Beneath Still Waters

by Cynthia A. Graham

  Hick quickly agreed. “Just to talk to folks … or to listen. Something out of the ordinary had to happen. You don’t just up and find a baby nobody wants to claim without something happening.”

  “It’s so strange,” Adam said. “It’s like it came from nowhere. Everyone who was expecting is either still expecting or they have a baby. It’s like she just showed up. And I didn’t find anything out by the slough when you and Doc were at the inquest,” Adam went on. “Nothing unusual at least. No recent tire marks save ours. Of course that part of the slough has always been quiet unless you’re aimin’ to fish. I wonder if anyone heard anything. Maybe they thought it was an animal.”

  “I reckon after the rain stops, we could check with the people living near by,” Hick ventured. “Ask them if they seen any strangers wandering around.”

  The wind blew a gust of rain against the window and thunder crashed loudly. The farmers glanced up uneasily. There was a momentary silence, but seeing no signs of hail, the conversations began again.

  Hick put his cup back on the saucer and voiced what they were all thinking. “I have a bad feeling we’re all just wasting our time on this.” This was met by silence.

  Maggie’s laughter drew their attention. She was standing beside Matt Pringle, and he was turned on the stool facing her. He was smiling, his hand possessively on her elbow. Hick squirmed involuntarily, and at once, felt Adam’s eyes upon him.

  The bell on the door rang again and Fay Hill entered. All of her motions seemed designed to attract the least amount of attention. She crept across the room and spoke with Maggie, and soon had a cup of coffee. Though Fay and Maggie were the same age, Hick couldn’t help but notice a difference. Maggie had changed little since high school, but Fay was faded and worn, like a comfortable work shirt. Her husband, Tobias Hill, had been Hick’s best friend in high school, but the war had changed him.

  Beside her, as was often the case, was her son Bobby. Maggie handed the little boy a donut and patted his head as he smiled up at her in return. “He looks more like his daddy every day,” Adam commented. The boy had been born while Tobe was in Europe. There had been no more children, because these days Tobe’s passions tended to lean more toward a bottle of Jim Beam.

  Fay worked every day at the post office because her husband was rarely sober enough to earn a salary. She smiled at the men as she passed their table on the way out. She had been the prettiest girl in school, twice voted “Cotton Queen,” and no one was surprised when she fell for Tobe, a star athlete, good looking with an easygoing, charming manner. They had been the perfect couple, graced with beauty and luck. Now, Tobe kept company with ghosts and entertained them with whiskey.

  Hick watched her run across the street, her coat held over her head to keep the rain off. The door had barely closed behind her when Lem Coleman, a snub-nosed farmer with red skin and eyes that squinted permanently from hours in the sun, approached the table. He owned a large amount of property five miles from town in the farming community of Ellen Isle.

  “Morning all,” he said in his friendly farmer’s drawl.

  “Hey, Lem,” Adam replied, shaking his hand.

  Lem removed his hat. “Boys, I sure wish you could do somethin’ about Tobe. He commenced to shooting again last night at about one in the morning. The missus is convinced he’s gonna kill us all in our sleep.”

  “I reckon we’re gonna have to finally lock him up,” Wash commented.

  “No,” Hick said quickly. “Do you know how embarrassing that would be to Tobe … and Fay for that matter?”

  “Listen, Sheriff,” Lem told him, “we know what a big shot Tobe was in high school, but the truth of the matter is he ain’t nothing now but the town drunk.”

  Hick’s eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to say something when Adam interrupted.

  “Lem, we’ll try to confiscate Tobe’s gun. Would that satisfy you?”

  Lem nodded and turned to Hick. “I ain’t got nothin’ against the boy. I just don’t want to see anyone get hurt.”

  “I know, Lem,” Hick answered, his anger extinguished by the reality of the dangerous game Tobe was playing.

  Lem shifted his feet and asked, “Y’all got any ideas about that baby, yet?”

  “We got a few leads,” Adam told him.

  “Well, I wish you luck,” Lem told them, putting on his hat and rushing out into the rain.

  After he left, Adam turned to Hick. “If Tobe don’t stop firing that gun, you know we’re gonna have to lock him up.”

