by Lisa Smartt
I heard him mutter, “Yes, sir” as he removed the dirty cap and smoothed his hair, just like Dusty always did. Except Dusty’s daddy didn’t have on a blue blazer and brown cowboy boots. And I doubted he smelled like pine trees. If death took human form, it would look like Lucas McConnell. He sat in the provided chair near the front. They didn’t put him behind that little chamber gate like they do on big TV criminal cases. He just sat in a wooden chair between Dusty and the judge.
“Mr. McConnell, I’ve been informed that you’re here to provide a statement. Is that right?”
He spoke slowly and in low guttural sounds, “It is.”
“Do you know the origin of the cocaine that was found in Dusty McConnell’s truck on January 31st?”
“I do.”
“And what is that origin?”
“I stole it and put it there.”
“You’ll need to explain a little better than that, Mr. McConnell.”
“I stayed with Dusty for a few days in January.” He pointed to Dusty who was looking down at his paper and refusing to make eye contact with his father. “I hadn’t seen him in years.” His voice cracked and his hand swept quickly across his face. “I needed to tell ‘em somethin’, him being my son and all. Doc says I’m in bad health. Anyway, some boys was comin’ round next door a lot while he was at work. I knew they was dealin’. One day they left a package in a big hole behind the porch steps of the empty house. Covered the hole with a garbage can. I’m sure they thought nobody was around to see ‘em. But I saw ‘em. I needed money. I been livin’ in Louisville and I knew I could get a lot of money for whatever it was they was sellin’ and protectin’.”
“That doesn’t explain why the cocaine was in Dusty’s truck. If you planned to keep it and sell it, why did you put it in his truck?”
“Late that night, I got in the hole and got out that package. But there’d been a lot of police patrolin’ around and the only open door was on the front of Dusty’s house. I got scared. Dusty’s truck was parked behind the house. Figured I’d just get up early and get it out before Wally came to get me at sunup.”
“Wally?”
“Wally’s a guy I met at a pool hall in Jackson. I called him and told him I’d make it worth his while if he could get me back to Louisville. But Dusty must have gotten a wrecker call early that mornin’ ‘cause when Wally showed up, the truck was already gone. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted him to take me to Dusty’s shop so I could get the stuff. But a few miles down the road, Wally found out I didn’t have money, so he dumped me out on 54. I hitchhiked to my cousin’s house near Paris Landing. They got an old trailer out back behind their house. Been there ever since. Dryin’ out. Or damn near tryin’. A few weeks later, my cousin’s wife said she heard on the radio where Dusty had gotten in trouble with the law again. I knew what it was. But figured his lawyer would find a way for them boys to take the hit somehow.” He bowed his head and bent the bill of his cap back and forth. “Reckon not. When I heard the case was coming to trial, well…” Lucas McConnell’s voice cracked. He no longer represented death to me. He wasn’t alive and well, but he was alive. “Well, truth is, I ain’t done nothin’ right by this boy. Not one thang. But today I do. I’m tellin’ the truth, Judge. You gotta believe me. Dusty ain’t into drugs. He’s a hard worker. A hard worker with a worthless daddy.” He bowed his head further and said quietly, “And you can’t fault a man for that.”
The judge called for a recess and asked to confer with some law enforcement officers and the district attorney’s representative in his chambers. We were to meet back in fifteen minutes.
Dusty walked over to where we were sitting. He didn’t look at his father one time. Not once. His father remained in the wooden chair as though he planned to wait it out. I didn’t know if it was relief or appreciation on Dusty’s face. He spoke calmly to the three of us. “Maybe this’ll finally be over, huh?”
Aunt Charlotte leapt to her feet and hugged him tightly. And when Aunt Charlotte hugs, it can nearly cut off your air supply. “Dusty, the Lord, the Lord done smiled on you, child. You told the truth and the Lord blessed it.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
The judge walked back into the court room and we all remained deathly silent. Well, all of us except Uncle Bart who asked Aunt Charlotte if she still had Juicy Fruit in her purse and could she get him out two sticks. She loudly whispered, “Gosh darn it, Bart, you are a mess.”
