A Lonely Way To Die - Art Bourgeau

by Art Bourgeau

  "Okay, Truman and I will watch Flo," I said. We gave F.T. all the extra ponchos and dropped him off at Jessie's. Then we went to the First National Bar & Grill.

  The rain had killed business. There were only two or three others in the place. We sat at the bar, talking with Flo and Virgil. About seven o'clock Hulan came in for a couple. Flo went over and talked to him.

  About ten o'clock, Virgil decided to close. We paid our bill and left. It was still raining. We got in the truck and waited. About ten-fifteen, Flo left. We followed at a discreet distance. She drove slowly for a few minutes, making a lot of unnecessary turns. She was checking to see if she was being followed. We finally slipped up, and she saw us. It wasn't hard. We were the only two cars on the street. She stepped on the gas and headed for the country. Truman stepped on the gas, and the chase was on. We must have been doing seventy when we crossed the bridge on Black Creek Road. I could see her taillights pulling away from us in the distance. Then she went around a curve, and I couldn't see them any longer. When we rounded the curve, there was no sign of her.

  Truman slowed down and started to look around.

  "She must have turned off in the fire lane up ahead," he said.

  He turned off the lights, and we turned in. We went about a quarter mile on the dirt road, but there was no sign of her. Unfortunately, the road was too narrow for us to turn around, so we had to back out. That cost us another delay.

  "Head for Jessie's," I said.

  Truman gave it all she had, and we were there in a few minutes. We turned in at the road behind Jessie's. F .T. was waiting for us.

  "Any sign of her?" I said.

  "Yeah, she drove through a couple of minutes ago, but she must have seen me, because she didn't stop," he said.

  Truman and I kept looking, but we didn't find her, so we gave up and went back to relieve F .T. We parked the truck in the hiding place, and for the rest of the night, two of us stayed in the cab while the third one stood guard.

  Chapter 27

  The rain stopped around five. The morning was sunny and clear. We left around seven.

  There was an immaculate, green and white, '53 Chevy in front of us. It was old Reverend Whitfield, the Methodist preacher. He was only doing about fifteen miles per hour, but we couldn't pass him until he got to the highway. When he reached the intersection by Jessie's beauty parlor, he turned onto the highway without looking.

  We heard the blast of a horn, the screech of brakes, and a loud crash. A tractor-trailer had hit him squarely in the side, and the immaculate little Chevy was in a ditch. We stopped to help. Truman and F .T. got the old reverend out of his car while I talked to the driver of the tractor-trailer.

  "Did you see that? He just pulled out in front of me without looking," he said.

  "I saw it," I said.

  "Then you're a witness," he said.

  We went over to see about the Reverend. He was pretty shaken up. His glasses were broken. He had a large cut on his forehead, but he wasn't seriously hurt.

  "Are you all right?" asked the driver.

  "Yes, son, I am. Fortunately I had the Lord riding with me," he said.

  "Yeah. Next time you'd better let him ride with me before you get him killed with your driving," said the driver.

  We used the reverend's handkerchief to stop the flow of blood from the cut on his forehead. It was bleeding a lot, like head wounds do.

  One of the neighbors must have called Buck Hill, because he arrived quickly. We told him what had happened, and he took charge of the situation. Even though he was not at fauIt, I could see the truck driver was in for a large fine.

  We went back to the goat shed and went to sleep. Truman was too tired to go home, so he stayed with us.

  Dawn woke us around one o'clock.

  "Come on, sleepyheads, it's time to get up," she said.

  We were out of coffee, so we sent her to the Tank 'n' Tummy for coffee and fried egg sandwiches. When she got back, we were all asleep again.

  "Rise and shine," she said.

  F.T., Truman, and I waded into the stream for a quick bath. The cold water woke us fast. After we dressed, we had the coffee and fried egg sandwiches.

  "Come on. Today's the rally. We need your help to get the park ready," she said.

  She was right. I had forgotten all about it.

