by W. L. Heath
“By the way, when is he due in?” Dill said, ignoring Preacher.
“Not till tomorrow,” Harper said. “We can’t afford to have anybody see him or the truck, I don’t want him in town at all.”
“Memphis, here I come,” Preacher said, He stretched out on his bed again and straightened the wire of his hearing aid. “Eighty thousand. Man, won’t it rock this little jerk-water town?”
“Think of them that’s in the bank, though,” Dill said, smiling a little for the first time. “Won’t they do some talking? You know, it’s a funny thing when you stop and think about it. Here we are getting ready to dish up some real excitement for these farmers and they don’t dream a thing about it. Some of them are going to be in that bank when we walk in tomorrow – just in there by chance probably – and look what happens. They got something to talk about the rest of their stupid life.” He looked at Harper and grinned.
“That reminds me,” Harper said. “There’s a phone back there in the vault. So if there’s somebody in the vault when we go in, wait till they come out before you start anything. That’s one way they might cross us up.”
“Check,” Preacher said.
“Funny thing though,” Dill said. “You plan the hell out of something like this, but you never can be sure how it’ll come out. It’s the only thing that worries me. I tell you the truth, I don’t believe I could shoot a man to save my life.”
“Me neither,” Preacher said.
They both looked at him and he gave a high soft giggle.
At nine o’clock the kids were in bed and Shelley and his wife were sitting on the screened porch. They had left the light off, so as not to attract mosquitoes, and Shelley had opened a couple of beers for them, which they were drinking from the cans, sipping slowly and talking in the dark. Helen was smoking a cigarette.
“You won’t believe it,” she said, “but this is the fourth cigarette I’ve had all day. I had one after breakfast and two this afternoon while Jimmy was asleep, and now this is number four. I actually don’t have time to sit down and drink a cup of coffee and have a cigarette anymore.”
“What’s the matter, the kids give you a hard time?”
“Days like today they do. That Jimmy. Honestly, Shelley, he’s more trouble than both the girls put together.”
Shelley sipped his beer and smiled. “Turn him over to me when he gets too rough. I’ll tan his rear for him.”
“Look who’s talking. Shelley, you wouldn’t lay a hand on that boy for all the tea in China. Besides he’s too little to spank. Who ever heard of spanking one ten months old?”
“I’ll spank him. I’ll straighten that young gentleman out.”
“Yeah. I can just see it. You’re what’s the matter with him now, the way you pamper him.”
“Well, I got a big interest in him. Look how hard I had to work for that boy.”
“Shelley Martin. You ought to be ashamed.”
Shelley laughed and sipped his beer in the dark. Heat lightning played along the horizon.
“I wonder what Dave and Sue are up to tonight,” Helen said. “We should have called and had them come over for a beer.”
“I didn’t think of it,” Shelley said. “I haven’t seen Dave in I guess it’s a week now.”
“Sue was over this morning to help me fit a dress. She don’t look well either, Sue don’t. She ought to see a doctor about that digestion of hers.”
“What’s the matter with her digestion?”
“Nothing agrees with her. She told me today she can’t even drink a cup of coffee without it giving her heartburn. I think she’s got an ulcer, myself.”
“Heartburn don’t sound like an ulcer. With an ulcer you have the stomach ache. There was a boy in my outfit overseas that had an ulcer. He used to get the stomach ache all the time; had to keep eating all during the day. Every time his stomach got empty, bingo, he’d have the stomach ache. You get an ulcer and you know it, all right. You don’t have to wonder what’s wrong with you.”
“What causes an ulcer anyway?”
“Nervousness mainly,” Shelley said. “Take when we were flying a lot, this guy used to have the stomach ache all the time, whether he ate or not.”
“I don’t see why they could put somebody like that in the Army in the first place.”
“Too much liquor can give you ulcers too,” Shelley said. “All these big whisky drinkers show up with ulcers before it’s over.”
“That Boyd Fairchild’s certainly due for one, then. And his wife too, from what I hear. They say those two drink like a fish practically every night of the week.”
