DEFEAT FASCISM: READ REBUKE RESIST

 When I was eleven years old, a beloved English teacher suggested I read “Jane Eyre.” When I said that I didn’t like books written by women, she told me that I was “too smart to be prejudiced.”

I looked up the word and contemplated it. I allowed it to change my path in life, a journey that led me from Brontë to Zora Neale Hurston and Sylvia Plath, among so many others, not to even mention James Baldwin.

I think I wasn’t as prejudiced as I was badly programmed.

Now, I’m afraid that we are losing the ability to see progressions in language, vis-à-vis, the journey from unlearned, to badly influenced, to prejudiced, to ethnocentric, to xenophobic, to bigoted, to paranoid, and, finally, to racist.

The labeling of any nuanced action as the unassailable extremity of racism seems, at least to me, to pass over so many lesser manifestations that might possibly be treatable via gentle teaching, thus halting a journey that is bound to end badly. There should be a hole in the prison wall of distrust through which one could escape ere hatred takes hold.

Failure may doom us as a society if we force the young to choose poorly and permanently, via the placing of labels. We begin life so full of wonder. What happens along way?

 

Fruits of Silence

By Jimmie vonTungeln

©2006

             The boy leaned forward on the wagon seat and shrugged. He twisted his face the way young boys do, not so much for the sake of doing anything but more to relieve the monotony of childhood. The rubber wheels rolled with a smooth hum in tune with the crunch of the horse’s shoes striking gravel. The boy nodded with the pattern. “What’s an Arkansas, Daddy?

            When they were in town selling the pig, one of the ladies said that 1948 had been a hard year for Arkansas and maybe that was why there wasn’t much pork. It was a conversation the boy didn’t understand.

            “Ain’t no thing, just where we live, that’s all,” the man said.

            “Why we live at Arkansas, Daddy?”

            “We just do, now hush talkin’ or I ain’t bringing you with me again, you understand?”

            “Yessir,” he said, and shrugged again.

            They contrasted, the man was thick and dark—the darkness made more so by a white stubble of whiskers—and the boy was lighter brown and dusty. He was quick in movement.  The man was slow and deliberate.

            The wagon was also a contrast, a piece of the recent past of wood and horse grafted onto automobile tires. It was as if the new was stealing in upon the old and whatever gods ruled the backwoods could not hold back the future. Man and machine moved together, sliding slowly into the land of dark woods and scattered homes like a stream flowing into the lowlands.

            “Why did we sell the pig, Daddy?”

            “We need the money, son, I told you once.”

            “We got money now?”

            “Hush boy.” He saw the trap opening and slammed it shut.

            With the slamming he returned to thinking about the day and the day was like something coiled around his neck, threatening to strangle him.

            He made himself focus and then he could see the thing from beginning to end. He remembered the killing and the sticking. He saw the smoke-like steam in the late autumn air, first from the blood then, later, from the innards that spilled out as he started the butchering.

            Lost in himself, he was trying to calculate—trying in spite of the hugeness of such a task. There had been but one hog this year. The rest of the hogs had burrowed into the shack where he kept the arsenic and, in their search for food, spilled the arsenic and licked it in their greed.

            “What are we going to do?” his wife had asked.

            “I don’t know,” he said and he despised himself for not knowing.

            They might have thought it was salt, he supposed, though it had been for the killing of boll weevils and not for hogs. So they had been punished, punished like you might punish a child with one reprimanding stroke, but dreadfully punished and punished in a final way.

            He felt weak and played out when he found them, curled like fallen leaves, cold dead, and—worst of all—unfit. That was the terrifying part: both his winter’s wages and his winter food unfit, except for the one he had butchered at the beginning of the week. He had divided it and kept half and had ridden to town with the boy and had sold the other half.

            “Not a lot to choose from this year,” one of his regular customers said. He said it as much in accusation as in observation. His face narrowed as he waited for an answer.

            “Nawsuh, jes one hog this year, das all. Be mo fo sure next year.”

            “Well I hope so,” and then, in front of the boy, “You better git your mind on your business out there.”

            “Yassuh,” he said as he and the boy rode away.

            Maybe there was some luck, he was thinking. The hog that had been spared was spared because he was the biggest one and couldn’t follow the others through the rooted-out hole and into the shed and onto the poison.

            So he had butchered the hog. His older boys helped him, the four of them straining to hoist the dead beast into a barrel of water half buried in a slant in the ground and fired to bring the water to a boil. Then they scraped the hide and then wrestled the thing onto a board nailed at the corner of the shed, hanging it by a stick sharpened at both ends and thrust through the tendons of the legs.

            While the carcass hanged there, twisting slowly, almost delicately, like a bottle tied in a tree, they finished the butchering while the youngest boy, the one with him now, watched in fascination. He asked no questions but watched quietly as if he were witnessing a sacrifice and, not understanding the purpose, was forming his own.

            Ya’ll put up our half and we’ll peddle the other half in Armistead,” he told his wife and sons.

            “How much you reckon it will bring?” she asked and he knew the unasked question—the one he had even asked himself: how long will our half last?

            “Church, Daddy!” the boy yelled suddenly, pointing across the other’s chest. “There’s the church.”

“That’s right,” the man said. Then he looked over his shoulder toward town as if he left something there, something that he needed back.

            “Why ain’t nobody there?” the boy asked, pointing toward the lopsided white building positioned between the road and a dark forest beyond.

            “It ain’t Sunday. No reason to be there.”

            “Can’t you go ‘cept Sunday?”

            “Won’t do no good. Ain’t nobody there,” then turning to the boy, “If you don’t hush, I’m going to take a trace belt off and wear you out.”

            The boy turned to look at the church as they rode by. The building looked small and harmless with no wagons pulled around it, no children bouncing in front, and no families proceeding in a slow march to the entrance. He tried to imagine it filled with the saints and bulging with the sound of singing. He tried hard for a moment and then shrugged. He moved his legs toward the front and looked ahead.

            The man settled on his seat, hunched with his thoughts curled before him like a dog at slumber, bringing him neither rest nor peace.

            He was thinking that white people seemed to know when you were up against it and he knew that he had come out short in the trading. Most years, he rode home with the tight role of bills resting in pile of loose change with it all bulging so he could feel it through the worn money purse he carried in his pocket. This time he felt nothing and it was exactly that nothing, that non-feeling where there should have been something that brought the fear.

            Then he was thinking about the cold months ahead and how the faces of his family would look when the hunger really set in, not at first when they would simply do without for that was easy and they were used to it. Later, when the hunger was hurting and wouldn’t go away, they would ration the flour and the meal and they would forget how it felt to be full. Then they would look at him and accuse with their eyes and not speak, particularly the youngest for he had not been through it before.

            He thought about the church then and about a Sunday the preacher told about the life of Job.

