Rings of Trust

by Kittie Howard

Mr. Laurent stood on the lawn opposite his house’s portico. His hair was disheveled, his face haggard. With his feet shoulder-width apart, he raised his Marlin 336 Winchester hunting rifle and snuggled the buttstock into his shoulder blade. As the green Chevy approached the first gate, he pressed the trigger to its firewall. When David got out of the truck, he released the trigger pressure and lowered the 20-inch rifle barrel. He crossed to the storehouse, hooked the Winchester in the gun rack on the wall in the front room, and proceeded to the driveway.

  When the truck disappeared behind the storehouse, he stared into the unknown as if dazed. When David pulled up alongside, he glanced at the empty passenger’s seat and bit his lip. “Your hunch about Louie was right,” he said.

  David nodded. “Da bastard went crazy befo’ he turned on dat hay pasture road.”

  “I telephoned the sheriff when I heard the gunshots.” Mr. Laurent said, his hand on his forehead. “I worried about you. You took a big chance.”

  David’s eyes met Mr. Laurent’s. “Merci beaucoup, pod-nah.” David got out of the truck and wrapped his arm around Mr. Laurent’s shoulder. He nudged him backwards, away from the truck. “When Louie’s elbow hit da horn, I knew somebody was gonna follow da sound from Blanchard’s place.” David paused. “Charley’s unda da tarp in da back a da truck.”

  “The Charley who drives the sharecropper wagon?”

  “Yeah, dat Charley. He came at me on horseback. Widout a horse snortin’ in da pine trees, he’d a gotten me.”

  “Bon Dieu. You could have been killed.” Sweat rolled down Mr. Laurent’s forehead. “Did you kill Charley?” he asked, fear in his voice.

  “Non. I didn’t kill him. I got off a round befo’ Charley did. Da shot surprised da horse. When his horse t’rew him, Charley’s neck broke.”

  Mr. Laurent closed his eyes, as if to gather his thoughts. Flies buzzed his sweat-drenched shirt. “Where’s Louie?”

  David returned to the truck and shut the door. “I left him in da pasture. Louie’s buddies in da pine trees kin deal wid his smashed balls.” David faced his pa-ran. “Charley and Louie’s been workin’ togedder. Dere was a small can a poison in da back a da truck. Dat’s how dey killed Tippy an’ Peppa.” He hesitated. “Louie’s got pretty good English. Charley musta written da note.”

  As if in slow motion, Mr. Laurent took his glasses off. He wiped his forehead and the corners of his eyes. “Losing Tippy was like losing another child. We lost so many babies before Maurice was born.” His voice faded into a heavy sigh.

  David swirled a rock with his booted foot. “Life dôn seem fair when da heart’s hurtin’.”

  “No, it don’t.” Mr. Laurent put his glasses back on. “It kicks like hell.”

  “Louie’s got a wife an’ a kid. Charley was his first cousin,” David said, meeting Mr. Laurent’s eyes.

  “Bon Dieu. Antoinette was right.”

  “Ain?”

  Mr. Laurent paced in a circle. “Antoinette Jarreau is one of the women in the church’s Altar Society,” he said, his hands restless. “She gossiped Blanchard’s daughter had gotten pregnant by a drifter and married him. It never occurred to me Louie was that drifter.”

  “Mais, dat makes sense. Dat’s how Louie found out you needed a fo’man. Blanchard tole him,” David said and gripped the Chevy’s vent window.

  “But why would Blanchard help Louie?”

  David dropped his head. He tapped his foot on the pebbles. “You tole me Blanchard’s kids didn’t live in Louisiana?” he said, looking at Mr. Laurent sideways. “An’ Blanchard wanted to sell his farm an’ move?”

  Mr. Laurent stopped pacing.

  “Meybe Louie was blackmailin’ Blanchard into sellin’ him da farm, meybe givin’ him da place. Dat way, his wife’s brodders ain’t got a farm to inherit,” David said.

  Mr. Laurent turned toward the truck’s bed. His eyes lingered on a swarm of flies above the bed as thick as a black cloud. He adjusted his glasses and coughed lightly. “What do you mean, blackmailin’ Blanchard?”

  “Mais, if Blanchard wanted to see his grandbaby, Louie had da power to mek Blanchard do w’at he wanted.”

  “When it comes to money, there’s no limit to greed,” Mr. Laurent said, his eyes narrowed at the truck’s bed. “Charley hasn’t been dead long. There are too many flies around that truck. Who else is lying there?”

  David blew out his cheeks. “I couldn’t put Charley in da truck straight ’cause a his broken neck. He’s unda da tarp in front a da truck’s wheel.” He dropped his eyes. “Daniel’s under da tarp in da middle a da truck. Da buzzards got to him befo’ I did.”

