The Sinner in Mississippi

by D L Lane

  “I’m sure their account will show a credit now, correct?” Mr. King asked.

  Shoving the money into his apron pocket with one hand, he scribbled across his ledger with the other before showing it to Mr. King, who studied the paper and nodded. “Good.”

  I wasn’t sure what to do.

  Stay?

  Run?

  It seemed without doing anything but accepting a ride; I had come to owe a debt of my own. And Mr. King might not realize it, but tongues would waggle, starting with Harlow’s happily spreading the word throughout the parish on the subject of my visit today and what the tycoon did.

  “All taken care of, Ms. Singleton,” he said, glancing down at me, handing me one of the bottles he had. “I hope you like this?”

  “Sure,” I said, switching my blue change purse to my other hand, the cold glass soothing on my sore palm.

  That’s when I noticed Mr. King had already removed the bottle tops.

  It wasn’t food, but it was something, so I took a drink, closing my eyes, allowing the sensation to fill my mouth before swallowing. It had been so long since I last tasted a cola I’d almost forgotten the burn of goodness going ‘down the hatch’ as Mama would have said.

  “Mr. Brown. I’ll send Charles in to collect Ms. Singleton’s purchases.”

  “I’ll have them ready, Mr. King, sir.”

  When I opened my eyes, big ol’ Harlow was placing the beers and tobacco into a brown sack with care.

  “Charles will load your things into the automobile,” Mr. King said to me. “You will enjoy your beverage, and I will return you home safe and sound, free of heatstroke.”

  There he went again, using flashy words—beverage, but what captured my notice was his factual way of speaking, daring me to argue the matter.

  Thing was, my tummy decided it was happier than a possum eatin’ a sweet tater by the arrival of the sugary drink for me to argue anyway, so after being escorted out just as I’d been accompanied in, I re-took my earlier position in the backseat of the Duesenberg.

  Once settled, I crossed my ankles and placed my change purse on my lap, hoping it was the respectable thing to do.

  “I must inquire.” Mr. King’s smooth voice drew my gaze to him. “What happened to your knees?”

  Hoping to cover the damage, I tugged the bottom edge of my dress down, even though he’d already seen the marks. “I fell.”

  “How?”

  “I’m clumsy.” I tightened my grip around the bottle, the sting in my palm causing me to grimace.

  “Are you in pain?”

  “When I fell, I got a splinter in my hand.”

  He reached for me. “Let me see.”

  I shook my head. “No. I already yanked it out. I’ll be fine.”

  When he rested his palm on his thigh, the ring on his pinky finger became highlighted by the sun streaming in the side window, making the blood-red stone shine. “What caused your fall?”

  “I tripped.”

  “Please, Mississippi. Look at me.”

  I took a breath and met his eyes, no need to put off the issue bouncing around in my thoughts. “Why did you pay off my debts with Harlow?”

  Mr. King’s eyebrows rose. “I wished to.”

  “Nobody does something for someone without wanting something in return.” I locked my gaze with his. “So, what do you want from me?”

  “Nothing but the joy of your company,” he said.

  Snorting, I mumbled to myself, “The joy of my company.”

  “Yes...and perhaps a bit more of your honesty.”

  “Well, here’s some. What you did at Harlow’s started the gossip chain, and speculations ’bout you and me will spread. So prepare yourself for a whole lot of nasty.”

  He waved a hand as if it were no big deal. “Let them talk. But, that’s not what I meant by more of your honesty.”

  “What did you mean then?”

  “I would like to know the truth of how you sustained two scuffed knees?”

  ‘Sustained’ another word to look up I decided as I blew a breath from between my teeth. “Mr. King. It’s been my experience that no one wants to hear the truth.”

  His brows almost squished together. “Why would you say that?”

  “The truth makes people uncomfortable. They want to keep their comfort. Not knowing does wonders for the conscience. It’s much cozier that way, don’t you think?”

  With a shake of his head, he said, “I’m unsure I understand.”

  “Peace of mind. Lack of guilt. Having those things make it easier to sleep at night, right?”

  “I imagine so, but I’m still not quite following you.”

