The Pecan Man (12 page)

“I find that hard to believe,”
I said. “The man doesn’t weigh an ounce over a hundred and twenty pounds.”

“I don’t understand why you’re
defending this man, Mrs. Beckworth.” His anger was evident in his use of my
last name, even though we'd known each other for years.

“I’m defending him because he’s
innocent, Ralph.”

“How about if we let a court
decide that?”

“My thoughts exactly,” I
replied. There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.

“I’ll be visiting him
regularly, Ralph. If he’s beaten up again, I’ll make sure you’re held
personally responsible.”

I doubt my threat worried Ralph
Kornegay a bit, but at least he knew I was watching.

“Is that all?” I could hear him
spitting through his teeth.

“For the time being, yes.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Beckworth.”    

I didn’t bother to respond. I
knew his phone was on its way to the receiver and the dial tone I heard
confirmed that within seconds. I cradled the handset back on its perch and
locked up for the night.

Twelve

I spent the next few days visiting Eldred Mims at the county
jail every afternoon. His entire face was swollen, nearly beyond recognition.
It was difficult for him to eat, so I took him soft food, despite the
objections of the guards whose job it was to search visitors for contraband.
One day it was mashed potatoes and gravy. Another day, chicken noodle soup. He
especially liked Blanche’s sweet potato casserole.

At some point I realized that I
missed the smacking noise he usually made while talking. He held his mouth as
still as possible while he ate, allowing the food to melt in his mouth before
swallowing it. It made him seem like more of a stranger than he really was to
me, that absence of familiar noise.

I didn’t know what to say to
him at first. I wanted to ask him why he lied to the lawyer, but I felt like it
would take too much effort and a lot more privacy to do the subject justice.

So we talked, well - I mostly
did the talking, about the weather and about the Christmas holidays coming up.
We talked about what we would plant in the spring and how maybe it was time for
a real garden in the back yard, a garden that grew fresh vegetables we could
put up. I knew Blanche would not be thrilled with the prospect of canning, but
we talked about it anyway, just like it was a sure thing. I left when it seemed
he was tired of conversation. I could tell it still hurt him to speak, but
every day it got easier to understand what he said. His jaw had not been
broken, thank goodness, just dislocated and bruised.     

He didn’t seem too worried about
the trial. Once when I talked to him about getting out of jail, he stopped me
cold. “I’m innocent until proven guilty, Miz Beckworth. Tha’s what the law
says. All’s I got to do is stick to the truth, way I see it. They cain’t
convict me of somethin’ I ain’t done.”

I thought about it a moment and
then said, “One would hope not, Mr. Mims, but then, they shouldn’t have beat
you up for nothing either.”

“That's what I get for
resistin’ arrest, ain’t it?”

The man had a remarkable sense
of humor. Even I had to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it. I let the
matter drop for a while.

Finally, one day when there was
a disturbance at the other end of the ward, I seized the opportunity to ask him
why he hadn’t told Jeffrey Thatcher the truth about Marcus following him home
on Thanksgiving.

“That boy didn’t follow me
home,” Eddie said.

I felt my jaw drop in spite of
my many years of instruction in good manners.

“You don’t have to lie to me,
Eddie,” I leaned forward and whispered. “I know Marcus talked to you that evening.”

“I don’t know what you’re
talkin' about,” he spoke with his jaw clinched tight and turned his head toward
the wall. I couldn’t let him off the hook this time.

“You most certainly do know
what I’m talking about. Marcus followed you home from my house and asked you
about what happened to Grace.” I paused briefly and got only silence for
response.

“Marcus came to my house that
night. He stayed the night and left for North Carolina the next morning. I know
he spoke to you because he told me he did.”

Eddie turned his head slowly
back toward me. “What time did he come to yo’ house that night?”
            “He got there about 9:30. Why?”

“He look all right to you
then?”

