Hindsight

by Ronald Kelly

  The lawman's vow calmed the men. Clay scratched his chin and, eyes on the raw earth of the barn floor, nodded in quiet agreement. Ransom Potts, however, puffed up like a bullfrog, pulling away from Taylor's comforting grasp.

  "Well, you'd better just do that, Sheriff," he said, poking a meaty finger in the constable's face. "If you don't bring that murdering trash to justice soon, I'll damned well see that this year's election will be your last. Maybe it's about time this county elected a man who suits the job better, instead of one who spends half his time down at Woody's store, gorging himself on idle conversation, sodas, and moon pies!"

  Then, stomping out of the barn, Potts got into his car and headed back for town.

  "Don't pay him no mind, boss," said Deputy Ezell. "It was just the grief talking."

  White stared hard at the retreating bumper of a car that would have cost him a good three years' pay. "No, that wasn't grief talking," he simply said. "That was just plain, old Ransom Potts raising the usual stink. And, though it may not be the most Christian observation I've ever made, I still think he's one genuine pain in the ass!"

  The Biggs family watched as Clay and the sheriff emerged into the sweltering summer sun, followed by Harvey Brewer. They walked over to where the brood stood in a tight and inseparable group.

  Maudie watched her spouse approach with a growing sense of cold dread imbedded in her soul. "Clay . . . was it him?"

  The rawboned farmer nodded. His long face had never seemed so colorless and old.

  The woman collapsed into the strong comfort of his arms, sobbing wildly over the loss of her firstborn. The children began to vent their grief also, clutching at each other, seeking some small comfort in the midst of their brother's painful memory. The only child who did not cry was Cindy. She stood quietly, her full attention on the misshapen clump of water-stained felt in her small fingers. Her hazel eyes studied each water-spot, each seam and stitch, as if searching for some curious piece of a puzzle that she could not quite assemble fully in her youthful mind.

  Sheriff White stooped down to the child's level, running a pudgy finger absently along the crease of the fedora's crown. "Cindy, honey, I'm gonna need this for evidence. Without it, I might not be able to find the bad men who did this."

  The nine-year-old's freckled face was leaden with confusion. She continued to stare at the hat, unwilling to give in to the sheriff's gentle request.

  With Maudie still sobbing on his shoulder, Clay reached down and ran a hand through Cindy's shock of orange-red hair. "Let him have it, pumpkin."

  The child reluctantly released her hold on the fedora. As the fabric of the hat left her fingertips, Cindy lost hold of something more than just the material object. Clutching her brother's hat had sent a peaceful flow of good memories through her mind, memories of Johnny as she last remembered him: his easy grin, smiling eyes, his boyish recklessness. A myriad of songs had danced through Cindy's thoughts, the strumming of the flat-top guitar and the crystal harmony of the young man's cheerful voice. The memories had calmed the girl after her mad dash home from that den of violent death, serving as a pacifier might soften the turbulent mood of an infant.

  But now, as Johnny's dirty gray hat left her possession, the darker images returned, the oppressive images of darkness and rain and the thunderous reports of shotguns expelling swarms of pellets, aiming to find their mark and spill life's precious blood upon the rich Tennessee earth.

  Her defenses torn down, Cindy suddenly felt the onslaught of raw emotions overcome her. Like the others, she began to cry. Cynthia Ann Biggs wept bitterly for her lost brother, feeling terribly lonesome despite the closeness of her family. And there was a burning anger deep down in her young soul, as if she had been coldly wronged by someone she could not quite place. For a moment, she felt as if the faces of the culprits would emerge from the depths of obscurity, exposed and leering hatefully in the pleasure of the evil committed that rainy night months ago. But the identity of the murderers did not come. While every other horror expressed itself clearly in her mind, the ones responsible still eluded her.

  Sheriff White turned from the Biggs family, embarrassed in the face of their grief. He tucked the fedora beneath his arm, then walked back over to where Old Man Brewer stood. "Harvey, are you sure you didn't hear any shots down at that barn? It's kinda hard for me to swallow that something like this took place without you knowing something about it."

