by Kia Corthron
“Or a polecat!” the less blond boy says. The brothers crack their rifles, and load them.
**
Seven miles outside town, halfway between Prayer Ridge and Nathan, the sky has completely cleared but to be safe Eliot continues driving slowly on the damp road. It will add ten minutes to his half-hour drive so he’ll pull into Rosie’s just at nightfall.
Eliot had loathed the racist reasoning in Steven’s summation, yet he presumed it would have had some impact on that cracker judge. It seems the defense team had vastly underestimated the depth of the bench’s bigoted resolve, to be willing without batting an eyelash to maintain this vicious severance of two little boys from all their loved ones in order to teach them, and by proxy all colored children, some lesson in the sacred Southern Code of Ethics. When it was all over, Eliot had wondered whether he had made a fatal mistake that last night in Diana’s basement by not even bringing to the table the notes he’d been scribbling in the corner. What if, the judge would have been queried, every teacher in every school who caught students kissing be placed under legal obligation to report the incident as an attempted rape to the authorities? Little Jordan had testified that his kissing playmate Ginny Dodgson was just imitating her big brother Beeber and his girlfriend. Shouldn’t then Beeber be arrested? Charged with a felony? At the time Eliot had capitulated to Steven, and while he didn’t regret that choice per se, he wonders now whether Steven’s argument might have been fortified by Eliot’s notions.
A tan cat out of nowhere and he swerves wildly in the suddenly slick mud to miss it. The car flips three times off the road before landing upside down in the weeds. He pants heavily, and it takes a few minutes before it registers that he’s not dead. The windshield is shattered, sprayed in blood. Eliot’s right leg is stuck between crushed metal, and after several attempts he manages to extricate it. He punches out what glass is left in the side window and pulls himself through. Outside, he endeavors three times to stand and three times falls, the leg broken. Can he crawl the six miles to Rosie’s? His breath is fast, he tries to calm down, to think. He’s landed in a large grassy clearing, thick woods twenty yards to his right, the road thirty yards to the left. That he can see it so clearly, even with dusk settling quickly, leads him to deduce that, miraculously, his glasses are still intact and on his face. The feline is nowhere in view so he assumes it survived. That cat looked just like Parker, he muses.
**
In the truck bed, the boys pass a bottle of Jack between them. Randall, sleepy, stares at the stars. He notices clouds returning in the distance.
“Guess you detected one’s the leader, one’s the follower,” says Francis Veter. “Well the oldest is the follower! That Louis. If he walkin in the shadow of his little brother in the family, what that say bout the way he deals with the resta the world?”
Randall is feeling a little sick about what happened this morning. Erma’s a goddamn nag but Jesus Christ she doesn’t deserve the death penalty for it. What’s wrong with him?
“Or a polecat, blamed idiot! Louis don’t even know polecat’s a skunk! I like this song!” Francis Veter turns up the radio.
As their hands touched and their lips met
The ragin river pulled them down
Now they’ll always be together
In that happy huntin ground
“Well that’s between my sister an her husband. Spose the boy’s just slow. Then, guess you was kinda the older brother in your family too? The other deaf?”
His goddamn brother-in-law’s who he should be killing! And Aaron only the first in line. Randall swigs his beer.
“Barely a sliver of a moon and that gettin clouded out, won’t be able to see our hans fronta our face. Good night huntin!” Francis Veter bangs the heels of his hands on the steering wheel in time with the music. “Hey Randall, you ever think about fate? Like maybe there’s some divine reason I run into you yesterday at the nigger voter registration? Wa’n’t jus chance. I mean you happnin to need a job an me needin to hire Oh my God.”
Randall turns to look where Francis Veter is staring. Off the side of the road, a station wagon lies upside down. Francis Veter pulls over. He grabs his flashlight and gets out, followed by Randall and the boys, the latter still holding their shotguns. They walk to the car, Francis Veter inspecting the exterior, holding the light over the license plate for several seconds, then thoroughly examining the inside. “Blood,” he mutters needlessly. He shines the light around the nearby weeds. The boys walk around investigating the vehicle, and in glimpses from the intermittent flashlight beam Randall perceives a contained excitement in their smiles. He turns to Francis Veter and sees that the uncle is grinning, illuminating the near distance. Randall’s eyes follow the light.
