“This here is onions and lard on my wife’s famous homemade bread.” He admired the one-inch slices of bread enclosed around the thin layer of filling.
“Famous, huh? I have two buttered rolls and a slice of rhubarb pie,” she said. “I’ll trade you the pie for half your sandwich.”
Ginny had forgotten that her mama would sometimes make onion-and-lard sandwiches for her daddy to take to work. As a child, she’d turned her nose up at the mere thought of it. Now, it teased her appetite back to life, even after the large plate of meatloaf she’d consumed just an hour before.
“I’m surprised to see you out here.” Crawford stuck half the pie in his mouth, then sucked stray crumbs and filling from his fingers.
“Didn’t know I was coming, but I had some thinking to do.” He cackled so loudly she almost choked on a bite of her sandwich.
“What is it about white folk needing a place to think,” he said. “This man I know, a prison warden from down near Boucherville, come out here every once in a while. Says he’s fishing, but mostly he just sit quietly or talk to me. Sometimes he sleep in his truck overnight.”
This time, Ginny did choke and Crawford looked at her with alarm. He handed her a mason jar full of water and she gladly accepted.
“A warden?” she asked. “Roscoe Simms, by chance?”
“I’ll be damned,” he said. “You know Roscoe?”
She considered how much to share. “I work at the prison, too.”
Crawford found the coincidence as astounding as she did and kept slapping his thigh to emphasize his delight. Then, he shook his head, sadness replacing the smile. His eyes became his strongest feature then. Amber-colored with two dark spots in the white part of one eye.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I feel for the man,” he said. “That place has worn him down but good. He ain’t cut out for that work.”
Ginny drummed her fingers nervously against the metal tailgate. “Why do you say that?”
“He told me ’bout all the changes he want to make. How nothing seemed to get better no matter what he did. You friends?”
“He’s my boss, but yes, we’re friends,” she said, even though she didn’t know what they were anymore.
“Then you know he don’t belong there.” Crawford stuffed the rest of the pie in his mouth. “That was damn good. Even better than my wife’s.”
“Do you know him well?” Ginny asked.
“Lord, yes,” he said. “Him and me been fishing for almost twenty years. Way back before he became warden. After they offered him the job some eight, nine years ago he knew it was a mistake to take it. Every time I told him he should quit, he’d just shake his head.”
Ginny struggled to understand how Roscoe could strike up a friendship with a black man and still be part of the Klan. She wanted to know more about this grandfatherly man and his place in Roscoe’s life, but she feared any more prying. Already Crawford had given up information he probably shouldn’t have.
Still, she wondered why Roscoe hadn’t mentioned her—or if he had, why Crawford didn’t guess who she was. Knowing Roscoe, he kept their relationship private. He’d always been worried what would happen to both of them should the prison board find out.
The hearing. It was yesterday. She hadn’t given it a thought since finding the Klan robe. This shamed her. No matter what became of them, Ginny cared about Roscoe. She hoped the hearing hadn’t turned into a witch hunt. Who knows what kind of state he was in right now, or if he’d already returned to the prison.
“He may not be warden much longer,” she said softly.
“Why you say that?”
Ginny regretted revealing that much. “I know it’s weighed heavy on his mind. Just as you said.”
Crawford lost his train of thought and lapsed into a one-sided conversation on the perks of this particular fishing spot, then into the way his wife prepared the crappie he caught—dusting it with cornmeal and cayenne pepper before frying. No flour or egg, he said. That made it gummy. His voice rose and fell to match his expressions. Ginny nodded occasionally, but paid little attention to his animated stories. That is, until he brought the conversation back to Roscoe.
“Good thing Roscoe made his peace with the Lord.” Crawford picked at his teeth with a small twig. “I think that’s the only thing keeping him going all these years. He said he ought to be in that electric chair hisself. Praying over those souls, as well as his own, is the only thing he can do.”
