The Blackstone Commentaries

by Rob Riggan

  I guess I wasn’t trying hard enough that first night up on the mountain, he thought. Maybe it’s true, I’ve never really wanted to try with this Carver thing. It was luck, running into Lester last night, and I didn’t even see it. I swear I haven’t been thinking clearly of late or Lester would have occurred to me before I saw him.

  He was heading north now. Pinetown was unincorporated, so there was no sign, only a solitary trailer, then another stuck in a half-cut clearing, stumps jutting up through the wild grass, a junked car or two, then a cabin or two, several small houses, some painted, some not. Here and there, a cow appeared, and chickens running free, and out of sight probably some roosters especially well cared for. He saw the concrete-block school from before integration—it was a community hall now—then the small crossroads store with its gas pump. Black men in overalls and raincoats stood on the porch of the store watching his car splash by, every man, woman and child in that settlement knowing his car, knowing him. He’d appeared there maybe a couple of dozen times in the seven-plus years of his tenure, and almost all of those appearances had been at night in a sea of red and blue lights.

  Like the mist, the silence of Pinetown was tangible, a barrier. Only it is my world, or is supposed to be, he thought, regretting the feeling of being an alien anywhere in his county, of not really knowing any portion of his constituency. He couldn’t kid himself; he knew enough to know what he didn’t know, especially here, which was why he was alone. Usually when he had doubts, he went alone. He needed a quietness, a heightened awareness if he were to find out anything at all. He didn’t need anyone from his world butting in with their own ideas, compounding the problem of being here, though that certainly wasn’t Eddie’s way. But two white men with badges in Pinetown were by definition intimidation. Also, there might be the appearance that he needed support, that he was afraid to come here alone; that’s just what he didn’t need.

  The trailer was not new, unlike the black Chevrolet Impala parked in front. The metal siding was lifting in places along the frame, and streaks of rust slid down the walls from the roof. The ground around it, what might have been a yard, was a moonscape of roiled puddles and thick, red slime that trailed up the homemade wooden steps to the main door. A lean-to of rough, weathered boards and a tin roof had been built a little way off to one side, the front of it a small, open enclosure made of the same weathered, rain-darkened boards. Hogs, he thought, catching the smell. A tricycle lay on its side, partially buried in the mud.

  Dugan climbed only the first step before he reached up and tapped on the metal door. The metal seemed to swallow the hammering of his knuckles, and with the drumming of the rain he wasn’t certain he’d made any noise at all. He glanced down the lane about a quarter-mile toward a huge, green Quonset hut out in the scrub and brush, the only one in the county, then hammered on the metal again, hard enough so his knuckles hurt. He hadn’t seen any light at the windows, but that didn’t mean anything. Everybody knew by now he was here, probably knew ten minutes before he even showed up.

  He was about to knock again when the door opened and he found himself looking up at a very young woman. Her skin was light brown, almost yellow, her eyes large and imbued with a palpable stillness. She was wearing a faded yellow dress that was too small for her, so too much of her calves showed, but her legs were pretty. She was barefoot and looked to be about fifteen, but he knew she was at least three years older than that. One man had already died over her.

  “Sheriff?”

  “I’m looking for Natty, Miss Tolbert.” He gazed through the rain cascading off the roof at the wide, impassive face with its broad nose and large, sleepy hazel eyes.

  A hand still on the door, not exactly blocking it, she turned and said something into the gloom of the trailer. Then she turned the impassive face with its sleepy eyes on him once more. My God, what’s she thinking, or is she? What do you think when you live here? he wondered. But she moved aside, swinging the door wide for him. He climbed the last two steps and entered, instinctively ducking his head. He removed his hat—his Stetson, no derby nonsense out here, even though they might actually appreciate it, might even laugh with it more than at it. Life should be entertainment. Is, he thought, caught off guard by this sudden reflection. Such thoughts usually came after the job.

  He let his eyes focus. It was all he could do to keep his own expression impassive in the closeness of the trailer and its smell of stale beer and sweat and diapers and God knew what else. “Natty,” he managed, nodding to one of two men seated at a metal table in the nose of the trailer. Except for the white, sleeveless undershirt on Natty, both were in silhouette against the mist showing bright through the windows of the unlit room. He knew the other man, too, and swallowed his surprise. Nothing should surprise me here, he thought, because I don’t know anything.

