The Pecan Man (14 page)

I couldn’t remember exactly
when or why Walter had moved out of our room and into what used to be the guest
room. Something about his snoring disturbing my sleep - or my restlessness
disturbing his - I can’t remember which came first. One day he moved to the
extra bed in the middle of the night. Then he moved his clothes from our closet
so that he wouldn’t wake me up when he got ready for work. Eventually we
started calling it his room, which necessitated the decoration of my old sewing
room as the new guest room.

Patrice was just happy to have
a bed to fall into after her long, long day. I took blankets down to cover
Grace and Blanche, turned off the tree lights, locked all the doors and
returned to Patrice’s room to check on her before retiring myself. She was
buried in the covers with pillows piled high under her head.

“You comfortable?” I asked,
knowing the answer already.

“This is the best bed I ever
slept in, Miz Beckworth. I slept at my friend’s house a couple of times, but
I’ve never slept anywhere all by myself.”

“Never?”

“No’m, not ever once.”

“You don‘t have your own room
now?” I asked.

“There’s only two bedrooms in
our house. One’s got two twin beds and Mama just has a double.”

“Goodness, that’s not many beds
for all you children! How do you manage?” I couldn't seem to help being nosy.

“Well, me and Gracie sleep in
one bed and the twins in the other. Marcus used to sleep on the sofa when he
was home or, every once in a while, with Mama. I guess I could sleep on the
sofa if I wanted to sleep by myself, but it just doesn’t seem right somehow.”

“You miss your brother, don’t
you?”

“Yes, Ma’am, I do sometimes.
Long as I just pretend he’s away at boot camp I do pretty good. I can’t hardly
look at a semi truck now, though. It makes me remember too much.”

“I’m sorry about that,
Patrice.”

“Nothin’ for you to be sorry
‘bout, Miz Beckworth. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

“Anything wrong,” I replied. I
can’t for the life of me figure out why correcting her grammar seemed like the
thing to do at the time.

“Yes, Ma’am,” she smiled
sheepishly.

“You sleep tight now, okay?”

“I will,” Patrice murmured
sleepily. “Real tight in this comfy ol’ bed.” She turned away from me then,
rolling to her right side.

“I sure am sorry about what
happened today,” I said gently.

She turned her head back to
look at me with calm acceptance. “Oh, it’s all right, Miz Beckworth. I’m kind
of used to it by now.”

Her reply stung me worse than
the horror we faced in the department store, because she told the pure truth of
it.

Sixteen

The next day, after Blanche and the girls had eaten
breakfast and gone on home, I walked down to the Woolworth store to buy
stockings and little gifts for Blanche’s girls. I had an awful lot of fun
choosing perfumes and bath oils and shiny hair clips for each of them. And I
bought Blanche a big box of chocolate turtles, which I knew were her favorites.

I had just finished making all
my purchases and was about to head for home when I saw a rack of bicycles in
the front window of the store. I somehow missed them on my way in and they were
marked for clearance, it being so close to Christmas Eve.

They had ten-speeds in every color
and size, and smaller bikes with banana seats and tassels hanging from the
handlebars. I thought about Blanche and her girls walking everywhere and,
although I couldn’t imagine Blanche heaving her ample behind onto a bicycle of
any
shape or size, I thought it might be good for the girls to be a bit more
mobile.

I stood there contemplating the
purchase of four bicycles and how much it would cost, sale or no sale. I had
almost talked myself out of spending the money when a something occurred to me
that stopped me in my tracks. What if Grace had ridden a bicycle to my house
the day that Skipper Kornegay had stopped her in the woods?

I bought four bicycles. The
largest was for Patrice, a 21 inch yellow ten-speed with curved handlebars like
the racers use. Two smaller ten-speeds were perfect for the twins, just alike
except that one was bright orange and the other purple. I bought a pink bike
for Gracie, with a white basket in front and glittery plastic tassels hanging
from the handlebars. It was the perfect size for her, big enough that she could
ride without the training wheels that were attached, but small enough that they
came with it. I had no idea whether any of the girls could ride the bicycles,
but I sure felt better once I bought them. I arranged to have them delivered on
Christmas Eve. I would put them in the garage until Christmas morning.

I stopped at the soda counter
after I made my purchases. I had intended to go home to have lunch, but I
thought of the hot dogs on grilled buns Walter and I used to enjoy there on
Saturdays. And cherry cokes. Real cherry coke, not the store-bought canned ones
you get today. I sat at the counter, feeling shaky and unladylike on the wobbly
stool, but I stayed right there. I ate my hotdog with plenty of mustard and relish
and I felt right proud of myself for all I’d accomplished in one morning.

I walked home after that,
feeling more full than proud. A stiff wind had kicked up and I had to lean into
it to keep from being blown off my feet. It didn’t help that my bags full of
whatnots for the girls kept filling with air and pulling me backward like
parachutes. I stopped and tied them closed with the handles. Then I leaned
forward and pushed on toward home.

I was almost home when I got to
thinking how silly I must look, all ninety-eight pounds of me, buckin’ a
headwind. It just tickled me so much that I got to giggling. Inside at first,
but then it just bubbled out the top and I was nearly crying with laughter by
the time I hit my porch. I had been so focused on putting one foot in front of
the other that I hadn’t looked up yet when I set my foot on the first step.

“’Bout time you got home,” a
voice boomed from my porch. I looked up, choking back a giggle.

“Whatcha’ laughin’ at, Ora
Lee?” The Honorable Harley T. Odell thundered from his seat in one of my
rockers.

