He had never been in the back room of the newspaper office. It was filthy with ink and wrinkled papers, the smell of musty books, ink, and oil filled the air. Wayne pulled some large sheets of paper off of a shelf and Hick approached him. “I hate to tell you this, but you’re gonna have to print a retraction tomorrow.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Tobe. He didn’t break no law and I want it in the paper. He don’t live within city limits, so he can shoot that gun whenever he wants.”
Wayne looked unconcerned. “Sure, Sheriff, I’ll print a retraction, right behind the obituaries. Won’t really matter. Damage is already done.”
“I know that,” Hick responded, running his hand through his hair. He looked down into Wayne’s face and said lowly, “If I catch you at another crime scene, I’ll arrest you for obstruction. Is that understood?”
Wayne backed up a little, adjusting his glasses and standing up taller. “You can’t do that. It’s censorship.”
“You can print whatever you want, but don’t get in the way of any police work. I’ll see to it that my perimeters are so large, you won’t even know what county we’re in. Got it?”
Wayne pulled back his lips in a snarl. “You’re not doing yourself any favors.”
Hick’s temper was flaring and when he was angry it showed itself in careful, deliberate speech. “I don’t need any favors from you.”
Wayne laughed. “You sure about that?”
“We don’t all bow to the god of popular opinion, Wayne. You can print whatever you damn well please about me. But it’d better be the truth.”
Wayne had been bending over the press, but he paused and looked at Hick curiously. “Now that’s an outdated notion. What exactly do you call the truth, anyway?”
“The facts.”
“Your perception of the facts. I might see things differently.”
“Fact is fact,” Hick argued. “There ain’t no changing it.”
“Don’t be naïve, boy. What if a man beats his wife? Nobody thinks that’s good, but what if she’s cheating on him? What if she’s taunted him? That doesn’t change the fact that he beat her, but it might lessen his guilt, wouldn’t you say?”
“I never deal in hypotheticals.”
Wayne sighed. “Let me just put it to you like this, people believe what is convenient to believe … what challenges them the least. It’s easier to believe a man beat his wife because she was askin’ for it than it is to believe he’s just a bastard.”
“So which do you do, Wayne. Report facts or editorialize? Because I thought your job was to print the news.”
Wayne shook his head. “My job is to sell papers, period.”
Hick’s eyes narrowed. “So that’s how it works? You print what will sell the most papers?”
“Now you’re catchin’ on. Take that baby, for instance. Sold more papers that next morning than I’d ever sold before. Not that anyone gave a damn about the kid. It just gave ’em all something to talk about.”
“And you made sure that it’d be next to impossible to find the killer by reporting every goddamn detail of the crime scene in your paper.”
Wayne shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “I don’t report news, Sheriff. I decide what is news. I—”
“I think you fabricate news,” Hick interrupted.
Wayne paused and looked at him, and a slow, cynical smile played on his mouth. “Not exactly. I don’t make up stories. On occasion I may embellish them, but just to make them more interesting. Let’s just say I decide what these people will read about and what they’ll believe. Hell, you’re lookin’ at the collective conscience of Cherokee Crossing.”
Hick put his hat on and pulled it down over his eyes, trying to hide the anger that was smoldering there. “You forget one thing, Wayne.”
Wayne appeared smug. “Really? What’s that?”
“These people aren’t stupid. The truth has a way of making itself known.”
Wayne shrugged. “Maybe it does and maybe it doesn’t. But, until I’m proved wrong about something, I’ll give them what they want. Something to talk about while they’re drinkin’ their coffee.”
Hick walked to the door and then paused. “Don’t forget what I said. I may not have locked up Tobe, but I won’t hesitate to receive you as a guest of my little establishment across the street. Stay out of my way.”
“Are you threatening me? That’s a page one headline if I ever heard one.” Hick heard a condescending grunt and he slammed the door behind him.
