After Eli Page 15

  Dora began tapping her right foot, finding the beat. Then she stepped into a spirited toe-heel tap and she whirled over the floor and circled Michael. Her face was somber as her mind raced to remember the steps, and as she skipped over the floor, Michael stopped dancing and stared in astonishment. Rachel and Sarah had picked up the beat with their staccato clapping and they were laughing happily.

  Any of them would tell me, Michael thought as he watched Dora. His plan for the party had worked. Any of them would tell him gladly. He need only ask. And there was time to ask.

  “She’s dancin’,” Michael thundered. “Miss Dora’s dancin’. By God, we’ve got us a party now. We’ve got us a party.”

  12

  THE PARTY HAD lasted long—until after midnight, after the rain had been swept away in the wind—and Michael had gone to the barn and waited for the visitor he knew would arrive. It had been Sarah’s birthday and he had seen the woman step forward and the shyness of the girl fall away from her like a discarded garment. He knew she would come, and he had waited and taken her quickly and then dismissed her. Then he had fallen into an easy sleep.

  He was still asleep when the 1936 Chevrolet with SHERIFF lettered on the front doors arrived at the Pettit farm on Saturday morning.

  George English waited solemnly and fretfully inside the barn room as Michael quickly dressed. George had said the sheriff and the doctor needed him. He did not say why. He knew, but he did not say, and Michael realized that George had been bound to a threatening pledge to remain silent.

  As they rode back into Yale, speeding over the top-slick dirt road and then down the narrow paved highway, Michael sensed a fear, or perhaps an anger, building in George. It was not the game of law and order that George often enjoyed playing as he sat at the rolltop desk of the jail, imagining heroic episodes of legendary bravery. George was not a brave man, except in his illusions, which had become, in their own way, real. No, thought Michael, this was not a game. Whatever it was, whatever awaited him in Yale, was serious, and George English felt caged by it.

  * * *

  Michael saw the men, gathered in front of Fred Deal’s Merchandise Store across the street from the jail. He knew the scene immediately: It was a judgment crowd, silently standing, waiting, wondering. He recognized many of the men from his visits to Pullen’s Café. Especially the older men. He did not see Teague or Bailey or Job or the sawmill workers, who would arrive later, nearer evening. Michael knew the crowd and their mood. Crowds like this had followed him for years, yelping and spitting anger from their diseased tongues like a spray of dragon fire. He knew them from inside their souls and their guts. He knew the impregnable shields of their single-mindedness. He knew their generals and their followers—could pick them out at a glance.

  “Any trouble yet?” he asked George.

  “The sheriff’ll tell you what you need to know,” George mumbled.

  Michael swiveled in his car seat to face George. He said, “Dammit, man, I don’t need to know what’s wrong to see that’s a thinkin’ crowd. What I want to know, and I want to know it now, is if there’s been any trouble yet.”

  George shook his head. He was surprised by the ice in Michael’s voice. Michael had been a jester.

  “Nothin’ yet,” George replied. He flipped his head toward the crowd of men. “They ain’t moved since I left to come get you.”

  George braked the car to a stop in front of the jail. He got out quickly and went inside without looking across the street. Michael sat and waited. He could see the doctor watching him through the door of the jail. He opened the door of the car and slipped out of the seat and stood and stretched. He waved broadly to the men standing in front of Deal’s store and strolled lazily inside the jail.

  Garnett Cannon nodded to him.

  “Doc. Sheriff,” Michael said in greeting. He looked beyond Curtis Hill. He could see Owen through the bars of the cell, sitting on the cot, his head bowed into his hands. The tension in the room was almost material.

  Michael did not ask why he had been summoned. He knew he would be told. Instead, he said, “The boy all right?”

  “He’s better,” answered Garnett. “All right? Hell, no. He won’t be for days, if then.” His voice was sharp and bitter. He paced the office, looking out the window at the men gathered across the street. “Sit down,” he finally said to Michael. “We’d better explain some things.”

  Michael sat in the chair beside the door. He crossed his arms and waited. Garnett motioned to Curtis, and the sheriff shuffled nervously where he stood.

