But Ellsworth didn’t respond. He had closed his eyes and already taken the fall that he took every night on his way to sleep. Most times it was either off one of the slate cliffs over on Copperas Mountain or from the sharply pitched roof of Jarvis Thacker’s three-story house, the biggest one in the township, but tonight it was into a black pit that seemed to have opened up at the bottom of the cellar steps just as he was heading for one of the wine barrels. Often the vividness of the plunge jerked him back to wakefulness for a minute or two, but not tonight. Trying to keep up with the two young men had worn him to a frazzle. Within a few minutes, he was dreaming that he was back in the cornfield swinging his knife while the colored boy who had passed through yesterday morning sat silently on a white-faced cow, watching him. He was wearing a metal pot on his head, and Ellsworth was singing a song at the top of his voice. Somehow he knew the words, even though it was one that he’d never heard before.
42
THAT SAME NIGHT, Sugar arrived at the bridge leading over into Kentucky. He walked through the tunnel in a soupy fog so thick he could barely see his hand in front of his swollen nose. The midnight air was chilly and damp. Coming out on the other side, he nearly ran straight into a group of white men seated around a campfire just a few feet from the railroad tracks. They were passing a bottle around and laughing at something that had just been said. One of them looked up and saw Sugar trying to slip past undetected and yelled at him to halt. Several leaped up and pointed shotguns and rifles at the dark figure half-crouched in the shadows at the edge of the firelight. “Shit, it’s just some nigger,” one of them said.
“Come over here, boy,” a rough voice commanded. There were at least a dozen men around the fire, and they all carried weapons of some sort, including a crossbow and an antique blunderbuss left over from the Pilgrim days. His chances of surviving a run for it, he calculated, were next to nil. He straightened up and walked over to them slowly. Saddles and bedrolls and other gear were scattered here and there. The smell of meat sizzling in a skillet wafted through the air, and he became aware of just how empty and worn-out his body had become in the week or so since Flora had kicked him out. This evening he had dined on a moldy melon and a handful of dried peas. His eyes searched out the bottle, and he watched a brown-toothed country boy stick the neck of it halfway down his throat and guzzle like he was drinking springwater.
“Where ye comin’ from?” an older man with a beard asked. He was barefoot and seated on a stool by the fire. An antique hat of some sort, adorned with a couple of long, dirty feathers, sat upon his head at a cocky angle.
“Across the way there,” Sugar answered nervously, pointing back toward Ohio.
“Where ye headed?”
“Shadesville. It’s over by—”
“We know where fuckin’ Shadesville is, nigger,” another man said.
“What was ye doin’ in Ohio?” the bearded man asked.
“Working,” Sugar said.
“Thieving’s more like it, Captain,” said a fattish boy named Bill Dolly. He had the soft, hairless skin and flushed, jiggling jowls of a child. The biggest disappointment of his life so far had been, in fact, his life so far; and like so many other white do-nothings, luckless simpletons, and paranoid crackpots, he was convinced that somehow the black race was the root cause of all his miserable failures. “I ain’t never seen one that didn’t like to steal.”
“What the hell happened to yer nose? Was ye in a fight?”
“No,” Sugar said. “A bee stung me.”
“Come closer,” Captain said. “Hayfield, show him that poster.”
As Sugar stepped into the full light of the fire, a man with a metal hook for a hand unfolded a dirty leaflet with his teeth and held it up to him. Though the drawings on the paper were crudely rendered at best, he immediately recognized the three cowboys he had encountered along the road. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Sugar said. He could make out only a few of the words, but he’d seen enough wanted posters in Detroit to figure out that someone was offering $5,500 for the bastards, dead or alive.
“What?” Captain said. “You saw them?”
“I sure did,” Sugar said. “They stole my hat and tried to kill me.” He took another look at the poster, then added, “Took all my money, too.”
Some of the men began talking excitedly among themselves and Captain raised his hand to silence them. “When?” he asked.
“Two days ago.”
“He’s a-lying, Captain,” Dolly said. “Them Jewetts don’t try to kill anyone. Shit, they even shot down one of them aeroplanes.” Several standing near him concurred with vague mumblings.