  “Sheriff Dugan,” Nathaniel Jefferson “Natty” Moon replied, a fatuous smile breaking onto the smooth, full face with its look of timeless simplicity. Natty, known for an easy laugh, was a heavy man shaped like a bell buoy with a round, bald head. He exuded an air of pliant harmlessness and vulnerability, if not innocence. “You know my cousin Elbert here.” The fixed smile was not quite obsequious.

  Nothing in the other man moved. “Elbert,” Dugan said, turning to the other man, who did not smile or speak or make any gesture of recognition, the bony face with its hollow cheeks and its mouth that protruded almost beyond his nose seemingly incapable of a smile. He couldn’t acknowledge me if he wanted to—it goes against expectations. Dugan recalled his first still raid over seven years ago, the one that made him famous overnight, cinched his hold on the office as a man of action. The next day, he had appeared in a huge picture on the front page of the newspaper pointing a shotgun at the head of a moonshiner whose jaw he’d just broken. The man had swung a rifle on him, but not fast enough. How sweet that had been. And those first few months and years. I silenced the doubters. On that same raid, his flashlight had found Elbert standing sinewy and motionless against the trunk of a huge oak tree, red eyed and fierce but, like a cornered lion, aloof as well, not a shred of fear or flight on his countenance, just contempt for everything that was happening at his feet. That big wood building out behind Elbert’s cabin had mysteriously burned down a few days later, before Dugan could find the time to find out what it was all about. He wouldn’t even have been looking except for that raid, since white and black moonshiners didn’t usually mix. He recalled Elbert in a pair of black knee-high rubber farm boots climbing stiffly down off his porch the day after the fire to meet him, his face the color of the still-smoking ruins a few yards away. The look he gave Dugan all but told him he’d burned it himself. Go the hell ahead and find out what you think you can, he seemed to say, though he never spoke a word, just nodded when Dugan addressed him and grunted to some yes-or-no questions.

  Dugan hadn’t been angry then, maybe put out a bit because his nascent feelings of power had been successfully challenged so soon, and from an unexpected quarter. He hadn’t been angry the night of the raid either, and in fact had never found himself really angry with Elbert at all. Or with most other people he encountered, for that matter, Skinner being a sudden but real and imponderable exception. To Dugan, Elbert was the yard boss to whom his uncle and the other miners used to bring their coal; only the skin color differed. That man’s eyes had been murderous, if not contemptuous—it wasn’t personal. On the other hand, Elbert loved contempt, loved to use it. But the rest felt the same, the aura of imperturbable, brutish silence. There, standing in the trailer, Dugan suddenly found himself back in Alabama, a child standing outside a chain-link fence watching the end of a black coal car so huge it seemed inconceivable that one, much less an entire train of them, might be filled from the scratchings of the enclosing hillsides. He watched the car creep up the single track toward him like death. This is Elbert, he reminded himself. I’m here, not there.

  Elbert and Natty had gotten into fights from time to time with a rumored viciousness totally
possible in the one but, if one went by appearances, defying credulity in the other. So far, neither had managed to kill the other, though Dugan was still certain that was the way it would end. And they were both screwing, or had at different times screwed, Lonnie Tolbert, the girl behind him—who had at least two children by one or the other, or both, to prove it—and had been screwing her from a time well before she was of legal age, though consent was a whole other matter. But he never really knew what these people were up to. They sure as hell aren’t going to tell me, he thought, then caught himself the way he wouldn’t have dreamed of just a few years earlier. If I don’t know, it’s my failure, too.

  Natty had done a night or two in jail over the years, but he always looked round and soft and smiley, always well fed and respectful. Elbert had done hard time not only in Alabama, it turned out, but in Texas as well. There was something about Elbert, whether it was natural miserableness or pure hate, that knew no bounds, which said a lot about Natty, the fact he was still alive, still overseeing that Quonset hut and the gambling there after all these years, and both men still laying claim to Lonnie.

  “Sheriff?” Natty again, the formalities over.

  “That shooting up on the mountain in late April, Natty, remember?”

