Family Thang (44 page)

Misery lights illuminating his face, Reverend Walker stared at the small crowd staring at him. Humiliation worked on his face, rheumy brown eyes going to the ground and back up to the crowd.

Mustering dignity, he stood erect, pulled on the hem of his coat and said, “All right, Sheriff.” Unassisted, he staggered to the back of the cruiser and got in. The crowd cheered.

Sheriff Bledsoe got behind the wheel wondering what the crowd was expecting.
A beat-down?
“You still live on Highway Eighty-Two, don’t you?”

“Take me to jail!”

“To jail?” and looked in the rearview mirror at the bottom of a pint of Wild Irish Rose. “Hey, you can’t drink liquor in here!” He switched off the misery lights and drove away, hoping no one saw the reverend upturn the bottle.

“I can’t? I didn’t see a sign.”

He drove past the jail. “Reverend Walker, I’m taking you home. I
should
take you to jail, bringing a wine bottle with you. You know better.” He made a right on Highway 82. “Reverend, my mother goes to your church. What she’s gonna think when she hears about this? What’s your congregation gonna think?”

Reverend Walker laughed. “You don’t go to church, do you? Maybe your mother hasn’t heard the news. Reverend Walker tried to bury a dog.”

Fifteen or twenty minutes to Reverend Walker’s house, Sheriff Bledsoe thought. Another ten minutes to get the reverend inside and give his condolences to Mrs. Walker. Plus fifteen or twenty minutes back to Dawson. Almost an hour lost, shot to crap, time when he should’ve been looking for Ida.

“Reverend Jones and three of the deacons,” Reverend Walker continued, “suggested I take a few Sundays off. As if I work for them. Ha! I was preaching when Reverend Jones was loading his Huggies. Built that church with my own hands. My own hands, hear me!”

To emphasize the point, he clawed the metal divider and shook it. Sheriff Bledsoe looked into the rearview mirror and gave him a frown.

“My church, dammit! Mine! They can’t take it away from me!” After a fit of hiccups: “Can they, Sheriff? Can they kick me out my own church?”

Sheriff Bledsoe, wondering if he should visit Ida’s house again after dropping off the reverend, shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He looked into the rearview mirror and again saw the bottom of the bottle. “You’ll be home soon, why don’t you wait to finish that?”

“Take me to jail, Sheriff. My wife’s mad at me. ‘Better to live in the wilderness, than with a contentious and angry woman.’ Proverbs, chapter twenty-one…I forgot which verse.” He made a gargling noise, which Sheriff Bledsoe feared was the precursor to an expensive interior detail.

“The elder Sisters called her the other day and said they were going to join another church if I preached again. Guess what she told them? ‘I don’t blame you. I wasn’t married to him I would, too.’ I just had to get a drink. Haven’t had a drink in forty-five years. Glad I did, too. Wonder where I parked my car?”

Sunlight flickered through the trees as Sheriff Bledsoe sped down the highway at seventy-miles-per. A large purple splatter suddenly appeared on the windshield. He turned the wipers on and pushed the fluid button. Purple goo smeared across the windshield. It would be dark soon. Reverend Walker’s house was less than five minutes away.

“Lord almighty, how was I to know!” Reverend Walker said. “The average person digs a hole in the backyard, drops the mutt into it, says a few words and fills the hole. I’d known she was serious, I’d never gone along with it. God knows I wouldn’t have.

“They dressed it up, rolled it in and by God I intended to bury it. I don’t go back on my word, Sheriff. Nobody’ll tell you Reverend Stanley Lucious Walker ain’t a man of his word. It would’ve worked if not for the boy…Somebody should lay hands on that boy…just beat the living shit out of him!

“He ran, Sheriff. Ran! Up one side of the church and down the other, with a big, goofy nut chasing him. I was shocked more than anyone. Hell, I was mortified. A dead dog in a three-piece suit flying in the air, landing in my lap. A beast grabbed the microphone and put me in a headlock. You ask me, I’m the one who deserves an apology.”

Sheriff Bledsoe pulled into the driveway of a three-story antebellum. The front yard adorned with ceramics: two lions guarded the front walk; a donkey pulled a red wagon carrying a small man wearing an oversized sombrero; a large elephant sprouted water from its trunk into a small pond. Near the porch a white jockey offered a ring.

“Here ya go, Reverend, home sweet home.”

“No, Sheriff, take me to jail. I’ve been gone three days--she’ll kill me if she sees me like this. One night is all I’m asking.”

“I’m sorry, Reverend.” He got out and opened the rear door. Reverend Walker crossed his arms and stared at his lap. “Come on, Reverend. A good night sleep and tomorrow everything won’t look so bad.”

“It’ll be worse tomorrow. Monday. My wife doesn’t work Mondays. I don’t know the whereabouts of my car and I’ll be stuck here with her. You know what I’ll be thinking when she rants and raves how big a fool I am?”

