by Ron Levitsky
Her mouth twisted into a small smile.
She turned onto the highway, drove another half mile, and parked on the edge of the field, not far from where they had stopped a few days ago. The no trespassing warning tilted nearby; each gust of wind shook the sign as if it were the last drunk at closing time.
As they walked into the tall grass, the din of highway traffic softened to a murmur. In the distance stood Danny Hobbes’s cornfield, which gradually disappeared into the thickly wooded ridge just below the horizon. The sun was strong and, slanting over Jesse’s left shoulder, polished the yellow grass golden and sent sparkles of light over it. Everything was transformed from what it had been before. Walking with a stronger step, he had no difficulty following Bathsheba’s long strides. The wind kept disheveling her curls, so that, she’d lift her arms to untangle them, showing the swell of her breasts. It felt good walking beside her; he could’ve kept on as long as she wanted.
She stopped by the stream where they’d picnicked. The water, too, seemed clearer and cleaner as they sat beside it. Dabbing his forehead with his new handkerchief, Jesse heard his own heartbeat for the second time that day.
He watched the bees dancing among the sunflowers. “I’m glad we came. It’s a beautiful day.”
“Sure is. Perfect time of day for snake huntin’.” Seeing him shiver, she laughed. “Just teasin’ again.”
“That’s all right. As you might’ve noticed, I’m not a very brave person.”
“I didn’t mean . . .”
“No, it’s all right. I have no illusions about myself. I have my mother to thank for that. My father, the good banker, was the perfect gentleman. How everybody loved him, and with good reason. His business, clubs, charities, he gave so much of himself to all of them. Perhaps that’s why he never had anything left for me. But, you know, that was better than being reminded by my mother daily what an exalted name I had inherited. Whenever I disappointed her, she’d roll her eyes toward heaven and intone, ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth is an ungrateful child.’ Daddy and Momma—what a pair they made.”
Jesse glanced at Bathsheba. She sat facing him, legs tucked under the long skirt, her shoes nearly touching the water. Her eyes had widened, and her face revealed the same rapt attention as a child listening to a favorite fairy tale.
He said, “I’m sorry to ramble on. It’s easy talking to you.”
“I’m sorry for you. Reckon there ain’t nothin’ worse than a man who won’t do right by his young ’un. Maybe your mama was just tryin’ t’do your daddy’s job as well as hers. Don’t be too hard on her.”
“It sounds as if you’re speaking from experience.”
Bathsheba took a stone and threw it hard into the water. It didn’t skip but quickly sank to the bottom.
“Don’t like t’talk on it. Ain’t much t’say anyways. She was young, and she died when I was young.”
“So you didn’t get to know her too well.”
“Well enough. She was a good woman, better’n most.”
“Like your father, from the mountains?”
“No, from town. Her folks was . . . different. Didn’t mix with his. He didn’t want me. It was him named me Bathsheba—said my mama tempted him. Well, that’s the way he tells it anyways. Then it was plain Sheba—said it suited me better.”
“Your own father didn’t want you? I don’t believe it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That was a long time ago, before he catched religion. Like they says, ‘Old sins forgiven to the holy livin’.’”
“Still, it’s hard to believe. . . .”
“Don’t wanna talk ’bout it no more.”
Suddenly she took off her shoes. Scooting closer to the stream, she raised her dress to her knees and kicked at the water.
“Hey!” he shouted, trying to protect himself from the splashes.
“C’mon! Take off your shoes ’n’ have yourself a good time!”
He hesitated a moment, then removed his shoes and socks. His big toe tested the water; it was cold.
“Go on,” she said. “Look!” Her legs churned the water, scattering a half-dozen frightened birds skyward.
He joined in her play, dipping his feet into the stream, making small circles, flapping them harder until the water roiled. They laughed together so hard the tears came, and he put all his heart into their play. She kicked at him and he at her, water spraying high above them into a fine mist colored seashell pink by the dying sunlight.
After a while they both grew tired. Jesse dabbed himself with his red silk handkerchief and noticed how Bathsheba’s dress, nearly soaked through, clung tightly to her body.
