Sheriff Bigelow walked into the jail block and rattled the huge iron door behind him.
“Bully, you interested in going home?”
“Sheriff, do termites love a sawmill?!” Bully shouted.
“Son, don’t you be getting smart with me!” Sheriff Bigelow said.
“Yes, sir!” Bully folded an imaginary hat in his hand.
“You be ready to go tomorrow after lunch.”
“Tomorrow? How about right now?”
“Tomorrow after lunch, Bully!” Sheriff Bigelow said. Bully bit into his nails.
The next afternoon, Sheriff Bigelow walked back into the cell block with the keys of freedom in his hand. He pushed his weathered Stetson back on his huge head; he looked troubled.
“Come with me, Bully. You and me got to have a little talk.”
“Yes, sir!” He giggled.
People talked about Sheriff Bigelow’s office across the district. Law enforcement officers drove for miles, not to mention the locals, to see his famous roadkill collection. In collaboration with his unemployed brother-in-law, a taxidermist, the Sheriff had put together a staggering collection of possums, raccoons, bull frogs, squirrels, cats, dogs, foxes, snakes, and even a Holstein bull. He met his officers at the parking lot each evening to see what new critters the road had offered.
“Bully, I’ve worked out an arrangement with Judge Claxton, the deacons over at Mt. Zion church, and Miss Lillian. You can go home. You will have to pay for damages over at Mt. Zion, however.”
“No problem, Sheriff. I just want to get home.”
“Listen, Bully.” His tone grew serious.
“The real reason I want you to get home is to help Miss Lillian get that crop outta the field. Do you think you can get the job done?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Get in my car and I’ll take you out to Miss Lillian’s place. She wants to see you.”
When Bully walked to the Sheriff ’s car, Sheriff Bigelow called over to the bank.
“Mr. C.C., I just wanted to let you know the deal to return Bully to Miss Lillian’s custody is final. And I plan to lean on him to get that crop outta the field, or else.” The receiver clicked on the other end.
“Bully, you go ahead and get in the front seat and I’ll get you down to Miss Lillian’s,” Sheriff Bigelow said.
“I can’t believe I’m getting to go home, Sheriff.”
After getting in the car, Sheriff Bigelow turned to Bully.
“I just want to say one thing to you, Bully. I can’t tell you how important it is for you to come through and get that cotton outta the field this Fall; do you understand?”
“Yes, sir., I know I caused a lot of people a lot of trouble, and I want to make it up to them. I’m scared to death to look Miss Lillian in the eyes.” Bully said.
“Bully let me say, if you let me down on this one, Miss Lillian will be the least of your problems. Do you understand me, son?” Sheriff Bigelow pulled his .38 Smith & Wesson and placed the blue barrel to Bully’s throat.
“Yes, sir. I know I’ve been drinking too much. I’m going to straighten myself out and show you and Miss Lillian that I can be somebody. If Mr. John was still alive, he would be proud of what I’m about to do.”
Sheriff Bigelow placed his pistol back into its holster and headed to the Watson place.
Sadness washed over Bully when they turned into the drive and drove toward Miss Lillian’s. Memories of Mr. John swirled. The fear of Sheriff Bigelow and Miss Lillian was great, but it was overshadowed by Bully’s loss.
Miss Lillian stood on the front porch when Sheriff Bigelow and Bully came to a stop. She waited for Bully. Even Sheriff Bigelow felt sorry for him, but not enough to stay very long. Miss Lillian met them getting out of the cruiser. Her eyes locked onto Bully and they never retreated.
“Thank you for being punctual, Sheriff. You can be leaving now. Bully and I need to have a private conversation.”
The lines on Miss Lillian’s face were deep and her jaw locked. Her voice trembled. A small twitch developed under her left eye.
“I’ve got to be headed back to town, anyway, Miss Lillian. If I can help you in anyway, don’t be bashful,” Sheriff Bigelow said.
“I’ve never been accused of being bashful, Sheriff.”
Bully and Miss. Lillian watched the sheriff get into his patrol car, make a wide turning swath across the yard and disappear in a huge column of dust.
Bully longed to be back in the safety of jail. The sound of a cocked pistol interrupted the silence.
