A Death On The Wolf, page 16
The Dixie Pearl
At dinner, Daddy reluctantly gave me permission to drive Mary Alice to Jackson the next day. He seemed to be as flummoxed over Beau Hadley’s letter as I was, and not a little irritated, too. Daddy didn’t like it that someone was calling his son’s character into question, and neither did I. Normally never one to withhold her opinions on anything, Aunt Charity was unusually quiet on the whole situation. I figured she would be totally against my taking Mary Alice to confront her brother over this, but Aunt Charity made no comment about it at all. Daddy warned me that I was going to be a fish out of water driving in Jackson traffic. He told me the route to take (53 from Bells Ferry over to 49, then stay on 49 north all the way to Jackson) and suggested I get Dick to give me a road map when I went by there to get gas and tell him I wouldn’t be in to work. Daddy told me to expect the trip to take at least three hours if we didn’t stop too much.
After dinner, Mary Alice called her brother to tell him to be expecting us between eleven and noon. When he found out I was bringing her, he got angry and forbade it. Mary Alice remained calm and just told him again to be expecting us at the law firm around lunch and then she hung up. I really could not figure out what she hoped to accomplish. It seemed Beau’s mind was made up, and he certainly was in a position to be calling the shots when it came to his little sister. I thought about Sachet and tried to put myself in Beau’s shoes, but I still could not get past the fact that he was judging me without really knowing me. If he really knew me, knew my heart, he would know he didn’t have to worry about his sister being with me.
It was almost ten o’clock and I was thinking on these things now as I sat in Daddy’s recliner watching The Jonathan Winters Show on TV. I’d had my bath and was in my pajamas. Daddy had gone to bed an hour ago. The house was quiet except for the fans and the TV…and the phone, which was ringing now in the kitchen.
I jumped up and sprinted into the kitchen and caught it on the second ring. “Hello?” I said. No one said anything, but I could hear breathing on the other end. “Hello?” I repeated.
“Nelson?” a shaky voice said back to me.
“This is Nelson,” I said, still unsure who was calling us this late at night.
“I’m glad you answered.” I recognized the voice now. It was Frankie, and I could tell he’d been crying.
“Frankie? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Can you come get me?”
I didn’t say anything because his question didn’t make any sense. Finally, I asked, “What do you mean? Are you okay?”
“I need you to come get me,” he said.
“Tell me what’s wrong, Frankie—let me talk to your dad.”
“I’m not at home,” he said.
“What?” And then I gave an audible groan when I remembered the last time I’d seen Frankie was that afternoon on the back of Peter Bong’s Vincent motorcycle as they left the Colonel Dixie. And Frankie’s bike was still lying in our front yard the last time I’d looked out there after dinner. “Where are you?” I asked him.
“I’m at the Dixie Pearl Motel. You know where it is? Out on 49 close to Lyman?”
“Is Peter Bong with you?” I asked. Frankie didn’t say anything. “Frankie, are you with Peter?”
“No, I’m by myself,” Frankie finally said.
I was trying to control my temper and not let Frankie know how mad I was at him for being so stupid. “Did he hurt you?” I asked him.
“Who?”
“Peter Bong. Did he hurt you?”
“No,” Frankie said. “Just…please come get me. And, Nelson…”
I waited and finally said, “What is it?”
“I need some clothes.”
“What happened to your clothes?”
“He took ’em.”
I groaned again. “Frankie, man…what have you gotten yourself into?”
“Just come get me, please,” Frankie pleaded. “I’m in room fourteen.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. I’ve got to get dressed.”
“Okay. Bye.”
I hung up the phone and wondered how in the devil I was going to explain this to Daddy. I was sure the phone ringing had waked him. I went back in the living room fully expecting to see him sitting there, but he wasn’t. I turned off the TV and then the lamp beside Daddy’s recliner. I stood there and let my eyes adjust to the darkness, then went down the hall past my room, then past Sachet’s. I stepped back and looked in her room and could see by the night light that her bed was empty. Daddy’s door was cracked enough for me to stick my head in. I could see him lying there with my sister cuddled up beside him, both sound asleep.
