The Year the Lights Came On (32 page)

One thing happened that Freeman did not talk about. When he left the hospital, he carried with him a foot-tall chalk statue of a rabbit. The statue was a gift from the nurses, and he was deeply affected by their caring; he was seven years old and he had never received a baby’s present. My mother said Freeman had cried in front of the nurses, and that he had held his chalk rabbit until he arrived home. There, he had placed his gift on the mantel of the living room fireplace and it had never been moved.

*

The uncertainty ended in an hour. Old Doctor stepped into the waiting room and stood, kneading his lower back with both hands. His eyes narrowed into a scowl as he noticed us—Freeman’s friends—clustered in one corner. Old Doctor delighted in scaring us. “I need me some blood from these boys,” he growled. “Hard to find boys’ blood these days and I got me a mule that needs a transfusion.”

We knew Freeman was all right.

Mother stood and smiled. “Take them all, Old Doctor—if you can save a good mule.” Then she asked, “Freeman’s not in danger, is he?”

“Danger? Nothing wrong with that boy,” thundered Old Doctor. “Odell, you must be feeding him alligator meat. Toughest hide I ever tried to sew up. Good Lord, you could use him to wrap up baseballs.”

Rachel Boyd tried to stand, but couldn’t. She began to sob quietly, and Old Doctor walked over to her and knelt.

“Rachel,” he said softly, “you just don’t worry. Freeman’s fine. Another day and he’d have had gangrene, but he’s fine. Lost some blood and I had to do some fancy sewing, but he’ll be braggin’ about that scar for years.”

Rachel Boyd reached for Old Doctor’s hand and squeezed it. She nodded her gratitude and tried to swallow her tears.

“C’mon, Rachel,” Old Doctor ordered as he stood. “You need a good get-well, perk-up shot.” Then Old Doctor turned to us and crushed us with a stare so powerful it forced us to step back into the wall. “By shot,” he roared. “Next time I start cutting on a boy, I’m going after the whole lot of you. I’m gonna cut off legs and arms and swap them around like I’m playing checkers. I’m gonna get me a crosscut saw and a blind drunk to help pull, and I’m gonna saw until I’m wore out.”

With that, Old Doctor whirled on his heel and crashed through the waiting room door. “C’mon, Rachel,” he ordered, and Rachel Boyd followed him.

We were frozen to the wall. I could hear the adults snickering. And I could smell the antiseptic scrub-soap Old Doctor had used after his delicate artistry on Freeman.

“Old Doctor—he’s something,” Dover said, laughing easily.

Odell Boyd lit his cigarette. “That’s the truth,” he agreed. “That man comes near bein’ a saint.”

“I knew Freeman would be all right if we could get him to Old Doctor,” added Mother. “I just knew it. There’s nothing to worry about now, Odell.”

“Yes’m. I’m sure grateful.”

“You and Rachel stay up here as long as you want,” continued Mother, easing into command. “Dover can bring you home.” She looked at Dover and Dover nodded. “Now, I’ll go on with the boys
and take care of getting the ladies over to make supper for you and Rachel, Odell.”

“That’s sure thoughtful,” Odell Boyd said. “I expect Rachel’ll be wore out; she’s not slept much.”

Mother was now in full charge and everyone recognized her authority. “Well, don’t worry about a thing. Not a thing. We’ll take care of it.”

*

The Women’s Society of Christian Service of Emery Methodist Church had a unique charity called the Bread and Butter Committee. It was so named because members of that appointment moved with astonishing speed and humanity to provide food, cleaning, and general household conduct whenever someone in the community needed assistance.

As Chairwoman of Desserts for the Bread and Butter Committee, Mother hurriedly prepared four huge pans of peach cobbler, and she agreed to drive Wesley and me to Emery on her way to the Boyds’ home.

“Can we go see Freeman tonight, Mama?” I asked.

“No. I can’t be driving all over, day and night.”

“What if Dover goes? Can we go with him?” I pleaded.

“Well, I’ll have to think about that.”

Mother said yes in marvelously playful ways.

As we neared Emery, we saw Alvin and Paul walking along the road.

“We’ll get out and walk the rest of the way,” Wesley said.