“Bully, get moving toward the equipment shed or I will kill you on the spot--you decide.”
“Please don’t do anything rash, Miss Lillian. I’m moving.”
Miss Lillian killed stray dogs at fifty yards with that same pistol. Bully witnessed her skills more than once. His mind raced with each step toward the shed. The thought to run gave way to a stark reality: death.
“Down the alley to the shop.”
“Miss Lillian, whatever you do just don’t hurt me,”
The alley was long, narrow and dark. It had a dirt floor. Faint slivers of sunlight filtered through the dust particles, creating light and shadows. When Bully and Miss Lillian approached the doorway of the shop. Bully heard the sound only old timers could describe: the sound of high tensile steel jaws, springing from the earth, flying toward each other only to find the foot of some unfortunate animal impeding their connection, or in this case, Bully’s leg. A bear trap’s first insult crushes an animal’s leg. The second one produces such a grip that no escape is possible. She had secured the trap with the heaviest chain on the farm.
“Augh!” Bully screamed. He fell to the floor and grabbed his leg. Blood, dirt, spit and urine mixed in a grizzly concoction. Bully’s body withered in agony. The sound of chain links becoming taut and releasing mixed with eerie moans echoing down the darken hallway.
Miss Lillian smiled.
“Revenge can be so sweet,” she whispered to herself.
Miss Lillian cocked her pistol and pointed it toward Bully’s head.
“I’m going to release this chain and you better drag yourself down this hall to the tool shop.”
“Miss Lillian, please don’t kill me. Why did you do this?”
“I’ll tell you why, you son of a bitch.” Her left eye began to twitch.
“You took John away from me. After you came along, I never saw John. You were his complete focus. ‘Bully this. Bully that.’ He pushed me to the side; before you, we were inseparable. I thought about drowning you in the bathtub after that bitch mother of yours left; wish I had, now. But at least she left.”
Her voice softened, and a small smile replaced her frown. She repositioned the grease bucket back in its designated spot and walked back to the farmhouse. She called the cotton gin and two of the farm hands took Bully over to Doc Grasson’s.
Jessie arrived from school, startled to find his mother at home.
“Hey, sweetheart. How was your day?”
“Mamma, what are you doing home? I can’t wait to see Daddy!”
This was a new experience for Jessie. His excitement radiated. Alice Fae prepared a meal of boiled cabbage, ham hocks, and cornbread for Bully; his favorite. She moved around the house, dusting and cleaning, wanting everything to be neat. Four o’clock. Five o’clock. Seven o’clock. The sun set. Bully never showed. By nine thirty, with the meal cold, Alice Fae spotted two headlights making their way down the small trail to the “little house” on Mr. John’s farm--the farm manager’s house. Alice Fae ran out on the porch and saw Doc Grasson’s green Chevy pickup pull into the yard. His expression communicated trouble. Alice Fae knew it was Bully.
“Alice Fae, Bully’s hurt,” Doc said.
“What happened?! Is he alive?!”
“Yeah. He’s alive, but he may never walk right again. He’s in the truck.”
Alice Fae ran toward the truck. Jessie came running and jumped off the porch into Doc’s arms.
“Not now, so
n. Your dad’s hurt. Help me get him into the house.”
Bully moved in and out of consciousness with the help of Doc Grasson’s private morphine inventory. Doc instructed Alice Fae to prepare a bed, and he coached Jessie on how to help him move Bully from the truck.
The Telegram
The Trailways bus pulled into the station. Francina looked for her mother. The telegram she received was abrupt and final. FRANCINA, COME HOME. STOP. YOUR FATHER HAS BEEN KILLED IN AN ACCIDENT. STOP. She withdrew from the conservatory and caught the USS United Steamer to New York.
Francina possessed remarkable beauty. Her long red hair and porcelain like complexion turned many heads. She appeared out of place in the backwoods of Mississippi. Miss Lillian compensated with the finest clothes and many trips to Memphis, New Orleans, and Jackson. She introduced Francina to opera, musicals, art, and a way of life few people between Euclatubba and Jug Fork knew. Francina remembered the field hand’s curiosity when a truck rolled in from Memphis with her huge Steinway piano, the only one in Lee County.
