Foxy Statehood Hens and Murder Most Fowl

by Jackie King, Gui

  “Son,” he whispered, “I see a dark business about you. You’d best be warned to leave off meddling in affairs that don’t concern you.” My voice, so recently raised in song, could not utter one sound. I neither flinched nor blinked, but stared directly until I felt his iron grip on my shoulder, whereupon I knocked his hand off me with more strength than I’d ever known myself to possess. I saw him lift his hand as if to strike me. Then Sister Sally Sees appeared from nowhere. She tucked her arm around his lifted one, and then said in that black-dirt voice of hers, “Deputy, I can’t wait my turn no longer. I’ve been itching to dance with a man like you all my life.”

  The man in Deputy Suggs returned to him in such a rush that I looked for him to grab his manly parts and squeeze, like some men are want to do upon rising from a chair. He did no such thing. I watched him scoot his body into a position that allowed him to thrust his parts against Sister Sally’s thigh in unmistakable purpose. I longed for her to pull back—instead, I saw her lean into him. But it was him, not her that had to catch his breath. With a witchy intuitiveness, she did not acknowledge my presence.

  I heard Widow Jenkins from behind me say, “Donnie, I’ve made a peach pie special for you and Miz Myrtle. No need to spend that money you been saving,” Widow Jenkins’s tone, so normal and ordinary, made me question whether the peculiarities of this night had happened after all, or whether they had simply been the creatures of my own confused mind. My wonderings were interrupted when Widow Jenkins pointed to her rig.

  “The pie?” I asked her, meaning was the pie in the back of her rig.

  “You’ll find it under the flour cloth. Baked it today, in case you were wondering how quick you needed to eat it.”

  I smiled and assured the widow that I had no concerns about the pie going stale. The widow reached over and patted my face, a thing many folks did. I was sure the gestures were generated in response to my small size. I believed my smallness made me safe for touching in most folk’s estimation.

  “We’ll settle up before you go home. You’ll come get me?” I nodded my agreement, hoping Widow Jenkins would not take my speechlessness for ingratitude. I watched Sister Sally lead Deputy Suggs toward the dance floor. As they walked away, the music intruded upon me like a fight. I stood mesmerized as I watched the shiny boots of Deputy Suggs go round the dance floor followed closely by the boots of Sister Sally Sees. I suppose the deputy sensed my close inspection because he turned his gaze full upon me. My stomach curdled with fear and in my heart I wanted this night to have never been.

  Chapter 14

  “She’s a mighty fine woman, wouldn’t you say young, Donnie?” Mr. John Bowden’s appearance next to me did not surprise, as this seemed a night meant to stir waters.

  “Yes, sir, I’d say she is,” I said, as Sister Sally reared her head in laughter, most certain that Sister Sally was the woman to whom Mr. John Bowden had referred.

  “A young feller like you ought to be out there dancing hisself. I’m puzzled, son, that I’ve never seen you courting any of Hugo’s sweet lovelies.”

  Before I could formulate an answer, Banker Clyde who must have approached us from behind, answered Bowden in this way. He said to him, “I’m afraid Donnie stands in competition with me for the precious affections of Miss Bertha Scroggins.” Bertha’s whiney giggle sent quivers of pain across my body, which I adequately covered with a loud snort. From Banker Clyde’s stern look, I surmised that I had offended.

  “Bertha, dearest, I must let you go dance with Donnie, since you so kindly promised him this gift.” Before Bertha could protest that no such thing had occurred, Banker Clyde put his finger to her lips. She became silent and glowing in what I feared was the ecstasy of his touch.

  Banker Clyde placed Bertha’s hand in mine and nodded to me to be about this dance. I mumbled under my breath to no one in particular, “Lord God, what trouble follows me.” I had no idea how to dance the man part. I felt ridiculous and a bit obscene to be dancing in front of the whole town as a boy. But when I turned my head around to seek assistance from this predicament, I saw that Banker Clyde and Mr. John Bowden appeared to be exchanging harsh words. Anger erased all traces of the banker. A new look, nothing less than gunslinger-bold flashed across Banker Clyde’s face. The look, much like the one I had admired on the gunslinger pictured in Indian Territory, was strongly admired by me, both in the book and on the Banker’s face. Bowden looked equally angry, but it was Bowden’s hand in his coat pocket that concerned me most. Action was required, and I vowed to take full advantage of the need.