The judge looked resolved. The prosecuting attorney spoke loudly, “In light of this testimony, I make a motion that charges be dropped and that Dusty McConnell be released.” The judge agreed and asked law enforcement to take Lucas McConnell into custody for further questioning.
Aunt Charlotte started clapping. The judge wrinkled his face and head again, “Order. Order in the court. We’ll take a ten-minute break and then start with the next case.”
I saw the relief wash across Dusty’s face. Aunt Charlotte was right. This wasn’t like the Tommy Carithers tater tot case at all. Truth had prevailed. But it wasn’t over quite yet. Dusty’s daddy was getting ready to be handcuffed by the bailiff when Dusty walked up and put his hand on Lucas McConnell’s tired shoulder. “Thank you for coming today.”
“You’re a good boy, Dusty. A decent man. I’m sorry. I am.” His voice cracked. The bailiff handcuffed him and led him away.
It was a banner day on the courthouse square in Dresden, Tennessee. Dusty McConnell was a free man. But that’s not all. Uncle Bart sprang for pizza for all four of us at Pizza USA. It was a day of miracles.
Chapter 41 CLARA LOUISE: A Family Gone Bad
Every time I drove down Mom and Dad’s street, I felt a twinge of nausea and depression. Things had gotten significantly worse. Dad was drinking more. Mom was spending more and more time at the neighbor’s house. I told them I would bring dinner tonight in hopes of helping, helping them and helping me. I used to come only once a week. But I wanted to do better. Plus, I had this odd hope that we still had time to become a real family. Not the kind that uses plaid cloth napkins, but at least the kind who talk to each other.
I knocked and opened the back door. “Mom, Dad, I come bearing barbecue!” I knew Dad would be half asleep in the recliner. Mom was probably in the bedroom reading a romance novel. A familiar trail of broken green linoleum led me from the kitchen to the living room. Then life stopped. In one abrupt moment. At 6:34 pm on March 29th all my dreams of family ended. Dad’s body was hunched over in the brown recliner, blood all over the newspaper. Mom’s remains were lying almost peacefully on the green rug by the front door. A small amount of blood pooled by her head. I’m sure I jumped. I don’t remember. I quickly ran to the neighbor’s house screaming that we needed help. Mrs. Irene called 911 and she and I met the police and the ambulance in the driveway. But I knew the truth. No ambulance was needed. They were dead. Irene and I stood in the yard while neighbors we didn’t know gathered on the street to gawk.
The police taped off the front door and two body bags were eventually removed through the back door of the tired little brown house on Mill Street. A policewoman sat with me on the front porch. She put her arm around me and with incredible kindness, she asked some questions. I answered them as best I could. Irene’s nephew drove me to the morgue for identification and paper work. By that time, my tears were gone.
Doug and Carlie arrived at 5:00 am, knocking loudly on Mrs. Irene’s door. I fell asleep on her couch but Mrs. Irene had kept watch all night, saying she couldn’t sleep. I remember having an incredible headache. When Carlie grabbed me, my whole body melted into her arms. Doug patted my back and told me he understood. He was probably the only one who did. Both parents dead. The horror of being alone. But Doug had Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Bart and other family members who rallied. No one in my family was good at rallying. I didn’t even know where most of my relatives lived.
Doug and Carlie put me in the backseat of their car and drove straight to my apartment. She insisted I drink a bottle of water and eat
a cheese sandwich. She and Doug held my hands and prayed out loud for me while I wailed. Snot kept coming out my nose until finally my nose started bleeding. I laid back on the bed holding a wash cloth over my nose but the room was spinning. Carlie put on classical music, packed my bags, called my pastor, and did a load of laundry. Doug made coffee and called Jake. I could hear the kind diplomacy in his voice. “Jake, there’s been a terrible tragedy and you might want to make plans to come to Georgia.” He then called Commerce Elementary, explaining to Mr. Hobbs that I would need a few weeks off. We stayed at Carlie’s parents’ house for the next three nights. I checked out of life completely. Barely surviving. But Carlie agreed to live life for me, for a while. She made me eat and drink. She planned the funeral. She and Doug talked to police. Doug filled out reports and called distant relatives. But mostly, mostly they fended off the press. We didn’t watch TV at all or even turn on the radio. Carlie’s mom cooked for us and played Boston Pops CDs. I took sleeping pills every night, prescribed by Dr. Jacobs.
