“Evening, ma’am,” Deputy Suggs said to Lucinda May.
“Sir, do take a seat while I just get you a plate.” Lucinda returned to the table. “Such a pleasant surprise, you arriving in time to taste the kindness of Miz Myrtle’s friends and neighbors.”
Banker Clyde looked at me and winked, as if to say Lucinda May might be fooled but between me and you, we know that Deputy Suggs came by at supper time especially intending to taste plenty of that kindness.
I smiled back, but didn’t say anything, not trusting my voice, which seemed less boyish than ever when I spoke to Banker Clyde. It felt like all the woman in me had collected in my throat just waiting for a word from him.
Lucinda May noted my good appearance. According to her the hives that had previously taken over, were now gone completely. The last I had noticed them I’d been on Sister Sally Sees' front porch where I had stood scraping mud with a welted hand. I reached up to my face. Nothing. My eyes had come back to me completely. Sister Sally Sees had scared the hives right off of me. Either that, or crow dumplings had a restorative effect on hives.
With the arrival of Deputy Suggs, my appetite for food disappeared. Who wanted to sit at the same table with the man who may have tried to kill Miz Myrtle and Old Red Hound? Nevertheless, I stayed for every piggish bite Suggs took, not wanting to miss a clue, but all I saw was the spot of muskadine preserves that had fallen from the handle bar mustache onto his white shirt. Suggs was too caught up in sitting at the table with Banker Clyde to be of any use to me. Tomorrow I’d make up some excuse to go see him. I could butter him up like the cornbread he had eaten with such eagerness. I would make him my most important chore, after minding the store that is.
After supper I went to visit Miz Myrtle. “Miz Myrtle, since you’re dead set on listening instead of talking, let me tell you about my crow dumplings.” I was mindful that my talks with Miz Myrtle should be more interesting than our usual discourse, it needed to be enlivening, so I may have fudged a bit about knowing for sure that Sister Sally Sees had fed me crow dumplings. Still, I hoped that one day when I tossed out some startling fact, that Miz Myrtle couldn’t help but offering her own strong opinion on the subject.
“Now, Sheriff Bob Freedom Smith told me down by the creek this morning, that the best way to approach this thing is to pick the three “most likelies.” Once I picked the three “most likelies,” he surmised that I should approach each one and ask for help. Get their ideas about who did this to you. He figures that one of them knows something, and they’d be unguarded around a young boy that don’t pose no threat.” It was then that I believe I felt some pressure, a slight squeeze from Miz Myrtle’s hand that I’d been holding. I didn’t feel my Ma beckoning from the doorway in my mind no more, which gave me hope that Ma had made a mistake thinking Miz Myrtle was ready to join her and Pa.
“Oh, I’ll be careful. Don’t you fret at all, Miz Myrtle.” I kissed her cheek even though I knew she might think it gushy. When I whispered, “Good night,” I realized I had been speaking in my Songbird voice. I castigated myself for being careless and assured myself that the slight rustling at the bedroom door was no-never-mind. It was probably that tiresome mouse we’d been after.
On the way downstairs, I settled on plans for the next day. I’d open the store. Banker Clyde agreed to mind it in the afternoon. He assumed it was so I could stay at Miz Myrtle’s bedside, and I did nothing to change his wrong opinion. Instead, I intended to try and find out some information on Mr. John Bowden, he who’d been so insistent recently on buying Miz Myrtle’s store. Might have to have me a conversation with Banker Clyde to see what he could tell. Bowden, being a businessman, I figured Banker Clyde would know something about him.
Once downstairs I went to visit my other friend, Old Red Hound, whom Doc Watkins had treated with the same care as his tender care of Miz Myrtle. Old Red Hound was on the back porch in a bed the Banker had rigged for him out of a store crate and hay from the stable. The dog had made definite progress in healing. He wagged his tail, licked my hands, and practically hugged me around the neck. I speculated that he was still bad enough that my offer to stay with him during the night would not be examined too closely. If I stayed with him on the porch tonight, I’d buy myself some time before bedding down with Banker Clyde. When I mentioned my plan, the banker outright refused.