            “The land is like that,” he told his wife after the service. Then he had thought about it some more. “No, not like that at all. It don’t do it like a test. No bet. No joke. It does it all the time, like it was trying to keep you off balance and unsteady so you can’t ever see quite straight and like you ain’t never going to draw a breath that ain’t been bought and paid for with your life’s blood.

            “It’s the Lord’s will,” his wife had said.

            The road stretched on along lengthening shadows. A half-mile or so before they reached the white settlement, just before they crossed Bayou Dupree, they met Happy Bill. The boy saw him first as Bill emerged from hiding at the far end of the bridge, as if he had been waiting for them. The boy sat straight in his seat.

            “Happy Bill Daddy, there’s Happy Bill,” he said.

            The man stopped the wagon to allow the figure to cross the bridge. As the stranger approached the wagon, the man nodded. “Brother Bill,” he said in greeting.

            “God bless you gentlemen,” the figure studied the man’s face briefly and, bowing low, added: “Dead pigs, dead pigs. Everybody knows, too bad, too bad.” He rose to his full height. “And how are we by fine Christian brothers. He smiled and the smile revealed a mouth alternating with strong white teeth and black gaps where teeth had once been.

            “We’re fine,” answered the man as he began to calculate in his head how much this would cost, what the least amount that it could cost without loss of face. Happy Bill could not be ignored. He was a fixture on this rural, southern landscape who commanded much respect in an ancient tribal sense flowing back to those dark ceremonies that first held young boys in check and later opened the door of manhood to them. He knew his power, understood it, and seldom misused it.

            He was crazy, no doubt, but it was widely held that when the seizure hit, he spoke the truth. Doubters said it wasn’t the truth, just what happened to be in his head at the moment. Some said he could see the future and some said he could make things happen. The whites tormented him so he avoided them when possible. They knew they could induce the seizure with a poke to his ribs. So they did it when a crowd was present to witness the torment. His own people honored him, never taking chances in this harsh land.

            “Came from Canaan’s Land today my brothers where I journeyed to sup in the presence of mine enemies. I am sanctified and holy. How about you? Are you ready, quite ready, to pass to glory today good friends?” And then, quickly, as if all in one motion, came the twitch and the bowing. “Did you see Sis Ella’s bloomers in church last Sunday. Fell, yes fell she did. Right between the sister-holders. White they were, I promise you, white as the heart of a lily, praise god almighty.”

            The boy nearly laughed, but the man looked hard at him and then addressed the other.

            “Evening Brother Bill. Can we help you today?”

            “Would be nice for me and good for your soul. Yes, would be nice,” he said. “Maybe just a nickel so old Bill could say to Jesus, “I have met a man of faith.” He consulted the sky. Then he looked into the man. “Just a nickel please.”

            “Most assuredly,” the man said. “Most assuredly,” and he reached for the money purse. Producing a coin for the other man, he handed it from the wagon. “Will you pray for me brother?"

            “You be blessed,” said the other. He jerked and the jerk bent him over. “That boy, he’s the one, he must bring the wrath down for sure. He the devil Christ, he is.”

            He stepped away from the wagon, his arms swooping like the boy had seen hawks do on a cold day. Still spinning and swooping in a fluid, mocking motion, he moved behind the wagon.

            “Git hoss,” said the man and he snapped the reins hard upon the horse’s back.

 

Saving America

Sitting here a few weeks before the election, I shudder in fear of what my country has evolved into during the last couple of decades. I won’t say it is the country for which I put my life on the line. I joined the United States Navy because I wanted to go to sea, not because I wanted to go to war. Fate intervened and here I sit, terrified, angry, sad, and, yes, patriotic. I just read how the president of the United States of America, soon facing reelection, is motivating crowds to violence against his political opponents, one a governor of a state within our country.

 Has it come to this?

 I have friends who have different political view than mine. We used to talk about them. We discussed topics we felt were worth discussing. How much regulation is enough? How much regulation is too much? What are the valid purposes of good government? How do we measure the wealth of a country and its people? What are the benefits of enlightened immigration? What is the role of government in equalizing the opportunity palate for the myriad colors of its people? When will women in our country be equal citizens? Children? Those whom nature has determined to be different?

 Now? Now it seems that the only issues worth voting for are unborn babies, religion, and guns. Those are the mentionable topics. Underlying it all is the issue of white supremacy.

 The unborn? Every educated person, and/or competent processor of facts I know realizes that the best ways to address the issue of abortions is to first address the issue of unwanted pregnancies. Then they agree that sex education, access to contraceptives, and equal male responsibility address those issues far better that hateful and misguided laws.

 Religion? Which religion? A person cannot say “Mine,’ for there are so many. How about the words of the figure on that lonely hill in Judea who is reported to have said, “Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.” (Matthew 7, NIV)

Guns? I invite any reader to come to my “little postage stamp” of America on a Sunday afternoon, listen carefully, and tell me with a straight face that someone is confiscating guns. For maximum benefit, best wait until church has let out, lunch finished, and the first case of beer consumed.

Bigotry? I thought we might have had it on the run once. Then, America elected a person of color to the presidency and, like some powerful volcano that we thought was dormant, hate spewed forth like some noxious poison and became acceptable. It seems to buttress our every movement.

Here is my modest proposal to those whose political views are opposite mine. Let us unite for our country and vote this brood of vipers out of Washington. Then for the next two years and the two after that, let us have a normally functioning two-party system that deliberates and votes on issues and policies that area real and honest. May the side with policies that are free from hate and best for America win. I’m willing to take that chance.

Are you?

The Trap

Sundown in Zion

Chapter forty-eight

 

            Nelson and Sheriff Love sat in the front seat of the sheriff’s car waiting. In back, Sherlock, a German Shepherd, lay curled on the seat, his head raised and cocked in anticipation. “This gripes my ass,” the sheriff said, “and to think I used to get paid to do this four hours or more at a time.”

            Nelson said, “You mean the waiting? I’ve done some of that myself.”

            “I’ll bet,” the sheriff said. “It’s one thing to wait so you can do harm to someone. It’s another thing to wait while there may be someone out there waiting to do harm to you. Ain’t that what they call a ‘matter of perspective’ or something like that?”

            “It is.” Nelson said. “They used to tell us to ‘get comfortable with being uncomfortable.’ They didn’t mention anything about getting comfortable with being scared.”

            “Lots of things to be scared of in this world,” he said. “I just hope we can figure out a way to scare the Soul Warriors. Right, Sherlock?” The dog stood and sniffed the air. “No drugs in here, boy,” the sheriff said. “Nothing to be excited about.” He turned to Nelson. “Did I ever tell you about the scary birds we had in southeast Asia?”

            “The what?”

            “They were lizards, really, but we all called them birds because of the sound they made out in the jungle. Scare the hell out of you the first time you heard them, they would.”

            “What? The sound of a lizard would scare a marine?”

            “Fuck you."

            “What?”

            “Fuck you”

            “I didn’t mean …”

            “Fuck you,”

            “What did I do?”

            “Not do. Fuck you.”

