Refuge

by Dot Jackson

  I remember Ans’s arm around me, very secure. And after that, nothing. Not much, at least, for days. Vaguely I remember being very sick; I remember Ans’s face, and Nam’s rocker creaking, creaking by the bed. And Rose holding my hand. The only thing that stands out plain from those days was once when the sheriff came and Rose got up and went out in the hall to talk to him. That I remember. “Rose, we got your daddy,” he said. And she said nothing. “We got ’im in Knoxville, to his sister’s house,” he said. Silence.

  “He come right with us, no ruckus atall.”

  “He never put up a fight?” she said, not quite believing.

  “We told ’im what you said,” the sheriff said. “He throwed up his fist, said, ‘The hell you say!’”

  Silence. “When you gon’ tell us the truth, honey girl?”

  “I told you the truth. Mr. Steele had a row with Pap. And I killed him.”

  28.

  DUE PROCESS

  YOU KNOW THEY USED TO HAVE A JUDGE COME IN JUST A FEW DAYS of the year, up here; I don’t know how it is now but then when something happened, some crime, it had to wait on court day. If the wronged parties didn’t just take care of it in their own premeditated way.

  Good luck or bad, whichever way you looked at it, court day was about three weeks away. They had Coy Ray in jail, no matter how much Rose protested. “I know she is an honest youngun,” the sheriff told Aunt Nam, “but on this score I don’t believe a word she says.”

  “Nor I, on this score,” Aunt Nam said. What the Law had was two people, the only two witnesses, adamantly confessing to a crime. Rose, and her Pap. Harmon Garrison had been away when the deed was done; he had been in Michigan on some of Ben Aaron’s business, and got home just in time to read the will. I had no call to hear that will; nothing that Ben Aaron had could he anywise have left to me, nor would I have wished him to.

  But it was not without surprises. Some people whose land he got for taxes, or for a roll of loaded dice or a deal off the bottom of a deck, got their losses back intact, except for a little timber. Coy Ray did not, quite; the entire of Wilcox Ridge went to Coy Ray’s boys, with Harmon as trustee until the least one came of age. To Rose alone went her mother’s half of the old Shuman tract on down the river, south of Wilcoxes’: 320 acres and several empty tenant houses. He had bought that from Cleone one time when Coy Ray was in a tight, and she was scraping up money. And he left Rose a little money, too, to see her and the boys through school.

  The bulk, of course, Sophia got. Her lawyer came down anyway, to make things troublesome for Harmon as he could. Harmon and Sophia were never what you’d call in love. Well, in the midst of this Harmon had to decide what to do about something else. “Please talk to Rose and make her have some sense about this thing,” I said.

  “What am I going to do about Coy Ray?” he said.

  “You are going to defend him,” I said.

  “He’s not asked me.”

  “I’m asking you,” I said.

  “’Y God, that puts me in a pickle,” he said. “That man killed my best friend on earth.”

  “And your best friend on earth, what do you think he would want? Would he want Coy Ray to hang?”

  “Hell no,” Harmon said. “He’d want him staked to the ground and left for the piss ants. And then just before the last breath left the bastard, he’d ride up and grab him and tote him off to get a drink of likker, and pick a little tune. Oh, I’ll go see Coy Ray, I’ll do the best I can.”

  But then, “By the way,” he said, “has Rose talked to you about it? Has she told you anything?” Not a word, I said. And I never asked her. I didn’t even know if I wanted to know. Tell the truth, none of us kin had talked about it, hardly at all. We wouldn’t admit it happened.

  “I doubt that she’ll tell me,” Harmon said. “We may just have to see what she does when they put her under oath.” And he was right. He went down to Red Bank to the jail and saw Coy Ray, said he was sitting on his bunk, staring out the window, wouldn’t talk to him, wouldn’t even look around at him but once. And that was to say, “I killed the son of a bitch. I don’t give a damn to tell the world I killed ’im. Now what the hell you think you can do for me?”

  It was about the same speech Coy Ray gave in court when the hearing came up. I would not have gone for the world except Rose asked me. She asked me to go and sit with her, until she had to testify. Certainly Myrtle and Ans would go. Ans had to describe the body, the cause of death and all that. But quietly, Rose asked me to come, and I was getting around some, by then, and I said yes I would.

  Nam begged off that morning, said she just didn’t believe she could bear to hear it talked about. But everyone else in the county and a hundred miles was there. It was Model T Fords and mules in the road as far as you could see. The courthouse was just swarming; there was a line of deputies on the steps, they made way for us, and got us in, and they took Rose off to an anteroom behind—what do you call it? The pulpit? I guess—the bench. Whatever, anyway we saw Harmon go back there to be with her and I felt better about it.

  I’ll tell you who else was not there: Sophia was not there. I had wondered whether she would have to be a witness and I guess I dreaded hearing that, or maybe I dreaded it for her, in a mixed-up way. I sort of rolled my eyes without obviously craning and she was nowhere in sight. It was like Myrtle read my mind. “Ans had to beg off for Sophia,” she said. “She’s threatening nervous prostration.”