  “Cher Bon Dieu.” Mr. Laurent’s hand trembled as he made the Sigh of the Cross. “I-I don’t know how to tell Ruby. She thinks Daniel’s safe in Fleur de Lis Parish.”

  Pain filled David’s eyes. “Id ain’t right, a momma havin’ to put lilies on her baby’s grave. If dis happened to Remy, I tink—” His jaw dropped.

  With its blue light flashing and its growler siren blasting from the fender, a black and white police car sped toward the farm. Birds scattered and rocks flew when the Chevy roared up the driveway. After the special effects faded, the front passenger’s door opened. A stocky but fit man in his early thirties walked around the front of the sedan. He had heavy-lidded eyes and thin lips in a round face. His right hand rested on the side arm attached to his beige uniform’s black belt.

  “I’s Sheriff Guidry,” he said to David and then nodded at Mr. Laurent. “W’at’s da problem, sir? Is you missin’ mo’ cattle?”

  Mr. Laurent’s features hardened. “Cattle rustlin’ isn’t the immediate problem.”

  “Id kan’t git much worse dan dat fo’ a cattleman,” Sheriff Guidry said.

  “Yes, it can,” Mr. Laurent said, authority in his voice. “The Klan lynched my housekeeper’s son. Daniel Belanger’s body is lying in the back of that truck.”

  Sheriff Guidry glanced at the Chevy. “Did you find da body?” he asked, nonplused.

  “No. I-I would’ve had a heart attack,” Mr. Laurent said and dropped his eyes. “Mr. Broussard found Daniel hangin’ from a tree in one of my back pastures.”

  Sheriff Guidry fought to suppress a downturned smile as he faced David. “I’s heard ’bout you. You’s dat rich sharecroppa who come back from da War wid lots a medals. You knows how to shoot an’ kill real good.”

  Mr. Laurent coughed lightly. “Mr. Broussard defended himself when a Klansman on horseback attempted to kill him. Mr. Broussard fired a round that scared the rider’s horse. Charley got thrown and died from a broken neck. His body is also in the truck.”

  Sheriff Guidry reeled back in surprise. “You’s shittin’ me. Dat little guy drivin’ da sharecroppa wagon? Charley’s dead?”

  Mr. Laurent nodded yes.

  “Mais, dat dôn mek sense, no,” he said, his hand in the air. “Charley was a good, good man. Neva missed goin’ to church on Sunday.”

  “Did Charley wear a sheet to church?” David asked.

  Sheriff Guidry laughed. “You hear dat,” he said to the approaching deputy. He was younger, in his twenties, and pencil thin. “Dis sharecroppa’s sayin’ Charley was lynchin’ people.”

  “I dôn believe dat, no. Sounds like dis white trash is holdin’ a grudge ginst Charley,” the deputy said. “You knows how dose sharecroppas go at id.”

  “I’m not a sharecroppa,” David said.

  “You’s a rich sharecroppa,” Sheriff Guidry said with a throaty laugh. His expression darkened. “Meybe you done had a problem wid Charley from when you was ridin’ da wagon?”

  The deputy pushed his uniform hat back and scratched his head. “Meybe he owed Charley some money an’ didn’t wanna pay up.”

  “I knew we did da right ting, hirin’ you,” Sheriff Guidry said to the deputy and gave David a smug look. “Charley tole me he was savin’ up to buy a car. He wanted to drive a taxi in New Awlins. How’s I to know you ain’t cheated Charley outta his hard-earned money?”
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  “That’s ridiculous,” Mr. Laurent said. “I can vouch for Mr. Broussard. He doesn’t owe anyone a dime.”

  “Meybe you’s not knowin’ da full story,” Sheriff Guidry said.

  “Sheriff, you’re lookin’ in the wrong place,” Mr. Laurent said. “There’s a dead child lyin’ in that truck. I’d like to know how a rope got around Daniel’s neck. If you’re not interested in findin’ out, I’ll telephone the head of the state police in Baton Rouge.”

  Sheriff Guidry blanched. “Mais, dôn git mad at me. I’s juz got here an’ dôn know who done w’at.”

  “If you was doin’ yo job an’ cared ’bout Moses Dubois’, you’d be knowin’,” David said and stepped closer. “Meybe you’s waitin’ fo’ one a dem Civil Rights workers to find out fo’ you.”

  “I’s not givin’ a shit ’bout no Yankees an’ dere damn fool lawyas. Dôn you go tellin’ me how to do mah job,” he said and spit near David’s feet.