  “I think the truth is what we make of it. And I already told you, I fell. Does it really matter how?”

  “It matters to me.”

  The softness in his voice forced me to consider, Is he for real?

  That lonely little girl in me, the one who wanted someone to look at her as if she wasn’t an outcast, as if she mattered and her life was meaningful, wanted to believe he meant what he said—to trust him—while the other part of me forced to grow up too fast yelled, Don’t be stupid, Sippi!

  But while those different parts discussed the matter, the curious side of me won out. “So if I told you I fell ’cause someone tripped me, what would you ask next?”

  “I would inquire as to why would anyone do such a thing?”

  I shrugged. “Who knows why. Meanness, perhaps.”

  “Meanness?” The widening of his eyes screamed disbelief.

  “Surely, you know ’bout meanness, Mr. King.”

  “I do know a thing or two,” he confirmed, “but why would anyone want to be mean to you?”

  I peered out my window. “Why is the sky blue?”

  “Mmm...”

  It was silent for a blessed second, giving me time to gather my thoughts.

  “If I asked who tripped you, Mississippi, would you tell me?”

  Without looking in his direction, I answered his question with one of my own. “If I asked you to drop the subject, Mr. King, would you?”

  “Are you asking?”

  I glanced over at him—the slant in which he’d turned, shadowing one side of his face. “I am.”

  “Then, for now,” he said, “I have no choice but to do what you ask.”

  “Thank you.”

  He dipped his head. “May I make another observation regarding your theory on the truth?”

  I sighed. “I suppose if you must.”

  His lips twitched. “You are a breath of fresh air.”

  “Okay,” I said, thinking all the sweatin’ I’d been doing proved him a liar.

  He stared at me, grinning for a second before becoming serious. “But, back to my observation. Not everyone is afraid of the truth when they hear it, Ms. Singleton, and you are far too young to be so cynical.”

  I smoothed my hand over my lap. “I’ll think on your theory.”

  He chuckled. “You do that.”

  I wondered...“Just how young do you think I am?”

  “I wouldn’t dare presume a lady’s age.”

  “But you ‘dare to presume’ I’m too young?”

  That earned me a full smile. “I guess you’ve got me on that one.”

  “Well, I haven’t been ‘young’ since the day my mama died,” I admitted.

  “I’m sorry your mother has passed,” he said, with what I wanted to believe was with sincerity. “Losing someone close to you is difficult, but a mother? Well, that must be hard.”

  “I miss her every day of my life, but she’s in a much better place now.”

  “If there is such a place, I’m sure your mother is there.”

  “You don’t believe in heaven, do you?” I asked, suspecting his earlier comment was an attempt to console me.

  “It is a comforting thought.”

  “So if there’s no heaven, then you’re saying there’s no God?” I kept my gaze on the man.

  “I take it you th
ink so.”

  “Oh, I know so, but...”

  He turned a little more in his seat, fully facing me. “Don’t leave me hanging. Go on and finish your thought.”

  “It’s just, Him and me...” I nibbled on my bottom lip. “Let’s just say, we aren’t on speakin’ terms at the moment.”

  Mr. King’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened. “I must confess, I haven’t given the subject of heaven or a greater power much deliberation.”

  “Well”—I twisted around, looking back out the window—“maybe you should think on it.”

  “You are quite right, Ms. Singleton. I shall take the matter under serious consideration.”

  “You do that,” I said, not removing my gaze from the scenery passing by outside. “And it’s Mississippi.”

  His low chuckle struck the back of my head, puffs of breath ruffling strands of my long hair.

  Chapter Four

  A daughter for a debt

  I know Mr. King said he knew my family, but when the Duesenberg curved up my drive without any ‘turn here’ instruction on my part, I had no doubt he’d been tellin’ the gospel truth. He knew right where we lived. Although, there wasn’t any time to dwell on the subject since two boys stood, toe-to-toe, engaged in a fistfight, front and center, taking my gaze in their direction. And, of course, there was Daddy, Danny Joe, and the others, clapping and cheering from the porch, their hoots and hollers seeping through the metal and glass of the car we were in.

