by Jackie Lynn
“No, Mary, I’m just following orders.” He smiled back at her, his gesture seeming more genuine.
“He bothering you?” she asked me, as if his response was unreliable. She waited to see how I would reply.
I shook my head. “No, he’s just asking me about the man who drowned.”
She made a hissing noise and threw up her hands. “She not even here until yesterday. Why you not stop by my office and ask me who was here and who was not?” She was clearly annoyed.
“I did stop by, but nobody was there.” He spoke slowly in defense of himself, carefully, using a low and easy tone.
“You could wait. I was gone for only ten minutes.” She popped the brake in the cart and pushed the gear into reverse.
“You come to the office and I’ll give you report.”
And she drove away without even a greeting of farewell or picking up the garbage off the picnic tables farther down the row of campers.
There was a pause as the dust lifted and fell around us.
I raised my eyes to the officer.
“It doesn’t seem as if she cares very much for your presence here.” I sat down on the step.
He laughed. “She’s just very protective of her campers.” He looked at his watch. “There’s some history here.”
He tapped at the middle of his sunglasses and my curiosity was aroused at his suggestion about Shady Grove, that there was some police history, some criminal history, something that involved having a deputy at the campground. I wanted to ask what he meant, but I had heard about the code of silence among law officials. I knew I had already surpassed my limit of acceptable questions for a policeman. I didn’t ask anything else.
“Well, thank you, Ms. Franklin, for your time. I hope you enjoy your stay in West Memphis.”
He started to walk to his car that was parked at the other end of the campground. “By the way”—he turned back around—“how long you planning to stay?”
“I don’t know.” I answered. “Awhile, maybe.”
I stood up straight and looked over the river, trying on my new name, trying on this new residence. “I sort of like it here.”
He smiled, surprising me with his good nature. “Fine. Then stay for as long as you can. It’s real pretty out here, especially in the fall.”
I stood at my door and watched as the young officer of the law turned, walked to his car, and drove away.
THREE
After the deputy left, I went inside and put on a pair of flip-flops and a hat. I decided that since my cell phone wasn’t charged that I should go to the office and use the phone there, try to find out if the mechanic was able to fix my car. And I thought I might enjoy a walk around the campground, the chance to see more of the place, more of this site where I was now known as my mother’s child, Rose Franklin.
I stepped outside, closed the camper door, and started to my left. I walked down to the river, where there was a parallel set of long steel rails that had been broken in several places. They appeared as if at one time they had been the means by which folks walked down from the bank and into the river, though now they were unconnected and unsteady. There was a concrete landing that stretched from the broken railings all the way down past the tree where the two young girls were still playing.
The river rushed by, away from Memphis, away from the two interstates. It was high along the bank, slapping against the concrete and pushing wildly down to the south. I stood near the railings and wondered about Mr. Franklin and how it was that he had decided to die in this way, how it was that he was able to walk or dive or allow himself to be pushed into the river and drown.
I had always heard that drowning was a violent way to die, that since it is a natural reflex to fight the flow of water into the lungs, a natural reflex to grasp and pull for breath, a drowning victim is a person who dies in panic. I figured that the dead man would have to have been drunk or drugged in some way, a means to slow down that reflex to take a breath. Or maybe, I thought, he strapped something to himself, a weighted object, a cement block or a bag of rocks, something that he wouldn’t be able to fight against, something to weigh himself down with.
Then I guessed that if he was considering suicide, made all the arrangements, that more than likely, his burden may have been enough. That the sorrow or the grief or the disappointment was heavy enough or big enough or complicated enough that he didn’t have to strap anything to his chest, that he didn’t have to manufacture the weight, that all he had to do was fall into the river and that the trouble around his heart would steal away both his natural urge and his ability to fight for air.
I slid off my flip-flops and leaned down, holding on to one of the railings, hoping that it might be sturdy enough to balance me. I knelt down easily, and let the river flow through my fingers; when I felt the water pass through, I knew.
This water would have taken the man’s sacrifice gladly. It would have let him walk down, press his face into the current, and then sailed him right out and away, past any safety. Feeling it there, pushing through my flesh, I was sure about the Mississippi. It was clearly that relentless.
“Hey, you should be careful.”
It was a child’s voice, speaking behind me. I glanced up and around.
“It’s slippery.”
She was no more than nine or ten, waiting at the edge of the grass. She was one of the girls I had seen playing earlier, the one gathering things from around the tree, presenting them to the other one who sat near her on the bench.
“Yes, I know,” I answered, standing up and twisting around to face her.
Using the bar, I pulled myself back to where she was. “And these things don’t seem too reliable.” I meant, of course, the broken rails.
I stood next to her, putting on my flip-flops, facing the river.
The little girl was skinny. Her soft brown hair was plaited into tiny braids that ended in brightly colored barrettes all across her head. She was as light as brown sugar and she was wearing pink shorts and a clean white T-shirt with a pink flower right in the center. She squinted her eyes up at me.
