Once Billy Roy turned his truck around on the highway and went back and hit a dog the second time ‘cause he didn’t kill it the first time. I was with him and I still remember the look in the crippled dog’s eyes when the truck bore down on him the second time. I remember that and the splat.
“Well, we buried him good, didn’t we, Bonita Faye?” asked Miss Dorothy.
When I didn’t answer, she went on while following me and Patsy and Jerry down the church steps. “He was a good man, Bonita Faye. Whatever are you going to do without him?”
I turned around and vomited through the veil on Miss Dorothy’s feet.
It had taken ‘til Thursday to bury Billy Roy ‘cause it was murder. Doctor Bushy was also the coroner and he was a well-respected man. So, instead of sending Billy Roy to Tulsa, they let Doctor Bushy do the autopsy right there at Mr. Wilson’s.
Harmon told me over the telephone—I wouldn’t let him come see me while I had the poison ivy—that the autopsy wasn’t no big deal. Doctor Bushy just pulled shotgun pellets out of Billy Roy’s head and said he was “killed by a shotgun blast to the face…right in the eyes.”
And they thought it was Billy Roy’s own shotgun ‘cause they couldn’t find it no matter how the sheriff’s men and volunteers beat down the brush on the mountain.
I didn’t much care. Billy Roy was dead and I hurt something awful with all that poison in my system.
I lay in bed. September had turned cold like it always does sooner or later and I alternated from freezing without any covers on my body to breaking out in a sweat from trying to keep warm in a blanket that held in the heat of the poisoned parts of my body.
When I developed pneumonia, Doctor Bushy wanted to send me to the hospital in Fort Smith, but I was too sick to move.
Patsy watched over me night and day. The church ladies didn’t come. Guess all they knew to do was clean. ‘Sides, Patsy told me they were that upset when Harmon Adams told Sheriff Hoyle about our midnight trip up Cavanal Hill.
“I had to, Bonita Faye. Hoyle wanted to know how you got the poison ivy. I won’t tell you what all he was suspecting, but now it’s all settled. Boy, did he chew my ass out for taking you up there. At night. And without him. This case is in his official jurisdiction, you know. He told me I shoulda called him immediately, before we went up there. Just as soon as you called me.”
Harmon explained all this again to me when he came to see me. I finally let him before October was over. When the swelling went down and the coughing was better.
It was Harmon, and Patsy, of course, that kept me going those weeks. I would lie in bed rubbing one foot against the other ‘cause I didn’t dare scratch anywhere and the tops and bottoms of my feet were the only places where I didn’t have any active poison spots. Also, I allowed myself to scratch one little spot on my elbow. Heaven can’t be as sweet as the relief of being able to scratch someplace that itches.
Patsy had the telephone company put in a long cord so I could talk to Harmon while I was in bed. His calls were a lifeline.
After all the sickness, I only weighed about eighty pounds. I don’t know how Harmon could stand to look at me. But he always allowed that I looked beautiful to him. He’d sit by my bed and talk to me and listen while I blabbered to him.
And he didn’t laugh once when I told him about Paris, France.
The scandal of my being up on the mountain at midnight with Harmon Adams the night after my husband was killed died down. Doctor Bushy finally let me get up and get around. It was too cold to sit on the porch swing, so I sat most of the time wrapped up in a comforter in the living room, looking out the window or reading my books.
The church ladies forgave me and there was always good food…to tempt my appetite…in the oven or in the refrigerator. I even found out that it was Berta Hoyle who knew how to get rust stains out of the toilet bowl.
By the time Doctor Bushy let Harmon take me for a ride in his pickup, the whole thing was forgotten. Well, almost. There were no leads on Billy Roy’s killer, but Sheriff Hoyle said he was “still working on it. I expect the case to break soon.”
When it did all I had left of the poison ivy was a small permanent scar on my elbow. And weak eyes. I never did see as good again.
FIVE
Billy Roy and I did all right there in Mena with the gas station and he got a lot of respect for knowing how to fix up cars so they could keep on running. Nobody had any money, not even the rich ones, to buy new cars.
