by W. L. Heath
“That’s what they say. I thought a man was good as dead when his neck broke, but I musta been wrong. They look for him to live, according to Mister Neff.”
“Broken neck don’t always kill you,” Nish said. “I had a cousin down around Clanton that fell off a bridge project and broke his neck, and he lived. He went around for the longest in a plaster parish cast though. Couldn’t turn his head neither right nor left.”
“My, my, they sure picked the wrong man when they picked Mister Shelley, didn’t they? All the cars in town and they had to pick him. He don’t pay to fool with, Mister Shelley don’t. I could’ve told them that myself. They say he shot one man’s whole head off. Decapitated his whole head.” Sugar spooned up a big mouthful of chili. He was eating with his hat on. “That Mister Shelley a man and a half. Always was.”
“I tell you one thing though,” Nish said. “I’d about as soon be that one in the fence as that one they after now. They got every police in nawth Alabama after him – state patrol and all. They even got the dogs on him.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Indeed it is. Cleve Brown the one told me. He said they went to Wannville late this evening for the dogs.”
“Man, I sure would hate to be out there where he is and the dogs on me. That’s when I turn myself in, when they call in the dogs. Man ain’t got a chance when animals enters in.”
“He’s probably lost to boot,” Jim said. “If you don’t know that swamp you can get lost in it by the time you turn around. Me and Mister Luke Sawyer went in there one time to cut some locust posts and got loss big as hell in broad open daylight.”
“Lost and it raining and dark coming on and the dogs on you. Mercy.” Sugar blew out a long sigh and shook his head. “He neen think he’ll get away. Well, he don’t deserve no better, of course. He going to get what’s coming to him.”
“They won’t give him no rest tonight.”
Just then a plump ginger girl got up from one of the booths and went over to the juke box. She was wearing ankle socks and loafers, and her hair was tied behind in a stiff but fashionable pony tail. Sugar eyed her speculatively.
“You Sugar,” Nish giggled. “You too old for something like that.”
“Money talks,” Sugar said, still looking.
“Yeah, but it don’t raise the dead.”
They all whooped and laughed and Nish waggled her head. The girl selected a song by Mahalia Jackson and went back to her booth. After a moment the juke sprang to life with a flux of bubbles in pink glass tubes. Mahalia sang, and the rhythm of the music filled the room with a deep reverberant throbbing, like the beating of a huge contented heart.
Frank Dupree was having his supper too, downtown at the Blue Moon. He was sitting up near the front of the restaurant so he could watch his cab, and Sybil had taken her customary place behind the counter, picking her teeth with a match. They had covered every aspect of the robbery except one, and now Frank was getting ready to tell that. He had saved it till last because it was the one thing about the whole affair that belonged to him alone, and he wanted to have everything else out of the way before he told it. He wanted to enjoy it.
“Now,” he said, “here’s the queerest thing of all. Don’t nobody know this but me, and I’d just as soon it didn’t go no further, if you know what I mean.”
Sybil looked at him with interest.
“Pour me another coffee first.”
She poured his coffee and waited while he lit a cigarette. He pushed his plate away, glanced over his shoulder and then leaned toward her confidentially.
“It’s about Miss Elsie Cotter,” he said. “You know her, don’t you? Miss Elsie they call her?”
“The old woman with those legs?”
“That’s her. Well, I happen to drove her home after the robbery, and she was having the hysterics. She was in the bank, you know. Jake Pratt and another fellow put her in my cab and told me to take her on home. She wasn’t hurt, just scared, and she was having the hysterics.” He glanced over his shoulder again and then leaned a little farther across the counter. “You know what she told me in the cab? She said she was as guilty as any of them. She said – now get this – she said she herself had stole fifty dollars off Miz Morris Walker and carried it to the bank to deposit. That’s how come her to be in there.”
He leaned back to study Sybil’s reaction.
“I don’t get it.”
