by Lee Thompson
Chapter Eleven
When I looked up, Momma and Daddy were holding hands through the bars. They both stared at me, looking alien, worried. I wanted to ask them what I should do but couldn’t because I knew that the sheriff and his men would hurt them more. I glanced toward the gun rack thinking that I could take one of them shotguns down and go to the door and open fire on the sheriff and his men but I didn’t want to kill anybody and I didn’t like guns much anyway, even when Daddy was showing me how to handle them a few months ago and he’d been so proud that I was safe and a crack shot with Ben’s .22 rifle.
I heard Preacher’s voice raise above the din in my head yet his words were unclear, muffled by the walls. I stood and moved toward the door then turned left and positioned myself before the front window, just off to the side of it in hopes that the sheriff wouldn’t see me if he glanced back at the building.
The suits stood still with their shotguns propped against their shoulders, one at each bumper, the sheriff at Preacher’s door, leaned over, smiling. Sheriff’s head turned every now and then to the back seat where the dead Negro sat staring at the back of Preacher’s head. My flesh crawled, remembering how when we’d climbed out that the man had looked as if he was praying, head bowed, hands cupped in his lap.
The suits seemed more relaxed and I couldn’t blame them. Preacher looked defeated, deflated, gripping the wheel and shaking his head. I couldn’t hear what the sheriff said. Behind me, Daddy said, “Let Bill take you to your Uncle Tommy, Eli. Crazy as my brother can be he won’t let anybody hurt you.”
I said, “I want to go with Preacher.”
Momma said, “We know, honey. We know. And we want you to as well but things are going to get ugly, real ugly, and you shouldn’t be around Art when he snaps. It’s a side of him you don’t want to see.”
I looked over my shoulder. I cocked my head, thinking. I’d seen Isaiah’s slaughtered body, I’d ridden in the backseat with a dead servant, I’d seen Daddy kill a man with his fists. I didn’t think seeing Preacher getting mad would be any different than the other stuff.
I turned my attention back outside, angry with my parents for wanting to shield me because I was their son so I had their traits and I knew right from wrong and I didn’t think…
I saw Preacher open his car door. Sheriff placed a hand to it to keep him inside the vehicle. The suits raised their shotguns which seemed stupid with Sheriff standing right there between them, too, sharing space with Preacher.
Preacher had one foot planted on the ground and he closed his fingers over the sheriff’s hand that held the door. I couldn’t see Preacher’s face, only the back of his head, but I saw Sheriff Bill’s face go white, maybe because of something he saw in Preacher’s eyes, maybe because Preacher’s hands blurred to his right and his left and the suits clutched their chests, those red chests, their faces white, and they fell to the road like grain sacks dropped from the back of a wagon.
Their shotguns rattled off the road.
I thought I saw the dead servant smiling in the back seat.
Knife handles stuck from the suits’ chests.
Preacher’s free hand shot up and cupped the back of Sheriff’s neck and jerked him close so they were nose to nose. I stood rigid, unable to move. Behind me, Daddy said, “Are they all dead?”
I shook my head. I said with a shaking voice, “The suits are. Preacher has a hold of the sheriff and they’re not moving.” I didn’t know where Preacher had learned to throw knives but figured he had to do something with all the free time when he wasn’t giving sermons or visiting people who needed God’s help, a tender prayer, a gentle word of hope and encouragement. I imagined him behind the church, throwing knives into a block of wood over and over and over, letting off some steam the only way he knew how when he felt Jesus wasn’t listening.
I thought I should be happy that he killed the suits but I wasn’t.
Momma said, “This is only going to make things worse for Art.”
I said, “He let sheriff go.”
The cop backed up, his hands raised. I wondered why Preacher didn’t help save Daddy when the men came for him. He could have. He could have saved him.
Momma said, “Bill will never know how lucky he is.”
I cocked my head and said, “He’s making him take his clothes off.”