Taking the handkerchief from him, she wiped her throat. “That sure was fun.”
He nodded, watching her throat.
“Like you was sayin’ before,” Bathsheba continued, folding the cloth between her hands, “there’s more my church can teach you.”
“The five signs?”
“Yeah, that ’n’ other things. You asked about foot washin’. You know what’s in John thirteen? ‘He took a towel and girded himself. Then he poured water into a basin and washed his disciples’ feet and wiped them with the towel he was girded with. If I, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet, you should wash each other’s.’ You know about that, don’tcha?”
He nodded.
Bathsheba dipped his handkerchief into the stream. Kneeling before him, she took his right foot and slowly moved the wet cloth across it. He shivered.
“Too cold?” she teased.
Tingling, Jesse shook his head, not wanting her to stop. When she did, it was only to begin on his other foot. Closing his eyes, he grew disembodied, except for the ankle that Bathsheba’s delicate fingers were now touching. He had been almost electrocuted once as a child, plugging in a radio with an exposed prong. That was her touch—hot and jolting and totally inseparable from his being.
When she finally released him, he looked down to see that she’d gathered the hem of her dress to dab his feet dry. Straightening the dress down to her ankles, Bathsheba leaned back on her hands. She shook her head once, so her curls fell back into place.
“So you never done foot washin’ before?”
“No.”
“Does it make you feel any more Christian?”
He didn’t care what she said, only that she’d touch him again.
“We ain’t but half done with the ceremony. Lord said we was t’wash each other’s feet. You know, so that no one’d be above the other.”
His red silk handkerchief lay heavy and damp on the ground. Shifting his weight to his knees, he took the cloth and timidly dabbed at her foot.
“Do a right good job,” she said. “Remember, as my daddy’d say, you’re on the Lord’s business.”
He dipped the cloth into the stream and, cupping one of her feet, stroked it softly.
“That’s nice,” she said dreamily, “real nice.”
Was it a dream? Releasing one foot, he sponged the other. Her body pulled away slightly, and he noticed Bathsheba had leaned back upon the ground. Slowly she pulled her dress above her ankles, and the cloth in his hands followed. He caressed her skin, watched it glisten under the droplets of water. Was it a dream?
Like water the dress was receding, leaving her tan legs bare to the knees. Clutching the wadded handkerchief, his hands followed the contour of her calves, then dropped the cloth. He gripped her knees and waited.
Jesse thought he heard something, perhaps her laughter, but the blood pounded too loudly in his ears. His mouth followed where his hands had been, then Bathsheba’s legs split open as easily as he’d seen men gut a fish. She held him, his face nuzzled against her thigh, her dress covering him, his nostrils filled with her. And suddenly Jesse realized that he was the fish, her legs and hands playing with him, slipping the line, then reeling it in. A flapping fish hooked under the gill. Be a fisher of men, Jesus had said, and she was.
Was it a dream?
Later, when she pushed hi
m away, Jesse closed his eyes tightly and shivered from the cold wind. Thinking about his hands on her legs, he grew excited again and wasn’t ashamed to let her see. Would she let him touch her again?
What was that? He heard something, something in the grass not far away. Low, dull, now sharper . . . a hissing. Hissing in the grass.
He started, sitting up and opening his eyes wide, the breath catching in his throat. “Rattl—!” he tried to shout, to warn her.
Bathsheba sprawled on the grass beside him, the dress tangled so tightly around her ankles that she appeared to have no legs.
She smiled crookedly. “Hsssss!”
He shook his head, running a hand through his hair while waiting for it to clear.
“Still scared a’ them snakes.” Her laugh came short and hard but, when she finally touched him, her voice softened. “Ain’t nothin’ t’worry about. Now best get dressed, or you’ll catch a chill.”
Jesse felt cold, a numbing cold that made it difficult to pull up his trousers. Two buttons had been torn from his shirt, and his tie was crumpled and grass-stained. He stuffed it into his pocket.