  Alistair Blevins and Gator were trading punches.

  When the kicking started, Alistair threw a fancy uppercut, connecting with Gator’s jaw—the boy falling like fresh-chopped timber. One would suspect, him being sprawled out on the ground, that was the end of it, but mean ol’ Alistair jumped on Gator like a duck on a Junebug and started beating the stuffing out of him.

  Blood flew!

  Mr. King couldn’t believe the goings-on since he muttered, “What in the world?”

  Seeing such events at my home didn’t surprise me—I’d been witness to it all before, but I imagined such a brutal sight was a shock to him.

  My heart sank.

  Even though none of what was happening in the yard was my fault, I still felt the need to say, “I’m sorry.” And I meant it.

  My kind rescuer and escort looked at me, grim lines taking up space on his forehead. “Stay here.”

  The man, bless him, thought he was somehow protecting me, though he needn’t bother. I was ready to tell him so when he scrambled out of the car.

  An instant later, I tossed my change purse and empty bottle and started to open my door when Charles said, “Mr. King will be upset if you step foot out of this vehicle,” halting my progress.

  Door half open and ready to hurry out, I glanced at the man twisted in his seat, staring at me, mouth turned down.

  “Mr. King shouldn’t get involved,” I said with certainty.

  He shook his dark-haired head. “I’m afraid it’s way too late.”

  That’s when my daddy’s voice floated to me. “If ya come to collect, I’m gonna need a little more time.”

  Not caring who got upset, I scurried out of the car, intent on getting Mr. King out of there and hopefully in one piece.

  “Daddy,” I called, keeping my attention fixed on him, only heading toward the man I assumed was ready to break up the fight.

  Gray eyes shifted, tracking me, and then Daddy smiled. “Sippi!”

  I stutter-stepped to a stop, puzzled. In all my days, not once had I seen my daddy crack so much as a grin, let alone glad to see me.

  “Mississippi,” Mr. King said, stepping to where I stood, baffled, wondering if my mind was playing tricks on me, but no, Daddy Bruce did know how to smile. “I told you to stay put.”

  Glancing up at him, I blinked, my thoughts returning to the issue at hand. His foolish belief he could shelter me from reality would get him hurt.

  I couldn’t allow it.

  “You should leave,” I said under my breath, eyes narrowing, but Daddy heard me.

  “Aw...come now, Sippi.” He stepped off the porch, ambling over. “Mr. King has only just arrived. Might as well be hospitable.”

  Everything came to a stop. The one-sided-fight, the commotion my brother and the boys had been making. Even the breeze ceased to exist. It was so quiet, I swear the tha-thump, tha-thump of my racing heart could be heard by one-and-all as Mr. King and my daddy eyed each other.

  When the echo of a car door closing came from behind us, Daddy Bruce snapped his fingers. “Boys, help Gator get cleaned up and get him home!”

  Without a grumble, they gathered him—the clacking screen door of the house indicating their exit. Though I was under no illusion, they’d be back, sticking their noses into things where they didn’t belong.

  With a quick peek over my shoulder, Charles stood a few steps from the shiny black car, making his presence known, but he didn’t move. Though a hefty man, I suspected if need be, he’d waste no time getting to Mr. King’s side.

  While having a backup should have been one less fear, it wasn’t. I had firsthand knowledge when it came to the cruelty of my daddy, Danny Joe, and his awful friends, knowing the cultured man by me, and his driver was outnumbered.

  Hand lifted, ready to tug Mr. King’s arm, dragging him off if I had to, I froze, hearing, “I heard you had an unexpected visitor, Bruce.” Dudley McCoy came out of the house, coming to the top step.

  All the blood left my face, and I swayed. He was meaner than a rabid dog. I had a scar on the side of my forearm, courtesy of the blazing orange tip of his cigarette, to prove it.

  “Tell me,” Dudley said. “What would bring an esteemed gentleman such as yourself out this way, Mr. King?”

  That wasn’t good, especially when my daddy smirked like the weathered gargoyle perched on top of the jailhouse and crossed his arms.

