by David Stout
Linus wished he had not left the cow tied up, wished he had not gone to see the girls, wished …
The cork float began to move, slowly. Then down and away the float went, the fish diving like a knife. Linus grabbed the pole and pulled back. The line swung to one side, and Linus stood up. The fish was heavy, heavy. Now Linus could see it. Its underbelly flashed silver. With one motion, Linus pulled the fish up and out of the water. It was a giant catfish, bigger than Linus had ever caught before, twice as long as his father’s boots.
Linus swung the pole to the side; the fish swung by, its huge back dark brown, thrashing like a snake. Back the same way the fish came, Linus dropping the pole so the fish landed on the grass, instantly tangling itself in the line. The fish thrashed and flipped with unbelievable force, its sides flecked with blades of grass and sand-like dirt.
There was less thrashing now, and the great fish’s gills worked furiously, futilely, behind the frightening, stinger-like whiskers. Its eye was wide (Linus could see only one), looking at him, angry, angry. Linus knelt down by the edge of the pond and cupped some water in his hands. He dropped it on the fish’s head; the gills opened wider. More thrashing. Again, Linus brought water in his hands; again, the fish gulped for it, then thrashed.
He had never seen such a fish. He was sure that not even Mr. Crooks had ever caught such a fish. Its thrashing and gulping, and the wide angry eyes, were all the more pitiful for the fish’s size. Linus could not bear to watch.
Linus took out his jackknife and grasped the line about a foot from the fish’s mouth. He had to saw on the line, his knife was so dull. He dragged the fish to the water’s edge. Bringing his hand as close as he could to the fierce, gulping mouth, Linus sawed the line again. The hook was set deep in the mouth, but the fish had not swallowed it. No blood was coming from the gills.
Finally, Linus cut through the line. Only a little was left on the hook. Still no blood from the gills. Linus was glad. He knelt again, cupping water in his hands and dropping it on the fish’s head. More thrashing, as if the fish knew—knew—it was close to the edge. Linus stood up, shoved the fish the rest of the way with the bottom of his foot (there was a cool slime-feeling for a second before he put his foot on the grass), and watched the fish slide into the water. A flick-splash of the tail and the fish was gone like lightning.
“I ain’t hurt you, do I?” Linus whispered to the water.
He returned to the tree and sat down, the sharp piece of bark sticking the same spot on his back, his knees shaking. The noise in his ears went away slowly. Time went by, the light fading slowly. It was almost as though there were no time.
The face of Linus’s mother shone bronze in the light from the kerosene lamp. The teeth were white and beautiful (though he had never allowed himself to feel it before, Linus knew he loved her smile), and the eyes were friendly. His father’s face was darker, forehead wrinkled like a prune, eyes not as shiny. His father worked hard in the mill.
His father was tired. He hadn’t been able to rest, even though it was a Saturday, because he had been one of the lookers for the lost girls. Turned out one of Guardsmen had found them, his father said.
Terrible thing. Terrible thing. Oh, Lord. Terrible thing. The words came out in whispers, flickering softly off tongues the way the kerosene lanterns made the flame shadows dance on the plank walls.
The whispers flickered again, were alive in the air like the flames. They gonna come through here. They be lookin’ for him here, whoever do it, lookin’ through the shacks. Lord, yes …
The thought of men coming through the shacks was scary. Linus imagined the shack on fire, with his mama on fire and Will and Jewel inside, screaming.…
“Linus, you not like Mama’s food no more.”
“I be all right, Mama. I feel bad. Didn’t catch no fish today …”
“Even Mr. Crooks, he not catch one every day. You eat.”
He could only eat a little. Mr. Tyler had given his father (and all the workers who had looked for the girls) some bacon to say thank you. His mother had cooked it with beans, carrots, and potatoes. Linus felt bad that he couldn’t eat more. Let Will and Jewel have his share.
That night, he lay on his back on his mattress, eyes trying to take all the darkness inside him. He listened as hard as he could to the breathing of his brother and sister on the floor next to him. Will snored; Jewel breathed like a puppy.
A tear ran down Linus’s cheek; it was hot. He tried to take in all the darkness of the room, all its smells, the sound of Jewel and Will.
He did not remember falling asleep. He knew it had taken a long time, because his eyes itched. Now it was morning, Sunday morning, and he heard his mother moving around in the other room, heard her hurrying Will and Jewel to get ready for church. Their father never went.
Linus got up and went to the outhouse and peed, holding his breath against the smell and shivering from the chill.
“You, Linus. You hurry yourself up.…”
Linus felt like he was in a dream as he pulled on his overalls and shirt. He heard his mother’s voice, and Jewel’s and Will’s, outside. Linus wished he could go to sleep forever.
Other voices. White men’s voices!
“Linus, you come out here, boy,” his mother called.
His legs would barely hold him up. One foot in front of the other, one in front of the other …
Linus could hear the hymn-singing starting up at Green Hill Church, hear the hymns between the heartbeats that thundered in his ears. Outside now, the chilly gray Sunday morning starting to spin around him, his legs shaking. One in front of the other …
The sheriff! Linus could tell him, he could make the man— But there was another man, a thin, bony-looking man with a mean face. Maybe he …!