            “Did I offend you?”

            “No, that’s the sound the lizard made in the darkest time of night. I guess when he was sounding off for some lizard nookie, he’d say, plain as could be, ‘Fuck you.’ It would come right out of the jungle like the NVA was there. ‘Fuck you,’ and if you don’t think that would scare the hell out of some young jarhead slick, just a few months out of boot camp at three o’clock in the morning on a pitch black night, you never stood watch in the jungle.”

“I …,” Nelson began as the sheriff’s radio crackled.

            “Big Daddy,” Deputy Cassidy’s voice said.

            “Go ahead, Sonny Boy,” the sheriff said into his handset.

            “First target passed. Second target stopped.”

            “On my way,” the sheriff said. “Give me one minute.”

            “Roger, out,” the voice said.

            The sheriff said nothing, but started his car and eased onto the highway. As soon as they were in motion, he lowered the two rear windows. “How about some fresh air, Sherlock?” he said to the dog in back. The dog moved to the right window and stuck his head through the window. “That’s it,” the sheriff said. “Good boy. Take some good deep breaths.” He drove a little below the speed limit, in no hurry.

            The car rounded a curve and the men saw, just beyond the intersection of a county road and the highway, flashing lights from a patrol car and an oversized delivery truck from “Dan’s Almost Free Things.” Both were parked on the side of the highway. Deputy Cassidy stood with another man beside his patrol car. The deputy was writing on a pad. The other man was tall and sported a week-old growth of beard. He wore a green work uniform. Oily hair extended from a baseball cap advertising the store. He looked back toward the sheriff’s car, which was now parked behind them. Nelson and the sheriff emerged from their car and the man recognized the sheriff immediately. He froze.

            “Kilo,” the sheriff said as they approached. “Kilo Kesterson. I thought you were still in Tucker Maximum.” The man remained stiff.

            After a few seconds, he relaxed and smiled. “Out on parole, Sheriff,” he said. “for good behavior. I been working for Mr. Dilahunity for three months and this is the first time I’ve even been pulled over and I don’t hardly know what for. I was trying to drive as careful as I could cause you know I don’t belong back at Tucker Max. How’s your family been? You’ve lost some weight, haven’t you?”

            “You ain’t about to go into “con-mode” on me now are you Kilo?” The Sheriff asked. He turned to Deputy Cassidy. “What’s this old boy done now?’

            “Failure to stop at the four-way,” Cassidy said. “You told us to get a little stricter about that since the last wreck.”

            “I did indeed,” the sheriff said. “And Kilo here was the first?”

            “No,” Cassidy said. “One came through like a bat out of hell a few minutes before him, but you don’t want us in high-speed pursuits”

            “Good job,” the sheriff said. “I spect you gonna let Kilo off with a warning, ain’t you? He’s a good old boy when he ain’t high on something or other.”

            “Yes sir,” Cassidy said, “just thought I’d make an example and he’ll get the word out. What are ya’ll up to?”

            “Just out takin’ Sherlock for some air. He’s been cooped up and gets nervous if I don’t take him for a ride ever now and …”

He stopped when the dog barked and bounded through the window of Sheriff Loves’ car. Hitting the ground, he went straight to Kilo Kesterson, sniffed his pants, and went into response mode. Before anyone could move, he left the man and bounded to the rear of the delivery truck, He reared onto its bumper, sniffed the doors, and became more agitated. Like a trapped person, he darted back and forth between man and truck until the sheriff gave him a command to cease. Sherlock obeyed and the sheriff walked to the man.

            “Kilo,” he said. “Just what in the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

            He turned to talk to Nelson but Nelson had taken off running past the delivery truck. Another man, a passenger in the truck who had gone unnoticed, had slide from the passenger side and was fleeing the scene. He hadn’t covered 50 yards before Nelson caught him. It only took a hand on the collar to end the escape attempt. Nelson walked him back to the sheriff without saying a word.

            “Well ain’t this a godammed class reunion,” the sheriff said, “a real gathering of old pals.” He moved the man to where he stood beside Ken. “Boys,” he said. “I want you to meet Jitters McDaniels, arguably the stupidest car stealer our county ever apprehended. He stole the ugliest purple car you’ve ever seen, drove straight to a liquor store, parked it with the license plate facing the highway, and went inside. I was personally waiting for him when he came out with a six-pack of Old Milwaukee.” He nodded. “What say, Jitters?” He turned to Nelson, “He that slow, or you that fast? Don’t say a word. I know the answer.”

            Nelson didn’t answer, for he was bent forward holding his side. His face had drained and he motioned for the sheriff to give him a second. Slowly, he raised himself erect and nodded. “Just a little remnant,” he said. “I’m fine now.”

            “Fine hell,” the sheriff said. “You take my car back to the office and wait there. Tell Mrs. Matterson to feed my dog and put him in his pen. Me and Hopalong will let these fellers explain why they almost sent Sherlock into cardiac arrest. I’m sure they’ll do a good job and I’ll be back in an hour or so and they’ll be on their way to Mr. Dilahunty’s store. He winked.

            The sheriff didn’t come back that afternoon, so Nelson headed to his office first thing the next morning. He was having coffee with Mrs. Matterson when Sheriff Love burst into the area and motioned Nelson into his office. “Sorry I didn’t call. It was a long day.”

            Once inside, the sheriff collapsed behind his desk and motioned for Nelson to sit. “Long version or short version?” he said.

            “Whichever you have time for,” Nelson said. “What did you find in the truck?”

            “Enough methamphetamine to build your Navy a new aircraft carrier if you sold the goods at market value.”

            “Impounded?”

            “The truck or the goods?”

            Nelson cocked his head.

            “I brought the state boys in” the sheriff said, “to help with a case that may be a little big for us. They confiscated the dope and two of their men are driving the truck on to where it was headed.”

            “Not to Dilahunty’s?”

            “No, to this resort town in the north part of the state which is sort of a receiving and distribution center. They are after bigger fish.”

            “How did they know the destination?”

            “Well,” said the sheriff, “after I reminded Kilo and Jitters who they would be auctioned off to back at the old cell block, they sang sweeter than Simon and Garfunkel.”

            “So the state is taking over?”

            “Just the main distribution. I only asked two things, well three actually.”

            “And they were?”

            “For us to take down the hunting club and the Soul Warriors, the associated search warrant, and a commendation for old Sherlock.”

            “They agreed?”

            “Only if they could have a couple of their guys involved along with the feds. They were insistent about the feds for some reason. I didn’t ask.”

            Nelson said nothing.

            “Damn,” said the sheriff. “Thank goodness for talkative losers.”

            “What next?” Nelson asked.

            “You tell me. I want to get inside before they get wise or get word and we raid an empty tomb. Law enforcement around here is a leaky vessel and the Weasel is bound to get word that something is up. Or old “Almost Free” Dan Dilahunty may crawl off his teenaged bride long enough to start missing his truck.”

