Benton's Row

by Frank Yerby

  “What am I going to do?” he said. “Tell me that, Stormy!”

  “Skip, lover-boy,” she said calmly. “Right now. Move fast enough and far enough, you might have a chance. I doubt it, but it’s worth a try.”

  “Lord God!” Oren whispered.

  Another thing: don’t head directly North. They’ll expect that. And, wherever you go, stay away from big cities—any place having a sizeable Italian population is likely to have the Mafia. Don’t write me. I wouldn’t get the letters anyhow, and they’d trace you through them.”

  She put out her hand to him.

  “Good-bye, Oren,” she said.

  “Lord, but you’re hard,” he got out.

  “No,” she said, “I’m not really, Oren. If you do get away, remember there’s only one thing you’re good for. Stick to that, lover—some woman will always take care of you.”

  “Stormy,” he pleaded.

  “Good-bye, Oren,” Stormy said.

  Riding north-westward towards the Red River parishes, Oren Bascomb had plenty of time for thinking. Travelling on horseback was agonisingly slow, but they would be watching the steamboats and the railroads. Besides, a lone horseman didn’t have to keep to the main roads—or, for that matter, until he reached the bayou country, to any roads at all. The lottery company and the Mafia were going to have one sweet time tracing him, he reckoned.

  His brain worked slowly, clearly, under the starlight. Ain’t a-going to skip alone, he thought. When I do light out of this state, sure Lord be easier to git through as an old farmer travelling with his wife. Fine idea. I’m noted for my clothes. But in overalls and a straw hat, and enough flour in my hair. . . . Better wait on this beard, though. In two weeks it’ll be just right. Git myself a ragged carpet-bag. Then me and my wife going North to Cincinnati. Country folks on a holiday.

  Only trouble is, you can’t rightly tell ‘bout Mary Ann. Clint skipped a year ago. Got out of the niggers that they quarrelled. Said she cried for days. Ought to be ripe for the plucking by now. She don’t care for me no-hows, but I can persuade her. Tell her I’ll take her to him if necessary.

  Don’t have to worry about old Fat Boy. He’s still too scairt I’ll rat on him. Fat fool! What difference would it make now?—sixteen years since the end of the war. Folks done plumb forgot that war. He’s half dead, anyhow—out of politics, and still he’s scairt. Hope he stays that way.

  He rode on doggedly.

  Be there tomorrow, about noon, I reckon. Find my chance to sweet-talk Mary Ann, then light out. Shouldn’t be hard. Couple o’ times I seen her looking at me like she’d like to find out what a real man is. ‘Course, there’s a better than even chance that Clint’s already taught her. Clint or somebody—‘cause that last kid sure Lord ain’t Wade’s.

  He pulled up the horse and moved a little way off the path. Got to sleep. Too damned tired. Ain’t seen a sign of them knifing Black Handers yet. Reckon they’re still watching steamboats. Hell, if necessary, I can buy a wagon and drive north. They’ll never think of that!

  He took down his saddle-roll and spread the blanket out, placing the rest of the things under his head. Then he pushed the revolver a little way under them, ready at hand.

  Going to miss Stormy, he thought; she were right pert good. Lord God, but I’m tired!

  Mary Ann looked up from the letter she was writing. Jeb was standing there watching her out of his enormous dark eyes.

  Poor little fellow, she thought. He saw Buford die like that. The twins admitted that he was with them. But he’s never said a word. You’d think he’d forgotten it. Maybe the shock drove it completely out of his mind.

  She put out her hand and stroked his face.

  “Run along outside and play, Jebbie,” she said, “until Mama finishes her letter. Then we’ll go into town and post it—would you like that, son?”

  “Yes, Mama,” Jeb said.

  “Where are your brothers?” Mary Ann asked him.

  “Gone hunting.”

  “Wouldn’t they take you with them?” she asked him.

  “Yes, Mama. I can shoot better than either of them.”

  “Then why?” Mary Ann said.

  “I didn’t want to go, Mama.”

  “Just as well you didn’t,” Mary Ann said cheerfully. “Now we can have a trip into town all by ourselves. Have you seen your papa?”