In the street, Sheriff stripped. He was angry but also frightened. Preacher didn’t seem to have anything in his hands but I knew now that that didn’t mean much. I thought he probably kept the knives up his sleeves and could release them with a flick of his wrist. I wondered if he was some kind of spy like James Bond when he was younger.
Sheriff was down to his underwear and his fat gut, the only thing fat on him, jiggled as he bounced from foot to foot on the hot road. Preacher lifted Sheriff’s utility belt. He pointed to the cruiser parked at the curb in front of his Lincoln. Sheriff hesitated. Preacher stood a little straighter and that was all it took to get the cop moving again.
Preacher rolled down the driver window and made the sheriff lean through the window so that he could cuff his hands to the steering wheel. Preacher pulled the back of the sheriff’s underwear down and his white butt jiggled like his belly.
I heard the sheriff cursing.
My parents asked me what happened and I told them.
Preacher looked at the dead men laying at either end of his car and shook his head. He said something to the sheriff and then came up the walkway to the jail house. I realized I was standing in the middle of the window when Preacher stopped again and looked up at me. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to smile or wave or what. I went and held the door open. He seemed larger than life when he walked through it carrying the keys that had been strapped to the sheriff’s belt.
He patted my head as he passed but didn’t linger, moving quickly to the cells. He seemed to have trouble looking at my parents. Daddy said, “You can’t free me, Art. It’ll just bring the whole town down on you.”
He shrugged. “Whole town is already down on all of us.” His gaze slid over to Momma and said, “They had no right to lock you up.”
She nodded. “I know.”
He let her out first. Momma wrapped her arms around his shoulders and cringed as her broken arm clipped him. She held on tight for a moment then let go. I stood back and watched them. Preacher told me, “Watch the door. Let us know if anybody is coming.”
I nodded. The street was busy. Quite a few people were gathered across the road, some of them pointing at Sheriff’s bare butt, some laughing, some looking confused, some angry. Some pointed at Preacher’s car and the dead Negro in the back seat that they probably didn’t know was dead until a few of the men moved closer, converging on the cars, stopping traffic.
I said, “They’re going to help the sheriff.”
“They won’t get his handcuffs off without a key,” Preacher said as he unlocked my father’s cell. Daddy stood just inside the door but didn’t step out. He hung his head. Preacher said, “They’ll kill you, Hank. No jury here is going to go easy on you, nor me.”
Daddy bit his lip, thinking about how the routes could run, looking at me and me him, both of our eyes wet.
Momma said, “Hank, come on.”
I said, “Preacher just did a big thing for you.”
Daddy nodded. He said, “I know, Eli. But I didn’t ask him too. And it’s only going to make things worse for everybody.” He smiled sadly at Preacher, said, “Not that I blame you.”
Preacher nodded. He said, “You’re a strange man but I respect you. You can play it out whatever way is right in your mind.”
My father said, “Right is facing the punishment for what I’ve done, otherwise I’m no different than them.”
Momma said, “You’re different and you know it, no matter what you do.”
I wanted to cry and beg him to come with us. Preacher pointed at the door though. He said, “What’s going on out there, Eli?” And he sounded a little worried which worried me a lot. I did
n’t want to check what the people were doing outside but I knew we had to walk out there into their midst to get in Preacher’s car and drive away.
If they’d let us drive away.
Preacher surely couldn’t fight them all.
A couple men, farmers looked like, were talking to the shackled sheriff. They looked up at me in the doorway of the jailhouse. They said something to each other and moved up the walkway. I told Preacher and Momma, “Two of them are coming up.”
Preacher said, “Good luck, old friend.”
My dad nodded. He said, “Take care of my boys and Beth.”
It was the only time I’d ever thought my dad was a fool. My chest ached. Preacher told me and Momma to stay behind him as he met the men at the door. My mother held my hand, pulled me tight to her side.
The farmer’s crowded the door. Their bibs were dirty and stained and they both had chewing tobacco staining their teeth. The one on the left was taller and hairier than the other, his eyebrows joined above the bridge of his nose. He looked past Preacher and saw Daddy still in the cell. He asked Preacher, “You kill those two out there?”
