Slant of Light

by Steve Wiegenstein

  “So there was four of them,” Willingham said at the end. “Hildebrand and the three fellas with sacks.”

  “You know this Hildebrand?” Webb asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Willingham said. “Ain’t nobody in the law who don’t.”

  “I knew his daddy,” Webb said. “And I remember him a little. His daddy was a little rough around the edges.”

  “He didn’t seem like part of the group,” Turner said. “But Hildebrand was the one who ended up killing him.” His voice was weary. He swayed to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed.”

  Turner stumbled into the back room, shutting the door behind him. The men stood in silence around the corpse.

  “Seems to me like old Sammy kinda done this boy a favor,” Willingham said after a while.

  “Are you going to bring him in?” Webb said. “To question if nothing else. Obviously he knows at least one of these people.”

  Willingham cleared his throat. “Let me spell it out for you,” he said. “Number one, this fella ain’t easy to find. He stays out of town, and I ain’t going to waste a lot of time chasing after him in the country. Number two, your man here crossed the river, rode south a ways, and picked up another road. That might have put him out of my jurisdiction, so I’ll write the sheriff down in Wayne and see if he knows anything.”

  “How many one-armed men are there around here, for God’s sake?” Webb said. “Harley, a man’s been killed here!”

  Willingham’s voice was calm, but an irritated edge crept in. “Number three. This fella was, we all agree, in the act of stealing a nigger from somewhere down south, and to hear what these flour sack fellas said, was also performing some kinda unnatural act on him. How much chance that a jury would convict somebody of killing him? Lots of folks would just say tough luck, so long. I’ll pursue this, but don’t get your hopes up.”

  Cabot turned away. Smith had been such a small man; it was easy to imagine a horse lifting him off the ground, harder to imagine his weight breaking down a tree.

  “George, can you gather up six men?” Willingham said. “I need a coroner’s jury to pronounce cause of death.”

  Charlotte had stepped outside with the other women while the sheriff conducted his examination, quietly gathering rags and drawing pails of water. When the men came out, she exchanged a look with Willingham, who nodded, tight-lipped. They stepped inside in silence. Charlotte walked over to Smith and laid her hand on his chest.

  Of course he was an idler and a pest. No one could dispute that. His yellow vest was stained and filthy; she tried to smooth out some of its wrinkles, but they were too deep. She wrung out a rag and wiped his face.

  “We could move him to his cabin and do it there,” Frances Wickman said quietly, moving up beside her. “Messy job.”

  “No, this is all right,” Charlotte said. “This table and floor will need scrubbed anyway.”

  Mrs. Wickman removed his shoes and carried them out the back while others started in on the body, covering his man parts with a sheet for modesty’s sake while washing away the dirt and blood. Charlotte, at the head of the table, did the best she could with Smith’s face and hair, although the great hole behind his ear could not be fully hidden no matter how she combed.

  Sheriff Willingham startled her by silently appearing at her side, catlike, and plopping a friendly hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your home like this, ma’am,” he said. “This man, friend of yours?”

  “Of sorts. More guest than friend. But yes, he was a sympathetic young man at times, though difficult at others.”

  The sheriff nodded solemnly. “Ain’t we all. You didn’t have any idea he was acting contrary to the laws, did you?”

  Color rose in Charlotte’s cheeks. “Mr. Willingham! It is not my place to tell you how to do your job, but we all heard quite clearly who shot Mr. Smith. It is he who you should be investigating, not Lysander Smith.”

  “All right, all right, I heard that already,” said Willingham, backing away. “Just trying to get the full story. Coroner’s jury has finished up, so I’m releasing the body to you. He have any family around?”

  “Philadelphia is all I know about. We’ll bury him here.”

  “If you want to have a likeness made, there’s a man in town’s set up a shop.”

  Charlotte contemplated Smith’s ravaged face. “No. I imagine they have better images of him already.”

  Turner slept through the rest of the afternoon, dinnertime, and into the late evening. At some point in the night Charlotte felt him leave the bed. She followed him; he was sitting in the doorway, staring out into the night. She squeezed into the doorframe with him, her arm over his shoulder.