  “No, Mama—not since this morning. He was walking down by the pig-pen, feeling the fence.”

  “I know. Reckon I’ll have to repair that fence myself if I ever want it done. Run along now, son; I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Jeb said.

  Mary Ann sat there studying the half-finished letter. Then she picked up the pen again. Her hand raced over the paper, pausing only to dip the pen in the inkwell.

  “You know, my love,” she wrote, “that I have long since forgiven and forgotten your harshness to me the night of the fire. Why do you continue to mention it? It is true I lured you away from your business; and it is true that you let yourself be lured. You feel that you behaved less than the man, by blaming me for it; but, Clint-love, that has been the role of women, ever since Eve!” She stopped, smiled. Then she began to write again:

  “You say you’ll come for me and Jebbie. But that, love, is hardly wise. I’ll meet you in Memphis. I’ve waited this long, and now, at last, I’m sure; the twins are all Benton—they will always be able to take care of themselves. Besides, they will forget me before I’m entirely out of sight. But Jebbie needs me, and he needs you even more. He will be so glad to have a father.”

  She paused, reading what she had written. Then the pen raced on.

  “I wonder how we can explain to him. He is such a serious child—so much older than his years. I guess we can just say: ‘Look, Jebbie, this really is your father—see how much you look like him?’ He’ll accept that—he believes anything I tell him—so why not this, since it is the truth?”

  She stopped, the point of the pen digging into the paper, and sat there, staring at the shadow that had fallen across it.

  “Lord God! Damn my wicked soul, but I do have luck!” Oren Bascomb said.

  Jebbie wondered who the tall man was. He didn’t like him; he was sure of that. In spite of the fact that the tall man had given him peppermint candy almost as soon as he had got off his horse, Jeb was sure he was a bad man. He rubbed his head where the tall man had patted it. He didn’t like the way the man’s hand had felt, so bony and cold.

  He was sorry he had told the man his mama was in the kitchen. He was sure she wouldn’t like the tall man either. Better go and see if she needed him—if the tall man bothered her, he’d . . .

  He moved towards the screen door. Then he saw his papa coming up the path from the pig-pen. He was glad of that. He didn’t like his papa very much, but the tall man wouldn’t dare bother his mama with his papa about, that was one sure thing.

  He peered through the screen door and his black eyes opened wide. His mama was fighting with the tall man. She was trying to get something away from the man—a piece of paper. The letter she had been writing, Jebbie guessed.

  “Let her go!” he cried; “damn you, let my mama go!”

  Then he turned and saw that his papa was coming very fast, hopping on his cane. But he didn’t come to the screen door. Instead he came up to the side window. Jebbie saw that his face was very red.

  Mama was crying now. He heard her say: “Give me my letter, Oren! Confound you! Give it to me!” But after that she didn’t say anything else, because his papa smashed in the window-pane with the barrel of his pistol and started shooting.

  Jeb saw the funny expression come over his mama’s face. The tall man turned her loose, and she fell down on the floor and lay there without saying anything at all.

  The tall man started towards the window, yanking at his hip pocket as he came.

  “You fat fool!” he said, “you’ve killed her! God damn your soul, you can’t even sho—”

  Then his papa
shot again very fast, five more times so fast it sounded like one sound. The tall man bent over just like he was bowing to papa, but he went on down and lay on the floor beside mama, making a whimpering little noise in his throat, then the noise stopped, and Jebbie couldn’t hear anything at all except the beating of his own heart.

  He didn’t move or speak. Then his papa came round the side of the house, hopping very fast on his cane, and shoved him roughly aside. He waited until his father had yanked the screen door open and gone inside, then he came back again to the door.

  He could hear his papa crying. He could see what his papa was doing, but he didn’t understand it. Then he saw the top part of his mama all white with the blood on her, and he went away from there, running. He didn’t stop until he was completely out of breath. And even after that he kept on running and crying, and stopping when he was out of breath, and starting again, until he came to his grandma’s house.

  John Brighton came back out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

  “You ain’t touched nothing?” he said. “That’s just how you found ‘em?”

  Wade nodded silently.