“Eddie, if you know something I
don’t know, I think you’d better tell me. I know you didn’t kill Skipper
Kornegay, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why you’d lie to your
attorney about talking to Marcus when Marcus told me himself that you did.”

I wasn’t even sure what I
expected him to say. I just knew it was odd that he’d lie about something like
that.

He studied my face for a
minute, like he was trying to see something in it. His dark eyes darted back
and forth a couple of times and then his face went blank and he stared back at
the wall.

“I thought you said you were
sticking to the truth,” I said quietly.

“I don’t know if I can trust
you, tha’s all,” he said, still staring at the wall.

“You can,” I said, and I meant
it.

He turned and looked me
straight in the eye.

“I saw Marcus twice that night.
Once when he came to talk to me and then later on that night when that boy
chased him into the woods.”

“Oh,” I said and my shoulders
sagged heavily. “What else did you see?”

“I didn’t really see what
happened,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I just saw what was left when
it was done. He musta come straight to yo’ house from there.”

I nodded. “He did.”

“Then you know, too?”
            I took a huge breath. “I do.”

He looked back at the wall.

“Why haven’t you said anything
to the police? Or to your attorney for that matter?” I was baffled by his
silence.

“I’m not really sure ‘zactly
why. I jes’ know that Miz Blanche done been through enough this year and I
cain’t go bringin’ no harm to her or her family. Why hadn‘t you told?”

“Same reason, I suppose. I just
couldn’t put her through it. She still doesn‘t know.”

“I didn’t figure she did,” he
said.

“I still don’t get it, though.
You could be out of this jail by now.” I was genuinely puzzled.

“Miz Beckworth, with all due
respect, I jus' as soon not talk about it no more. The boy done been killed and
laid to rest and nothin’ I can say go'n bring him back to his Mama. Tellin’
about Marcus wouldn’t do nothin’ but bring a heap of grief onto a family what
done had more'n they share already. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about the boy. Not
now, not ever.”

Thirteen

By Christmas time, things were settling down
around my house. I decided not to put up a tree at all. Walter had always
climbed the pull-down attic steps to retrieve the Christmas decorations and
huge artificial tree we erected each year, but neither Blanche nor I had any
business trying such a thing. With all the time I had spent visiting Eddie, I
hadn’t had time to miss the decorations.

Every year, I gave
Blanche a sizable bonus at Christmas and I made sure her family’s name was on
the list of Christmas charities I supported. I wanted her children to have a
decent Christmas without being embarrassed or beholden to me, so I kept my
benevolence at arm's length. At least, that's what I told myself I was doing.
Blanche's children soon proved me wrong once again.

I remember sitting
by the fire one night thinking about the holidays of the past. It was the night
I finally burned Marcus’s clothes, as a matter of fact. I had forgotten to call
the chairman of the Needy Family program at the Baptist church to remind her
about Blanche. I also had a feeling, which turned out to be accurate in the
end, that my absence from the Ladies’ Auxiliary over the past year would not
put me in good stead with that group. I thought about buying gifts for the
children myself and quickly pushed that thought aside. What did I know about
buying gifts for children? I didn’t know their tastes in toys or clothes, much
less their sizes.

That’s when I
thought about the bag of clothes that was still up in my closet. Blanche had
been gone for hours. There was no reason I couldn’t finally rid myself, once
and for all, of the evidence I’d been hiding. I put my embroidery on the lamp
stand, rose from my chair and walked over to the fire, which was burning low in
the grate. The black metal screen, which kept the popping embers from scorching
my thick oval rug, was warm to the touch. I moved it aside, reached for the
wrought iron poker hanging in its stand and nudged the glowing logs. They
crackled and hissed, then settled back down to an orange glow. I left the
screen where it was and went upstairs to retrieve the clothes.

I remembered
washing Marcus’s bloodstained pants and shirt several times before I placed
them in a paper grocery sack and set them on the top shelf of my closet. So I
was surprised by the strong odor that rose from the bag when I brought it down
and unrolled the top. Old blood has a distinct smell, especially when it is
competing with bleach and detergent.