  “Right before my eyes,” he said.

  She could think of nothing to say to him in return.

  They buried Smith in the Daybreak cemetery, a few yards up the hill from the Cameron boy. Harp Webb showed up dressed in a clean white cotton shirt and some new work pants, Daybreak made, bought from Grindstaff’s store. He even took off his hat, revealing a bald spot on top of his head surrounded by the bright ruff of his yellow hair. Turner gave Smith a graveside eulogy, somewhat lackluster and disjointed, but Charlotte supposed it was the best he could muster under the circumstances. He didn’t mention the slave-stealing, although of course everyone had heard the story by then.

  Charlotte spoke to Harp afterward as the group dispersed. “You surprised me. Thanks for coming.”

  Harp fixed his hat over his head and squinted into the distance. “Little skunk was a good cash customer. I’m going to miss him. Liked to sit and talk too. Don’t know who I’ll have around to talk to now. That boy could tell more crazy stuff in one night than most people could in a lifetime.” He smiled, his teeth nearly the same color as his hair. “I ain’t been up here in a while. Remember that time I run into you up here?”

  Charlotte was in no mood to get friendly with him. Something of that feeling must have shown on her face, for an ugly look suddenly came over him and he turned to walk away. But then he walked back to her. “You want to know some things, Mrs. High-and-Mighty?”

  “I’m sure you’re about to tell me, whether I want to know them or not.”

  “Oh, I can tell you things. No doubt about that. Don’t think they’d matter to you. Seeing as how you know everything already.”

  Harp always seemed to find her weak spots. Charlotte folded her arms and waited for him to speak.

  “Ever wonder what people think about this place? People out and around?”

  “No, I can’t say I ever have.”

  “More’s the pity. You should stop and think about that some time. You’ve got neighbors, you know. You want to be citizens of the world, but you’re living here and now.”

  “All right,” Charlotte said. “Tell me about my neighbors.” She met his gaze, trying not to look hostile.

  “Your neighbors don’t think you’ll make it another year,” Harp said. “We talk about you all and your big ideas. Everybody pitching in for the common good. Lots of big talk, very pretty ideas. Hell, you all haven’t been through a bad year yet. See how much everybody pulls together when it don’t rain for a couple of months, or when we get a hard winter and there ain’t enough food to go around. Most people I know, they grew up here or came here young. They ain’t just playing farmer. They know it’s devil take the hindmost in this world, and if you want something you better not count on anybody but yourself. We are born alone, and we scratch and scrap alone.” Charlotte’s face burned and she started to make an angry retort, but stopped herself. It would only give him satisfaction.

  “A lot of people think I ought to have took you to law,” he went on. “‘Cause of my daddy splitting up his land and all, giving you people half. But if I wait a couple of years, you folks will give up and move on, go play something else. I could say more if I wanted, but I don’t care to.”

  “I don’t care to hear it anyway.”

  “Fine with me. I got whis
key to sell.”

  “I’ll tell you something, though. This settlement is a good place, with people trying to make the world better. The devil can’t get the hindmost if there aren’t any hindmost.”

  “Pretty words. You can say all you want, but the world is what it is. Bunch of fools, your man running around the country giving speeches and that Cabot taking a bath every day and this one—” He gestured back toward the graveyard. “This one drawing his pretty pictures of plants and trying to steal slaves and God knows what else. It’s not mine to speak ill of the dead, but if you want to know what the neighbors are thinking, most of your neighbors think he got what he deserved.”

  “Do you think that?”

  “I got no opinion. I don’t have nothing to do with slaves, buy, sell, nor catch. Too much risk for the reward, if you ask me. I’m just saying.”

  “It’s all about advantage, isn’t it? Taking the advantage, holding the advantage.”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is. I didn’t make this world, I’m just living in it. You folks can have all the meetings you want and vote to do this and do that, but in the end, you’re living in the same world I am. And if you haven’t took advantage, you’ll find out that somebody has took advantage of you.”