Hick’s head was aching as he returned to the station. He hung his hat and sat at the desk, feeling overwhelmed. He thought of all the women in town who they had not yet spoken with. Writing down a dozen or so names, he turned to Wash. “I need you to talk to each of these women and get an idea of what it was they were doing last autumn, and then again, late May, early June.”
“Maggie?” Wash asked looking at the paper incredulously.
“All unwed women in this town between the ages of nineteen and fifty. Maggie fits that criteria so, yes, even Maggie.”
“Jesus, nothing like rubbing it in,” Wash said with an unhappy expression.
Hick’s eyes closed. “Just do it.”
“I finished the absentee files from the high school for you,” Adam said after the door closed behind Wash. “Nobody missed more than a day or two of school.”
“Damn,” Hick answered. “I was hoping we might get a clue.”
Adam rose. “Sorry. I’ll get these back to Gladys for you.”
Hick was thankful for the quiet of the station. He was tired from working all night, and drained from his confrontation with Wayne Murphy. Staring at an ever-growing pile of paperwork on his desk, he was trying to force his mind to concentrate when the door of the station flew open and Maggie stormed in, slamming it behind her.
“How dare you, you son of a bitch!”
He had never heard Maggie curse. His weary eyes could barely connect the angry creature before him with the Maggie he knew.
“What are you talking about?”
“Sending Wash over to question me. He says he has to question all the unmarried women.”
“Well?”
“If you have any questions for me, you come and ask. It wasn’t me, okay? Do you want to know why? Because I’ve been bleeding for six months. There’s something wrong with me, and I’ll probably never have children.”
Hick stared at her, a sudden overwhelming ache beginning to squeeze his heart. “Mag, I just—”
“You just what?” she snapped. “You just wanted to humiliate me even more? What are you insinuating? That I sleep around?”
“No,” he answered quickly. “Of course not. But I—”
“Stop! It’s enough.” She shook her head, looking down and her voice quieted. “How could you even believe I’d do something like that?” Her eyes welled with tears and her chin quivered with bitterness and sorrow.
He felt numb as he looked at her, like someone completely isolated, someone standing at a window and watching the people inside, knowing he can’t reach them through the glass. “I’m so sorry.”
She stared at him a moment, a tear sliding down her cheek. “At least Wash only has to question the ‘unmarried’ women. It shouldn’t take long. I’m the only girl from our class who isn’t married. There aren’t many of us ‘old maids’ around.” She sighed. “I waited for you and you made a fool out of me.” She shook her head, biting her lip. “I wonder what I did that made you hate me so much.”
“That’s not it at all.”
“What happened to us, Hickory? You never mentioned me in your letters home, you stopped writing. It was as if, at some point, I ceased to exist in your eyes. I’ve laid awake trying to figure out what I did that was so wrong. How I turned you away.”
“I couldn’t stand the thought of the censors—”
“Hickory, that’s a sad excuse and you know it. I didn’t need you to bare your soul … I just needed
to know that you were alive and that you remembered my name.”
He stared at her, unable to admit to the pile of unsent v-mail stuffed in a drawer at home. She stood there and he knew she was waiting for a reply, but he remained mute. Then she turned and was gone. He wanted to call her back. His mouth opened and he tried, but his throat was closed, choked with regret and too many words unsaid. He stared at the door and felt as if his heart had been ripped out. Slumping in his chair, he covered his eyes with his hand, and forced his pinched lungs to breathe. His throat swelled and his eyes burned, but the pain was too intense to be released through mere tears.
10
Though it was still dark outside, Hick knew morning was coming by the cooing of the doves that lived outside his bedroom window. He lay there, his hands behind his head, his ashtray on his chest, smoking in bed … a thing he promised his mother he would never do.
His lungs still felt pinched, as if some hand were squeezing him, trying to press out his life. Why did he make Wash talk to Maggie? The tear that stood out vividly on her cheek was in his mind. He ground his cigarette out and sat up in bed, angry with himself for ever causing her to cry.
