After Eli (15 page)

“What?”

“If the boy had awakened at home, Frank probably would’ve started the beating all over. It would have killed him.”

“Why’re you tellin’ me about this, me bein’ a stranger?” Michael asked.

Garnett laughed. He pulled himself up on the fender of his car, propping his feet against the bumper guard.

“Well, Irishman, maybe it’s because you interest me,” he replied. “Maybe it’s because I think you’re one hell of an actor.” He paused and removed his hat and placed it on the hood of the car. His thinning hair billowed in the night breeze.

“I want to tell you something,” he continued. “I don’t believe for one minute that story about you being a cousin to Eli Pettit, but I don’t hold you to blame for it. I’d say it was Rachel who made it up, or she wouldn’t permit it to be told. But it’s all right. As a matter of fact, it’s a relief you showed up. Those women have needed a man besides Floyd Crider around. And I don’t give a damn if you’re bedding down with all three at the same time. I don’t pass judgment on those things. I doubt you’ve
touched a one of them, but I don’t care. With times as bad as they are and getting worse, I can’t blame a man for holding on to some security, no matter where he finds it or how he gets it. But there’s some things you should know. First, you’ll hear about a great fortune that’s hidden somewhere on the farm, some money Eli stole. It’s a lie, a myth. I can’t tell you why I know that, because there’s not a reason. It’s just something I feel, and I trust myself. Second, don’t worry about Eli returning in the middle of the night and blowing your head off. Eli’s dead. I know that, and, again, I can’t prove it. I just know it.”

Garnett had spoken rapidly, frankly, without fear of sounding foolish. He fingered the brim of his hat with his right hand, waiting for Michael to reply.

“Well, you’re not a fool, Doctor,” Michael said slowly. “There’s no question about it. It’s true, the way you see it. I’m not cousin to Eli. It was somethin’ Rachel made up when I had the snakebite, like you said. It even shocked me, hearin’ it, but it didn’t do anyone any harm and I’ve followed up on it and used it to advantage. It hurts to admit that, but it’s the truth, and maybe you’re right about a man needin’ some security. I’ve been wanderin’ a long time. Havin’ a place feels right for a change.”

“It’s your business,” Garnett remarked. “Nobody else knows. Nobody needs to.”

“I’m grateful,” Michael told him. “There’ll be a day when I’ll up and leave, but I’d like for it to be easy.”

“Had you heard about the money?”

Michael shook his head. “Not a word,” he said earnestly. “I’m surprised some of the men didn’t bring it up tonight.”

“They were too busy being entertained,” Garnett answered, laughing. “You’re a magnificent liar, you know.”

Michael smiled. He said, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Meant it to be. You’ll hear of the money. Somebody’s always talking about it. Take it for what it’s worth. I still don’t believe it.”

A silence fell between the two men. A whippoorwill sang its
monotonous flute tune from the black funnel of woods leading to the creek. The air carried the sweet smell of cut timber from high in the mountains.

Then Garnett spoke.

“The real reason I told you about the Benton boy was because I think you can help us,” he said. “It occurred to me sitting in Pullen’s, listening to you.”

“Help? How?”

“For whatever sin I’ll be charged with in the hereafter, I have to admit that I’m not only a doctor but also the dutifully elected mayor of Yale,” Garnett replied. “That’s why George English got an ass chewing and took it. That’s why the jail will be clean in the morning. Because I said it and George knows damn well I can make it stick.”

“What would I have to do?” asked Michael.

“Well, Irishman, I’d like to put you on the payroll, little as it is, to help keep watch over the boy. Normally, there’s nobody at the jail at night and the sheriff’s got to put George back on days, and we need somebody. It’s that simple. Besides, I’ve got a feeling you could talk Roosevelt into becoming a Republican and if there’s any trouble—like that boy’s daddy showing up—you could handle it.”

Michael smiled. The doctor knew him well, he thought, but not too well. He walked away from the car a few feet and thought about the proposition.

“Whatever I can do,” he finally said. “Besides, it’d make me feel good, earning some money of my own. I spent the last I had tonight.”