  “Ouch!” Bertha Scroggins screeched in a shrill voice that caught the attention of both Banker Clyde and Mr. John Bowden. “Donnie,” Bertha squealed at the top of her lungs, “if you can’t even walk without stomping on me, how in the world do you think we can dance?” Bertha had stopped at the edge of the dance floor waiting for my response.

  Appraising all the attention we were getting, I felt it prudent once again to simply act. I grabbed her arm and pulled her to the dance floor just as the music began. I hoped that once we got started all the stares we were getting would go away. When I fumbled with where my hands should go, Bertha grabbed my left hand and put it to her waist. With her right hand she lifted my free hand to shoulder height. With that we began our steps to a cowboy tune. The frown never left Bertha’s face. I suspected that Bertha would be an enemy for life, which made me so happy that I lifted each foot a little higher for the glee that thought brought to me. We made a dizzying circle round the dance floor before I felt a tap on my shoulder. Banker Clyde looked at me in that brazen way he’d lately developed. I was only too glad to rid myself of Bertha. As I walked away from the dance floor I could hear his deep laugh, and I could not help but join him with my own.

  No sooner had I reached a hay bale upon which to rest my posterior when none other than Sheriff James Winston Baxter appeared by my side to engage me in conversation.

  “Son, how is Miz Myrtle doing these days?”

  “Well, sir, in case you haven’t heard, not so fine. She was assaulted once again in her very own bedroom last night. Lucinda May discovered a bloody black crow had been thrown through her window, an act of blatant intimidation.” I let the anger boost my words into Sheriff Baxter’s face like a slap.

  Sheriff Baxter tugged on his belt as if his britches were loose, a habit he must have formed before his current girth had heaped itself around his middle. I estimated that the chance of Sheriff Baxter’s britches falling down was about equal to the chance that he would find the person who had attacked Miz Myrtle. I was stunned by his next words spoken.

  “It’s my investigation that has spooked the suspect, I opine. When you lift enough logs you’re bound to find a snake.” I noticed that Sheriff Baxter stood a little taller with that pronouncement.

  I sighed with resignation. Sheriff Baxter was too far gone for the likes of me to help him. He pleasured himself in his own little world, one that I did not care to enter. So I stood up and shook his hand.

  “Sheriff,” I said, “Miz Myrtle and I both appreciate your efforts. I trust that your confidence will see you through to the other side of this tragedy.” I liked these words, but wasn’t sure that they had any relevance other than to pad Sheriff Baxter’s good opinion of himself. I did not see any evil in that and gave him a heartfelt smile tinged with a mite of pity. I saw him flinch from my look, and I regretted the judgment I had conveyed in that pity. It had made both of us feel small. I vowed that I’d have a talk with Jesus and ask if he felt there was any hope for my shameful heart, which always betrayed my best intentions. Sheriff Baxter left me there to wind himself around the room. He spoke with every soul he met, and did not betray himself with inattention to the less notable in our community. He treated everyone with respect, and although I knew him as an ineffectual Sheriff, I saw that he indeed was a good man.

  Wanting to distract myself from these unpleasant thoughts, I searched the room for something to do. I spied Widow Jenkins uncovering t
he table laden with pies made by the women of Hugo, all of whom prided themselves as fine cooks. Soon the bidding would begin, and I was glad that I no longer had to compete, as exhaustion had taken me over.

  I approached Widow Jenkins, confident that our conversation would not be filled with undercurrents, but only pie talk. My longing for the comfort of Miz Myrtle’s presence, and for the pleasure of peach pie, was immediate and pressing. The Widow accompanied me to her rig to retrieve the pie. Handing it to me, she advised that I could bring her pan and cloth back once the pie was eaten.

  “Thank you, ma’am. I will savor every bite. I won’t forget your kindness to us.” Just saying those words choked me with emotion. Widow Jenkins, a woman of thoughtful manners, looked down at her skirt where she rubbed a non-existent spot so as to give me time to compose myself.

  “No need in letting good peaches go to ruin. I had too many for my own use this year,” she fibbed.

  “Well, that’s all to our good. I’ll let you know when we get a new shipment of fabric so you can have first choosings,” I promised her.