“No,” Sugar protested. “I swear.”
“Where would this have been?” Captain said.
“Outside a town called Meade. ’Bout forty mile or so north of here.”
“But that don’t make no sense,” a voice in the shadows said. “Why in the hell would someone want a nigger’s hat?”
“It was a nice hat,” Sugar said defensively.
“Lawd God, those sonsofbitches must be worse than we thought,” another said.
“Don’t believe it, boys,” said Dolly. “A nigger will lie when the truth fits better. They can’t help it. It’s in their blood.”
“I ain’t a-lying, I swear.”
“But just supposing,” said another man, a tobacco farmer by the name of Cloyd Atkins, “what he’s saying is true. Why, if’n it is, and they’re in Ohio, there’s no way we’ll ever catch them now.”
“I swear,” Sugar said. “They was the men on your paper.”
“Goddamn, Hershel, my wife’s gonna kill me if I come back empty-handed again,” a sour-smelling hog farmer in tattered bibs said under his breath to a lanky, hollow-eyed man standing beside him. He had followed Captain into action twice before after being promised a big payday, and twice he had returned to his wretched hovel poorer than when he left it.
A young man with a flat nose and hollowed cheeks that had been ravaged by the pox asked, trying to make his nasally voice sound as serious and respectful as possible, “What do you want us to do with him, sir?” He had been sitting on the log all evening spit-shining Captain’s boots and trimming the old man’s thick yellow toenails with a paring knife in an effort to gain favor, and he saw this as still yet another opportunity to demonstrate his undying allegiance.
The bearded leader glanced over at Sugar one more time, then returned his gaze to the fire, as if studying the crackling flames for an answer. Unfortunately, the nigger’s claim was liable to sabotage the rest of the outing if something wasn’t done to defuse it. Captain had convinced his men yesterday morning that the Jewett Gang would attempt to cross over the bridge any hour now, and they had been having a fine time drinking whiskey and telling tales, which, in his opinion, were two of the very best ways a man could spend his days. He didn’t really care one way or another if they caught the bandits, but he hated like hell to see the party come to an end or his authority be questioned. How he had come by this authority in the first place was a bit of a mystery, though he had allowed some to believe that he had been involved in the capture of several high-ranking chiefs during the last of the Indian Wars out west. In truth, he had never traveled any farther in that direction than Decatur, Illinois, his entire life, and had never seen a full-blooded redskin other than one he met doing a war dance on a table in a roadhouse somewhere in the Smoky Mountains for a free drink, let alone kill one with his bare teeth, which was how he had decided he was going to end the story he was telling just before the nigger showed up. Now, unless he thought of something fast, his hold over the men would be gone, except for maybe Bill Dolly and the pedicurist and one or two others. “Tie the lyin’ piece of shit up and throw him in the river,” he finally said.
Before Sugar could make a break for it, three of the men grabbed him and another secured his hands behind his back with a piece of cord. Everyone but Captain then gathered round and marched him out onto the bridge. The one in the lead
carried a torch and didn’t stop until he came to a place in the tunnel where several side boards had been removed. “Over here,” he said.
“Wait, fellers,” Sugar pleaded. “I swear to God on a stack of—”
“Hell, I can’t see a damn thing,” someone said, sticking his head through the gap and peering over the side. “You sure we out far enough for him to hit the water?”
“What difference does it make? He’ll be dead either way. If he don’t drown, the fuckin’ fall will kill him.”
“Captain specifically said in the river,” the toenail-trimmer pointed out.
“On a stack of Bibles,” the black man cried, “I swear—”
“Shut that sonofabitch up,” someone said, and a hard, bony fist popped out of the dark, smashing Sugar’s nose and making him see stars.
“Maybe we should castrate him first,” Bill Dolly suggested. “That’s how it’s done in certain circles.”
“There was nothing in the order about cutting his—” the toenail-trimmer started to say.
“No, let’s just get it over with,” the one with the lantern interrupted, and two men picked Sugar up and roughly shoved him headfirst through the opening. “I want to see how that story turns out ol’ Cap was telling.”
“Please, misters, please,” Sugar cried, as he dangled in the air. “I can’t swim.”