Finally, the day of the funeral arrived. It was a relief. Carlie laid out my clothes. Black pants and a tan jacket. She told me I must wear make-up as it would help me feel better. It was easier to just do what she said. The funeral home wasn’t crowded at all. I knew it wouldn’t be. Police had surrounded the place so that press wouldn’t disturb us. I searched the room, curious that anyone had come at all. A few people Daddy worked with at the plant. A few neighbors. Carlie’s parents. Mom’s bowling team. My pastor and his family. The women from my Tuesday night Bible study. A few relatives from Birmingham. Mr. Hobbs and a group of teachers from my school.
Jake and his mom drove down in time for afternoon visitation the day before the funeral, but he had to get back for an important afternoon meeting so they left this morning at 5:00. I was horrified when he said his mother was coming. But she hugged me at visitation and swore up and down that she was there to support me during my “time of need.” I think she was there to show Jake how very broken I am. It was the perfect opportunity. The perfect illustration of a family gone bad.
I sat next to the aisle on the front row. Carlie sat on the left of me. Doug sat to her left. Mom’s sister and her husband came from Birmingham but said she didn’t want to sit on the family row. I think she was embarrassed. Who can blame her? People would surely talk. Everyone in Commerce knew the truth by now.
My pastor did the best he could as he didn’t even know my parents. He read scripture and talked about the blessing of my presence in his congregation. He finished with more scriptures of peace and comfort and a prayer for the healing of my heart. During the funeral, Carlie never let go of my hand. Doug had his arm around Carlie the whole time and would often squeeze her shoulder with love and affirmation. It was a passing down of the blessing. Doug loved and supported Carlie unconditionally. She turned around and loved and supported me during my time of need. The pastor’s prayers for comfort had already been answered.
At the end of the funeral, our row stood and the funeral director asked the funeral goers to come up row by row to show their respect. The coffins were closed but each person paused at the front and then hugged me or shook my hand. Dad’s boss handed me a hundred dollar bill folded up. Mrs. Irene wept so hard that Doug escorted her to the back and got a bottle of water for her from the kitchen. But me? My tears had been spent. I was now just going through the motions, waiting for the end. When the pastor called the last row, I was hardly looking up anymore. I leaned into Carlie and I heard her whisper, “Oh my gosh.”
I had never seen him in anything other than jeans or the work coveralls. He had on khaki pants, a white shirt, a tan striped tie, and a navy jacket. It was the first time I had seen him without a cap or at least one in his hands. He kindly told Mom’s bowling team they could go up first.
I couldn’t concentrate. I took a drink from the water bottle. Mom’s bowling comrades hugged me one by one and then Mrs. Eula handed me some cards from the kids at church, saying that everyone was praying for me. I could see Dusty waiting patiently behind Mrs. Eula. His face was red and he rubbed his lips together nervously. When it was his turn, I put my hand out and said, “Wow, you came a long way, Dusty. Thank you.”
“No problem. I wanted to just tell you how sorry I am. I know about tragedies and about suffering.” He lowered his head and spoke quietly, “It’s like a nightmare and you think you’ll never wake up.” He raised his head and stared right into my eyes. “But you will wake up, Clara. Hard to believe now, but you will.”
I wiped a tear that came out of nowhere. “Well, thank you for that. I hope you’re right.” I didn’t know what else to say or how to say it. I had an overwhelming desire to hug him, to lay my head on his shoulder, and let him take care of me. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
Carlie stepped up to the plate, unafraid as usual. “Dusty, you sure came a long way. Are you going to the cemetery?”
“I am.”
Carlie touched him on the arm. “We’ll see you there then. And we’ll make some plans for afterwards.”
He spoke briefly to Doug and then looked back at me and nodded. We walked to the parking lot and I saw his truck pulled into the funeral processional behind Mrs. Irene’s old Grand Marquis driven by her nephew.
Doug and Carlie and I rode in the hearse. Cars pulled over and stopped on the side of the road to show their respect. That’s what all southern small town people do, if they’ve had any kind of parenting whatsoever. When someone comes flying by a funeral procession, you know that’s it’s an out-of-towner or someone who just didn’t have much in the way of parenting.