A line of sweat trickled down between Ginny’s shoulder blades, causing her to shudder. Crawford knew something. Something that shamed Roscoe so much he thought he should die for it. She feared if she asked point-blank, the old man would realize he’d overstepped. The despondency Ginny felt after finding the Klan robe was nothing compared to the panic coming over her now.
“You more than his friend, Miss Ginny, aren’t you?” He stared at her solemnly. She wished to see his infectious smile again. She wished he’d tell her a happy story. Maybe one of those fish tales, where the length of the bluegill or bass grew with each telling.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” she whispered.
“Then you know a man’s never the same after he take someone’s life,” Crawford said. “You just ask the Lord for forgiveness and try to live the best life you can.”
Never the same. Ginny gripped the edge of the tailgate with both hands. She wanted to leave, but feared she’d not be able to stand upright. She’d given her body and her heart to Roscoe. She thought she knew him; all the little pieces that no one else had access to. And yet, she knew nothing of the two horrific pieces that came to light in only the last twenty-four hours.
“I’m amazed he only killed one man while doing his job,” he continued. “Everyone know what go on at that prison. Lotta killing nobody even care about.”
Ginny’s heart raced after this latest revelation. On the job? When had it happened? Whom had he killed? She now had two things to confront Roscoe about, but wondered why she felt she needed any explanation. The past couldn’t be rewritten. She doubted he could offer any explanation that would make her consider a life with him.
“Thank you very much for the sandwich, sir,” Ginny said, finally getting up. “Best I be getting back.”
“All righty then.” His smile returned. “Come on back sometime when Roscoe goes fishing.”
She longed to be able to say she would. The idyllic spot could have been her and Roscoe’s special hideaway instead of the place where she learned an awful truth.
Peabody Lejeune
Inmate Number 5903
Crime: Aggravated Robbery
Sentence: 50 Years
The other inmates pretty much leave Peabody alone these days. At seventy-five, he’s no longer got reason to be afraid in his cell. Ain’t nobody bother with a shriveled old man. His days are not about survival anymore. They’re about peeling potatoes.
His spine is crooked from three decades of bending over in those godforsaken fields. If he’d been transferred to the canning plant, he’d be standing all day. Sitting on a wooden stool inside the kitchen is as close to being set free as it comes.
“Stop your daydreaming,” the big black woman tells him. “You still got a bushel to go.”
Peabody hates that old nigger, but he keeps his mouth shut. Miss Polk takes too much sass from her, but it ain’t his place to point out something that’s clear as day.
“Don’t be so hard on him, Dot,” Miss Polk says. “He’s an old man.”
When Dot leaves her shift early, Peabody is relieved. He’s able to carry on a proper conversation with Miss Polk on those rare occasions when the darkie is gone.
“Someone dancing with Gertie next week, eh?” he says.
“Yes. The execution is Tuesday,” she says. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering what that boy wants for his last meal.”
Before he falls asleep at night, Peabody makes a game of figuring out what he’d ask for if he was going to the elec
tric chair. This week he’s got it narrowed down to jambalaya or hoppin’ john. ’Course Miss Polk makes damn fine biscuits and gravy. His list changes all the time, but he believes the act of thinking keeps his mind alive in a dead place like Greenmount.
“That’s personal,” she says. “I don’t think we should talk about it.”
“Everybody gonna find out anyway,” he says. “Guards talk. Prisoners talk. Don’t see no harm in you telling me now.”
Miss Polk gives him a curious look like she can’t decide whether to be mad or disappointed.
“Pecan pie,” she says. “And a glass of milk.”
Peabody’s mouth waters. He’s never included sweets on his list, but he’s rethinking it now. He remembers the pies his wife would bake for the church suppers. Once a week, he’d round up hog lard from the meat plant for her. Made the flakiest damn crusts.
The last pie she baked for him had been a mulberry pie. Those tart berries required double the sugar, she’d say. He remembers the day perfectly. He’d been out drinking with his brother the night before and didn’t make it home until about eleven the next morning. By that time, Angeline was fit to be tied. She stood on the front porch, the still-warm pie in her shaking hands.
