Death in the Black Patch

by Wilson, Bruce;

  Wes looked out into the rain, trying to see through the darkness. Ain’t gonna be any raid tonight, he thought. Still need to keep watch, though. He walked to the end of the porch, stood for a moment and then turned to his son.

  “Stay out here for a couple more hours. If the rain don’t stop by then, come on back into the house and get some sleep. If it lets up even a little bit, though, you’ll need to be out here watchin’.” Anthie didn’t move from the bench. “You got any questions?”

  “No, Pa,” he said, his voice quiet, dull.

  “You come wake me if you see anythin’, you hear?”

  Anthie nodded, not wanting to say any more, but thought better of it and added, “Okay, Pa. I will.”

  After his pa left, Anthie sucked in a deep draught of air and held it in his lungs. Then he let it run out like a slow leak in a pail of water. His mind went searching for Sudie, but he couldn’t find her. He kept tripping over thoughts of his pa. It ain’t just the tobacco or the Night Riders, he thought. There’s somethin’ else. He covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the drumming on the roof. There must be somethin’ goin’ on between him and Ma. Things don’t look right between ’em. If there is a problem, it’s gotta be Pa’s fault. If he don’t change, then I don’t wanna be around him. Sometimes I wish he’d just go away, leave for a while, but that ain’t gonna happen. No matter what, I ain’t ever gonna be like him. Ever.

  Anthie finally wore himself out thinking about his pa. He’d even started to drift off to sleep, but the wind picked up and the rain came down harder and kept him awake. He pulled his collar up again and wrapped his coat tighter around his chest. Pulling his hat down around his ears, Anthie settled in for what would turn out to be a long, wet night.

  Chapter 21

  Saturday, May 19

  Booming thunder quickly followed a silver flash of lightning, and a howling wind beat against the wooden walls of the house as Zora tried to sleep. Lying in bed next to her, Wes barely stirred. When the second bolt came a moment later, she looked at the face on the old wind-up clock next to the bed; it showed nearly four o’clock. The rain slashed against the milky glass window, diffusing the light and painting odd shimmering shadow-creatures on the walls.

  Zora was certainly tired enough to sleep, and it wasn’t the pealing thunder that kept her awake. She was worried about Anthie. Her other children had found ways to cope with their pa’s behavior over the past two weeks. In some ways, this surprised her. Little children, like Ruthie, often sensed trouble but didn’t know how to deal with it, so they cried. The other youngsters could recognize trouble and find ways to hide from it. She figured that the two oldest were grown up enough to recognize that difficulty came with being an adult, and they learned how to handle it.

  But Anthie, even though he was sixteen, was caught between the crying and the coping. What can I do to help him, she thought as she watched the wind-swirled water on the glass. He thinks he’s a man, but in so many ways he’s still my little boy. Another round of thunder interrupted her for a moment, and she paused to whisper a prayer for her son. When the rumbling stopped, the gusts of wind against the house sounded peaceful in comparison. Anthie’s bruises are long gone, and his broken lip is healed, she thought, but there’s no peace in his heart.

  Zora looked over at Wes’s face exposed by the flashes of lightning and saw the creases in his brow and the wrinkles that gathered at the edges of his eyes and lips. He muttered something, but the sounds were just dream words. She crept down the hall to the kitchen. Anthie was standing at the window, staring out into the storm. When he turned and reached for the coffeepot on the stove, he saw her.

  “Ma, what’re you doin’ up?” His voice was raw, but muted.

  “The thunder was so loud I couldn’t sleep,” she lied. “I thought I’d come see how you were doin’.” She walked over and stood next to him.

  “You didn’t need to do that. I’m doin’ fine.”

  “I know you are, son.”

  “There ain’t been nobody on the road all night, Ma. I ain’t even seen any critters out there except for Rufus, and that was a couple hours ago.”

  “Anthie, you could’ve spent the night in bed sleepin’, you know.”

  “No, Ma, I couldn’t. Pa told me to stand guard, and that’s exactly what I been doin’.”