  “The boy’s daddy—Frank—he come in early this mornin’, right after sunup,” Curtis began. “Said he’d come for the boy. Said the boy had to pay for his crimes, and he’d do the punishin’, since it was his own flesh.”

  “Crimes?” asked Michael. “What crimes?”

  Curtis bowed his head and thought through his words. He was uncomfortable around the doctor, Michael realized.

  “A little while back, maybe three months or longer, there was a young couple livin’ up the valley a few miles, and they was killed,” Curtis answered slowly. “Murdered. Both had their throats cut in bed. Frank said it was his boy that done it.”

  A shiver ran through Michael. A sharp, needle pain began to throb inside him. He could see Lester Caufield falling from the bed. He felt the warm spurt of blood lap across his arm. He heard Mary Caufield’s cry and felt her limp, thin body.

  “Did you hear him?” Garnett asked.

  “I did,” answered Michael softly. His mouth was dry. His palms began to perspire. The nausea swept through him like a heat wave and then it was gone and a chilling, exhilarating coolness filled him and he could hear the echo of applause from a blackened arena.

  “Frank said he’s seen it,” Curtis continued. “Said he’d tried to beat the truth out of his boy, but Owen wouldn’t own up to it.”

  Michael did not move from the chair. He looked across the jail to where Owen sat.

  “Did he?” he asked. “Did he see it?”

  “For God’s sake, Irishman, you’d have to know the man,” Garnett replied irritably. “He saw it in his mind, like some goddamn picture show. The boy was talking about leaving home, going to Chattanooga to work, where his uncle lives. That was all. He told Frank that he’d been thinking about it since the Caufields were killed, because he’d talked to Lester about it and Lester was thinking of moving there, too. It was just a comment, just something he said, but it was enough for Frank. He began to have a vision of his boy killing the Caufields. It’s all in his mind. I suppose it’s the thought of another child leaving home, and after what happened to his daughter, well, hell.”

  “Where is the boy’s father now?” Michael wanted to know.

  “He left,” answered Curtis. “Went ridin’ off a few minutes before you showed up. Said he’d be back later. The boy kept sayin’ he wanted to talk to you. That’s why I had George come up and bring you in.”

  “And the crowd?” Michael said. “You expectin’ trouble from them?”

  Garnett shrugged. He paced the room. His hands were stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat. He kicked at the rocker, then sat in it and leaned back and rubbed his temples with his knuckles.

  “It comes down to this,” he said at last. “There’s not one shred of evidence in what Frank says, but that’s not going to matter very much. There’re a lot of people in this community who were blood-related to Lester and Mary Caufield; that’s who they were, if I didn’t say.”

  “You did,” Michael replied.

  “Well, hell, they weren’t more than twenty,” Garnett continued. “If that old. Anyway, they’re old-line family. That house belonged to Lester’s grandfather. Everybody knew them, and liked them. Even George is first cousin to the girl. Saw her grow up from a baby. Had to help take her body out of the place. This thing that Frank’s telling will fill out in their heads like yeast. The boy’s damned any way you look at it. Turn him loose and Frank’ll probably kill him; keep him here
and it’ll seem like he’s guilty and God only knows what’ll happen then.”

  “Frank could be right,” George blurted suddenly. “By God, he was right enough about that girl of his.”

  Curtis sighed. He shook his head sadly and said, “George, you sonofabitch, you know damn good and well that girl didn’t start whorin’ until after she’d run away from home. God-a’mighty, you were here. You almost arrested Frank that day he was beatin’ her out in the street. Now, I know how you feel about Mary. Everybody around here feels the same, but this is a boy’s life we’re talkin’ about, not some damn sack of oats.”

  “But what if he’s right?” argued George. “Nobody never thought about it bein’ anybody from around here. It could have been like Frank says.”

  Garnett rocked forward in his chair. He touched the fingertips of his hands together. Michael watched him carefully. He could sense the words forming in the doctor’s mind like crystals. George English’s anxiety was a matter of the memory of his mutilated cousin and a revived lust for vengeance raging in his mind. It was necessary to have George understand, to believe that Frank Benton was wrong.