Quietly, I crept back down to my room and closed the door. I got dressed and was about to leave when I remembered what Frankie had said about his clothes. I went over to my dresser and got out a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. Frankie was a lot shorter than me, but I was slim, so we were about the same size in the waist. I put the jeans back and grabbed a pair of khaki Bermuda shorts. I turned the light out and closed the door behind me. In the darkness, I made my way down the hall to the kitchen and got a paper grocery bag out of the pantry and put the shorts and tee shirt in it. I hesitated and then reached up on the top shelf behind the flour tin and got Daddy’s Colt Detective Special that he kept there. I opened the cylinder to make sure it was loaded, which I already knew it was. Whenever he would have to go out into the back portion of the cow pasture, or when we went down to the river fishing, Daddy would stick this .38 Special inside his waistband for snakes. I put it in the bag with the clothes.
When I got out into the back yard, Bear came running up and scared me so bad I almost dropped the bag, but at least he didn’t bark. I got in my car and started it up. The rumbling exhaust of that Studebaker V8 sounded deafening in the still night air and I was sure if that didn’t wake Daddy it would be a miracle. I waited to see the back porch light come on, and when it didn’t, I turned the headlights on and slowly backed up, turned the car around, and headed out our drive to the road.
I only met one car on the way to get Frankie, and that was when I went through the little community of Lyman. When I came to a stop at the intersection of 53 and 49, I looked to my right and could see the sign for the Dixie Pearl Motel about 200 yards down on the north bound side of the four-lane road. The sign was a huge Confederate flag with an open oyster shell in the middle of it holding a gleaming white pearl. At night, all the details on the sign were outlined in red, white, and blue neon tubes. The blinking green neon “Color TV” sign suspended underneath the main sign looked out of place. I turned right and slowly drove toward the motel. As I got to the crossover turn, I looked closely at the cars and trucks in the parking lot. There wasn’t a motorcycle among them.
I crossed over the north bound lanes of 49 and pulled into the motel parking lot. All the parking spaces directly in front of the rooms were taken, so I parked out in the lot. I got out with the paper bag containing the clothes I’d brought, and the gun, under my arm. I looked around to see if there was anyone around. There wasn’t. All was quiet in the thick, humid night air. The entire parking lot and the front of the motel were aglow in red, white, and blue from the big sign towering over me. Slowly, I made my way to the row of rooms to look for number 14.
As I got closer to the rooms I could hear TVs going in a few of them. I walked quietly past room 18, then 17 and 16. I had to step over the metal cover from the air conditioner of room 15, which was off and partially obstructing the walkway. I stopped at the door to room 14. The curtains in the window were dark and there were no sounds on the other side of the door. I knocked and waited. Nothing. I knocked again and put my mouth close to the door and said, “Frankie?” I heard the lock on the door turn and then it opened about four inches, held fast by the security chain. Through the partially open door I could just make out Frankie’s face in the darkness of the room. “It’s me,” I said in a whispered shout. Frankie unhooked the security chain and I pushed open the door and stepped into the pitch black room. Frankie closed the door behind me and relocked it and I stood there waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
The room was stuffy and humid, like someone had just come out of the shower. But there was also an underlying smell of body odor, beer, and cigarettes. When my eyes adjusted enough that I could see from the light coming in around the drapes on the window, I noticed the room had one big bed that was a mess. I went over and turned on the lamp that was affixed to the wall over the bedside table. That almost blinded me and I had to squint to allow my eyes to adjust again. I turned around to look at Frankie. He was standing there with a white bath towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was damp and all messed up. He was trembling and looked like a frightened little boy. “Did you bring me some clothes?” he asked. I reached in the bag and handed him the folded Bermuda shorts and tee shirt. “Did you bring any underwear?”
“He took your underwear, too?” I said.
