“Can I help you?”
She appeared built to scale. Tall and slender hipped, she looked designed to fit behind the pinched counter, to maneuver the few feet of cramped aisles. Her height, though, was an illusion fostered by the narrow room and low tin ceiling. She barely reached Pickett's shoulders. Her age was illusory as well. Her hair was white, but the premature white that makes a woman appear middle-aged at thirty and old at fifty. She was long past thirty, but not so far past fifty as the sloppy old maid bun fixed at the back of her head might suggest. She'd settled into dowdiness the way most women her age had sunk into the beautician's chair. It was the mask she wore in place of the paints and powders of synthetic youth. A cotton shift hung from her boney shoulders masking a form fuller than the straight line of the fabric would suggest. She was comfortable here; but, it seemed, that comfort had been hard won.
“Just looking for the Orlando paper. And a place to buy some clothes.”
She leaned over the counter, looked him over. “You in a accident or something?”
“Something.”
“Hurt?”
“Not so's you'd know it.”
The woman shrugged. “You can get just about anything in the Woolworth's cross the street. Long as you're not looking for nothing fancy. Sentinel's on the rack behind you. Thirty-five cent.”
Pickett rifled his pockets for change. “You Miss Moses?”
“Missus. Mister Moses died eight year ago.” The explanation seemed to satisfy her. “Thirty-eight with tax.”
Pickett pulled change from his pocket and picked through it. He laid coins on the counter, one by one. “I'm sorry to hear about Millie.”
The woman's face turned to stone. “I don't know no Millie, Mister.”
“Yeah?”
“I run a respectable business here. I don't cause nobody no trouble.” She swept the coins into the palm of her hand. “Now you get out of my shop and leave me alone.” She glared at Pickett, her mouth set half way between defiance and fear.
Gradually, the expression grew puzzled. “What you say your name was?”
“I didn't. But it's Pickett. Sorry to bother you.” And Pickett turned toward the door.
“Pickett, you say?” Her face fell, the features gone limp. “You, uh, what's your first name—your Christian name?”
Pickett turned back to the old woman. “Bo. Bodie Pickett. I was hoping—”
“You from around here?”
“I grew up over in Belle Haven. Live in Miami now. Did, anyway.”
The old woman's eyes glazed. She stepped back and lowered herself into a narrow wooden chair wedged between the counter and the wall. Her hand went to her mouth as if to keep something from falling out. “Oh my…” She stared at the floor for a moment, then looked up as if to ascertain that the tall man was still there—her face composed now, but her eyes far away. “You're just like him.”
“Miss—Missus Moses, I'm sorry to trouble you, but—”
“And now he's gone too.” She looked up. “You don't remember me, do you?”
Apparently, Pickett did.
She seemed to see it in his expression. Her smile brightened. It was a lovely smile, only just a little tired.
“Your father, he… well, J.B. was very kind to me. Except for Izzie—Mister Moses—he was the only man that'd ever been kind to me.” Her brows knit, and the words came as if foreign to her. “I wanted to stay, you know; but he wouldn't let me. He couldn't—wouldn't leave your mother. Not even after…” She looked down and was silent for a moment. When she looked back, she tried to smile again. “I never blamed him. I—I wasn't a very good person in those days. It was hard with the girls, you know; but your father helped whenever I needed it. He wouldn't see me no more. Nope. And I tried, too. Two or three times I tried. You see, he blamed himself—for your mama, I mean. You know, the way she…” The dreamy eyes suddenly woke. “I want you to know that… I've always wanted to tell you that… that—” She buried her head in her hands, and the words that filtered through her thin white fingers strained and broke. “That your father, he always loved your mother and you. He never loved me. Not really. I know that now—oh, I knew that even then—he never lied to me. And I just want you to know that I'm sorry, terrible sorry. It aint worth much I know—my being sorry—but, well, I am. Please believe that. He done nothing but help me, and I… I damn near destroyed his life. Did, in a way, I guess. And now he did that… that horrible thing to himself. I'm to blame, you know? It's my fault in the end. I'll never be able to make up for that, no matter what I do. And I'm so sorry. That's all. I'm sorry.”