“Don’t get it. Don’t you read the paper? Didn’t you see it about the money Miz Walker lost?”
“Well, yes. Now you mention it, I believe I did read where she lost some money.”
Frank raised his hands and smiled. “There you are. The old girl has done turned pickpocket. Now since this robbery happened, she thinks the Lord or somebody is punishing her for it. She the same as blames herself for everything that happened. I’m not kidding, that woman was fit to be tied, she was so upset.”
“Whatever made her tell you, I wonder.”
“Hysterics. People always do something like that with hysterics. She had to get it off her chest, see? She had to tell somebody on account of feeling so guilty about it. She even tried to give me the fool money.”
“You don’t mean it. Didn’t you take it?”
“No, I didn’t take it.”
“I would have.”
“No, you wouldn’t either. You’re just saying that.”
“Maybe so. I’d of give it a second thought though, I guarantee you that.”
Frank stared at her, smiling. It was a good inside story, all right.
“What did she say when you turned it down?”
“Said she was going to burn it.”
“Burn fifty dollars? Brother, she was upset. I bet she don’t though. I’d bet a steak dinner that money never in this world gets burned. That was crazy talk. She’s going to think better of that when she gets over being scared.”
“That I don’t know,” Frank said. “But it was quite an experience for me. You see, they used to be The Family around here. Her grandfather give this town its name. Now she’s out stealing. People do change, don’t they?”
“You know the saying: shirt sleeve to shirt sleeve in three generations.”
“Yeah, but stealing. You can’t tell about folks any more. My Lord, this has been a day, ain’t it?”
“You can say that again. You want any more coffee?”
“No, I’m going to drive over to the poolroom and see if they’s any word about Harry Reeves yet.”
Harry Reeves was lying as still as he could lie, but the bed seemed to whirl through the room the moment he closed his eyes.
“Why don’t you try to go to sleep, dear?” his wife said.
“I can’t sleep. I can’t even close my eyes it makes me so dizzy.”
“Are you going to be sick again?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see how I could, but you better keep the pan handy.”
“It’s right here under the bed. You want me to call the nurse?”
“No.”
He tried to close his eyes, but the bed seemed to scoot away, spinning into space, and he opened them again quickly. He swallowed and perspiration broke out across his forehead under the bandages.
My God, he thought, I never knew what it was to be sick before.
“Does your head hurt, dear?”
“Of course my head hurts.”
“You should try to get some sleep.”
“I tell you I can’t sleep. I can’t even shut my eyes.”
“All right, but at least lie still and don’t try to talk. You’ve lost a lot of blood and you’re weak. Did you know they had to shave your head?”
“Yes, I knew it.”
He moved his eyes carefully around to where he could see her face, and tried to smile, but the warm tears ran down over his cheeks. She pressed his hand where it lay on top of the sheet.
“They say I’m going to be all right.”
“Of course, you are, dear. You’re going to be as good as new in no time a-tall.�
��
“My head is killing me. Why don’t they give me a dose of something?”
“You want the nurse to give you something?”
“No, let her alone. I’d rather wait on the doctor.”
“Do you mind if I smoke a cigarette?”
“No.”
“You’re sure it won’t make you sick?”
“Nothing could make me any sicker than I already am. Go ahead and smoke.”
She opened her purse, then hesitated. “Maybe I better not.”
“All right. Suit yourself.”
Someone passed in the hall, rubber soles squeaking on the polished floor.
“Was that her?” he said.
“Who?”
“Miss Benson?”
“I don’t know, dear. I didn’t see. You want me to call her?”
“No, I don’t want her in here. I don’t want her to touch me again.”
“For heaven sakes why not? She’s the nurse.”
“I know she’s the nurse, but I still don’t want her in here. She isn’t clean.”
“Oh, Harry, really, I think you must be a little feverish.”
“My head hurts, I know that much. It’s killing me.”
“Let me call her. She can give you a sedative and …”
“No, I told you!”