High seas from London to New York were treacherous, but secondary to Francina’s grief. She regretted the lack of closeness between her and her father. They had tried to improve their relationship but with little success. Miss Lillian’s presence and pervasive focus on Francina’s life left little room for another major relationship. After many awkward attempts, they quit trying. Mr. John expressed quiet approval with each passing year. Francina gained confidence and increased recognition with her music. He attended most of the 4-H talent contests and beauty contests Miss Lillian always found, whether in Memphis, Natchez, or wherever. When Francina attended Ole Miss, Miss Lillian and Mr. John drove over to Oxford for her recitals. Mr. John felt awkward in those settings. He tagged along while Miss Lillian forged ahead in total command of any situation.
When the bus pulled into its berth, Francina spotted her mother and Betty Mae. They stood near the blue Oldsmobile Mr. John gave her mother for Christmas two years ago. Francina bolted off the bus.
“Mother! Tell me this is not happening. Daddy can’t be dead. He’s in the fields; tell me he is in the fields!” Tears poured.
Miss Lillian cried along with Francina; the two embraced. Betty Mae became tearful and joined in. The three women were oblivious to the curious passengers who moved around the sobbing threesome to retrieve their luggage.
On the way home, Miss Lillian and Betty Mae brought Francina up to date with events of the past three weeks. Though out of the way, Francina wanted to visit her father’s grave at Mt. Zion Cemetery. Miss Lillian obliged her but not because she wanted to.
The Move
Jessie’s dog, Rover, barked as the old Diamond T stake truck approached Bully and Alice Fae’s house. God was showing off his splendor with one of those beautiful Fall days in Mississippi. The sun rose over the open cotton fields and the dew dripped off the honeysuckle along the fence rows. Young field rabbits played near the road. The morning temperature cooled, hinting of the coming winter, but it faded by ten o’clock and turned hot by noon.
Bully spent a fitful night and Alice Fae never slept. Doc Grasson instructed her to bathe the wound with some god-awful concoction every two hours. Alice Fae dozed off on the sofa until, she heard Rover and the engine of the Diamond T. She shook the sleep off and gazed out the window. Jarvis and Cleo, field hands sent by Miss Lillian, approached the porch. Alice Fae met them at the door.
“Miss Alice Fae, Miss Lillian sent us over to help you and Mr. Bully move.”
“Move! Jarvis, what are you talking about? And put your hat back on your head!”
“Miss Alice, I don’t know nothing except Miss Lillian told us to be here at daylight and hep you and Mr. Bully move over to the Vinson place.”
“The Vinson place! No one has lived in that shack for years. It’s a dump!”
“Look, Miss Alice, we don’t want no trouble. She told me and Cleo to help y’all move and we gotta help y’all move. We don’t want to get on Miss Lillian’s bad side.”
Alice Fae let them in, and they dismantled her world right before her eyes. Within two hours, trip after trip, to the truck, they transformed the “little house” into an empty box. Bully was oblivious.
“Jarvis, please be careful with that dresser. It was my mamma’s.”
“Yes, we being as careful as a mamma cow with her newborn.” The dresser crashed into the truck with Alice Fae’s other possessions. The last two pieces of furniture were Jessie and Bully’s bed.
“Miss Alice, we got to move and in a hurry. We shoulda been in them fields an hour ago. Miss Lillian drove down them rows of nigger shacks, yestiddy late, blowing that horn and shooting that pistol in the air, screaming and hollering. She said everybody better be picking cotton when that sun came up. The party is over, Miss Alice Fae. We gotta go.”
Alice entered the empty room where Jessie slept.
“Honey, honey,” She nudged Jessie. “Sweetie, you got to wake up. We got to go for a ride.”
Jessie brushed the sleep from his eyes. He reached up and gave her a hug.
“Come on, now. Get your clothes on. Put your old ones on, honey. You don’t have to go to school today.”
Jessie jumped out of his bed and grinned. “Mamma, where’s the furniture?”
“Honey, we got to move. It’s in the Diamond T out in the front yard. Just get your clothes on and don’t ask questions.”
