The Pecan Man

by Selleck, Cassie Dandridge

  I thought about my own mother then, and how much I would have loved to have her hold me that way.

  Marcus stepped out of the alley just as Skipper Kornegay crossed the street and stepped onto the curb, less than ten feet from where Marcus now stood. He said they both jumped like they'd grabbed a cow fence.

  “Shit!” Skipper bellowed. “Boy, you scared the piss outta me. What the hell are you doin’ sneakin’ outta there like that?”

  “I ain’t sneakin’ nowhere.”

  “Looked like you was sneakin’ to me. You got some business back there my daddy oughta know ‘bout?”

  “They’s a lotta things your daddy oughta know ‘bout, but I don’t reckon you’d really want him to know everything ‘bout everything.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you, boy?"

  Marcus said he got really calm for a minute. He stood looking at Skipper Kornegay dead in the eye. Not blinking. Not wavering. Just staring. I remember thinking that was downright courageous of him, starin’ a white man down. But, then I remembered that we’d come a long way since those days and that shouldn’t really be anything notable.

  Finally Marcus found his voice again. “Ain't nothin' wrong with me. Not a damn thing!”

  “Boy, you what my daddy calls a’ uppity nigger, ain’tcha?”

  If I hadn’t known before, I knew when I heard that. Blanche was right about Ralph Kornegay and I was a fool. I’d been in polite society so long that I took social graces for social conscience. We may not hear that word much in public anymore, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t said in private.

  Marcus said he'd held his tongue all he could.

  “If uppity means I don’t take any shit off a child molester, then yeah, Skipper, I’m the uppity-est nigger you ever go'n meet.”

  “What the…?”

  Marcus said Skipper had looked confused for a split second, until he made the connection with Grace. He laughed then.

  I saw the anger rise up in Marcus when he recalled that part of the confrontation and I knew what he must have felt when he stood face to face with that monster.

  “I wanted to smash his face into the sidewalk, Miz Ora,” Marcus said through clenched teeth. “I knew right then I had to get away or I would do it. So help me, God, I would stomp him into the ground. I turned around and I ran - like a coward.”

  Marcus’s face contorted with rage and shame. Listening to him then and knowing all I know to this day, I am absolutely certain that running was the most courageous thing he could have done at that moment, but you couldn’t have told him that. He saw no honor at all in the act, only necessity. He wiped his face on his sleeve and went on with his story.

  “I ran as fast as I could, Miz Ora, but it felt like my legs was made of cement. I could hear Skipper runnin’ behind me, laughin’ the whole way. I made it as far as the woods and ran far enough in that I thought I had lost him. I stopped to catch my breath and I listened for him to follow, but I didn’t hear nothin’ so I thought he’d gone on home.”

  “But, he didn’t, did he?”

  “No ma’am, he didn’t,” Marcus sighed. “I had barely calmed my breathin’ down and all of a sudden he was just there, right in front of me. He was holdin’ out his right hand and he threw his left one up in the air like he was sword fightin’ or somethin’. I heard the click before I saw the blade. I hate knives, Miz Ora. Jesus help me, I hate ‘em.”

  Marcus seemed resigned then. “I figured I was a dead man. I almost didn’t even try to fight him off. If he’da come cut me up slow, I’da pro'bly let him. But he just jumped on me swingin’ and so I fought him."

  “Well, that’s self-defense, Marcus! You fought him in self-defense. No court will convict you for that!”

  “But, that’s not all.” Marcus dropped his chin to his chest and shook his head from side to side. “I don’t remember what all happened, I swear I don’t. I just remember doin’ everything I could to keep him from hittin’ me with that blade. I reckon he got me a few times anyway. I don’t even remember tryin’ to get the knife outta his hand; but all of a sudden, it was in mine. We wrestled around ‘til my forearm was across’t his neck and I was pressin’ on his throat as hard as I could. He stopped fightin’ for the knife and started grabbin’ at my arm and that’s when… Oh, Jesus…” Marcus wailed. He grabbed the back of his head in both hands and rocked back and forth.