She’d quoted Scripture at the top of her lungs and told him he was a worthless excuse for a husband before throwing the pie at him. He grabs his elbow now, recalling the pain when the tin pie plate hit the bone just so.
“Something wrong?” Miss Polk asks.
“Nah, I’m fine. I was just thinking I’d ask for hoppin’ john as my last supper.”
This time he’s sure the look she gives him is disappointment.
“You should be grateful you’re not on death row,” she says, and turns back to the stove.
He considers telling her she doesn’t know what it’s like to live in a dead place for thirty years. That frying in that chair sometimes seems like a mercy. Instead, he picks up another potato to peel.
Chapter 14
Roscoe hadn’t stayed a second night in Baton Rouge. His truck was parked in front of Ginny’s house when she returned from the lake. She sat for a moment, picking at the worn leather spots on the steering wheel. It wasn’t that she was afraid of him, but she was definitely frightened. Maybe her dread was worse than the truths to be revealed. Surely once the bandage was torn off, the open wound would hurt, but it would heal.
Music drifted out of the front window. Roscoe wasn’t one to listen to the radio, except maybe to a baseball game. While odd, it gave her no clue as to what type of mood he was in.
Ginny’s hand shook when she opened the screen door. She wanted to slap herself for disobeying her strict order to remain cool and collected.
“Evening.” He leaned against the doorjamb separating the living and dining rooms. Although his arms were crossed, the pose didn’t seem defensive in spite of the more formal greeting. He wore jean pants and a plaid short-sleeve shirt. She rarely saw him in anything but his uniform.
“Hello,” she said.
Her eye caught the small phonograph on the table where her typewriter usually sat. It was her mama’s portable RCA Victor, not something Miriam would part with easily. Beside it was a stack of 45s, also her mother’s. Things Ginny had coveted but was never allowed to enjoy.
“You’ve seen Mama today,” Ginny said. “I imagine you stole that thing because she’d never let someone pry it from her hands.”
Roscoe crossed the room in three long strides. His left hand took her right. He placed his other hand on the small of her back. It took her a moment to realize what was happening. Roscoe had never danced with her, but he was intent on it tonight of all nights. Their bodies didn’t touch, like strangers dancing. Ginny wondered why he chose Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable.”
“Miriam and I both thought you’d like to have the player,” he said. “She hoped the music would make you feel better.”
He smelled of tobacco, so she guessed he was smoking again. Ginny was surprised she didn’t smell whiskey on his breath, too. Surely, he knew the conversation they’d be having, unless her mama had kept her mouth shut about the robe. Ginny could almost use some whiskey herself, but she didn’t keep any in the house, not even for the nights Roscoe stayed over.
“So, now you and Mama are discussing how to make me feel better,” she snapped. “That’s priceless.”
“Miriam is worried about you,” he said, gently guiding their steps. “I’m worried about you.”
Ginny bit her lip hard. She needed to stay angry. Words failed her, though. She wanted to scream in his face and beat his chest with her fists. Instead, she was in her muddy loafers, dancing with him on a worn-out rug he’d chosen for the room.
“I’m sorry, Ginny,” he whispered.
“What exactly are you sorry for.” She glanced up at his face, but he looked straight ahead.
“Miriam told me what you found. She doesn’t know all the facts.”
Ginny pulled away from him and jerked the needle from the record. “Are the facts in dispute? You’re saying you weren’t part of the Klan?”
The set of Roscoe’s jaw and his hesitancy in answering irritated her.
“Well?” she shouted.
“Not in the way you’re thinking.”
“What the hell does that mean? You’re either in or you’re out.” Ginny paced, one hand on her forehead.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said.
Her thoughts became a tangled mess. She didn’t know what to ask or what to demand. While she had no expectations as to how this evening would play out, it was now disappointing her on so many levels. Ginny felt pathetic. She’d allowed him to hold her, to dance with her. For the first time, no less.