  “Reckon you was within yore rights, Mister Benton,” Sheriff Brighton said. “Still, folks are going to think you went a mite far—killing yore wife, too. A hoss-whipping would of been enough, to most folks’ way o’ thinking.”

  “Didn’t aim to kill her,” Wade choked. “Lord God, John—you know how my hands shake! That was an accident—I was shooting at him.”

  John Brighton looked at him.

  “Yep,” he said, “only one bullet hit her—that’s right—in the back. All the rest of ‘em in him. That bears out what you was saying. Reckon any man would of done the same thing, coming in here and finding ‘em in yore own bed.”

  Wade stared at the sheriff, tears pencilling his fat face.

  “Can’t you keep that part quiet, John?” he said. “Mighty messy, specially since I got growing boys.”

  “Nope,” John Brighton said. “It’s yore defence, son. Justifiable homicide. You ain’t even going to be tried. Coroner’s jury going to hand down the unwritten law, and that’ll be that.”

  “Oh, God!” Wade Benton said.

  “What I can’t understand,” the sheriff drawled, “is that window-pane broken in the kitchen—and them few spots of blood on the floor. ‘Pears to me somebody tried to wash ‘em up and didn’t do such a good job.”

  “I broke that window, John,” Wade whispered. “Cut my hand bad doing it—see? That’s what made them spots. They had locked all the doors. I had to break that window to git to the catch to open it.”

  “I see,” John Brighton said. “Funny there warn’t none of the house niggers around.”

  “My—my wife had give ‘em the day off,” Wade muttered. “Reckon all this was planned, John.”

  “Must of been,” John Brighton said. “Reckon that explains everything. Now, Mister Wade Benton, I hereby arrest you, and, considering the circumstances, release you into your own custody. Have to go through the motions, you know; folks expect that. That about covers everything, I expect. I’ll send the undertaker out after ‘em.”

  “Yes—thank you, John—thank you kindly,” Wade Benton said.

  “Got here mighty quick, didn’t you?” Sarah said tartly.

  “The minute I read it in the papers,” Clinton said. “I was coming, anyway. I was just waiting to hear from Mary Ann.”

  “Well, you won’t hear from her now,” Sarah said.

  “Sarah, for God’s sake!” Randy said.

  “He admits it’s happened before!” Sarah stormed; “he’s come right here in my house and claims Jeb as his child—though how anybody can tell what particular man any of her children belong to under the circumstances is more than I can see!”

  Randy looked at his wife.

  “She’s dead, Sarah,” he said quietly. “I think we can afford a little Christian charity now.”

  “She led my son a dog’s life!” Sarah said, “and him at death’s door. One man after another and . . .”

  Clinton stood up. His face was white under his tan. “That’s enough, Mother Sarah,” he said quietly. “I can allow for your feelings as a mother. But I think you should have some consideration for mine. I loved Mary Ann. I would have married her if I could. I begged her for years to divorce Wade. She chose to stick by her bargain—her very bad bargain, begging your pardon, ma’am. You know Wade was cruel to her. You know as well as I do what kind of a man your son is. All I’m saying is that I want my son. I don’t want him brought up by his mother’s murderer.”

  “Murderer!” Sarah got out. “Randy, for God’s sakes! You going to stand there and let him . . .”

  “Clint,” Randy said sternly, “I must ask you to apologise for that.”

  Clinton looked at him.

  “Very well,” he sighed, “I do apologise out of deference to a mother’s feelings. But I don’t think I’ve spoken unjustly. May I see Jeb, please?”

  “Yes,” Randy said tiredly, “come along, Clint. Strange—so far, the poor little fellow has refused to talk about it. He saw it, you know.”

  “I know,” Clint said. “Maybe he’ll talk to me.”

  The boy walked with Clint in the garden, and his dark eyes were very still and grave. Seeing them there, together like that, Randy was sure. The resemblance between them was very strong.

  Clint talked to the boy, and little Jeb listened. Suddenly, very shyly, he put his hand into his father’s.

  “I like you,” he said; “I wish I was your boy.” Clint blinked his eyes very fast, and coughed a little. “You’re going to be,” he said. “Tell me, son—you saw what happened, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Jeb said.