“All right, but try to go to sleep at least.”
“Did you ever see anybody sleep with their eyes open? I tell you I’ve got to keep my eyes open.”
She patted his hand and gave him a sympathetic look. Mrs. Reeves was a thin, intense woman with a nervous habit of adjusting her glasses. She did it by placing the middle finger of her left hand against the bridge and pushing back delicately. It annoyed Mr. Reeves terribly.
“I think I will have that cigarette after all,” she said.
“Go right ahead.”
“How does your shoulder feel? That’s what really ought to be hurting, instead of your head.”
“Not bad. Just heavy. It feels like it weighs about a ton.”
“They had to put an awful lot of dressing on it, I guess.”
“I guess so. I imagine it will give me Hail Columbia tomorrow. Right now it’s just numb and heavy-feeling.”
Suddenly, without any warning at all, Miss Benson was in the room. Harry clamped his teeth together and stared hard at the ceiling. He was sweating again.
“Well, how’s our patient?” Miss Benson said pleasantly. “Still not asleep, I see.”
“He won’t close his eyes,” Mrs. Reeves said. “He claims it makes him dizzy.”
“Claims,” Mr. Reeves said bitterly.
Miss Benson came over to the bed and took his wrist in her hand. He felt weak and sick with her standing over him. She was too close. He hated for her to touch him. He felt something thick and sick rise in his throat and swallowed it down frantically. After a moment the feeling passed. Miss Benson dropped his hand and went to the foot of the bed to write something on the chart. Harry looked steadily up at the ceiling while the sweat seeped under his bandages and ran coldly down his ribs and under his arms.
He hadn’t looked at her at all, but still he could see her. He could hear her, and he could smell the starched, fresh-soap smell of her uniform. As she moved about the room there was a brisk, efficient swishing from her uniform. And then there was something else. Something just barely audible to clever ears. A tiny whispering sound. Her stockings were rubbing together as she walked. My God, Harry thought, it’s because she’s knock-kneed. He closed his eyes and the bed whirled sickeningly away into darkness.
Pete Brayley and Jack Byjohn had stayed with Boyd after Emily’s body was moved to the funeral home. They were his closest friends and that unpleasant duty devolved upon them automatically. They made no effort to talk, of course. They were merely there for whatever comfort their presence could give him, and now the three of them were sitting in one of the gloomy airless little waiting rooms of the funeral home, while upstairs (they supposed) Emily’s body was being embalmed. It was a terrible thing to think about – what they were doing to her up there – and to avoid it, Jack Byjohn was mentally going over the last round of golf he’d played, stroke by stroke. Pete, unfortunately, had once heard an undertaker discussing the use of a trocar, and in spite of all his efforts he could think of nothing else.
Boyd sat in one of the big imitation-leather chairs with his head back and his eyes closed, as if he was asleep. He was thinking of Emily, and particularly of how she had looked when the last of life was gone out of her and she was lying so pale and so impossibly still on the white table. It fascinated him in some dreadful way. He had known from the first that she was going to die, but he hadn’t been prepared for what it did to her. That was the greatest shock of all, the way she looked when it was all over. Not even the fact of death was as bad, he thought, as the look of death.
“Did you see her, Jack?” he asked suddenly.
“No, I didn’t, Boyd.”
“You, Pete?”
“No, Boyd.”
The silence was thick in the room.
“Well, it was terrible, I can tell you that. I can’t describe to you how awful she looked.”
“Don’t talk about it, Boyd, you’ll just upset yourself.”
“I’m not exactly upset. I’m numb, if you know what I mean. I feel kind of deaf.”
“You’re suffering from shock. Try not to think about it.”
“I can’t help but think about it.”
They were silent again for a long time.
“Did either of you ever see a dead person?”
They both nodded.