  “That’s when what, son?”

  Marcus stopped rocking and took a deep, wrenching breath. He looked me straight in the eye and delivered his confession.

  “I stabbed him, Miz Ora. Over and over and over, I stabbed him. I don’t even know how many times it was, but it wadn’t no self-defense made me stab that boy like I did. It wadn’t nothin’ but pure hate and that’s the truth.”

  He didn't shed another tear after that. He just laid his head on his arms and stared up at the table. I got up from my chair and put my arms around him, pulling him as tight to me as I could get. I wasn’t his mama and my bony arms will never be called anything near soft, but I did what I could do to give him comfort.

  Nine

  I woke Marcus the next morning when the coffee finished brewing. He was nearly speechless in his sorrow, but I had no more time for comforting words. After he forced down two cups of coffee and was awake enough to listen carefully, I told him the plan I concocted through my largely sleepless night.

  “We have to get you out of town before anyone sees you. Walter’s car has enough fuel in it to get you at least three counties up the road, so you can stop at a gas station without being recognized.”

  “I can’t take Mr. Walter’s car, Miz Ora,” Marcus protested.

  “Why? You can drive, can’t you?”

  “Yes’m, I can drive. It’s just that...” He looked incredibly uncomfortable, but I didn’t have time to argue.

  “Spit it out, son.”

  “Well, it just ain’t really like you to let me take your car.”

  I stared at him hard for a minute, my fists pressing into the thin skin over my hip bones. He made a good point, no matter how much I wanted to deny it.

  “You can make payments."

  “But, where am I gonna go?”

  “Just hush and listen. Then you can ask questions if you have them.”

  He nodded.

  “I have enough cash for you to get a hotel room in Atlanta for the night. When you get up tomorrow morning, go straight back to Fort Bragg. When anyone asks, you can tell them you got into a fight in a bar.”

  “I don’t know…”

  I lost my patience.

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “No ma’am, not really.”

  “You have options, Marcus. You can stay here and go to jail if you want to, but you asked for my help and I’m trying to give it to you. Do you want it or not?”

  He fell silent and I finished giving him instructions. If questions ever arose, our stories would be the same: Marcus spent Thanksgiving night at my house, crying on my shoulder from 6:30 until midnight, and slept on my couch. Other than being upset with his mother, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, no visible wounds, no marks on his clothing. He never saw Skipper Kornegay and was nowhere near the woods where the boy was killed.

  I persuaded Marcus to write his mother a note saying he’d talked to Eddie and was too upset to face her right now, but that he'd call her when he got back to Fort Bragg.

  There were only two other people who might tell the story that connected Marcus and Skipper Kornegay, but I doubted Skipper’s friends would implicate themselves in the rape of a child.

  If Blanche had questions, I'd come up with answers. She’d been through a lot in the past few months and the last thing she needed was to watch her son go to prison for taking a child molester off the streets. I have consoled myself with that truth often over the years.

  Marcus took a few more of Walter’s clothes and accepted the turkey and dressing I packed for him. When he was ready, I followed him to the garage to get the c
ar. As he turned the ignition, he rolled down the window and looked up at me with the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut.

  “I’m scared, Miz Ora.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  He nodded then and put the car into reverse.

  “Go over that story a thousand times while you’re driving, son, and don’t ever, ever change a word of it. No matter what anyone says.”

  He nodded again and backed down the driveway. I stood at the garage door and watched the LTD glide slowly down Main Street until it was out of sight. Then I turned and looked at the empty spot where Walter’s car once sat. I have never felt more alone.

  Looking back, I might have made better choices if I'd taken more time to consider. I spent my entire life doing only what I believed to be right and true. Yet, there I was, faced with the most crucial decision I would ever make and nothing remotely resembling the truth felt right. But, I had too much to do to stand there feeling sorry for myself. I closed the garage door and went back into the house.