Only about 25 people drove to the cemetery. Brother Jim said a prayer and then led us all in “Amazing Grace.” The funeral employees lowered my mom’s body into the ground and then my dad’s. Brother Jim’s wife, Carol, hugged me for a long time. “We love you. We’re here for you. This may not be the right time to talk about it, but you’re going to need grief counseling, Clara. Sooner the better.”
“Yes, ma’am. Could you set that up for me?”
“Glad to do it.”
I dreaded the afternoon. Doug and Carlie were leaving for home after lunch. They begged me to come with them. But I wasn’t sure. I felt like crawling under the covers and sleeping for days. Maybe I would rest up and then go to Tennessee in a few days. Mr. Hobbs said I should take as much time as I needed to recover. God only knew how long that would take or if it were even possible. I chose to believe it was.
Mrs. Eula called a few days ago, saying the women from church wanted to provide a funeral lunch. But I declined. I wanted to keep things simple. And truthfully, I knew none of the family members would want to stay. And they didn’t. I don’t come from that kind of family. My cousins didn’t even come to the burial. They said their good-byes at the funeral home. Mom’s sister hugged me at the cemetery and I knew I would never see her again.
Doug and Carlie planned to pick up a pizza and meet me at the apartment. I asked Mrs. Irene if she wanted to join us. She declined saying she needed to lie down for a while and her nephew had a job interview that afternoon at Subway. While I was talking to her, I noticed Dusty and Doug sitting on the tail gate of Dusty’s truck. It looked like the truck had been meticulously washed. The funeral was at 11:00. He must have left the house at 3:00 am. It was crazy for him to have come all this way. This was my mess, not his. And besides, I have a boyfriend. At least I think I do.
Everyone went home except the four of us. Carlie approached me and asked quietly, “What do you want me to do about Dusty?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he came all this way. We can’t let him just turn around and go home. We should at least feed him, don’t ya think?”
“I guess. But not at my apartment. We should go out somewhere.”
“That’s fine.”
Doug and Dusty walked up to the oak tree where we were standing. Doug said, “Well, ladies, let’s go eat and put our feet up, yes?”
Carlie suggeste
d we go to a pizza place near her parents’ house. She rode with me in the hearse back to the funeral home where we would pick up their car. Doug rode with Dusty in the old red truck. What I would have given to be a fly on the wall of that truck.
Chapter 42 CARLIE: Funeral Pizza
Is it wrong to matchmake at a funeral? I hope not. I wouldn’t even attempt it if Jake were here declaring his undying love. But he’s not. He’s in Tennessee trying to swing some kind of insurance deal. And in my book there is absolutely no excuse for his absence. None. The only excuse for his absence would be if he were having to attend the funeral of his own parents. And according to current reports, all his family members are alive and well. So here’s the bottom line. If I were a man and I liked a woman enough to try to kiss her outside the gift shop at Stone Mountain (which hey, I’ll be the first one to admit the Celtic music they pipe into that shop is pretty romantic) I believe I would find a way to be at the tragic double funeral of her parents. End of story.
So now I had two jobs. Help Clara with the grieving and help Clara get her man priorities straight. And I only had two hours to do it. Challenge accepted.
“Clara, we’re almost to the funeral home. Is there anything else you need to get from inside?”
“No. I asked the ladies of the church to do what they wanted with the flowers. I don’t want any at my apartment. I told Mrs. Irene to take the green plants. She likes those. I’m supposed to come in next week to settle up with the funeral home. So, no. We can just leave. It’s over.”
I held her hand and said nothing. When we pulled up, Dusty’s truck was already parked next to our car. I wasn’t sure how we should work the travel arrangements. The matchmaker in me wanted Clara to ride with Dusty. But I also wanted to be sensitive to her grief and to Jake Smith, despite his glaring absence. When we got out of the hearse, she thanked the driver and then waved at the men, saying, “We’ll meet you there.” That was actually a pretty decent plan. It would give Doug even more time to get valuable information from Dusty. Information he could pass along to the matchmaker on the long drive home. I prayed a simple prayer as I drove to the pizza shop. “Lord, please tell me Doug and Dusty aren’t discussing the weather or their high hopes for duck season.”