Sheriff Bledsoe gently took hold of his shoulder. “Come on, Reverend. Tell me as we go inside.”

“Three words, Sheriff. Kenny Damned G!”

“Who? The dog?”

“A dead dog,” shaking his head. “I lost everything because of a damn stanky dead dog.”

Sheriff Bledsoe released his shoulder. “All this time you’ve been rambling about Larry Harris’ dog?”

Reverend Walker gave him a look asking, “Where the hell have you been?”

Sheriff Bledsoe looked at the house. A gold ornamental light fixture glowed above the door and only one of the second-story rooms cast a light. No one had stuck their head out to see what was going on.

“Reverend, you sure you wanna sleep at the jail tonight?”

“I sure do.”

Getting behind the wheel: “Well, tonight you’re my guest. You can sleep in as long as you like. I won’t bother you. I probably won’t even be there. Only one thing I’m requesting. I need you to tell me again about the beast and the flying dog. This time I need all the details.”

“I’d be glad to oblige. My mind, however, is a little fuzzy now. You think we could stop and pick up another bottle? I’ll buy. A little something to knock the cobwebs off my memory.”

Sheriff Bledsoe backed out of the driveway. “I had a feeling you would say that.”

* * * * *

“Say it like you mean it!” she told Eric. “You’re playing games. I don’t have time for games,” jerking his head back, popping something in his neck. “Say it like you mean it!”

“Ruth Ann,” he shouted with all the passion he could muster. “Help me!”

“I have a gun,” Ruth Ann shouted back. “I know how to use it, too!”

She stepped in front of Eric and fired three shots over the cabin. On the third shot, Eric stood up and started hopping as fast as he could…fell down, somehow got up, and continued hopping.

The bondage around his legs loosened a bit and he ran…hopped…ran…hopped…ran…

“Get back here!” she said, and he worried a bullet in the back. He kept going…tried to run only, tripped and stumbled head over end down an incline. At the bottom he couldn’t get back to his feet.
How did I do it the first time?

Footsteps…leaves crunching. He froze. Crunch crunch crunch crunch…coming closer and closer…and closer. And then--
another epiphany!
--the crunching kept going, right past him, farther away.

He tried again to get to his feet…couldn’t. He would have to wait, and hopefully soon the police would come. So he lay there on his side, arms numb, right hand throbbing, face scratched and smarting, heart racing, and waited…

…and waited, for what seemed like hours. He heard leaves crunching.
She’s coming back!
He held his breath. Once again she passed right by him, the crunching continuing up the incline.

Damn
this!
He had to move. After kicking the restraint off one leg, he leaned on his right shoulder and painfully scraped his face along the ground toward his knees, and sat up, his bottom resting on his ankles.

He pushed up, swung one leg in front, staggered up on it and stood up.
Thank you, Jesus!
The crunching noise started again…from down the hill, coming toward him.
How?
It had to be someone else.

“Help! Help me! Help me!”

A figure ran to him and clutched his throat.

“Were you expecting someone else?” she said. “A savior? Huh?” He started choking; she released him. “Do you want to die?”

Eric caught his breath before saying, “No!”

“Then get back up there and get Ruth Ann to come out.”

“I tried! I tried the best I could. Maybe you should go in there and get her yourself.”

“Maybe I should shoot you and let you die out here. What you think about those apples, whore?”

“I think I can get her to come out this time.”

“You’ve got five minutes to convince her to come out. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you instead.”

“Why you doing this to me? Why? I never did anything to you. I know I owe you ten dollars--can’t pay it till I get it.”

She pushed him. “Move!”

“Tell the truth, wasn’t I always nice to you? I treated you with respect.”

She whacked the back of his head and he fell to the ground.

“Ohhhhh! You bust my head! Is it bleeding?” She hadn’t really hit him that hard. He was playing for sympathy.

“Get up!”

“Ohhhhh! My head! I can’t see! Hannity! Hannity, is it you? Ohhhhh!” Maybe the nut role might work. “Hannity, you’ve gone stale, bro--same shit every day!” He was in the middle of another “Ohhhh!” when steel kissed his tonsils.

“Get up and shut up!”

Immediately all pain ceased, and she didn’t have to worry about him saying anything. How could he with four inches of gun barrel shoved into his mouth.

“Keep jerking me,” she said, “I’ll shoot in your mouth. You don’t want me to ejaculate prematurely, do you?”

“I sheer daunt!”

She yanked the gun out. He spat to rid the bloody-metallic taste.

She led him near the same spot as before.

“Five minutes, whore! You call her and tell her to get her butt out here.”

Chapter 40

Ruth Ann closed her eyes and braced herself. Death had entered the cabin, with her name on its lips. “Ruth Ann?” the intruder repeated.

“Grab him!” Leonard shouted. Ruth Ann heard footsteps shuffling across the floor…poundings, someone saying oomph…more poundings, grunting and groaning.

“I got him,” Shirley said. “Ow! Hold up! Leonard, is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me.”