  Harvey Brewer seemed irritated at the sheriff's suspicions. "Like I told you before, I don't know nothing. I don't know how many times I've gotta tell you that before you believe me, Taylor."

  Cynthia Ann heard the old man's gruff denial. She glared up at him through her tears. You're lying! she wanted to scream at him, for she knew deep in her heart that Brewer was concealing the truth. She sensed a great fear behind the old man's lies, the cold fear of promised retribution. Someone had put a bad scare into Harvey Brewer, a deep and lasting fright that suppressed every shred of honor and wisdom that the old-timer had accumulated during seventy-eight years of living in the Tennessee bottomland.

  Harvey was turning from the sheriff's interrogation when he caught a glimpse of the girl's accusing stare. He opened his mouth, perhaps intending to scold her for showing disrespect to her elders, but his words froze in his throat. He looked into those tearful eyes, and what he saw there shook him to his very bones. Images came to him, rapidly replacing one with the next, each more frightening than the last. The pelting staccato of rain on the tin roof, combined with the boom of distant gunfire and the horrid banshee wail of death screams. The splash of headlights' arching through the darkness of his field, finally settling on the back porch of the little clapboard house. Gruff voices came to mind, threatening and strangely familiar. Nothing went on here tonight. You understand? A feeble protest on his part, followed by the thunderous explosion of a shotgun blowing a chunk from a porch post nearby. Then, when they had left, the cold trembling fear and the pain ... oh, that terrible searing pain deep inside his chest!

  The sheriff studied Brewer's agonized expression with sudden concern. "Are you all right, Harve? If your heart's acting up again, I can fetch the doctor."

  "Just forget it." Brewer shrugged it off. He turned toward the security of his ramshackle house. "It ain't nothing but a touch of heartburn. I don't need that old quack to tell me that."

  Without another word, he ambled away from the small gathering. He was mounting the low porch when he again cast a curious glance at the weeping huddle of the Biggs family. The red-haired child still held him in her sights, those innocent eyes blazing angrily in his direction. Harvey wasted no time in locking the kitchen door behind him. He stood, steadying himself at the kitchen table, until the tightness and drumming ache began to fade from his chest. But, even after slumping into a cane-backed chair, the old man found himself unable to rid himself of Cindy's damning stare.

  She knows! he realized, burying his face in his hands. A shuddering tremble gripped his feeble body like a palsy, and he sat there waiting, waiting for the heavy knock on the back door and Taylor White's angry demands for information withheld. But his door remained silent and his house unapproached, and he sat there a very long time, until the shadows of evening crossed his floor, wrapping him in a dark shroud of fear and lonesome despair.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The funerals of Johnny Biggs and Billy Longcreek were held at the Coleman Church of Christ. It was a simple, solemn service conducted by the Reverend Powell. The pews were packed during the comforting eulogies of the two boys, and there was much weeping and the flickering of paper fans. After the brief service, pallbearers carried the two caskets to the graveyard that bordered the church grounds. The somber weather matched the darkened moods of those gathered at the double burial. Mostly neighboring farmers and their families surrounded the gravesites, along with a few sympathetic townsfolk who had thought well of the two young men who were to be committed to earth.

  The funeral of the other victim, C.J. Potts, was he
ld separately in the town cemetery near the county courthouse. The gathering there was much smaller than the one in the country. Ransom Potts and his frail wife, Betsy, a minister, and a group of reluctant bank employees were all who attended.

  At the rural graveyard, only a few yards from where Vera Mae Holt's stillborn child had been buried a few months earlier, the unseen remains of Johnny and Billy were laid to rest. There was much sobbing and praying as the pinewood caskets were lowered and covered with rich, Tennessee clay dirt. The only one of the Biggs clan who did not shed a tear was Clayburn. The farmer stood beside his grievous wife, his lean face as rigid and cold as sculptured stone. His neighbors were respectful of the courage he showed in the face of such a dark day in his life. But, if they had looked closer, if they could have read the emotion behind those sharp blue eyes, they might have sensed that sturdy rock on the verge of crumbling; for the eyes are a mere extension of the soul, and that man's tortured soul was raging with a turbulent mixture of grief, bitterness, and rage.