  By this point they were the only two people left at the cemetery. Turner had strolled part of the way down the hillside and was waiting for her. Harp touched his hat and walked away through the fields toward his house.

  “Everything all right?” Turner said when she joined him.

  Charlotte’s lips were set. “I hate that man.”

  They walked the rest of the way home in silence. There was to be a meal in the Temple of Community, as after every burial, but Charlotte didn’t want to go there just yet. Apparently Turner didn’t either. He sat down at the table, his eyes focused on nothing.

  They had spoken very little since yesterday. Charlotte figured she wouldn’t rush him into conversation. What was there to say about it anyway? In an inside pocket of Smith’s coat they had found a little sketchbook, with drawings of plants in about half the pages. She leafed through it as they sat; the pictures were careful, spidery pen-and-ink sketches, well done, but with odd labels: “large leaves,” near Piggott”, “tree”.

  “I don’t think he would have fooled anybody,” she said.

  Turner shrugged. “I should never have let him come,” he said after a moment. “I knew he was a lost man the first time I saw him.”

  “This man Foltz should be ashamed of himself,” Charlotte said. “Sending a boy out here to play spy. Plotting imaginary escape routes for imaginary slaves. He’s the one who shouldn’t have let him come, not you.”

  Turner shrugged again. “Maybe so.”

  Something about his apathetic tone irritated her. He was probably right, he shouldn’t have brought Smith here, but that didn’t make any difference now. No point in moping. If he wasn’t going to be angry, she wasn’t going to be angry for him.

  Charlotte picked Newton up abruptly. “Well, let’s head to the Temple,” she said.

  “You go on,” Turner said. “I’ll be along directly.”

  Charlotte left without answering further and started walking toward the Temple. She hated feeling this judgmental, but it was hard to resist. Turner and his big plan had gotten Smith killed, and now he was feeling guilty about it. Well, it was a little late for second thoughts.

  Newton was struggling on her hip as she walked, probably wanted to nurse again. He could just wait. Cabot and Webb would no doubt want to talk to her soon and carry on some more about her husband’s inadequacies, and they could wait too. Who had made her the dumping ground for everyone’s opinions? Even Smith had unburdened himself on her.

  Newton started to cry and reached for her breast. “Need, need, need,” she said, smacking his hand away. That only made him cry louder. She sat on the ground in the shade of a tree and held him on her knees at arm’s length. His face was pinched in unhappiness, but he stopped crying for a moment as they regarded each other. He sniffled.

  “No,” she said, “I’m not angry at you. I’m not angry at him either. I’m angry at the whole human race.” She opened her blouse and let him nurse.

  Late spring turned into summer, and the whole colony stayed somber after Smith’s killing. As the news spread that he had been caught stealing a slave, a further pall came over them; no one went so far as to say he deserved his hanging, but there were always sideways looks whenever his name came up. Turner wrote to Hiram Foltz, sending Smith’s belongings back, and was surprised when Foltz wrote back asking for a refund on the unused part of Smith’s room and board. “I guess that’s how he got to be a wealthy man,” Turner said. “If he wants his money back, he can come and get it.” Cabot, bundling up Smith’s things, brought out a packet of papers that Smith had entrusted to him—a series of detailed maps of the Bootheel, northeast Arkansas, and even Tennessee and northern Mississippi, with roads, plantations, river crossings, and landmarks all noted—and sent it to Foltz. “He never wrote anything down until he got back here,” Cabot said. “I told you he wasn’t as foolish as everyone thought.” Neither Charlotte nor Turner could work up the nerve to ask him how much he knew about the other secret parts of Smith’s life, afraid of what they might find out.

