Unraveled

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  “It ain’t the same.”

  I always thought Mrs. Peters was the sweetest old woman I ever met, besides my Miss Becky. Though Mr. Peters had a truck just like every other man in Center Springs, Mrs. Peters walked everywhere she went, hoofing it in her old sensible shoes. She even walked from their unpainted house up behind the cotton gin to the Assembly of God church across the pasture from our house, no matter if it was Sunday or for night services, rain or shine, cold or hot.

  Grandpa looked a little aggravated. “Everybody gives her a ride, if she’ll take it, and she usually does. They pick up Cliff Vanderberg, too. Folks still help others.”

  Uncle Cliff walked just as much because he didn’t have a car, only it was mostly from his house to the store and back.

  Mr. John Washington’s highway patrol cruiser rounded the bend and came past the overlook to slow down and squeeze past Grandpa’s Plymouth. He crept past us to the other side and used his car to block the highway from that direction, putting us in a safe pen on top of the dam.

  Jimmy Dale turned so he didn’t face Mr. John straight on when he walked up. I guess it was better than turning his back on him, but not by much.

  Mr. John winked at us. “Mr. Ned. You was right. This old lake is already tied to death and it ain’t a year old.” As usual, he was chewing on a toothpick. “Who is it this time?”

  “Maggie Mayfield.”

  He sucked in his breath and sidled over to the steep drop-off to see the car below. “I reckon somebody’s done made sure she ain’t hurtin’ down there.”

  “I did.” Jimmy Dale didn’t take his eyes off the lake.

  Pepper whispered close and the eagle feather in her hair tickled when it brushed my neck. “He was worried they didn’t go down and check on somebody who’s colored.”

  Her comment shook me, because I couldn’t believe anyone would leave a person alive and hurting in such a bad wreck. “How do you know that?”

  She didn’t answer, because she wanted to hear the men’s conversation.

  “Was Tylee in the car with her?” Mr. John directed his question toward Grandpa, because he could already see that Jimmy Dale didn’t think much of him.

  “Said Frank Clay’s underneath.”

  “Ohhhhhh.” He trailed off.

  Grandpa didn’t look at Mr. John. He studied the torn up slope of the dam. “What’n hell’s a big wheel in a small town doing out running around with a colored girl? They were just asking for trouble.”

  Pepper whispered in my ear again. “Frank Clay’s the mayor and Tylee’s that woman’s husband.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  She rolled her eyes and we leaned again. I bet it looked like one of those Wild Kingdom shows in TV where birds bob their heads around to one another. “I listen.”

  “Well, I listen too, but I don’t hear these kinds of things.” A car pulled up and two men got out. I recognized them both.

  “That’s ’cause you tune people out when they’re not talking about hunting and fishing. You ought to get your nose out of them books of yours and you’ll hear a lot more than you do.”

  She was probably right. I spent a lot of time reading when adults were around, because they usually talked about things I didn’t have any use for. I stood there wishing I’d paid more attention.

  The two new arrivals hadn’t said a word. One was Chester Davis, who farmed in the bottoms, and the other was Rod Post, the community’s shade tree mechanic who worked on everything from cars to tractors.

  Mr. Rod let out with a low whistle. “That roll beat the hound out of that Bonneville.”

  Beyond them, I saw Mr. Ike Reader’s green GMC pickup coming our way from Center Springs. Grandpa saw it too. He reached around, grabbed my shoulder and pulled me to his side. “Go get your grandmother and tell her Ike Reader’s gonna take y’all home.”

  “We’re not going to town after all?” That’s where we were headed when Grandpa got the call. Going to town was a big deal for me. Miss Becky bought groceries while me and Pepper went to the show. We usually made a stop at the Woolworths so I could get either a comic, a book, or a model car. Pepper always bought 45s that she played on her red and white portable record player.

  He gripped tighter without looking at me.

  “Yessir.” When he turned me loose, I walked to the car. “Grandpa says Mr. Ike’s gonna take us back to the house.”