  “Mr. King,” I said, “you really should—”

  “Hush,” Daddy hissed at me, heartlessness sparking in his eyes. “Let the men-folk talk.”

  My misguided protector placed his hand on my shoulder, squeezing me. “It’s all right, Mississippi.”

  Glancing up, I pleaded with my eyes. No, it’s not. You need to go before things get out of hand.

  “Funny thing,” Daddy said, pulling my gaze to him. “Who knew ya were acquainted with my daughter, Mr. King?”

  “The two of them seem quite cozy.” Dudley stepped off the porch and over to the three of us as if he was on a Sunday stroll.

  “Sure looks like it,” my daddy agreed. “Too cozy I’m a-thinkin’.”

  “He gave me a ride,” I said. “We only just met.”

  Daddy’s glare came at me, lip snarling. “Was I talkin’ to ya?”

  I swallowed. “No, but I—”

  “Then shut up!”

  “Mr. Singleton,” Mr. King said, sternly. “There is no need to speak to your daughter that way.”

  “She’s mine. I’ll speak to her any way I wish.”

  Dudley cackled.

  “I would think,” Mr. King said, “as your flesh and blood, you would show some respect, not only how you speak to her, but also refraining from taking part in unfounded implications. Mississippi is simply correct in telling you; I gave her a ride. There’s nothing untoward here. It’s much too hot for man or beast to be walking such a distance.”

  “So that’s the way of it, huh?”

  Daddy had been smartin’ off, but Mr. King took it in stride. “It is, Mr. Singleton.”

  “I figure,” Dudley tossed in, “you protest too much, especially over someone you just met. Why should it matter to you how a man speaks to his kin?”

  “I’m simply pointing out, Mr. McCoy, such behavior toward Mississippi isn’t necessary or warranted.”

  So he also knows Dudley.

  Daddy held up a hand to stop the conversation, then pointed to Mr. King. “When it comes to me and my own, I’ll thank ya to mind your own dadgum business!”

  Thayer Drayton King smile
d wide as if he held the winning hand in one of those back-room games of poker my daddy loved. “It would seem you are my business, sir.”

  “Ah...now we get to the heart of the matter.” Daddy scratched his cheek. “Money, money, money.”

  “It’s the root of all evil.” Dudley shared a knowing look with my daddy before he stared back at Mr. King.

  “I already told ya I need more time.” Daddy shook his head. “I can’t give ya what I don’t have.”

  “Seems to me,” Dudley chimed in once again, “you have a golden opportunity here, Bruce.”

  “How’d-ya reckon?”

  “Simple. Mr. King appears to be smitten by your daughter.” His bushy eyebrows wiggled like a caterpillar on the move. “Let him take her. A daughter for a debt.”

  Everything in my body iced over, my ears the only thing working as “E-s-c-u-s-e m-e?” came from beside me.

  “Yes,” my daddy said, rubbing his hands together, “a daughter for a debt. She’s no use ’round here anyway.” He glanced my way, empty of all emotion. “Take her, and we’ll call it even.”

  “Have you two lost your wits suggesting such a thing?”

  Mr. King’s question was the last I paid any mind ’cause something in me thawed, and I took off like a frightened jackrabbit, running for the trees, not knowing where I’d go or what I’d do when I got there.

  Maybe Fawna-Leigh will take me in?

  “Mississippi!” my daddy yelled, “I’m-a gonna tan your worthless hide!”

  I didn’t dare look back; I could lose him in the thicket. So the tangle of bushes in the distance became my goal.

  “You can run, little mouse, but you can’t hide!” Dudley taunted.

  Not too far behind me, a commotion took place, and I pushed myself harder—heaving breaths, arms pumping, those church shoes I wore smack, smack, smacking the ground.

  You’re almost there, Sippi!

  Perhaps it was the crushing heat, the sugary drink I’d downed running out, and my food-deprived body kicking in that caused my head to spin. Or maybe, I just tripped over my own feet, but whatever it was, I went airborne, pretty sure the scream surrounding me was my own ’til I landed on my stomach with an oomph. My side burned like fire, and the bottom of my chin hit something with a head-rattling thwack before the world went away.