  She nodded in agreement. I told her goodbye and set off to the house inhaling the fragrant smell of fresh cooked pie and only vaguely allowing myself to wonder if a ghost would confront me on my way home.

  Chapter 15

  “Hmm,” I groaned. My belly stuck out like a puppy that had just suckled a rich mother.

  “How can a woman cook like that and not be married?” Doc asked me. Crumbs of crust lingered on his lower lip, but I felt no need to mention such. That, I knew, would be a girlish act, and Doc was a man who’d notice. Doc sat in the bedside chair. A fire in the fireplace threw out a warm blanket of red orange light. Both Doc and I pretended not to make much of the fact that Miz Myrtle Jane Harrington had eaten herself a whole piece of pie, fed to her by me, as Doc and I talked up a storm, a tactic to allow her to eat in peace.

  “Dang if I don’t feel myself about to succumb to sleep.” Doc picked up his hat. “Think I’ll take me a short walk before retiring to a welcome bed.” Doc leaned over and patted Miz Myrtle’s hand. “You’re going to be fine, you hear? Just you rest lots.” He did not ask for a response, and Miz Myrtle did not give him one. Doc motioned for me to follow him, which I did, although any movement felt painful because of my overfull belly. Yet I offered not a word of complaint. My belly had shrunk so that it didn’t take much to fill me. Although I had indulged in extravagant gluttony, an ample portion of peach pie had survived, enough for both Lucinda May and Banker Clyde.

  When we had walked the distance to the sitting room, Doc told me, “I’m not leaving you two without protection. I’ll be outside the door until Clyde returns. A spate of night air will refresh me.” I suspected he needed to air in more ways than one, as did I. Having spared myself of ever eating my fill, the pie I had downed did not agree with any part of me. My guts roiled. Alone, I could relieve myself of the pressure without fear. As soon as Doc shut the door blessed relief came, the scent of which filled the room.

  No sooner had I finished than Banker Clyde and Lucinda May stepped through the door accompanied by Doc. All were treated to the smell of my relief, and I was mortified to have been caught. However, all three traipsed about as if they did not smell a rancid skunk. Who was I to interfere with their good manners?

  “Any trouble, Doc?” Banker Clyde asked.

  “Not a peep.” Doc rubbed his eyes. “I’ll let Donnie tell you the good news. Best be on my way.” As soon as the door shut both Banker Clyde and Lucinda May looked to me for the good news which I gladly shared.

  Miz Myrtle had eaten pie, and with relish, whereunto this time she had only taken sips of broth. I had trusted in the magic of peach pie which gave me much needed confidence. In my gut I felt that I had my own sort of wisdom, not so great as Sheriff Bob Freedom Smith’s, but growing. I checked the knapsack of my mind to review the arsenal of tools I had so recently collected, tools that would help me find the murderous culprit and to live the adventures that I had so long dreamed of. I named each one: three thinking, gut-talk, ask another question and peach pie magic. I took the time to thank Jesus, sadly, a rare and unfamiliar pleasure. I went to sleep that night believing that I was close, very close, to finding the culprit. No thanks at all to Sheriff James Winston Baxter.

  Chapter 16

  Mr. John Bowden called upon me early on Sunday morning eager to make his way to Sister Sally Sees’ house. He looked fit for a wedding so dandified was he. Although his eyes lingered on the pot of coffee Lucinda May had placed on the table, I did not offer him a cup.

  Just as Lucinda May began with, “Sir, may I interest you…” I interrupted.

  “We’ve no time Lucinda May.” I gulped the rest of my coffee before grabbing my hat and starting toward the door. I didn’t want Banker Clyde or his sister to interfere with my plan, and I knew both to be great interferers. To avoid Lucinda May’s questions as to my intentions, I started singing Blest be the Tie that Binds Our Hearts in Christian Love, as I knew that Lucinda May would be too polite to interrupt a church-going song, especially on a Sunday morning. What stumped me like a big toe was when Mr. John Bowden joined me in a tenor voice fit for angels. At first I was simply stopped by his voice, but after that, it was the very idea that he had a familiarity with a church-going song. I felt that he instinctively knew I was about keeping secrets, and he was in total agreement, which may not have been so good for me, had I explored this speculation further, but both my speculations and the front door slammed shut at the same time.