  Clint looked at him, considering how to put the question. Randy stood there watching them. Then he turned and went back into the house.

  “Randy,” Sarah said, “I’m sorry. Don’t reckon I’ve been fair.”

  “You haven’t,” Randy said. “When you’ve seen as much human frailty as I have, you learn to forgive, Sarah.”

  “You’ve learnt that, haven’t you, Randy? Even mine. Must have been hard listening to me talk like that about that poor dead child, when you remembered what I was when you met me.”

  “You,” Randy said, “were a woman, Sarah. Always a good one—sometimes even a great one. It’s not whether a person does evil in God’s sight—we all do, Sarah. It’s why he does it, and what he does afterwards. What you did that one time you’ve made up for with a lifetime of good.”

  “Thank you for that, Randy. Maybe poor Mary Ann would have too, if she’d got the chance.”

  “Sarah,” Randy said.

  “Yes, love?”

  “Mary Ann hated Oren Bascomb. I know people—I know when they pretend dislike to cover up. She wasn’t pretending. She really hated him.”

  “I know,” Sarah whispered. “What is the answer, Randy?”

  “I wish I knew,” Randy groaned. “Lord God, how I wish I knew!”

  “Grandma,” Jeb said, pushing open the door, “Uncle Clint ran away.”

  They stood there, staring at him.

  “Jebbie,” Sarah whispered, “did you talk to him before he left?”

  “Yes, Grandma,” Jeb said.

  She put both her hands on his thin shoulders.

  “Jebbie-love,” she said gently, “what did you tell him?”

  “I told him about Mama,” Jeb said.

  “What about your mama?” Randy said.

  “What—what happened to her,” Jeb said, then he started to cry.

  “Please, Jebbie,” Sarah said, “Grandma knows this is hard. But could you tell us, too?”

  “Yes’m,” Jebbie gulped. “Yes, Grandma.”

  “Tell us, boy,” Randy said.

  “Mama was in the kitchen, writing a letter. Then—that man came. I—I looked through the screen door.”

  “Yes,” Sarah said, “yes, darling?”

  “The man w
as fighting with Mama! He took her letter—she was trying to get it back.”

  “In the kitchen?” Randy said.

  “Yes. Then Papa broke the window with his gun. He started shooting and Mama—and Mama . . .”

  His words dissolved into wild, formless sobbing.

  “In the kitchen,” Randy said to Sarah, “in the kitchen, Sarah!”

  “I heard,” Sarah wept. “Jebbie, please—what happened after that?”

  “Mama fell—down. The—the man started running towards Papa and yelling at him—and then—Papa shot him, too.”

  Randy picked the boy up and sat him on his knee. “It’s all right, Jebbie,” he said gently. “Your mother’s in heaven. She’s watching over you right now—”

  “No, she’s not!” Jebbie wailed. “She’s not! She’s not! She’s dead. She was all over with blood! I saw it when Papa carried her into the bedroom!”

  “When Papa carried her into the bedroom . . . ?” Sarah whispered. “But, Jebbie—”

  “I saw it!” the boy shrieked, “when Papa took off her dress!”

  Sarah looked at her husband. There was death in her eyes.

  “You’d better get out there, Randy,” she said; “you still might be in time.”

  Randy stood up.

  “No,” he said; “for a bastard like that, I wouldn’t lift a finger, Sarah!”

  “Randy,” Sarah said, “he’s my son. And Clint is Tom’s. For both of them, Randy. For Tom’s sake—not for mine.”

  Randy looked at her.

  “All right,” he said, “I’ll go. But for your sake, Sarah. Only for your sake.”

  He came pounding into the cheniere outside the big gates. He had almost reached them when Clinton rode out into his path.

  “You—you didn’t?” he got out.

  “No,” Clinton said. “He wasn’t armed. Neither was I, at first. I had to stop in town and buy a gun.”

  Randy looked at him.

  “You were waiting?” he said.

  “Yes. I gave him until sunset to come out. Then I’m going in after him.”

  Randy put out his hand.

  “Give me that gun,” he said.