“He took everything,” Frankie said, pulling the tee shirt on. “Even my socks and shoes.” He let the towel fall to the floor and then slipped my shorts on.
I looked around the room. There were three empty beer cans on the table beside the bed, another four on the table where Frankie was sitting, and a near empty fifth of Jack Daniel’s sitting on the dresser beside the TV. The ashtray on the table beside the bed was full of brown cigarette butts. For the first time I was coming to realize what had happened in this room and it was making me sick.
Frankie ran his fingers through his hair trying to comb it down. When he turned toward the light I could see a long scratch on his neck, more a cut really, just not very deep, that had bled a little. And there were finger marks on his throat. “Frankie, man, what the heck happened?” I asked. “What’d he do to you?”
“Let’s go,” Frankie said, his voice shaky. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
The ride back to my house was silent. I kept the paper bag with the revolver in it stuck between my legs. I was halfway expecting at any minute to see the single headlight of a motorcycle come up behind us. Nevertheless, we made it back without seeing another vehicle of any kind.
As I pulled up behind Daddy’s Chrysler parked under the carport I shut the engine off and coasted the last few feet. I switched off the headlights, set the parking brake, and looked over at Frankie. “What are we gonna do if my dad is up and waiting for me?”
Frankie started to say something, then turned and opened the door. The dome light came on as Frankie leaned out of the car and vomited. It was painful to listen to. He retched over and over. It sounded like his insides were coming out. I opened my door and the cross breeze brought the smell through the car and it almost made me heave. Peter Bong hadn’t been the only one drinking in room 14 of the Dixie Pearl Motel that night.
Whether or not Daddy was awake now was immaterial. Frankie was sick, and I needed to get him in the house. I got out of the car and by the time I made it around to the passenger side, Frankie had stumbled out and fallen to his knees and was dry heaving. When he finally stopped, I stuck the crumpled paper bag containing the gun under my arm and leaned down to help him to his feet. I held onto him as we walked to the house, and sure enough when we entered the kitchen, Daddy was sitting at the table in his pajamas.
I can only imagine what a sight we were, Frankie barefoot, holding on to me looking like death warmed over with fresh vomit on his chin. Judging from the look on Daddy’s face, it wasn’t a pretty picture. As soon as Frankie could focus and saw my father sitting there, he started retching again.
Daddy jumped up from the table and said, “Take him to the bathroom.” I set the bag with the gun in it on the counter and Daddy helped me half carry Frankie down the hall to the bathroom. We just did make it in time for Frankie to get to the toilet and let go with another round of dry heaving. When he was done, we sat him on the edge of the bathtub and Daddy was already running warm water in the sink. Frankie’s face was drenched in sweat and he was shaking. Daddy took a wash cloth, wet it, and wiped Frankie’s face, cleaning off the disgusting vomit that reeked of beer and whiskey. He got another clean wash cloth, wet it, and sponged Frankie’s face. He handed me the cloth and then took Frankie’s face in both his hands. He forced open Frankie’s eyes with his thumbs. “He’s had way too much to drink,” Daddy said grimly. He looked over at me. “How much did he throw up outside?”
“Tons.”
“Good. What the hell happened?”
“Did the phone wake you up?” I asked him.
“No, your car did when you left out of here. Where’d you go?”
“To get him. He called about ten o’clock and asked me to come pick him up.”
Daddy pursed his brow and looked back at Frankie. “Did you get into your daddy’s liquor, son?”
“He wasn’t at home,” I said.
Daddy looked at me. “Where was he?”
“Nelson,” Frankie said. His eyes narrowed on me as he shook his head no.
I had never lied to my father and I wasn’t going to start now. “He was with Peter Bong,” I finally said.
Frankie closed his eyes and started sobbing. I closed the toilet lid and sat down. How much worse could this day get?
“That jackass with the ponytail from yesterday?” Daddy asked.
“Yeah,” I said, looking up.