  The two men at the table, faces blank, continued to look at Dugan, who was still standing, filling the space in front of the door, hat in hand, never invited to sit nor expecting to be, the water dripping off his slicker onto the crumbling linoleum. Elbert lifted his beer bottle, took a swig, then replaced it, magnifying the silence and the waiting.

  “What shootin’?”

  “It was in the paper. Family in a car. Paper didn’t say it, but the car looked like Billy Gaius Ford’s.”

  Still the closed looks, though Elbert’s wasn’t so much closed or blank as disdainful. Dugan should know better, it seemed to say, which in a way, Dugan realized, was a backhanded compliment.

  “Don’t remember no shootin’ like that.” Natty again. “Never heard nothing down here.”

  “Dr. Pemberton, the county commissioner, is being charged as an accessory.” He saw just a twitch of Natty’s left eye and knew Natty knew.

  “Nobody from Pinetown would be up there, sheriff,” Natty insisted, winning a quick frown from his cousin.

  “No, I think you’re right about that,” Dugan said agreeably. Then the silence landed on them again. It was the silence and the waiting that always felt so goddamn interminable and fruitless. But you had to do it. There had to be some mutual participation or you’d never get anywhere, which you often didn’t anyhow, especially here. Elbert’s presence didn’t make it any easier, and Dugan was aware of the woman behind him somewhere, too, standing silent and watching, seeing men be men and knowing she had no place in this shit and probably no desire to be here unless to stir it a bit more, but in all likelihood, even that wouldn’t be conscious. Just watching, maybe even enjoying it like TV, or a cockfight, but not so any man could tell unless she wanted it known. He controlled an urge to shudder.

  Then a voice, deep and froglike, entered the silence, rather shoved it aside so that Dugan again had to control his surprise. “No niggers up there, and you say you know it, then why come here, Pompeii?”

  No one ever called him that! Most, if they ever knew his middle name, didn’t remember it. His father had gotten the spelling wrong in the first place, confusing a buried city with a man, but you couldn’t tell him that, his uncle had told Charlie years later: “ ‘Not a city buried by an eruption, dammit, but a general right up there with Caesar. And that’s how you spell it, by God!’ ” Elbert, behind his mocking voice, was probing, utterly unafraid, seeking a reaction, one to which he could respond freely, even righteously, let himself go without caring what the consequence would be. Hell, he might even kill Dugan if he could. Elbert’s the most dangerous man in this county, Dugan said to himself. Just he’s black, so his range is limited. Long as he’s here, I’m probably wasting my time.

  “I heard, Natty, that the occupants of that car that did the shooting, or some of them, were down here earlier that night, down at your Quonset hut.” He chose to ignore Elbert entirely. “A couple of them women, blond, wild types. Billy Ford was here, too, I heard.”

  Natty chuckled. “Sheriff, you been hearing some stuff. Ain’t nothin’ in my Quonset hut ’cept some old furniture. Party now and then. Can’t keep folks out.”

  “That little fracas out here a couple of Saturdays ago, a man up at the hospital with a knife wound, him saying it was all a misunderstanding? A little card playing on a felt-top table, Natty? Maybe some whiskey, a couple of men with guns ought not to be carrying, being convicted felons? Gaius Ford one, maybe? Have I got to assign a couple of men out here, check cars?”

  Natty was listening hard as the silence fell once more. Dugan became aware of the woman, over in the corner by the sink now, arms folded over her breasts, breathing that silence. Dugan let it run on a little longer, then glanced at his watch. “I heard this morning that a fire chief’s wife was out here that night, too, along with a certain Monte Carlo.” He put his Stetson on again and reached for the door handle. “I’d sure like a little tour of your Quonset there someday, Natty. I’ve never seen it in daylight.” He let Natty give a little laugh of appreciation.

  “Anytime, Sheriff Dugan.”

  Dugan gave a responding smile. I could dive headfirst into this bullshit and never find bottom. Anyhow, he was totally off base, had no grounds without a warrant unless he asked. He knew Elbert knew it, too, and probably would say something if it came to that, and Natty, too, though he didn’t know how Natty would react if he thought Dugan was serious. But they all knew he wasn’t. He didn’t make mistakes like that. At least not yet.

