Beneath Still Waters

by Cynthia A. Graham

  She slid to him and put her arms around his waist. “Wrong about everything?”

  “Not everything,” he replied, kissing her forehead. He glanced at his watch. “I’m going to be late.” He pulled his hat back down and shrugged. “Hopefully, Adam will just let it alone when I tell him it was an accident.”

  Maggie reached up, straightening his tie. “I wouldn’t count on it. He’s never left anything alone before.”

  They drove into town together and Hick parked in front of the diner. Glancing at the newspaper office, he saw Bill Stanton’s car out front. “I don’t like the look of this.”

  He left Maggie and hurried to the newspaper office, jerked the door open, and was greeted with the sight of Bill Stanton’s shotgun aimed at Wayne Murphy’s head.

  “What in the hell is going on here?” Hick demanded.

  Bill glanced at Hick without moving. “This son of a bitch interviewed my Iva Lee. It’s in the paper and I want to know when he was slinkin’ around and what exactly he done.”

  Wayne Murphy quivered, his hands in the air, his face pale. “I just talked to her, Bill. I done told you.”

  “Here’s the problem,” Hick told Murphy. “First, you were told to stay away from Iva Lee and you didn’t, so you got no respect for the law. Second, you told me yourself that the truth ain’t something you regard highly, so I can’t believe you.”

  Murphy shifted his eyes away from Bill Stanton for a brief second. “Are you accusing me of something, Sheriff?”

  “I’m sayin’ there’s enough evidence to put you at the top of my list of suspects.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why? Because I’m a well-respected person in this community. A business owner.”

  “In Cherokee Crossing a man is only as good as his word. It don’t seem your word is worth much. I believe you agreed to leave Iva Lee alone, didn’t you?”

  “I did. But Bill and Rose were so stubborn. They wouldn’t bring her to me, even though I asked.”

  “And your right to print a story is stronger than their choice to keep you from their daughter? Is that right?”

  “There’s a little thing called freedom of the press,” Wayne argued.

  Bill Stanton cocked the gun, its aim never moving. Murphy glanced at him, uneasily. “Well, ain’t there?”

  “You’ve gone beyond any freedom of the press. I’m afraid I’m gonna have to arrest you.”

  ”Arrest me?” Murphy cried. “On what charge?”

  “Well, let me see,” Hick began. “We can start with tampering with a witness and possibly go all the way to obstruction of justice. We can certainly charge you with trespassing, and we might end up charging you with statutory rape … just to name a few.”

  Murphy’s face was red with anger. “You can’t do this.”

  Hick glanced at Bill Stanton. “It might be jail is the best place for you … for now, anyway.”

  Murphy’s lips trembled a little and he seemed to think it over. “I’ll go, but you got nothin’ on me.”

  “Well, that’ll be for the judge to decide,” Hick replied. “Let me see the paper.”

  Stanton’s gun remained fixed on Murphy’s head. Without flinching, he tossed the newspaper to Hick.

  This reporter was able to sit down with Iva Lee Stanton, the mother of the baby found in the slough last month. She described the child’s father as a loving, generous man and is anxious to find him. In my humble opinion, the miscreant will not return to her. Perhaps on one of her evening soirées, she will find him, and the two lovers will finally be re-united.

  Hick quietly sat the paper on the counter and his anger built inside him. He ran his hand over his eyes. His head grew warm and his heart pounded. Without warning, he rounded the counter, and before he consciously realized what he was doing, he seized Wayne Murphy by the collar and shoved him, hard. The noise of Murphy’s head banging against the wall brought Hick back to his senses. Murphy was staring at him in shock, his face white.

  “This man ain’t nobody’s lover, Murphy. He’s a rapist, someone who belongs behind bars. He took something innocent and crushed it. It ain’t nothing to make light of.”

  “I … I … wasn’t making light—”

  “You were. You used her just like he did.” Hick narrowed his eyes, a glint of anger flashing. “You’re no better than him.”

  “You think you’re so high and mighty,” Murphy returned, “with all your ideals and notions of right and wrong. What are you but the sheriff of a two-bit town? What do you know about anything?”