“That reminds me,” Shelley said. “Me and Boyd are going fishing tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have to have the car.”
“What’s the matter with his car?”
“I don’t know. Maybe his wife needs it. Anyway, he asked me to come by for him.”
“Needs it for what, I’d like to ask. To run after somebody else’s husband with?”
“All right, Helen, just leave that to the rest of the blabbermouths. You don’t know a thing on earth about Emily Fairchild, and it will pay you to leave that kind of talk to somebody else. Don’t forget, I work for the Fair– ”
I know you work for the Fairchilds. I’m just telling you what I hear.”
“And another thing. Boyd Fairchild is all right. He’s been mighty nice to both of us, and we owe it to him not to repeat what every Tom, Dick and Harry has to say about him.”
“I’m not criticizing Boyd. What did I say about Boyd?”
“You said he drank like a fish, for one thing.”
“Well, he does, Shelley. You know that as well as I do. Everybody knows it. He doesn’t even pretend not to, for God’s sake.”
“And what’s so wrong about drinking?”
“Oh, forget it. I don’t want to fuss.”
“I’m not fussing,” Shelley said. “I’m just telling you. What the Fairchilds do is the Fairchilds’ business. If they want to get lit every night of the week it’s nothing to us.”
“Well, I’ll stand by Boyd. Boyd’s all right. But I don’t have to like that wife of his. And tell you something else, too. You don’t like her yourself, Shelley. Tell the truth. Do you like her?”
“I don’t hate her.”
“Just say if you honestly and truly like her. Tell the truth. How would you like it if they lived next door and she was dropping in over here like Ann does, or Sue? How would that suit you?”
“I wouldn’t care for that, sure. But that’s carrying it to the extreme. I still say what she does is her own business, and we’ll do well to keep our nose out of it. She’s not bothering us.”
“Isn’t she?”
Shelley looked around sharply in the dark. “Just what was meant by that remark?”
“Nothing, Shelley. Don’t blow up.”
“No, I’m serious. Just exactly what are you driving at?”
“All right. I suppose she never made a pass at you.”
“She certainly has not.”
“Are you right sure, Shelley?”
“Of course I’m sure. Goddam it, Helen, what’s the matter with you? Do you think I’d even look twice at Boyd Fairchild’s wife? Are you accusing me of trying to pull off something like that with three children in there and as good a job as I’ve got? What’s the matter with you women anyway? I swear, I’m a son of a bitch if I ever heard anything to beat it!”
Helen put her head back and laughed. Then she got up and came over to the glider. She bent down and kissed him softly on the ear.
“I’m only kidding, baby,” she said. “Cool your little fevered brow and don’t get so upset. Mamma’s only teasing.”
Shelley sighed and shook his head. “Christ Amighty, you women. Here. Get me another beer before I break your big fat neck.”
“Shelley Martin!”
“Your slender, pretty little neck, then.”
“That’s better.”
She took his empty can and started back i
nto the house. When she was gone, Shelley sat in the dark and looked out through the screen at the lights along Baird Drive. Two houses away some people were sitting on a lighted screened porch, like his own, playing cards. Now and then they would all laugh and lean forward in their chairs; then they would lean back again and the sound of their voices would die away. A car passed and a moment later a boy on a bicycle went around the corner in front of the Methodist church. He was whistling “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” and there was some sort of a band instrument in the basket of his bike.
Helen returned, handed Shelley a frosty can, and sat down beside him on the glider. He put his arm around her.
“Shelley, do you really think I’m getting too fat?”
“No, I was kidding, hon, you know that.”
“I mean really. What’s that old saying – many a true word is said in jest?”
“I was only kidding, so help me. I wouldn’t want you to lose an ounce.”
“I think I’m getting too fat. I’m getting too hippy. Haven’t you noticed how hippy I’m getting?”