Just like the Depression never touched our neck of the woods—everyone was too poor to know they was poorer—the post-war prosperity was just as ignored. Mena weren’t no boom town and never will be. Like most small towns in the Ozarks, people just lived there without any special reason to do so. I don’t even know how come I was there.
There was a little more money though. I was saving coins in my second orange Fiestaware iced tea pitcher. Billy Roy broke the first and he wasn’t even drunk. When he found the coins, he said I was stealing from him. And I said, was not, they was tips for when I pumped the gas when he was gone fishing.
We was there about a year when the Judge come up with another idea.
“We foreclosed on another garage, Billy Roy. It’s bigger than this one and there’ll be more money in it for you and your ‘little bit.’ There’s a dealership on the side. Yes, sir, I think we can clean up on this one. Of course, you’ll have to move. To Oklahoma. But, hey, look at it this way. You’re moving up in the world.”
I was surprised. I didn’t think even anyone from Mena would think moving to Poteau, Oklahoma, was “moving up in the world.” Believe me when I tell you that there are no pedigrees in Poteau. You got your Sooners, your Indian “heritage,” your transported Arkies and a whole lot of good ol’ boys.
However, I got to admit they weren’t doing a half-bad job. Especially those into the second and third generation of hard-scrabblers. Nice thing about Billy Roy and me moving there, nobody asked anything about your background, who your folks were and all. They were afraid if they asked you, you’d feel like you had a right to ask them back.
We moved to Poteau in 1950. I was barely twenty-two years old. But, of course, we’re only counting years, not aging.
It was a good business. The Burnett Ford Dealership and Service Garage. The only reason the previous owner had failed was ‘cause he had gotten over-excited with the idea of selling new cars to people who hadn’t seen them in five years and had grown too fast. He’d started a dealership in Muskogee, Henryetta and some other place at the same time. There was only so much money to go around and the busted dealer couldn’t get it all.
We even got his house in town. Two blocks off the main highway and four blocks from the railroad track. It was an old house: four rooms and the added bathroom. I liked having an inside toilet. We’d had one in Mena, but had to share it with the gas station customers. I didn’t like cleaning up after strangers.
Billy Roy made me use my coins to furnish and fix up the house. “What else on this earth, Bonita Faye, could you be saving it for?”
The first friend he made was Miss Dorothy over at the post office. “Got to do my public relations and that woman knows everyone. She’ll spread the word about us. You be nice to her, you hear? And invite her over for your fried chicken.”
Miss Dorothy was Billy Roy’s age. You’da thought he was courting her for more than her good will the way he carried on about her visit.
It was on Sunday after church. We had been in town six weeks. I fixed my fried chicken, perfect as always. And there wasn’t one lump in my milk gravy or mashed potatoes.
Miss Dorothy had insisted on bringing the dessert and brought what she called her famous pineapple upside-down-cake. Billy Roy acted like he had never had none before. If that’s public relations selling, Billy Roy sure bought a lot of it that night.
We ate in the kitchen off the Fiestaware. I’d worke
d up to three full place settings by then. Glad she was “Miss” Dorothy, not “Mrs.” or one of us wouldn’t of eaten. And I know who that would of been. Billy Roy got the dark blue, Miss Dorothy, the yellow, and I kept the orange dishes for myself.
“That was so fine, Mrs. Burnett,” Miss Dorothy said when we’d finished the chicken and I was cutting her squishy cake.
“Call her Bonita Faye, Miss Dorothy,” said my husband.
“Well, it’d be an honor…Billy Roy.” And those two fools burst out laughing like they was sharing a secret joke. “Bonita Faye, dear, you’re an excellent little cook. My little ol’ cake will just be an embarrassment after that scrumptious meal.”
“On the contrary, Miss Dorothy,” said Billy Roy. On the contrary! Where did Billy Roy ever learn to say, “On the contrary”?
“We coulda thrown out Bonita Faye’s chicken and just dined on this lovely dessert alone and had enough to satisfy the most hungry man,” said my husband. He ate his piece of cake in two forkfuls and jumped up to cut himself another.