I took the clothes
downstairs and burned them, grocery bag and all. The house smelled peculiar for
days, even though I sprayed Claire Burke Vapourri liberally throughout the
following week. Blanche remarked on it one day.

“What’s that awful
smell you tryin’ to cover up, Miz Ora?”

My heart nearly
stopped beating.

“I think maybe a
squirrel or something died in the chimney flue. It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”

“You want me to
call somebody ‘bout it?” she asked.

“No, I don’t think
that’s necessary. It’s the holiday season; by the time we get somebody out here
to check on it, the smell will have worn itself out. Let’s just let it be for a
few days.”

“Awright,” she said
reluctantly. “If you say so.”

I was still
tiptoeing around Blanche for the most part. She managed to settle back into her
routine. In fact, she seemed busier than usual, but there was something missing
in her that I wasn’t sure she’d ever reclaim. I missed the long, easy chats we
used to have over coffee and morning chores.

A week or so before
Christmas, Blanche and I were putting groceries away when I asked nonchalantly
if she’d finished all her Christmas shopping.

“I ain’t even
started, Miz Ora,” she sighed.

“What do you mean
you haven’t started?”

“It just don’t seem
like Christmas this year. I can’t make myself even think about a Christmas list
without my boy’s name on it.”

What was I
thinking? I told Blanche she was off the list at the church, so gifts from them
would not be forthcoming. I even gave her an extra hundred dollars to make up
for the slight, but it hadn't even occurred to me that she wouldn’t feel up to
buying gifts for her children.

“Blanche, you can’t
do this.”

“It’s all right,
Miz Ora. The girls understood when I told ‘em. They said they don’t feel much
like celebratin’ either.”

“And you took that
as the truth?” I demanded. “It’s Christmas, Blanche!”

“You ain’t got to
tell me somethin’ I already know.”

I knew that tone.
It meant Blanche would not be moved.

“I’ll tell you
what,” I said, making my voice equally stubborn, but somehow still pleasant.
“We’ll have Christmas here.”

Blanche protested,
but I cut her off.

“Now, I know you
aren’t feeling up to the task and I understand why,” I said using all the logic
and persuasion I had learned teaching Sunday school. “But, we have to start
somewhere to get your family back to normal.”

Blanche just huffed
and shrugged her shoulders.

“Besides, it’s my
first Christmas without Walter. I could really use the company.” I wasn’t lying
when I said it, but I was a bit surprised when my heart gave a little lurch at
the thought.        

“That's real kind
of you to say, Miz Ora, but I know you just being nice. You ain’t complained
once about being by yourself.”

“Well, just because
I haven’t complained doesn’t mean I haven’t felt it, Blanche. I’m serious. I
want you and the girls here for Christmas. I want a huge tree and decorations
and lots of presents under the tree. It’s not just my first Christmas without
Walter. It’s the first time I haven’t been involved in all the charities and
holiday functions we did together.”

“Y’all sho’ did do
a lot of charity. I been wondering why you ain’t still involved in all that.”
Blanche was not being intrusive, just candid.

I pulled a couple
of packets of Earl Grey tea from the pantry, and then busied myself putting
water in the kettle and heating it on the stove. Blanche took two teacups down
from the cabinet, opened the packets I had left on the counter and hung the
teabags over the edge of the cups. We were quite a team, I thought. One starts
a task and the other finishes without a word being spoken.

I turned to face
her and put my hands on my hips. “To tell the truth, I hadn’t thought past my
relief at being freed of the obligation. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the work
Walter and I did. I guess it’s just that I never felt like I had a choice in
the matter.”

“I know just what
you mean,” Blanche said under her breath.

“But I do have a
choice now, and I would love for you and your children to spend Christmas with
me this year.”

“You ain’t got to
do this, Miz Ora.” I could tell Blanche was softening.

“I’m well aware of
that,” I replied.

“I just don’t think
I’m up to it is all.”