“Where y’all goin’?” I asked Alvin as Mother drove away.

“Down to Allgood’s,” replied Alvin sleepily. “We was up at Hixon’s, but nobody’s there. Halls Barton came by on his tractor and said everybody was down at Allgood’s.”

“Why’s everybody there?” Wesley wanted to know.

“Aw, Old Man Hixon sort of run everybody off from his place,” Alvin explained. “Said he was gettin’ a shipment of stuff in and he couldn’t have people millin’ about. But that was just his excuse. He didn’t want nobody talkin’ to Dupree.”

“Was Dupree there?” I asked.

“Yeah. Hidin’ behind the nail bin, stackin’ tenpenny nails,” Paul said.

We walked lazily along the road, throwing gravel and talking. We were still bewildered about the snakes. We knew Freeman had cut them down and had rubbed the ashes over his face, but we could not determine when he did it.

“Had to be in the last watch,” declared Alvin. “Didn’t happen when me’n Colin was watchin’.”

“Well, I guess that’s right,” Wesley concurred. “But I was lookin’ all the time and I didn’t see a thing.”

“Me, neither,” Paul said.

“Maybe Freeman didn’t have nothin’ to do with it,” I suggested. “Maybe he got some ashes from somewhere else.”

“Naw.”

“Naw.”

“Naw.”

“Well, maybe,” I protested.

“Anyway, we’re not supposed to say anything about it until we can talk to Freeman,” cautioned Wesley. “Everybody’s got to remember that.”

Paul was shocked that Wesley would question the integrity of his friends. “We vowed on the Big Gully Oath, Wesley.”

Wesley did not answer. He had seen a lot of heart-crossing
and hoping-to-die ceremonies, but he knew our weakness for dramatic flair. All of us had committed treason, and none had died. Wesley and Alvin—because Alvin was older—understood the difference between the heat of promise and promise, itself.

*

Ferris Allgood was genuinely enjoying the company of increased traffic at his store, but he was not actively promoting business. He was sitting in one of the two cane-bottom chairs on the front porch of the store, leaning against a windowsill and laughing happily at the tales of men who had waded around Black Pool Swamp in search of Freeman.

Ferris recognized us as we approached. “Hey, boys, c’mon. Pull up a handful of dirt and have a seat,” he called. “Y’all want anything, just go get it and leave the money on the counter. Got some near-freezin’ Dr. Peppers.”

Ferris Allgood did not care if everyone in Emery cheated him; he ran a store for companionship, not for profit.

For an hour we listened to absurd speculations on Freeman’s escape, Freeman’s woodmanship, Freeman’s injury (“I heard he got hit by a bullet from the sheriff’s gun”), Freeman’s innocence and/or guilt, and Freeman’s chances with the law.

“Well, I was there,” declared Capes Pilgrim, “and I’m sayin’ there’s not a judge in hades and half of Georgia that’s gonna find that boy guilty—not if they can keep Freeman lookin’ like he was when they took him outa that barn. Lordamercy. They’d be so much pity, you could shovel it with a seed scoop.”

“He was drained, and that’s the truth,” Billy Dean Millford added. “His face was gray as last night’s ashes. Didn’t have a drop of blood in it.”

Alvin nudged Wesley and Wesley quickly interrupted.

“Mama said they had to give Freeman two pints of blood,” Wesley said, and the men turned their faces to him.

“That so?” mumbled Capes Pilgrim. “I’ve not heard that. Anybody else hear anything about Freeman gettin’ blood?”

“Yeah,” said Ferris. “Yeah. Sure. They give him blood. Dover come by for a few minutes after he took Odell and Rachel home, and he said they give Freeman blood. But I thought he said two quarts, instead of two pints.”

“Good Lord, Ferris, he’d be deader’n a stuck pig if they had to give him two quarts,” someone exclaimed, and an argument began concerning the amount of blood in the body and how many pints were in a quart.

Wesley had turned the conversation. He knew every man at Allgood’s General Store had heard of the Snake Spell and Granny Woman Jordan. He did not want to give them time to think of Freeman’s powdered face and begin the simple deduction that would lead them to the Snake Spell.

