“One other thing.” Dad paused. His jaw clenched and relaxed. He was obviously having a hard time spitting this out, whatever it was. “I talked to Jack Marchette this afternoon. He was at the Shell station when I stopped to fill up the truck. He said—” Again, this was a thorny obstruction in his throat. “He said J.T.’s only found one more volunteer deputy other than Jack himself. You know who that is?”
Mom waited.
“The Moon Man.” A tight smile flickered across Dad’s face. “Can you believe that? Out of all the able-bodied men in this town, only Jack and the Moon Man are gonna stand with J.T. against the Blaylocks. I doubt if the Moon Man can even hold a pistol, much less use one if he had to! Well, I suppose everybody else decided to stay home and be safe, don’t you?”
Mom pulled her hand away, and she looked somewhere else. Dad stared across the table at me, his eyes so intense I had to shift in my chair because I felt their heat and power. “Some father you’ve got, huh, partner? You go to school today and tell your friends how I helped uphold the law?”
“No sir,” I answered.
“You should have. Should’ve told Ben, Johnny, and Davy Ray.”
“I don’t see their fathers linin’ up to get themselves killed by the Blaylocks!” Mom said, her voice strained and unsteady. “Where are the people who know how to use guns? Where are the hunters? Where’re the big-talkin’ men who say they’ve been in so many fights and they know how to use their fists and guns to solve every problem in this whole wide world?”
“I don’t know where they are.” Dad scraped his chair back and stood up. “I just know where I am.” He started walking toward the front door, and Mom said with a frightened gasp of breath, “Where’re you goin?”
Dad stopped. He stood there, between us and the door, and he lifted a hand to his forehead. “Out to the porch. Just out to the porch, Rebecca. I need to sit out there and think.”
“It’s cold and rainin’ outside!”
“I’ll live,” he told her, and he left the house.
But he came back, in about thirty minutes. He sat before the fireplace and warmed himself. I got to stay up a little later, since it was a Friday night. When it was time for me to go to bed, between ten-thirty and eleven, Dad was still sitting in his chair before the hearth, his hands folded together and supporting his chin. A wind had kicked up outside, and it blew rain like handfuls of grit against the windows.
“Good night, Mom!” I said. She said good night, from her Herculean labors in the kitchen. “Good night, Dad.”
“Cory?” he said softly.
“Yes sir?”
“If I had to kill a man, would that make me any different from whoever did that murder at Saxon’s Lake?”
I thought about this for a moment. “Yes sir,” I decided. “Because you’d only kill to protect yourself.”
“How do we know whoever did that murder wasn’t protectin’ himself in some way, too?”
“We don’t, I guess. But you wouldn’t get any pleasure from it, like he did.”
“No,” he said. “I sure wouldn’t.”
I had something else to say. I didn’t know if he wanted to hear it or not, but I had to say it. “Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“I don’t think anybody gives you peace, Dad. I think you have to fight for it, whether you want to or not. Like what happened with Johnny and Gotha Branlin. Johnny wasn’t lookin’ for a fight. It was forced on him. But he won peace for all of us, Dad.” My father’s expression didn’t alter, and I wasn’t sure he understood what I was driving at. “Does that make any sense?”
“Perfect sense,” he replied. He lifted his chin, and I saw the edge of a smile caught in the corner of his mouth. “Alabama game’s on the radio tomorrow. Ought to be a humdinger. You’d better get on to bed.”
“Yes sir.” I started toward my room.
“Thank you, son,” my father said.
I awakened at seven o’clock to the clatter of the pickup truck’s cold engine starting. “Tom!” I heard my mother calling from the front porch. “Tom, don’t!” I peered out the window into the early sunlight to see Mom in her robe, running to the street. But the pickup truck was already moving away, and Mom cried out, “Don’t go!” Dad’s hand emerged from the driver’s window, and he waved. Dogs barked up and down Hilltop Street, roused from their doghouses by the commotion. I knew where Dad was going. I knew why.
I was scared for him, but during the night he had made a momentous decision. He was going to find peace, rather than waiting for it to find him.
That morning was an exercise in torture. Mom could hardly speak. She stumbled around in her robe, her eyes glazed with terror. Every fifteen minutes or so she called the sheriff’s office to talk to Dad, until finally around nine o’clock he must’ve told her he couldn’t talk anymore because she didn’t dial the number again.