“Donnie, it’s not a good idea. We don’t have any inkling yet who did this to Miz Myrtle. I don’t want you exposing yourself to danger.” I don’t know if it was the color that drained from my face or something else that made him reconsider. In my mind I’d called the name of Jesus to good effect, as this did not seem a thing to take to Sheriff Bob Freedom Smith.
But Banker Clyde said to me, “Why don’t I bring Old Red Hound inside for the night? You two can bed down in the kitchen. How about it?”
I whispered, “Thank you,” which he took as directed at him, and not Jesus, as I had intended.
Lying in the warm kitchen that still smelled of cornbread and fried chicken, my heart knew that prayers had been answered. I resolved once again to live more like Jesus, starting in the morning. I’m ashamed to say that my resolve in times past had not resulted in the measure of improvement hoped for, but I felt especially determined this time, given the stakes were so high. Some might say that hell ought to have been high enough stakes for the likes of me, but a distant hell didn’t have as much gittyup as the hope I held for the well-being of my two friends, Miz Myrtle and Old Red Hound. With my hand resting on the dog, I felt confident that in the morning I’d be a better person, the kind deserving of answered prayers. Old Red Hound seemed to agree as he awakened that very minute to lick my cheek a wet goodnight.
Chapter 7
“What do you know about that businessman, Mr. John Bowden?” I asked Banker Clyde from where I stood in the doorway. He seemed a little unsteady with that razor strop he was fixing to use to shave his well lathered face. I had decided to take advantage of some small liberties that my male status afforded me. Watching Banker Clyde Perkins shave was one of them. He turned to face me. His blue eyes cheered me to my very bones.
“You shave yet?” he asked me as he returned his gaze to the mirror.
“No, sir.”
“Since you’ve no male to advise you, I’d be willing to show you the wherewithal of shaving, if you’d care to give it a try.” He spoke to me and I could have sworn there was a chuckle somewhere swirling around in what he’d said. I asked myself if he had somehow discovered my femaleness, but ruled out the possibility as I had taken more than special care. The chuckle was most likely my imagination. I suspected that my reaction to Banker Clyde Perkins shaving his handsome lathered face, was going to my head like a giggle. Panic soon replaced these ponderings, as I imagined Banker Perkins lathering my face and taking the strop to it with his strong masculine hands. He waited for my answer like a Sunday morning preacher at altar call. Someone was expected to answer. I deepened my voice.
“I intend to grow me a beard,” I said to him. The coughing fit he had was a long one, but when he recovered he said as how that shaving was the best way to make a beard grow. Not knowing what else to do, I took his mug of soap and began to lather my face trying to replicate what I saw in the mirror. My stomach kicked and hollered as I felt myself getting deeper into adventure than the book I’d read, Indian Territory—World of Frolicsome Adventure, had led me to believe was available. I tried not to think about how Songbird would look with a beard. I sighed. If Sister Sally Sees could live with a cloudy eye, I figured a beard would do me no real harm.
“Turn around and look at me.” Banker Perkins held the razor. He stared into my brown eyes, the razor strop about cheek level. I felt his breath on my eyes before I closed them and waited some more. “On second thought, it doesn’t look to me like you’re ready.” I blinked wide open and saw him smile. “Might not be a good time to start an added chore when you are already intending to mind the store for Miz Myrtle. You got enough to contend with.
I’ll take up shaving with you later.”
I grabbed the towel and wiped my face clean trying to keep my relief to myself. I covered my nervousness with chatter. “Tell you what, Banker Clyde, I’ll meet you at the breakfast table. I still want to hear what you know about Mr. John Bowden. He seemed to me to take a mighty fierce interest in the store now that I think about it.”
“Donnie, you leave this investigation to Sheriff Baxter. Let him find out who did this. Nothing good can come of your meddling.” Banker Clyde ordered me around like I was a bank clerk, which I was not.
“You’re awful grouchy in the mornings, ain’t you?” I tossed over my shoulder on my way out. “To tell you honest, I never liked no old grouch, myself.”
* * *
Unfortunately, Banker Clyde refused to converse about Mr. John Bowden. When I inquired, he kept his concentration on a thick slice of ham and the cornbread doused in butter and wild honey, that Lucinda May had fixed us for breakfast. Lucinda May rushed in to cover her brother’s rude insolence.