“I don’t understand it. What happens to them? I swear to God she looked like wax. Even her hair didn’t look real. Even her hair was …”
“Cut it out, Boyd,” Jack said. “For Christ sake, why torture yourself?”
“I’m not torturing myself. I wouldn’t say this if I were. I just can’t get over the way she looked. I’ve never seen anything or anybody look as absolutely dead as she did.”
“Cut it out, boy,” Pete said gently.
“All right. But it’s a strange thing, isn’t it? Death is. Take this morning, for example. We were sitting in the living room talking about religion. Only this morning. She was drinking coffee, I remember, and we were carrying on this conversation about religion. She was lying on the couch, just as alive as you please.” He looked up suddenly. “You fellows mind if I talk about it?”
Jack sighed and shook his head, and Pete said, “If you must.”
“Only this morning, lying there and drinking coffee and talking like nothing in the world was the matter. We had salmon croquettes for lunch. I remember, because they gave me indigestion. She probably still has that in her stom– ”
“Boyd, for God sakes!”
“I’m sorry. I’m in a hell of a shape, I guess, and don’t know it. You get this way when something like this happens. For a while it gave me indigestion – either that or the salmon. I kept belching while we were in the emergency room. Just shut me up when you get tired of listening to me.”
They were quiet again for a few minutes. Pete lit a cigarette with shaky fingers.
“Yes, it’s a very strange thing. Past the wit of man. It’s an improbable thing, actually. One minute you’re alive and somebody. The next minute you’re nothing. A lump of wax. When that happens to you everything you ever thought or did or planned to do is just left hanging in mid-air – everything is pointless. For instance, Emily had been after me lately to buy a new car. What did she want with a new car? She was practically dead already, and yet she was looking forward to a new car. I don’t know. She probably had made up her mind what movies she was going to next week, and whether or not she’d go to Birmingham with Madge. And all the time where she was really going was to the cemetery. I don’t know, I swear it’s a hell of a thing to try to digest. Now I’ve got to go home and pack up her things. Her shoes and hats and stockings and things like that. Right now there’s a glass
in the bathroom with lipstick on it where she drank water this morning. I’ve got to clean out her pocketbooks, keys and cigarettes and Kleenex. Everybody has to die, I guess. I’ll die myself someday. But this is different, when it happens this way. A person ought not to be alive and well in the morning and dead in the afternoon. All those loose ends of life just left hanging. Just whacked off and left hanging. Engagements to keep, bills to pay, things that seemed important and didn’t make a grain of difference after all.”
They were silent for a while, and then he went on again. They let him talk it out.
“It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? What’s the point of it all? Why do we even bother to make plans and look ahead? I don’t know, maybe if we’d had children.”
A car passed in the street, tires swishing on the wet pavement. Somewhere a telephone rang.
“I’ll tell you something I ought not to,” Boyd said. “Emily was afraid she was pregnant. Just today she was worrying about it. And at that time when she was doing all of that worrying, you know how long she had left to live? Less than seven hours. I figured it up. She had less than seven hours on earth. I don’t know. I don’t understand it at all. You never know when it will happen, or how. Sherwood Anderson swallowed a little piece of a toothpick and it killed him. When I was in the Navy I used to wonder what day, what hour would be my last. But I never heard a shot fired in anger.”
“You want a cigarette, Boyd?”
“No thanks. Yes, I believe I will, on second thought. I haven’t smoked a cigarette all afternoon. At a time like this you even forget your habits.”
Pete gave him a cigarette and leaned forward to light it. “How about food? Have you had anything to eat?”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“Like me to run out for something? Coffee and a sandwich maybe?”
“No, I’m not hungry, Pete. Thanks though. I’ve had this indigestion all afternoon.”
His eyes filled suddenly with tears, and Pete and Jack looked down at the floor again. There was a long silence.
“Well, what have you heard from Harry Reeves?” Boyd said.
“He’s all right. He wasn’t as badly shot up as they first thought. He was mostly cut by the glass from the door.”