  “Somebody’s gotta tell ya,” David said, his eyes on fire. He turned to the deputy. “Where’s da paper to fill out fo’ a missin’ person?”

  Sheriff Guidry jabbed his finger at David. “You’s cooyôn. I ain’t heard nuttin’ ’bout nobody missin’.”

  “Henri Doucet’s been missin’ since Monday. You know he sharecrops fo’ Mr. Blanchard,” David said.

  “I ain’t neva heard a no Henri Doucet. He must be a black sharecroppa,” the deputy said.

  “W’at difference does id make? Henri’s missin’,” David said.

  Sheriff Guidry snickered. “You knows we dôn mess wid no black sharecroppas. Dat’s Mr. Blanchard’s bidness.”

  “Blanchard knows Henri’s missin’. He juz ain’t done nuttin’ ’bout it,” David said.

  Sheriff Guidry’s face reddened, then turned a furious purple. “You dumb fuck. When’s you gonna learn to mind yo own bidness?”

  “Id’s mah bidness when Henri’s son is sleepin’ in mah house ’cause da Klan done scared him,” David said.

  Sheriff Guidry’s eyebrows shot up.“ You’s got a black boy stayin’ in yo house?”

  “Yeah, I do,” David said. “So w’at?”

  “I’s never heard a sumptin’ like dat happenin’ befo’.” Sheriff Guidry said, shaking his head.

  “Meybe dere’s a problem wid yo hearin’,” David said.

  Sheriff Guidry laughed. “Dôn gimme dat shit. I knows when a man done got hisself a woman on da side.”

  “Henri Doucet ain’t messin’ wid no woman. Da Klan’s messin’ wid Henri Doucet.” David glared at the sheriff. “Id’s yo job to look fo’ missin’ people.”

  Sheriff Guidry inched closer. “Listen to me, asshole,” he said, his breath in David’s face. “I’s gonna do mah job like I sees fit. I ain’t gonna put up wid no white trash tellin’ me w’at to do. You’s understandin’ me, boy?”

  David’s right hand curled into a fist.

  “Git da cuffs,” Sheriff Guidry said to the deputy.

  “You’s fou. I ain’t done nuttin’ to you.” David curled his fist tighter.

  “Ta queule.” Sheriff Guidry said, spittle showering David’s face.

  “Fuck no, I ain’t shuttin’ up.”

  Mr. Laurent placed his hand on David’s shoulder. “Don’t argue. They’ll pile on the charges. My attorney will take care of you.”

  “Mr. Laurent, you’s feelin’ sorry fo’ da wrong reasons. Dis is one a dem crazy veterans da doctor shoulda locked up in Mandeville,” Sheriff Guidry said.

  “You’s da one all fucked up,” David said.

  “I done tole you to shut da hell up,” Sheriff Guidry said.

  “An’ I’s tole you I ain’t. You knows w’at’s goin’ on ’round here. You’s protectin’ da Klan.”

  “I ain’t protectin’ nobody. I’s tryin’ to do mah job.”

  “Dat’s bullshit. You ain’t even looked at dem bodies in da truck.”

  Sheriff Guidry nodded at the deputy. “Put da cuffs on him. I dôn want no coon ass jumpin’ me.” Sheriff Guidry walked to the back of the truck and yanked the tarp back, then staggered to the side. He gagged and threw up.

  “Mr. Laurent, you’s got a telephone call from Mexico City,” Ruby said from the bottom of the house’s back steps. When no one responded, she rushed toward the group. “I’s done tole you mo’ cows was gonna go missin’. Lordy, Lordy, w’at’s dis world comin’ to?” Ruby stopped when Mr. Laurent blocked her path. She stretched sideways and looked around him. “Mr. Broussard, w’at you doin’ wid yo hands ’hind yo back?”

  “Ruby, let’s go into the house,” Mr. Laurent said.

  “W’at’s wrong wid you? Dat coffee’s done got to you, dat’s w’at.” Ruby put her hands on her ample hips. “You looks like you’s done seen a ghost.”

  “Please. Let’s go inside.”

  Ruby stiffened. “I’s not likin’ how you’s actin’,” Ruby said and stared at Mr. Laurent. As the whir of aggressive flies filled the afternoon’s quiet, an intuitive sense slipped from Ruby’s soul. She dropped her hands. “Who’s in dat truck?”

  “We must go inside,” Mr. Laurent said.

  A mask fell over Ruby’s face. As if a statue with a blank stare, she stood amid the men’s silence until the pain of being Ruby shattered the façade. She screamed and pushed around Mr. Laurent. She screamed and cried and begged for God’s mercy until her voice grew hoarse, and she collapsed on top of the sheriff’s vomit.

  Chapter Eight

  Rose Bud