Final Justice (14 page)

She decided to try again to reach him. "Don't you think it was nice of Preacher Dan to say he'd do the funeral, Luke? After all, Orlena didn't have a church, but I've been going to Preacher Dan's, and he said he'd be glad to. His church is the Gospel Light United out on the Talladega Highway. He came and got it started up here last winter, and it's really growing. Folks come from all over."

* * *

Luke had no use for churches, and neither had his mother, not after the way they'd both been treated. But she deserved a Christian burial, no matter what folks thought of her. And the way he saw it, the whole damn town owed her an apology for how they had treated her all these years. It didn't matter they didn't know the truth and never would. If they were such good Christians, they shouldn't have sat in judgment and condemned her to find the only peace she knew in a bottle of whiskey. They had killed her, the town and the devils that had raped her.

The door opened and Hardy stepped out on the porch, a practiced look of condolence on his pudgy face. "My sympathies, Luke."

Luke pushed by him. The air inside was thick with cloying odors: stale cigarette smoke, flowers from past funerals, old ladies' heavy colognes. Wine-colored velvet drapes, thick with dust, sealed out any hint of sunlight, and the overhead chandelier with its small-watt bulbs cast an eery light over the faded, sickly wallpaper with its pattern of purple roses.

The house had been built before the turn of the century. The floors were warped with age, and it was like walking uphill to pass through the parlor, cluttered with worn sofas and folding chairs. They were almost to the viewing room. Luke could see a corner of the gray metal coffin and stopped where he was and said to Alma, "You and Tammy go ahead."

Hardy exchanged a puzzled glance with Alma, who shrugged. Then she took Tammy's hand, leading the way as she said, "Now remember, sweetie, it's like Grandma is just sleeping. She's gone to be with the angels, and one day, if you're very, very good, you'll see her again, and..."

Luke shut out the sound. He didn't want to think about angels and the afterlife. It was the here and now that had him tied up in knots.

"Don't you want to see her, Luke?" Hardy asked solicitously. "She looks real nice, even if she is starting to turn a little dark because you didn't want her embalmed. It's a good thing you set the funeral for today, by the way. I couldn't have guaranteed we could open the coffin by tomorrow. But you go on in, and..."

"I will when I'm ready."

"Well, of course," Hardy said uneasily, "and you just take all the time you want, Luke. We've got a while yet. It's a shame you weren't up to being here last night. Some folks came to pay their respects, and I know they would've liked to see you."

Did Buddy Hampton come, Luke felt like screaming? Did he come to pay
his
respects to the woman he had raped? And what about the honorable attorney and church deacon, Burch Cleghorn?

Luke knew he had to stop thinking like that or he was going to lose control and kill Hardy here and now. Then he'd wind up going to jail while Burch and Buddy went their merry way. He wanted all three of them to suffer, by damn.

He saw Tammy was crying as Alma brought her out of the viewing room, leading her to sit in the parlor. Hardy wandered away, and Luke continued to just stand there, reluctant to see his mother in her coffin. He heard others arriving. People from Alma's church, he supposed. He had not expected much of a turnout for the funeral. His mother had been a loner and had no close friends that he knew about. Matt and Kirby and their wives would probably be there, and Sara, of course.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Norma Breedlove heading straight toward him, all set to gush sympathy. To escape, he stepped quickly into the viewing room and closed the door after him. Wooden legs carried him to the coffin. Sara had told him she had chosen what was called a "full couch" model, which had one long lid, because it didn't cost as much as the other kind that was divided top and bottom, and all of his mother could be seen, not just from the waist up.

He could not bring himself to focus on her face just yet. Instead he fastened his gaze on her hands, which were clasped just below her bosom. There were no rings on her fingers. She had never owned any jewelry. Other things were more important, she always said, but he knew it was only because there had never been any extra money. They had barely survived when he was growing up. His clothes had come from Salvation Army barrels. So had hers, but she said she didn't need much. After all, it made no difference what she wore to clean cabins at Junior's Motor Court or wash dishes at his cafe.

Finally, he forced himself to look at her. Somebody had put makeup on, rouge, powder, lipstick. Even her eyebrows had been darkened with a pencil. She almost looked as pretty as she used to before the whiskey took its toll.

He didn't have a lot of good memories growing up, and the ones he did have were mostly thanks to her. Even though she'd had a rough time supporting the two of them, he had never once heard her complain. What she did say was that he was the biggest blessing she had ever been given. Now, knowing what he did, he marveled that she could have felt that way because, if things had been different, some nice guy would probably have come along and married her, and she'd have lived a good and happy life instead of winding up with a lifetime of pain and misery.

Luke was unmindful of how his hands, gripping the coffin, had begun to shake. He was fast becoming lost in the throes of the vision of how it had been for her that cruel, fateful night when he had been created by the wild sperm from any one of three devils.

"I'll get them for you," he whispered, his grip on the edge of the coffin growing tighter, his hands shaking harder. "I'll see that justice is done, Momma."

* * *

Out in the parlor, Norma asked Alma, "How is he doing?"

"Not too good. I think he's sort of in shock."

"Well, he wasn't in shock when he asked Sara Speight to make all the arrangements, was he? I tell you, Alma, you ought to raise hell with him about that. You know how folks talk, and everybody is wondering why he did it. It was your place, not hers."

Alma gave a dismal nod. "I know. I tried to tell her that, but she doesn't care. I've always hated her," she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

"Well, if I were you, I'd keep an eye on them two. They were sweethearts back in high school, remember?"

Alma didn't say anything. She didn't like being reminded.

Norma sighed. "So when's he going back to California?"

"He hasn't said." She was not about to confide how Luke was giving her the silent treatment.

"Well, it might be best if he went to get him away from her."