He had always hated when there was any disagreement between them. Generally, any argument resulted in them stomping home for half an hour and then bumping into each other as they raced to beg forgiveness. Through the years, their friendship ripened to a level that forgiveness never needed to be spoken. It was appealed for by a look and given with the pressing of a hand and a kiss.
He wanted to run to her now, to meet her beside the lilac bush that sat on the property line between the houses they grew up in. He wanted to hold her and beg her to forgive him. Instead, he sat there, finishing another pack of cigarettes and loathing himself and everything he had become.
Finally, the cardinals broke into song and a slice of gray washed across the horizon. He rose and dressed in his fishing clothes. The soft flannel comforted him. It felt good to leave the tie and dress shoes behind.
I need to get away from all of this, he thought, briefly glancing at his uniform. The baby, and Tobe, and Wayne, and Mag consumed his thoughts. The baby especially gnawed away at his fortitude. He desperately wanted a morning of peace. The wall he had so carefully constructed since returning home was beginning to crumble, he could almost physically feel it giving way. He knew at any moment it could crash down on him, crushing him under its weight. It was a selfish, thick wall, but it had served its purpose. He had felt nothing when he arrived home from Europe. No pain when his father had not been there to greet him at the train station, no hurt when he told Maggie he no longer wanted to marry her. Nothing but a calm, stoic reasoning that guided him through this obligation that was his life.
He made a pot of coffee, poured a cup, and opened the screen door to walk out into the damp morning stillness. He loved this time of day, when the dew still hung heavily on the grass, filling the air with its freshness as the sun struggled to break free of the night. The subdued night sounds were familiar; the chirping of the crickets, the frogs, even the occasional moth bumping into the porch light were things he had grown accustomed to. Back inside, he put the coffee cup on the table beside the cups from yesterday and the day before. He poured the rest of the coffee into a thermos, climbed into the already loaded car, and drove across town to his sister’s.
The house was dark, the only light a dim one in the kitchen at the back of the house. He knocked quietly. Pam had never been pleasant in the morning, and with a newborn and Sammy to take care of, he knew better than to wake her. The door opened and Adam appeared on the other side, his face covered with stubble, his hair rumpled and unkempt. He crossed his arms over his chest as the chilly air met his thin white t-shirt.
“God almighty, what do you find attractive about getting out at this hour of the morning?” Adam hated anything to do with the outdoors. Unlike Hick, he didn’t like to hunt or fish. He was content to stay inside the warmth of his kitchen.
Hick stretched and breathed in deeply. “It’s just nice to get away from everything.”
Benji and Henry scampered into the room, rubbing the sleep from their eyes. “Are you ready, Uncle Hick?” Benji whispered.
They left quickly and Hick knew that before the car was out of the driveway, Adam would be back in his room snoring. He turned to look at his nephews. Benji and Henry idolized him. He had been to Europe, was a decorated veteran and now sheriff. Hick would trade any of those distinctions to simply be Uncle Hick.
“Good fishing weather?” Benji asked.
Hick nodded as they headed out in the darkness.
“Mama wants you to have this,” Henry, the younger boy, handed him a tin lunch pail. Hick glanced inside and saw Pam’s specialty—oatmeal and raisin cookies. “She says for you to make sure we don’t eat ’em all before lunch.”
Hick noticed Benji elbow his little brother in the mirror and he suppressed a smile. The two were nothing alike. Benji was like Adam, never bothered by anything.
Henry, on the other hand, had large soulful eyes and a quiet temper. Even at seven years of age, his face always seemed to wear a pensive expression, as if he were pondering all of life’s complexities and trying to make sense of them.
Hick enjoyed observing the boys and all their little quirks because he had always been fascinated with children. When he and Maggie were engaged, they argued about how many they would have. Hick always said ten was a nice even number, and Maggie would reply that he would have to carry the last seven himself. A deep ache spread through his chest at the thought that Maggie might not be able to have children. She had always wanted a family as much as he had. Henry must have noticed the shadow that crossed his face.