  Zora looked at his face. She saw a tired little boy with the same wrinkle lines she’d seen on Wes’s face. “But I don’t think he expected you to stay up all night when the whole county is holed up in their houses hidin’ from the rain.”

  “It don’t matter, Ma.” He took a drink of cold coffee from his cup and paused to fill it with a hot portion from the pot he still held. “You want some, Ma?”

  “No thanks, son.”

  He turned back to the window just as another bolt of lightning lit up the yard.

  Zora continued to stare at her son. “Last week you said you hated your Pa. Do you still feel that way?”

  “No, I guess not. But it still don’t matter. He’s mean, and he don’t let me forget that I’m not a man yet.” He clenched his jaws tight and cleared his throat. “I ain’t a child anymore, Ma. I ain’t, and he don’t care.”

  Zora knew when to be still and let a man roll words around in his head before he said them out loud. It is more than the creases and wrinkles that made Anthie like his pa, she thought. He’s got his pa’s looks and stubbornness and pride. He is a sixteen-year-old version of Wes. For a brief moment, a memory of the first time she saw Wes flashed in her mind, and a tear dripped out of her eye and ran down the side of her face.

  “Son, I can’t tell you what to think or how to feel. You’re too grown up to want to hear what your ma has to say, but I want you to listen to me.” She turned him toward her and looked softly into his face. “Your pa loves you. He just don’t know how to show it, especially when he’s troubled about so many things.” Anthie started to pull away from her, but she dropped her hands from his shoulders and held onto his arms. “I will only say this once, and I pray that you hear me. Your pa and I both love you. We always will no matter what you do or where you go or what you become.” When she finished, she turned away from him and walked back down the hall to her bedroom.

  Anthie waited until he could no longer hear his ma’s footsteps. Then he looked out into the rain again and fought the urge to cry, failing miserably.

  * * *

  By daylight, the thunder and lightning had moved off toward the east. The rain continued to blow in torrents, creating small ponds in the low areas of the yard. The streams of water pouring off the roof looked like crystal curtains. Anthie braved his way to the barn and back, setting the full pail of fresh milk just inside the kitchen door. He was soaked from the rain and didn’t want to drip all over the floor because his ma had enough work to do without cleaning up his mess. Anthie trusted and loved his ma and liked pleasing her.

  Wes stepped out onto the porch and looked at his son. “You been out here all night?” He spoke quietly, but there was a raw edge to his words.

  “Most of it,” said Anthie. “I didn’t see anybody, just a lot of rain and lightnin’.”

  “I told you if it kept rainin’ you could go to bed. Why’d you stay out here?”

  “I couldn’t have slept with all the noise anyway, so I figured I’d just stand guard.” He got up from the bench and stood next to Wes. “I’m goin’ in now, Pa. I’m tired and need some sleep.” He took off his wet clothes, squeezed the water out of them and walked into the house. Wes wanted to say more, but Connie came out before the door shut.

  “Guess we better go see what kind of a mess we got, Pa,” he said. “I think we’re gonna get wet, though.”

  “You don’t have to go out with me.”

  “Sure I do, Pa. Two of us can take a look, and we’ll only get a little wet.” He smiled at his pa and pulled his hat down ove
r his ears. “I’ll take the sty, the coop and the west side and meet you back here.” He stepped off the porch and ran toward the chicken coop, nearly disappearing in the rain.

  Wes shook his head, surprised at Connie’s enthusiasm and pleased that at least one of his sons was going to be a farmer. If only that was all I had to worry about. Making sure his coat was buttoned up, he held onto his hat, stepped off the porch and headed out to the tobacco field.

  Working different sides of the farm, he and Connie trudged through the sticky mud and driving rain, focusing on the damage. They noted the flooded areas, which would have to be drained, and the flattened wheat, which may or may not recover. Some of the tobacco looked trampled, but Wes judged that they’d been blown over by the wind. In less than an hour, they’d surveyed the whole farm and met back at the barn.

  “What’d you see out there, Pa?” said Connie, greeting Wes as he stepped into the shelter of the barn.

