“Mr. Hightower, will you drive across the bridge?” Casey asked. “Just so we can see the river and go into Arkansas and look around for a few minutes? I don’t remember ever goin’ to Arkansas.”
Taylor whacked him on the shoulder. It was rude to ask for something you hadn’t been offered.
“It’s okay, Taylor.” Mr. Hightower smiled at Casey. “Oh, I think we got time. It won’t take long. Besides, anybody who wants to see Arkansas that bad oughta get to. But I can’t believe you’ve never been to Arkansas, Casey. A young opportunist like yourself—never been to The Land of Opportunity.” That was a state motto or something; it was on all the car tags.
The sun would still be up for over an hour. We would get a good view of the river and part of Arkansas. The bridge was over two hundred feet high and you could see the big brown, snake-like Mississippi River cutting through trees and cotton fields and pastures. It was kind of like the view at Rock City, but you knew what the states were here.
It was hard to believe something as big and wide as this river started out as just a little clear stream coming out of some lake up in Minnesota. It was a mile wide where we were crossing but only about ten feet wide and two feet deep up where it started. In some places it was a hundred feet deep. It would take a freight train more than a hundred miles long to hold all the dirt that the river carried to the Gulf of Mexico every day.
It only took a couple of minutes to cross the bridge. Looking out from the back of the truck was more fun than just looking out of a car window. Once we were in Arkansas, I looked at their cotton fields. They seemed to be lined up perfectly, and you could see the whiteness spreading out just like ours. But they didn’t seem like Mississippi cotton, maybe because I hadn’t worked in them.
There was no one working on Sunday. Nobody was out, stooped and bent; hoeing, sweating, earning a little bit of money. It made me feel good that nobody was out there working while I was having fun. The nearest town was Lake Village and that was too far to go. Mr. Hightower turned into a short gravel driveway. He stuck his head out of the window and yelled, “Okay, fellows, that enough for you?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
He spun in the gravel, turned around, and headed back across the river. We had just crossed the bridge again when he pulled over. A man walked away from the bridge. A woman was close, but as Mr. Hightower pulled up she moved away. As the man approached the truck, Mr. Hightower got out and walked toward him. “Looty. Heh, Looty. Wanna ride?”
“What’s he doing out here?” said Taylor.
“Beats me,” Casey said. “Remember he said he was coming to Greenville. Just the other day he said it.”
“Yeah, I remember that. But I wonder why he’s out here walking by the bridge.”
Looty had caught up to the truck. Mr. Hightower stood at the back. He glanced at the woman who was now in the distance. “She with you, Looty?”
“She’s going someplace else.”
“Well, you wanna ride?”
“No, sir. I’m gonna ride the bus home tomorrow maybe.”
“Well, you need a ride anywhere around here?”
“No, thank you. I’m jus’ walkin’. Just vistin’ some people.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
“Yes, sir, I’m sure. Thank you jes’ the same.”
Mr. Hightower climbed back into the truck and pulled away from the shoulder. We waved at Looty, and I watched the woman in the distance as she walked into the store. Then I recognized her. It was the straw-haired woman. The same one I had met on the bus. The one I hadn’t said goodbye to.
CHAPTER 15
Every time I saw Looty I thought about the dead guy and the .22. Taylor and Casey and I had talked a lot about the dead guy and wondered who he was. Our thoughts got wilder each day it seemed like. We wanted to be in the middle of something big and important, I think. We had stayed up late forming our opinions of who it might be. But we couldn’t come up with anyone mean enough in Cotton City to shoot someone.
There was lots of talk about Looty by the guys at the gazebo and the ones at Sunday school. And his missing rifle, and did he hide it—not lose it? Looty was a friendly, simple sort of man who didn’t seem like he could harm anyone. But the talk about his using his .22 and everything since his grandmother died just seemed to make everybody talk about him over and over and over, though we’d been taught not to talk about people like that.