            “That reminds me,” Nelson said.

            The sheriff raised his hand. “You don’t have to tell me,” the sheriff said. “The young Mrs. Dilahunty. She called me while I was at the state yesterday. You really pissed her off. Hell hath no fury like a two-bit bitch who feels ignored.”

            “What did you tell her?”

            “What the lizards said in Vietnam,” or something close to that.

            “That’s the same thing I told her,” Nelson said, “except I didn’t have to say it.”

            Someone knocked on the door three distinct times.

            “Enter,” the sheriff said.

            The door opened and Mrs. Matterson peeked past the opening. “Someone from the bank needs to see you for just a second,” she said.

            “Send him in.”

            “It’s a she.” The door swung in and Morgan Fowler walked in carrying a thin file folder. She stopped when she saw Nelson and she blanched visibly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

            “Meet my new deputy Gideon Nelson,” the sheriff said. “This is Mrs. Moneybags from the bank.” He gestured toward her.

            “I know Mr. Nelson,” she said. She nodded and said, “How do you do?”

            “Fine,” Nelson said, looking as if he had never met her. She was immaculately dressed in a business suit that complimented her full figure and ample legs. Her hair was trimmed shorter in a professional style that accented her oval face. She smiled and her face seemed to light the room. Sheriff Love noticed and smiled back. “Am I overdrawn again?”

            Morgan laughed. “Hardly,” she said. “I just need to get your signature on this receipt for some grant funds so we can expedite the processing.”

            “Good old ‘Uncle Sugar.’ Will you thank him for me?” The sheriff took the file she offered and signed. Handing it back, he said, “I hear nothing but good things about the job you’re doing over there.”

            “Thank you,” she said. “We’re trying hard to change some of the old practices.” Her face moved slightly toward Nelson.

            “Be sure to call me first if you happen to get robbed,” the sheriff said.

            Morgan laughed and didn’t reply. Turning to Nelson, she said, “It was nice to see you again.” With that, she twirled about and was gone. Only her scent remained.

            Sheriff Love didn’t speak for a minute. He gathered his thoughts and looked at Nelson. “There was enough electricity in this room just now to power a skyscraper. I hope you noticed.”

            Nelson said nothing for a few seconds, then, “I want to go in first.”

            “I figured as much,” the sheriff said. “You let me nab Kilo and Jitters. Now you figure it’s your turn.”

            “Pretty much,” said Nelson. “By the way, how does a man get a name like ‘Kilo’ anyway?”

            “Funny you should ask.” the sheriff said, I asked him the same thing once. It’s his real name, you know, on this birth certificate and all. What he said was, ‘My mother was a crack-whore and my daddy was a drug pusher. What would you expect?’ Now, let’s get back to taking down the Soul Warriors. How you gonna do it?”

Missing

Sundown in zion

Chapter thirty-seven

            The weekend passed. Nelson arrived home early on Monday morning. Charlie was not there, and there was no indication as to whether he had left early or that he, too, had spent the night away. Nelson reviewed the kitchen and smiled as he started to make coffee. Outside, the stormy weather had passed and the day promised to be a fair one. While the coffee brewed, he showered and dressed. He sat enjoying a cup of coffee when his cell phone rang.

            He answered and said, “Fine. I got home fine. No, I haven’t left yet.” He listened and said, “Going to interview the missing girl’s mother.” He listened again. “No. Out in the county, but she attends Connerville High.” In a moment, he laughed and said, “Maybe she didn’t mention that fact to a lot of her classmates. I’ll ask.” He listened longer. “No,” he said. “Don’t make it a research project. I just want to know what sort of reputation the place has in the medical community.” He nodded. “Some of your colleagues must have heard stories about the place.” He listened again. “That’s would be fine.” This time he smiled and opened his eyes wide. “You are a bad girl,” he said. “Sure I’ll be over. What man could resist an offer like that … oh yes, I did too, very much. Tonight … I promise.” He punched the phone and put it in his pocket, shaking his head and smiling.

            The morning drive took him to a semi-rural area on a state highway south of Connorville. The terrain comprised a mixture of pastures dotted with decrepit and long-abandoned milking barns with fairly new houses laid along the right-of-way, each with its own driveway jutting like escape routes toward the highway. Yards were manicured and most had fishing boats parked alongside. The scene was one of strict conformity created by those seeking the individuality of country living.

A worn and faded sign announced the entrance to the development Nelson sought. The street leading into the subdivision lay in deplorable condition. Nelson dodged pothole after pothole until he reached the proper address. It was a modest home with a brick façade. The drive led to a garage, the front of which extended beyond main structure and welcomed at least two vehicles. A late model Nissan Altima sat on one side of the drive and Nelson parked beside it.

            As he approached the front door, he retrieved his ID from his pocket. He knocked, stepped back, and waited. He heard soft footsteps and the door opened to reveal woman wearing a white blouse and dark pants. Her brunette hair was expertly fashioned and her makeup was sparse, but effectively applied. She wore dark-rimmed glasses that set off her olive complexion well. She was apparently dressed for work. She examined the ID that Nelson extended toward her as he introduced himself. After comparing his face with the one on the ID, she said simply, “Rose Thompson, please come in.”

            Nelson followed her into a living room decorated with tasteful, but worn furniture. A large cabinet contained a collection of trophies, most for swimming although including some for track, basketball, and tennis. Nelson stood before the cabinet and nodded in admiration. “Someone is quite an athlete,” he said.

            “They all belong to Bridgette,” Rose said. She ushered Nelson to a couch. She pointed to a photograph of a young girl on an adjacent table. “That’s my most recent picture of her.”

            “She’s beautiful,” Nelson said studying the portrait.

            Rose beamed. “I think she takes after her dad,” she said as she pulled chair to a position facing Nelson and sat. “He died in Iraq … six years ago.”

            “I’m sorry for your loss.” Nelson said.

            “He was one of the last,” she said. “We thought it was just peacekeeping at the time, but some suicide bomber thought otherwise.”

            When Nelson didn’t speak, she continued. “I understand you know something about war.”

            Nelson still didn’t speak, only looked at her with a questioning gaze.

            “I checked on you,” she said, “after you called. Sheriff Love and I have become good friends within the last month.”

            “I’ve some military experience,” Nelson said, “but I can’t imagine losing a father or husband.”

            “It’s been tough,” she said, “but we manage. I have a good job, and thanks, by the way, for coming early. I told the guys I would be in by noon.”

            “The guys?”

            “I work for a law firm in Little Rock as a paralegal. It’s a fairly laidback place.”

            “Thank you for seeing me,” Nelson said. “I won’t take long.”

            “I’ve pretty much told the Sheriff all I know,” Rose said. “And that isn’t much. Bridgette simply disappeared and I’ve not received a word from her … nothing at all.”

            “She disappeared from the Ransom Center, as I understand it,” Nelson said.

            “Just vanished, three days before she was to come home.”

            “How did they discover she was gone?”