  Frances Wickman grew larger, and larger still, and even larger, and by June it was clear that she was carrying twins. She stayed in her chair most of the summer, fanning herself, uncomfortable, her feet planted flat as if she were on an unsteady boat. Charlotte visited her in the evenings. “This twin business is not a good thing,” Mrs. Wickman said gloomily. “One baby is hard enough, but two? I’m too old for this nonsense.” She pulled Charlotte’s hand to her belly. Charlotte could feel the live things inside, bumping aimlessly. “If something happens to me during all this … “ She raised her hand to quiet Charlotte’s protestations. “I’m in no mood for silly assurances, missy. If something happens to me, I want you to raise these babies, at least until the Mister finds a new wife, if ever.”

  “Of course I will.”

  “Speaking of babies—” Mrs. Wickman eyed her cautiously. “I’m surprised young Newton hasn’t had himself a little brother or sister yet.”

  Charlotte blushed. “It just hasn’t happened, I guess. And since Mr. Smith was killed, Turner has, I don’t know ….”

  “Not been attentive? Honey, that’s easy to see. You’re not the only thing he’s neglecting, either. The meetings lately have been a disgrace, people all talking at once, nobody making plans.”

  “You’re right. I know you’re right.”

  “It’s not my place to say more. But your Mister should wake up.”

  The hemp field grew in dense profusion, so thick that even a child couldn’t walk through it; as the weather grew hot and dry, the hemp only seemed to thrive. The same was not true for the corn. Its leaves twisted and frayed at the tips, and the ears seemed alarmingly small. No afternoon thunderstorms came to relieve the dry days. The ground grew hard, and sumacs and sassafras turned color early, their bright red-orange spattering against the dull green backdrop of the forest’s edge. The mechanical reaper couldn’t handle the thick stalks of the hemp, so they had to cut and shock it by hand, miserable work in the merciless sun.

  Turner seemed to be sleepwalking through the days. He made no plans to lecture and even gave up his Sunday afternoon talks in the Temple. As the months passed, it became clear that Sheriff Willingham was going to do nothing about the killing, either from fear of Hildebrand or simple lack of interest. Only Cabot and Emile Mercadier refused to let go of the injustice. Cabot wrote to Governor Stewart, and after more than a month he received a strange, rambling reply that promised everything in general and nothing in particular. “We need to get a new man to run for sheriff,” Cabot said at the weekly meeting. “We’ve got a bloc of twenty votes we could swing his way. George, anyone you would suggest?”

  “I retired from politics quite a while ago,” Webb replied, uneasy. “Besides,
I don’t believe Daybreak should get involved with politics. We should be above politics.”

  “I used to believe that too,” Cabot said. “But by God, where else do you go when the law won’t operate? I’ve half a mind to run myself.”

  “Watch your language, sir,” said another of the men. “There are ladies present.” Cabot blushed and sat down.

  Mrs. Wickman’s day came on an August afternoon. The granny woman from French Mills was fetched, bearing a bag of herbs and remedies. She boiled water on the stove and brewed a tincture.

  “What is it?” Charlotte asked.

  “Evening primrose,” the woman said. “And this and that. Brings the labor on stronger and quicker.”

  Frances was already sweating with the pain. “Remember what you promised,” she said, gripping Charlotte’s hand. The lowermost of the babies seemed to be turned wrong; the granny woman probed and pushed, looking for a way to deliver the baby. It was nearly midnight when the first one, a girl, emerged, with the next one soon after. “Both girls,” said the midwife.

  “Mister was hoping for at least one boy,” Frances whispered.

  “He don’t have no say in the matter,” the granny woman said. “That’s up to the Lord.”

  “Sarah,” Mrs. Wickman croaked through dry lips. “Sarah and Penelope. Tell the Mister that’s their names.”

  Charlotte stayed until sunrise. Mrs. Wickman was weak and drenched in sweat. She had lost a good deal of blood, and she fell asleep as soon as they got her cleaned up and laid onto her pillows. Mr. Wickman had gone to Cabot’s spare bed—Lysander Smith’s former bed—to sleep.

  She returned home to find young Newton in bed with his father, curled up against his side in a tight knot of knees and elbows. Turner was awake and smiled at her as she entered, but did not move, letting Newton sleep a little longer. Charlotte changed into her nightdress and curled up with them.