by David Stout
“Junior,” the sheriff shouted. “Them tires okay, we be moving along.”
16
Halfway through the second week of June the sheriff was more tired than he could ever remember being before. Forcing himself not to think about what could happen to Bob was part of it. And arguing with Effie about whether Junior should go with him to Columbia … well, the sheriff hated to argue with his wife about anything, and the Columbia trip had become a sore point.
Junior wanted to be a law man someday, and he could damn well learn what it was all about, bad and good, and he was going along to Columbia. That was that, as far as Hiram Stoker was concerned.
And then it was the morning of the execution.
The sheriff rose, thought of waking Junior, then decided to let him sleep a little longer. The boy was still recovering from an all-night bender he’d gone on the night before last. Going down the stairs, he smelled coffee and ham and grits in the kitchen. He smiled. God, he loved her.
“Don’t you sneak up on me,” Effie said, her back to him as she wielded two spatulas over the stove.
“Eyes in the back of your head. You got ’em, truth to tell.”
“I just hope you never have to sneak up on anybody to save your life.” She poured him a mug of thick, strong black coffee.
“Figured I’d let him sleep a bit longer,” he said. “Long trip.”
“Be a few minutes before this is done,” she said evenly.
“I’ll sit out here till then.”
The sheriff went through the screen door to the small wooden porch that ran the length of the rear of the house and sat in one of the wicker chairs. He took a long gulp of coffee.
A raspberry and purple sunrise was bursting over central South Carolina. Funny how it seemed to be lighter farther away; he could make out the soybean fields on Bert Roston’s spread a quarter-mile away, but the greens in his own garden, which lay practically at his feet, were still sheathed in darkness. But minute by minute, as he watched, it got lighter. The dew sparkled.
“Effie, what time is it in France?” he said, turning his head toward the den.
“Middle of the day,” she said from the kitchen. “Almost dinnertime, in fact.”
Since the invasion ten days before, he had often wondered what Bob was doing at the exact moment they were doing something at home. He could not even be sure, of course, that he was taking part in the fighting, but his gut told him he was.
“Careful, boy,” the sheriff whispered to the morning. “Squeeze them rounds off. You’re a damn good shot, truth to tell.…”
“Ready,” his wife called from the kitchen.
“Comin’ right in.” He lingered for a moment, savoring the morning. The sky was light enough to show that it would be a blue, clear day. Hot, too.
The sheriff thought of Linus Bragg, wondered if he could see the sun from his cell. Poor nigger never did get to see that many sunrises … The sheriff shook his head. God, don’t let dying be too hard on the nigger, he thought. Then he thought of the morning they had pulled the girls out of the ditch. Well, he thought, the girls didn’t know when they got up that morning that they were going to die. Nigger does. Meant what I said, God. Don’t let dying be too hard on him …
“Gettin’ cold,” Effie said from the kitchen.
The sheriff went inside and was surprised to see Junior sitting at the table, head down, concentrating on his breakfast.
“Morning,” the sheriff said.
“Morning,” his son said.
His face looks a little better, the sheriff thought, both concerned and amused. Took him a few days to get over his first tangle with peach wine. Serves him right, truth to tell.
The sun was still low in the sky, bright through the rear window and onto the mirror, as they headed west out of Manning on Route 521 toward Columbia. Hiram Stoker thought the world was never more beautiful than in early morning. Mist rose from the tobacco and soybean fields. The car windows were open, and the smells of wet, rich dirt and green, growing things filled the air. Thick, country smells, smells of life.
The road to Columbia was narrow, winding in places. Now and then, they passed a hay wagon or a farm tractor.
“How you feel?” the sheriff said at length.
“All right,” his son said.
“Better than yesterday morning, I suppose.”
Junior’s ears burned.
“Matter of fact,” the sheriff said, “your eyes yesterday morning—know what they reminded me of?”
“No …”
“Bass eyes, after a bass been on a stringer all day long.”
“Hmmm.”
“You and that Cory Wilson fella, that who you with the other night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thought so. Cory bring the jug, did he?”
“Yes, sir.” This was not quite a lie, Junior reasoned. It had been Cory who actually took the jug off the back of Bert Roston’s porch, even though Junior had been with him.
“The jug holds trouble as well as fun. You just remember that, hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You get enough to eat this morning?”
“Fine.”
“Reason I ask, you’re gonna see things that won’t sit so well.”
“I’ll be okay.” But, really, Junior was worried that he wouldn’t be.
“Figured. Just sit tight and swallow hard.”
They rode in silence for a while, Junior relieved that the lecture was over. At first, when his father had said he could come along, Junior had felt the way he had those early times, when his father took him hunting and fishing. Riding in the car, he still felt that, but there was something more. He did not know what it was exactly, did not even want to think too much about it.
Just as the cool of the morning was turning into the heat of the morning, they saw a car and a horse-drawn wagon by the side of the road. A white man, a colored man, a colored woman, and her two children were in the middle of the road, standing in a rough circle. The white man, grizzled and in overalls, looked to be a farmer. The colored woman and her children had their hands over their ears.
“Little trouble, looks like,” the sheriff said, stopping near the wagon.