She stared up at Pickett; but she wasn't waiting for absolution, she was beyond that. She wanted him to listen, that was all; she wanted to tell someone of her sorrow and regret—someone, perhaps, who shared it. For his part, Pickett said nothing. But she read something from his face, and it was what she wanted. She relaxed.
After a long moment, he said: “And Millie, she was your daughter?”
“My daughter? Yes, she's my daughter. Was. Not that anyone'd know it. She and Nettie went away a long time ago. They didn't come back neither. `Cept Millie. Once—no, twice.”
“Did you know that she was in trouble?”
“Millie?” Betty Hudgins Moses laughed painfully. “She was always in trouble. One way or another.”
“Do you have any idea what kind of trouble?”
“The only kind there ever was for her—for any of us. Man trouble.” She smiled bitterly at Pickett. “Millie said things was gonna be different for her from now on, that she was gonna make up for all the lost years. She said… Oh, she said a lot of things. She talked my ear off. Then she left—left for the last time.” Betty Hudgins was silent for a moment. “I don't know what she wants from me.” She closed her eyes tightly. “. . . what she wanted. Guess I'll never know, now.”
“You saw Millie recently?”
“She stayed the night last week sometime. She didn't say so, but I knew she was in trouble.”
“Why man trouble? She mention any names?”
“What d'you mean?”
“Purdy. She mention a guy name of Herb Purdy?”
“Who? No. But she did say she was going back to Belle Haven and get what she was owed by that Ayers bastard.”
“She mentioned Ed Ayers?”
“Yeah, that's right, the Reverend Edmund Ayers.” She said it as though announcing the radio show.
“Know what she meant?”
“Know?” She laughed in amazement. “I knew all right. It was him started it all.”
“Ed Ayers?”
“Yeah, you knew him back then. Wasn't much was he? But he had money, and lots of it. His folks had a place out here. Up towards Osteen. There was a place down by the Osteen bridge where the kids used to hang out. They'd have music on Saturday nights and—during the summers—there weren't much else for them to do. Millie and her younger sister used to go up there. Millie wasn't but seventeen, and Nettie, what, fifteen? Anyway, she always had to do what her sister did—had to have what she had.”
The old woman paused, staring into the shadowed corner.
“Well, things was different then. Anyway, that bastard Ayers started hanging around Millie. They dated a couple a times, maybe, that summer—no more'n that. Then he's off north for school. First thing you know he shows up on the doorstep. It was the middle of the year. Millie's still in school. Izzie sure didn't like it much. Ayers said he was going to marry her.” The old woman laughed as though she'd heard that one more than once. “So, Millie goes off with him. Didn't tell Izzie and me, of course. He just picks her up one day and they're gone.” She was still amazed by the whole thing. She shook her head, then shrugged. “Maybe he meant it—who knows? He was pretty broke up over his parents getting killed and all. He was gonna quit school and start a family. That's what Millie said, anyway.” She grimaced. “Sure—with a sixteen year old kid.”
“They get married?”
“Ho! Fat chance.” She
tried to muster a laugh, but managed only a throaty wheeze. “No sir. He just puts the bread in the oven and leaves, nice as you please.”
“Leaves?”
“He takes her to Jax, bangs her till his money runs out and then he leaves. You can do anything with money.” A fact, her tone said, that she had never doubted. She looked Pickett square in the eye. “You know what that son of a bitch does then?” She didn't expect an answer, and Pickett didn't give her one. “He comes back after a couple a years, like he's coming home from work, and first thing you know, he takes up with Nettie, Millie's baby sister—d'you believe it? Her kid sister. Like Millie never even existed. But he's all holier-than-thou, all praise-the-lord and howdy-do, now. It damn near killed Izzie on the spot when he turned Nettie against him. It did, I guess. His heart gave out not six months after that. He'd lost one family already. In the war. He…” She seemed to be losing herself in a past too dark and bitter to allow a way out. “He was from Poland, you know.…”
She paused, finding her way back to the present.
“So she finds the Lord. She wouldn't have nothing to do with Izzie after that. No time for the man who pulled her and her mother outta the gutter and give them a home. After she done that to Izzie, I told her she weren't no kin of mine. She said it was fine with her and I aint spoke to her since.” The anger unfocused with her eyes, and sunk back down inside her. It drew her vitality with it. She became a bitter old woman again. And silent.
