WHERE TROUBLE SLEEPS

by Clyde Edgerton

  "Oh, my God." Cheryl went running out. Stephen turned to watch her go.

  "What did you say?" the man in the ball cap said. "Somebody got shot?"

  "The gypsy man."

  THE GYPSY MAN'S TEA

  Cheryl ran around the back corner of the Blaine sisters' store. Two small groups of men. One around a man on the ground, wet, facedown. Delbert? "Delbert?" Somebody stepped, brown trousers, so she couldn't see the head, the face. In the other group, somebody was helping Miss Bea up to her feet, taking a shotgun from her. Cheryl looked back. Then she did see. It was Delbert, perfectly still, not moving, very quiet. Eyes open. Blood, blood. Nobody was touching him. She was pulled to him, to kneel, but repelled by the death around him as if it, the death, were a visible, stinking cloud. She started to kneel, then stood, immobile, collapsing inside like the inward rock walls of a deep well falling down into the water, filling it, and then filling the opening until there was no room even for air in what was the long tall cool opening that you could once look down into and see the water reflecting the sky.

  Alease didn't believe Stephen until she got on the phone and called Harvey at the store and he told her it was true, that there had been a robbery at the Blaine sisters', and the Settle Inn man, Jones, was shot dead. Big Steve was over there.

  She hung up the phone.

  "You saw it, son?"

  "Yes ma'am." Stephen was sitting on the couch holding his bottle at his side. His mother stood.

  "How do you know he was Cheryl's boyfriend?"

  "She told me."

  "Are you sure that's who it was?"

  "Yes ma'am. It was the gypsy man."

  Alease looked around the room, then sat down. "Did you know he was robbing the Blaine sisters—trying to steal their money?"

  "No ma'am. He was just digging a hole."

  "He was just digging a hole?—no, that's not what happened, son. Something had already happened when you got there. Daddy said he was a robber and we didn't know that... You saw her shoot him?"

  "Yes ma'am."

  "Oh, Stephen. Oh, my goodness. You lie down and rest, and I'll make some phone calls. There goes the ambulance."

  Somebody might have to go to the electric chair about all this, Stephen thought. Miss Bea probably wouldn't, though. She was just a old lady. He wondered about Uncle Raleigh, for being the way he was, if he kept on being that way. "Miss Bea broke the Ten Commandments."

  "What?"

  "Miss Bea broke the Ten Commandments."

  "No, not exactly, not when somebody is robbing your house. Now you just try to rest. I'm going to call June."

  "Why didn't the Blaine sisters ever get married? Then a man would have been there."

  "I don't know, son. You just try to rest, now. Don't be asking questions."

  "I thought they always left during the rain. It was raining, won't it?" "She come back home for her pocketbook for some reason and caught him digging in the backyard. Looking for something. He must of knew something nobody else did." "He'd already been through the house and store, tore it all up in there." "Was it a nigger?" "No, it was somebody staying at the Settle Inn. A Jones, from T.R. He'd done joined Listre Baptist for some reason and was staying at the Settle Inn." "I seen him in the grill. He'd been coming in there for breakfast. He'd been in there the last three mornings. He had one of them pencil-thin mustaches." "He had the hots for Cheryl Daniels." "He was a peculiar man. He sat right here on this bench and asked me all about my ring and about my car. I should of known he was up to something." "He asked me about putting in the blinker light, and then when I told him he changed the subject."

  Alease called June to come over and sit with Stephen for fifteen minutes. When June got there, Alease told her what had happened, got Stephen settled, then walked down to the grocery. People were milling around everywhere—coming and going to the chicken pen in a line like ants. A black hearse was backed up down there. Sitting by herself on the bench at the grocery store was Cheryl. Alease sat down beside her, Cheryl's eyes were bloodshot. She wouldn't look at Alease.

  "What happened, Cheryl?"

  "Miss Bea shot Delbert Jones. He's dead. He's dead."

  "Why did she do that? ... Do you know why?"

  "They said he was robbing her." Cheryl drew into herself as if she were cold. "I don't know what I'm going to do now. We had these plans, but I can't tell anybody, Mrs. Toomey." Then she looked from one of Alease's eyes to the other, back and forth.