  “I’ll grant I ain’t got the book learning you’ve got, but my daddy taught me something about compassion and understanding.”

  Murphy smirked. “Compassion and understanding doesn’t sell papers.”

  “Maybe. But when I’m dead and gone, people will remember it. What will they remember about you?”

  Bill Stanton’s hand went to the trigger of his shotgun. “Why don’t we find out right now?”

  Hick’s voice was low, but full of gravity. Still grasping Murphy by the collar, he said, “Don’t do it, Bill. You’ll spend the rest of your life regretting it.”

  Bill remained still, his finger on the trigger. He stared at Murphy, as if imagining the bullet going into his skull. After another moment, he uncocked the gun. “Murphy, you’re nothin’ but a heartless bastard.” His voice broke. “My baby’s had a rough time of it since her brain got hurt. The missus and me are doing the best we can, but it ain’t been easy.” He composed his emotions but added, “You remember this … if you ever come around talkin’ to her again, there ain’t no jail will keep me from you. By God, I’ll skin you and hang you out to dry. You got that?”

  Sweat glistened on Murphy’s forehead. He licked his lips and after a moment’s hesitation, nodded.

  Wash and Adam looked surprised when the three men entered the station. “What have we got here?” Wash asked.

  “I’m arresting Wayne Murphy for trespassing,” Hick answered. “Might be more charges coming.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous” Murphy spat. “There’ll be no more charges.”

  “We’ll just see about that,” Hick replied. He guided Murphy to the cell and locked the door behind him. Turning to Bill Stanton, he said, “I’m sorry about all of this, Bill.”

  Bill’s gun rested at his side, the butt of his rifle on the floor. “You got any ideas on the daddy yet?” He turned angry eyes toward Murphy. “I still got my money on this weasel.”

  “We’re workin’ on it,” Hick assured him.

  “You keep me informed.” With one last glance at Murphy, Bill Stanton left the station.

  Hick went to the cell. “How long were you with her, Murphy?”

  “Not more than a half-hour.”

  “Where’d you meet?”

  “I saw her out walking down the road, so I picked her up. I wasn’t on Stanton property so you can’t get me for trespassing.”

  “Is that the first time you picked Iva Lee up?”

  Murphy narrowed his eyes. “What are you driving at?”

  “I’m just wondering if you’ve been alone with her before.”

  “No. It was like pulling teeth to get the girl to even make sense.”

  Adam joined them. “Murphy, what are we supposed to do with you? We explicitly told you to leave her alone.”

  “But I saw her walking. What was I supposed to do … not ask her?”

  “In a word, yes,” Adam replied. “You know you done gone and got yourself put on a pretty short list of suspects here. We could be talkin’ murder, Wayne. It ain’t nothing to trifle with.”

  Wayne sat down on the cot at the end of the room with his head in his hands. “I didn’t do anything,” he protested.

  Hick shook his head, went to his desk and absentmindedly took off his hat. He pulled out some forms and Adam followed him. He sat down on the side of Hick’s desk, and said, “You look like you got hit by a truck, boy. Want t
o talk about it?”

  Hick’s hand went up to his ear. “Just an accident.”

  “Doc see it?”

  “It’s fine,” Hick answered. “What’s left will heal and what’s gone ain’t comin’ back.”

  “Doc could—”

  “I said its fine,” Hick interrupted with the note of finality in his voice that most people recognized.

  Adam seemed to be pondering if he should pursue the issue. Evidently, he decided against it because, instead he asked the usual, “Where’d you eat breakfast?”

  Hick cleared his throat. “Uh … Maggie made my breakfast.” He quickly looked back down at his paperwork, feeling the familiar blush cross his face.

  Adam’s eyebrows rose. “I see.” After a pause, he asked, “And how does Matt feel about that?”

  “She broke it off with him.”

  “And?”

  Hick looked up from the paperwork. “I’m gonna need a little time off in the next few days. I’m getting married at the end of the week.”

  Adam stared for a moment. “It’s about damned time,” he muttered, walking back to his desk.