  “I realize that,” Hick answered with a sigh.

  Soon Maggie arrived carrying three plates heaped with eggs and grits. Turning to Hick, the doctor asked, “You already eat?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not really hungry. If you’ll excuse me, I got some work to do.”

  The doctor rose and let him out and Hick walked out into the rain without looking back. As the drops smacked him in the face, waking him, his thinking cleared. He recalled the grisly image of the baby lying on the table. In his mind, he heard the wail of a newborn infant so audible that his steps halted. There was no comfort in the cry; it was the desperate cry of the powerless. He crossed the street and went to the newspaper printer.

  “Wayne?” he called as he opened the door.

  Wayne Murphy came from the back room wearing a leather apron covered with ink. Hick hated Wayne’s open criticism of his job as sheriff, but now was not a time for pride.

  “What can I do for you?” Wayne asked, wiping his blue hands on a towel.

  “Can you get me the back issues of the paper for about the past month?”

  “No problem.” Wayne walked to a large metal filing cabinet that sat beneath two wide windows covered with Venetian blinds. He opened a drawer and started counting out the weekly editions.

  “Better make that the past six weeks,” Hick decided.

  Wayne kept thumbing through files, got the papers, and stacked them neatly by pounding them on the top of the cabinet. He handed them to Hick.

  “Why do you need these?”

  Hick pulled his hat down over his eyes and turned to leave. “I need help sleeping at night,” he answered bitterly and put the papers under his jacket before he ran back out into the rain.

  6

  The papers sat neatly on his desk, waiting for the long hours in the night when sleep wouldn’t come. The storm had passed and Hick gazed out the window lost in thought. His head ached from lack of sleep and food, as well as the uncertainty of how to conduct the investigation. He watched Adam and Wash cross the street, trying to avoid puddles. They opened the door and stepped in, bringing the smells of rain and bacon with them.

  Hick stood. “Adam, you ready to go out toward the slough? Start asking questions?”

  “Sure,” Adam said, grabbing up his hat. “Wash can hold down the fort.”

  “Good luck,” Wash said, settling in at his desk. “Only way to figure this thing out is leg work.”

  Hick and Adam drove out toward the slough, the windows down, letting in the rain-chilled air. Everything felt moisture-laden, even the seats of the car felt damp. The clouds hung low and gray over the flat delta, threatening to dump a new round of precipitation at any moment.

  “Let’s start at the Thompsons’,” Adam suggested.

  The Thompson household was at the far end of the slough. Adam’s son, Benji, spent a lot of time with Jack Thompson, his best friend.

  “Yeah, I’d like to get that one over,” Hick agreed remembering his last visit to the house. “Poor old lady.”

  Claire Thompson had been sitting on her porch swing the last time he stopped at the house, barely a month ago. It had been a hot day for May and the air already had that bright, summer feeling. A beautiful day to deliver such horrible news—her only son, Ross, was dead.

  “What a day.” Adam shook his head as if reading Hick’s thoughts.

  “I never thought Ross would die so young. He was always so cautious.”

  “And now those boys
are orphans.”

  Claire’s only child, Ross, had fallen asleep at the wheel of his truck and driven off a bridge. His wife had died four years earlier in childbirth, and now his aged mother was raising their boys alone.

  Adam drove the car up the two sandy dirt lines in front of the house and parked beside the propane tank. The house stood stark and white, almost cruel in its sterile perfection. Mrs. Thompson raised no flowers or trees, saying there was no money to be made in prettying up the place. John and Claire Thompson had risen from the abject poverty of share-cropping to owning one of the largest farms in the county. After John died, most of the land was rented out. In spite of her advanced years, Claire kept busy with a sizable garden and chickens. She didn’t believe in being idle.

  Claire came out to meet them, wearing a tan work dress with dainty flowers sprinkled unconvincingly on it. Those flowers did nothing to temper the severity of the austere platinum knot that bound her hair.

  Moving with amazing alacrity for a woman of her age, she met them as they climbed from the car. “Morning, boys.”

  Both men removed their hats. “Morning, Miss Thompson,” Hick said. “How have you been?”