  "Let me get your hat, honey," said Alease. "It's out of place." She unpinned it. "Here."

  Cheryl looked over at Train's. Alease followed her eyes. There was nobody over there. "But I can't tell anybody," said Cheryl. "Especially not now. I don't think he would have robbed anybody, and even if he did, how could ... I want... could you ... would you take me up to the funeral home?" she pleaded. "Wayside got him. Could you maybe take me up there? I know he did some work for you."

  "I don't know. I hadn't... I suppose I could."

  "I don't want my daddy to find out." Her hands were clasped together, one wringing the other.

  "I'll... I'll help you out. I'm real sorry, Cheryl."

  "He meant everything to me, Mrs. Toomey."

  Andrew, eating supper at home, told his wife, Flo, how he'd pulled in a couch from the preacher's office and another from the library so all three women could stay in the church that night. Mrs. Weams had brought enough sheets and blankets for everybody. Mrs. Clark's husband had brought them a pint of strawberry ice cream each.

  Then Andrew and Flo talked more about the shooting.

  "Why didn't you just go call the sheriff anyway?" asked Flo.

  "I wadn't sure who had a telephone."

  "Well, it look like to me you could have just gone anywhere and ask somebody where was there a telephone."

  "I was with Miss Bea, Flo. You know good and well I just couldn't leave her with no robber?

  "Sound like you shouldn't have left no robber with her."

  "Well, I didn't care if she shot him or not."

  "Andrew!"

  "He was a robber. But I kept asking her could I go call the sheriff."

  "What you going to say now if the sheriff ask you what happen?"

  "He done ask me and I told him what Miss Blaine said—that he trashed up the whole inside of the house and was digging up the yard when she walked out there with the shotgun and he come at her. That actually in fact was the way it was. And that little boy showed up and saw the whole thing. She got him right in top of the head. His feet slipped in the mud and just about the time his hand hit the ground—he kind of reached down to catch hisself, see—and that's when he caught the whole load in the top of his head. He dropped and bounced a little bounce and his arm jerked around some and she shot him again. Whew. Like shooting a snake. Lord have mercy. I ain't never seen nothing like it."

  Stephen's mother, holding his hand, said pretty much the same prayer as always that night. "Dear God, help us to love one another. Help us to accept each other for better or worse, in sickness and in death. Help us to understand Thy will in our lives, and we pray that Stephen may grow up with a purpose in life that is worthy of a Christian gentleman. And we pray for the soul of Mr. Jones, and we accept Thy reasons for all that happens on this earth. In Jesus' name. Amen. Stephen?"

  "Dear God, thank you for Inky and may he be safe in heaven. Thank you for keeping us safe from the gypsy man. Now I lay me down to sleep I pray the Lord my soul to keep if I should die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to take if I should live another day I pray the Lord to show the way. Amen."

  "'Night, Harvey."

  " 'Night. Was he by here this afternoon?"

  "Who?"

  "Jones."

  "Yes. He stopped by. He was looking for work, he said."

  "Well ... I'm glad Miss Bea's got her sisters. You just can't ever tell."

  Next day, crenshaw listened. There she was. Cheryl. Sitting in a chair in his office.

  "Preacher Crenshaw, I don't have anybod
y I can go to to talk about this. And I didn't know anything about him being a robber or anything. He had a good heart, Preacher Crenshaw. There had to be some kind of mix-up."

  Her eyes were red-rimmed. She had a Kleenex in her hand. She was twisting it apart.

  Crenshaw leaned forward, elbows on his desk. He was embarrassed that he had to see her almost out of control like this, and aware of what it looked like the man had done to her, or with her.

  The Devil's voice: "Crenshaw, stand up. Go around that desk. You can have it too. It's all yours. She wants it. She wants it too. She wants you. Give that young thing a hug. Hug her all up tight and whisper in her ear that everything is going to be all right and then see if you feel her moving at all and if she's moving in the right way you'll know it. And if she's not, you can wait till next time—or get her to move in the right way."