“Aren’t you gonna smoke?” Bathsheba asked. “Don’t folks smoke after they done what we just did?”
“I don’t know.”
“Go on. I like watchin’ you smoke.”
“All right.”
It calmed him, doing something he always did without thinking, simple as breathing.
“There now, you look right handsome.”
“Hardly,” he mumbled, feeling his face grow warm.
“Well, you sure do look like one a’ them college fellers, all right. You must be awful smart.”
“Am I?”
“You’re a teacher and a lawyer. You saved my daddy from jail.”
“Nate Rosen did most of the work.”
“And you’re helpin’ Sister Claire. You’ll get her off, too, just like you did Daddy.”
Jesse took a few more puffs. The tobacco cleared his head. “We’re doing everything we can, but it won’t be easy.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a great deal of evidence against Mrs. Hobbes. Her fingerprints on the milk carton. Her neighbor placing her in the house before her husband’s arrival. The bad blood between your father and Ben Hobbes, and Claire’s threat to her husband at last Friday’s service. Even poison containing strychnine was found in her home. If you put all that together, I’m afraid the district attorney has a very strong case.” He paused to take the cigarette from his mouth; it was a gesture he’d often used in class for its dramatic effect. “Did you ever stop to think that your friend might be guilty?”
Bathsheba sat up, crossing her legs into a lotus position. “Sister Claire wouldn’t hurt a fly. I can’t believe she done it. Ain’t there any other people who’d wanna kill Ben Hobbes? That brother a’ his—the way he carried on against my daddy at the funeral. He’s sure a mean one.”
“I didn’t know Ben Hobbes well but enough to know he was a hard man. I imagine there are plenty of people with grudges against him. Nate went with Claire this morning to the reading of the will. That may tell us something, such as who else benefited financially from his death.”
“Sure do hope so, because—”
A loud crack interrupted her sentence. Jesse looked up, thinking it might’ve been thunder, but the sky was clear.
Bathsheba stared past him toward the ridge. “I been around squirrel hunters enough to know a rifle shot when I heared it. Came from over there. We’d better have a look-see.”
She was far ahead of Jesse by the time he struggled to his feet and brushed his clothes. His legs were stiff and, hobbling along, he lost her in the tall grass. One moment she was there; the next she’d vanished. He moved faster, almost stumbling over the knotted undergrowth. Not far from the fence protecting the cornfield, he found Bathsheba on her knees bent low. She wasn’t alone.
She looked up at him, her eyes glistening. “Oh Lord, it’s Lem. He’s been shot. I think . . . Lord, I think he’s dead.”
Jesse forced himself to stare at the body. Lemuel Banks lay awkwardly on his belly, like a rag doll thrown by an angry child. Blood had soaked the back of his shirt from a bullet hole where the middle of his spine used to be. More blood was collecting in a pool under his armpit. He wasn’t moving, didn’t look as if he was breathing.
Beside him was a gunnysack. Jesse bent close, when a gust of wind sending a chill through his body made him draw back. An instant later a rattlesnake slithered from the bag, quickly sliding into the underbrush. Bathsheba angrily shook the bag, but nothing else fell from it.
“Snake huntin’. Somebody shot him just for snake huntin’.” She was sobbing.
“The No Trespassing sign. Do you think . . .?”
“For snake huntin’!”
Jesse looked into the cornfield, from where the shot must have been fired, and locked eyes with Danny Hobbes. The young man stood behind the open gate, his body turned back toward the field. Seeing Jesse and Bathsheba, he approached the body in that low-slung walk of his.
Before he could say anything, Bathsheba pounced on him like a great cat. He stumbled back, falling to one knee, while her nails clawed his face and neck. Although a big man, Danny couldn’t stop her, his biceps straining to hold back the long fingers that cut him.
“Stop it, you crazy bitch! For God’s sake, Compton, get her off me!”
“You k-killed him!” she screamed, choking back the tears.
“I didn’t touch him! I came running when I heard the shot! I swear!”
