by Craig Rice
"Which way?” he asked.
"I'll show you,” I said. Doreen started with us. “You stay here,” I told her.
"Enos, I ... “
"Stay here!” I didn't know exactly why. But I didn't want her to look at the dead man again. More precisely, I feared, for some reason, having Dolph see her if she should look at him.
Dolph and I went back to the bedroom.
Dolph stood looking down at Sam for several seconds. “You did one hell of a complete and messy job, Enos."
"I meant to—at the time. When I came in here and saw what he was trying to do I didn't think of but one thing, Dolph. The same thing you and any other man around here would think of."
"I see,” he said softly. “Better tell me the rest of it."
"There isn't much to tell,” I said. “Sam knew I was going to Macon tonight. He came here in my absence on a pretext he wanted to talk to me about business. He was already pretty well boiled. My wife let him in—after all, he was my business partner. He had a brandy in the front parlor, she told me. Then he began to want to get cozy. When she ordered him out, he got pretty vile and coarse with his talk. To escape him, she came back here. She couldn't get the door locked, he was too close behind her, telling her what a fool she was for marrying a homely mug like me, how much more he could do for her, how many nights he'd lain awake just thinking about her."
I paused for breath. Dolph waited patiently.
"You ought to be able to piece the rest of it together,” I said. “I heard her scream. She was trying to get away from Sam when I came in the room. I tell you, Dolph, I didn't know what the hell I was doing. I heard him laughing at her, telling her to be nice, to be sweet to him ... that kind of stuff."
"I went for him. To tell you the truth, I meant to strangle him. He shoved me to one side. I was off balance and stumbled against the bureau. I don't remember getting the gun ... it was in the bureau drawer. I don't even remember shooting him, but I did. One minute he was there; then he was on the floor and I was standing over him cussing him for everything I could lay my tongue to. Then I saw he was dead and that knocked me back into kilter. I phoned you—and that's it."
"You have any trouble with Sam before this?” Dolph Crowder asked.
"No. I never liked him much as a person. But who did?"
Dolph nodded. “The town thought of him as a pig. A greedy one at that. A sort of smug, self-sufficient man who figured anything he wanted was his just because he was Sam Fickens."
"I know all that, Dolph. But I never let him get under my skin before. We had a growing company. We were making money. I didn't care too much what he was like."
"He ever come around here before when you were gone?"
"Once or twice,” I said. “Doreen told me. She didn't like him. Said he gave her the willies."
"How about when you were here?"
"Come to think of it, he's been a lot more sociable since I got married ... But I don't think he'd have pulled this act tonight if he hadn't been drunk. I swear, Dolph, I'm sorry now I did it. I should have just beat him up and thrown him out. But for a few seconds there I didn't know what I was doing ... coming home ... hearing her scream ... walking in to see him ... “
"Don't dwell on it,” Dolph said. “I'll have to take you into town."
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Your wife will have to make a statement, of course."
"I know you're just doing your job, Dolph."
I had a private cell in the local pokey that night. Dolph's wife brought me a fine breakfast next morning, country ham, redeye gravy, grits swimming in butter, eggs, hot biscuits, steaming coffee.
That breakfast did more than fill my stomach. It fed my mental state. It told me the whole town was buzzing—with the talk in my favor.
I was charged with manslaughter and out on bail before noon. Folks in town did their best to talk and act as if I had no charge hanging over me. Doreen was relaxed, in good spirits, contented as a cat that's had a big bowl of warm milk.
I went on trial in circuit court the fifth day of the following month. When the trial opened, I had my lawyer ask the judge if I could make a statement to the court. The request was granted.
I got to my feet, conscious of the packed courtroom. I walked quietly to the stand, the same Enos Mavery they'd known all my life, the Enos who paused to crack a joke or a fruit jar of corn. The Enos who could talk to a dirt farmer as well as a fellow member of our country club.
I was sworn in and sat down in the witness chair.
"Folks,” I said, “I don't see much point in dragging this thing out. We're all taxpayers and every hour this court sits costs us money.
"Clay Rogers is a fine prosecutor. I ought to know. I went to school with him. He's going to tell you that I shot Sam Fickens. Now old Clay ain't givin’ to lying, and I don't deny it. I sure did shoot him—and I guess I might do it again under the same circumstances. I came home that night and found the dirty skunk using his brute strength on my wife. I went as crazy as a loon, got my hands on a gun, and pulled the trigger. I didn't try to hide a thing, and I'm not trying to now. I got Dolph Crowder on the phone soon as I saw what I had done, and I'm here now to tell you I did it. The man entered my home under a pretext, followed my wife when she tried to get away, forced himself into the bedroom—and I'm just thankful I got there when I did. If that makes me a criminal, then justice in the state of Georgia ain't what I've always thought it to be ... I thank you."
There was more testimony. From Dolph, Doc Joyner, who is coroner in his spare time, from several people who had known Sam. And from Doreen. She simply backed up what I had said. She was dressed as always, attractively, making no pretense that she wasn't a beautiful woman.
The jury was out for an hour.
I walked out of the courtroom a free and rich man.
Doreen and I sold out a few weeks later. She was restless, and I had no real desire to live in Mulberry longer.
We toured Florida and decided on the Coquina Beach place. For awhile it appeared life might settle to normal, but when we were through the decorating, the hundred and one things in establishing a new residence that kept us busy, Doreen became restless again.
I tried everything. Cocktail parties—they were too vapid. Another hunting trip—but a bleeding animal held no more interest for her.
Doreen hired a yard man last week and fixed up quarters over the garage for him. But we don't really need a full-time yard man. I looked into his background. A bum. From the downtown waterfront and wino jungles. Comes from nowhere.
But I suspect where he is going. It's been building in Doreen for quite awhile now. And I don't know what to do. If I warned the yard man, somebody else would be marked.
Somebody's going to die—to provide a thrill for Doreen. Nothing less will calm that mounting restlessness.
I certainly am afraid to go home tonight.
THE END
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