An injured man. A smallish man like Randall, though slimmer, lying in high weeds. Randall has the darkness and his alcohol content against him, but from what he gleans the man appears to be a Negro. And something in the twinkle of Francis Veter’s eye confirms this.
“Come on,” says Randall’s future employer. “I think we’re the rescue party.”
**
Eliot had dragged himself into taller grasses so as to remain hidden. As soon as Martha’s phone is fixed she’ll call Rosie, and when they realize Eliot never made it someone will come looking for him. They’ll see the car, come to the car, and he’ll call them. He hoped anyone else who might notice the vehicle, anyone who he might not want to find him, would assume the driver must have been rescued or was able to walk away.
Eliot feels tired, and he’s heard that falling asleep is dangerous for someone with a concussion, which he may have. He needs to stay awake, he concentrates on the fireflies. Zillions of fireflies. When he and Dwight were kids, they saw a cartoon at the movies about a firefly.
Light. Bright in his eyes.
“Hey buddy. How’s it goin?”
They stand looking at him, on all sides of him. The light is blinding. When it momentarily flashes beyond his face, he glimpses them. White men. One. Two. Three. Four.
“Hey.” The tallest, dark brown hair. He stoops, close to Eliot. “Seem like you had a little trouble over there.”
Two are younger. Blond teenagers. Skinny, almost tall as the brown hair. They grin. There’s another, shorter, but he’s beyond the light, Eliot can’t make him out.
Not all Southern white men. Diana’s father would help you. Steven would help you, don’t panic. With considerable effort, he manages to pull himself up onto his elbows. “I was just. I was driving along the road and—” He laughs. “This cat. This cat, I swerved.” He laughs, and catches his breath.
“Aw, that’s so kinda you. Ain’t he a Good Samaritan, boys?”
“Oh yeah,” says one of them.
“Sound like you traveled a long way just to save that cat.” Eliot stares at him, confused. “Your car say Alabama plates, but I don’t hear nothin but North in your voice.”
“Oh no I was.” Eliot stops.
“What was that?”
Eliot considers how to answer. “I—” He hopes something will follow but it doesn’t.
“Cuz no sense tryin to pull my leg, I know you ain’t nowheres near local. And I am just very curious what a Northern colored gentleman like yourself’s doin all the hell way down in Bamy.”
“Funeral.” A whisper.
“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that?” The man cups his palm around his ear. Scent of whiskey.
“I’m here. For a funeral.”
“He’s says he’s here for a funeral,” the man reports to the others.
“I like his glasses,” says one of the young men.
“Yeah,” says the other.
“Well who died?” asks Brown Hair. “Some little colored boy run aroun the tree an turn to butter?”
“That ain’t how the story goes, Uncle Francis!” Giggling.
“Well how’
s it go?”
“The tiger turns to butter. An the mammy uses the tiger butter for her pancakes.”
“Oh yeah! I always did mix that story up. The mammy. Aunt Jemima.”
“No!” The blonds cracking up. In the moving light, Eliot finally glimpses the smaller man. Older like the tall one, reddish-blond hair. He doesn’t smile.
“Well too bad that cat didn’t stick by ya,” says the dark one. “Ya look s’ sad out here by your lonesome, good thing we come along.”
“Oh my friends are coming for me.”
“Your friends comin for ya? Huh. Ya know, friend, that seems highly unlikely given what kinda predicament you done found yourself in. I mean, I don’t see no phone booth you coulda called your friends from.”
“They were here. They’re coming back.”
The big man laughs softly. “Son, you are a bad liar,” gently tapping Eliot on the nose with his whiskey bottle, a teacher affectionately scolding a naughty child.
**
Randall racks his alcohol-saturated brain. He sure does sound Northern but he knows he’s seen this one before. He stoops to wipe some of the blood from the Negro’s face with his fingertips. The initial touch terrifies the injured man, sending him into convulsions. Randall, startled, snatches his hand back. Francis Veter and his nephews howl, delighted.