“Donnie, doesn’t the food suit you?” Lucinda May asked me. “Seems like you hardly eat enough to keep alive.” I believed Lucinda May expected a response, but if Banker Clyde could keep quiet in the face of my questions, then I vowed to keep him company. I sat with my mouth sealed as tight as a young walnut. Lucinda May’s question hovered so she continued. “I’d be glad to fix something special, if you’ll tell me your particulars.” Lucinda May’s concern sounded so genuine that I felt my resolve weaken. Besides, I’m not all that taken with quiet.
“Thank you, ma’am. I do appreciate your concern. But with all the goings on, I guess I ain’t too hungry just now.” Seeing the look of disappointment on her face, I added, “Hasn’t nothing to do with your cooking, which truth be told is more than a sight better than Miz Myrtle’s. I don’t mean no disrespect, but after I moved in with her, I reckon I’d discovered just why she stayed so skinny.”
Banker Clyde, whose mouth was full, snorted with repressed laughter, but Lucinda May laughed outright, and I felt plumb pleased with myself. The hungry truth was that I had to starve myself to keep from blooming into full womanhood. My bosoms had taken to growing like a well-tended garden, and I knew, absent something drastic, I’d have no choice about whether to keep my secret. The sound of Banker Clyde’s chair scooting back from the table interrupted my thoughts. Though I longed to eat another biscuit, I also got up from the table. I had just enough time to go speak with Miz Myrtle before opening the store.
Her sunny room brightened my mood. Miz Myrtle appeared to be in a good sleep, so I just watched her for a moment, enjoying the deeper color in her cheeks and the song of her breath, which had returned to a steady rhythm that inspired me with confidence. I took the time to say “Thank you” to the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, as it was not yet clear to me which one deserved the credit, and I didn’t want no hurt feelings in these uncertain times.
On my way to the store, I pondered the number three. Not only was there a Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, I had myself three suspects: Sister Sally Sees, Deputy Harris Suggs, and that right proper gentleman, Mr. John Bowden. I tried to remember any other threes. Miz Myrtle, Old Red Hound, and the dead crow were a threesome. Me, Lucinda May, and Banker Clyde were a threesome. When my head began to hurt, I left the threes for another time, trusting that I’d been given a new tool with which to hunt for clues. I called it “three thinking,” and believed that Sheriff Bob Freedom Smith would be right proud of me. He was a man who did not think coincidences insignificant. I once heard him tell a Methodist preacher that sometimes Sheriff Smith felt like his gut was smarter than his head. If gut-talk could solve a crime, why should I be proud? I patted the place where I’d once had a belly. Now that I had gut-talk and three thinking, I felt more assured than ever that I could find the culprit who felled Miz Myrtle. I straightened my back to its most upright position, my usual reaction to thoughts of Sheriff Bob Freedom Smith.
Chapter 8
“Donnie, you coming to the Saturday night pie supper?” Widow Jenkins asked me, as I passed her on the street after I’d caught her up on Miz Myrtle’s condition. She was on her way to check on her mother, who lived up the way, just like she did every morning.
I admired Widow Jenkins for that, so I made a friendly voice like the one Miz Myrtle had for every customer who came into her store. “Sure do, ma’am. Can’t wait to get me a bite of your peach pie. Been saving my coins for a month.” I said nothing but the truth. Widow Jenkins could make a pie that’d take you straight to heaven. I was hungry as a bear, and I intended to win the pie and eat the whole thing myself, lessen Widow Jenkins cared to have a bite as was her right as the baker, or unless I could persuade Miz Myrtle to partake. “I’m thinking that I wish we could wake up in the morning and be plain old Indian Territory once more, just so we’d have all the fun of celebrating statehood again.” Widow Jenkins laughed, then she shooed my sentiments away with her hand, like they was a swarm of flies, before making her way down the street.
Talking to Widow Jenkins, and hearing the train whistle, was two of my favorite things in the whole world. The first reminded me of what the world ought to be like, and the second reminded me of how much of the world there was left to see. I jingled the coins in my pocket and reassured myself that there was enough for Widow Jenkins’s pie. Before I knew it, I stood in front of the store, just like I’d done the day before yesterday, except this time I had new thoughts that wouldn’t have even been possible back then. I fumbled for the key giving myself some time.