  The judge was an old man named Hollowell Spence. He was little and dried up and bald-headed, and he had a little bristly cowcatcher mustache. It was sort of a distraction that he was cross-eyed. He couldn’t hear real good and he leaned forward with his hand behind his ear, making X’s with his eyes on whoever was doing the talking. One thing I thought, it would be hard to lie to him.

  I don’t know how these things are supposed to go; it was the only time in my life I was ever in a courtroom. There was this brassy, cocky lawyer that must have come from outside, too. I never saw him in Red Bank and I never thought to ask Harmon who he was but he seemed to be the grand inquisitor or something, he strutted back and forth with his thumbs in his pockets and his belly stuck out, and a furrow of wisdom on his brow. He was playing to the crowd; a hanging would not have drawn a bigger one. They trotted out those loggers, one by one, the ones that had found the body, so to speak.

  Now, you won’t find many people up here anytime that will tell you more than you ask, not even if they like you a whole lot. What that pouter pigeon got out of those boys he got word by word. Yes, they worked for “the deceased.” No, they were not working for him that day. They were working for Mr. Coy Ray Wilcox. Not for pay. On the shares. Cutting chestnut. Did they know it was stolen timber? No. Wilcox Ridge was Wilcox Ridge. First and last. No, they did not see the shooting. Yes, they heard the shot. Thought it was a hunter. They were on their way down the ridge with a team of oxen pulling a log when they came to the road and saw “the deceased,” still sitting in the saddle. And the horse seemed to be ambling along, at its own pleasure.

  What was the state of the rider? “Bloody,” one said.

  “I b’lieved at the time he was dead,” said the other. And they had left their team and started after the horse, and caught up with it, just as it had come to the main road, and paused, and headed south, toward The Birches. And just as they caught up to it, the rider fell.

  I sat there frozen, as the second one testified, waiting for him to tell what he had come and told me. “And what did you observe to be the condition of the deceased, at that point?” that lawyer said. And the witness held his chew in his cheek and stared back kind of blankly. “Dead,” he said. “Plum cold and dead.”

  Ans testified then that certainly, by the time the body arrived in Caney Forks, it was quite dead. The cause of death was blood loss, from a ruptured artery in the neck, and massive head injuries, undoubtedly caused by a blast from a shotgun at close range. No, Ans could not say why “the deceased” was not unseated by that force. Or how
he could have ridden horseback some undetermined distance though dying, or possibly dead. “It is not the first thing I have not been able to explain,” he said mildly. And he stepped down, and the deputy went back and brought in Rose.

  Until she came out there, and stood to take the oath, I had not really noticed how thin she was, and how hollow-cheeked and pale. She seemed to have fallen away, even in that hour. She had on a light blue flannel dress I know Myrtle had made for her; it had long sleeves and it was gathered onto a yoke and had a little round collar, right pretty, but it hung on her like a sack. She had braided her hair and wound it round and round; she was all gold hair and eyes. Oath-taking was a very serious matter; she put her hand on the Bible and did solemnly swear and the judge leaned further forward and pushed his ear nearly closed, and fixed her in that cross-wise stare and she stared back, unintimidated. Where was she on that morning in September, that cocky lawyer asked.

  “At home.”

  Was she alone?

  “No.”

  Who else was there?

  “My pap.”

  “Who is your pap?”

  “Coy Ray Wilcox.”

  “Where were the other members of the family?”

  “Gone to school.”

  “And on that morning did you see Mr. Steele, the deceased?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was he?”

  “In the yard.”

  “Whose yard?”

  “Paps’s.”

  “Under what circumstances did you see him?”

  “He rid up on his horse.”

  “And did you go out to meet him?”

  “No.”

  “Did Mr. Wilcox go out to meet him?”

  “No.”

  “Nobody talked with him then?”

  “Pap.”

  “But you said Mr. Wilcox didn’t go out.”

  “He was already out.”

  The jerk made a flourish with his pink hands and rolled his eyes at the judge.

  “What was he doing?”

  “Goin’ to hunt squirrel.”

  “So Mr. Wilcox was armed!” Rose sat silent.

  “Was he armed?” the lawyer said, sounding annoyed.

  “You said,” she answered in all innocence.

  He puffed and blew his nose. “Was Mr. Steele armed?” he said.

  “Not as I know of.”

  “But you did observe him. You did go outside.”

  “Yes.”

  “What prompted you to go outside?” Rose didn’t answer that right off. “What prompted you?” the lawyer said, getting huffy.

  “You must tell us, girlie,” said the judge.

  “I heard cussin’.”

  “Was Mr. Steele cursing?” the hateful thing demanded.

  “No.”

  “Then your father was cursing.” Rose sat looking blank.

  “Was your father cursing Mr. Steele?” the lawyer said.

  “Pap was cussin’,” she said.

  “Did Mr. Steele reply?”

  “No.”

  “Why was your father cursing him? What was the cause?”

  Silence.

  “Was it an argument over timber?”

  “No.” There was not a breath stirring in the courtroom. Outside the breeze had picked up, rattling branches and flinging dry leaves against the windows.