  I knew Blanche would be out of her mind with worry when Marcus didn’t come home the night before, but I couldn’t risk talking to her so soon after he left. I took the phone off the hook and got busy cleaning up every trace of evidence that Marcus was wounded when he showed up at my back door the night before.

  Evidence. I remember using that word in my mind as I opened a new package of rubber gloves and got the bleach from the utility room. I was destroying evidence the police might use to solve a crime. I was taking justice into my own hands and, though I’ve wrestled with doubt since, I was downright fine with it then.

  I finished mopping the kitchen floor, took the bucket of water and bleach and doused the back steps clean.

  The clothes were a problem. They were torn and bloody and no amount of bleach or washing would render them clean. They would have to be burned. The nights were cool enough, but I hadn’t taken to using the fireplace yet this year. I washed the bloody laundry with two cups of bleach to cover the smell and packed them away in a plastic bag, planning to burn them the first chance I got.

  When I finished what I’d set out to do, I put on a fresh pot of coffee and headed upstairs to take a shower. I was drying off when I heard the front door open. I had barely gotten my robe on when I heard Blanche coming up the stairs, screaming for me at the top of her lungs.

  “Miz Ora!” She waited only a couple of seconds and hollered again, “Miz Ora!”

  “I’m coming, Blanche. Good Lord, what is the matter?” I was surprised at how quickly I slipped into my new role.

  “Oh, Law’, Miz Ora!” Blanche huffed and wheezed. “I thought you was dead!”

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, Blanche, of course I’m not dead! What in the world would make you say such a thing?”

  Blanche mopped her face with a handkerchief.

  “I been tryin’ to get ahol’ta you all mornin’, Miz Ora. What’s the matter with your telephone?”

  “Nothin’s wrong with my phone, Blanche. It’s off the hook. I’ve been trying to catch up on the sleep I lost sitting up with your boy half the night.”

  “Marcus? Marcus is here? Oh, thank you Jesus! I been outta my mind with worry.”

  “He was here, but he’s gone now.”

  “Gone! But, he didn’t come home. Where’s he gone?”

  “It’s a long story, Blanche and I need some coffee to be able to tell it.”

  She followed me downstairs and into the kitchen.

  “Smells like bleach in here.”

  Blanche doesn’t miss a trick. In all the years she’s been my housekeeper, she’s never known me to mop. It’s not one of my favorite chores.

  “That’s what I get for giving you the day off. I spilled a whole cup of coffee - with cream and sugar already in it. I figured I might as well mop the whole floor so it wouldn’t be sticky all weekend.”

  The lie came amazingly easy.

  “This is my second pot of coffee today. That boy of yours can sure talk once he has a mind to.”

  “I don’t understand, Miz Ora. Why was Marcus here last night? Why didn’t he come home? He‘s in trouble, idn‘t he?”

  “You should have told him the truth about Grace. He went to find Eldred Mims when he left here, Blanche.”

  “Oh, Lord, no,” she breathed.

  “He didn’t know everything when he came back, but he knew enough to be beside himself with grief. He came back to find you, but you and the girls had just left.”

  “Well, why didn’t he just come on home then?”

  “Marcus was very upset, Blanche. I wanted to calm him down first, and by the time we got through discussing the whole thing, I thought you were both better off if he stayed here to think things over.”

  “Well, you’d think somebody woulda called me and tol’ me all this. I was worried sick about that boy. He ain’t never done nothin’ like this, not comin’ home all night.”

  “He didn’t want me to call, so I didn’t.”

  Blanche was breathless and she sat heavily on the kitchen chair, still clutching and occasionally patting her broad chest.

  “Where is he now?”

  “He left you a note. He knew you'd be upset, but he needed time to think.”

  I handed her the note and watched her read it. When she finished, she laid the scrap of paper on the table, covered it with both hands, and sat staring out the window as she was inclined to do when she was thinking.

  “Somethin’ ain’t right, Miz Ora. I know my boy and somethin’ ain’t right.”