“I’ve noticed you’ve got some hips on you, but hell, a woman’s supposed to have hips. You want to look like one of these scrawny little girls in the fashion magazines? They look to me like they’ve all got TB. I like a woman to have some hips on her.” He let his hand slide down and slapped her solidly on the thigh. “None of these hipless wonders for me.”
“Emily Fairchild’s got a nice pair of hips on her.”
“Yeah, but nothing above. I bet old Boyd wouldn’t know what a nice pair looks like.”
“Still, she’s got a neat little figure. You can’t take that away from her.”
“I don’t want to take it away from her.”
“What about it, Shelley? Don’t you think she’s got a bedroomy look about her?”
“Listen. Damn Emily Fairchild. Will you please get Emily Fairchild off your brain. I wouldn’t touch that hen with a ten-foot pole and you know it.”
“I know it, Shelley. I’m sorry. Not another word about her. Let’s talk about me and my big fat hips.”
“Not big fat hips at all. Nice, full, just-right hips.”
He kissed her cheek.
“And about my big, strong, good-looking man.”
“Cheap flattery will get you nowhere.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“What you just said, about cheap flattery will get you nowhere.”
“What makes you think I heard it somewhere?”
“Because it don’t sound like you. It’s not the kind of thing you’d make up in your head. I’ll bet a hundred dollars you heard somebody else say that first.”
Shelley laughed, “I read it in a magazine,” he said. “I read it in a story in The Saturday Evening Post.”
“I thought so. A remark like that is no more like something you’d say than anything in the world. It’s just not the way you’d say something. Cheap flattery will get you nowhere. Shelley, I know you so well you couldn’t fool me in a million years, you know that? I know you so darn well. If I was blind, I’d know you in your sleep, just by the way you breathe. I know you, Shelley.”
She turned her face up to him and he kissed her.
“Shelley, I know you like I hope no other girl in the world ever has or ever will.”
“Listen,” Shelley said. “When you kiss me like that I feel as though I had just lost an engine on take-off.”
She drew back and looked at him. “Where did that one come from?”
“Same place. A story I was reading in the Post.”
“Honest to God, Shelley. What makes you read that tripe?”
“I like it.”
“I believe you do. Well, you don’t talk to me like that, mister. You know how I like to be talked to.”
“How do you like to be talked to?”
“You know.”
“Like this?”
He buried his face in her hair and whispered something into her ear.
“Shelley Martin!” She giggled and closed her eyes. “Yes, that’s it though. I’m awful, I guess, but Lord I love it.”
“Look out,” he said. “You’re going to spill your beer.”
Down at the Blue Moon, Frank Dupree was having a cup of coffee and talking to Sybil the waitress.
“Well, the social lights are really throwing one tonight,” he said.
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
“The young social lights. Boyd Fairchild and the Brayleys and that crowd. They’re all drunk as glory out at the golf club.”
“Is that so?” Sybil was a big girl with a wart in her left eyebrow. She was leaning against the back counter, picking her teeth with a match.
“I’ve carried three fifths out there already.”
“You don’t say. Old Kelley’s really raking in the money, eh?”
“Ten bucks a fifth,” Frank said. “But money don’t mean nothing to that bunch, I swear it don’t. The Byjohn boy give me a five dollar tip the last trip I made. Just like that. ‘Here, Frank,’ he says. ‘Here’s a little something for yourself.’”
Sybil shook her head. “Well, you know the saying about a fool and his money.”
“That’s the gospel truth, and as long as they’re throwing it away I might as well get it as the next fellow. They got plenty of it to throw.”
“I cain’t take that bunch,” Sybil said. “They’re a little too snotty to suit me. Especially the women. Especially certain ones of them.”
“Well, it’s money. You get money, you can afford to act like a horse’s rear and get away with it. Boyd Fairchild ain’t a bad fellow though.”
“No, he’s all right. And that Parks boy, in fact both of the Parks boys. But some of those wives. No thanks.”
Frank sipped his coffee and looked at himself in the mirror of the cigarette machine that stood at the end of the counter. “I had a fare this afternoon that’s got me puzzled,” he said.