  After all had been said and done, the gathering dispersed. Clay Biggs and his quiet family drove home in the beat-up Ford pickup. When they had reached the house, the truck parked in the driveway, they all sat there for one silent moment, no one anxious to move from his spot, each one submerged in their own private thoughts of Johnny. Finally, Clay climbed out of the truck and, without a word, marched past the house to the outbuildings out back, shedding the dark jacket of his Sunday suit as he went.

  "I've got to get ready for the neighbors," Maudie said aloud, herding the children into the house ahead of her. "You young 'uns change into your old clothes, you hear me?"

  "Yes, Mama," they all answered.

  Maudie hurriedly set her black veiled hat and purse atop the hallway chifforobe and headed for the kitchen. Once there, she began clearing the eating table, making room for the offerings to come. In the South it was a long-standing custom at times of death to bring food instead of flowers and other condolences. It was a thoughtful and well-appreciated gesture, for the bereaved family was most often too upset to prepare supper after the burial. Soon there would be knocks upon the door, and the neighbors would enter, staying only long enough to share their sorrow and leave their covered dish on the kitchen table. Fried chicken, deviled eggs, and bowls of fresh vegetables from the garden, the offerings were meant as much more than a free meal to the grieving family, but as an offering of friendship and understanding.

  Maudie was passing the kitchen window when she stopped in her tracks. She stared at her husband through the dirty panes. Clay was standing beside the woodpile, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, a long-handled axe balanced in his right hand. She watched as he took a section of maple from the woodpile and set it upright on the hickory stump. The man stared at the cylinder of rough timber for a moment, his eyes seeming to flash angrily at the very sight of it. Then, with a mighty heave of the axe and an ugly grimace of pure rage, he swung the blade downward, splitting the wood cleanly in half.

  Little Sam walked in from the boys' bedroom, slipping an overall strap over his left shoulder. He stopped at the back door and peered through the rusty screen as his father cleaved another stick in half. "Why's Pappy splitting wood?" he asked his mother. "It's only the middle of summer."

  Maudie did not answer. She merely watched her man as he swiftly reached for another slab of wood, positioned it atop the stump, and angrily swung the axe downward. Her heart ached for Clayburn, for she knew the hurt he was experiencing and the great anger over their son's senseless death. If Johnny had died in a natural way, if he had drowned in a swimming hole or fallen out of an apple tree and broken his neck, then maybe Clay could have accepted it better. But Johnny and his friends had been purposely lured to Brewer's barn and horribly murdered for the few greenbacks they carried. The act itself was unbearable to them all, but not knowing who the killers were, knowing that they still walked free and unpunished, that was what made it so very hard for Clay to accept. And the only way he knew to vent his emotion was through physical labor, perhaps the only true thing that Clayburn Biggs understood in life.

  She sensed eyes peering over her shoulder and turned to find Polly and Josh staring in disbelief. "What's Pappy doing?"

  Maudie turned Polly around and, holding her ebony pigtails aloft, buttoned the back of her pink cotton dress. "He's chopping wood," she replied.

  "But it's July," Josh said.

  "Don't you go questioning your pappy's doings," she snapped at the two. "If he wants to cut down every tree in sight, well, he's surely got the right to do so. Now wash up. Won't be long before the neighbors get here."

  Polly and Josh exchanged puzzled glances. They went to the kitchen sink and began pumping water into the basin. Cynthia Ann craned her thin arms around her neck to fasten the collar button of her own flower print dress. She wandered to the screen door. Standing beside her little brother, she too watched as Clay continued his mad fit of wood splitting. But where the others only regarded him with frightened curiosity, the red-haired child sensed the true nature of the beast that had him in its grasp.

  White hot emotion washed across the backyard toward her, assaulting her mind. The raw heat of rage was what wielded that axe, not her father. A great anger, forged from grief and despair, possessed the farmer, driving from him all the wisdom and common sense that had governed the Biggs clan since its conception.