  Miss Becky gathered her purse like she’d been expecting it. “That’ll be just fine. We can get groceries later.”

  Pepper fell in beside me and didn’t say a word as Miss Becky led us past the men who all said hello but really wanted to get back to talking about the wreck. I knew Pepper was planning something, though. I just couldn’t figure it out.

  We passed through the men and the hole torn in the guardrail. There was a really short set of skid marks that led to the gap. I could imagine the shriek of rubber as the car went through the rail.

  Grandpa met Mr. Ike before he could get to the knot of men. The jerky little farmer was talking long before he got to Grandpa and it aggravated that old bald man to no end.

  “Ned, listen, you need for me to do anything?”

  Grandpa took off his straw hat. “Sure do.” He rubbed the sweat off his head and replaced it. “I need you to take Becky and these kids home.”

  Mr. Ike’s face fell, and I could tell he’d rather do anything than drive us to the house.

  “Thank you, Ike.” Miss Becky gave his skinny arm a pat through his gray shirt sleeve and led the way to the truck, with us marching along behind like baby ducks.

  Mr. Ike stuttered a little. “Well, all right then. Listen, listen Ned, I’ll be right back once I drop ’em off.”

  “That’ll be fine, Ike. Thank-yee.”

  With Miss Becky in the cab, and us kids riding on the tailgate with our feet dangling into space, Mr. Ike carefully turned his truck around. When he was backing up, I looked across the creek bottom from that high point like I always did to see our house, over a mile away. Behind it was the barn, sitting on the hill above our hill. Down and to the left, I could barely see the roof of Uncle Cody and Aunt Norma Faye’s house that Mr. Tom Bell willed to them after he disappeared down in Mexico.

  Mr. Ike stopped and as he ground the gears into first, I looked down between my feet and saw a two-foot skid mark shaped in a crescent moon over the solid yellow lines in the middle of the highway.

  Mr. Ike accelerated as a wrecker pulled up from the far side of the dam, followed by two ambulances. One of them was a sprung Cadillac from the funeral home the colored people used.

  It was a good thing, because the other one wouldn’t have transported a high-yellow woman for love nor money.

  Chapter Four

  The Wraith wiped sweat from his forehead with an oily rag. It was easy for him to get away from his job for an hour or two. As long as he did his work, no one said much. But the best time was before dawn when he could come and go without anyone knowing. He tightened the loose nut on a pivot pin, straightened, and waved to an associate that he was finished.

  ***

  Ike Reader hadn’t completely finished his three-point turn when Phil Bates arrived from Powderly. His wrecker barely had enough room to pass Ned’s car, squeezing by with only inches to spare. He stopped close to the men gathered beside the missing rail.

  Ned stepped to Phil’s open window. “We can’t move it yet, not ’til Buck gets here. We got two dead down there.”

  “I’m in no hurry. I’ll wait. Who is it?”

  “Frank Clay and Maggie Mayfield.”

  Phil grunted. “Mayor Clay?”’

  “Yep.”

  “Jesus. How far down are they?”

  “All the way.”

  “I may not have enough cable.” He pointed in the direction of the highway that wound past Ned’s house, knowi
ng that once he crossed the Sanders Creek bridge, a dirt road skirted a pasture of alfalfa nor far from the creek. “Can I go around and get to it from down there?”

  Ned thought for a moment. “No. They cut a road when they were working, but it warshed out with all the rain back in the fall.”

  Buck Johnson was the county Justice of the Peace and it was his job to pronounce the victims dead before the bodies could be moved. He arrived twenty minutes later to join a growing crowd in the middle of the dam. “Well hell, Ned. I’m getting tired of death exams around this lake, and around here in general.”

  “I don’t blame you.” Ned jerked his head toward the nearly unrecognizable car. “You’re not gonna like this one a’tall. There’s two bodies down there and one of ’em’s Frank Clay. It’s a steep climb, but John’ll go with you and take the cable down with y’all. You can hold onto that to help you back up.”

  “Oh, hell.” Buck thought for a moment. “You been down?”

