Keeper

by Michael Garrett

  Martha looked up sharply. “No! We can’t do that! She’s not ready for that kind of talk!”

  “Will she ever be?” Liz asked. “Mother, no one loved Nancy more than me. But we’re in our third day of mourning already, and we’ve got to get on with our lives. I stayed off work today myself—I could use a whole month off—‘cause all this is driving me crazy—”

  “I know what you mean,” Martha sobbed, embracing her daughter. “We’ve got to put this tragedy behind us. But let’s give Helen a little longer, at least until this afternoon, all right? Then we’ll talk to her. Maybe we can ask Brother Martin to stop by.”

  Liz nodded, but the thought of Brother Martin leading the family in prayer was less than appealing.

  At the moment, Liz was quite angry at God.

  Declining an invitation to eat with the usual gang, James Crocker ate his brown bag lunch alone. Chewing on a ham and cheese sandwich beneath a pine tree on the company grounds, he contemplated his life. Work was a pain in the ass. Day after day, same old shit, and no opportunity for advancement. Lazily, he poured more coffee from a red thermos. Edith had been bluffing again. Hell, he knew she’d never leave. And besides, what was wrong with him taking an occasional drink? He worked hard for a living! No one understood—especially Wayne. Vaguely remembering his scuffle with the boy over the weekend, he recalled his son’s aggressiveness. It had been totally out of character for someone who had never before displayed anything other than docile behavior. And that crazy dream kept creeping back. Something about that vision just wouldn’t go away.

  James poured out the remainder of his coffee and recapped the thermos. Hell, maybe he’d been too rough on Wayne. There was no need to hold a grudge, and besides, soon he might really need the boy’s help. So this afternoon he would stop by his son’s trailer. If Wayne was receptive, James might consider an apology. Hell, he and Wayne were a team. They’d never stayed mad at each other very long.

  James stood and stretched, then eyed his friends trudging back to their respective work stations as the end-of-lunch whistle blew. God, I’d love to shove that whistle up the foreman’s ass, he thought.

  A gang of older Negro boys, loitering at their lockers, leered at Sheriff Arnold as he paced the halls of Moton High School in Leeds. Still too hysterical to gather their thoughts, Bertha Mae’s parents had provided little information. He had learned only that Bertha Mae hadn’t come home from school Thursday, which hadn’t alarmed them much at first. In recent weeks, she had entered a defiant, rebellious teenage stage and had acted against their wishes on several occasions. But her parents also suspected she might be involved with a bad crowd. Her sudden withdrawal from her parents was unusual for her. And just as Jerry and Amanda Sampson had begun to realize the severity of the problem, it had been too late. So now Sheriff Arnold was seeking out the girl’s classmates in order to determine who might have seen her last. He doubted she had left school alone.

  The sheriff stared through the dirty glass door of Room 101. The teacher, a tall, white-haired and feeble colored woman named Mrs. Beekins, was slashing at the blackboard with a piece of chalk, trying to simplify a mathematical equation for a largely uninterested class. Just as he was about to interrupt, a man’s voice boomed from down the hall.

  “Sheriff?”

  He turned to face a slight, middle-aged colored man wearing black horn-rimmed glasses and a friendly smile. “I’m Lester Banks,” the man said. “The principal. Sorry I missed you back at the office.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Sheriff Arnold smiled. The two shook hands and the sheriff noted the strong, firm grip for a man so small. “Mr. Banks, I’m Chester Arnold, Shelby County Sheriff. I guess you know why I’m here.”

  The little man hung his head. “A terrible shame,” he said. “In her first two years, Bertha was a model student. But I noticed a change in her when school started up this past September. Her teachers noticed it, too, and brought it to my attention. I was planning to call a conference with her parents when … this happened.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Mr. Banks. Teenagers can be awfully difficult to handle. I’m sure that if Bertha were still alive, you’d do everything in your power to help her.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  “But right now I’ve got to find out who killed her. And I believe some of her classmates could point me in the right direction.”

  “We’ll be happy to cooperate,” the principal said.

  Sheriff Arnold stood, deep in thought for a moment, and then faced the small colored man again. “Mr. Banks,” he began, “if you don’t mind, I’d like for you to sit in on the questioning of a few students. I believe they’ll disregard the racial barrier and feel more comfortable if you’re present.”

