Where Southern Cross the Dog

by Allen Whitley

  “Travis, this is my favorite grandmother,” Hannah said. “The other Mrs. Morgan.”

  Travis leaned down and extended his hand. She raised her hand slightly, but it trembled. He leaned forward until his hand met hers. “Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Morgan,” he said.

  “Hannah, you didn’t tell me you were bringing someone to the party,” she said.

  “Well, Gami, I wasn’t sure if he would come or not,” Hannah said, looking at Travis.

  “Why wouldn’t he come?” Gami asked.

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t I come?”

  Hannah smiled at them both. “Some people just aren’t brought up right. They say one thing and do another.”

  “Travis,” Mrs. Morgan asked, “what do you do?”

  “I work down at the courthouse, ma’am. For my father, Bill Montgomery, the county coroner. I do odd jobs, deliver courthouse documents, things like that.”

  “Yes, I know Mr. Montgomery. Is that boring?”

  “Gami,” Hannah said, rolling her eyes.

  “That’s all right,” Travis said. “You’re right, it is a little boring, but it’s something to do, and it puts a little money in my pocket.”

  “In my day we didn’t have any time to dawdle. We had to keep working, at a good job if we could get it. Keep moving forward. Whether we were in school, working professionally, or helping out in the field, there was never any spare time. We just never knew how much time we had left. Had to make the best of it. Of course, if ever we did take a break, sit down and rest, somebody would call us lazy. If we behaved like you youngsters do today, well, I don’t know what they’d have done to us. I know my daddy would have made sure we didn’t think about it very long.”

  “Gami, he’s our guest,” Hannah said.

  “No, Hannah, that’s all right,” Travis said. “She’s right. I could be doing more.”

  “I wasn’t being too hard on you, was I, Travis?” Gami said. “It’s all young people. Not just you.”

  “No, ma’am. You’re right. You were being just hard enough.”

  “I’m trying to impart a little wisdom to you children. I hate to see you waste your time. Most times, young folks don’t always listen to their parents, but they sometimes listen to other adults. I was the same way in my day.”

  “Gami used to live on the Stuart farm a long time ago,” Hannah said. “And still comes to church here sometimes.”

  Travis turned and looked over his shoulder.

  “What happened to the levee?” Travis asked, turning back to face them.

  “Years ago,” Gami said, “the river decided she wanted to flow in a different direction. There was no stopping her.”

  “Didn’t they think about tearing it down?” Travis asked.

  “No, the preacher at the time thought that it might provide some shade at the end of the day since it’s on the west side of the church,” Gami explained. “He always worked it into his sermons. He used to say it was a constant reminder of man’s futile attempts to alter God’s will.”

  “Gami, Travis and I are going to mingle.”

  “Very nice to meet you, ma’am,” Travis said, bowing slightly.

  “Y’all walk around. But don’t miss the dinner bell.”

  Hannah bent over and kissed her grandmother on the cheek. “We’ll talk to you later, Gami.”

  A few steps away, Hannah looked up at Travis. “Gami always speaks her mind,” she said. It was the first hint Travis had seen of anything but confident self-possession.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “She was right. I’m very fortunate to be able to sit around and ponder my choices. Sometimes having too many choices isn’t necessarily a good thing.”

  “Supper’s ready!” someone said.

  One by one, the adults who had been visiting while the children played came to the main table. Without any prompting, each person reached out and took the hand of those to their left and right. Travis found himself between Hannah and her mother. The circle was now joined.

  “Let us pray for God’s blessing,” Mr. Morgan said. His deep voice seemed to draw the circle together. “Lord, we thank you for seeing to our daily needs and watching over us. Let us live in peace with ourselves and our neighbors. Allow us to bring forgiveness into our lives and help us live the Lord’s message with hope, faith, and love. For these and all our prayers, we beseech you, oh Lord. Amen.”

  Everyone echoed the “Amen” and released hands.

  Travis looked at the food crowding every inch of the table. Sliced pork, fried chicken, yams, peas, black-eyed peas, corn, berries, mixed fruits, sauces, pies and cakes, and a dozen other choices Travis hardly recognized. Some of the fruits and vegetables had once been canned but now were mouthwatering dishes. Everything was displayed in festive dishware, and the table was covered with decorative cloths.

  “Come on,” Hannah said, “let’s eat.”

  They both took plates and joined the line at the food table. Travis gradually filled his plate, eventually realizing that his food was piled embarrassingly high. He didn’t want to offend anyone by putting anything back or not sampling something, so he covered his plate with a napkin and followed Hannah to one of the children’s tables.

  “Hannah,” her father called, “why don’t you sit over here with the grown-ups?”

  “We’re fine over here,” Hannah said good-naturedly.

  While Hannah and Travis ate, the children entertained them with games and stories, and Travis made sure he was an enthusiastic participant. Hannah laughed as Travis invariably guessed the wrong answer or chose the incorrect hand. Before long, they were laughing uncontrollably, the children screaming with delight.

  “Everything’s all right,” Hannah said, when one of the adults asked who was making so much noise. “We’ll try to keep it down,” she added, laughing between bites.