It seemed like he turned up every time we went somewhere. That made it hard to keep your mind off him. Since he hardly ever went far from his house, everyone was aware of him when he did. And riding the bus all over the place surely wasn’t something he ordinarily did either. When the sheriff called him in to question him, it seemed almost a sure sign he was suspected of something.
But who was in his house that night when he was gone? And why couldn’t he find his rifle? It all seemed kind of odd. Even the three of us knew that you could trace bullets to the gun that had fired them—if you had the gun. So a killer would get rid of a murder weapon. We had heard that lots of times on the radio program, the FBI Stories, about bullets and guns. Taylor said that he wasn’t sure Looty was smart enough to know about bullets and tracing them, and that sort of thing.
I thought about Looty and how he must be lonely living by himself and everything, and having that mayonnaise jar with something in it right there on the mantle. I really hoped he hadn’t done anything wrong.
I prayed a little prayer one night for him. But I didn’t tell anybody. Somebody might have laughed at me. It would’ve been like crying for the Sullivan boys at the picture show. Looty reminded me of BB in a funny kind of way. I had known them both only a short time, but I felt a special attachment because there was something sincere about them. Now it looked like one of them was about to get in trouble.
Mr. Hightower had dropped us off. He turned down Cousin Carol’s invitation to stay for supper. We stayed in the yard until he drove off so we could thank him again. We watched him drive down the gravel road, the dust rising, mixing with the orange and pink glare of the sun setting. It appeared to drop into the river, where we had spent most of the day. For a second, I thought about climbing the windmill and watching it disappear. But it was supper time and Cousin Carol was waiting on us.
When we got inside we talked about the fishing expedition, and how many were caught and who caught what. Casey mostly talked about Mr. Smith. He said he was a pretty nice old man, except he kept spitting this brown gook and usually some would dribble down his chin. Casey said it was kind of yucky, brown drool and all. Cousin Carol told him not to mention it anymore.
We talked about what we would do after supper—play kick-the-can or some other game, or maybe walk down the road to the highway to watch the cars and wave at the truck drivers to get them to blow their horns. They would do that most of the time if you jerked your arm up and down, like you were pulling on an imaginary chord.
For a while we sat on the porch and talked about baseball. Casey kept saying the Browns would beat out the Cardinals for the pennant. Taylor and I kept telling him they weren’t in the same league. But he just kept being stubborn and saying that don’t make no difference. Taylor tried to tell him the Cardinals were out of it anyway, that the Dodgers were going to win in the National league.
We talked about sneaking back over to Looty’s house. But each one of us kept coming up with an excuse why we’d better not. I think we all were just chicken but wouldn’t say so. Admitting that you were a chicken about anything wasn’t something you wanted to get around.
We sat down at the table later than usual. It was leftovers and sandwiches because Cousin Trek and Cousin Carol got back from evening church late. We were tired and were going to have to work the next day. But the subject of Looty, Looty, Looty wouldn’t go away.
“We saw Looty again this afternoon,” Casey said.
Taylor and I said nothing, just watched the grownups for a reaction. Often grownups reacted in a way that gave you informati
on without giving you any details. A look. It really depended. Their faces could give you a hint of whether the topic was okay.
Cousin Trek said, “Really, where ‘bouts? In Greenville?” He hadn’t smiled and his brow was wrinkled. This was a serious question.
“Yes, sir. On the bridge. I think he was walkin’ with some lady,” Casey said.
“What? What do you mean you think he was walking with some lady?” Cousin Carol asked. She passed the mayonnaise jar to Taylor. “What lady?”
“I don’t know. She walked away when Mr. Hightower called out to him.”
“Trek, reach in the pantry and get a new jar of mayonnaise,” Cousin Carol said. The jar on the table was almost empty. Taylor was clanging the jar with his knife, trying to scrape the last of the mayonnaise from the bottom. Sounded like a fire bell.
“Did y’all recognize her?” She took the new jar and tapped against the top with the handle of her knife.
“No, ma’am,” Taylor said.