“Did you hurt anyone?” A gasp trailed her question because of its enormity.
“No, I did not,” Roscoe said. He hadn’t hesitated with that answer. His hands rested on his hips, challenging her to ask another question or maybe bracing for it.
“Did you stand by while people got hurt?” There was no point in staving off the tears. Ginny knew this answer and wished to God she didn’t.
“My being there saved more than were lost,” he said quietly.
Surely he knew this fact would devastate her nonetheless. When he made a step toward her, she held her palm out, signaling him to back away. God, she was tired. And hungry again. It was as if her body was saying that food was the only way to fill the holes the pain had hollowed out of her.
“Are you still—”
“That was twenty-five years ago, Ginny. A lifetime ago,” Roscoe said. “I’m not the monster you’re afraid I am.”
She sat on the settee and wept freely now, not bothering to wipe her face. Her mama used to slap her for crying so openly. This memory of Miriam’s inability to mother her only made her feel more alone in the world.
Roscoe sat next to her. Ginny didn’t push him away when he nudged her chin, urging her to look at him.
“I can’t believe I’m the one to cause you the most hurt you’ll feel in your lifetime.” His body shuddered as if giving him permission to release the emotion he’d held in, yet no tears fell.
This statement shocked her. She pulled her chin from his grasp and wiped her face. “My life is far from over, Roscoe Simms. What makes you think there aren’t worse hurts ahead for me?”
“I know it from the way you look at me.”
Roscoe stood and retrieved his hat from the dining room table, but didn’t put it on. He waited a moment, perhaps thinking she had something else to say.
Ginny didn’t speak until he opened the screen door to leave.
“I know you killed a man,” she blurted out.
His head bowed just slightly, but he didn’t turn around.
“I was out at your fishing site today. Near Little River. I met Crawford,” she said.
When he turned and looked at her again, he pointed at her feet. “I wondered why your shoes were muddy.”
“To hell with my shoe
s,” she said. “I want to know more. I need to know more.”
“I don’t care what the old man told you,” Roscoe said. “I’m not talking to you about that. Ever.”
His brusqueness startled her. Ginny figured no matter what her questions tonight, he’d oblige. She was certain he’d be overcome with remorse, spewing apologies for hurting her and vowing to make up for it. She chastised herself for such asinine thoughts. If he’d done those things, would she have agreed to make a go of it? And if he asked for forgiveness, was it even hers to give?
“I’m not the warden anymore,” he said when she failed to say anything. “They gave me a couple of weeks before I have to clear out of here. They said a new warden wouldn’t want me around, undermining his authority or something like that. John will fill in for now.”
Roscoe was leaving. Not only her, but the prison as well.
“What will you do?”
“Jesus, Ginny. I just found out I was sacked yesterday,” he said. “Then, when I stopped by Miriam’s on the way home today, she told me about what you’d found. I haven’t had a chance to breathe, much less think.”
“Why’d you even go there?” Curiosity and jealousy pricked at her simultaneously.
“Really? That’s what you want to know?” He pointed his hat at her, as if daring her to push him further.
She cupped her hand over her mouth to hide her trembling lips. Push and push and push. That was what she did, wasn’t it? There was nothing left to say. Yet, the thought of him stepping over that threshold and never returning flooded her with despair.
“I’ll tell you why I was there.” His voice cracked and he coughed to hide it. “I was telling your goddamned mama that I was going to marry you and I didn’t give a shit what she thought about it.”
Ginny’s senses abandoned her. She stood in a vacuum, separate and apart from everything around her. She could see Roscoe waiting for her to say something, feel something. Ginny hadn’t thought her heart could break further, but it had. Earlier, her losses seemed too great to bear. Now, they seemed catastrophic.
If she hadn’t been curious about the loose board in her closet, if she hadn’t found that robe or confronted her mama or stumbled upon Crawford at Roscoe’s fishing spot, she might have been cooking dinner in her little house when Roscoe got back from Baton Rouge.
The Last Suppers Page 17