  When they had finished, Hannah helped to clear the table, then returned to Travis. “You want to take a walk?” Hannah asked.

  “Sure,” said Travis. “It might help my digestion, because I definitely ate my share.”

  “Don’t miss the fireworks,” her father called after them as they strolled away.

  “Fireworks?” Travis asked.

  “You’ll see,” Hannah said.

  They walked toward the church and circled around it, past an old graveyard that lay at the foot of the levee.

  “So, do you have a lot of boyfriends?” Travis asked.

  “Not really,” she said. “My father doesn’t care for boys. He tells me, when I’m old enough, I can date men. He thinks boys don’t have much sense.”

  “I’m sure he’s right.”

  “Is that so? Well, I’m not sure you or my father can tell the difference.”

  “Between boys and men?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Men are just boys with bad eyesight. And we’re taller.”

  “Besides, I had some trouble when we first moved back. Now I think most potential suitors are afraid to ask me out.”

  Travis noticed that her tone had changed. He bent down and looked at a headstone that was well away from the cemetery near the church. “What happened?”

  “I only know part of the story, so you’ll have to ask my father about the details. But I doubt he’ll admit to anything.”

  “Sounds bad.”

  “I guess you could say that.” Hannah sighed. “I went to a party, and the hostess had invited all sorts of different people. Some of the boys were in school, and there were a few professionals, but somehow the word got out and some, should I say ‘country boys’—uneducated, the rougher types—showed up. But we didn’t know that until we got there.”

  “So there was an occupational mix of people at the party, not a racial mix?”

  “Right, and I’m not against that, but there was a lot of liquor, and some of the guys were drinking quite a bit. Well, we were dancing and carrying on, and I lost track of time. I looked at my watch; it was quarter to eleven, and my curfew is e
leven o’clock. I started asking around for a ride back into town. I had come with a girlfriend, but her fiancé was at the party and she wanted to stay longer.”

  “You didn’t have much time to get home.”

  “No. And the last time I was late, my father kept me confined to the house for a month.” Hannah sighed again. “This young man offered me a ride, and I asked him if he had been drinking. He said no, and because the music was loud, the room crowded and smoky, I couldn’t tell any different. When we got in the car, all I could smell was cigarettes and liquor, but I figured he could drive, and I knew I had to get home.

  “Let’s go this way,” she said, interrupting her story to steer Travis back toward the church. “We were about a quarter mile from my house when he pulled over. I said: ‘What are you doing? I live a few more blocks away.’ He started trying to kiss me, and I pushed him away. I told him I had to go home, but he wouldn’t listen. I was trying to get out of the car when he grabbed my dress and ripped it off one of my shoulders. But I was able to push him away and get out. I ran the rest of the way home, and he drove off. I came into the house winded, crying a little, and trying to hold my dress up so my father wouldn’t see that it was torn.”

  “But he was already waiting for you?”

  “Yeah, and when he saw what had happened to my dress, he went a little crazy. I’d never seen him that mad. It scared me to death.”

  “Then what?”

  Hannah hesitated. “I’m not sure what happened because I went to bed. I do know Daddy made a few phone calls and left the house about midnight. The next time I saw him was in the morning, when he came to breakfast.”

  “Well?”

  “I spoke to a few people later on. The man who assaulted me had gone back to the party, and Daddy was able to track him down. On the way there, Daddy had picked up a couple of men from the local pool hall. When they got to the party, they dragged the guy out. They threw him into the trunk of the car and took him to some old shed a few miles away. I heard they held him down and Daddy took a hammer to his legs.”

  “How bad was he hurt?”

  “Someone told me they saw him in another town on crutches.”

  “Maybe I should leave now, while I can still walk.”

  “You asked. Why don’t we head back to the levee?”

  Hannah talked about her upbringing and her future. She hadn’t decided yet what she wanted to do, but her father insisted she enter one of the primary professions—nursing or teaching. He had high aspirations for all of his children.

  They talked about the books that Hannah enjoyed reading, and Travis said he’d get some for her if she liked. He had never talked about books and other serious matters with a girl before, and he couldn’t match Hannah’s extensive literary background.

  They started up the levee, and Travis noticed that several people from the picnic were already sitting at the top. “Where are we going?” he said.

  “To the top.”

  Just then, Mr. Morgan shouted, “We’re starting soon, Hannah. You two get a seat.”

  Travis followed along, still surprised to be included. Hannah pulled a blanket from a pile at the top of the levee and spread it out on the ground. She sat down and motioned for Travis to do the same. He sat down next to her.

  Hannah suddenly asked, “Did I hear that someone confessed to all those murders? Have you heard anything?”

  Travis was startled by her question. “Yeah, someone did. My dad said it was some sharecropper from up in the northwest part of the county.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Confessed to all the murders. But he went crazy during the questioning. Beat up a deputy before they could get him under control.”

  “People do strange things. I’m surprised every time I read the paper.”

  “We’ll just have to wait and see. Nobody really knows anything for sure yet.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot to ask you,” Hannah said, turning to look closely at him. “There’s a party in two weeks. Would you like to go?”

  “Another one? Sure.”

  “It may be a little wild.”