  The woman was beside him now, taking command of the door handle once again.

  “I hear that’s some monkey you got up there at the fair,” Natty said suddenly, louder, showing real interest. He wouldn’t be at the fair, Dugan knew. None of them would, despite all the integration. Too much chance for things to get out of hand. There’s law, and there’s reality. In the old days, when it was about livestock and tractors and food and harvesting and horse and pig racing, back before white women started taking their clothes off under a tent for all those people who already had lost their shirts on the Midway, black people were there, too, and had a good time. “That Puma, he’s one strong man, sheriff. I’d put my money on him.”

  Dugan touched his hat. As he stepped down into the rain, he felt the woman’s stillness caress him, and then he did shudder.

  The afternoon turned beautiful beyond Dugan’s office window, warm and smelling lush and pungent, like he imagined the women walking down the sidewalk in their sleeveless dresses did. It was rare, and unsettling, when his desires floated away from Dru like that. The ringing of the phone jarred him.

  The voice was hesitant, muffled for a moment as though turning away, still deciding, like someone trying not to cry. Dugan heard a car pass in the background, and then another a few moments later, but that was all, other than the faint crow of a rooster. When the man finally came on again, he sounded not upset so much as a little offended, hurt by the lack of respect with which he’d been treated, forced to this call. Not that circumstances would have let it be otherwise. Natty’s voice seemed to come out of the vanished rain. “Gaius, he was at my Quonset early, but he gone. He was gone awhile before they went.”

  “Who were they?”

  “I thinks that’s when the doctor went. Anyhow, one of them blond girls, a Mary Stacy, she come round now and then from over Shelby way.”

  “Did you see the car?”

  “Nossir.” Then the silence again, the waiting. Wanting the respect back.

  Nothing racial, or personal, Dugan thought. If I have to force it out, you lose something, that’s all. Everyone does. “Thank you,” Dugan said.

  XVIII

  Loretta

  April seemed so long ago. All the time since then had slowed to a craw
l and was making everything small and ridiculous. The tears were coming again, and Loretta knew the anger wouldn’t be far behind.

  Not here, she told herself. But I’m tired all the time now, it seems. I can’t get enough sleep, and the anger, it’s never going away. Every time my older one wakes screaming in her bed and I run to her room, I want to scream, too.

  But this Mary Stacy, it doesn’t seem fair; she looks worse than ordinary. She should be beautiful, ravishing, someone to make men do crazy things like almost kill my family! Oh, her hair’s blond, but bleached and dry looking like old straw, like it isn’t something a man would want to muss. And her skin’s unhealthy, and her lipstick’s too red. What on earth does she do to men?

  Loretta opened her eyes and found she was still in the courtroom, sitting up near one of the high windows overlooking the bar and bench and virtually everything else, the same place she and Danny had sat the last time they were here, the same hot sun coming through the windows to make her drowsy. She could see something like a liver wart on top of the judge’s bald head, and it made him seem fragile; it made everything seem fragile and pointless. She looked at Mary Stacy sitting by herself down there on the bottom row near the east doors that were open on screen doors and the balcony. She could look all she wanted because Mary Stacy would have to turn around and look up to see her looking, and wouldn’t, she felt certain. Mary Stacy looked awkward and shy, lonely down there, like she was seeing daylight for the first time, things as they really were, a whole other world than the nighttime one she’d been living in. And maybe she was scared. Loretta wondered. Dugan could do that to you without intending to be mean at all. It was the way he carried himself and all he stood for. She’d felt it that last time in his office, his frustration at not being able to do more, his trying, even wishing, not to be what he was.

  But that woman had to know what life was! Sheriff Dugan had told Loretta and Danny she had two little boys and lived in something not much more than a shack with no running water somewhere outside Shelby, and no regular man around. For a moment, Loretta felt sorry for her, but only for a moment because it made her lose her anger and threatened her with acquiescence, which was what she was sure everyone wanted, especially him. Just give up; it’s not worth the effort. Everything will go back to the way it was. No. It wasn’t just the girls, or the car, or that April night anymore, the windows shattered and her babies screaming and those taillights weaving down the mountain out of sight. No, it went much deeper than that now, and this Stacy woman was in that other car.