What was left of the cake I pushed down his throat in the bedroom that night saying, “On the contrary, my ass, Miss Dorothy,” with every bite I shoved in his mouth with the heel of my hand. Billy Roy was choking to death with laughter and Miss Dorothy’s cake. He stuck his tongue out and pulled the pineapple ring I had hung over his nose into his mouth. It left slimy golden goo over his face. Still choking and laughing, he said, “Now, Belle, baby, that’s public relations. Just see if it don’t pay off.”
I had to wash my Paris nightgown out real careful to get all that pineapple gunk off it. And I still thought I could see a stain on the hem.
He was right though. Miss Dorothy talked to everyone in town at least once a day through her switchboard and she went on and on about “that nice Mr. Burnett and his sweet, young wife. He’s the one who is the new Ford dealer. Knows everything there is to know about cars.”
Joining the Lions Club helped with public relations, too. Billy Roy and me drove to Fort Smith and bought him a suit and he joined those fellas every Tuesday noon for lunch at the local cafe. They’d put up their little blue banner in the corner and act like they was in a private dining room. And they all talked about the future of Poteau. What killed me, they asked Billy Roy’s opinion on “which direction the town should take now?” Like he knew!
The Thursday night card game—with free booze—in back of the dealership didn’t hurt Billy Roy’s civic standing either. Or him finding the best fishing holes and taking one or two of them with him when they came to calling about buying a new car. And hunting—why, there wasn’t a creature that flew, swam, crawled or walked on four feet that didn’t come running when Billy Roy Burnett cocked his gun or dropped his line.
Big money changed hands at the card games, and Billy Roy, as lucky with cards as with striped bass, let many a debt go uncollected. “Look at it this way, Bonita Faye, I didn’t have the money in the first place so I don’t exactly lose anything. And I gained something—they’re in debt to me. It’s pure public relations.”
“What if you lose, Billy Roy?”
“Not with my cards, Belle, baby, not with my cards.”
SIX
We know who killed your husband, Bonita Faye,” said Sheriff Hoyle almost two months to the day after Billy Roy died.
“Who?” I asked. That one word was all I could manage. My hand shook as I poured hot coffee in my orange Fiestaware cup. Sheriff Hoyle was holding the yellow one in his beefy hands, his elbows on my kitchen table.
“His name was Steuben Ross from near Winslow.” Sheriff Hoyle slid his eyes over to me in triumph like he had just handed me the winning ticket on the daily double at Oaklawn.
“Was?”
“Yep, he’s dead, too. Died two days after Billy Roy.” The coffee was really hot and the sheriff’s eyes, the only thing I could focus on, stared out at me over the rising steam.
“So.”
Disappointed in my reaction, Sheriff Hoyle became more talkative. And sheriff-like. He gave me the details like he had probably written them in his report.
“Steuben Ross, twenty-eight, of Washington County, Arkansas, was killed when his pickup went over the side of Mount Gaylor the Monday after Billy Roy was murdered. Although the state patrol got his body out of the wreck, they couldn’t do nothing about the truck. Finally, though, a wrecker from Mountainburg pulled it up. He…the wrecker…is used to getting cars and trucks off the side of the mountain. Pulled it up last…” Sheriff Hoyle referred to his brown Aladdin notebook.“.…last Thursday morning.”
“But how do they know he killed Billy Roy?”
Sheriff Hoyle handed me the information like this time he was giving me the winning ticket in the feature race. “They found Billy Roy’s rifle in the bed of the truck.”
“That don’t mean he did it.”
“Well, Bonita Faye, it’s called circumstantial evidence.” When Sheriff Hoyle spoke legal words, he did it slow and deliberately. He peeked at his notes. “Ross, a convicted ‘shiner from around Winslow was reported camping on Cavanal Hill the Saturday night Billy Roy was killed.” The sheriff looked up at me. “There was two people who have identified his truck as being the one that was reported being at the scene of the crime. You know, at the base of the mountain…on the side of the road?”