  Travis nodded. “Okay with me. But not wild like your other party? My legs don’t need any adjustments. I like the way they work right now.”

  “Well, that all depends on you.” Hannah smiled at him.

  Travis looked around but still couldn’t figure out what to expect. He leaned over to Hannah and said, “What are we doing at the top of the levee?”

  “Just watch.”

  A truck that had been parked by the church pulled up at the bottom of the levee. The driver got out and unloaded a small barrel, some burlap sacks, and some baling wire. Then he reparked the truck by the church.

  “What are they doing?” Travis said.

  “Ssshhhhh,” Hannah said.

  Six men whom Travis recognized from the picnic gathered around the barrel. Each one took a sack and carefully cut the burlap, rolling it into a tight ball. Next they took the wire and, working in pairs, wound the wire around the burlap and tightened it with pliers. Then the balls were dropped in the barrel, which seemed to contain some kind of liquid. Just as they finished rolling the sixth and final ball, the last vestiges of sunlight winked and disappeared. It was pitch dark now. No moon, no lights of any kind.

  The picnickers’ voices slowly lowered to whispers and then drifted away altogether. “Is everyone ready?” a voice shouted from down below.

  “Yeah!” everyone yelled, especially the children.

  Travis saw the single, small flame of a match, then the area below the levee erupted in an explosion of light and fire as each man took a burlap ball from the barrel and ignited it. When the last one was lit, the whole area was ablaze.

  The children screamed with delight when the balls were lit, their excitement rising by the second. The men formed a ring and tossed the balls between them, throwing them higher each time.

  “How do they do that?” Travis asked in astonishment.

  “The burlap was soaked in kerosene.”

  “No, how can they hold onto them?”

  “They’re farmers. Their hands are so callused they can’t feel the heat, and they don’t hold the balls long enough to burn themselves. A couple of them are probably wearing gloves. These are homemade fireworks.”

  The flaming balls flew in arcs through the night sky, like falling stars racing in the heavens. The sight was breathtaking.

  Travis turned and looked at Hannah. Her face was beaming with delight. The light of the blazing spheres and their fiery tails flickered and danced in her eyes. Only she was more beautiful.

  Travis grabbed her hand. “Thanks for inviting me.”

  Hannah smiled and squeezed Travis’s hand in return, never taking her eyes off the spectacle.

  In his subterranean laboratory, at close to three in the morning, Conrad Higson spread the broken and disparate pieces of various metals onto a cloth that covered the entire surface of his desk. He picked up the first one and held it in both hands. The curved blade, thirty inches long, was one of a dozen that had made up the mechanism of his nonfunctioning harvester that chopped off the top of the cotton stalk. The blade was made from a material being tested extensively at the University of Illinois. It had several military applications, including tank treads, ship decking, and, possibly, helmets. Higson meticulously examined each piece of metal, scribbled down a number of calculations, and handwrote a comprehensive analysis in his scientific journal. His notes included detailed formulas for estimating the strength-to-weight ratio, shear strength, and ductility, among other material properties; likewise, he included potential causes of failure and comparisons to other materials.

  His analysis continued past daybreak and into midmorning. When he was finally done, he placed his journal, drawings, and a short letter in a box, which he then sealed and addressed to his contact in Washington, who would make sure it was delivered to the right Nazi official in Germany.

  Higson was very pleased with himself
for conceiving the idea of using the mechanized cotton harvester as a research tool for Germany’s war effort. He hoped the reinstatement committee would also think it was clever.

  It was nearly noon when the professor climbed out of his laboratory, placed the box on the kitchen table, and collapsed on his bed, where he slept for ten uninterrupted hours.

  CHAPTER 12

  Got me accused for murder.

  —Roosevelt Sykes

  JUDGE LONG RETURNED TO HIS CHAMBERS FROM THE county courtroom and removed his robe, hanging it carefully in a small cabinet. He opened a desk drawer and removed a bottle of bourbon and a glass. He filled the glass one-third full, capped the bottle, and placed it back in the drawer. He took a sip, and sat back in his chair. It had been another hard day on the bench.

  He gazed out the window, daydreaming. Breaking his reverie, his secretary poked her head in the office. “Judge, Mr. Tackett is here to see you.”

  “Did he have an appointment?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s here at your request.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” the judge said without taking his eyes off the scene outside his office window. “Send him in, please.”

  “Come in, Sam,” Judge Long said after hearing him knock gently on the door.

  “Good afternoon, Judge,” Tackett said.

  The judge stood up to greet him. “How are you doing?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  “I heard about the scuffle,” the judge said, while shaking hands. “How’s the deputy?”

  “He’s recovering. Nasty little gash, but he’ll be all right.”

  “Have a seat,” the judge said. He motioned toward a high-backed leather chair to his left.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Would you like a drink?” He held up his glass.

  “No, thank you, Judge.”

  The judge sat behind a large mahogany desk that seemed to stretch almost the entire width of the room. It was sparsely decorated with a lamp, an ashtray, three pictures, and several stacks of papers.

  “Why don’t you give me a few details,” the judge said. “What went on down there the other day during Luke Williams’s statement?”