  Tomorrow was the election, and tonight Jessie was making her first political speech at a rally in the park.

  Several women were helping Jessie get the park ready. They were hanging crepe paper streamers and chinese lanterns everywhere. That meant that Truman, F .T., or I got to do all the climbing and hanging. They spread red and white tablecloths on all the picnic tables and even hung a large homemade sign proclaiming Jessie as the next mayor of Cannibal Springs.

  Truman hooked up the public address system and placed the microphone on the pitcher's mound of the little league field. Jessie was going to give her speech at the little league field since it had the only bleachers and lights.

  About four o'clock, we drove to Lou Young's for the ice, beer, and soda. We took a dozen metal garbage cans and filled them with ice and beer. Then we were finished.

  The food was being provided by the Little League booster's club. They were having a fish fry. All the fish, hush puppies, and french fries you could eat for two dollars. They were going to lose money on F.T., Truman, and me.

  We watched while they built a fire under a black iron kettle that must have weighed three hundred pounds. They added grease to the kettle, and when it was hot enough, they dumped in the fish. The smell was out of this world. Mouthwatering.

  The crowds began to arrive. Just about everybody in town came. Before long, people were dancing, singing, eating, drinking, and having a good time in general.

  Jessie was circulating through the crowd, asking everyone to vote for her. Dawn was having a good time, dancing and talking with a number of men who were interested in her favors.

  Lou Young, Virgil, Truman, F.T., and I were busy with a hot game of dominos and some serious beer drinking.

  Hulan was nearby, discussing the fine art of butchering with a local farmer.

  Flo came over and watched us play for a while. I didn't think we had to worry about her trying anything at the rally. It wasn't her style. This was a holiday from crime.

  About eight o'clock, the lights were turned on at the little league field. Most of the people wandered over to get seats for Jessie's speech.

  The Reverend Raymond J. Teasdale ascended the pitcher's mound.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight it gives me great pleasure to introduce our next mayor of Cannibal Springs."

  For once he was brief. There was a mild amount of cheering and applause.

  I could see Jessie was nervous.

  "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I want to thank you for coming out tonight. I hope you have had enough to eat. The Little League booster's club raised almost two thousand dollars tonight. That's enough for the new uniforms next year." She was interrupted by cheering and applause for the Little League booster's club.

  "Today, we are fortunate to live in a democracy. For only in a democracy could a woman who owns a beauty parlor get up and tell you that she wants to be mayor. But even democracies need help. They need the help of change. Of new ideas. A new broom sweeps clean.

  "We've been blessed by a good administration in this town for over ten years, but the time has come for that change. We are approaching the twenty-first century, and we have to march into that with our heads held high."

  There was more, much more, but it was the usual political claptrap. She talked about schools, industry, parks, and our second traffic light. She described the Reverend Whitfield's little accident in such chilling terms that I was physically afraid to approach that intersection ever again without the protection of a traffic light.

  She was just starting to wind down when everyone heard a loud crash. It sounded like someone had knocked over a garbage can. Out of pure boredom, several of us
walked over to see what had happened.

  The commotion had occurred next to Jessie's station wagon. Someone had knocked over a trash can. That someone was Buck Hill. He was standing over an unconscious figure. Buck was holding a burlap bag in one hand. A deadly whirring sound was coming from the bag. There were rattlers in the bag.

  "‘I've got him. I've got the dirty sonofabitch that's been trying to kill Jessie," he said.

  I stepped up for a closer look. The figure on the ground was Hulan.

  Chapter 28

  That pretty well ended Jessie's speech. When everyone heard what had happened they came rushing over. Buck Hill handled the crowd very well. He kept them back until he could get the handcuffs on the still groggy Hulan. He put him in the back of the police car and left with the lights flashing and the siren wailing.

  He was taking him to the city hall, where Cannibal Springs had its fire engine and its jail cell. There was no one on duty at the city hall at night, but that shouldn't pose a problem. Hulan was a grown man. He didn't need anyone to tuck him in at night.