“What happened to her?”
“She called me once—no, twice—from Jacksonville. She said she was getting married. Did it. Up in Jacksonville to some guy. She called up one other time and said they'd had a baby.”
“Nettie?”
“No.” She looked at Pickett, puzzled. “Millie. She got married up in Jax. The guy must a been all right—least he didn't mind about the baby. Not being his, I mean.”
“What about Nettie?”
“Nettie?” She continued to look at Pickett, and puzzlement had become disbelief. “She married him.”
“Him who?”
“Why, Ayers of course.” She smiled grimly and released a short burst of air through her nose. “I saw her on TV once. It like to make me puke.”
Pickett looked lost, or as if by some misstep he had slipped into the labyrinth of Betty Hudgins' past. “Jan Ayers? You're talking about Jan Ayers?”
“Yeah, sure. Janet—Nettie we called her. And Millie…” she continued, as if unable to stop. “Millie wasn't through yet, though—oh, no. No, Millie weren't nearly through messing up her life. She shows up here one night with her suitcase and says she's left the guy. Left him up in Jax with the baby. That was right after Izzie'd died. God. Least he didn't live to see that. Do you know why she left? She was gonna get Ayers back.” She released another burst of air something like a laugh. “When I told her about Nettie she, well, I thought she was gone drop dead on the spot. She left that night, and I never seen her again. Least not till last week.”
“Why'd she come back?”
“I dunno. She kept talking about things being different, about getting her life back. Things like that. She said she wouldn't be sending me anymore money for awhile, either.”
“Did she often send money?”
“Yeah, over the last year or so anyway. Izzie had a couple of big operations before he died. It took all we'd saved. Had to hawk half the shop in the end. And he still died.” She smiled a crooked smile at that cosmic joke. “Millie sent me a little money every now and then after that. Nettie never even wrote.”
She looked up at Pickett. “I didn't care about the money.”
Pickett nodded, exhaled, and gazed down at the dusty linoleum. Suddenly, his brows came together. He glanced up: “How long she stay?”
“Stayed the night and left. Said she had a new job and that she'd be in touch when she found a place to stay. I didn't really believe her. Ah, I don't know. Maybe I did. It don't matter really—not any more. She was born trouble.” She pushed herself up out of the chair, grimaced with the effort. “But… well, I guess they're over now.” She sorted receipts. “Hope so anyways.” Her tone suggested that hope was something she knew about but not come across for a long time. “Bo Pickett…” she said to herself, shaking her head. She continued to sort. She seemed unaware that Pickett was still there. Betty Hudgins Moses had become one of the fixtures.
Pickett turned toward the door. As he opened it, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder. There was more on his face than pity or compassion. There was, perhaps, envy.
28
By the time Bodie Pickett left Betty Hudgins, the haze on the horizon had already darkened. He bought a pair of Dickie chinos and a chambray work shirt at the Woolworth across the street, then changed at the Texaco station while they filled the Nova. When he reached Jesup late that afternoon, the rain had begun in earnest.
Pulley's was long and dark, lit by a single low watt bulb. A bar backed by a long dirty mirror and fronted by a few mismatched stools ran along one wall, a line of high backed booths along the other. A plate glass window at the far end, grime streaked by the rain, published the proprietor's name in flaking red letters. The feed store across the street was dimly visible through the downpour. In front of the window, and leaning against the wall in a permanent state of tilt, stood an ancient pinball machine covered with lurid illustrations of half naked Amazons. Above it in the middle of the window, a bug strip mottled with long dead bottle flies flowed up from its yellow canister like dirty ribbon candy. A single fly walked lazily and with apparent immunity amidst the bodies of his brethren. Pickett, his back to the kitchen, sat in the last booth before a plate of black-eyed peas with chipped ham, listening to the rain splatter on the sidewalk.
Pulley had turned out to be a tiny man of beige complexion and indeterminable age as taciturn as Trap was prolix. Pulley had heard from Trap, but Mark had yet to arrive. Pickett said he would wait. He ordered from the cardboard menu that hung behind the cash register. He was working on a side of vinegar and greens when the door swung open and Mark Ayers lurched in out of the rain.