Now the sheriff and his son could see what the people had formed a circle around. A hound lay in the road, some of its entrails next to it. As the sheriff cut the engine, he and Junior heard the dog moan. It was a sound that cut to the heart, leaving the listener with one wish, only one—that the sound would go away.
“Okay,” the sheriff said, his voice controlled but husky. “Let’s do what we can.”
“Godalmighty, Sheriff,” the white man said, seeing Hiram Stoker’s badge. “Damn thing jumped off the wagon right in front of me.”
“He honk, he honk,” the colored man said. “Chillun hold the dog, hold him. He honk, scare the chillun, the dog too, and he jump off. That the truth.”
The man was close to tears. A few feet away, his wife and the children, a boy and girl, sobbed.
“Godalmighty, Sheriff. It weren’t—”
“Just hold, now,” the sheriff said, a slight, commanding edge to his voice. “Just hold, mister. Ain’t nobody accusing you. First things first.” The sheriff took a deep breath. “Junior,” he said quietly, raising his right hand with just his thumb and index finger extended.
Junior understood and got his father’s holster and gun from the front seat. He held the holster as his father removed the long-barreled revolver.
“What your dog’s name?” the sheriff said to the colored man.
“Blue.”
“Well, you get over there and tell your children Blue ain’t gonna hurt.…”
The sheriff knelt next to the animal, not looking at the entrails, cocked the revolver hammer, and held the muzzle to the head. “Easy, boy,” he whispered.
The echo of the shot came back from the nearest ridge as the dog’s teeth and parts of his brain came to rest on the roadside.
“He don’t hurt
no more,” the sheriff said quietly.
The sobs of the children filled the air when the echo stopped.
“Godalmighty, Sheriff,” the white man said. “Nothing I could do. They shoulda held him. Hell, I got dogs—”
“Nobody blaming you,” the sheriff said. “One of those things, that’s all.” The sheriff put his hand on the man’s shoulder; it was a gesture that was meant to express both consolation and, unmistakably, a command. “You best be getting along,” the sheriff said.
Without a word, the man got in his car and drove away.
The sheriff faced the colored man. “True what they say, ain’t it? About dogs bein’ friends?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know you loved that old Blue. I trust you to get him off the road and bury him proper.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Knew I could. Hell, I had a hound once. Lived fifteen years. Liked to cry when he died …”
The man was bigger than average, thick-shouldered and bent-backed from field work. His eyes were steady and dry.
The sheriff went over to the children. The boy, nine or ten, cried silently now. His sister, five or six, wailed inconsolably against the chest of her kneeling mother. The sheriff knelt and, not urgently, took the girl’s shoulders and turned her toward him.
“Blue be in dog heaven,” the sheriff said. “Only thing makes a dog unhappy, once he be in dog heaven, what with all the meat scraps and bones he get, is to hear someone cryin’ for him down here. Only thing.”
The girl’s crying subsided. “Who feed ’em up there?” she asked, timid and suspicious.
The sheriff stood up. “Why, God feed ’em. Who else? He gets scraps and bones anywhere he want. Don’t you worry none about that.”
The children were quiet now. The man took a flap of burlap from the back of his wagon, tugged and lifted the dog’s carcass onto it, and dragged the remains to the side of the road. His wife took a small shovel from the wagon, walked across the road, and took several strides into a field. She turned a clump of rich earth, then handed the shovel to her man.
“Let’s be on our way,” the sheriff said.
Junior’s knees were weak, and his ears pounded with the sound of his blood racing. The morning was laden with suffering and death; it smelled of gunpowder and blood.
Junior looked down at his father’s holster, still cradled in his hands, and was amazed to see that his father had placed the revolver back in it. Junior couldn’t remember his father having done it.
Back in the car, the sheriff took a red handkerchief and wiped his face and neck.
“Coloreds love their dogs,” the sheriff said. “Breaks their hearts when they lose ’em. Can’t blame ’em none. Feel that way myself. You gonna be a law man, you best remember what makes coloreds tick. They got feelings too. Some sheriffs forget that, then bye and bye they got trouble with their colored.”
The sheriff started the car. The sound of the engine was welcome to Junior, who hoped that the colored boy he was going to watch die would not cry or scream.
“Just set it on the seat,” the sheriff said. “My gun and holster.”
17
The hot chocolate made Linus feel funny as the morning got lighter. Fuzzy. Not really sleepy, but fuzzy.
It must be getting close, Linus thought. The other prisoners would be eating breakfast. Doors and keys clanged, and the guard was there.
“Chaplain’s here, boy.”
The chaplain was a plump, middle-aged colored man with large eyes, sad like a hound’s.
“Morning, Preacher,” the guard said.
Linus heard the door open and close, as if from far away, and he felt the preacher’s hand on his shoulder.
“Boy, I am here to comfort you with prayer, with God’s word. Soon, very soon, you shall see Him for yourself. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.” Linus’s own voice sounded far away.
“You shall see him, I promise, if you repent for your sins. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Linus hoped he would be safe in heaven.