            “When she didn’t show for breakfast one morning. She had been allowed to move into what they call ‘The First Class Suites.’ That’s separate living quarters, a private room, for those who respond well in treatment—sort of a reward.”

            “So she disappeared during the night?”

            Rose shook her head. “We don’t know. Bridgette usually went out running in the morning. She’s tough and fit, like her dad.” She gestured at her body. It verged toward being full. “Not like me at all.”

            Nelson stuck to the conversation. “So she may have gone out exercising?”
            “Maybe,” Rose said. “Along with the separate quarters, those in the First Class Suites are allowed a great deal of freedom. They can even leave the premises for short periods.”

            “No one saw her?”
            “No. Early rising and ‘before-breakfast runs’ aren’t that common at the Ransom Center.”

            Nelson considered his next question carefully, then spoke. “I understand from the reports, that she was at the Ransom Center on account of drug abuse, a somewhat mild case.”

            “Mild but getting worse,” Rose said. “She sprained a muscle while over-training for her swimming competition and the doctor prescribed painkillers. I’ve always suspected they overdid it a bit at the school’s request so she could resume training for her other sports as quickly as possible. When her injury healed, her addiction didn’t and some kids at school started slipping her drugs. She apparently thought they improved her performance. Anyway, I found out, confronted her, and we had a row. Her dad’s parents stepped in and agreed to fund her treatment. That’s how she wound up at the Ransom Center. I couldn’t have afforded the cost.”

            “And she responded well to treatment?”

            “Yes,” Rose said. “They were able to make her see what an addiction could cost her, including her only chance at college. She can be extremely determined when she wishes. She weighed the facts and opted in favor of education.”

            Nelson nodded.

            “She wants to be a teacher, actually a coach. So she’s been applying to schools with a scholarship program for sports.” She looked toward the awards. “She excels in several but swimming is her real passion.”

            Nelson said, “As I understand it, that’s how she became friends with Abbey Stubblefield, the girl found murdered.”

            “That’s really why you’re here, isn’t it?”

            “That’s what started me off,” Nelson said, “but your daughter’s disappearance becomes more in tandem with the murder each day.”

            Rose thought, and then said in a soft voice, “It’s odd, isn’t it? I mean the two of them becoming friends. This area isn’t exactly known for racial tolerance. Racial mixing is just below child molestation or skipping church in terms of unacceptable behavior around here.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “Bridgette suffered for the friendship. I would have taken her out of this school system, away from the taunts and snide comments, had I been able to afford it. She took after her dad, you know.”

            Nelson didn’t answer and she continued. “He didn’t have a prejudiced bone in his body. We didn’t know about the area when we left the University of Arkansas. Jeff had just gotten his engineering degree with his military tuition credits and I had been accepted into law school in Little Rock. We bought this house because it was close to the grandparents and then we found out about the prevailing culture. We had planned to move when our careers took off.” She stopped, reached into her purse, and pulled out a handkerchief. She sniffed once and dabbed at her eyes. “Then he got called back up, and … here we are. Here I am at least.”

            “Was Bridgette ever threatened because of her friendship? With Abbey Stubblefield, I mean.”

            “Threatened?” Rose appeared puzzled and thought. “No, not threatened. Just the taunts and spiteful comments that teenagers are so good at. ‘N-lover’ and such. She ignored them. The coaches kept them to a minimum because of her contributions to the teams and Bridgette is a strong person. It would take more than snide comments from Connorville rednecks to unsettle her.”

            “As I understand it,” Nelson said, “Bridgette never attended that large church in Connorville.”

            Rose leaned back in surprise. “The so-called ‘Tabernacle’? Lord no. We’re not a churchgoing family. Why do you ask that?”

            “Her friend Abbey made a couple of trips there before she was murdered,” Nelson said. “What I’m finding so far suggests that Abbey may have been trying to find out what happened to Bridgette.”

            Rose slanted her head into a quizzical pose, then said, “Well she wouldn’t have found out there. Bridgette won’t go near that place. She made us research the connection between the church and the Ransom Center before she would even consider being treated there.”

            Nelson’s face snapped to a position of attention. “And what did you find?”

            “Very little connection,” Rose said. “The place employs advanced psychological and medical practices. No religious bullshit at all.” She reddened and paused. “Excuse my language.”

            Nelson laughed. “Trust me,” he said. “I’ve heard worse. But you are satisfied the center is legit?”

            “The guys I work for had it checked out through some connections they have. The place is as separate from the church as it can possibly be.” She stopped and thought. “There is one connection. Those hoodlums, the ones that hang out at the church, help provide security from time to time.”

            Nelson nodded. “The Soul Warriors?”

            This time Rose laughed. “Your words. Not mine.”

            Nelson moved as if preparing to leave. “Mrs. Thompson, I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me, and I know you have been through this before. But is there anything, anything at all, that you have recalled, since you last spoke with the Sheriff, that might shed light on Bridgette’s disappearance, or Abbey’s murder?”

            Rose took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “No,” she said, but stopped. “Maybe,” she said. “It’s probably nothing, but if you have a moment …”

            “I do.”

            Rose stood and walked away. She disappeared down hallway and was gone for several minutes. When she returned, she held a single sheet of paper, torn from a writing tablet. She sat and held it toward Nelson.

            “I clean Bridgette’s room every night,” she said. “I want it to be clean-smelling and spotless when she comes back. Two nights ago I decided to put a tablet of paper into a bookshelf when this fell out. I had never seen it before.” She motioned for Nelson to take it. The page was half-filled with beautiful cursive handwriting that flowed gracefully until the last sentence, which had been obliterated with a sharp line. “It’s Bridgette’s handwriting,” Rose said. “I would know it anywhere. She got a ‘B’ in handwriting in the third grade and was so appalled that she has practiced 30 minutes or so each night since. She’s that stubborn. She never got less than an ‘A’ in penmanship afterwards. This was the second page of a letter,” she said, “so I can’t tell you for certain who the recipient was. She evidently decided to change something, so she started a new page.”

            Nelson read:

            “As for whether or not two people in love should attend college together, I don’t think so. The hormones and all that.” An emoticon resembling a smiling face followed. “Now if the colleges were far enough away to allow the couple to enjoy one another infrequently (and, as Rodney Dangerfield once observed, that’s one word and not two) …,” Another emoticon followed. The writing then resumed, “I could see that there would be no harm, perhaps even a therapeutic value in easing the stress of advanced academic study. That is something that the two would have to decide between themselves. I know that you would be mature and analytical enough to make the right decision but as for the other person involved ...” Here the writing stopped with a sharp line reversed through the sentence.

            Nelson looked at Rose. “And you don’t know for whom the letter was intended?”

            Rose shook her head. “You speak the language well for a deputy,” she said, “and no, I can only guess who she ..., to whom she sent it.”