Preacher said, “They killed themselves by bringing shotguns.”
The farmer spat. The other one squinted at Momma then me. He said, “What’s going on here?”
Preacher said, “We’re headed out.”
The bigger farmer said, “Where is the key to free the sheriff?”
Preacher said, “Don’t know.”
The smaller farmer squinted at him. He said, “I think you do know. I think only a communist would do what you’ve done.”
Preacher shrugged. Then he stood very still and said, “You two need to move out of our way.”
Both farmers looked out to where a crowd was gathering around the cruiser. They looked hard at the dead men laying in the street. The smaller one squinted at the sheriff’s car. He said, “People don’t like seeing dead police men. Don’t like letting their murderer walk away.”
The bigger one said, “Bill told us this is all over the darkies.”
Preacher said, “It’s over people being trampled, boxed up, and murdered.”
“They’re not people,” the smaller one said. “It shows how much you know.”
The bigger one said, “Don’t understand why you’re turning against your own, pastor. Does God deem the lesser ones in the same class as those above them?”
Preacher nodded. “The constitution deems all men are created equal.”
“Only,” the smaller one said, “they’re not.”
“I’m done speaking with you,” Preacher said. The men looked at each other, smiling for a second, and I thought that they didn’t know how fast Preacher could move, and that they hadn’t seen him kill the suits in the blink of an eye. While they smiled at each other, Preacher knocked their heads together then shoved both of them in the chests and they flew back from the doorway and landed on their rumps in the lawn, rubbing their heads and trying to figure out what happened.
Preacher told us, “Get in the car.”
Sheriff yelled something.
The crowd around him and the crowd around Preacher’s car perked up and stared at us with blank faces. It was creepy, their faces, how they looked like a bunch of pasty aliens rooted to the earth, only assuming human forms.
Momma rushed me forward. Preacher pushed past several men but they chased him and their bodies pressed hard against him, pinning him to the front fender.
Momma cried out as somebody snagged a handful of her hair. I felt her grip break on my hand. She screamed at me. I ducked between flailing hands, between spread legs, beneath worried and angry voices on my hands and knees.
I crawled as fast as I could as the bodies kicked and shouted above me, a mass of them, a knot of fear and single-mindedness.
The road scraped my palms and knees.
I thought they’d rip Preacher and Momma apart.
Someone stepped on my fingers. I cried out. Looking up I saw a man’s stubbly face grow fat in my vision. I poked at his eyes and he jerked his head back, holding his cheek. I scrabbled forward and found the end of the crowd and stood, holding my stepped-on hand to my stomach and ran as fast as I could toward the nearest alley.
Chapter Twelve
Nobody chased after me and I was glad for that since my ribs hurt and my fingers were swelling up and once I stopped at the edge of town and found a tree to hide behind, I couldn’t stop crying. Birds sang in the forest and car tires hummed in town. The summer heat clung to my skin and sweat burned my eyes. I felt empty and soul-tired after the adrenaline faded. I wiped my eyes, believing that I needed to do something but uncertain what could be done since I was only a child and if the adults in town weren’t going to listen to Daddy or Momma or Preacher then they sure weren’t going to listen to me.
I thought about Uncle Tommy living in his little trailer behind the bar. Daddy said I should go to him because he wouldn’t let anybody hurt me. I wanted to obey my father but my uncle made me nervous. He was a lot like Ben and enjoyed thinking he was better than everybody, smarter too, and he could be mean when the mood struck him, which was often and usually caught those around him unawares.
I pushed myself up from behind the tree and wiped my hands on my pants, brushing blood and bits of earth away. I listened hard for the sounds of the mob cheering as they hung Preacher and Momma from a light post. The sound didn’t come, there was only the forest noises and my pounding heart and the tick in my throat. My hand throbbed and my eyes felt too dry. I knew I had to get to Uncle Tommy’s and ask him to run into town and stop them before they hurt Preacher or Momma any more than they already had.