“That policeman talk to you?” she asked. She had a flower stem in her hand, twirling it around.
“Yes, he did,” I answered. I looked around to see if his car was gone.
“He talked to my mom and dad, too,” she replied. “But he didn’t ask me anything.”
I nodded and wondered if she had an answer that was just waiting for the right question. I knew that often the police overlook young witnesses, operating under clear prejudices that children don’t know anything. Turns out, I’ve learned, they know a lot more than one thinks.
“Somebody died here a couple of days ago.” She flung the green stem in the air. “So it must be really dangerous.”
“I think you’re right,” I answered.
“Where are you from?” she asked, turning to look at my camper.
“North Carolina,” I said. “And you?”
“We’re from Kentucky.” She picked up the narrow stem again and flung it. “My sister’s here to see a doctor.”
She pointed toward the other little girl, still sitting on the bench beside the tree where they had been playing. “She’s been sick a long time.”
I glanced in the girl’s direction and nodded again. Her sister was facing forward, watching the barges or the river or whatever it was right before her. She had not moved from where she had been previously, the first time I noticed her.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” I wasn’t sure how to respond. “I hope this doctor will help her.”
“I don’t think so,” she replied quickly, and I wondered if she had overheard her parents’ pessimism or if she had come to this conclusion on her own.
I didn’t ask for an explanation.
“We’ve been here almost a week.”
I swatted at a few gnats that were crawling up my leg. The sun was getting hot and I wished I had put on some lotion.
“Do you like camping here?” I as
ked.
“It’s okay,” she answered. “There’s not much to do after we have to go to the hospital.” She sat down on the grass. “But I’m used to that.”
I waited and then sat down next to her, my legs stretching far beyond hers. “My name is Rose,” I said, introducing myself.
“I’m Clara,” she replied. “That’s Jolie”—she motioned with her chin toward her sister—“She’s older than me.”
“Well, Clara,” I said, “It’s very nice to meet you.”
She smiled. “You have any children?”
I shook my head.
“You not want any children?” she asked.
“No, just had some problems.” After more than ten years of disappointment, the words I chose for explanation fell more easily.
“I’m giving blood for my sister.” She swept her hands across the grass between us.
I nodded and leaned back against my elbows, pulling up my knees and feet.
“That’s very brave of you,” I said in a tone of congratulation. “That’s a very nice thing to do for your sister.”
“I guess,” she answered. “I have to be really careful all the time so I don’t get hurt.”
She picked up a small stone and threw it in the river, then she drew her legs in, crossing them at the ankles. She reached out and took hold of her feet and I noticed the bruises up and down her arms. She bent forward, touching her forehead to her feet.
“I can swim,” she reported. “But not in there.” She glanced at the river. “It’s too fast.”
“Plus there’s all the boats,” I replied, watching as a couple of barges were coming upstream. “And it seems a little muddy.”
She nodded.
“You can swim in the ponds,” she said, turning her head.
I glanced behind us. There were two big ponds, one directly behind the last row of campers and another on the other side of the campground entrance. Suddenly, I remembered having seen a small red light the night before when I got up to change into my pajamas and close the blinds, the one time I had gotten up all night.
Just as I had pulled the cord I had looked out toward the pond and seen a tiny ember, the end of a cigarette. I figured the smoker was simply standing outside, away from his camper. I didn’t even think to notice what time it was.
“You just have to watch for snakes.” She fell back, placing her arms behind her head. She was staring up at the sky.
I pulled my knees to my chest, leaning my head back. There were a few clouds overhead, thin summer ones, only a slight threat of rain. We sat like that for a while without talking.
“He wasn’t sad like they say.” She was staring straight above her head, as if the words she was saying were written in the sky.
I wasn’t sure who she meant, what story she was telling, so I just watched the clouds as well and let her go on.
“He was singing and laughing.”
I faced her.
“Who?” I asked. “Who was singing?”
“The man in the river,” she answered. “The one they found, down at the sandbar.” She sat up and began pulling out the grass that had gotten stuck in her hair.
Just then, the woman in the camper beside mine stood outside on the front step, calling for the little girl. “Clara!” she yelled. “Clara, time to go.”
Slowly she got up beside me. She stood for a moment, not leaving. Her shoulders fell and a measure of resolve settled across her face.
“We got to go to the hospital now. I have to give some more blood.”
I stood up beside her, trying to decide if I should ask her something else or if I should walk with her and tell her parents what she had just told me. I hesitated.
“Well, Clara,” I said, still trying to make up my mind, “it was nice to meet you. I hope we’ll see each other again later.”
She turned away.
“Yep,” was all she said as she headed toward the bench where her sister was sitting.
I watched her walk and wondered what would be the right thing to do. I couldn’t decide if I should call Deputy Fisk and tell him that the little girl had seen the man before he drowned or if I should speak to her mother first. I thought that if I hurried, I might catch him before he left the office and I thought that if I moved quickly over there to let him know what she had just told me, he might speak to her or her parents before they left.