“It’s not much,” Garnett warned. “A dollar a day, and you bring your own food. Only advantage you have is getting sick. Won’t cost you anything for a cure.”

“When do I start?”

“Tomorrow night. You’ll meet the sheriff then. You’ll like him. He’s a decent man. He’s up at the Benton place now, trying to make some sense of everything.”

“Sense of a beatin’? He’ll find none,” Michael said.

“Maybe not,” Garnett answered softly. He lifted his hat from the hood of the car and placed it on his head. He slipped from the fender and dusted the back of his trousers. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you on home.”

“Tell you the truth, Doc, I’d enjoy walkin’ the rest of the way,” Michael replied pleasantly. “It’s a night to drink in, it is.”

“Don’t blame you,” Garnett agreed. “That’s the trouble with being rich. First thing you do is buy a car and quit walking.” He opened the door to his car and slipped beneath the steering wheel. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, around seven,” he said. He started the Ford and turned around in the middle of the road and drove away toward Yale.

* * *

Michael stood watching the car disappear. Garnett Cannon was not a fool, he thought. Not a fool, at all. He had seen through Michael’s ruses and he knew more than anyone. But he was not a danger, either. The doctor was a tired man who drank too much and tried not to care as deeply as he did, and that was a flaw. No, Michael decided. It did not worry him that the doctor knew something about him that others did not.

He began humming and his lips parted and the song sprang from his mouth:

“
I have loved you with poems… I have loved you with daisies… I have loved you with everything but love…
”

He turned quickly in the road, in a mock-military whirl, and he began laughing joyfully as he stepped lightly along the road.

“Michael O’Rear,” he said aloud. “You’re a man with a job. What a fine settin’ it is.”

* * *

The house was dark and Michael realized it was late, after midnight. He slipped noiselessly across the yard and to the barn. He reached for the latch, opened the barn door, and stepped inside the solid black hull. He closed the door and
pulled the latchstring and heard the crosspiece fall softly into place. He stood blinking in the darkness and then he began walking along the barn wall, touching it with his fingers. He reached the partition to his room and turned right with the wall until he touched the closed door, then turned the knob and stepped inside his room and closed the door behind him. The room was as dark as the barn. He pulled a match from his pocket and struck it across the door. The flame sputtered and grew and he touched it to the wick of a candle that he had placed on the iron stove. The pupils of his eyes contracted into dots as the flame blurred his vision. He stretched and looked across the room.

She was standing at the foot of his bed, in the corner of the room, in a blind of shadows. She wore only a nightgown and the candlelight bathed her with a yellow softness. His eyes flashed in surprise, then softened, and he smiled and stepped toward her and opened his arms and she moved hesitantly to him.

“You’re sure?” he asked gently as she rolled her hair against his face.

She nodded bravely and slipped her arms around him.

“Unbutton the shirt,” he whispered.

Her fingers played across his chest, turning the buttons, pulling the shirt open. He could feel her breath on him and her mouth lightly touching his body.

“I’ve wanted to find you here, like this,” he said quietly. “I’ve dreamed it. Over and over, I’ve dreamed it.” He lifted her chin with his hand and kissed her easily on the tight line of her lips. “You’re not to be afraid,” he urged. “Not at all. There’s nothin’ here but the night. Nothin’ else.”

She dropped her head to his chest and held him tight.

“Let me see you,” he said, sliding the palms of his hands over the back of her gown.

She stepped away from him and raised her arms and he slowly pulled the cotton gown over her head and hands. The
eyes of her breasts lifted to him like small fountains and he could see the spasms of her heartbeat pounding in her neck.

“It’s bad, what I’m doin’,” she whispered.

“Bad? It’s like you’re praisin’ bein’ with me,” he said. “How can that be bad? No. It’s between us. Only us.”

She began to cry softly and her body shuddered and she dropped her arms to cover her nakedness.

“Shhhhh,” he whispered. “None of that. None of that, sweet Sarah. None of that.”

Then he kissed her gently on her forehead.

OWEN BENTON COULD not control himself.