  “I'd be happy to,” Lester Banks agreed as he pulled open the classroom door.

  Inside the students were snickering at Mrs. Beekins, whose backside sported a circular patch of chalk dust.

  With her arms around a basket of wet laundry, Maybelle Mason kicked open the front screen door and trudged outside to hang the clothes to dry. As the door arced to its limit, its rusty spring screeching from the strain, Skipper bounced to his feet and pranced indoors, wagging his tail and carrying a saliva-coated bracelet in his mouth. The dog padded across the hardwood floor, leaving a fresh trail of muddy paw prints, and sprang to the worn velour sofa in the living room, where he rolled on his back, spreading a mess of dirt and grime across the fuzzy nap. Abruptly, the dog’s ears raised pointedly. The woman was coming back, her footsteps drawing nearer.

  Setting the empty laundry basket on the front porch, Maybelle wiped her forehead, and then stood for a moment surveying the line of clothing fluttering in the wind. Then she pulled the door ajar, the scratchy door spring grating on her nerves.

  Curious, Skipper tilted his head and the bracelet slipped from his teeth, dropping into the crack between the two large sofa cushions. Fire leaped from Maybelle’s eyes as she took in the messy scene.

  “You mangy animal!” she screeched. “Get out of my house right now!”

  Cowed, the dog jumped from the sofa, his ears drooping. The woman barred his way, but suddenly she side-stepped, and kicked the animal’s rib cage. With a frightened yelp, Skipper darted outside to safety.

  “Git out!” she screamed again, then stomped to the kitchen for a mop. Returning, she ranted and raved at the sight of the soiled sofa—it would take her all afternoon to remove the grime.

  Skipper, the incident quickly forgotten, padded to his water dish near the edge of the porch and calmly lapped a drink.

  In the privacy of the tiny bathroom, Nancy Barnett relaxed in warm, sudsy bathwater, revelling in the slippery feel of soap against her skin.

  In the next room, Wayne was thumbing through his record collection. “Nancy? How about the Beach Boys?” he asked in a loud voice.

  “Which album do you have?” she answered.

  “All Summer Long”.

  “I like that one,” she said.

  Wayne placed the record on the turntable and eased the tone arm down to the first cut. “I Get Around” reverberated through the trailer. Wayne reached for his guitar and attempted to strum along, but the beat was too much for him. Shaking his head in pleasant surrender, he laid the instrument aside and drummed his fingers on the tile floor.

  The bathroom door teased at the corner of his vision. Behind it was the most attractive, appealing woman he’d ever met. And now that he’d grown acquainted with her, he’d begun to feel the same nervous sensation he always had when the opposite sex was near.

  “Nancy?” he called with an unsteady voice.

  “Yes?”

  Wayne cleared his throat. “Is there any way you can get by without the … uh … you know.”

  “Kotex?”

  “Yeah …”

  “Well, I suppose I could. But I’d rather not,” she said. “I haven’t actually started yet, but I’m due any day.”

  “Whew!” Wayne exclaimed
. “I’ll pick up the other stuff this afternoon, but I’ll wait for that until you really need it. All right?”

  “Sure,” she chirped. Running her right hand down the length of her soapy legs, Nancy thought about Wayne’s timidity. She slid further into the water, the suds rising to meet her chin. Could he have planned this whole thing? It seemed unlikely. Obviously the situation would have to be resolved soon. She wondered how he might react if she casually asked to leave. It seemed they understood each other now, and if she tactfully phrased the request, he might go along. If he refused, she’d simply wait for the right opportunity to surprise him with her concealed strength.

  Nancy shrugged and eased her fingertips between her legs. For now, there was no reason to hurry. The right moment would come soon. Then she could face the other mounting problems in her life.

  She knew the time was near.

  Maybelle glanced at the kitchen clock, her face lined with worry as the familiar sound of the family car whined to a stop outside. 2:30 P.M. — Preacher was home early. Curious, she stepped through the living room and met him at the door.

  “Why are you—?” she began, then stopped. The answer was written in anguish across his forehead. Preacher was a man of principle, of high moral and religious virtue. And not even his love for a troubled son could lure him from the path of righteousness.