  Ned unconsciously rubbed the scar on his stomach from a recently healed bullet wound. “Naw. I ain’t in any shape for that.”

  Big John led the way down the steep slope with two folded quilts under one arm, digging his boot heels into the soft soil to remain upright. Buck followed, using those same deep impressions as steps all the way to the bottom.

  Standing with his shins against the undamaged rail, Ned saw Buck stop beside the woman’s arm hanging out the window. He took her wrist to check for a pulse. He lowered it, pressed her neck, then moved around to the other side where he and John knelt and disappeared behind the battered car.

  Seconds later John stood and cupped both hands around his mouth. “Have Phil bring a chain down with that spare cable he carries! That’ll be enough to reach, and we can get the car off Frank!”

  Phil backed the wrecker to the edge of the pavement and leaving the engine running, worked his way down with a chain and cables. Buck helped him attach the rig and he puffed his way back up the steep slope with Phil while John stayed below to make sure the chain didn’t slip off once they took up the slack.

  At the top, Buck caught his breath. Phil climbed into the cab and the engine idle increased.

  “Is it really Frank Clay down there with that colored gal?”

  “Rod, let the man blow for a minute.” Ned stepped back as the winch tightened the cable. The wrecker settled, trembled, and the cable vibrated like a guitar string before the car finally moved.

  Ned took Buck’s arm and moved him out of earshot. “It was Frank for sure?”

  “Yep.”

  More local farmers arrived. One was Ross Dyer, a man with hairy ears and the sour stink of armpit sweat. Ned never cared for him because he was eating candy every time Ned saw him at the store, but the man never took any home to his kids. Dyer pulled Rod’s shirtsleeve between a thumb and forefinger. “That’s the mayor down there?”

  “Yep.”

  “I thought he had better sense than to run around with another woman. I guess they are town people.”

  Aggravated that Dyer was asking questions, Ned rubbed his chin. “He moved to town and the rest of that Clay bunch stayed out ’chere, farming, raising kids, and cooking a little moonshine every now and then. I catch ’em when I can and run ’em in for it.”

  Frank Clay’s family had lived in Center Springs for generations. They were sullen and clannish for the most part, but Frank always had more ambition than the rest. He wanted to leave Center Springs for state politics.

  The questions piqued Buck’s interest. “He never was as mean as them others.”

  “You’re right about that. Frank broke away from the rest of that sorry pack and worked hard to earn enough money for college. He came back to Chisum, did pretty good in land, and went on and made a politician. Got on the city council and then got hisself elected mayor. I hear he throwed his hat into the ring for state representative. He’s been running with the bigwigs down in Austin.” Ned tilted his straw hat back. “Thissun’ll make the front page of the paper.”

  “It’ll be on the TV, too.” Buck cut off a hunk of Days Work chewing tobacco and tucked it into his cheek.

  “He almost made it, didn’t he?” Despite Frank being a Clay, Ned had been following his rise and had voted for him in every election.

  “Don’t mean nothin’. He was just another man.” Ross Dyer spat over the rail and walked away, digging in his ear.

  Buck watched him go. “It’s a damned shame, that’s for sure.”

  “I bet the county’ll want to put up a monument to him.”

  Buck closed his knife and settled the chew into his cheek. “That don’t usually happen to dead politicians that ain’t got to going yet.”

  Ned watched a sheriff’s car pass the lookout and slow. “It will this one. He was different.”

  Sheriff Cody Parker pulled around a long line of vehicles waiting for the accident to be cleared. On the Center Springs side of the lake, an even longer line of trucks waited. Most had driven out to see the wreck, while a few were simply trying to cross the dam.

  Sheriff Cody Parker left his door open, settled the Colt 1911 on his hip, and worked his way through the gathering crowd. He stopped beside Ned and watched the car containing Maggie’s draped body top the crest.