  “Well, I’m getting by. Jack and Floyd keep me on my toes, no doubt about that. Ain’t been the same around here since Ross passed.”

  Hick noticed the water-logged pickup still standing right in the yard where the tow truck had left it. He swelled with sympathy for the woman.

  “You know if there’s anything we can do to help, we’d be glad to.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I know that, Hick. You were always such a good boy. Your daddy was so proud of you.”

  “Ma’am, if you don’t mind, Adam and I would like to talk to you for a moment.”

  She seemed surprised. “By all means. Please, come in.”

  The two men followed Claire up the porch steps and into the house. Unlike his sister Pam’s house, where there was always a baseball glove or roller skates lying on the table, everything here was perfectly neat, not one item out of place, not a speck of dust anywhere. It was hard to believe two small boys lived there. They passed by an ancient grandfather clock that stood in the foyer and went to the sitting room. Turning to Adam, Claire said, “Thank you for having Jack over last weekend. He loves being at your house.”

  Adam grinned. “He’s a good boy. You’re doing a heck of a job with them kids.”

  She seemed to shrink a little. “I wish I didn’t have to.”

  Hick sat on a chair, his hat in his hands. He absentmindedly turned it and asked, “Ma’am, if you don’t mind, we’d like to ask you a few questions pertaining to the child we found in the slough.”

  Claire’s eyebrows went up. “Oh?’

  Adam leaned forward. “With you living so near, we thought you might have seen or heard something. We’re having a devil of a time.”

  She folded her hands and placed them in her lap with her lips pursed in thought. “Really boys, I don’t know how much help I can be. There’s always kids up around that end of the slough. Teenagers come up in their cars.”

  “What about strangers?”

  “Oh, I ain’t seen no strangers wandering around there. I keep an eye open for that, me being alone and all.”

  “Has there been anything at all odd up there? Anything out of the ordinary?” Adam wondered.

  She smiled a little. “The only thing out of the ordinary is there ain’t been as many little boys fishing this past week. Jack says they’re afraid.”

  Hick shook his head. “Kids get the damndest fool notions in their brains. What about these teenagers in their cars?”

  “Well, they come up here for … alone time, if you know what I mean. Not just schoolboys, either. Some young men bring their ladies up here, too.”

  Hick pulled out his notebook. “Hate to ask you this, Miss Thompson, but could you give me any names at all? Anyone you seen around the slough the past month?”

  “I don’t want to seem like a nosy old biddy,” Claire said a little jokingly. “But you know I do keep a watchful eye around here at night. Especially since Ross died. I ain’t particularly comfortable being all alone way out here, but I hate to leave my home.”

  Adam reassured her saying, “No one thinks you’re being nosy. Perfectly understandable, you being in the position you’re in. I’d probably be keeping an eye open myself.”

  Unconsciously, Hick imitated Claire’s posture, absolutely straight and motionless. She grew up in an age of corsets, and her posture was unbending and rigid. After a slight hesitation, she began, “I seen Buck Hearn and Lida Webber one night last week. Her daddy would tan his hide if he knew, too. I seen Sam Logan’s car, Jimmy Allen was with Rachel Kellum, Matt Pringle was walking with Maggie Benson, and Dick McCarter was with Betty Harmon. I know all those kids, none of ’em would have done what you’re asking about.”

  Hick had written down the names without showing any emotion, other than a faint blush when Maggie’s name was mentioned. He wondered if he’d ever get that under control. He looked up after writing and noticed Adam looking at him keenly, but he avoided his gaze and turned his attention back to Claire.

  “What about animals?” he asked her. “You got any panthers or coyotes running around you know of?”

  “No panthers. Sure, there’s always coyotes, but I don’t see ’em down at the slough.”

  “Anything else? Hear anything?”

  Claire shook her head. “Johnny’s up there a lot. But he always has been. It’s where he gets his supper.”

  “Johnny’s just fishing, right? You didn’t see him prowling around, acting odd did you?”

  “Oh no.” Claire began. “Well, of course he was acting odd. It’s Coal Oil Johnny. But nothing unusual.”