I didn’t tell them I recognized her. I hadn’t even told Taylor and Casey yet, so I just kept quiet for the moment. I don’t know why. I didn’t know the straw-haired lady was with Looty, for sure. It just seemed odd that she was there along the same road where he happened to be. Maybe it was just a fluky chance she was there, maybe I would say something later about meeting her.
For a moment I had a thought of being grilled under the bright light in the sheriff’s office because of information I had withheld. Someone had told them—maybe the belcher, an FBI spy—about me meeting her and I had been turned in. Taylor’s double-triple fire bell clanging broke my thought.
Cousin Carol handed the jar to Cousin Trek. With a sharp twist the top came unfastened. “Here, Taylor. Now stop bangin’ on that empty jar.”
“Yessir.”
“So, why would Looty be with some woman?” Cousin Trek said.
“I don’t think he was with her,” I said. “Looty said she was jus’ going somewhere else. I don’t think he knew her.”
I felt like I had to protect Looty. I wasn’t sure why. I didn’t know what the straw-haired woman was doing there, and I didn’t know for sure if Looty knew her. I had just met her myself the other day but I felt like I had to protect her, too. I thought about how strange she was, and I hoped Looty didn’t know her. I hoped she hadn’t done anything. I wasn’t sure what the right thing to say was.
There was a knock at the back door. I thought Mr. Hightower might have come back for something.
“Sorry to disturb you folks at suppertime.” We could hear the voice of Mr. O’Grady coming through the screen door. He was standing on the steps.
“Taylor, let Mr. O’Grady in. Don’t make him jus’ stand there.” Cousin Trek got up and moved toward the door.
“Evenin, Billy Joe. Had your supper?” Cousin Carol asked.
Mr. O’Grady stepped past Cousin Trek and removed his hat. “Oh, no, thank you Carol. I’m fine. But thanks anyway.”
“Have a seat, Billy Joe.”
“Like I say, I hate to disturb you folks at suppertime, but I need to find Looty as soon as I can. He wasn’t at home and I thought maybe y’all had seen him, or maybe he’d been o’er here.” In the silence, Cousin Carol and Cousin Trek looked at one another.
“Whadaya want him for?” Taylor asked.
“Be quiet, son,” Cousin Trek said. “In fact, y’all go in the other room. This isn’t for children.” I knew we were going to get booted as soon as Taylor spoke.
Cousin Carol put her hands on our backs and shuffled us out of the kitchen. I kind of wished Farley was here right now. Anybody old enough to have a driver’s license probably would have been old enough to stay and listen to grownup conversations. Old Farley could’ve been our spy. But he wasn’t here so we had to listen through the propped open door.
Billy Joe O’Grady had been the town marshal since I could remember. He was head of Cotton City’s own police force. I guess they didn’t need a lot of policemen since there was hardly any crime in Cotton City. He was about fifty, I suspected, and had mostly gray hair. He wore a pistol, but I don’t think he had ever shot anyone with it.
Taylor told me one time that Mr. O’Grady had shot a mad dog with a twelve-gauge shotgun. One of the town ne’er-do-wells tried to cause a stink and say it was his dog and it wasn’t mad. He said the city should pay him a hundred dollars because it was the finest bird dog in the Delta, and Billy Joe had shot it just so he could be a big hero. A veterinarian examined the dead dog and concluded the dog did have rabies. He also said if that dog was a bird dog, then St. Patrick was Jewish.
“Well, Billy Joe, the boys saw him in Greenville just today,” Cousin Trek said. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Well, I was told by the sheriff that they’re gonna bring him in again. Said they were maybe gonna charge him with shootin’ that fellow. Said they think they got some more evidence or some such. Told me it might be easier if I picked him up and brought him in. Sheriff said he’d come over from county and follow up with me on it.”
Taylor looked at Casey and me. I wondered, what evidence? Taylor had his mouth open as if he were trying to make words out of air. Casey pulled his finger across his throat as if it was a knife cutting. They were going to arrest Looty, and it sounded like they thought he was guilty. I remembered the spot where we had fished; and Looty only a short distance away.