  “Lots of water. We’ll have some drainin’ to do, and we might lose a little tobacco, but I think we’ll be okay if the storm ends soon.”

  “There’s some wheat down, but it don’t look busted,” said Connie, “and the corn is fine.” He took off his felt hat and wrung it out, the water making a puddle on the dirt floor. “Won’t be able to wear this hat to church no more,” he said, trying to hold back a laugh. “I’m so wet I think I’m turnin’ into a fish.”

  In some deep part of himself, Wes saw how hard Connie was trying to cheer him up. “We’d better get into the house and dry off. Besides, I’m hungry, and I bet your ma has breakfast ready.” He put his hand on Connie’s shoulder and squeezed it, the gesture earning him another smile from his son.

  They ran through the rain to the house, getting wet all over again. Both men shed their coats and kicked off their boots, stripping down to their long johns on the porch. They shivered while they twisted the overalls and shirts, wringing the rain out of the cloth. Stepping around the water on the porch, they carried the wet bundles into the warm kitchen. As they stood next to the stove, steam rose from their bodies like fog, and the laughter of the youngsters filled the crowded room.

  * * *

  Wes could feel the darkness of Art’s lie consume his thoughts again. He paced in front of the window, looking out at the ceaseless rain, listening to the rumbling thunder coming in from the west, looking for an out, a place to go where he could be alone. Even though it was after noon, the sky was dark, dusk-like. Zora walked into the kitchen, carrying one of her glass-globed lamps, and set it on the table. She lit it with a match and watched Wes, feeling his nervous energy.

  “Another storm comin’ in?” she asked.

  “Or it’s more of the same one.” Wes stopped and looked at her briefly. Then he turned back to the window. “The ponds and the creek are already full, and some of the fields’re flooded. If it keeps up longer than today, we’re gonna have more water than we need.”

  “If it’s still rainin’ tomorrow, we’ll likely miss the foot-washin’ at church,” Zora said, her voice revealing sadness. “I hope it quits soon, ’cause I’d really like us to go.” She waited for a response from Wes, but he was silent. She reached over and touched his arm and walked away, leaving him alone, knowing that he was still worried about his crop.

  A loud clap of thunder shook the house and rattled the window glass. He watched as the wind blew the rain across the yard. Behind his watchful eyes, though, his mind continued to struggle with Anthie’s revelation about Charley. Like the thunder from the storm, the man’s name would suddenly rumble through his mind and drench him with thoughts of Art’s secret. He was wading through the dark hole of one of these mental squalls when Irene screeched as she came running into the kitchen, chased by John Stanley.

  Jolted by Irene’s screams, Wes turned to his children, enraged. “What the hell?” he roared. At once his mask crumbled, and the snarling dogs of anger pushed their way onto his face. He glared at his children, his heart pounding, his fists clenched. He started to say more, but saw the fear in their eyes. Disappointed in himself, he turned and ran out the door through the driving rain all the way to the barn. He slipped in the mud, struggling to keep his footing as he worked the door open and stepped inside. Wes bent over trying to catch his breath, water dripping from his hair onto the floor. He stood up, slamming the door shut and punching his fist into the wall, angry with himself for frightening his children and at Art for lying to him. The rain fell harder outside the barn as a loud crack of lightning hit the ground near the road. Wes was caught in the middle of two storms: the one outside and the one in his crowded mind. He couldn’t get away from either of them.

  * * *

  North of Lynnville, J.D. and Charley were holed up in the leaky shack. The single room was damp; rain dripped on the canvas mattress bags, and the small puddles that formed between the cots leaked through the cracks in the floorboards. Charley listened to J.D.’s raspy snoring, which filled the gaps between the claps of thunder and the howling wind. The concert of noises and the sogginess of his clothes and cot kept him from sleeping. There was nothing else to do but think and plan.