  Cindy saw her father's face, flushed red with fury, twisted into an ugly mask of mental anguish. She saw the tanned forearms bunch and jerk with flexed sinew, the big hands clutching the axe handle as if it were forever joined to the flesh of his palms. She witnessed the unbridled force of each blow, splitting wood like a hot knife through butter. The broad axe hit with a powerful thunk, scattering the splintered remains of the firewood over flowered clover and brittle summer grass.

  Words came to her, words that she never thought would echo in that gentle farmer's mind. You bastards! his thoughts spat like venom as he replaced a halved stick with a fresh one. Lousy . . . no-account . . . sons of bitches . . . killed my boy! Killed my Johnny! Stinking murderers . . . lousy, stinking bastards! Again, the leanly muscled arms would heft the axe, cocked over the right shoulder, then bring it hurling downward with awful force — a killing force — as if the sharply honed edge had been intended for a human skull rather than a lifeless chunk of wood.

  A horrible feeling began to creep into Cindy, the feeling that her father's senseless rage was gaining in momentum, gripping his mind in its uncontrollable fury, rather than burning itself out. Somehow she felt as though her father might hurt himself or someone else if it was not ended right then and there. Without thinking, the girl burst through the back door, leaped off the low porch, and ran toward the smokehouse.

  "Cynthia Ann!" screamed Maudie, a great fear welling up inside her. "Get back here! Get back here this very instant, young lady!" Her eyes were frantic, her attention torn between two points. One was her red-haired daughter sprinting barefootedly across the grass, while the other was an axe-toting madman who swung his deadly tool again and again into the hickory stump, no longer bothering to vent his rage on maple slabs.

  Tearfully, Cindy stopped a careful distance from the stump, flinching under a hail of splinters and fragments of wood. "Stop it, Pappy! Stop it!" she screamed, the nearness of the terrible hate so close now that it frightened her to the point of hysteria.

  Maudie came out on the back porch. "Get away from him, Cindy!"

  The man's eyes lifted from the scarred surface of the stump, eyes that blazed feverishly with a hatred that bordered insanity. The axe was cocked back for one final swing. Clayburn's attention settled on the little girl, and for a frightening second, Cindy was sure that her father was going to bring the heavy, steel wedge whistling down upon her head with killing force.

  "STOP!" she screamed and felt something boil up within her, as if some ferocious animal had awakened from a deep slumber. Clay felt it, too, for some great force wrenched at the axe in his hands
, tearing the pitted handle from his fingers. The force seemed like some violent wind — no, it appeared much more solid than any gust the farmer had ever encountered. Clay was knocked backward, falling hard on his back amid crab grass and maple chips. The long-handled axe spun end over end, knocking a jagged hole in the south wall of the gray-wood smokehouse, disappearing from view into the murky confines of the shed.

  Horrified, Cindy ran. She did not run to the safety of her mother's arms, but rather for the heavy growth of the woods that lined the Biggs' back acre. Clay got shakily to his feet, his face now pale and strained, having lost every trace of the insane rage that had commanded him moments before.

  "Cindy!" he called hoarsely. "Cindy . . . I'm . . . sorry!"

  The child was gone though, having fled into the shadows of the dense forest where Green Creek wound like a flowing quicksilver snake across half of Bedloe County. The farmer stared down at his hands, blistered from the mad assault on the woodpile. They shook nervously, like leaves on a blustery autumn day. He studied the huge crater in the planked wall of the smokehouse. "Dear Lord!" breathed Clay. "Dear sweet Lord!"

  Maudie and the children stood on the back porch. They watched silently as their provider and protector, the strongest and steadiest man they had ever known, sat down on the chopping stump and, placing his head in his hands, began to cry.

  Herding the three children inside, Maudie closed the porch door, sealing her husband's grief from prying eyes. Polly, Josh, and Sam . . . none of the three said another word. They lingered around the kitchen table, stunned, trying to digest the events, of the last few minutes. Maudie felt on the verge of tears herself; but a sudden knock on the front door steeled her spirit, and she knew she must be strong.

  "Polly, answer the door," she said, attempting a pleasant smile. When the girl had left the room, Maudie closed the kitchen curtains. She did not want any of the visitors to see Clay in his time of weakness.