Harley Odell was as large as I
was slight, with a bulging belly that stretched the hope of any wrinkle right
out of his expensive western-cut shirt. He sat with one foot propped on the
runner of the chair and his snakeskin boots gleamed shiny gray beneath the dark
blue slacks he wore. His face was covered in a neatly-trimmed, but thick beard
of more salt than pepper. A handlebar mustache, waxed and twisted in place just
so, covered his top lip and provided a frame for his bulbous red nose. He
looked like a cross between Santa and his lead reindeer with a little John
Wayne thrown in for good measure.

I hiccupped through the last of
my giggles, set my packages on the top step and stared at my visitor with both
arms akimbo.

“Well, if it ain’t Poopsie,
it’s the devil himself!”

“Afternoon, Ora Lee.”

Lord, but the man had a voice
as smooth as silk, even if it was a few decibels above normal.

“I wasn’t expecting company or
I’da been here to meet you.”

“I woulda called,” he drawled,
“but I didn’t think of stopping here until I was coming through town.”

“How long you been waiting?”

“Oh, ‘bout thirty minutes or
so. It’s nice on this porch. Warm for December, wind and all.”

“That’s a long time, nice porch
or not. What brings you here, Poopsie?”

“A strong desire to lose that
old nickname, for one,” he said with a wry smile.

“Aw, I always thought it suited
you just fine. Would you like some tea?”

“You haven’t changed a whit
since high school, Ora Lee. Still got that sharp tongue, tempered only by your
earnest devotion to the social graces. Sweet, please.”

I gathered my packages without
a word and was soon back with two glasses of sweet tea. I settled into my chair
and sipped the icy brew.

“You didn’t finish answering my
question. What can I do for you?”

“Glad you asked.” Harley Odell
leaned forward as he spoke. “I got a problem over at the jail I was hoping you
could help me with.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Got an old man there I’m
pretty sure didn’t do what the sheriff says he did and I don’t know how to
handle it.”

“Eldred Mims?”

“The one and only.”

“What gave it away?” I huffed.
“I told you myself he couldn’t have killed anyone.”

“Yep, you did. And I’m inclined
to believe you. Problem is, I’ve got to do something with the man between now
and time for the trial. I’m thinking of letting him out on bail, but nobody’ll
post it without him having an address, much less a home.”

“I can vouch for him, if that’s
what you’re asking,” I said.

“Well, in a way, I am,” Harley
squirmed in the rocker, “but there’s more to it than that.”

“Such as?”

“You visit him fairly often,
don’t you?”

“Much as I can, yes.”

“I‘m just wondering why it is
you do that.” Harley cocked his head sideways and peered at me curiously.

“’Cause of what you just said.
I think Ralph Kornegay’s got the wrong man and I feel bad for him, being in
jail like that. And I think the longer he stays there, the more likely it is
he’ll be hurt worse than he was already hurt.”

“How bad do you want him out?”
Harley asked, leaning forward again. “Or maybe I should rephrase that. How much
are you willing to bet he didn’t do it?”

“How much is his bail?”

“I haven’t set it yet.
Hearing’s Monday afternoon.”

I was getting tired of the
game, but I decided to hang in a while longer. “How much are you thinking?”

“Normally, it’d have to be a
hundred thousand or more, but I’d be willing to make a deal for less.”

“Get to the point, Poopsie.”

“Fifty thousand and you never
call me Poopsie again.”

“Done,” I said, thinking I had
gotten off quite easily.

Harley Odell reached down and
snagged his hat from where it lay on the floor beside the chair. Then, rocking
forward for momentum, he heaved his massive frame to a standing position and
paused for a moment in front of me. He seemed to be considering something
carefully.

“I’ll have my secretary call
you Monday. She’ll have all the details on posting Mr. Mims’ bail.”

“That will be fine, Harley,” I
said, “and I appreciate what you’re doing for the man.”

“Well, I’m not sure how much
you gonna appreciate the rest of the deal, but I really have no choice.”

“The rest of the deal?”

“Get your guest room ready,
Ora. He’ll be staying with you.”

I was too stunned to speak and
ol’ Poopsie was apparently counting on that. He tipped his hat and strode off
my porch with surprising agility for a man his size. He was in his car and
backing down my driveway before I found my voice. There was no one there to
hear me talking to myself.

“Well, my Lord, Ora. What have
you gotten yourself into now?”

Seventeen

Clara Jean Munderson called me
at 10:00 sharp on Monday morning. I was sitting at the kitchen table updating
my Christmas list for next year when the phone rang.

“Mornin’,
Mrs. Beckworth,” a soft, pleasant drawl greeted me. “This is Clara Munderson at
Judge Odell’s office.”

“Yes, Clara Jean, I recognized
your voice,” I responded affably.

Another of my Sunday School
members, the only child of Clarice and Bill Munderson was the consummate
professional. Never one to play noisily with the others in her class, Clara
Jean was always amiable, always respectful, but not in the least a pushover. It
was amazing how she had handled herself as a child and how that translated into
the position she had held for the past twenty years. She was gentle and compassionate
and a good listener, which led many of her friends to confide in her on a
regular basis. And she’d have died before she ever broke a confidence.

 I was on the Baptist Women’s
Prayer Chain for many years before I got kicked off for telling them to stop
using God as an excuse to gossip. I can assure you, if Clara Jean ever betrayed
a word of what went on behind Harley Odell’s closed door, I’d have heard about
it. And if the door was closed, it stayed closed. God Himself wouldn’t get
through to the judge if He didn’t have special clearance or an appointment.
Clara Jean never married, leading half the self-righteous old biddies on the
chain to speculate that she was keeping far more than Poopsie’s professional
business a secret. I knew better than to contemplate such a thing. The thought
of ol’ Poopsie in the throes of passion was just more than I could stand.