  Hick read over the list again. Coal Oil Johnny was the town hermit. He lived in a shack way out in the sunken lands and came to town twice a month for coal oil. It was what he used for cooking, heat, and light. He was not likely the person they were looking for, but he might be someone with information. He jotted his name with a notation to interview him. Closing his book, he said to Adam, “You got anything else? That about does it for me.”

  Adam shook his head and rose. He paused on the porch telling Claire, “Let us know if you need anything, ma’am. Won’t you?”

  Her eyes welled a little and she patted Adam’s shoulder. “I do appreciate all you’ve done for me and the boys. I know Ross would be grateful.”

  Finding no one home at the Pringle’s or the Scott’s, the two men drove back to town. Light was beginning to break through the thinning clouds, patches of blue amidst the gray, dissolving before the sun’s brilliance. After a prolonged silence, Adam said, “I’m sorry you had to find out about Maggie that way. I was going to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “She’s been seeing Matt pretty steady now for a couple of months.”

  ”I don’t know how it could possibly matter to me.”

  “Dammit Hick, anyone with eyes can see you two belong together. She waited for you and wrote to you faithfully for three years while you were gone, and the best you can do for her is get back and break the engagement. You couldn’t even come up with a decent reason.”

  “People change,” Hick remarked.

  “No,” Adam argued. “You didn’t change. Boy, if there’s one thing you’re bad at, it’s lyin’. No one gets it … your sister, your mother. You and Maggie were meant to be together. Hell, you’ve been inseparable since you were born.”

  Hick looked out the window at the sodden fields. He closed his eyes and the image of a bloody farmhouse flitted before them, frightening in its vividness. He shuddered. “Adam, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Goddammit, I hate that answer! No one understands and no one ever will because you came home and shut the door. Why don’t you tell someone what’s wrong … work it out. You need her, Hick.”

  Hick pulled a cigarette from his pocket and cupped a hand over it while he lit it. “She�
��s moved on, Adam. So have I. Why can’t everyone else?”

  “Because you’re either a liar or a fool if you think either of you has really moved on. Don’t you see how her face lights up when you walk into that diner? Don’t you see how her eyes never leave you while you’re there, and how they follow you to the office every morning? Please tell me you’re not that dimwitted, boy!”

  Hick leaned back in the seat and took another drag from the cigarette, pulling his hat down far over his eyes. “Well, now she’s got Matt to comfort her, and I’ve got the support of my loving family. Let it go, Adam. For God’s sake, please let it go.”

  Neither man said another word until they got back to town, the passive silence thick and heavy, a precarious levee barely holding back a deluge of disagreement.

  7

  The red plastic ashtray was heaped with the remains of last night’s sleeplessness. Ashes spilled down the sides like sand on a windswept dune, smudges of white splattered against the dark wood of the table, and Hick absentmindedly ran his fingers over them, blurring and smearing the little dots, leaving only a vague, gray haze. He tried to recall when he had finished the pack. In the war, Lucky Strikes had been part of his C-rations and had helped to pass the many hours of tedium, had helped take his mind off the fact that his father had died and he had not been home to bury him.

  His father had been one of those larger-than-life men that sons look up to in awe, but he had also been a loving man, and as the school principal, had been a fixture in every part of Hick’s world. Every Lucky Strike lit and smoked down to a nubbin had helped ease the pain of knowing he would never see his father again, never feel a warm, fatherly embrace again, might not live to see any of his family ever again.

  He crushed out another cigarette, coughed heavily, then picked up the ashtray and dumped its contents into the trash can. It was another soggy Arkansas morning. Water stood on the dirt roads, puddled in the ruts, glistening and brown in the morning’s diffused sunlight. Already hot, it promised to be another overcast, summer day.

  As he dressed for work, Hick thought of what he had read in the stack of old newspapers the night before when sleep, again, didn’t come. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened. No gypsies spied, no itinerant workers coming from the hills to chop cotton, no one out of the ordinary had passed through town. Of course the last six weeks had held plenty of the death that goes hand in hand with poverty. The measles had taken two children, a young woman died in childbirth, an old man had a stroke, there had been a hunting accident, and, of course, Ross Thompson’s car accident. None of this gave any hint as to where the baby had come from.