“Are you sad today, Uncle Hick?”
He sighed. “A little. But a morning fishing with you two is just what I need to perk me up.”
They parked on the grass and unloaded the cane poles in the dawn’s quiet. The sky gradually brightened, the stars faded one by one, and the moon waned and fluttered to the horizon. Even the wind was eerily calm at this hour, leaving the water still and speechless.
They hiked westward toward the Scott household, the sandy bank quickly giving way to thick, marshy grasses and pussy willow. Bats swooped down to the water in search of a last meal before dawn, and Benji ran ahead chasing frogs into the slough.
“You watch for snakes,” Hick cautioned him.
Henry followed behind keeping his eyes on the ground. Once, a turtle ambled by and then a screech owl cried out causing him to jump. Hick felt a hand slip into his, and he glanced down and squeezed. Henry glanced up, grateful.
They continued to walk around logs and through the high grass, their feet cold with the moisture seeping into their shoes. The mist above the water had almost evaporated by the time they reached Hick’s favorite spot.
“When do you think the sun will rise?” Benji asked.
“Pretty soon,” Hick replied in a whisper.
They walked around the curve of the slough, splashing through the water, and came to the western side. Here, the water was black and dirty, rushing to the shore and then bouncing back, like the pulse of a heart. They found a sandy spot and dug holes for their poles, then sat and waited.
Henry was the first to catch a fish. “What kind is it?” he asked, shuffling around excitedly as Hick took the fish off of the hook.
“It’s a bluegill,” Hick replied, stringing it on the line picketed to the shore. A snake’s head peered out of the water and a large fish jumped. The slough was coming alive in anticipation of the sun. A breeze blew up and the sky lightened in a golden hue. “We’ll have nice, clear weather today,” Hick remarked.
By the time the sun was full up and seven fish were strung on the line, Hick felt himself begin to doze. He put the boys in charge of watching the bobbers and walked up the rise to sink down against a tree. Putting his hat over his eyes and closing them, he looked forward to a few minutes of naptime.
Suddenly, it was cold and snow
y. December. Belgium. He ran through the snow, his feet burning with the cold, his lungs on fire from exertion. His breath came through his lips, warm and moist, and then froze instantly in the air before him, ghostly and opaque. Occasionally, he heard gunfire in the distance and the sounds of shelling. His eyes were trained on the back of his sergeant and best friend, a stern but capable soldier from the Bronx. They were the only two soldiers left—the rest had retreated or been killed—and they were being pursued.
Hick’s heart pounded with the knowledge that he would very likely be dead before the end of the day. He hurt for his mother. His father had just died and he hated that she would feel that pain again. And he was sorry he would never see Maggie again, never kiss her or make love to her, but she was young and would get on with her life when the war was over.
They scampered up a small hill and there, in the distance, spied an old farmhouse. Sergeant Brody turned to him. “We need to get to that farmhouse.”
“No!”
The Sergeant looked confused. “Let’s move, Blackburn!” he ordered.
Hick broke out in a sweat. He was no longer cold, he was burning hot. He began screaming at the top of his lungs and the sergeant looked at him in astonishment. “What’s wrong?” his voice echoed. “What’s wrong … what’s wrong?”
Hick’s eyes flew open. Benji and Henry sat beside him, their hands on his shoulders, shaking him and asking, “What’s wrong?”
He sat up quickly. These dreams were becoming more vivid, and occurring every time he closed his eyes. He was drenched with sweat and shaking. Recalling where he was, he forced himself to smile and say, “Nothing, fellas. Just a bad dream. I’m okay.” He swallowed hard and tried to hide the trembling of his hands. Pushing his hat back, he blinked, trying to clear the fog from his mind. “Catch anything else?”
“Yes, Uncle Hick,” Benji answered. “But Henry’s line is caught in the brush.”
Hick rose, and still shaky, put a hand on the tree to steady himself. “I’ll get it. Come on, Henry.”
Beneath Still Waters Page 7