  “Then what was the argument about? You said they were arguing.”

  “No, I never.”

  “All right! Your father was angry with Mr. Steele. What was he angry about?”

  “He was cussing, what was he cussing about?” the judge put in. He was leaned clean out of his chair. Rose looked down for the first time, and clasped and unclasped her hands.

  “A woman,” she said. There was a breath-drawing of delight among the spectators. A few wise murmurs. I noticed old Chick Aleywine down in the very front row. She had turned around and was grinning, showing her gums, proud as punch. Her day in the sun.

  “A woman,” said the lawyer. “What about a woman?”

  It looked like poor little Rose grew down into her chair. “Pap eat him out,” she finally said, “because he bigged a woman.”

  “He did what?”

  “He bigged a woman. Bigged her with a baby.” Of all the whispering and craning around and aha-ing there has never been the like. The judge glared and hammered it down.

  “Bigged WHO with a baby?” The lawyer was delighted. Rose took her time, raised her chin and looked at him squarely.

  “I never kep’ up with their wimmen,” she said. It was almost impudent. Titters rippled across the room. And it made that lawyer mad. You could just see the wheels grinding, along with his teeth. He got a glittering look in his eye.

  “Tell me, young lady,” he said, thrusting his leering countenance right up into her face. “Did YOU have a relationship with Ben Aaron Steele?”

  She flinched like she was struck. She looked at me beseechingly.

  “Did you have a relationship?” the slime thought he had drawn blood.

  “Yes.”

  “Ah!” Gleefully, “What was the nature of that relationship?”

  Silence. Rose stared at the tormentor.

  “What was your relationship with Mr. Steele?” he said again. The judge shifted uncomfortably in his chair, frowning. It was so still in there you could have heard a gnat buzzing. Rose, literal little soul, bit her lip.

  “He was my daddy,” she said, simply, and perfectly clear.

  There was no order in the court for quite some time. No matter what else came out of court that day, there was a winter’s worth to talk about. The judge rapped and the lawyer went on.

  “Mr. Steele was your father? Was this known to anyone else? Was it known to Mr. Wilcox?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It was never talked about.” She started to cry.

  “How did you know it?”

  “Here, here, that’ll do,” the judge said. “We’re off the subject. Let’s move along.” The lawyer looked down at his feet.

  “Mr. Steele was your father, you say. And I believe you told the sheriff you killed him. Is that correct?” She sat still, getting back her calm, with her hands folded in her lap.

  “I did,” she said.

  “Did you have a weapon?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Wilcox, your, er, he had the weapon. Did you take it from him?”

  “No, sir, I tried to.”

  “You tried to take the weapon to kill Mr. Steele?”

  “I tried to take it not to.”

  “Young lady,” the judge said, “was Mr. Wilcox aiming that gun at Mr. Steele?”

  “He was jis’ foolin’ around,” Rose said. Her voice was cracking.

  “He was pointing it though,” the judge said. “Where was he pointing it?”

  “And Mr. Steele he jist set there, on his horse an’ he wouldn’t move, an’ I hollered at ’im to go, go, get away an’ he wouldn’t move…” Rose said, on the brink of hysterics.

  “And Mr. Wilcox fired that gun…”

  “I jerked it is what did it,” Rose sobbed, “I jerked it up t’ get it away, Pap never meant to kill ’im, he was jist mad, jist crazy, he never would of killed Mr. Steele, God knows…”

  Harmon jumped up and they let him take her out. Myrtle flew out behind them. I was too limp to move. When things had calmed they brought in Coy Ray. They had him in handcuffs, with a deputy on each side. It liked to have killed me. And that pile of chicken-doo commenced again.

  “Mr. Wilcox, where were you on the morning of the third day of September?”

  Coy Ray was looking out the window. He was white and cool as cornstarch. “I was killin’ Mr. Ben Aaron Steele,” he said to the wind in the trees. “I was fixin’ his ass for good.” I guess there was nothing else the judge could do, then. Coy Ray had admitted to murder. They put him back in jail to wait for the next court day, in December, to decide what to do with him.

  I pulled my shawl up over my head and g
ot out of there as fast as I could go and went looking for Rose. Harmon had her out in the back, away from the crowd. I had just got to them when the sheriff brought Coy Ray out through that back passageway to the jail. That was a jolt. Rose sobbed out at him, “Oh Pap, will you please forgive me!” holding out her arms. He never even broke his stride. He turned back once and looked at me. Years after that I’d wake up wondering; in my sleep I’d see that face. The last thing, as the door closed behind them, Harmon hollered at him, “I’ll be to see you in a day or two, whether you want me or not!” I don’t know if Coy Ray heard him.

  Ans had found us all by then and we stood there sort of stunned, getting our bearings before we started home. Ans was driving his big old touring car. And then Rose said, “If y’uns don’t mind I’d like Cud’n Sen and me to go back to The Birches, for this day.” They looked at me, puzzled, and I nodded yes. I hadn’t been home but the day the baby came in all this time. Yes, I wanted to go, I said. Well he would probably do best to go around the highway and come in from the Forks, Ans said.