“I have a boy your age. I shall pray for you as I pray for him, son.…”
The preacher was wearing a suit, but it was all funny-baggy, not as nice as the Governor’s suit.
Linus had not known who the Governor was. The guard had let the Governor into the cell and told Linus to stand up and say hello.
“Hello, boy,” the Governor had said in a soft voice. Then the door was slammed shut and Linus was left alone with him.
Linus remembered thinking that the Governor looked very sad.
“Boy, you know you are to be put to death.…”
Put to death.
“You are very young, boy. The state has never put to death anyone so young. Did you know that?”
“No, sir.”
“Boy, I have the power to—” The Governor looked sad and bit his lip. “Boy, is there anything you want to tell me, anything that would make me want to …” The Governor bit his lip again.
Linus waited for the Governor to go on.
“Boy, some people did not even want me to come and see you. But I prayed on it, and here I am. Is there anything …?”
The Governor’s words made Linus sad, and before he knew it he felt tears on his cheeks. That made him feel even worse.
“God have mercy on you, boy,” the Governor said. Then the keys and cell door clanged, and the Governor was gone.
Linus was glad that the Governor had prayed too, just as the preacher was praying now in his soft, sad voice.
Linus had known the night before that it was getting close, the time when he was going to be put to death. They had brought him a big tray of food—ribs, sweet potatoes, root beer, and ice cream. He had not been very hungry, but he had eaten a little bit of everything.
He had felt sleepy right after eating. He had gone to sleep and dreamed, of the mill where his daddy had worked, his family’s shack, Green Hill Church, the catfish pond.
He had opened his eyes a few times. His cell was still dark. He had prayed for his ma and pa and Will and Jewel, for the sheriff and Mr. Brickstone.…
His mama had told him that it was better to pray for someone else, because then God would see that he was not selfish, and his prayers would count more. He prayed that he would see his mama and daddy again, after they had lived their lives up north.
Linus had kept the secret, cleaned up where the girls had died, and he had only a little way to go, because the day was here when he was going to be put to death. The morning sounds had told Linus the day was here—sounds of garbage cans slamming onto cement, of water going through faraway pipes, of pails dropping, of men moaning and swearing.
Linus missed the morning sounds from the shacks and the mill, missed the horses and roosters and saws.… His father did not work at the mill anymore.
The guard had brought Linus a cup of hot chocolate and told him he had to drink it. It tasted funny.
Linus could hear the preacher, but the voice sounded far away.
“When you sit down for that last moment, and it will be only a moment, imagine that you are leaping across a wide ditch. And when you land, you will be in heaven.”
Linus was going to jump over a ditch.…
“I shall pray for you now.” The chaplain closed his sad hound’s eyes and mumbled. Then he opened them and put his hand on Linus’s shoulder again. “God bless you, boy.”
The door clanged open and the chaplain shuffled out.
Linus was surprised just then to see the sheriff at the cell door, along with a gray-haired man in a suit. The man in the suit frowned and seemed sad. The guard let them in.
“This here’s the warden, boy,” the sheriff said. Linus thought the voice was far away.
“Linus,” the sheriff said, “you know you have only a short time to live, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” It was coming close now. He was going to be put to death.
“Now, Linus, do you have anything to say?”<
br />
The sheriff was doing tricks with his voice, making it sound far away. Linus tried to tell him he knew about the trick. Then Linus’s own voice sounded far away, and he couldn’t remember how to make the words.
The sheriff himself seemed very far away too. From way far away, the sheriff was looking at him. The sheriff seemed sad. Now the sheriff came close again. Linus felt something at his side, felt the sheriff grabbing his arm. He heard the sound of keys.
The sheriff had to bite his lip to keep from snarling at the guard who fumbled with the keys; he wanted out of the cell and away from the boy as fast as he could go.
Ah, shit. Hell, no. The guard wasn’t feeling any better than he was. “Obliged,” the sheriff said when the door was finally opened.
He wondered if it had been a mistake to bring his son. Maybe Effie had been right. Not a thing for a boy to see, she had said. Could affect him for life.
Hell, not a thing for a man to see, either. They’ll find out, the sheriff thought, as he walked into the execution chamber and saw the church-like pews jammed with those who had come to watch the sacrifice.
The sheriff recognized some of the faces from that day in the kitchen when he had broken the news. There were others, too, mill workers and neighbors. And there was Junior, white-faced and staring. The sheriff hoped his son would not throw up.
Everyone stared at the chair. It sat in the center of the room, about ten feet in front of the pews. The wood was dark and shiny and the straps hung like snakes, coiled and waiting. A thick black cord ran from underneath the chair across the floor to a hole in a wall behind which, the sheriff knew, was a generator.
He sat down next to his son and nudged him in the ribs with as much gentleness as he could muster. Junior said nothing.
From around the corner, just out of view, doors clanged and feet scuffed.
Linus’s feet felt like blocks of wood, but he was able to move them. The guards held him tight.
One guard had whispered to him to hold on tight to the Bible, to hold on tight.… Linus understood that the Bible had been the thing the sheriff had put in his lap that day at the gas station. Linus held tight. He knew the Bible said things about children and lambs being put to death, put to death, put to death.…