Unlocking the store was hard, even when I set myself to remembering that Miz Myrtle was safe and snug in her room. Going inside for the first time after her ordeal reminded me just how distant I was from my past easy courage. I caught myself looking around before I actually entered. I don’t know what it was I expected to see. To my way of thinking, there wasn’t no stranger involved in this case. Since I believed it was someone familiar to me, his presence would not alarm until a terrible act was committed—that was the hard truth. Nothing for it, but to buck up and take my medicine. All in all, the worry was nothing but a hindrance. Still, I didn’t seem to be able to hush my insides and all that “what if” talk left me spooked of my own shadow. My thoughts might not be brave, I decided, but I could make my actions talk brave. Maybe this was a poor substitute for the high quality of character that I aimed for myself, but at the moment it was all I could muster. Just as I opened the door, I heard an unfamiliar male voice say, “Mister Donnie Summersdale, isn’t it?”
My body did not betray me by jumping up to the ceiling like my heart wanted to do. I credit that with one hand still being on the doorknob, and the other hand trying to remove the key from the keyhole.
“Yes, sir,” I said as I turned to face the voice. “And how may I help you?” The man in front of me looked fresh from the Sears and Roebuck catalogue, so black was his broadcloth suit coat, so white was his shirt, and so shiny his shoes. A dandy, I thought, as I recognized the countenance of Mr. John Bowden, the very man I had been pitching a fit to see.
“A moment of your time, Son?” Bowden gestured to the door.
With nothing more than a hard swallow to indicate my fear, I opened the door. “Please, Mr. Bowden, sir, do come in. I have chores to be about, but I can certainly listen while you speak, if you’ve no objection.”
Bowden nodded his assent. He placed himself in the chair before the potbellied stove, and I was reminded to build up the fire for the day. I gathered the wood from the back and set about that task.
“I missed you yesterday when I went to call on Miz Myrtle, having heard of her unfortunate circumstances. Might I be of any assistance to you?” I thought he meant with the sweeping, as I had just gotten the broom from behind the counter. When Mr. John Bowden saw my eyes focus on the broom and then on him, he shook his head in a strong, “No.” Then he continued. “No, son, I mean that I am a man of some means. If you should find it necessary to close the store, or if Miz Myrtle dec
ides this is a good time to sell, then I’d be most willing to compensate with a generosity I doubt the local folk could match.” Bowden took off his fine hat and smoothed his rich, black hair. The faint clean smell of soap made me think that Bowden had come fresh from the barber. A different woman might have thought him handsome.
“I’ve spoken with Sheriff Baxter and he seems to think this may have had to do with Miz Myrtle’s willingness to trade with them free Negras that live in these parts,” Bowden said. “I’ve heard about town that she has allowed them into her store same as white folks. That’s the kind of offense some don’t forget too easily.”
I knew that Sheriff Baxter would have made no such deduction. He was a man that looked no further than what someone else put on his plate. I wondered that Bowden had picked this approach. I knew I’d have to give it careful thought, but in this moment a response was in order.
Upon remembering Patience Shipley, my very black friend, who could sing a Jesus song like an angel, I wanted to speak the outrage I felt—how Mr. Bowden’s suggestion demeaned her for no good reason. Thankfully, it came to me as clear as Sheriff Bob Freedom Smith’s voice. Instead of putting up a fight, offer Bowden hope of gaining the store. A door had opened, and I walked through with purpose. Why not put it to fancy Mr. John Bowden as how the time might be approaching when Miz Myrtle would want to rid herself of a business for which she had no aptitude, and which had brought her nothing but grief and misery. I asked myself, wouldn’t this draw in the very ones who might have wanted Miz Myrtle out of the way?
“I will take your kind offer to Miz Myrtle myself. I believe that this incident, hard and vicious as it was, may have caused her to reconsider, where before, her mind had been set. As to her treatment of colored folk, I only help sweep the floors. Such is not up to me.”
Foxy Statehood Hens and Murder Most Fowl (The Foxy Hens) Page 12