  The old constable waved toward the car as Buck gently placed her bare arm under the quilt made from flour sacks. “Cody, That’s Maggie Mayfield. I reckon you know her from your joint.” He almost spat the word as if it had a nasty taste. Cody still owned The Sportsman, a rough cinderblock honky-tonk in a cluster of mean clubs on the shallow Oklahoma bank of the Red River. Folks called it Juarez, referring to the joints south of the Rio Grande, in Mexico. Ned had been after him to sell what he called the gun and knife honky-tonk after Cody was elected sheriff, but he was disinclined to do it.

  Cody ignored the comment and peered over the rail at John who waited with Frank’s covered body “This ain’t good, Ned.”

  The old constable sighed. “I’m afraid this is as good as it’s gonna get.”

  Chapter Five

  Mr. Ike let us out at the house and left to get back to the wreck before we were even on the porch. The phone was ringing and Miss Becky hurried in to join the local grapevine. I followed Pepper around to the north side of the house where we could barely see the top of the dam through a gap in the trees across the road.

  She stepped up on the porch to get a better view overlooking the highway that wound around our hill like a stream around a rock. “I still can’t see much. You know, we can walk to it from here. It ain’t that far down to the wreck.”

  “It’s on the other side of what was the creek.”

  The engineers had dredged and straightened Sander’s Creek at the spillway, I reckon so water could get away from the dam pretty fast when the lake was high. It stayed straight for a quarter mile until reaching the woods they hadn’t knocked down, and then turned back into a wiggly creek. The bridge was a mile and a half from there.

  “Top, you beat all. We can walk down to the bridge and after we cross, it won’t take us no time to get there.”

  “They’ll all be gone by then.”

  “Right. That’s the idea. They didn’t want us there in the first place, but I want to see where the car landed.”

  “It’ll just be a big old gouge.” I wasn’t sure about going back. I figured it would be a lot like seeing the highway after a car wreck, some scuff marks and maybe a piece of chrome or two.

  “Well dammit. I’m going alone, then.”

  She was always like that, coming up with ideas that usually got us in trouble.

  We waited an hour before drifting off the porch and across the yard to the corner fence post behind the house where we played in a deep sand cut when we were little. The cut overlooked the highway and we got in trouble one time for throwing clods at the cars passing below. Even when we missed they hit t
he road and grass with an explosion of sand and dust.

  Most folks never noticed because our aim was so bad, but I got hold of a good solid clod one day and led a truck just right. It hit square on the hood of an International and Mr. Floyd Cass slammed on the brakes so hard he almost threw Mrs. Cass through the windshield. He pulled right up our drive and when Miss Becky stepped out on the porch to see who it was, he told her what happened.

  We got in pretty bad trouble over that, but didn’t get a whippin’, mostly because she didn’t tell Grandpa. He found out a couple of days later up at the store, but by then it was too late. He was pretty mad, but she’d already made us cut the yard and clean out the chicken house as our punishment.

  I think I’d rather have had the whippin’, because it would have been over a lot quicker and chicken houses stink like butt.

  Grass had spread over most of our play pile in the past couple of years and it was almost grown over. I kicked at the loose sand for a minute, thinking. When I glanced back up, Pepper’d started down the slope. “Hey. We’re gonna get covered in sandburs.”

  I knew that for a fact, because when we were about eight, we decided to roll all the way down that same hill. We’d only made about two turns when we both jerked up from the sharp pain of hundreds of sandburs stuck in our clothes. My dad and Uncle James laughed loud and long while we cried and they picked the stickers out one at a time.

  “I guess you’ll learn to think before you act,” Dad said. I recalled his voice that day, but was surprised when I realized that many of those details were already starting to fade. The sound of his voice was getting away from me since he and Mama died.

  Pepper led the way. Gravity grabbed us both and we jumped a couple of times to the bottom of the hill to keep our balance. She darted across the highway without looking, but that was okay, because you could always hear cars hissing down the pavement long before they arrived. Instead of following the road like she said, she cut down a deer trail through the woods.

  I saw the cuffs of her jeans were full of stickers. Mine had just as many. “Hey, this won’t take us to the other side.”