“Mamma, how’s daddy’s foot?”
“I hope it’s okay, Jessie. I don’t know for sure. Now, no more questions.” She approached Bully. “Wake up, Bully, I need you to wake up.”
Bully muttered something inaudible and appeared semi-conscious. The steady stream of morphine from Doc Grasson had worked. Alice Fae instructed Jarvis and Cleo to load Bully into the front seat of the Diamond T. She squeezed in next to Bully’s limp body. His head fell on her shoulder. Jessie and Cleo straddled the giant teardrop headlights, which set on the fenders of the Diamond T. Rover jumped off the porch and landed on Alice Fae’s mamma’s dresser. The Diamond T. left the manager’s house and drove to the Vinson place.
Rumors flew at the Jug Fork general store after Bully got out of jail. Old, worn out men sat around checkers and domino tables discussing politics, current events, the weather, and other people’s business. This was a good day for gossip. A small shower developed and people, rescued from the fields, trickled in replenishing the pipeline with new information and hearsay.
Jarvis stopped by to fix a flat tire. He hunkered over the slick tire. Sweat dripped off his nose and fell to the dusty rim. His Prince Albert tobacco kept falling out of his bib overalls. He was in a foul mood. Harold Pepper, one of the regular fixtures on the front porch of the Jug Fork store. He could glean information with the best of them.
Harold always opened with a statement.
“Jarvis, I hear Bully ran into a little bad luck and hurt his foot.”
“Where did you hear that?” Jarvis always replied with a question.
“Man rode through on a horse saying he heard it.,” Harold said, bringing out his knight.
“What color horse was it?” Jarvis brought out his knight, too.
“Folks down at the church said they heard the same thing. Even heard the preacher comment on it,” Harold said, bringing out his bishop.
“That preacher hasn’t listened to our preacher, has he?” Jarvis responded with his bishop.
“Jarvis, they said even Miss Lillian commented on Bully’s accident over the party line the other day.” Harold responded with his queen amid mounting frustration.
“Have you asked Miss Lillian your own self?” Jarvis played his queen.
“Shit, Jarvis! You’re ‘bout as much fun as that damn blind dog that my wife won’t let me shoot.”
Jarvis grinned.
Stalemate.
Bully woke the following morning disoriented and in excruciating pain.
“Alice Fae! Alice Fae! Damn it! I’m dying!”
Rover heard the commotio
n and ambled in the front door.
He buried his nose into Bully’s crotch.
“Rover knock it off! I’m dying! Where are you, Alice Fae?”
If Rover could have talked, he would have told Bully that Miss Lillian sent one of the field hands for Alice Fae. Miss Francina had a ton of laundry and besides, Alice Fae hadn’t worked the previous afternoon.
Bully panned the room: cardboard boxes nailed to the walls, the ceiling fallen in, vines grew through broken windowpanes, and bricks fell from the fireplace into a heap. Bully looked down and noticed the dusty earth between wide cracks in the flooring.
Bully sank back into the old couch. The pain took away any initiative to give a damn, when in walked Willard.
“Nice place y’all got here, Bully.” Willard took a long slow drink of Wild Cat whiskey from a pint Mason jar, careful to avoid a chip in its lip.
Now Willard was… different. He was long and lanky, his jeans hung, and his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing his hairless chest and protruding ribs. He had dish water blond hair. His two front teeth were missing, and he wore an ankle length blue coat, winter or summer.
“Where the hell am I, Willard?” Bully got back to his original question.
“Peers to me, you’ve been demoted and rel-i-gated to an outpost on the far fringes of Miss Lillian’s vast empire, son.”
“Cut the crap, Willard! Where am I?”
“Well, let’s say… it’s not the Ritz.” He held his sides and chuckled.
“Willard!”
“The Vinson place.”
“The Vinson place! Jesus Christ!”
Bully tried to kick a magazine rack with his good foot.
“Give me a drink of whatever your drinking!”
“You man enough to handle it?”
“I’ll drink you under the table any day, you toothless asshole!” Bully yelled, taking the Mason jar. Bully leaned forward when his eye caught a bright glint in Willard’s mouth.
Mud Creek Page 3