  “George,” Garnett said patiently, “you know that boy. You know he wouldn’t kill anybody. Now, I’d like to see the bastard who murdered Lester and Mary hanging from his balls with his heart cut out, but it’s not Owen. It’s not. You let those people out there even halfway believe Frank’s right and you’ve as much as executed that boy yourself. Besides, dammit, you know the law. You know you’ve got to have some evidence, and you know you don’t.” He paused and rubbed his hands across his mouth and slumped back into the chair and looked at George. “But if reason won’t work, George, let me put it to you this way: If I hear of you spreading any kind of gossip about this, I’ll personally have you arrested for obstructing justice and I promise you that you will lose your job and if I have to bring in a lawyer from Atlanta, I’ll see to it that you serve time.” He paused again. “Do you understand me?” he asked quietly.

  George nodded.

  “Good,” Garnett mumbled. “I’ll tell you this: What happens here depends eighty percent on you. Believe me.”

  George walked away and peered out the door. He was breathing hard and the perspiration dripped from his hair down his neck and into his shirt, staining it with lines that looked like claw marks.

  “One question,” Michael said. “Why’s it not been talked? I’ve not heard it since I’ve been here.”

  There was a pause. Garnett smiled wearily. He waved a hand in the direction of Curtis.

  “It’s private,” Curtis answered slowly. “People around here keep such things to themselves. It’s their way.” Then he added, almost to himself, “It’s best that way.”

  “You’ll learn it, Irishman, if you stay around,” Garnett said. “I have. Still don’t understand it, but, by God, I’ve learned it. And, believe me, it’s the truth.” He thought for a moment, then added, “Maybe Curtis is right; maybe it is best.”

  Yes, thought Michael. That was why no one had spoken of the Caufields. He had often wondered why, had been tempted to lead a conversation to it, but it would have been too risky. The death of the Caufields was part of the silence that he had seen in the stark, secretive faces in Pullen’s Café, and in Floyd Crider’s shyness, and in Dora’s suspicious glare when he arrived at the farm. They would not talk of the Caufields because it was private, a tragedy that belonged only to them.

  “Leave the boy with me,” Michael said, standing. “Go outside, anywhere you like, but not around the jail.”

  “That’s a lot of men across the street,” warned Curtis.

  “Men you know,” replied Michael. “And right now they’re just curious. Nothin’ more.”

  “Maybe so,” Garnett said, “but they know what Frank said. He made sure of that. Went up and down the street ravin’ like a fool before he ever got to the jail. Seemed like he wanted to raise an audience.”

  Michael smiled. “Now, I understand why they’re out there, Doc,” he remarked casually. “If I’d heard such, I’d be curious, too. Wouldn’t you?”

  Garnett pulled himself from the rocker. “I guess,” he mumbled. “God, yes. Why wouldn’t I? Maybe we’ll go over and talk to them, Curtis. Maybe that’s what we should do. Right now. Not leave it hanging.”

  “I would,” agreed Michael. “They know everythin’ you know, but they’re over there and you’re in here, and that’s a far distance to cross over.”

  Curtis thought of the men huddled across the street. Michael was right. There was a distance, a space separating their waiting and the uncertainty of what he would do.

  “We’ll be close by,” Curtis said to Michael.

  * * *

  Michael took the key from the rolltop desk and unlocked the heavy steel door and stepped inside the cell. Owen was still sitting on the side of the cot, his elbows resting on his knees, his face dipped into the bowl of his hands.

  “Did you have breakfast?” Michael asked.

  “Some,” Owen answered softly.

  “Good,” Michael said. He sat in the chair in the cell. “That’s good,” he repeated. “Shows you’re gettin’ back some strength.”

  Owen dropped his hands between his legs and clamped together his fingers. Michael saw that he had been crying.

  “Don’t pay attention to all that’s goin’ on here,” he said. “It’s just talk. Too many people angry about somethin’ they can’t put their finger on. That’s all.”

  Owen did not move.

  “It was bad, was it?” asked Michael. He packed his pipe with tobacco and tried not to look at Owen.

  Owen’s voice quivered. “Daddy—Daddy said I’d done that,” he stammered. “But I didn’t. I didn’t do what he said.”

  “No, Owen, you didn’t. Your daddy’s wrong. That’s the first thing you have to do; you have to say he’s wrong. He’d have his pound of flesh. You have to say that over and over to yourself. Say it so you’ll believe it.”