  The door opened with a groan, and Lem Coleman entered the station, his massive, thick frame filling it. Crossing to Hick’s desk, he said, “Morning, Sheriff.” He sat a pistol on it.

  Hick looked up in surprise. “What’s this?”

  “Tobe Hill come by to see me this morning looking for work, sober as a judge. I put him right out in the fields choppin’ cotton. Anyway, he asked if I would bring this to you and have you lock it up.”

  Hick stared at the pistol and then told Lem, “I’m obliged to you for bringing it in. I got the shotgun, but he didn’t want to part with this.”

  “Sheriff, if you don’t mind me sayin’, I’m grateful. You done took a weight off the wife’s mind. She says she don’t know how you did it, but you must be some kind of magic man to have finally talked some sense into Tobe Hill.”

  The words “magic man” grabbed Hick’s attention.

  “I’m not magic,” he protested, “it’s all on Tobe, whether he can keep himself straightened out.”

  “Well,” Lem answered, “he’s a good worker, and I’m proud to have him.”

  Hick looked into Lem’s honest face. It was burned red from hours of hard work in the sun. As teenagers, Tobe and Hick would laugh at Lem and the other farmers for their red skin, dirty hands, and backward ways. He understood so little about the world back then. He rose and shook Lem’s hand. “Thanks for giving him a chance.”

  Lem nodded and headed across the street to the diner and Hick’s eyes followed him. Shoving aside the paperwork, he said to Adam, “If you boys don’t mind, I’m gonna take an early lunch. I got a good-lookin’ gal across the way I want to visit with.”

  He walked to the door and Murphy called, “What about me? How long you gonna keep me here?”

  “Got to talk to the judge first, and it’s the Fourth of July. I’ll try to reach him tomorrow.”

  Murphy’s eyes widened. “You’re tellin’ me I might have to spend the night here?”

  “No, Wayne. I’m tellin’ you that you are spending the night here.” Murphy’s shout of protest followed.

  Hick entered the diner and went straight to the counter.

  “What can I get for you, Hickory?” Maggie asked like she did most days. Today, it seemed to mean so much more. He couldn’t see enough of her. His eyes followed her every movement: the way she walked, the way she poured coffee, the way she smiled. Her laughter came to him from every corner of the diner. She was sparkling, her face bright and happy, her movements light.

  He followed her back to the kitchen where she had gone to refill the iced tea pitcher. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close. He kissed her, unwilling to let her go.

  You’re gonna get me in trouble,” she whispered, smiling. “Customers aren’t supposed to be back here.”

  “Sheriff’s business,” he murmured, kissing her again.

  “I have to get back,” she whispered in his ear.

  “I’ll pick you up after work,” he said. “I need to talk to your mama.”

  She playfully shined his badge. “What have you got to do today, Sheriff Blackburn?”

  “This and that. Nothing urgent. I think, right now, I’ll just go for a walk.”

  She kissed him again. “See you at seven?”

  “Six-thirty,” he answered.

  She laughed. “Get going.”

  With one parting kiss, he exited the diner and walked into the hot July sunshine. It was another muggy day, steam rising from the ground like from a hot kettle. He paused on the sidewalk, lighting a cigarette, and walked through the thick air, squinting against the bright morning sunshine. Heat shimmered from the cars and off the tin roof of the feed store. Dogs lay panting in the shade.

  He stepped off the sidewalk and bypassed a puddle, then jogged across the street, following the sound of children shouting. In the city park, a stage had been set up at one end and people hurried about, setting up tables and chairs. He stood and surveyed the scene with satisfaction. Though he had changed in the past few years, this was his town, where he’d grown up. For an instant, he remembered how it felt to belong. He tossed the cigarette to the ground and crushed it.

  At the other side of the park, on the ball diamond, it seemed every little boy in Cherokee Crossing had congregated. Benji played shortstop behind Jack Thompson, much like Hick had played behind Tobe. He wondered if their lives would be interrupted by war. He walked over to an old maple tree that had been in the park for years. It had been stuck by lightning twice and yet green branches still flourished, growing up out of the trunk at odd angles. Floyd Thompson, Jack’s little brother, sat on a branch watching the game. Hick approached him. “Hey, Floyd.”