  "Cheryl, I am sorry that this ... happened. I just had a call about it all and they found out that his car was stolen. We never know. He certainly may have been a Christian. We can't say." He started to get up, but didn't. "I never dreamed he'd do something like that. And it looks like he took advantage of you." And God was telling him to tell her to rededicate her life to Jesus. He thought about the woman at the well. "What you did, Cheryl, you did out of love," he said. "That's all. What you did was normal, and what is normal can't ever be sin enough to send you to hell. That's my own thought on that. I've been wrestling with all this. I'm sorry this has all happened and anytime I can listen, you can come on in here and just talk. I've always had a particular liking for you. But you should know you can feel safe with me. I like your heart. I'm partial to your heart."

  "Thank you, Mr. Crenshaw."

  She stood and turned, headed for the door. He sat still, looked at a picture of roses on the wall beside the door, and then closed his eyes. So many people depended on him. He had to be strong.

  Edward Cates was trying to fall asleep, sitting up in bed. Dr. Teal had told him that it was because of his lung tumor that he couldn't sleep lying down. Edward was wondering if he would have to sleep sitting up for the rest of his life. His stomach suddenly felt hollow. / Doris Bell drove along New Hope Road taking back the eight dinner plates her husband had brought over from his aunt's. Doris had said dessert plates and he got dinner plates and she decided just to take them back herself to show him it could be done right.

  "oh, yes, yes," said Mr. Crosley, the mortician. "He's right this way." Why would anybody be coming to see him? he thought.

  The girl and woman followed him down the quiet, carpeted hall. "An Annie Jones actually called," he said, "like they asked for in the paper, and said she'd be up here tonight. She wants to see if he's any kin, or any resemblance anyway, she said." Mr. Crosley opened the door, turned on the light. The room was very small, each wall only somewhat longer than the casket against it. One casket open, three closed. "We didn't expect anybody much to come in for a viewing, but we're always prepared. These other caskets are empty." Mr. Crosley stepped back out of the way. He was glad he'd used the casket under the painting—an ocean at sunrise.

  "Aren't you a Caldwell?" he asked Alease.

  "Yes. I married a Toomey. I'm Alease Toomey, now." Alease first noticed that his nose seemed more prominent, more curved than she'd remembered. He was wearing his wire-rimmed glasses, and—and a black wig. The hair was longer and less curly than his real hair. "My goodness. He don't look the same, does he?"

  "No he don't," said Cheryl.

  Alease saw that Cheryl was ready to cry. "Mr. Crosley, I actually got to know Mr. Jones fairly well, and I wonder if Cheryl and me could have just a moment alone."

  "Why, of course."

  "What about his mustache, Mr. Crosley?" asked Cheryl. "He had a mustache."

  "That was not a real mustache. Gilbert noticed when he was washing his face. But I'll tell you this. It was not a cheap mustache. That was one fine fake mustache."

  "What about that suit?" asked Cheryl.

  "The sheriff brought us that. That actually belonged to Mr. Jones."

  "He did some work for me," said Alease, "and we were just more or less curious—and were up this way, anyway. I did get to know him pretty well."

  "Certainly," said Mr. Crosley. "I'll be up front. You-all make yourselves at home. It was a real tragedy. I'm just glad the right one got shot." He lingered. "It would be a shame to lose one of the Blaine sisters. What a awful thing. She's a sprightly old soul, idn't she? There was always a difference between them, and she was the sprightly one. If you'd told me one of them was going to shoot a robber, I could have told you which one."

  "Excuse me," said a voice at the door. It was Gilbert Allen, another mortician, standing with a short plump woman, dressed up.

  "I'm Annie Jones," said the woman. "They put my name in the paper. I'm here to see if I'm some kin to this man. Let me see."

  Alease and Cheryl stepped back; Mrs. Jones stepped up. "Well, well," she said. "I honestly thought it could have been Ben, but there ain't no way that there can be Ben, so, I'll just have to say I don't know this one. Ben was bad about changing his name and getting into trouble, so it made sense to me that it might be Ben, and then too, Uncle Bud took out a two-thousand-dollar accidental life insurance police on every one of them kids, but if it was Ben and he'd had anything, it would have gone to Aunt Shirley and Uncle Bud. Are y'all some kin?" she asked Alease.