Memories

Sundown in zion

Chapter 36

            Nelson drove to the city limits of Connorville where he saw a pleasant farmhouse located just inside the city and a part of a large area of pastureland extending into the county. The land around the farmhouse had once been beautifully landscaped, but now appeared to be nurtured by one not talented in the art of pruning. The care was apparent, the effects not striking, like the results of a husband’s dressing a once fastidious but now helpless spouse. He continued to the far extent of the farm on which a smaller house, evidently unoccupied, stood. Nelson saw the glint of an automobile windshield from a concealed place behind the house. He pulled into the drive, drove the length of the drive, turned, and parked behind a Connorville Police cruiser. Sergeant Ralph Patterson stood behind it. Both vehicles sat beyond the view of those on the main highway.

            The sergeant held a large manila envelope in his left hand and held it to his side as he extended his right to shake Nelson’s. “Thanks for texting me,” he said. “I was already in the vicinity and this worked out well.” He smiled and added, “I hope you understand the need for secrecy.”

            “I do,” Nelson said.

            “It’s always better in Connorville if the right hand doesn’t know what the left is doing,” Patterson said. “I keep my own counsel.”

            “That’s a good practice anywhere,” Nelson said. “Even team members need to know only what concerns the mission.”

            “I’m not sure what the word ‘team’ means in our police department,” Patterson said. “I think it means different things to different folks.”

            “Wouldn’t surprise me,” Nelson said. “Not a bit. Were you able to find much?” He nodded toward the envelope.”

            “What they had in Saline County,” Patterson said. “They are first responders to runaways from the Ransom Center. They usually make an investigation and record it as just that, a runaway.”

            “Do they ever catch one?”

            “Not the police,” Patterson said, “although the so-called ‘security force’ at the center caught one last year.”

            “I think I may have heard about that one,” Nelson said, “if it involved a young girl sent to the center because of an eating disorder.”

            “That’s the one,” Patterson said. “Seems she was just craving a cheeseburger, or maybe two cheeseburgers. They found her at a local diner with crumbs on her face.” He smiled.

            “You have records on the ones they didn’t find?”

            “Four over the last year and a half,” Patterson said.

            “Anything else?”

            “Some notes I jotted down,” Patterson said. “I happen to know some families who sent their kids to the center. Since you are interested in it, I checked and a couple of them are willing to have the kids talk to you about their experiences there. One is the cheeseburger gal.”

            “Are there many successful experiences?”

            “In some cases, yes. In fact, the center seems to have a good success rate, for a church-funded facility.”

            “Interesting,” Nelson said. “I’ll contact the families and set up interviews.”

            “So you think the Ransom Center connects in some way to the death of the young?”

            “I’m not sure.”

            “But you believe in connections?”

            “I believe in gravity,” Nelson said, “the attraction of one thing to another. It’s how we located enemy hideouts in my last profession.”

            Patterson looked confused.

            “The top dogs don’t show themselves except when nobody is looking,” Nelson said. “But they have to eat and,” he paused, “satisfy other needs and urges. So gravity takes over. Then it’s just a matter of following the donkeys, girls, and young boys.”

            “Young boys? Going to join up?”

            “Sometimes,” Nelson said. “Not always. But more to our point, our magnet is the group called the Soul Warriors and the places they hang out.”

            “That would be the church and their hunting club,” Patterson said, “when they aren’t helping at the Ransom Center.”

            “That’s where I’m starting,” Nelson said, raising the envelope Patterson had brought. The clouds were gathering for another spell of rain. Nelson tossed the packet into his truck and turned. “Thanks, and Sheriff Love says I can trust you.”

            “As much as you should trust anyone around here,” Patterson said, “and I wouldn’t make a habit of it.”

            “I won’t,” Nelson said, “and thanks again.”

            The two men shook hands and Nelson waited while Patterson eased the patrol car onto the main road and disappeared. He opened the packet, examined the papers and then walked to his truck and sat in the cab with the door open. He took his phone from his pocket and began making calls and writing notes.

            Nearly 30 minutes later, Nelson drove his truck from behind the house and drove back into Connorville. Reaching the city limits, he consulted his notes and began a twisted route to a new subdivision on the north side of town. He turned into the only entrance and followed the street until he reached a cul-de-sac, whereupon he turned and drove to the last house on the right. He parked his truck in the drive and walked to the door. Before he could ring the doorbell, the door opened and a tanned woman wearing a tennis outfit stood waiting. “Are you the deputy?”

            “Gideon Nelson, Mrs. Anderson,” he said, extending his ID. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

            “You’re lucky,” she said while examining his credentials. “Bonnie Sue is a bit under the weather today. Nothing major, just enough to stay home. Sorry for how I’m dressed but you caught me leaving the club. My tennis date was rained out.”

            “No problem,” Nelson said. “If I could just speak to your daughter a few minutes, I’ll be on my way.”

            “Come in,” she said. “May I get you a glass of tea or soft drink?” She had started into the foyer but turned and eyed Nelson carefully. “You don’t wear a uniform?” Her eyes settled on his biceps.

            “I’m on special assignment,” he said. “Some people find the uniform off-putting.”

            She smiled. “I would imagine you look good in a uniform,” she said. She turned and as she did, she threw her head back, spreading her long, brunette hair, evenly across her shoulders. She was well-shaped, perhaps in her early forties and her smooth, shapely legs moved effortlessly beneath her shorts. She walked with a brisk, business-like, pace that made her breasts rise and fall beneath her top with seeming enthusiasm. Nelson followed her into the living room where a young girl, apparently the woman’s daughter, sat on a couch waiting.

            “Bonnie Sue,” the woman said, “this is the deputy I told you about. He wants to talk to you.”

            The girl didn’t speak, only lowered her eyes and stared at the floor as if deciphering a puzzle printed on its surface. She was in her teens and substantially overweight. She wore a too-large pullover advertising the Connorville Cougars athletic team. She wore sweatpants that fit tightly on her flabby legs. She work a pair of black tennis shoes, the laces untied and spread out on the floor. She had reddish hair and freckles mixed with signs of acne across her face. Her hair appeared to have been fashioned at one time, but lately unattended. She began to busy herself with a loose thread on her pants.

            Her mother motioned for Nelson to take a chair opposite the couch and she sat beside her daughter. She punched the child gently with her elbow and said. “Straighten up and say hello to our guest.”

            “’Lo,” Bonnie Sue said without raising her eyes.”

            “Hello,” Nelson said. “My name is Gideon. I’m with the Armistead County Sheriff’s department.”

            “I didn’t do nothin’,” Bonnie Sue said.

            Of course not,” Nelson said. “That’s not why I’m here.”

            Bonnie Sue didn’t speak.

            “I’m working on an important case,” Nelson said, “and there is a good possibility that you might be able to help me with it. Help me solve a crime.”

            Bonnie Sue looked up for the first time. “Me?”

            “Yes, you,” Nelson said. “I’ll bet you are the type that notices things and you just might have noticed something that could help us with our case.”

            “What case?”