He sat limp against the granite wall of the cell, against the coolness of the stone, as the urine oozed from his body and seeped into his clothing, leaving a thick, sickening odor. A rash burned his legs and testicles.

His arms dangled beside him, his wrists resting on the floor and the palms of his hands turned up and opened. His legs were locked straight before him and his head was tilted left and bent forward and his eyes stared unblinking at the dark, damp circle on his trousers. The urine had begun leaking from him after his father struck him on the temple and after he had fainted from the pain.

He had been unconscious for a day when the sheriff arrived at his father’s farm, and he had awakened in the cell in panic, intuitively wrapping his knees with his arms and locking his body into a fetal knot. Sitting propped against the granite wall of the cell, Owen felt no pain, no anger, no pity. He felt nothing. His body was awake, but his mind wandered dreamily in the euphoria of memories, of laughing years, of a father with soft gray eyes and soft full lips. And in the narrow corridor of that seeing, he was calm and happy. A fragile smile rested on his swollen face like a sweet sleep.

* * *

Curtis Hill sat rigidly in the rocker and stared at Owen through the bars of the cell. Owen looked like a puppet that Curtis had seen in the window of a shop in Atlanta. He would be better off as a puppet, Curtis thought. A puppet with a broken head could have one newly carved; arms and legs were as interchangeable as costumes. A puppet did not have to be force-fed or washed down like an animal. A puppet did not whimper and thrash about when someone approached. Owen did. Owen’s body reflexed on touch like some convulsive worship of pain. Christ, it was pitiful. God, yes, Owen would be better off as a body whittled out of wood. He would not drain piss like a cracked pipe.

Curtis was tired and irritated. He had been with Frank Benton for hours, asking about Frank’s violence toward his son. He did not understand Frank Benton. He had asked, “Why, Frank? Why?” and Frank had only answered, “Because I seen things you ain’t.” And maybe he was right. Maybe he had seen things other people could not see. He had accused his daughter of being a whore, and she was—or she had become one. There was a story that his daughter had once mailed Frank a photograph of her in bed with two men, legs circling both and with a laugh of pleasure on her face that could be heard through the envelope. There was no other message; there was no need for one.

He had never arrested Frank for beating his children, Curtis thought. Twice he had stopped beatings in progress—with the girl, Shirley, and the boy, Ray—but both times the abused child had begged him not to hurt Frank. It was sickening: the child, bruised and bleeding, hanging onto Frank’s leg, riding the leg like a weight, pulling to hold him, to keep him from being taken away.

Curtis pulled himself angrily from the rocker, stalked to the cell, caught the bars with his hands, and shook the steel door. He knew that deep within him was a longing to kill Frank Benton, to blow his face off his goddamn shoulders. It was
a horrifying desire. Curtis had once killed a man because he had to. But he had vomited at the sight of the broad, mangled hole in the man’s gut and the anguish of it had stayed in his mouth like a thick, slick coating that would not rinse away.

He began to pace the oak floor of the jail office. His arms were crossed over his chest and he could feel the anger churning inside him. He could not let Frank destroy his own son. He had jailed Owen to protect him and yet he knew he could not hold him forever. There would be a time when Owen would return to his father.

He walked to the doorway of the jail. The heavy wooden door was held open with a brick and the hot afternoon air sifted through the tiny squares of the screen door like a fume. He stood in the face of the heat and watched a fly crawl across the screen on its delicate legs. The ache from his encounter with Frank Benton spread over his thick neck and shoulders. The doctor had said he was only tired, that it was nerves. He had told Curtis to drink a half-glass of whiskey and go to bed. He had taken the advice the night before, but he had not slept.

Curtis was glad the doctor knew about the beating of Owen, and he was glad because he had told it freely, and not because the doctor wanted to know.

He flicked at the crawling fly with his finger and the fly fell away on its thin wings and glided to the doorsill. The Irishman also knew, he suddenly remembered. He had met the Irishman the night before and had liked him. He was not certain why Garnett had insisted on hiring the Irishman, but he trusted the decision. One thing for sure: Michael O’Rear had a way with words. If anyone could find his way into the murky recesses of Owen Benton’s mind, it would be the Irishman.