Catching Bathsheba off balance, Danny pushed her to the ground and stepped back, balling his hands into fists. Blood trickled down his cheeks from the deep cuts her nails had made. “Don’t care if you are a girl. You come at me again, I’ll smash your face in.”
Springing to her feet, she shouted, “You killed—”
“Didn’t do no such thing! Told you, I was working in the field when I heard a shot. Come running and saw you.”
“Liar!”
“Then where the hell’s the gun I was supposed to use!” He held up his hands. “Where is it?”
When Bathsheba hesitated, Jesse said, “Somebody’d better get the paramedics. And the police.”
Dabbing his face with a handkerchief, Danny winced. “I’ll call from the factory. You and this crazy bitch stay with him. I’ll be right back with help.”
Bathsheba stared at Lem’s body, blanketed in the first shadows of twilight. Her shoulders sagged; at that moment she had the same beaten dog look as Danny. Maybe the wind was picking up—Jesse buttoned his jacket and rubbed his arms together. It didn’t do any good. He just couldn’t get warm.
THE SECOND WEEK
Chapter Thirteen
friday morning
“Thank heavens your father’s not alive to see his family bear this shame. It’s bad enough I have to face our friends and neighbors.”
Jesse knew that’s what his mother would say when she found out. He would sit across from her bed in the hospital and wait quietly; while arching her eyebrows, she let her coffee grow cold to emphasize her displeasure.
“It’s bad enough that you’re defending a murderer, but to be mixed up in a murder yourself. . . . How am I to bear the shame?”
Once again, he would endure her words and her face tight as a mask. But, for the first time, that didn’t bother him. Nor did he mind sitting in Police Chief Whitcomb’s office and being questioned about Lemuel Banks’s death.
He had just given his account of the murder and waited while Whitcomb’s secretary left to type a copy for his signature. He felt a little groggy, probably from last night’s sleeping pill. Across the desk, Whitcomb cracked walnuts in his powerful hands. His thick, stubby fingers had a hard time picking pieces of nut from the broken shell.
Jesse turned to see, through the large window behind him, the station buzzing with activity. Beside one desk, a rough-looking character in a denim jacket stood handcuffed while staring
at the ceiling. In the next aisle, a man and woman shouted at each other; the police had to separate them when the lady began kicking her companion. Another officer brought in Keeley, an old man who sang moonshine ballads for liquor money in front of the courthouse. Jesse could see Keeley’s face lifted in song, but no one paid the least bit of attention. They’d heard him often enough.
Whitcomb’s office seemed out of place, more like a man’s den at home. A small television set rested on a snack table in the corner. Bookcases were half filled with penal codes and professional manuals. The rest of the shelving displayed old-time model trains, each car shining like new. On the walls hung framed copies of old Earlyville train schedules and prints of nineteenth-century locomotives. A cuckoo clock read 11:07.
Returning to the room, Whitcomb’s secretary placed Jesse’s statement on her boss’s desk, then stood quietly beside the TV set. Sweeping the walnut shells into a wastebasket, Whitcomb leaned over the statement as if it were dinner and read each word carefully. Again Jesse glanced back into the squad room. Old Keeley was sitting alone in a corner, his trembling hands holding a cup of coffee.
The police chief grunted. “Looks in order.” Handing the papers to Jesse, he added, “It don’t tell us any more than you said yesterday afternoon in the field. Heard a shot, then found the body. That’s about it.” He took a folder from his desk drawer and removed what appeared to be another statement. “Your account’s the same as the McCrae girl’s.”
Jesse slowly straightened in his chair. “I take it that Bathsheba has been here already?”
“Oh, yeah. She come in real early, about seven-thirty. Said she was on her way to work—dressed in one of them fast-food outfits.”
“I was hoping to . . .” What could he say? That he no longer cared about his family name or what his mother thought? That he’d come down to the police station gladly, thinking only of seeing her again? He was even—God forgive him—grateful for Lem’s death, if it could bring him and Bathsheba closer together.
Rosen walked into the office. Rubbing his eyes, he sat in a chair beside Jesse.
“Rough morning?” Whitcomb asked.
