A Death On The Wolf, page 2
“I know,” I offered as I rinsed out the thermos and started drying it. “He and I had a time getting them back in. I’m glad Aunt Charity was at her meeting.”
“Eastern Star tonight?” Daddy asked.
“Yes,” I said, and popped the dish towel, then folded and hung it on the peg sticking out of the side of the cabinet over the sink. Daddy was a Mason, and he and Mama had belonged to the Eastern Star, too, but Daddy had not gone to any of the meetings since Mama died. He did try to make the Blue Lodge meetings on the second Thursday of each month, but work often prevented it. Looking back, and from what I know now of Freemasonry, I can honestly say my father took the central tenets of that ancient fraternity to heart and embodied them in everything he did. I was about to get a lesson in that fact as I went over and sat down at the table, looked at my father, and asked, “Why did you hire Parker? We don’t need him and most of the time when he’s here he’s just sitting around out there at the barn.”
Daddy leaned back in the chair and ran his hands through his hair. He was studying me. People said I looked like my father, but I couldn’t see it. He had dark brown hair; mine was sandy blond. He had blue eyes; mine were green. Daddy was forty-two, tall and lean (that trait we did share), and his skin was tanned and weather-worn from twenty years of working in the Mississippi sun. “I know we don’t need him, son,” he finally said. “But he needs us.”
“What do you mean?”
“The only family Parker had left around here was his grandson, Haywood. He worked down at the plant with me until back in January. He lived with Parker, paid the bills, bought groceries. He got in a bar fight on New Year’s eve and stabbed a man and he’s been in jail ever since. When he got arrested, Haywood asked me to go check on his granddaddy, and I did for a couple of weeks. The last time I went to check on him there was no food in the house, so I tried to give him some money, but he wouldn’t take it.”
“How come?” I asked.
“Parker’s a proud old gentleman. He didn’t want a handout.”
“But isn’t that what his grandson was doing if he was paying the bills and all?”
“No. Haywood was paying the bills, but he wasn’t paying any rent to live there.”
“Oh,” I said. “I still don’t see why you hired him.”
“Because he wouldn’t take my money but he would take a job, Nelson. Like I said, we didn’t need him, he needed us. The twenty dollars a week I give him isn’t going to break us, and I know he eats good when he’s here. Charity sees to that. And he has helped out around here a lot, especially since you started working down at Dick’s.”
“I guess so,” I said.
“Speaking of you working down at Dick’s, you going to have enough money by the fifth?”
“I think I’ll have enough,” I answered, sounding more sure than I really was.
We were now talking about the car I wanted to buy. I would turn sixteen on August 5th, and Daddy had promised to take off work that day and take me to get my license. And he knew I wanted to do the driving test in my own car; my first car, which I’d been saving for since April. Daddy had told me numerous times that I could drive our family car any time I wanted to. His old Dodge pickup was the primary vehicle for us, and the car was really only driven to church on Sunday and the few times we ventured out of the Bells Ferry area to go to the beach or shopping down at Biloxi or Gulfport, or if Daddy was feeling especially adventurous, the hour or so drive down to New Orleans. But our car was about the most un-cool vehicle around. Daddy loved it, but I thought it was hideous. It was a 1960 Chrysler Saratoga 2-door hardtop; a black behemoth with a red interior that had tail fins that were nearly chest high on me. I called it the Batmobile. Daddy bought it from a dentist down in Bay St. Louis the year before Sachet was born, the year before Mama died. The Batmobile had two redeeming qualities: it had air conditioning that would freeze your nuts off on the hottest day in August, and it had nifty swivel-out bucket seats that made getting in and out an adventure in itself.
As for the drivers license, it would be, quite frankly, a formality. I had been driving the back roads around here in the pickup since I was fourteen, as well as riding the Honda 350 Scrambler Daddy bought last summer. He was a motorcycle aficionado of sorts, and had bought and sold numerous old Harleys and Indians over the years. In fact, there was a ’52 FLH Panhead in the barn now that he was rebuilding. The Honda was the first new bike he ever bought, and it had quickly become my main form of transportation; consequently, my old Schwinn had been gathering dust in the barn for nearly a year now. I think Daddy was secretly longing for me to get a car so he could have his motorcycle back.