“Uh—what’d you think will happen to Freeman now, Mr. Allgood?” Alvin inquired.

“Hard to say, Alvin. Hard to say. I guess that’s up to the sheriff.”

“Ben? You know more about them things than any of us. What’d you think?” Billy Dean Millford asked, speaking to Ben Alford.

“Yeah,” someone added. “Ben, you ought to know.”

Ben Alford lived on Little Emery Road. He had a vegetable farm and a new Buick Silver Streak he called Beowulf. Ben named all his cars and tractors. He had been to college and he said he’d learned the names from studying history and world literature. Ben Alford was an unusually smart man.

“Well,” Ben began. “This is what I think: it’s hard to say.”

“That’s right,” Ferris agreed. “That’s what I said.”

“But, on the other hand…”

“Go on, Ben,” Ferris urged.

“On the other hand, it might mean something if we could let the law know how we feel about this case—as a community, I mean.”

“That’s a good idea, Ben,” Capes Pilgrim said. “But how do we do that?”

“Take up a petition. That might do it,” Ben replied.

The men became serious. “Explain that,” one of them requested.

“It’s simple. We write out a thing saying we believe there’s been a mistake somewhere, and we’re all of a mind that they just ought to drop the matter. Then we get as many people as we can to sign it, and we carry it to the sheriff.”

Ben Alford was declared a genius. He was also appointed to write the necessary plea and have several copies printed. The copies would be circulated by everyone at Allgood’s General Store, including the “young folk,” as Capes Pilgrim ordained us.

*

That night we visited Freeman. Everyone except Alvin. Alvin, Dover speculated, was with Delores. “He’s been a little tense,” Dover said. “I told him to meet me at Hixon’s if he wanted to come, and he didn’t show up. I guess Alvin’s growin’ up, all right.”

The reunion with Freeman was joyful—converging, slapping, punching, speaking in an unintelligible tongue. It was the same joy as a home run, or a no-hitter, or two points at the last whistle, and there was a reason for it: it permitted us to later invent our own truth and remembrance of the occasion. If you are polite and patient and intent on hearing every syllable of what others
are saying, there is nothing to invent; you are not only bound
to
reality, you are bound
by
it.

Freeman was wedged into a mound of pillows, lapping the cream of attention. He pulled himself into a sitting position, offering complaints of excruciating pain. He wanted to contrast his deed with his physical disability, and he had a right. It was amazing that Freeman had rationed his strength and skill with such discipline.

We told Freeman of the petition Ben Alford was writing and Freeman was humbled by the news. “Tell Mr. Alford I’m grateful,” he said. “That might help out. I got no idea what’s happenin’. Sheriff told Daddy he’d wait to make up his mind what to do. It’s not the money that’s botherin’ the sheriff; it’s my gettin’ away from him.”

“I can see that,” admitted Dover. “He’s got election comin’ up and it’d look bad no matter what he does. He lets you go and people could say he looked the other way; he takes you in, and they might say he was pickin’ on a boy.”

There were many questions about Freeman’s days as a fugitive—what he did, where he hid (Wesley told him of knowing about the cave; Freeman was shocked), how he had injured himself (his knife slipped, as Willie Lee had reported to Wesley and me), and, finally, R. J. asked, “How’d you get them snakes down from that tree with us looking?”

“Yeah, how’d you do that, Freeman?” Otis urged.

“Well, all you got to do is think about it,” explained Freeman. “I knew y’all was there when you come up, makin’ all that noise, so I just crawled on off and went to sleep myself. I was pretty tired and weak by then, but I’d come across the Snake Spell earlier in the day and I knew it was a sign, so I thought I’d go back later,
after dark, and cut down them snakes and coat myself with them ashes…”

“Wait a minute, Freeman,” interrupted Dover. “You say you found that spell? You didn’t make it?”

“You crazy, Dover? I wouldn’t do nothin’ like that.”

Dover closed his brown eye and slowly nodded his head. “I knew it. Told you, boys. Told you it was that old woman.”

“Well, I don’t know who it was,” admitted Freeman, “and I don’t care. It was there, on my tree, and I’m not about to question it.”

“How’d you get them snakes down, Freeman?” pressed Otis.