“Do that again, Randall,” says Francis Veter, as if Randall had pushed some button that had activated a mechanical toy.
**
Calm down. Take a breath, this is not as bad as it looks. The short one, the one who touched his cheek, who stares at him. Something familiar. Eliot sees no kindness in this one’s face, but neither the foreboding he senses from the others.
“Well listen. This is my friend, an these’re my nephews. We was jus gonna do a little night huntin when we come upon your automobile over there. Ain’t that lucky? This road can get deserted, you mighta been here all night alone we hadn’t happened by. Your prayers been answered, boy. Whatta ya thinka that?”
Eliot starts to speak but is surprised by the taste of blood. Yet his mouth feels dry. He opens it. Nothing comes out. Again. Nothing.
“He looks like a feesh,” says a young one, then shuts his eyes and begins opening and closing his mouth fish-like, placing his hands against his torso sides and moving them: fins.
**
“Look at his suit.” Reggie grins. Since Francis Veter identified him as the leader, Randall has been better able to tell them apart. “What’s a nigger doin in a suit like that?”
“Prolly some Yankee N-A-A-C-P,” replies his uncle. “Or a goddamn lawyer. Or a N-A-A-C-P lawyer. You a N-A-A-C-P lawyer, boy?”
“Yeah. The National Association for the Advancement a Coon People!” says Reggie.
“Yeah!” says Louis. Then frowns. “I gotta piss again.”
“The Nigger Association for the Advancement a Coon People! No! The Nigger Association for the—” Reggie is stumped, trying to come up with a better A.
“I gotta piss, Reggie.”
“Me too,” says Reggie, unzipping his fly. “An he looks thirsty. You thirsty, coon?”
**
Eliot closes his mouth, closes his eyes, and still it burns, he tastes it. He thinks, I can’t believe this is happening to me, I can’t believe this is happening to me. Why? Did he think an education would protect him? A loving family? A job he thinks is important?
He’s a lawyer, Where’s his reasoning?
They would be patriots. They would respect a soldier.
“The funeral. He was a veteran. He lost his legs in combat,” and Eliot is instantly flooded with shame to have desecrated Roy’s memory by bringing him up to these. To these.
“He ain’t had no legs?” one of the young ones says. “Well how’d he get aroun?”
“Like one a those monkeys on the National Geographic,” says the other, and stoops, making chimp sounds, putting his hands on the ground and hopping his legs through. The other imitates this, the two of them moving rapidly around Eliot in opposite directions, concentric circles.
**
“Well whaddya think?” Francis Veter is grinning at Randall, the chimp-boys circling. “Will it live?”
Randall looks at Francis Veter, then turns to the Negro, giving the question a few seconds’ serious consideration. The Negro’s eyes fix on Randall, the Negro’s face mildly quivering. “Sure. Get him to the colored hospital, nothin but a few broken bones.”
“Thank you, Dr. Evans.” Francis Veter swigs, then hurls his bottle, crash. “An now, for a second opinion.” Francis Veter lifts his right knee and brings his boot down hard on the Negro’s face, smashing his glasses into his eyes, before proceeding to kick the shit out of him. The nephews whoop it up. Suddenly the Negro grabs Francis Veter’s leg, tripping the man, causing him to fall.
“You ugly black ape!” says Reggie, then he and Louis are on him, their boots and their fists, and Francis Veter, after he gets up, kicking harder than ever. Although Louis follows his younger brother’s lead in the bashing, a vague competitive spirit seems to have been unleashed as he tries to land every blow more violently than Reggie, who in turn one-ups Louis with the next wallop. The strikes are coming so quickly now and from so many different directions the confused Negro can no longer protect himself, let alone fight back, his body flung wildly to and fro. Eventually Francis Veter steps out of the pummeling, lighting a cigarette, to allow more space for the boys. A few of the Negro’s teeth fly surprisingly high into the air.