  “Well, of course something isn’t right, Blanche. The boy just found out his baby sister was raped and his mama lied to him about it. How would you feel?” I hated snapping at her like that, but her intuition frightened me.

  “This thing jus’ gets worse and worse, don’t it? My mama always said lyin’ was bad and she was right. I tried to teach that to all my babies, too. Once you tell a lie, you have to keep tellin’ and tellin’ and tellin’ to make it stand.”

  I couldn’t respond to that. I just looked down at my hands. We sat in awkward silence, each lost in unspoken thought and apprehension. She never had time to voice the questions I was prepared to answer with lies of my own. A knock at the front door saw to that.

  I crossed the living room and opened the door, expecting to turn away an ill-timed sales pitch. The sight of two police officers made my heart gallop in my chest. In all my planning, I'd not expected this so soon.

  “Mrs. Beckworth?” I recognized the speaker immediately. Barry Tinsley and his family attended our church.

  “Barry?" I said, my voice already shaking. “What can I do for you?"

  “I need to speak with Mrs. Lowery, Ma'am. Is she here today?"

  I stepped aside and motioned toward Blanche, who was already on her feet.

  “Mrs. Lowery," he said as he stepped inside the door and removed his hat. “Your son is Marcus Lowery, Ma’am?”

  Blanche nodded, her eyes darting from Barry to me and back.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Lowery. Marcus was killed in a car accident this morning on I-75.”

  Blanche hit the floor before he finished his sentence. She didn’t utter a sound, just fainted dead away.

  Ten

  We buried Marcus beside his father, in the Mt. Zion A.M.E. Church cemetery. It was the first time I ever stepped foot in Blanche's church and I stuck out like a sore thumb. The service was not like any I ever attended, but I have no intention of describing it here. Of all the details I must give to satisfy my conscience before I die, there are some that will be left to the memories of those who were there. I owe Blanche this.

  We may not ever know the exact details of Marcus's death. What we do know is this: on Friday morning, the day after Thanksgiving, Marcus was headed north on Interstate 75 when a trucker locked up the brakes on his tractor trailer rig to avoid a disabled vehicle in his lane. There were no skid marks on the highway to indicate that Marcus reacted at all. The hood of the car went beneath the trailer and the win
dshield took the full impact. Marcus was pronounced dead at the scene.

  Blanche blamed herself, of course, but I knew I was the one who sent the boy to his death. I’ve lived with it every day since then. Blanche was right. Once a lie is told, you have to keep on telling it. You not only have to repeat it time and time again, you have to embellish it, layer upon layer until you don‘t even remember the truth. Every day I didn’t tell Blanche what I knew was another day I lied to her. Guilt cloaked me like a wool blanket in summer and no amount of sweet tea or gentle ceiling fans ever soothed me again.

  I begged Blanche to take some time off after the funeral, but she refused saying she could not bear to sit around her house and look at things that reminded her of Marcus. I could not tell her how well I understood. It was all I could do not to insist that she retire so I would not have the daily reminder of what I had done. But, even I recognized the cowardice in that and forced myself to go on.

  Two days after Blanche buried her only son, Eldred Mims was arrested for the murder of Skipper Kornegay. Dovey Kincaid hightailed it over to tell me herself before I'd had a chance to read it in the morning paper.

  "Miz Beckworth? Miz Beckworth!" She shouted as she banged her fist against the screen door.

  I barely got the inside door unlocked and opened before she charged into my home without waiting for an invitation.

  "Have you seen this?" she demanded, waving the Mayville Free Press under my nose.

  "Why, Dovey Kincaid! I've been looking all over for that paper. Where'd you find it?"

  "It was right there on your front step..." she began and stopped as my sarcasm dawned on her. “That's real funny, Ora Lee. You won't be laughing when you see what's on the front page. I tried to warn you about that awful old man, but did you listen to me? No, you did not!"

  "What are you talking about, Dovey?"