  We had run out of beer, so the crowd began to leave. I could imagine Virgil was going to do a land office business tonight with everyone wanting to get together and discuss what a line time they'd had at Hulan's capture.

  I had been wrong about Flo. I was sure she had done it. It all fit so well. I guess it was like old Sherlock said, "Whenever you eliminate the shit, whoever you're left with has got to be it." This time the last man out was Hulan.

  F.T. and Dawn headed for the First National Bar & Grill to celebrate. I walked Jessie to her car.

  "Would you like to go for a drive?" she said.

  "Sure," I said.

  She drove us straight to the cabin. We made ourselves a drink and sat down on the sofa.

  "It's finally over. They caught him," she said.

  "Yeah, we can all get some sleep tonight," I said.

  "I wonder what made him do it," she said.

  "I don't know," I said.

  "Why did you include him as a suspect?" she asked.

  "He just seemed to fit," I said.

  "How do you think the rally went?" she asked.

  "I think it went well. You're a natural speaker.

  You could go far in politics," I said.

  "Do you really think so?" she said. As she was talking, her hand was slowly moving up my leg toward my crotch.

  "Yeah," I said.

  "Aren't you the one who told me that politics makes strong bedfellows?" she said.

  "That's strange bedfellows," I said.

  "Whichever way you want it," she said.

  Buford Whaley was right. She did bite her lower lip.

  Chapter 29

  The polls opened promptly at nine o'clock. The school was the only voting place in town. Campaigners were allowed no closer than the front steps.

  The registration table was set up in the foyer, where several cheerful heavy-set ladies acted as election officials. When the registration check was completed, the voter was given a ballot, which he took into the voting booth to complete. The ballot was simple enough. There were only two names on it: Jessie's and Jim Henry's.

  Dawn was already there when we arrived. Jessie was not due until noon, when the voter turnout would be the heaviest.

  We had stopped at the Tank 'n' Tummy for coffee and egg sandwiches, which we ate sitting on the steps of the school. It was a pleasant way to spend the morning. About ten, Jessie drove by and waved, but she did not stop.

  The voters came out in small groups of twos and threes. Everyone was talking about Hulan. He was big news. I couldn't tell what effect this was going to have on the election. Capturing him last night was a feather in Buck Hill's cap. It might make more people vote for Jim Henry and law and order.

  Or it could work the other way. More people might vote for Jessie, his intended victim.

  I thought Jessie's speech had been very good.

  She had a natural ability to almost lie. A very valuable asset in politicians. I liked her retelling of old Reverend Whitfield's wreck. She made it sound a lot more exciting than it really was. If her speechmaking continued to improve, she could wind up in Congress. God knows, there are enough people there who wouldn't know the truth if it crawled out and bit them on the ass.

  About eleven o'clock, Virgil came to cast his vote. He was alone. I wondered where Flo was.

  "Well, Snake, what do you think?" he asked.

  "Jessie's a sure winner," I said.

  "You really think so?" he said.

  "No doubt about it. You'd better get in there and cast your vote for her. It wouldn't do to find out you had voted wrong," I said.

  "Don't worry. If I vote wrong, you won't find out about it. I don't know if you know it, but this country still has a secret ballot," said Virgil.

  "I've heard something about that. The whole thing sounds subversive to me. If you go around letting everyone vote in secret, how are you going to find out who your friends voted for? And worse yet, how are you gong to check up on those people you paid to vote for you? Somehow it just doesn't sound democratic. With a system like that it would be too easy for the wrong person to get elected," I said.

  "That's why it's a free country," he said.

  "I guess you're right. But just remember where to put that ‘X' when you get in the booth," I said.

  "Right," he said.

  A few minutes later he came out.

  "Did you vote for the right person?" I asked.

  "Never can tell," said Virgil.

  "That leaves us no choice. Snake, it looks like we'll have to firebomb his place of worship," said F.T. .