  "No. We were just neighbors, and we happened to be up here tonight. Had to go to the drugstore, and so we just decided to drop in. He'd done some work for me and I thought he was a right nice man. The way it turned out was a real shock."

  "I had to drive fourteen miles, and I'll be glad to get back home and get these shoes off."

  A week later, Stephen, Terry, and Leland were playing in the dirt with Stephen's toy trucks, by the flower bed.

  "My mama," Leland said to Stephen, "said your mama got the murder man to plant flowers for her."

  "She did not."

  "She said he was hanging around Cheryl too, and she gave him some."

  "Some what?"

  "Pussy."

  "She did not," said Terry.

  "She did, too."

  "My mama gave him some ice tea one time," said Stephen, "but that was before he done anything wrong." Stephen remembered waking up from his nap at the snap and explosion of the lightning, and going into the kitchen to look for his mama, and then looking out the back window. The rain was pounding down. She was standing in the smokehouse door looking back inside, then turned and looked out into the rain and started running to the house holding a piece of cardboard over her head in one hand and a glass of ice in the other. As she came in from the rain, Stephen saw in through the smokehouse door the faint figure of the man in the yellow shirt. His mother had carried the gypsy man some iced tea for doing work. He remembered how she bounded into the house, dropped the piece of cardboard on the floor, and jumped when she saw Stephen. "You scared me, son. I thought you were asleep." Stephen watched as his mother rinsed off the ice, put it back in the ice tray, added water, and put the ice tray back in the refrigerator freezer. "Did that lightning wake you up?" she had asked him. "Yes ma'am. Why is the gypsy man in the smokehouse?" "He's been doing some work for me. I just took him some tea for the work he'd been doing." She ran her hand through her hair. "We got caught in the rain and had to get in the smokehouse to keep from getting wet."

  Leland rammed Terry's toy car with his. "He was trying to kill Miss Blaine," he said, "and if he'd killed her he would have had to go to the electric chair."

  "He won't trying to kill her," said Stephen.

  "Yes he was."

  "No he won't."

  "Yes he was."

  "No he won't."

  They played with the trucks for a while.

  "Now Miss Blaine might have to go to the electric chair," said Terry.

  "They don't send women to the electric chair," said Leland.

  "They do too," said Terry.

  "They don't."

 
"Stephen," called his mother from the back door, "come on in. It's time for your nap. I'll lay down with you."

  On the bed she would do what she'd always done. After a few minutes, she'd say, "Now watch my finger. Don't take your eyes off my finger," and she'd hold it up and start moving it in a circle about the size of an egg. Stephen's eyes would follow it. Then she'd say, "Close your eyes and see if you can see it still moving," and he would, "Now open them again," she'd say very softly, and Stephen would, his eyelids heavy.

  Soon he'd be asleep and his mother would very quietly get up from the bed and go back into the kitchen to finish her day's work.

  But on this day, Alease asked June to come over while Stephen slept. With everything else, Raleigh had disappeared again. She needed to get away for a little bit.

  She walked toward the blinker light. It had been so long since she'd taken time to take a walk. She walked by the grocery store, crossed the road, on by the flintrock and down the stretch of road toward the church. Listre Baptist was built when she was a little girl and was for the longest time the biggest building she'd ever seen.

  Now about Mr. Jones. How could she have been so fooled? How could she have let something like Mr. Jones happen to her? Something bad could have happened to Stephen. He could have heard things, been influenced in no telling what ways. He could have been shot. All this at the same time he was accepting Jesus.

  She looked across the road at the church. Maybe Mr. Crenshaw was in his office.

  Then she decided to walk down to the grandstand instead of across the road and into the church.

  She thought about Harvey. He was a much better husband than she gave him credit for. He was as loyal and as good a father as she could ever find.

  The old grandstand. It had been there when Emmett Odell had jumped up from behind home plate and started running back for a little pop foul ball, had got to running as hard as he could, full speed, looking up at the ball, wham into the big corner wood column of the grandstand—full speed, and bounced back unconscious and crumbling. They finally roused him and he went right back and finished the game. And nobody ever forgot it—to this day. And she and Sally Knowles found that half-pack of Lucky Strikes under the grandstand when they were twelve years old and smoked two apiece and then hid the rest.