  What little money they’d managed to keep was his. J.D. squandered the rest of his money on another jug of whiskey after they’d been kicked off Art West’s farm. Then he’d spent the last two days drinking, and his pockets were as empty as the hollow jug on the floor. During his conscious moments, J.D. had spoken about little but revenge against Art and his cousin and rambled on about plans to carry out his rage against the two. They still had the work with the Night Riders ahead of them, and J.D. thought that the raid money and the twenty dollars for the other job would be enough for the two of them to finally clear out. But what is the other job, Charley wondered. Not knowing where the money was coming from scared him.

  Half the money’s mine, thought Charley, and clearin’ out sounds good to me. But I ain’t goin’ along with him. The things he says and does are evil, and I don’t wanna be caught up in doin’ any of ’em. Even if I tell the law that I had no part in it, they’d arrest me just for bein’ with him, and I ain’t goin’ to jail again. Charley’s stomach growled, and he glanced around the room looking for something to eat. A soggy bread crust lying in the water-filled bottom of a tin plate became his dinner.

  J.D. snorted and gagged. Then he rolled over in his bed. The huge drops of water coming through the roof fell on his shapeless hat and the burlap sack he’d pulled over his shoulders. Charley cupped his hands over his ears, trying to block out the noise so he could think. Maybe I should just forget about the money, keep what I have and clear out right now. He won’t know which way I’ve gone, and if I leave on foot, he won’t even have a trail to follow. Charley stood quietly and picked up the sack holding his few possessions, hoping the wind muted the floor’s creaking. He looked down at J.D., glad that he didn’t have to explain what he was doing and knowing that J.D. would find a way to make him change his mind. But I ain’t gonna change my mind. He waited for the next thunder clap, and when it rattled the walls of the shack, he opened the door and slipped out into the storm.

  * * *

  J.D. leaned over the edge of his bed and threw up on the wet, cluttered floor of the shack.

  “Charley!” he yelled. “Where the hell are you?”

  He swung his legs off the cot and sat up, leaning back against the wall. “Charley, get in here!” J.D. searched around for his jug and spotted it on the floor. Charley still hadn’t answered him, so he yelled again. He shook his head, trying to clear the whiskey mud from his brain, and then he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and looked across at Charley’s pallet. Somethin’s missin’, he thought. Even in his muddled state, he noticed that his partner’s bag, the one that held his personal things, was not hanging on the rusty nail above his bed.

  “What’ve you done now, you sorry son of a bitch,” he muttered. J.D. tried to stand up but fell back. Then he tried again and mana
ged to stay upright, bracing himself against the wall. Kicking the empty jug out of his way, he stomped to the door and pushed it open. A fresh blast of windblown rain hit him in the face, and he wiped it away, trying to see into the dark night. When a flash of distant lightning lit up the bottom of the clouds, he saw both of the horses tied off on the rail. He yelled again for Charley.

  J.D. walked into the rain and circled the shack and outhouse, calling out his name. Wet and cold, he went back inside and kicked the jug again. “Well I guess he’s gone,” he snarled. “Ran out on me like a damned coward.”

  Near midnight, J.D. threw a bedroll over the back of the best horse and pulled himself up into the saddle. The rain had lightened to a steady shower as he rode out of the yard and onto the road. He’d made up his mind that he didn’t need Charley’s help to carry out the captain’s instructions. Now I won’t have to share the twenty dollars, he thought, and after gettin’ paid for the raid I’ll have enough to get away from here. The thought seemed to comfort him, and a crooked grin grew on his face. Maybe I’ll just take a ride over to Wes Wilson’s and take a look. Hunched over the saddle, he rode the miserable horse south, past Lynnville.

  Standing in a copse of trees across the road from the farmhouse, J.D. hid behind the trunk of an old oak tree. There were no lights showing from the house, but he saw that the barn door was ajar. Off to the right, the leaves of the tobacco plants rustled in the wind and an owl hooted.

  Whispering to himself, J.D. said, “I’m gonna enjoy torchin’ this place, and maybe even roughin’ up his wife and kids. Then we’ll see how tough he is.” He sucked in one last time on his cigar, the tip glowing hotly, and dropped the stub into the mud. “Maybe the last thing I’ll do is put a bullet in his head.”