  "Nope, bombing a bank is a federal offense," I said.

  Jessie arrived around noon, and Dawn and F .T. left to get some lunch. The turnout was heavy. It looked like everyone who could vote was going to vote in this election. `

  Neither Jim Henry nor Buck Hill had put in an appearance yet. That was odd. It would take something very important to keep them away from an election this important. After all, their jobs were at stake.

  About two o'clock, Lou Young came. I could see something was bothering him.

  I went over to him and said, "You've got a long face today. You look like you've just lost your best friend."

  "I did. Hulan killed himself last night," he said.

  "How did it happen?" I asked.

  "He hung himself. Buck Hill found him this morning when he brought breakfast to his cell," said Lou Young.

  That explained why Jim Henry and Buck Hill hadn't been around.

  "Where is he?" I asked.

  "They released his body to Hall's Funeral Home about an hour ago," he said.

  Lou Young went inside. I was beginning to tire of hanging around the polls, so Truman and I went for a drive.

  Chapter 30

  Truman and I drove to Winchester. We circled the town square. The same old men were still sitting on the benches, smoking cigarettes, and marking time. Every day to them was just one less day to go.

  We parked at a meter in front of Hall's Funeral Home. Everything looked the same. The white columns, the rocking chairs on the front porch, the hardwood floors, the oriental rug. Everything was the same, except for one thing—the body. Last time it was Cindy. This time it was Hulan, a man who had lived his life wound too tightly. When that little extra pressure was applied, the spring snapped, and he was gone. In the twinkling of an eye, he was gone. It was the old story of a man who has never hurt a fly, and then one day he goes mad like a rabid dog and starts killing and keeps on killing until he finally kills himself. He was a man who became possessed by too much craziness.

  His body was in one of the smaller rear parlors.

  It was a bare little room. No fireplace, no picture of Jesus, and no flowers. Not one single solitary wreath. The only mourner keeping Hulan company was his mother.

  She was a little woman in her seventies. When she saw Truman and me, she got up and came over to us. She was crying. Her tears made
long, cloudy streaks on the lenses of her bifocals. I put my arms around her and held her for a minute.

  "Snake, my boy is gone. Hulan is gone," she said.

  "I know," I said.

  "Why? Why? He didn't do those terrible things they say. He couldn't have. He was a good boy," she said.

  "I know," I said.

  "You don't believe he did them, do you?" she it said.

  "No, I don't," I lied.

  She took my hand and said, "Come look at him with me."

  Hulan was laying there in the coffin lined with blue satin. Cindy's had been lined with pink satin. Blue for boys, and pink for girls—even in death. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and bow tie.

  "Don't he look natural? Mr. Hall really did a fine job. He‘s so peaceful. He looks just like he's asleep," she said.

  I wondered why everyone always says the corpse looks so natural. It doesn't. It looks like a dead body. There's nothing natural-looking about it at all.

  She stood there looking down at him, knowing that was a piece of her in the coffin

  "They called me to come over this afternoon when they had finished with him. I brought his favorite suit and tie, and they put it on him. I told them that his hair wasn't right, but Mr. Hall told me that they had just washed it, and it wasn't dry yet. They took one of those blow dryers and dried it, but it still wasn't right. It was too fluffy. You know his hair was never like that. I asked them if they had some hair tonic to put on it, but they didn't have any. I got a little cooking oil from the kitchen, rubbed it in, and combed it like he wore it. It was perfect," she said.

  We sat with her for a while. Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer so we left.

  On our way out, we met another mourner. It was Flo. I was surprised to see her, but from the look on her face, no more surprised that she was to see us.

  "What are you doing here?" she said.

  "Saying goodbye to Hulan," I said.

  "Even after what he did?" she said.

  "That was unfortunate, but it doesn't make me stop liking him," I said.

  She rubbed my cheek with her hand.

  "Snake, you know there's still hope for you," she said.