to settle down here, there’s a new spinster available. Amanda Courtney’s fiancé’s company didn’t feel like it would reflect well on it for the two of them to consummate the union, so she is once again on the market but about as popular, they say, as old Duffey here. “Now that I mention him, Ricky has something to tell you.” “The publishers want to sell the paper, and they asked me about buying it,” Duffey said. “I have a state-of-the-art camera, thanks to you, and three hundred dollars in the bank. You interested in owning a newspaper?” Nelson laughed, but said nothing. “Would The Catcher care to tell of his plans?” Millard poured himself another drink and sat back in his chair. “I have no plans,” Nelson said. “Anyway, it would be hard to top my experience in your county.” “To our county,” Elvis said, and the men all raised their glasses, even Martin.

* * *

The next morning, huge bilious clouds helped to create a pleasant world in Armistead County. A pre-dawn rain had freshened the crops, and they danced in the breeze. Nelson awoke early and completed packing and securing his few remaining belongings by mid-morning. As he stood looking at what had been his home for the last year, the distant sound of a car bounced across the fields between his place and the highway. It came into view, slowed, and pulled up

near his truck. The driver’s door opened and Morgan Fowler stepped out. “Nelson,” she said, partly in recognition and partly as plea for acknowledgement. “Morning, Morgan,” he said. “Were you just going to leave without saying a word?” “What was there to say?” “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe ‘You sure were a good fuck, Morgan.’ Or ‘Gee, you were the best one night stand I ever had.’” She pursed her lips, “No wait,” she said, as tears filled her eyes, ‘Gunnels awash,’ wasn’t that it?” “This isn’t going to help either of us, Morgan.” “I heard you sold the place.” “You heard right.” “They said you phoned the bank and that someone would send instructions as to where to transfer your .” “That’s right.” “Goddamn you.” “Why are you putting yourself through this?” “Maybe because I have feelings?” “I’m sure you do, but I have places to be.” “You are a real son of a bitch, you know?” “Morgan, I would never have brought this up, but you don’t seem to want to let go.” “Gideon, I’ve let go all my life. This was the one time I thought maybe I wouldn’t have to.”

“But don’t you see? I knew from the start.” She looked confused. She pulled a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed her eyes. “Knew what?” “That you were sent.” “Sent?” “To find out what you could about me.” She staggered backwards and her dress shoes caught on the grass, causing her to stumble back against her car. “I . . . , I . . . ,” she tried to speak but gave up and stared at the ground between them. “It’s okay,” he said. For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Morgan dabbed at her eyes again and tried to form words. Nelson began to attend to the rigging on the bed of his truck. Finally, she stood to her full height and said with conviction, “Just imagine one thing, will you?” He turned. “What?” “Just imagine there was a woman who had never been given anything in her life. Just imagine that she had clawed her way into respectability and security. Just imagine that she had everything she had ever wanted in life but one thing. And imagine that this one thing was someone to love.” She began to cry again and jabbed angrily at her eyes. “And just imagine, that in order to protect her security, she followed orders that made her nauseated but in the process, she found the love that she wanted.” She sniffed. “That she wanted so badly.” She began to sob now, with great jerks of her body. When she tried to stop, it forced mucous from her nose and she covered her face with her hand. Between her fingers, she screamed at Nelson so loud that nearby birds were frightened from their perches, “Just imagine, goddamn you. Just imagine.” Nelson watched her for a moment and then left her, still sobbing. He wheeled the truck slowly to the county road and turned toward the highway. He watched in the rearview mirror as she stumbled after him tripping in her fancy shoes, waving for him to stop, and spreading her legs grotesquely for balance, her dress

riding up her thighs. The windows in the truck were down, so the last thing he heard in Armistead County was Morgan Fowler shouting, “Gideon! Gideon!”

Epilogue

In the western hills of Maryland, two riders eased their horses toward a rushing stream. As they reached the banks of the icy waters, they stopped. The evening sun was sinking onto the tops of the distant mountains. The riders pulled the horses back to watch the sunset as it graced the end of another day. The horses stood close to one another. The legs of the riders touched, legs of two women in riding attire sitting silent in solemn respect for the beauty of nature. As they ed hands and watched, a gold wedding band on one sparkled in the light of the setting sun. They each drew in a breath to add the clean smell of pines, mountain air, and a pure running stream to their enjoyment. On a farm road running parallel to the riding path, a tired and worn pickup truck eased up to the bridge crossing the stream. It, too, stopped as the driver enjoyed the sunset. He looked toward the riders. They dropped their hands. The driver smiled and waved. The riders waved back at him. The three enjoyed the view for several minutes and then the truck moved away. The riders watched it recede into the distance. When the truck disappeared, the riders ed hands again. The tip of the sun reached the mountains and the evening began to take on the majestic quietude that marks the end of day. As if in approval, the two horses plunged their heads down and brought them sharply back to a ready position. The women leaned toward one another and ed in a tender kiss. They held their heads against each other until the sun dropped below the mountains and dusk descended. Only then did they pull away from one another and urge the horses into the cold water, splashing bold and happy toward the other side.