            “The case,” Nelson said, “involves the death of a young girl named Abbey Stubblefield, but I don’t imagine you know her.”

            Bonnie Sue’s eyes opened wider and she looked at Nelson. “Is she the one they found in a ditch shot to death?”

            “Yes,” Nelson said. “She was found in the county so we are investigating it instead of the Connorville police.”

            “I don’t know nothin’ about her except I heard she got killed,” Bonnie Sue said.

            Her mother poked her again. “I don’t know ‘anything’ about her,” she said. “We mustn’t let Deputy Nelson think we talk like rednecks.”

            Bonnie Sue’s eyes dropped toward the floor again.

            “I understand,” Nelson said. “She didn’t go to your school, in fact, she wasn’t even from Connorville.”

            Mrs. Anderson interrupted. “She was colored … black, or whatever they call themselves these days, wasn’t she?”

            Nelson only nodded and kept his attention on Bonnie Sue. “There may be a chance that you and Abbey knew another girl,” he said. “She’s the one I’m here about.”

            This aroused Bonnie Sue’s attention. She looked up again. “Another girl?”

            I think the two of you may have shared some time together in the medical center over in Saline County.”

            Bonnie Sue’s eyes shot down again. “I don’t know,” she said.

            “Her name was Bridgette,” Nelson said. “Bridgette Thompson.”

            This time, Bonnie Sue’s face moved up slowly until she stared in Nelson’s face. “She is so pretty,” she said. “Everybody thinks so.” She stopped and took a breath, then exhaled. “She was nice too.” She blinked. “Even to me.”

            “I can believe that,” Nelson said. “You seem like a nice person too.”

            For the first time during their conversation, Bonnie Sue’s face attempted a smile. “Me?”

            Her mother stirred. “Yes you, silly,” she said. “Now you help the man.”

            The face fell again. “She ran away,” Bonnie Sue said. “That made me so sad.”

            “That’s what I wanted to ask you about,” Nelson said. “Do you have any idea why she might have run away?”

            “No.”

            “Did you talk to her much?”

            “A little.”

            “Did she seem unhappy?”

            This time Bonnie Sue thought before she spoke. She looked up and away and then said slowly, “Why should she be unhappy?” She thought again. “She hadn’t been there long and she was going to get to go home.” She said the last with almost a sense of pride. Then she added, “She is a swimmer, you know.”

            “I know,” Nelson said, “so was the girl who was killed.”

            “Bridgette was going to teach me to swim after we both got out,” Bonnie Sue said. “She promised.” She looked back at the floor and then at Nelson. “She promised she would.” Her eyes began to turn red.

            “Did she ever say why she was planning to run away?” Nelson said, but Bonnie Sue was through talking. Tears began to fall from her reddened eyes and she sobbed softly. Nelson moved his hand as if to reach and comfort her, but drew it back. “I can’t begin to thank you enough for helping me,” he said. “Would it be okay if I tell Sheriff Love how helpful you were?”

            She didn’t answer, but nodded her head almost imperceptibly.

            Mrs. Anderson showed Nelson to the door, and as they reached it said. “It’s so hard being a single mom, especially with a troubled child,” she said. “Dr. Anderson and I divorced five years ago, you know.”

            “No ma’am, I didn’t Nelson said. He thanked her and walked out. She stood with the door open, watching him. Then she turned and said loudly enough, though obviously not intending it, for Nelson to hear, “I goddam told you to answer the man’s questions, didn’t I? But no, you couldn’t pass up another opportunity to embarrass me, could you?” The sound of a slap echoed across the manicured lawn.

            Gideon Nelson got into his truck and left Connorville.

Interactions

Sundown in zion

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Our hero wanders the Earth

            “So there I was, little four-year old Clifton Sikes, holding up one of my Uncle John’s boots and looking straight up at Uncle John and Momma. She had her hands on her hips like an ass-whupin’ was comin’ for shore as soon as she got me by myself.” Clifton laughed. “Then, what are you doin’ with Uncle John’s boot, she wanted to know.” He laughed again. “I said, ‘Lookin’ fer snakes.’ Her face got real red she started to turn around but I said, ‘Didn’t you say Uncle John had snakes in his boots’ the other day?” This time he laughed long and hard, slapping his knee for emphasis. “Godamnest whuppin I ever got.”

            “I don’t understand,” Nelson said. “Were there snakes in his boots?”

            “Hell no,” Clifton said. “Don’t you see…?” He stopped in mid-sentence. “Oh,” he said. “You ain’t from around here, are you?”

            “No,” said Nelson, obviously confused. He was driving through downtown Connorville and enjoying Clifton’s stories.

            “She said Uncle John, he was my daddy’s brother, had ‘snakes in his boots.’ She’d said it at the dinner table the day before. Down in these parts that meant a man was a lyin’ asshole, a lyin’ deceivin’ asshole. Somebody that ain’t to be trusted. So Uncle John shore knew what Momma thought about him after that.” He laughed again.

This time Nelson smiled. He said, “I guess that description would still some folks.”

“We got our share around here,” Clifton said.

“Could I ask you a question?” Nelson said. “And ask you to forget I asked it?”

“I owe you,” Clifton said. “Ask away.”

“The big church here, the Connorville Baptist Tabernacle, would anyone connected with it fit that group, have ‘snakes in their boots?’”

Clifton turned toward quickly toward Nelson. His eyes squinted. “Why on earth would you ask that?”

“Just things I hear,” Nelson said, “make me wonder.”

“What sort of things?”

“Mostly about that group you were talking about. Aren’t they the ones who call themselves the Soul Warriors.”

“Oh,” Clifton said. “That bunch.”

“You know them then.”

“Hell son,” Clifton said, “Everybody knows them.”

“And?”

“Ain’t a snake on earth brave enough to hide in one of them boys’ boots.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning they’s lyin’ deceitful assholes that are mean as hell on top of that.”

“But they work for a church?”

“Hell, they don’t work for the church or nowhere else, much,” Clifton said.

“They don’t work for the church?”

“Not really. They hang around there scaring folks by talking about how they’ll beat the shit out of anyone that don’t love Jesus. That’s when they ain’t over at their so-called ‘deer club’ shootin’ their guns. Oh, and they hang out some at that concealed carry place you was at while ago.”

“How did you know I was there?”

“I seen your truck parked there,” Clifton said. “I notice things.”

Nelson returned the conversation to its previous course. “But back to the Soul Warriors,” he said, “what connection do they have with the church?”

“My opinion?”

“Your opinion.”

“Coverin’ their asses,” Clifton said, “so folks don’t start askin’ what goes on over at that deer club.”

“And what is that supposed to be?”

“Don’t ask me,” Clifton said. “I ain’t never been invited over. You can bet it ain’t Bible study, though.”

Nelson turned approached a main highway. “Speakin’ of that church,” Clifton said, “go straight and I‘ll show you a shortcut back to my truck. It takes you by the Tabernacle, matter of fact.”