Daddy motioned for me to hand him the wash cloth, which I did. He wiped Frankie’s face again and then put the cloth in Frankie’s hand. “Where were they?” he asked me.
“At that motel out on 49 like you’re going to Gulfport.”
“Did you see Bong?”
“No, he was already gone when Frankie called me to come get him. Daddy, he took all of Frankie’s clothes, even his underwear and shoes. Why would he do that?”
“Probably to make sure he could be long gone before Frankie would get up the nerve to call the police.”
Frankie had stopped crying and was nodding his head. “That’s what scared him off, I think. I told him I was gonna call the cops.”
“Did he do something to you?” Daddy asked. “Is that why you told him you were going to call the police?”
Frankie nodded and then looked down, clearly embarrassed.
Daddy sighed. “So he kidnapped you, took you to the motel, got you drunk, and then tried to force you to do things?”
Frankie looked at me. “Tell him the truth,” I said.
Frankie’s eyes were filling with tears again. He looked at my father and shook his head. “He didn’t kidnap me,” he said.
Daddy took the wash cloth from Frankie and put it back in the sink. He then traced the long red cut on Frankie’s neck with his finger and asked, “What’s this?”
Frankie reached up and touched the cut on his neck. “He put a knife to my throat and told me he’d kill me if I ever told anyone.”
“Did he choke you?”
Frankie hesitated. He seemed surprised by my father’s question. “How’d you know that?” he asked.
Daddy put his hand to Frankie’s chin and lifted it up. “You’ve got finger marks around your throat, son.”
“Yeah, he choked me.”
Daddy had been kneeling in front of Frankie this whole time and now he stood up. “Do you still feel sick?” he asked Frankie.
“Yeah,” Frankie said, “but I don’t think I’m gonna puke anymore.”
“Okay, let’s go in the living room,” Daddy said.
Frankie stood up and he was a little unsteady at first but he made it down the hall without any help from me or Daddy. He sat on the sofa and I sat beside him. Daddy sat in his recliner. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was quarter past eleven.
Daddy looked at Frankie. “Tell me how you wound up in a motel room with that man if he didn’t kidnap you.”
Frankie leaned forward and put his face in hands and shook his head over and over. It didn’t look as though he was going to offer an answer, so I told Daddy about going to the Colonel Dixie and Frankie leaving there on the back of Peter Bong’s motorcycle.
“What time was that?” Daddy asked me.
“I don’t know—around three o’clock I think.”
“So he hasn’t been home since before three this afternoon?” He pointed to Frankie.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I called Mom from the motel when we got there and told her I was spending the night here,” Frankie said.
“Frankie,” Daddy said, “are you telling me you went to that motel room willingly?”
Frankie nodded but didn’t say anything.
“Damn, son,” Daddy said, shaking his head. “What in the world were you thinking?” Frankie was silent. He was embarrassed and I was embarrassed for him. Daddy stood up and scratched his brow. “I need to call the sheriff…and your father, Frankie.”
Frankie looked up at Daddy with pleading eyes. “Mr. Lem, please don’t do that. Dad said—” Frankie stopped.
Daddy sat back on the edge of his recliner and looked long at Frankie. “Your dad said what?” Frankie didn’t respond; he just looked down. “Your father already knows about this, doesn’t he?” Daddy said.
Frankie nodded without looking up.
“Did you call him first?” Daddy asked. “I mean before you called here?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. And then he started crying like his heart was broken. I reached over and put my arm around his shoulders and he leaned into me and cried and cried. Daddy went to the kitchen and got a clean dish towel and handed it to him. Frankie wiped his eyes with it.
“Tell me what happened when your dad got there,” Daddy said. “Is he still drinking?”
“Yes, sir,” Frankie replied matter-of-factly. I was dumfounded. Drinking? I didn’t know Frankie’s father drank.
“Was he drunk when he got there?”
Frankie nodded. “He was drunk. He started cussin’ and slappin’ me around.”
“Has he hit you before when he’s been drinking?”
“Sometimes.”
“What about your brother?”