The car I had been saving up to buy belonged to the estate of the late Mrs. Wendell Borcher, which had just come out of probate. Mrs. Borcher had left the car to a niece who lived over in Bogalusa and she didn’t want it, so she asked the attorney handling the estate to sell it. As it happens, J. Preston Marks, Esq. and my father were high school classmates and fellow Masons, so through some “wink and nod” negotiations the sale was being delayed until I could save up enough money to close the deal. My sources of income were my $5 weekly allowance for doing chores and watching Sachet, the $20 a week I could count on from Aunt Charity for cutting her grass or whatever she needed doing, and my job at Dick’s. The car was a pale blue ’64 Impala 4-door hardtop with a 283 in it. What made it desirable, besides having that small block V8, was that Mrs. Borcher rarely drove it, which meant even though it was five years old, it spent most of its life in the garage, had less than four-thousand miles on it, and looked like brand new. And it would be mine for $500.
“How much have you got?” Daddy asked.
“About two-hundred.”
“And what are you making a week pumping gas down at Dick’s?”
“About twenty…maybe a little more when I get some good tips.”
“I don’t think you’re going to have enough come your birthday, sport.”
I knew he was right, but I was trying to remain optimistic. I think Daddy could see the fiscal worry in my face. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, leaning forward and placing his elbows on the table. “You help me rebuild the fence on Saturday and however much you’re short come your birthday, I’ll make up the difference. Deal?”
“Deal,” I said with an enormous grin on my face. But it wasn’t a deal at all. It was a gift. We both knew I would be helping to rebuild the fence on Saturday with or without this gesture from my father.
“Well, I’m going and take a shower and hit the hay,” Daddy announced as he got up from the table. “Four o’clock comes around mighty early in the morning. How’s my baby girl?”
I was wondering when he was going to ask about Sachet. “She got upset because I made her go to bed before you got home,” I said.
I could see Daddy’s expression drop. He loved my sister more than life itself, I believe. The mere thought that he’d done something to cause her distress bothered him. “Well…it couldn’t be helped,” he said, sounding more like he was reassuring himself than me. He turned for the hallway off from the kitchen.
“Dad?” I said.
He turned and looked back at me. “Yes?”
“Thanks.”
“For what?
“About the car.”
“Don’t thank me yet, sport. It’s supposed to be hot as hell on Saturday. You’ll earn it.”
Chapter 3
Breaking the Sabbath
Daddy was right: it was Saturday, and it was hot as hell. The lumber yard opened at eight, and we had taken the pickup and the long trailer to get all the posts and boards and wire we’d need. Then it was down to Dick’s Hardware (the same Dick who owned the ESSO where I worked, but the hardware store was run by his brother) for the nails and paint. We would be replacing about three-hundred feet total of fencing, and I thought Daddy was being overly optimistic saying that we could get it all done before dark. But he said Parker was coming to help us after lunch. And then he told me the reason he wanted it completed today: I would be painting the new fence on Sunday after church. Daddy didn’t share Aunt Charity’s views about working on the Sabbath, and sometimes I wished he did.
It was a little before ten now and already nearly 90 degrees. Daddy had me digging out the old fence posts, repacking the dirt, and then digging new holes at eighty-inch intervals. He had been out before I even got out of bed and marked the spots where I was to dig. I had asked him why we just couldn’t pull out the old posts and stick the new ones in. His answer was a curt, “Because I want this done right.”
We had the goats shut up inside the barn, and they were making a racket. If it were up to me, I would have just turned them loose in the cow pasture and let them wander the nearly fifty acres with the cows. When I suggested that to Daddy, he asked who was going to help me scour those fifty acres and find all the goats when the new fence was done and it was time to put them back where they belonged. Suddenly my suggestion didn’t sound too good.