Linus saw the sheriff stoop and look at Will and Jewel. “Reckon you two gonna be singin’ loud and proud this Sunday. Reckon you is.”
Linus saw the sheriff whisper into his mother’s ear, saw his mother turn and look at him. Her eyes were afraid.
The sheriff looked big and strong. His clothes were pressed and clean.
“Run to church, Jewel and Will,” Linus’s mother said. “I be right along.” Linus saw his brother and sister run up the path and away from him. He wondered if he would ever see them again.
“We got some big trouble to talk about,” the sheriff said. His voice was low, but it rolled like thunder.
Linus’s knees were shaking.
“Big trouble. Ain’t that right, boy? Down where you walk the cow.”
Now the sheriff was talking to his mother and father. “You folks know me, know I always tell the truth, know I leave you be ’less I got a necessity to do otherwise.”
“Yes, sir,” Linus’s father said.
“Well, today be one of them times, when I got a necessity. My deputy and me, we take Linus here with us. Got some questions to ask him. Truth to tell, we think he knows about them little girls. Think he was there when it happened …”
There was a moan and a sob from his mother, and she fell against his father, but he could barely hold her up, his own knees shaking. His father’s knees shaking!
The thin, bony deputy stepped toward Linus. Linus stepped back, afraid. The deputy had a mean, pock-marked face.
“Come on, boy,” the sheriff said quietly. The sheriff was not angry. “Ain’t gonna do you no harm …”
The sheriff would keep him safe.
“Linus!” his mother screamed, then sobbed on the chest of Linus’s father.
The sheriff put his big hand on Linus’s shoulder and they began walking up the path (one foot in front of the other …), with the deputy with the mean face walking a few feet behind. If only Linus could be alone with the sheriff.
The hymns coming from the church were loud. Will and Jewel were in there singing.
The deputy brushed against him, hard. “Reckon your first taste of white meat gonna be your last, boy.”
“Dex.” The sheriff hushed him quietly.
>
The sheriff held open a back door of a big black car. Linus had only been in a car a few times in his life, and this one was the biggest of all.
“In, boy,” the deputy said.
Linus got into the backseat, felt his body slump into the cushion, his legs still shaking. The door slammed shut. The sheriff and the mean deputy got in front, the sheriff in the driver’s seat. The doors slammed shut, the engine started, and the car was taking Linus away from his mother and father, past the mill where his father worked, away from Will and Jewel and the catfish pond.
Way past the mill now, and past the railroad siding that led into the mill, the big car took Linus. Onto the main road, the paved road that led into Manning, where Linus had hardly ever been.
He hoped he would see the shack again someday.
7
The door that connected the cell block with the sheriff’s office opened and the deputy with the mean face appeared. Linus felt himself start to shake.
“Hungry, nigger?” the deputy said.
Linus shook. He was afraid that he would make the deputy mad.
“I be talking to you, nigger. I asked if you’s hungry.” The deputy grabbed the bars; his fingers were long, scarred, strong.
“No, sir,” Linus whispered.
“Can’t hear you, nigger.”
“No, sir.”
“Well, maybe you better think about food, nigger. How you gonna swing a sledgehammer unless you eat? Ever think about that?”
“No, sir.”
“Best you do. You gonna be swinging a sledgehammer till you’s an old man, till your mommy and daddy are buried in the ground and your sister’s retired from the whorehouse. Long time, nigger. How you gonna break rocks without eatin’?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
“Don’t know … You givin’ me shit, boy? Nigger shit?”
“No, sir.”
“Better not. My gun belt can cut a mean stripe across your ass. Got that, boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Lemme tell you, boy, we got quite a say as to which chain gang you get sent to. Some of ’em treat you right human. Meat and potatoes if you break them rocks good, even lemonade on hot days. Else we can send you to one where they feed you pigs’ ears and only give you water when you drop. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hungry, nigger?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Anything you got to tell me? ’Bout them two girls?”
Linus shook; he had never been so afraid in his life. He heard the deputy put a key in the cell door. The door opened. The thin deputy had a mean smile and was loosening his gun belt.
“Dex?”
Linus recognized the voice of the sheriff coming from the office. The deputy frowned and retightened his gun belt.
“You just got a break, nigger,” the thin, mean deputy said.
Cody went into the office and shut the door to the cell block.
“Reckon he’s ripe,” Cody said to Stoker.
Linus sat on the bunk, pressing his back against the wall as hard as he could. He was afraid to move, afraid that he would make the thin, mean deputy mad.
Linus felt sure the door would open again, and there would be the deputy with a knife, come back to cut him where his mother had warned him they would cut him if he even looked at a white girl that way.
Linus shivered. He could almost see the deputy with a knife in his hand, feel the deputy trying to pry his legs apart so he could get at him there with the knife.
The door between the cells and office opened.
“Hungry yet, boy?” It was the sheriff.
“Dunno, sir.” Linus felt joy come into him where the fear had been. The sheriff was big and his face was kind.