He went on. “They’re hunters from Fort Smith. The officer in charge drove them up to the wrecker’s garage in Mountainburg yesterday and showed them the truck. They identified it because of its unusual color.” He stammered for the right description. “You know…bile green.”
“Chartreuse.”
“What?”
“Chartreuse,” I said. “That’s what that kind of green color is called. It’s French, I think.”
“Bonita Faye, I don’t know no French, but I do know that we got two men who say that same truck was on the side of the road the night Billy Roy was killed. Where Billy Roy was killed. And Billy Roy’s rifle was in his truck bed. That’s circumstantial evidence and we say Steuben Ross killed Billy Roy and threw the rifle in the back of the truck and lit out for Winslow.” He put his little notebook on top of his coffee cup and although the coffee had cooled some, little wisps of steam came up either side of the wide cup and curled the notepaper with the moisture.
“Now what do you say?” he asked.
“Did he have a family…this Steuben man, I mean?”
“Nah, well, yes. Sorta. His wife died giving birth to their little girl four years ago. She was being raised by her grandma, but the old lady died late in August. That’s why the little girl was with Ross when he shot Billy Roy.”
“What, he killed Billy Roy when he had his kid with him? How do you know that, Sheriff?” For the first time I started getting hysterical.
Pleased at my response, Sheriff Hoyle picked up his damp notebook and pressed the pages straight before he flipped them to the one he wanted. “Says so right here. Four-year-old girl…named Ellen…or Elly, as they call her…remembers going camping with her papa right afore he died in the truck.”
“How can a child that small remember something like that?”
“Oh, she remembers all right. Although some of it is baby talk. Like the bells.”
“Bells, what about bells?”
“This girl…this Elly…was living with her papa then, after the grandma died. He went hunting clear to Poteau…but most probably delivering ‘shine ‘cause he didn’t have his own rifle with him in the truck.” Sheriff Hoyle paused to read the next page. “They got there late at night and he drug the little girl…this Elly…up the mountain in the dark. Sat her down on some stones around a campfire…only he didn’t light no fire.” Sheriff Hoyle was now reading direct from his notes. I was amazed at how well he had written them down from whoever he got them from.
“Ross left the child alone while he went back to the truck.” The sheriff
looked up at me. “Now ain’t that a shameful thing for a daddy to do? Leaving his baby alone on a mountain top in the middle of the night?” He went back to the notes. “Elly heard church bells and gun shots going off at the same time. She was scared, but before she could start crying, her papa was standing beside her. Scared her, him coming up so quite like. He grabbed her up and half fell down the mountain with her to the truck. They got in the truck and went home. Drove all night. She says she slept and when she woke up, she was in her papa’s cabin. There, Miss Bonita Faye. There’s your circumstantial evidence.”
I said, “There ain’t any church on that mountain.”
He sighed and said, “I know. We figure she heard some kind of clanging. Mighta sounded like bells to her.”
“Where is she now?”
“Who?”
“That baby, that Elly. Where is she now?” I needed to know.
“Life is funny, Bonita Faye. That little girl is sitting in the catbird seat now.”
“What do you mean?”
“After they pulled Ross out of the truck—she wasn’t in the accident—they turned her over to the welfare. Put her in a foster home, but she only stayed three days. A family from Fayetteville, a professor and his wife, adopted her. The man’s a big muckety-muck from the University and they already got everything legal. When the local sheriff’s men interviewed her, they said she was sitting in a big playroom dressed up in a pink-dotted Swiss dress with a satin bow in her hair clutching a doll as big as she is.”
I refilled the sheriff’s cup. My hands weren’t shaking no more.
Sheriff Hoyle sipped the scalding liquid. “Ain’t life funny, Bonita Faye?”
I poured my own cup. “How so, Sheriff?”
“That little girl has gone from a ‘shiner’s shack in the mountains to a storybook home in town. And, you.” He took a bigger sip. “You lost a husband, but you got all that insurance money.” He put down his cup. “Watcha going to do with all that money, Bonita Faye?”
Bonita Faye Page 3