“Well, you think
about it and let me know,” I said reasonably. “In the meantime, I’m going to
get the girls to get my tree down from the attic. Even if they don’t have any
presents, I think it will be good for them to help me decorate my house.”

“Yes, Ma’am, I
think they’ll like that a lot,” Blanche said.

The whistle sounded
on the teakettle and we dropped the conversation as we had our tea together.

Fourteen

Just after lunch, I made an excuse to call
another taxi to pick me up. If Blanche was suspicious, she didn’t let on. I
gave instructions to the driver to take me to an address on Canal Street and he
silently drove me there. I asked him to wait and he did as I walked up the
clean-swept, but cracked and broken sidewalk to the front porch. I’d seen
Blanche’s house before, but I had never been inside. I was raising my hand to
knock on the door when it was opened by a young man I guessed to be around
twenty years old. I couldn’t say which of us were more surprised, but I found
my voice first.

“Is Patrice home?”
I asked.

“Uh, yes ma’am,
she’s, um, in the bathroom right now,” he stammered.

“And you would
be…?” I fished for a name.

“Um, late,
actually.”

“Well, that’s not
what I meant, but I’ll bite. Late for what?”
“For work,” he replied as he tried to angle his muscular body around my slight
one.

“Hold on there a
minute,” I told him as I blocked his path with my left hand. “Who are you and
what are you doing here?” I didn’t add “alone with Patrice”, but you can bet I
was thinking it.

“I’m a friend of
Patrice’s. I was just visiting with her before work and I’m really late right
now, Ma’am.” He kept his tone polite, but I could tell it was all he could
manage.

I heard Patrice’s
voice before she appeared in the doorway. “Who’re you talkin’ to, Cedric?” She
stopped short when she saw me through the space between his arm and the door
jam. “Mrs. Beckworth! What are you…? Why…? Is something…? Is everything okay?”
She finally managed to ask.

“Everything is fine
at my house, but perhaps I should be asking you that question.”

“Oh,” Patrice
paused. “Oh, yes, everything’s fine. Cedric was just helping me study for a
Latin test.”

“Quota hora est?” I
asked, looking straight at the young man.

“Say what?” Cedric
sputtered.

I could see
Patrice’s shoulders fall as he failed my impromptu exam.

“Studying Latin are
you?” I intoned drily.

“Go on to work,
Cedric,” Patrice sighed.

“And don’t come
back,” I added.

“No problem,” he
said as he abruptly dropped his respectful tone. “Later, Patrice,” he threw over
his shoulder as he slid around me.

“About two years
later or she’s jailbait,” I threw right back.

He grunted and
broke into a jog as he stepped off the porch and headed down the sidewalk.

I turned my
attention back to Patrice.

“Would you like to
come in?” Patrice asked softly.

“Actually, I was
hoping I could get you to come shopping with me. The taxi is waiting.”

“Does Mama know
you’re here?” I knew what she was asking.

“No, it was
supposed to be a surprise. Turns out it is
quite
a surprise.”

“It’s not what you
think, Mrs. Beckworth,” she protested.

“Oh?” was all I
said.

“I’ll get my coat,”
she said and opened the door wider to usher me inside.

I stepped into the
living room of Blanche’s small frame house and was struck by the darkness of
it. The inside walls were covered with wood paneling. A large brown gas heater
burned noisily at one end of the room and a picture of The Last Supper hung
wearily over a deep red couch at the other end. I studied the picture as I
waited for Patrice to reappear from the door of what I presumed was her
bedroom. The scene was the same as I had seen it in numerous churches and homes
over the years. A green-walled room surrounded a long table around which
Christ’s disciples gathered, their attention focused on the robed man gesturing
from the center of the table. The man’s hair was long and wavy as I had seen
depicted in many paintings and renderings of Jesus. The biggest difference was
in his skin-tone, which was four shades darker than any I had ever seen. If
Patrice noticed me staring when she emerged from her room, she did not
acknowledge it.