**
The woods flash by, the road flash by, the car flash by, another bone: crack. Eliot stops trying to fight it, he relaxes, calm. When this is over he will have to have his broken arm set into a cast. He will have to go to a nephrologist and see about the damage to his kidneys, he will have to call Diana and Steven to share his thoughts about the appeal, do they have any new ideas? He will have to find those teeth and bring them to a dentist to put them back.
**
Francis Veter studies the Negro, his mouth twisted to the side as if calculating what to do next. His nephews, exhausted, have taken a break from the beating. “Boys. Go back to the truck and bring those bricks.”
“Okay!” They run off. The Negro has landed on his back, his face turned away from the two white men. Francis Veter stoops, turns the Negro’s chin so that they are looking at each other. Copious blood on the face, one eye swollen shut.
“I bet you’re thinkin you shoulda jus run over that damn cat.” Francis Veter laughs. The Negro pants heavily.
“You don’t like this, do ya.” Francis Veter’s eyes still on the Negro. Then he looks at Randall.
“Me?”
“You don’t seem to be enjoyin yourself.”
“Well you asked my opinion an I said get him to the hospital but since you ignored that, guess my opinion don’t count.”
Francis Veter laughs, turns back to the Negro.
“I’m takin him to the hospital.”
“Long way to the nigger facility.”
“I’m takin him.”
“Go on.”
Randall stares at him. “It’d mean drivin your truck.”
“Naturally. Jus promise to come back for us later.”
“I understand this means I flunked the job interview.”
“Naw, you passed the interview.” He is smiling, stands and turns to him. “I didn’t plan on us runnin acrost this nigger, Randall, it jus happened. Tell ya the truth, I’m sprised a man intelligent as you are’s still here. When I saw you at that rally when we was young, I jus took regular interest cuz you was another kid. What happened was. That debate. Damn! he ain’t no dummy. Smart, an no hypocrite. I hate the professional men, support the Klan in finance but not want their name on it. Mosta the doctors and lawyers jus fine with what we got here, long’s they never get their own hans dirty. Bloody.”
“As you know I ain’t no professional man, nor a Klan regular.”
Francis Veter laughs. “Look at that.”
The Negro on his back has subtly moved himself a couple of yards away. Francis Veter walks to stand over him. The Negro seems to have no idea Francis Veter is there until he tries to move again and the top of his head is blocked by Francis Veter’s boots. Francis Veter smiles, he and the Negro facing each other upside down. “Ain’tchu cute. Thinkin jus Randall an me here talkin, you could crawl away we wouldn’t notice.” Francis Veter shakes his head. “You’re the guest a honor.” He places his boot on the Negro’s face, holding him in place without putting any weight on it. “Well you shoulda been a professional. Like this nigger in his fine suit.” He speaks softer. “I hate em worst than you do, I guess. Wish we was clear of em, wish the country give back to the white man. But spose that ain’t gonna happen so at the very least I’d like to maintain the segregation a the species.”
“We got em, Uncle Francis!” The boys have brought the bricks tied with rope. They each hold a freshly opened bottle of Jack.
“I think Mr. Evans would like to take our friend to the hospital.”
“What!”
“I respect his input an I wantchu to respect it too, so shut up.”
Randall looks at them, then looks at the man on the ground, who seems to be staring back at Randall. Hyperventilating, his leg twisted into some insane position, face swollen, How the hell’d it happen? One second Francis Veter and his nephews were playing around, the next they went nuts. He walks over, stoops next to the Negro. Randall takes a breath, then hoists the body over his shoulder. The Negro lets out a great moan of pain, then falls back to panting. Randall starts moving toward the truck. The Negro is heavy. As Randall plods further away from the others his path becomes darker, only the residual light from Francis Veter’s flashlight. Then Francis Veter clicks the light off. Randall gropes in the utter blackness for several steps then down, he slips in the mud and falls with a thud, dropping the Negro who emits another moan of anguish. Randall sits up and tries lifting the burden while getting himself back up to standing, but keeps slipping, falling flat out as if he were on ice. The light clicks back on, spotlighting his clumsiness momentarily and Randall sits up catching his breath, gathering his strength and his wits to try again when the boys come running and laughing, Francis Veter strolling behind. He slaps Randall on the back.