Daddy was over by the barn cutting the boards to the correct length for the fence rails. He had set up the saw horses in the shade of the big pecan tree, and he was using the power saw, which was plugged into a long yellow extension cord coming from the barn. I was in the boiling sun using a claw hammer and a posthole digger. My tee shirt was damp with sweat and we weren’t even into the heat of the day. I was beginning to see why Daddy had told me not to thank him prematurely for his offer to help me buy the car. He was right. I was earning it.
About an hour later I was soaked from head to toe. My eyes were burning from the perspiration that was continually pouring into them. And I was only about a third of the way done with my job of dismantling the old fence and digging new post holes.
Daddy had finished cutting the boards for the rails and was already constructing the new fence starting at the barn. He was working his way toward me and I was determined to stay ahead of him. The humidity was oppressive and there was not even the hint of a breeze blowing. The steamy air was filled with the sharp report of Daddy’s hammer striking the nails and the racket of the cicadas. “Daddy,” I hollered to him. “I’m about to die over here. Can I go to the house and get some water?”
He looked up and wiped his brow with the back of his gloved hand. “Yeah, and bring me some, too. See what Charity is fixing for lunch.” I stuck the posthole digger in the ground and headed for the house. “You’ll be a lot cooler out here if you get one of my caps and wear it,” Daddy said as I walked by him. He pointed to the John Deere hat on his head. I hated wearing a hat, but I was willing to try anything for some relief.
As I opened the screen door on the back porch, the smell of Aunt Charity’s cooking hit me in the face. Whatever she was fixing for lunch smelled fabulous. She was standing at the sink when I walked in the kitchen. No matter how hot it was, Aunt Charity always looked fresh and untouched by either the heat or the humidity. She was a trim woman, with ramrod straight posture, and she was always dressed like she was going to town. I don’t think she owned any casual clothing. She took one look at me and started in: “Lord have mercy,” she declared, “is Patrick Lemuel Gody trying to kill his only son? Just look at you.”
“It’s hot out there,” I said.
“Sit down and cool off before you drop from heat stroke,” Aunt Charity said.
It was probably 80 degrees in the house, but with the fans whirring away, it sure felt good to me. “I can’t,” I said. “I just came in to get some water and Daddy wants me to bring him some, too.”
“Go over there and sit down,” she ordered, pointing to the table. She went over to the ice box and got out a tray of ice and fixed me a glass of ice water.
I downed the cold glass of water in almost a single gulp when Aunt Charity handed it to me. She also had a cold wet dish towel, which she wiped my face with then said, “Hold this to the back of your neck and I’ll get you some more water.”
“I’ve got to take Daddy some water and get back to work,” I said.
Aunt Charity gave me one of her stern looks. “You sit right there and cool off. I’ll take your father some water.” She went back over to the sink and refilled my glass, then fixed another glass of ice water. After she gave me mine, she left to take Daddy his.
Aunt Charity had only been gone about a minute when I heard the screen door on the back porch open. “That was quick,” I said, expecting to see my aunt come in the kitchen, but instead Frankie Thompson appeared at the door. He had on his cut-offs, so I knew what he wanted even before he spoke. “Hey, man,” I said. “I thought you were Aunt Charity. She just went out to take Daddy some water.”
“Hey,” Frankie said. “I’m going down to the river. Can you go?”
“I can’t,” I said. “I’m helping Dad build a new fence behind the barn.”
“And y’all pick the hottest day of the year to do it?”
“I know,” I said, and took another gulp of ice water.
Frankie came over and sat down at the table just as Aunt Charity got back. “How are you today, Francis?” she asked.
“I’m fine, thank you, Miss Charity.” Frankie looked at me and smirked. His name was Francis John Thompson, Jr., and Aunt Charity was the only person who ever called him “Francis.” She’d called him that since we were both her pupils in the first grade.
“Are you sure you can’t go swimming?” Frankie asked.
“I can’t, man. I’ve got to help Dad with the fence.”