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
“I don’t know. That’s what has me puzzled. These three birds come in on the Memphis train. Said they was with the TVA, but I’d bet dollars to doughnuts they wasn’t.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I don’t know. They never looked right somehow.”
“Well, that’s the world for you,” Sybil said philosophically. “People always putting on the dog, trying to act like they’re you-know-what on a stick.”
“That’s a fact.”
Mrs. Carrington, Emily Fairchild’s mother, was having a cup of hot chocolate before bed, and Judge Carrington was reading a paperback novel called “Murder Goes Naked.” The Judge had taken his shoes off, and Mrs. Carrington was studying him thoughtfully as she sipped her hot chocolate.
“John dear,” she said, “do you think we could get a dogwood to grow out there at the end of the drive under the box elders?”
The Judge looked up. “I suppose so. Why?”
“I was just thinking, we need something along there to fill in that space, and dogwood is so pretty in the spring.”
“Yes, I think it would grow there all right.”
He returned to his book.
“What about quince? Flowering quince.”
He looked up again. “Quince? I doubt it. Too much shade. Dogwood is better.”
“When does it bloom?”
“Dogwood?”
“No, quince.”
“February, isn’t it? We had a bush there by the chimney once. Don’t you remember? I think it used to bloom in February.”
“What time of year do you transplant dogwood?”
“That I don’t know, dear. You’ll have to ask Mac or someone. Mac could tell you.”
He raised his book again.
There was another question Mrs. Carrington wanted to ask, but she let it go. She didn’t want to disturb his reading again.
In the club car of the Dixie Flyer Mr. B. J. Fairchild was talking to a major from Fort Sill, Oklahoma
, who said he was on his way home to a funeral.
“My sister’s husband died,” he explained, “and I’m going back to help out till things are cleared up a little.”
“Any children?” Mr. Fairchild inquired. He was drinking Tom Collins.
“No, fortunately, no children.”
“I don’t know if I’d call that fortunate or not,” Mr. Fairchild said mildly. “It’s fortunate in one sense, of course, but I imagine your sister will be sorry not to have had children. They can be a great comfort, you know.”
“Yes, you’re quite right,” the major said. “In one sense, I see your point.”
“Will you have another drink?”
“I believe I will, thanks. But this one will have to be on me.”
“Not at all,” Mr. Fairchild said. “I always like to treat the man in uniform. I was in the service myself once, and I always enjoy talking to you fellows.”
“What was your outfit?”
“I was in the Fifth Division during World War One – the old Red Diamond.”
“Oh yes,” the major said. “Well, the Army has changed a lot since those days, I’m afraid.”
“My son served in the Navy during the last one,” Mr. Fairchild said.
Chapter Four
To most of their mutual friends, Boyd and Emily Fairchild were an unlikely match. They both were attractive – nobody denied that – but what seemed unlikely was that they would have married each other. The odds had been against it all the way. For one thing, they were the same age and they had grown up together, and men seldom marry the girls they grow up with. Long friendships, especially those begun before puberty, engender a fraternal attitude in the male; and though it was natural enough that Boyd’s first date should have been with little Emily Carrington who lived next door, it was really surprising that he finally ended up by marrying her. Another thing that made it an unlikely marriage was the fact that both their families had been strong for it from the first.
The simple truth of the matter was that Boyd and Emily loved each other. They fell in love as soon as they were able, and stayed that way, and the natural order of things went out of balance. It would have been all right, too, except for one thing, and that was Emily’s disposition. She had a wild, reckless streak in her. She loved Boyd probably as much as he loved her. But she was impulsive and unstable. Mrs. Carrington blamed it on the fact that Emily was a premature baby. “Premature children are always nervous children,” she said. “They start life at a disadvantage and they never quite get over it.” Emily’s father was not so sure. His own secret conviction was that they had spoiled Emily, raising her as an only child, giving her everything she wanted, letting her have her way always, even in the smallest matters. If there had been other children it would have been a different story, he thought, but there were no other children and that was that.