At nine-thirty, I got dressed. Pulled on my jeans, a shirt, and a sweater, because though the sun was bright and the sky blue the air was stinging cold. I brushed my teeth and combed my hair. I watched the clock tick toward ten. I thought of the Trailways bus, number thirty-three, on its way over the winding roads. Would it be early, late, or right on time? Today such a thing as seconds might mean life or death for my father, the sheriff, Chief Marchette, and the Moon Man. But I pushed thoughts like that aside, as much as I could. They came back, though, evil as poison ivy. I knew near ten-thirty that I would have to go. I would have to be there, to see my father. I could not wait for the telephone call that would say Donny was on the bus with the two marshals, or my father was lying shot by a Blaylock bullet. I would have to go. I strapped on my Timex, and I was ready.
As eleven o’clock approached, Mom was so nervous she had both the television and the radio on and she was baking three pies at once. The Alabama game was just about to start. I didn’t care a damn for it.
I walked into the pumpkin-and-nutmeg-fumed kitchen, and I said, “Can I go to Johnny’s, Mom?”
“What?” She looked at me, wild-eyed. “Go where?”
“Johnny’s. The guys are gonna meet there to…” I glanced at the radio. Rollllll Tide! the crowd was cheering. “To listen to the game.” It was a necessary lie.
“No. I want you right here with me.”
“I told ’em I’d be there.”
“I said…” Her face flamed with anger. She slammed a mixing bowl down onto the counter. Utensils filmed with pumpkin slid to the floor. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she put a hand over her mouth to hold back a cry of anguish.
Cool on the outside, hell-roasted in the guts. That was me. “I’d like to go,” I said.
The hand could no longer hold. “Go on, then!” Mom shouted, her nerves at last unraveling to reveal the tormented center. “Go on, I don’t care!”
I turned and ran out before the sob that welled up rooted my shoes. As I climbed onto Rocket, I heard a crash from the kitchen. The mixing bowl had met the floor. I started pedaling for Ridgeton Street, the chill biting my ears.
Rocket was fast that day, as if it sensed impending tragedy. Still, the town lay quiet in its Saturday drowse, the cold having chased all but a few hardy kids indoors and most folks tuned to Bear’s latest triumph. I leaned forward, my chin slicing the wind. Rocket’s tires thrummed over the pavement, and when my shoes lost the pedals the wheels kept turning on their own.
I reached the gas station just past eleven-fifteen. It had two pumps and an air hose. Inside the office part that connected to a two-stall garage, the gas station’s owner—Mr. Hiram White, an elderly man with a humped back who shambled around his wrenches and engine belts like Quasimodo amid the bells—sat at his desk, his head cocked toward a radio. At one corner of the cinderblock building a yellow tin sign with TRAILWAYS BUS SYSTEM on it hung from rusted screws. I parked Rocket around back, near the oily trash cans, and I sat on the ground in the sun to wait the coming of high noon.
At ten minutes before twelve, my fingernails gnawed to the bone, I heard the so
und of cars approaching. I edged around the corner and took a peek. The sheriff’s car pulled in, followed by Dad’s pickup truck. The Moon Man, wearing his top hat, was sitting beside Dad. Chief Marchette was in the passenger seat of the sheriff’s car, and seated behind Sheriff Amory was the criminal himself. Donny Blaylock wore a gray uniform and a smirk. Nobody got out. They sat there, both engines rumbling.
Mr. White emerged from his office, scuttling sideways like a crab. Sheriff Amory rolled his window down, and they exchanged some words but I couldn’t hear what was being said. Then Mr. White returned to his office. A few minutes later, he was leaving wearing a grease-stained jacket and a baseball cap. He got into his DeSoto and drove off, blue smoke in his wake like dots and dashes of Morse code.
The sheriff’s window went back up again. I checked my Timex. It was two minutes before twelve.
Two minutes later, the bus had not arrived.
Suddenly a voice behind me said, “Don’t move, boy.”
A hand seized the nape of my neck before I could turn my head. Wiry fingers squeezed so hard my nerves were frozen. The hand pulled me, and I retreated from the building’s corner. Was it Wade or Bodean who had me? Lord, wasn’t there some way to warn my dad? The hand kept pulling me until we were back at the trash cans. Then it let me go, and I turned to see my adversary.