  The little boy looked up, his face tear-stained. “Howdy, Sheriff.”

  “You okay?”

  Floyd looked down. “Yes sir. I just hurt my hand.”

  Hick knelt before him. “Want me to take a look at it?”

  He shook his head. “Henry ran home to get some iodine. It’ll be okay.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Got a splinter off that old bat.”

  Hick rose and stretched his arms out, then said with false bravado, “You might not know this, but I am one of the best splinter removers in the county.”

  Floyd looked down at his hand. “Granny digs and digs with the needle.” He seemed to be thinking. Finally, he held out his hand, fingers curled tight. “I’d be obliged if you’d take a look at it.”

  Hick sat beside him on the tree, and pulled out his pocketknife. “The trick is to cut the skin just a tiny bit above the splinter and then catch hold of it.” As Hick spoke, he gently maneuvered his knife, distracting the boy by talking about the game. “All done,” he told Floyd.

  Floyd stared at his hand in disbelief. “You done a fine job, Sheriff.”

  Henry ran up at that moment, carrying a bottle of iodine. “Does your mama know you got that?” Hick asked, skeptical that Pam would let him take it from the house.

  “No, Uncle Hick,” Henry replied.

  “Give it to me,” Hick told him. “This stuff stings like the dickens if you wipe it in your eye.” He took the bottle from Henry and opened it to paint the wound on Floyd’s hand. As he did this, his eyes landed on Floyd’s now outstretched fingers. Though not prominent, the skin between the third and fourth finger was webbed. A horrible feeling crawled down Hick’s spine.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “Floyd, you got some fancy lookin’ fingers there.”

  “It’s a sight, I know,” Floyd agreed.

  “I reckon a man could live his whole life and never see another set of fingers like that,” Hick ventured, trying to force his voice to sound careless.

  “No sir,” Floyd replied. “My daddy’s fingers were just the same.”

  Hick’s breath caught in his lungs and his heart stopped beating. A hollow feeling dropped into th
e pit of his stomach. He felt tears smart behind his eyes and he pulled his hat low over them. In a quiet voice, he said, “I reckon you miss your daddy a lot.”

  “Yes, sir,” Floyd answered not taking his eyes from the iodine stain and blowing on the wound.

  Hick put his arm around the child’s shoulder. “You know I miss my daddy, too.”

  Floyd looked into Hick’s face. “But you’re a grown man.”

  “That don’t matter none. When you love someone you miss ’em when they’re gone. It don’t matter how old you are, and it don’t matter what they done.” He rose. “Well, I got a little work to do.” He paused and patted the boy’s shoulder. “You take care.”

  He walked away from the park, his lighthearted mood gone. Everything was dark and closing in. He felt sick, his heart beating so hard it hurt, his hands cold and damp. He went to the station and Wash and Adam were gone. Turning to Murphy, he asked, “You know where Adam or Wash went?”

  “They didn’t say,” Wayne returned coldly, unwilling to look at Hick.

  Hick scribbled a quick note saying he was heading out to the Thompson’s and then got into his car. Removing his hat, he ran his fingers through his hair. He stared at the steering wheel, unable to concentrate on anything for the feeling of shock and disgust coursing through his body. He knew what this could mean. It was likely that before he died, Ross Thompson had fathered a child with Iva Lee Stanton. Hick finally started the car. He needed to look in Ross’s truck.

  19

  Hick had little recollection of Ross. He’d gone to high school with Adam, but in Hick’s memory, he was just another sunburned, hard-working farmer. Of course, the Thompsons were highly respected in town. They were frugal and stoic, never ones to crave comfort. It was a well-known fact that Claire Thompson didn’t believe in doctors. After Ross’s birth, she had six increasingly difficult labors producing six sickly children that lived only days. When Jake Prescott tried to persuade her to let him assist with her labor her response was always the same: pain in childbirth was God’s curse, and she would take her punishment without a doctor’s help.

  In the case of Ross’s wife, the final labor took both mother and child. Hick was at home from Basic Training when this happened and he remembered that Jake was enraged. “It could have been prevented,” he repeated over and over again.