He wore a dingy olive-drab raincoat frayed at the sleeves. Squinting into the darkness, he ran a hand through his wet cropped hair, over his furred chin, the loose flesh around his mouth, then to his eyes, pressing thumb and forefinger into the sockets and squeezing toward the nose. A fist emerged from his pocket, fell to the bar and released a crumpled twenty.
“Whiskey,” he said. The word caught in the back of his throat, and he coughed twice through clinched teeth, staring at his hand and the twenty. From the dark behind the counter Pulley spoke:
“Scotch, Canadian, Bour—”
Mark straightened petulantly. “Anything.” The limp hand, tensile once again, closed back to a fist. “Doesn't m-m-matter.” Pulley move behind the bar. His thin arm materialized in the circle of light that fell from the bare bulb. In the shadow of Mark's fist, he set up a heavy glass tumbler mottled with the imprint of other hands. “Give me the b-b-bottle,” Mark dead-panned. A clear bottle half filled with amber liquid appeared next to the glass. Mark pulled glass and bottle to his chest and walked across the room to the nearest booth. Pickett followed him in the mirror, finishing his greens.
Mark dropped to the hard bench and put bottle to glass. The liquor glugged in rhythm to the rattle of the bottle against the thick rounded lip. Mark pressed glass and bottle to the oily table top. The effort steadied his hand. Suddenly, he brought the tumbler to his mouth and threw back his head as if with the impact. Hand and empty tumbler fell back to the table with a thud. Mark swallowed hard and with some difficulty. His chin sunk to his chest and his eyes closed.
Pickett picked up the bottle before Mark and examined it elaborately. “Foul stuff, boy.”
Mark exhaled deeply, raising his chin, and with it, his eyelids. The muscles around them tensed as he focused on Pickett's face. An attempted reply lapsed into a cough. He put both hands to his mouth till he was through, looked at the man standing next
to him, took a deep breath, and said: “I'm sorry, Mister P-p-pickett.”
“Bo.”
“I'm just no good, am I, Bo?”
“I imagine you're some good…”
“I just couldn't take—couldn't f-f-face it.”
“Facing-it is about the only thing left, I think.”
“I… Yeah, I guess so.” Mark massaged his eyes with both hands. He smelled of gasoline and cheap bourbon. “Hell, I just don't know anymore.” He starred blankly at the scarred table top, his jaw loose, the tip of his tongue tracing a thin upper lip. His gaze met Pickett's and, for a short moment, the opacity clarified and his eyes brightened. He looked down as if embarrassed. “It was f-f-Father's gun. The one next to—that woman's body. I didn't know what to d-d-do. I . . “
“It's all right, Mark,” lied Pickett. “Take it slow, from the beginning.”
“It was so sudden—I mean, like a n-n-nightmare, one that wouldn't go away. One minute we were in love—Amy and me, I mean. We were going to get m-m-married.” He swallowed hard and looked up. “Then, overnight, she doesn't want anything to do with me. It was like she became old—adult, or something—all of a sudden, like she'd lived through a hundred years while I slept one n-n-night. She wouldn't talk or even see me. I should've seen what was going on, I…” Mark rubbed at his eyes. “I don't know, maybe I did. I just didn't want to believe it. I knew what father was like but—Damn! He didn't deserve to die like that, and—Oh, Jesus, Amy's father—I can't blame him. I could've killed them all myself. Sometimes I felt like I could—but… I…” He paused, shook his head. “I couldn't decide what to do. About anything.”
Pickett watched him for a moment. “Look, there's no use in torturing yourself. Just start from the beginning and tell me exactly what you did, what you know. Blame doesn't matter.”
“Yeah, sure.” Mark's tone placed the meaning of his words somewhere between sarcasm and resignation. “Yeah. So, I, uh, didn't understand why she all of a sudden shut me out. And I started following her. I… well, it sounds s-s-stupid, I know, but it wasn't. I mean, I wanted to find out why—what was really happening to her. Anyway, I saw her meet that w-w-woman at—what's-its-name, you know, the donut shop? Amy met her there a couple of times. I wanted to know who she was so I followed her to that motor court and, well, I didn't do anything. I mean, I didn't know what to d-d-do. I was just sort of hanging around, waiting.”
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