Looty shooting someone and throwing him in the river. It didn’t seem possible. It just didn’t.
“Well, Earl took the boys fishing today at the river at Greenville. That’s when they saw him. Saw him walking on the road down by the bridge.”
“It’s just such a shame,” said Cousin Carol. “That poor boy.”
“He ain’t exactly a boy, Carol. He’s forty years old,” Mr. O’Grady said.
Dishes and silverware began clinking. Cousin Carol was cleaning off the table. She was like my mother. When she heard upsetting news, she started cleaning or moving things around. My mother would even start moving big stuff around like sofas and stuff when she got upset enough. Cousin Carol was a little less drastic.
“Still, I just hate it for him. What kind of proof are they supposed to have?”
“Sheriff didn’t say. Just asked me to try and find him and ask him to come in. I think they’re gonna confront him with the evidence then, and arrest him.”
“I’ll bet they found his rifle,” Casey whispered.
Taylor put his finger to his lips and “shhhed” him.
I was afraid they might open the door any second since Cousin Trek had mentioned ‘the boys.’ They might want us back in the room. I motioned for Casey and Taylor to move away, but Taylor just waved me off.
“What about the dead man, Billy Joe? Y’all found out who he is?” Cousin Trek asked.
Billy Joe put his hat on the table and ran his hand through his hair. “Really don’t know. They say they got new evidence, but I really don’t know.”
“Well, let’s just not say anything to the boys right now. They’ll find out soon enough,” Cousin Carol said.
I could see the kitchen table through the open door. Cousin Carol had removed everything but the empty mayonnaise jar. It made me think of Looty.
We found out later that when Looty got back from Greenville, Mr. O’Grady spotted him. Looty had parked his truck downtown by the bus station. Mr. O’Grady had just kept an eye on it, someone had said. When the bus pulled in, Mr. O’Grady asked him to come over to the city jail. All Looty said was, “Yes, sir. If you want me to.”
CHAPTER 16
Today was my last Saturday in Cotton City. My mother and daddy were picking me up next Friday. Taylor, Casey and I tried forgetting about Looty’s problems. He had been in the Cotton City jail all week as far as we knew, but had not been sent to the county jail yet.
I guess the only thing that could have matched the local talk about Looty was something the newspapers would end up calling “the shot heard ‘round the world.” It was about one of the most famous
baseball games ever played.
Baseball was something we played a lot of in the summer. Jackson even had its own professional team, the Jackson Senators, in the Cotton States League. We followed the major leagues and the standings and the averages all the way into football season. The crown jewel was the World Series, when everyone was glued to a radio during the first week of October and school attendance probably had a sharp drop. You were always hearing somebody whistling or humming the sponsor’s song:
“To look sharp and be on the ball,
To feel sharp and be on the ball,
To be sharp and be on the ball,
Use Gillette Razor Blades today.”
It was late in August and there was a lot of recent talk about the New York Giants and the Brooklyn Dodgers now that it was certain the Cardinals were out of it. And the Browns were never in it in the American League.
The Giants had been thirteen and a half games out on August 1 but had already closed the gap to eight games with over a month to go in the season. Some of the checker players at the gazebo said Leo Durocher would bring the Giants all the way back. Most of the old-timers remembered Durocher from the great St. Louis Cardinals and the Gas House Gang from 1934. They had had the great Dizzy Dean. He was from Arkansas but had married a lady from Biloxi, so they both lived in Mississippi. This was our connection to the Giants in1951.
Since we weren’t working Saturday afternoon, Taylor and Casey and I were downtown talking with some guys about the Giants, and Dizzy, and Leo, and the pennant race. This led to a general discussion of baseball players and who was the greatest in the last ten years. It was always an argument that came down to Ted Williams, Stan Musial or Joe DiMaggio, who had made a hundred thousand dollars that year. One guy kept saying Bob Feller, most said pitchers and hitters were different. But he stayed with Feller.
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