  No sooner had we stepped out on the porch but what I heard the voice of Deputy Harris Suggs saying, “Ya’ll don’t mind me tagging along to Sister Sally Sees’, I’m sure.” It wasn’t a question.

  Mr. John Bowden presumed, based upon his age I suspect, or simply his general sense of worthiness, that Suggs’s statement was his to address, without regard to my input. “Well now, sir, we’re about delicate matters that a crowd of three might discourage.”

  The minute he said three my mind was changed from don’t come to, “Deputy, I’m sure Sister Sally would not want to forego a visit from the likes of you.” I took my hat off to rub my shorn head, one of my favorite things about being a boy. “The way you two were dancing the other night, I expect she’ll be telling you everything you ever wanted to know about how she harbors a special talent for working with reptiles—you know, snakes, crocodiles, and such. It’s the circus that spurred her gift.” I could not keep the grin off my face. But Deputy Harris Suggs wasn’t willing that I should have the last say.

  “Hisssss,” he mimicked a snake, laughed, and then adjusted himself in such a way that I could feel the slime of him, and him some two feet away.

  The three of us mounted our horses. I was sure that Banker Clyde would have been willing to loan me his favorite horse, Prospects, had I bothered to ask. I saw no reason to seek permission, given my confidence in his good will. I had only a smidgen of doubt, as I knew that he might have tried to discourage me from such a spirited mount. But, I knew myself perfectly capable of riding any horse, having read the how-tos, as listed in Indian Territory—World of Frolicsome Adventure.

  When I’d mounted Prospects, whom I had saddled before Mr. John Bowden’s arrival, I did notice a slight slide when I got on the saddle. Perhaps I had not gotten the belly strap on quite tight enough. I felt myself riding from a not-quite-centered position. Prospects did not appear to relish my angle. He would not stand still, but danced and stomped about as if mad about something. I came to realize too late that perhaps the book had not been as thorough with instruction as it could have been. Deputy Harris Suggs reached over, grabbed the reins from my hand, and jerked. Prospects stilled, and Suggs handed the reins back to me.

  “A horse don’t make a very good boss. If I was you, I’d set my mind to showing him that.”

  I could not keep the red off my face, so I kicked the horse like I’d read in the book and soon found myself at a substantial distance from Bowden and Suggs. Althou
gh somewhat difficult given the sliding saddle, I managed to lay my body down so I could speak to Prospects in a more direct way.

  “Prospects, I’m asking polite if you’d please cooperate and slow yourself down. This ain’t about you and me. We are set to find Miz Myrtle’s robber.” Prospects did not respond, but continued to run with great enthusiasm. I tightened the reins with firm hands and squeezed his sides tight with my legs. This kind of talk worked better than our whispered conversation. He slowed to a walk, giving me a few minutes to think before Bowden and Suggs caught up.

  Something, in addition to utter fear, had pulled at my attention. At first, I couldn’t think what it was. I tried to remember every detail of my conversation with Deputy Suggs, tried to remember every act, step by step—that was when it hit me. When Deputy Suggs had reached for the reins, I could see his exposed shirt sleeve from under the arm of his coat. Something about it, perhaps the unusual stitching, miniature stars in silver thread, caught my attention and momentarily troubled me. At first, I dismissed that thought as insignificant. Then I remembered gut-talk, and let the rumblings in my belly speak. They told me that some connection, although tiny, needed further exploration. But before I could collect my thoughts to make a deeper inquiry of my mind, Bowden and Suggs joined me. I acknowledged silently that at this moment I felt a new regard for Bowden, having diverted all of my suspicions onto Deputy Harris Suggs.

  The morning was cold and dark with the threat of rain. A downpour would not be welcomed by me, but I doubted that mister sky gave one whit for what I thought. I moved on to matters over which I might have some influence. It took little effort to engage the men in conversation. Sister Sally Sees was their favorite topic; they loved her cloudy eye and her tight pants. If ever I returned to being a girl, which I hoped to do some day, this was information I would remember. Imperfections could be interesting, even tantalizing. Now, I had another tool to add to my knapsack: seek wise counsel (Sheriff Bob Freedom Smith, and if necessary, Jesus); I should remember to ask another question when stumped by a problem; peach pie magic, three thinking, gut-talk, and the knowledge that a dazzling imperfection can do more for a person than perfect beauty (Sister Sally Sees trumps Bertha Scroggins any day).