I watched her closely from where I was standing, trying to figure out what to do.
She lifted her sister. I saw the strength it took, the slim band of muscle stretching from her shoulder to her wrist, the way she bit her lip, positioned her legs, trying not to stumble, the easy but trusting way her sister wrapped her arm around the younger sibling.
I turned toward the camper and saw the mother’s deep sigh as she closed and locked the door, the single strand of hair that slipped from her barrette and fell across her eyes.
The father came from behind their vehicle, a tall man, slightly hunched, pulling out the wheelchair from the rear of the van, the knowing way he opened it, spreading out the vinyl seat, wiping it with the open palm of his brown hand.
I watched as he pushed it near his two daughters and how Clara, the young one, knelt before her father and the chair and how he pulled his oldest child into himself, into the chair, with such tenderness.
I watched the way the family got ready to go to the hospital. The gentle but firm way they all carried the burden of one another. I saw the heaviness and the lightness, the loss and the gain, the unspoken way of waiting for good news but preparing for bad; I decided they didn’t need to be bothered.
Maybe the little girl, Clara, saw the man before he died. Maybe she watched him speak his peace, say his prayers, sing his farewell; maybe no one else will ever know.
I decided as I watched the van pull out from the parking spot, the family huddled together inside, that what was over was over. And the dead man, regardless of what a child saw or didn’t see, was still dead.
I pulled my hat over my eyes and slowly walked toward the path that wound around to the office, hoping that Deputy Fisk had left, planning only to use the phone and call the mechanic about my car. It did not seem fitting or significant to break the little girl’s confidence, I decided as I walked.
I watched as they drove away. Clara rolled down the window at the backseat of the van, threw out her hand, and waved.
FOUR
Mary, it turns out, was right. It was going to be four days until my car would be fixed, the mechanic said when I talked to him. A part had to be shipped from Texas or Florida or somewhere that took longer than overnight to get it to West Memphis.
Mary just rolled her eyes when I told her what he said.
“Always a part have to be shipped,” she responded in her clipped English. “I think Jimmy just like to keep cars around his shop, make him look busy.”
She was filling out some monthly report when I got to the office. Deputy Fisk had already left, and I was glad I didn’t have to see him again that morning.
“He got no business talking to my campers,” Mary said when I asked if he was gone. She answered like she owned the place and we were specifically under her care. “Police never around when you need them, always around when you don’t.”
I agreed because I had some notion of what she was saying and was just about to comment when the front door opened, and I was suddenly face-to-face with a man and a woman I was sure were going to rob us. I immediately wished that the deputy had stayed around.
“About time you came back,” Mary said to the couple as they stood in the doorway. “Your place is falling apart.”
And that’s when I realized I was about to meet Lucas and Rhonda Boyd, the owners of Shady Grove.
I’m not a person who generally makes immediate judgments about others, but these two would make a blind man nervous.
Lucas Boyd stood six feet and six inches tall. He had a black beard that fell far below his chin and a head shaved clean. There were tattoos running up
and down both arms, and he wore a dark T-shirt and tight blue jeans with tall black boots and a leather belt, even on the hottest day in summer. Broad-chested like a ballplayer, but looking more like a wrestler, he was the kind of man Rip liked to make fun of, call Biker Boy or Cave Dweller.
He walked into that office and I almost fell off the stool I was sitting on. He was just that big, just that frightening. And when Rhonda Boyd stepped in behind him, flaming red hair pulled back in a bandana, leather jacket and dark shades, just as tattooed, just as threatening, almost as big, I knew right away what Fisk intended when he said the campground had “history” with the police.
Although I am a woman who tries to keep an open mind when I am being introduced to someone, I couldn’t help but jump to conclusions upon meeting Lucas and Rhonda. They were exactly the kind of folks you think of when you hear the words “menace to society.” Exactly the people you wouldn’t want knowing your credit card number and your address.
Before I even knew who they were or the things of which they had been arrested and convicted of, I was convinced that they were running drugs up and down the river, that they both carried knives and guns, and that they killed puppies for sport. I was hiding my jewelry and pulling as far away from them as I could get.
I learned later that I wasn’t the only one who bore these notions about the couple. They had been out of prison for more than twenty years when I met them, married and both of them demonstrating clean records for all that time, but unfortunately, I discovered the West Memphis police don’t believe in rehabilitation.
They were also highly suspicious of the Boyds because the campground in West Memphis was known throughout the Arkansas prison system as a place where an ex-con can go and find a friendly face, get a second chance.
I had already seen a couple of shady-looking characters that morning mowing grass and cleaning out the showers. I knew that there are always a lot of chores to do at a campground and I guessed Lucas and Rhonda found a cheap labor source. However, with the looks of these two and the looks of some of the folks hanging out at Shady Grove, a person had to wonder right along with the sheriff and his deputies what really was going on along the western shore of the Mississippi River.