  Owen stared at his fingers. “He’s my daddy,” he said pleadingly. “He’s my daddy.”

  “Well, now, Owen, think about that,” replied Michael. He lit his pipe and drew smoke from the stem and blew a gray ring swirling across the cell. “You think about that,” he repeated. “That man who was in here today, accusin’ you of murderin’ some poor people, is somebody besides your own father. He’s another man. Changed over by some blindin’ sight that’s built up inside him like a sickness. That’s not your father. I’d say your father—the father you’re rememberin’—was a carin’ man, carin’ and gentle. Am I right?”

  Owen did not answer. He whimpered weakly and began to cry.

  “Don’t be ashamed of the feelin’,” Michael said quietly. “It’s a way to hold it all up, to keep it from crushin’ in on you like a stone. I know about that, Owen. I’ve been in the same place. Seems like there’s no room for breathin’, but there is.”

  “I didn’t kill nobody,” Owen sobbed. “Not Lester and Mary. Lester and me—Lester and me, we was friends. We went to school together when we was little. We was talkin’ about goin’ to work together in Chattanooga. I wouldn’t kill Lester and Mary.”

  Michael drew smoke from his pipe and listened as the hurt broke open in Owen Benton and poured from him. He was such a small person, thought Michael. Brittle. Frail. And he was being sacrificed for a crime he did not commit. Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair, thinking. What was it about Owen that had made him curious, that had attracted his attention on the night Owen first spoke? Destiny, he thought. But what destiny? A sense of remorse shot through Michael. Owen was his substitute, his stand-in, and he had been delivered to Michael in the disguise of fate. Nothing could save him from the role. The doctor could heal him, but the doctor could not save him. It was destiny.

  “There’ll be nothin’ come of it, Owen,” he said. “I promise that. You didn’t kill anybody. I know it. I know it to be true.” Owen did not see the quick smile that wandered into Michael’s face l
ike an amusement.

  “My daddy’ll come back. He’ll come back. Like he said he would.”

  Michael touched Owen’s shoulder with his fingers and gently pushed him up into a straight sitting position. He said, “Owen, do you trust me?”

  Owen nodded hesitantly.

  “I know there’s no reason to, me bein’ a stranger, but I’m askin’ you to,” Michael continued. “I’ve been all over, and I’ve seen many tight spots like this. I’m askin’ you to trust me and not say what I tell you to the doctor or the sheriff or anybody, and I promise you there’s nothin’ goin’ to come of it, nothin’ll happen to you. If I must, I’ll steal you away from here and take you to someplace that’s safe.”

  Owen struggled to stand, but could not. He sank back on the cot, and a shudder, like a chill, whipped through him and he wrapped his arms around his body and began to sway.

  “I’m not sayin’ it’d be easy, leavin’ home,” Michael whispered. “It never is, no matter what. But sometimes it’s best. And you don’t have to be like your sister. Yes, I know about her; the doctor told me before. There’s lots of people leave home, tear away from their families, and go on their own.” He sucked on his pipe and spit the smoke from his mouth. “I did it,” he added. “And it was much the same with me as it is with you, exceptin’ it was my mother who did the evil.” He twisted in his chair and his voice tightened. “They say she was taken with fits and didn’t know she had the madness, but when you’re a lad and you feel it across your back, you don’t know about fits.”

  Owen stopped his swaying and listened to Michael. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He seemed far away. “My mama died,” he said calmly. He added, “Before Elizabeth left home. Elizabeth, she’s my sister.”

  “They never told me,” replied Michael. “But it’s as good she did, before seein’ this. She’d be burdened by it. My own good father was.”

  They sat quietly. The dim memories swimming in Michael no longer seemed certain. He did not know if they were real or if he had invented them as a touchstone, as some trail of crumbs to lead him back through the maze of his wanderings. There had been times—totally unexpected—when the living ghost had leaped out of him and streaked through a dark hole of history and wrapped itself in a silky cocoon around a single idyllic moment older than all of his senses. He did not know what formless jelly-drop of life was bubbling in the cocoon, but it had no stories to tell him. In its bliss, it was the essence of a sinless promise, and he had longed to peel it open and slip into its thick, quivering plasm and be born in its peace.