Mr. Owen Cathcoate said, “What the damn hell are you doin’ here, boy?”
I couldn’t speak. Mr. Cathcoate’s wrinkled, liver-spotted face was topped by a sweat-stained brown cowboy hat, its shape more of a Gabby Hayes than a Roy Rogers. His scraggly yellow-white hair hung untidily over his shoulders. He wore, over his creased black trousers and a mud-colored cardigan sweater, a beige duster that looked more musty than dusty. Its ragged hem hung almost to the ankles of his plain black boots. But this was not what had stolen my voice. The voice stealer was the tooled-leather gunbelt cinched around his slim waist and the skeleton-grip pistol tucked down into its holster on his left side, turned around so the butt faced out. Mr. Cathcoate’s narrow eyes appraised me. “Asked you a question,” he said.
“My dad,” I managed to say. “He’s here. To help the sheriff.”
“So he is. That don’t explain why you’re here, though.”
“I just wanted to—”
“Get your head blown off? There’s gonna be some fireworks, if I know what the Blaylocks are made of. Get on that bike and make a trail.”
“The bus is late,” I said, trying to stall him.
“Don’t stall,” he countered. “Get!” He shoved me toward Rocket.
I didn’t get on. “No sir. I’m stayin’ with my dad.”
“You want me to whip your tail right this minute?” The veins stood out in his neck. I expect he could deliver a whipping that would make my father’s seem like a brush with a powder puff. Mr. Cathcoate advanced on me. I took a single step back, and then I decided I wasn’t going any farther.
Mr. Cathcoate stopped, too, less than three feet from me. A hard-edged smile crossed his mouth. “Well,” he said. “Got some sand in you, don’t you?”
“I’m stayin’ here,” I told him.
And then we both heard the sound of a vehicle approaching, and we knew the time for debate was ended. Mr. Cathcoate whirled around and stalked to the building’s corner, the folds of his duster rustling. He stopped and peered furtively around the edge, and I realized I was no longer seeing Mr. Owen Cathcoate.
I was seeing the Candystick Kid.
I looked around the corner, too, before Mr. Cathcoate waved me back.
My heart jumped at what I saw. Not the Trailways bus, but a black Cadillac. It pulled into the gas station and parked at an angle in front of the sheriff’s car. I dodged away from Mr. Cathcoate’s restraining hand, and I ran for a pile of used tires near the garage and flopped down on my belly behind them. Now I had a clear view of what was about to happen, and I stayed there despite Mr. Cathcoate motioning me back behind the building’s edge.
Bodean Blaylock, wearing an open-collared white shirt and a gray suit that shone with slick iridescence, got out from behind the wheel. His hair was cropped in a severe crew cut, his mean mouth twisted into a thin smile. He reached into the car and his hand came out with a pearl-handled revolver. Then Wade Blaylock, his dark hair slicked back and his chin jutting, got out of the passenger side. He was wearing black pants so tight they looked painted on, the sleeves of his blue-checked cowboy-style shirt rolled up to show his slim, tattooed forearms in spite of the chill. He had a shoulder holster with a gun in it, and he pulled a rifle out of the Cadillac with him and quickly cocked it: ka-chunk!
Then the rear door opened, the Cadillac wobbled, and that big brute heaved himself out. Biggun Blaylock was wearing camouflage-print overalls and a dark brown shirt. He looked like one of the November hills come to life, ripped loose from its bedrock to roll across the earth. He wore a toothy grin, his bald head with its tuft of gray hair gleaming with scalp oil. He breathed hard, winded from the exertion of leaving the car. “Do it, boys,” he said between wheezes.
Wade leveled the rifle. Bodean cocked his pistol. They aimed at the sheriff’s car and started shooting.
I almost left my skin. The bullets hit the two front tires of Sheriff Amory’s car and knocked them flat. Then Wade and Bodean took aim at Dad’s truck even as Dad threw the gearshift into reverse and tried to skid the truck out of danger. It was fruitless; the two front tires blew, and the truck was left lame and rocking on its shocks.
“Let’s talk some business, Sheriff Junior!” Biggun thundered.