It took a moment to get my bearings and realize where I stood. Off to my right Preacher’s church lay in black rubble, half-hidden by the edge of forest and a rundown Sub shop. Off to my left the cemetery hid beneath ancient trees that blanketed the headstones in darkness. Ahead the town rose unnatural out of the landscape, concrete and glass radiating the motion of industry, tradition, and death.
I wiped my hands on my pants again, looked off toward the cemetery since it was the closest to the bar. Biting my lip I tromped along that way, worried that somebody would see me and give chase. I was exhausted and didn’t think I could run if that happened.
A few car horns blared just a couple streets over where the municipal buildings roosted and men probably had sheriff free by now. I hoped he’d take it easy on Preacher and Momma, that he’d give them a fair shake since Daddy didn’t try to run away. I couldn’t count on that though since the sheriff didn’t seem a man of reason or fairness when it came to people who crossed him.
Ahead, I saw an old black man and young black boy sitting in the cemetery, their backs leaning hard to a towering cottonwood. They seemed to fade in and out as I walked. They watched me walk and I watched them watching me, a lump stuck in my throat.
My body ached and my heart kept hurting so I thought, Just get to Uncle Tommy, get to Uncle Tommy. That’s all. Just get there and he’ll help you…
But it felt like a lie and I thought my uncle would laugh in my face since it was his brother that had locked him up for stealing those guns to sell to the KKK. I imagined he’d probably kick me in the stomach for being stupid and for bothering him when all he’d want is to be there to see Daddy hanged.
It slowed me down, thinking like that.
I glanced back to the cemetery but the colored folk were gone.
I stood on the access road that ran out into the barrens, the path utility men used to repair the electric and phone lines out that way. I thought about that horrible tree growing up in my heart. I wiped the sweat from my forehead, heard dozens of flies buzzing in the distance and the sizzle of the power lines or a generator off the road a ways. I hitched my pants up, my shoulder aching where someone had kicked me as I escaped. It all seemed unreal, or maybe like a dream. More time passed with the sun burning above and my feet moving of their own accord until I stopped outside the bullet Uncle Tom
my lived in. I heard laughter banging around in there, freely, innocent, and I thought it was weird how people could laugh when Isaiah was dead and the man in the back of Preacher’s car was dead, and policemen were dead, and if I didn’t hurry then Momma and Daddy and Preacher could be dead, riddled with flies, hanging from ropes, their silhouettes dark blotches against the setting sun.
Music played inside the bar beyond Uncle Tommy’s travel trailer. I stationed myself in front of the door but didn’t knock. I looked at the circle of cinderblocks near the trailer hitch. The black bones of burned up branches littered the pit. There’s been a fire in there not too long ago, I thought. I noticed a pair of shoes propped on one of the blackened bricks next to a stick that Uncle Tommy had used for cooking hotdogs. The shoes weren’t his. They were my brothers.
I thought, Huh, as I stared at Ben’s shoes. I heard laughter again, a girl’s voice say something smart, then my brother laughed quickly and sharply, the tone of his voice cutting through the still, hot air. I wondered what he was doing in there and what was so funny. I knocked, unable to stop myself. The door opened. I thought it’d have been Uncle Tommy who would open it but Ben stood there. He frowned at me. He said, “Mom and dad send you?”
I shook my head, trying to see around him and find out who the girl was.
I said, “They got mom and dad down at the jail. Preacher too.”
“No they don’t,” Ben said.
“They do,” I said, a little forcefully, inching closer to the door, wishing the interior of the travel trailer wasn’t so dank. It smelled of flowers in there, and whiskey, and perfume. It made me homesick which killed my curiosity about the girl and repositioned my priorities.
I said, “They arrested them, Ben. I don’t know why other than Daddy killed that cop Conover on accident the night you snuck out.”
His forehead crinkled, which I always thought made him look a lot older. He threw a look over his shoulder and then stepped outside and shut the door behind him. He said, “You’re not joking.”