“Most niggers can’t,” he heard someone say, just as the men let go of his legs and he hurtled downward through the darkness.
“That’ll teach the black bastard,” Dolly said after they heard the splash.
As the men headed back to the campfire, Cloyd Atkins said to no one in particular, “But what if he was tellin’ the truth? I mean, if’n those Jewetts already got by us, we might as well—”
“Don’t worry about it,” another with ginger-colored hair said sharply. His name was Tom Fleming, and three weeks ago he had lost everything he owned, including his wife, with one roll of the dice in a stables outside of Lexington. The way he saw it now, his entire future depended on getting a cut of that Jewett reward money.
“Yeah,” Cloyd said, “but I got crops that—”
“Like I said, don’t worry about it,” Fleming repeated. “I’ve drunk whiskey with Captain a long time now. He’ll figure things out.”
“Look, Cloyd,” the man with the lantern said, “you think a man who fucked Geronimo in the ass is ever gonna be played the fool by those stupid Jewett brothers?”
“Well, I don’t know if I’d call them stupid exactly, Jim. I mean, they’ve been on the run for quite a while now and nobody’s—”
“They stole a nigger’s hat, didn’t they?” Fleming said angrily.
“But that don’t make sense. If they took his hat, then that means that boy really did see—”
Without another word, Fleming pulled his pistol out and jammed it under Cloyd’s chin. “You shut up about it right now or I’ll blow your goddamn head off and toss you over the side, too. Understand?”
The tobacco farmer tried to nod his head in agreement, but it was impossible with the gun barrel pressed against his throat. He cast a desperate look toward the man gripping the lantern and swallowed. “Sure, Tom, sure.”
“Ain’t no one going to ruin my chances of getting back my property, you hear me?”
“Yeah, Tom. Whatever you say.”
“You’re goddamn right,” Fleming said. “I’ll get her back if it’s the last thing I do.”
43
CHIMNEY WENT AT the corn cutting like a maniac, the promise of good times and women propelling him to get the job over and done with so they could leave. “That cousin of yours might not be the friendliest man in the world,” Ellsworth said to Cane, “but damn, he ain’t afraid of work, is he?” They were standing under a locust tree at the edge of the field, taking a break and watching him attack another row. Chimney wasn’t any bigger than Eddie, but that’s where the resemblance ended. Hell, Ellsworth thought, he didn’t even think Tuck Taylor could keep up with this one.
“No, sir, he ain’t,” Cane said. He looked down at the raw place the handle of the machete had rubbed into the meaty part of his right hand between the thumb and fingers, and grinned a little to himself. One thing for sure, there wouldn’t be a lawman or reporter in the country expecting to find the Jewett Gang harvesting a cornfield in southern Ohio. He wished he knew what the papers were saying about them. It had been a week since he’d seen a new one.
“No wonder he’s so skinny. How old is he anyway?”
“Hollis? Oh, he’s around eighteen,” Cane said a little warily. He took another drink of water from the jug and set it down on the ground, figured it best to change the subject. “Yeah,” he went on, “won’t be long and we’ll have this field whipped.”
“And a couple days ago I was ready to give up,” Ellsworth said. “If it hadn’t been for lettin’ Eula down, I probably would have. Makes a difference, havin’ a wife.”
“I expect so,” Cane said, recalling the way Pearl had gone off the rails after Lucille died. “What do ye think you’d have done if you hadn’t married?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess if I hadn’t met her, I’d have probably drunk myself to death. Had an uncle do that. But she keeps me in line. What about you? You got a woman?”
“Uh, no, sir,” Cane said. “Not yet anyway.” Christ, he hadn’t even kissed a girl, let alone done anything else with one. He thought about the newspaper article he had read about the ones who had been coming forth in little towns all over the South, extolling his romantic charms, the gentlemanly way he treated them, each claiming to be his one and only sweetheart. “A twentieth-century Lothario,” the reporter had called him.
“Well, you’re still young, but take my advice and don’t wait as long as I did to get hitched. I was thirty-four, and I wish to Christ I’d done it sooner.”
“Why’s that?”