Sheriff Amory didn’t get out. Donny’s grinning face was pressed up against the window glass like a kid looking at fresh cakes in a bakery. I glanced over to see what Mr. Cathcoate was doing. But the Candystick Kid wasn’t there anymore.
“Bus ain’t comin’ for a while!” Biggun said. He leaned into the Cadillac’s rear seat and came out holding a double-barreled shotgun in one ham-sized hand and in the other a camouflage shoulder bag. He put the bag on top of the Caddy’s roof, unzipped it, and reached in. “Funniest damn thing, Sheriff Junior!” He broke the shotgun open, brought out two shells from the ammo bag, and pushed them in. Then he snapped the weapon shut again. “Damn bus had two flats ’bout six miles down Route Ten! Gonna be hell fixin’ them big mothers!” He rested his weight against the Caddy, making it groan and sag. “Always hated changin’ tires, myself.”
A gun spoke: crack crack!
The Cadillac’s rear tires exploded. Biggun, for all his bulk, jumped two feet in the air. He made a noise that was a combination of hootenanny yodel and opera aria. Wade and Bodean whirled around. Biggun came down with a concrete-cracking concussion.
Smoke drifted around a figure that stood behind the Cadillac, next to Mr. White’s parked tow truck. The Candystick Kid was holding his pistol in his right hand.
“What the fuckin’ hell of a shit—!” Biggun raged, his face swelling up with blood and the tip of his beard quivering.
Sheriff Amory jumped from his car. “Owen! I told you I didn’t want you around here!”
The Candystick Kid ignored him, his cool gaze riveted to Biggun. “Know what this is called, Mr. Blaylock?” He suddenly spun his pistol around and around his trigger finger, the sun glinting off the blued metal, and he delivered the gun to its butt-first position in the left-sided holster with a shrieking noise of supple leather. “This is called,” he said, “a standoff.”
“Standoff, my ass!” Biggun shouted. “Nail him, boys!”
Wade and Bodean opened fire as Sheriff Amory yelled, “No!” and brought up the rifle he’d been holding at his side.
The Candystick Kid might have been an old, wrinkled man, but whatever was in him that had made him the Kid now showed its mettle. He dived behind the tow truck as bullets crashed through the windshield and pocked the hood. Sheriff Amory squeezed off two shots, and the Cadillac’s windshield blew out. Wade yelped and went for the ground, but Bodean turned around with fury contorting his face a
nd his pistol popped. Sheriff Amory’s hat flew off his head like a pigeon. The next shot from the sheriff’s rifle put a part in the side of Bodean’s crew cut, and Bodean must’ve felt the heat of its passage because he hollered “Yow!” and dropped to a snake’s view.
Mr. Marchette climbed out of the sheriff’s car, holding a pistol. Dad scrambled out of the pickup truck and threw himself to the pavement, and a thrill of mingled pride and fear went through me as I saw he was gripping a gun, too. The Moon Man stayed in the truck and ducked his head, only his top hat showing.
Boom! the double-barreled shotgun said. The tow truck shook, pieces of glass and metal flying off it. Biggun was on his knees beside the Cadillac, and it came to me that he shouldn’t destroy that tow truck because he was going to need it to stand up again.
“Daddy!” Donny shouted from the sheriff’s car. “Get me outta this, Daddy!”
“Ain’t nobody takin’ what belongs to me!” Biggun yelled back. He fired off a shell at the sheriff’s car, and the grille exploded. Steaming radiator water spewed like a geyser. From the back seat, where he must’ve been restrained by cuffs or a rope, Donny hollered, “Don’t kill me ’fore you save me, Daddy!”
I saw where Donny got his smarts from.
Biggun reached up and grabbed the ammo bag’s strap, and he hauled it down with him to reload. Another bullet smacked into the Cadillac, and a taillight crashed. The Candystick Kid was still at work.
“Ain’t no use!” Biggun said, snapping the shotgun shut again. “We’re gonna go through you like shit through a goose! Hear me, Sheriff Junior?”
Dad got up. I almost shouted for him to stay down, but he ran alongside the sheriff’s car and crouched next to Sheriff Amory. I could see how pale his face was. But he was there, and that’s what counted.
Boy's Life Page 42