Nelson continued straight. “What does the group do at the Ransom Center? I’ve heard they work there.”

“Maintain discipline, they say,” Clifton said. “And they help chase after runaways.”

“Are they good at it?”

“Not so I hear,” Clifton said. “They did find that Anderson girl, Bonnie Sue. That’s the only one I know of that they’ve found. The rest got clean away.”

“The rest?”

“I hear maybe ten girls run off from that place and ain’t never been found. They draw girls from all over the state.”

“The girls don’t like it there?”

“Some do. They’ve actually cured some.”

“Of drug addiction?”

“Mostly.”

“How did they find the one? What’s her name?”

“Bonnie Sue? Hell I could have found her. All you had to do was go to the nearest burger joint. That’s where they found her.”

Nelson looked confused.

“Girl likes to eat,” Clifton said. “Always has. That’s what she was in for.”

“Weight control?”

“You might say, “Clifton said. Before Nelson could answer, Clifton leaned forward and pointed. “Looky goddam yonder,” he said, pointing down the street.

Nelson leaned too. The Connorville Baptist Tabernacle campus started on the next block and the entire street was clogged with vehicles. Nelson immediately signaled and made a left turn to avoid the jam. “Jesus,” he said.

“They ain’t goin’ to see Jesus this time of day,” Clifton said. “Wonder what’s going on?”

“No idea,” Nelson said.

“Circle the block,” Clifton said. “Maybe I’ll see someone I know and can ask.”

“You aren’t afraid of being seen with me?”

“Hell no,” Clifton said. “It’ll build my reputation to be seen with that mysterious stranger who’s been hanging around town breaking the fingers of piss ants who cross him.”

“What makes you think I’ve broken …” He stopped. As he turned the next corner, he had stalled in traffic just as a figure stepped from a parked truck and turned to face Nelson and Clifton. It was the one they called Bully Bridges and he stopped cold from less than ten feet away. His face became stony and the glared at Nelson with a look of palatable hatred. The two locked eyes for a few seconds before Bridges nodded, displaying not a look of greeting but one that promised future intercourse, and that not of a pleasant kind. With that, he walked past them and toward the church.

“Who are you, Mister?” Clifton asked.

“Nobody,” Nelson said.

“You got to be somebody to rate a look like that. Do you know who that was?”

“I know,” Nelson said.

“Ya’ll ain’t in the same Sunday School class, I’ll bet.”

“No,” Nelson said. “We’re not.” He drove on.

As they neared the edge of town, Clifton was talking again. “So we never had no kids. But let me tell you, mister, we tried. We sure as hell tried. I loved that woman like Jesus loves a sinner and I’m pretty sure she liked me more than I deserved. We tried ever way we knowed how. Closest we came was one miscarriage. That nearly killed her and it nearly killed me when she died.” He stopped talking. He sniffed once and said, “It was just before her fortieth birthday. Cancer. I kept our dairy going until I turned 62 but my heart never was in it any more. So I sold out. What I got for it, and my Social Security, lets me live pretty well, but I’d give it all, ever last cent, for one more day with her. Hell, one more hour. You’d better believe I would.”

Nelson blinked. “You never remarried?”

“Son,” Clifton said. “A man who’s lived on steak for 20years ain’t never gonna be satisfied with hamburger again.” He stopped again, then, after a breath, resumed. “What about you? You married?”

“Not me,” Nelson said.

“Why in the world not?”

He thought. “I guess I’ve never been lucky enough to find one like you did. I guess if I ever do, I’ll know it right away.”

            “Son,” Clifton said. “It don’t work that way. It don’t work that way at all. What you got to do is find one that loves you, and will have you, and then you got to work long and hard to deserve her.”

            “I’ll keep looking,” Nelson said.

            “Not around here though,” Clifton said. “Slim pickings.”

            “You don’t like these folks?”

            “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Clifton said. “They’s some nice folks left, mostly from the old families. Even some of the new ones who have moved here ain’t bad. But I wish you could have seen the place back in the old days.”

            “Good people.”

            “Good like you seem to be,” Clifton said. “People who wouldn’t a bit more pass a stranded stranger on the road than they would their own kin.”

            “That’s nice know,” Clifton said as he pulled behind Clifton’s truck. Clifton opened the door, climbed out and placed the new battery on the ground. He closed the truck’s door and spoke through the open window. “I can manage from here. Thanks a million.”

            “Couldn’t you use some help getting it in place?”

            “Evening traffic’s building,” Clifton said. “You’d better get on back to Little Rock. Just remember, though.”

            “Remember what?”

            “What you see now ain’t the Connorville that Marge and I knew. They were good honest folks who’d loan you the shirt off their back.” He paused. “If you was white.”

            Nelson said, “So that was important?”

            “They just never liked the coloreds.” Clifton said. “And that ain’t no crime these days, now is it?” He turned and reached for his battery. Nelson watched until he saw that Clifton had wrestled the new battery into place.

            Nelson drove back to Little Rock deep in thought. When he reached home, Charley’s care was pulled to the back of the drive but he wasn’t home. Nelson showered and changed to khakis and a knit shirt. He slipped on a pair of dark loafers and left a note for Charlie that read, “Going in harm’s way. You have the place to yourself tonight.”

            Arriving at Tina’s house he parked and walked to the door, carrying a bottle of wine. Before he could ring the bell, the door opened and Tina stood before him in the same kimono she had worn before. She ushered him through the door. Taking the wine, she read the label, looked at him, and said, “How thoughtful.” Stepping to him, she wrapped arm, hand, and wine bottle around his neck and pulled him toward her. She pressed her mouth to his and began a long, flickering kiss. Feeling a stirring, she reached down, felt, and smiled. She dew back, looked at the bottle of wine again, and said, “We’ll save it. ‘Sex first, wine and foreplay later,’ as the good old boys say. Don’t that sound nice?” With that she walked away and placed the wine on the kitchen table. She turned to face Nelson. “Follow if you dare,” she said as she turned and walked toward the hallway leading to her bedroom. With what was surely a practiced move, she unloosened the belt of her kimono,  executed a slight shrug, and let it fall to the floor. Naked, she continued into the hall. Viewed from behind, her perfectly-formed bottom moved in a fluid motion with her body, her shoulders thrown back with an arrogant promise. This brought forth a slight gasp from Nelson.

He followed.

            Later, the night began to close on the teeming masses making up the small spot of earth traveled by Gideon Nelson and on the people impacting his life. He lay beneath silk sheets thinking, with Tina Barrow snoring softly into his cheek. Across town, Charlie Winters punched keys on a keyboard and stared at a website on Nelson’s computer. In Hot Springs, Martin Barker studied numbers on a cell phone. In Armistead, Sheriff Gladson Love watched TV and read copies of notes his deputies had made for him. Not too far from there, Clifton Sikes finished another lonely meal in silence, looked at his wedding ring, wiped a tear from his eye, and reached for his check.