"He said he wanted to move me and Tammy away from Junior Kearney's. He'll do that before he leaves."

Norma patted her hand. "Well, you do like I told you and keep an eye on things. She's after him, for sure, and, speak of the devil..."

Alma saw Sara and was annoyed that she was wearing a black skirt and blouse like she was in mourning. She wasn't family, for God's sake, but she was sure trying to act like it. Alma had rushed out the day before and bought a black cotton dress to wear, but
she
had the right. Sara didn't.

Sara glanced around, spotted Alma, and hurried over. She gave Tammy a quick hug, then asked in the soft, patronizing voice Alma despised, "Is Luke in there with her?" Without waiting for answer, "How's he doing?"

Eyes glittering with anger, Alma snapped, "Don't you worry about how he's doing, Sara. I'll see he does all right."

Norma snickered, and Sara, red-faced, walked away.

* * *

Afterwards, they left her on the outskirts of the village by the railroad track, which divided it from the rest of the town. She stumbled along in the depths of night, bruised and bleeding, barely making it home to her bed before anyone woke up.

As Buddy shoved her out of the car, he warned her again that if she ever told anyone, he'd see to it that her family lost their jobs, their home in the village, everything. Who would believe the word of a mill girl over a Hampton, anyway, he had taunted.

So she never said a word, not even when she realized she was pregnant. Her father had beat her senseless as he tried to make her name the boy responsible. Finally, he kicked her out, her family abandoning her for all time.

The pictures of his mother's attack became more vivid in Luke's mind. Suddenly it was as though he had actually been there, all those years ago, to witness the heinous violation of his mother.

Sara knocked, and when there was no answer, she hesitantly opened the door. "Luke? Is it okay if I come in?"

She gasped to see how he was holding onto the coffin, which was teetering precariously to and fro. It was sitting on a folding table, the legs of which looked none too sturdy.

She hurried to grab his wrists and try to pull his hands away, but he held tight. "Luke, let go. Please. You're going to make it turn over. Now come with me. It's time for the funeral. Please, Luke..." She began to cry.

He held fast, his face as frozen as his mother's.

Sara turned and ran back into the parlor and beckoned to Kirby, who was standing nearby. He saw her expression and came at once. Speaking so others could not hear, she told him in a rush, "It's Luke. I'm afraid something awful is going to happen if you don't get him away from that coffin."

But before he could act, something awful
did
happen. The table legs buckled and collapsed, and the coffin tipped over. Luke came alive at the last second and tried to right it, but he was not quick enough. Kirby tried to help but stumbled into Luke, causing both of them to fall to one side as Orlena tumbled out of the coffin and hit the floor with a dull thud.

And then she began to roll...

Like a log, over and over she went, limbs still stiff from rigor mortis, which had not yet dissipated in the thirty-four hours or so since her death. She hurtled down the slanting floor toward the parlor, which had become a scene of bedlam as the hysterical mourners scrambled to get out of her way.

Norma Breedlove fainted as Orlena's eyes popped open, the cheap glue Hardy had used unable to keep them shut as she rolled. Her mouth, also glued instead of the gums having been wired together, gaped open as though in a silent scream of protest over such indignity. She continued across the now empty parlor, finally coming to a stop when she hit a row of metal folding chairs, knocking them over with a loud clatter.

For a few moments, nobody made a move or sound as they watched warily from the hall. Finally, wordlessly, Kirby and Luke simultaneously started toward her.

Hardy ran to right the table, and, with Preacher Dan's help, lifted the coffin and put it back in place, then stood back as Kirby and Luke positioned Orlena inside. Luke, carefully and reverently, tucked in the satin border of the lining, then closed the lid with a finality so fierce it seemed to echo not only throughout the funeral home... but all of Hampton, as well.

* * *

It had finally stopped raining. Luke was soaked, but he didn't mind. He was at his mother's grave to say good-bye before taking the noon bus to begin his journey back to California. The funeral was two days ago, and he had managed to get Alma and Tammy settled into an apartment. Alma said folks would talk about his leaving so quick. He told her, not for the first time, he didn't give a damn. That made her mad, and she told him to get the hell out. So he had done just that, walking all the way to the cemetery, but he hadn't minded.

It was going to be a long bus ride all the way to California, but he didn't care about that either. He needed the time to think about whether he wanted to reenlist. The army offered a pretty good bonus, but some really big money was being dangled under his nose like a gold carrot. The CIA agent he had met with secretly had made him a real tempting offer. All he had to do was work as a mercenary, a soldier of fortune, hiring himself out as a paid killer and helping to smuggle illegal arms to guerillas in places like Laos. It was dangerous, but he was well-trained, and, besides, he didn't have much to live for, and sometimes wondered if he ever had. He felt real guilty about not fulfilling the promise he'd made to his mother to take revenge. The truth was he still couldn't think of anything short of murder.

"I'm sorry, momma," he whispered.

He threw his duffle bag over his shoulder and turned from the grave and was surprised to see Matt and Kirby walking up the hill with Clyde Bush, Ben Cotter, and Jubal Cochran following. Matt waved, and when he got closer, called, "Hey, Luke. I'm glad we found you. We went by the apartment, but Alma said you headed off in this direction, so we figured you'd be here."

Luke frowned. "Something tells me you didn't come to give me a ride into town."

Matt didn't mince words. "Lily Rhoden got beat up real bad last night, and a cross was burned in front of her house."

With an angry oath, Luke slung his duffle bag to the ground.

Matt continued. "She was out of town Friday when all that bull happened at the five and dime with her kid, so when she got home yesterday and heard about it, she went tearing off to the sheriff's department to raise hell. She said Howie had no business treating her kid like that. The sheriff told her she was lucky the thievin' little pickaninny didn't get locked up and next time he'd personally see to it she was."