“I got a problem, boy.” The sheriff opened the cell door, but Linus was not afraid. It was so good to have the sheriff there instead of the deputy.
“It’s about them two girls.” The sheriff sat down on the bunk next to Linus. “You mind helping an old sheriff with a problem?”
“No, sir.”
“Good, good. I figured not. I ain’t so old I don’t remember how it is, it being spring and all and just learning what it feels like to be growin’ up. Follow me so far?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Figured you did. Figured you for quite a smart young boy, truth to tell. You go to the colored school over there near Alcolu, boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Teach you to read and write some, do they?”
“A little, sir.” The sheriff was friendly.
“Good. Now, Linus, my problem is, I gotta know what happened with them little girls. Gotta know the truth. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Linus was afraid the sheriff wouldn’t keep a secret.
“Good. Now, the way I figure, you didn’t mean for anything bad to happen. I mean when this all started. That right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Probably didn’t mean anything bad at all. I mean, when you got a little peek at them girls …”
Linus didn’t know what to do. He wanted to tell the sheriff everything, but he was afraid. If only he had not left the cow …
“… things started to happen, and before you knew it, without meaning it to turn out that way, they was dead. Right?”
“Yes, sir.” Linus wished he could tell.
“Ain’t that right, Linus?”
The sheriff’s voice was low and soft. Linus was trying as hard as he could not to be afraid.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now, if you tell me what happened, the whole thing, I won’t be mad. I’ll understand. I just have to know. Can you help me? Then maybe I can help you. I can fill in some of the words, ’case there’s anything you don’t feel right about sayin’ …”
“Yes, sir.” Linus let out a deep breath. The sheriff would not make him tell.
“Good,” the sheriff said.
Then the sheriff started asking questions, his voice low and soft, using some simple words, letting Linus fill in his own words sometimes, smiling in a kind way when Linus’s words tumbled over themselves.
The sheriff nodded now and then, showing that he understood why Linus had had to throw the spike into the water, and then the girls too.
What Linus didn’t understand though, was why the sheriff kept bringing him back to the part where he was cleaning up, dragging the girls to the ditch, dragging the bicycle, then throwing the spike away …
“I’m mighty grateful, Linus,” the sheriff said when Linus was all done and out of breath. “Now, if we look back there, back where we found the girls, we’ll find the spike, the one you saw had all the red and the hair on it. That what you’re telling us?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now maybe you can do one last thing for me, seeing as how you told me you can read and write. Will you sign a paper, a paper just saying in so many written words what you just told me? That would help me a lot, truth to tell.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, ain’t that great. Tell you something, boy. I’m right proud of you. Now, would you like something to eat?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Figured. Sometimes clearing things up gives a body more of an appetite. I’ll send my deputy in with a tray—”
Linus shivered.
“No, tell you what,” the sheriff said softly. “I’ll bring the tray myself, you done helped me out so much with my problem.”
In a little while, the sheriff came back with a metal tray of biscuits and chicken and gravy and milk and fruit. He put the tray on the bunk, knelt down next to Linus, and showed him a sheet of paper.
“Linus, this is what I was telling you about, what you promised me you’d sign. It just says here what you told me, almost the same words. You sign for me, boy?”
Linus looked into the sheriff’s face. The sheriff was smiling, and Linus thought he winked at him.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. That’s what I wante
d to hear, boy.” The sheriff took a pen from his khaki shirt pocket and handed it to him. Linus tried to keep his hand from trembling; he wanted to show the sheriff how good he could write. Linus made the clearest strokes he could as he signed his name.
“Right proud of you, boy. You eat hearty, now.”
Linus was very, very tired, and some of the sheriff’s words had been too big, but he was happy. It was almost like before …
Alone, Linus picked up a big piece of chicken with the spoon and ran it through the gravy before scooping up part of a biscuit. He had never tasted such good food, and he had never been so hungry.
8
For Judah Brickstone, the luncheon at the Calhoun House, two miles outside of Manning, was both an opportunity and an obligation. His feelings were appropriately ambivalent.
Weeks ago, he had circled the date in red on his law calendar. It was at least as important—as inviolate, really—as the more official dates on his calendar: those for filing motions to be heard in the upcoming Special Term of Circuit Court, dates when friendly judges would be sitting, dates when unfriendly judges would be sitting.
Actually, he had originally not thought of going to the luncheon at all. Oh, the food at the Calhoun House was good enough (Judah was partial to their filet of bass and peach shortcake), but the prospect of listening to a soldier address a ladies’ War Bonds auxiliary booster organization made him wince with anticipation of boredom.
Judah Brickstone was twenty-eight, a new lawyer, and he was exempt from military service because his heart had been weakened by rheumatic fever in his childhood. With only moderate guilt, he occasionally reflected on the head start he could have, what with so many men his age off to the war.
Yet whenever he saw a man in uniform, he was sad somewhere deep in his soul. In his boyhood, he had imagined himself born a century earlier, had seen himself atop a chestnut horse, resplendent in his Confederate gray.…