  “I left a message for the sheriff to stop by and talk to us this evenin',” he said. “We got to tell him, May. We just got to.”

  Though she knew it was hopeless, Maybelle tried to change his mind. “Why?” she questioned. “Can’t you even try to find the boy first? And talk to him yourself?”

  “What for?” he snapped. “What am I supposed to do when I find him?” Preacher slouched into a ladderback chair and stared into space. “I been thinkin’ about Bertha Mae’s mamma and daddy,” he said. “They lost their young ‘un. And even though it was the Lord’s will, can you imagine how they feel right now?”

  Maybelle stood silently by.

  “I lived by the teachin’s of the Good Book all my life,” he continued. “And I ain’t about to stop now.”

  “But he’s your son!” Maybelle pleaded.

  “Makes no never mind,” Preacher shrugged. “Besides, I tried to find the boy. When he didn’t come home Friday, I went out looking for him—you know that. Got caught in that awful weather and almost froze to death. I’ve done about all I can do.”

  Wiping her eyes with a dirty dish towel, Maybelle turned and looked out the kitchen window. Outside young Nat was playfully chasing his dog. Maybelle glanced back at her husband, then quickly turned away from him. Preacher’s faith had seldom been a problem between them, but now it was almost unbearable. The man just didn’t know where to draw the line between church and family. And when it came to religion, there was no changing his mind. He would send his own mother to the devil if he felt it was in the best interest of the Lord.

  “So, you’re gonna turn Demetrius in, are you?” she snapped.

  “No!” he answered angrily. “Try to understand, woman. I ain’t turnin’ nobody in—I’m just gonna tell the sheriff what I know, that’s all.”

  “Same difference,” she mumbled beneath her breath.

  Preacher stood, reaching high atop a kitchen cabinet for his favorite carving knife. “Ain’t no use to talk about it no more,” he said.

  And Maybelle knew he was right.

  12

  Though the squad car’s emergency light and siren were off, the speedometer needle drifted between seventy-five and eighty miles per hour. Behind the steering wheel sat Deputy Hart, gloating at his strange twist of luck. After being relieved of duty at the accident site, he had returned to the courthouse and happened to see a note on Sheriff Arnold’s desk. It was a message from the nigger, asking the sheriff to stop by his house. Anxiously Hart seized the small slip of paper and decided to make the call in the sheriffs absence. And what could be wrong with that? The sheriff was away investigating the latest murder and could be detained for hours. For all practical purposes, the deputy was only filling in, as he should. He would be firm, but polite, all the while keeping a keen eye out for the bracelet. More than likely, the engraved jewelry was still on the front porch in the dog’s bed. When he first arrived, Hart would visually survey the porch before knocking. If he caught sight of the bracelet, he would wait to “discover” it upon leaving. If he failed to see the bracelet, he would make an excuse to sit on the porch so he could casually survey the area as he talked. If the bracelet was anywhere in view, he would spot it and confront the nigger on the spot.

  Hart grinned and barked a sinister laugh. Hell, this was working better than he’d planned!

  Braking the car, he turned onto the narrow dirt road that led to the old shack. The automobile bottomed out, swaying along the deep ruts of the unmaintained road bed, until the house came into view, nestled among a thicket of pines. Hart brought the car to a stop, its wheels sliding a foot or so in the dirt yard. Stay calm, Hart told himself. Don’t do anything to make the sheriff mad.

  Just as Hart exited the car and slammed its door shut, the dog bounded from an unseen hiding place and raced directly toward the lawman, snarling between gritted teeth. Caught by surprise, Hart reached for his weapon and wielding its heavy butt, grazed the animal again on the skull.

  “Somebody put this damn dog on a leash!” Hart yelled, as Preacher hurried outside to investigate the commotion. The lawman’s heart was bumping hard against the badge on his chest.

  “Skipper—You leave the man alone!” Preacher scolded the dog and wrestled him to the ground. “Nat!” he yelled. “Come and put this dog in the shed!”

  Nat appeared from nowhere and grasped the animal’s collar, but Skipper dug his heels into the dirt with a firm determination to stand his ground. Finally, Nat dragged the dog to the shed, Skipper’s paws etching a trail of claw marks behind.