“Didn’t he hire that nigger? Why can’t he do it?”
I saw Aunt Charity go rigid over at the sink. I looked hard at Frankie. “Don’t call him that.”
“What?”
“You know what you said. Parker’s not a nigger, he’s a Negro.”
“What’s the difference?”
I was watching Aunt Charity out of the corner of my eye. She was about to go apoplectic. I was trying to think of a way to diffuse this situation before she exploded. I knew Frankie didn’t mean anything by this. He was just a product of the way he’d been raised, as was I. The problem was, Aunt Charity believed every child in Mississippi should have been raised the way my sister and I had been, and she was ever ready to correct the deficiencies of those that weren’t.
“Are you Caucasian?” I asked Frankie.
He looked at me. “Yeah, why?”
“Are you a whitey cracker?”
“No,” he said sternly.
“Why not? What’s the difference?” I asked.
Aunt Charity turned and gave me a big smile from over at the sink. Mission accomplished.
Frankie was just staring at me, so I decided to change the subject. “Does your dad need any help this summer? I need to make some extra money before my birthday.”
“I don’t know,” Frankie said. “I can ask.”
“Nelson Patrick Gody, you are not going to work at their dairy farm,” Aunt Charity declared.
I looked up at her. “Why not?”
“Because you’ve got more than enough to do around here. And you’ve already got a job at Richard Tillman’s filling station in town.”
“But Aunt Charity, I need—”
She held up her hand, and I knew there was no need to say anything else. She’d already invoked my full name, which was fair warning. I would not be working at Thompson’s Dairy Farm to earn the extra money I needed for the car.
“Where is Sash?” I asked.
“She is over at my house watching the color TV.”
Aunt Charity’s house had central air conditioning, and with the thermometer on the back porch approaching 100 degrees, I suspected that’s why my sister was over there. I looked at Frankie. “I wish I could go to the river, man, but I’ve got to help with the fence.” I lowered my voiced to keep Aunt Charity from hearing and said, “Maybe I can go tomorrow after I get done painting it.”
Aunt Charity turned and glared at me. She had heard. “On the Sabbath?” she said with righteous indignation.
“I’m still going to church in the morning,” I said. “I’ll paint the fence when we get home.”
“And you think going to church in the morning gives you leave to break the Fourth Commandment the rest of the Lord’s Day?”
It was my turn to hold up my hand. “Talk to Daddy,” I said, and got up from the table. This was a debate she and my father had had before, and I didn’t want to get in the middle of it now. Daddy gave Aunt Charity virtual carte blanche when it came to co-parenting my sister and me. But on the subject of religion, especially Aunt Charity’s legalism, Daddy was as unyielding as she was persistent. Thus, as for me painting the fence tomorrow, I knew who would win that argument. I never understood how two people could attend the same church every Sunday, listen to the same sermons, and have such disparate opinions on certain tenets of the Christian faith.
I walked over and kissed Aunt Charity on the cheek. “Thanks for the water,” I said, and headed for the door. I turned back and motioned for Frankie to come on. “What’s for lunch?” I asked Aunt Charity. “It smells good.”
“I’ve got a pork roast in the oven cooking for dinner. That’s what you’re smelling. We’re having fried chicken and biscuits for lunch.” She stepped over to the cabinet and retrieved our well-seasoned iron skillet, turned and pointed it at me. “You and your father be in here at noon sharp.” She looked at Frankie, who was now standing beside me. “Would you like to stay for lunch, Francis?”
Frankie eyed the skillet in her hand, no doubt wondering if Aunt Charity intended to club him with it if he said yes. “No, ma’am. I’m going swimming. But thanks.”
“Well, be careful down there at the river. Watch out for snakes.”
“Yes, ma’am. Bye, Miss Charity.”
“Goodbye, Francis.”
Once out the door, before either Frankie or I had a chance to say anything, we heard the roar echoing off the trees down by the bridge a half mile away. We both looked at each other and grinned, turned and ran for the front of the house.