“I guess I would have liked for her to’ve known me when I was at my best. Heck, when I was your age or thereabouts I screwed some gal seven times in one night, but by the time I met Eula, I couldn’t have done that for a thousand dollars.” Ellsworth thought about the time he was walking home from a church revival one rainy, windblown evening and saw Mrs. Sproat standing out in her yard under a pawpaw tree with an old slicker draped over her head, as if she were waiting just for him. He was nineteen at the time, living with his mother, trying to make a living for them on the fifteen acres his father had left them when he died. Mrs. Sproat asked him if he’d like to come in a spell to get out of the wet, and he, never having been in such a situation before, thought she just wanted to talk, her being a widow woman and probably feeling lonely on such a miserable evening. They hadn’t been inside the house more than two minutes when she started stripping off her long black dress. It scared the bejesus out of him, but he didn’t turn away from it. Though she was flabby and gray and a few years past her prime, it was all he could do to keep up with her. He’d shoot a load in her and roll over to get his breath; and she would lie there for a spell, and then start back up on him again with her hands and her lips and by the time the first cock crowed the next morning, he was so weak he couldn’t have split a bean pod open. He washed up good the next evening and went back to have another go at her, thinking that she considered him quite the stud, but when he presented himself at her door, she acted as if she didn’t even know him. He knew something wasn’t right, and so he went up the road a ways and circled around. It wasn’t fifteen minutes before he saw Gene Humbolt, a married man with five little ones at home, tie his coonhound to a fence post and sneak in the back. Ellsworth remembered that he’d hurt all the way home that night, but then woke up the next morning happy that he’d had his turn with her and glad that it was over with.
“Well, I’ll keep that in mind,” Cane said.
“Yes, sir,” Ellsworth said, watching Chimney start another row and still thinking about all the ways Mrs. Sproat had kept him going. “A few years makes a big difference in a man, I’ll tel
l ye that. Don’t matter who he is. So whatever you want to do, you best go ahead and do it before it’s too late.”
44
IN MEADE, RIGHT before lunchtime, a sputtering, red-faced Mayor Hasbro called the city engineer into his office and commenced to chewing his ass out about Jasper Cone. In the past week, four more women had accused him of trespassing on their property without good reason and spying on them. And as Hasbro pointed out, what if the idiot went off his rocker and actually laid his hands on someone? Now that their complaints were on record, if they were ignored, even a friendly pat on the ass might bankrupt the city in a lawsuit. “I don’t give a damn how much good you say he’s doing,” he told the engineer. “You tell him to back off.”
Although Rawlings had never seen the mayor get so upset or vocal about anything before, he had a hard time believing that the meek and hardworking Jasper could be guilty of such acts, at least not intentionally. He immediately suspected that Sandy Saunders, the sneaky little sonofabitch, was somehow behind the accusations, but he kept his mouth shut. Instead, he returned to his own office to mull the situation over. Not only had the city councilman been a pain in his ass ever since Rawlings had taken over as city engineer, it was common knowledge that he absolutely detested Jasper. Still, he needed proof. Realizing that the best way to get to the bottom of things was to interview the women himself, he was just getting ready to walk back over to the mayor’s office to ask for their names when there was a loud knock on his door and a plump older woman named Mrs. Lenora Trego barged in. Before he had a chance to ask what she wanted, she loudly informed him that while sitting in her outhouse perusing Miss Bernice Bottelby’s new novel, Dreams of Milk and Honey, Jasper Cone had flung the door open on her and attempted to enter. It was the first time the engineer had ever heard anyone actually use the word “perusing” in a sentence, and it threw him off for a second, long enough for her to plop down in the chair across from his desk. Being a retired English teacher, she continued, she might expect such nonsense coming from teenage boys, but from a grown man, and a city employee to boot, that was an entirely different matter. Also, as she stressed at least a dozen times during the hour that he had to put up with her, she was a published author in the Scioto Gazette—from what Rawlings was able to gather, she wrote poems about birds and trees and shit like that—and it was common knowledge that any sort of traumatic incident could potentially stop the flow of the creative juices. Why, she hadn’t written a decent line since he’d busted in on her.
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