  “Sorry ‘bout that,” Preacher apologized, extending a hand of friendship to the deputy. Hart dusted his clothing with both palms, then reluctantly took the proffered hand.

  “I’m Deputy Hart,” he said coldly.

  “Glad to meet you, Deputy,” Preacher smiled. “I’m Horace Mason, but most folks just call me Preacher.” The colored man hesitated, then drawled, “I was expectin’ Sheriff Arnold.”

  Hart stared the man down. “Sheriff’s busy,” he snapped. “Now, just what is it you needed to see him about?”

  Preacher swallowed hard. This man wasn’t like Sheriff Arnold, he sensed. Not at all like the sheriff.

  “Well … I …” Preacher stuttered. “You see, the sheriff was out here t’other day and we was talkin’ about something, you see, and I just remembered something else and—”

  Hart pulled a small notebook from a shirt pocket and said, “Okay, let’s have it.”

  “Well, sir, I’d kind of like to talk to the sheriff if you don’t mind,” Preacher stalled. “You see, me and the sheriff go way back, and it’s kind of personal, you see.”

  Hart looked the colored man sternly in the eyes. “Mister, you’re wasting my time,” he growled. “Now, I suggest we sit down and get on with this. I ain’t got all day.”

  The heavy soles of Hart’s shoes clomped hard against the wooden steps of the porch, as the colored man followed reluctantly behind. Hart scanned the entire length of the deck and saw no trace of the bracelet. Choosing a flimsy rocking chair beside a hair-ridden blanket where the dog obviously slept, Hart sat down, still holding the eyes of the colored man with his stare.

  “Now let’s get one thing straight,” Hart said. “I don’t put up with no horse shit. Now, what’ve you got to say?”

  Preacher hesitated. Demetrius might well have done wrong, it was true. But this Deputy Hart was an outright, hard-nosed bigot who plainly enforced the law by his own standards. Under no circumstances would Preacher subject his son to such abusive treatment. Preacher summoned courage from the Lord and matched the deputy’s stare. “I done told you once,” he said.
“I asked for Sheriff Arnold and I ain’t talkin’ to nobody else.”

  Taken aback by the colored man’s show of assertion, Hart stood, and kicked at the dog’s hairy blanket. It partially unrolled to the right, but there was no bracelet to be seen. Shit! he cursed to himself. No telling where the dog might have dropped the damned thing.

  Spitting over the side of the porch, Hart stared at the colored man’s rickety chicken coop across the way. “You know,” he growled. “You ain’t exactly cooperatin’ with the law.”

  Preacher took one step forward. “Now, I done told you, Mister Deputy. I ain’t got nothin’ much to say anyhow, but what I do got to say, I’m gonna say to the sheriff. I ain’t got nothin’ against you, but I’ve known that man since he was just a boy and I want to talk to him.”

  Hart turned and briskly descended the steps. “You’ve wasted enough of my time,” he complained, then halted as his feet touched the barren soil. “But I’m gonna look around this place before I leave. And I’ll tell you somethin’ else,” he added with a pause for effect, “you ain’t seen the last of me.”

  “Go right ahead. Help yourself,” Preacher said as he pulled open the front door. “I ain’t got nothin’ to hide.”

  Deputy Granger sat in the living room of the Farrell home, fumbling nervously with his broad-brimmed hat. It was the first time Sheriff Arnold had entrusted him with duties involving close emotional contact with the public, and even though the situation was difficult, Granger wanted to earn the sheriff’s respect. Seated beside him on the sofa were Ralph and Helen Anderson, Nancy’s parents, clinging to each other in awkward desperation. Across the room sat Martha and Liz Farrell.

  Granger considered what he’d learned—virtually nothing, which also happened to be approximately how much cash Nancy was believed to have been carrying. And Charles, it seemed, had an aversion to hitchhikers, labeling them all as “lazy, good-for-nothin’ hippies.”

  Now came the difficult part of the conversation. Granger felt his chest tighten as he pondered the sheriff’s message and how it might best be delivered. Leaning closer to the distraught couple, he spoke softly to them as Liz and Martha looked on sympathetically.