CHAPTER 8

Sheriff Ben Early,

Marietta, Georgia, Sunday, August 4, 1946:

Sheriff Early wheeled his radio car off the county road and onto the packed dirt lot in front of the general store. He felt a small shock in his chest when he saw the size of the gathered crowd. He edged the cruiser forward, and faces looked back through the windshield at him before they moved reluctantly aside. When the wooden steps were directly in front of him, he set the brake and shut the Ford’s engine off. He picked up the heavy microphone from its chromed hook under the dashboard and keyed it with his thumb.

“Shirley, I’m going to need help out here. There’s got to be a hundred people outside the store and more coming. Mel Schmidt should be out on 41. Get him here fast. Get hold of Dicky at home and tell him to come on out here too.”

“Is Willard Davis dead, Sheriff? Caller said he’s dead.”

“I have no idea,” he said drily. “Looks like somebody is.”

He pushed open the car door and got out, adjusting his hat and belt as he stood. He ran his fingertips along the butt of the gun on his hip. He pushed the people lining the steps of the store back with his eyes and climbed to the front door.

“Stay where you are, folks.”

Tin tobacco signs were nailed up on either side of the entrance. Nails bled rust from the top corners onto the red-and-green lettering. Ben pulled open the screen and the smell of shit and blood boiled out. He stepped in.

Floyd Sutton was curled up just inside the doorway. The wet trail on the wood floor showed that he had dragged himself from the middle of the store before he expired. His eyes were open. Early stepped over him and stopped for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. The store’s center aisle was littered with cans and boxes.

Willard Davis lay amongst them, his body looking somehow small and childlike. Ben allowed himself to be momentarily grateful that the man’s face turned was away, but then he moved carefully and leaned over the corpse.

The halo of blood around Davis’s head covered the width of the aisle and spread under the shelves on either side. The top of his head was gone, but enough of his features and blond hair remained to identify him.

Ben walked back to the door and leaned out. “Who called this in?” he asked, certain that no one would answer.

“I did, suh,” a voice said. “I called you.”

The owner of the voice stepped forward and stood diffidently, turning his straw hat in his hands.

“Jacob Tull?” Ben asked, incredulous. “You? What--come here.” He walked to the end of the covered veranda, as far from the wide eyes and ears of the crowd as he could get. Jacob followed him. “What telephone did you use, Jacob?”

“I used the one in the store, suh. They’s one behind the counter. I’ve used telephones before, lots of times.”

“What were you doing inside the store, Jacob? The nig--the colored service is out the back door.”

“I know that, suh. There was something wrong, though. I had to go in. I had to.”

“Why did you think something was wrong?” Ben’s feelings were going from bad to worse. This was a disaster.

“She told me. I saw her standing on the porch and she told me. I found these two--” Jacob glanced back at the door, eyes flashing momentarily with hate. “--these two, inside, on the floor. She told me where they keep the phone. She wouldn’t go in.”

“Who told you, Jacob?” the sheriff asked, his dread building. “She? Who’s she?”

“The little girl, suh. The little girl told me.”

***

Present Day:

In the morning, I went out on the veranda and was surprised to find my father already up and sitting outside.

“I’d like to sit where I can see the water,” he said. “Can I do that?”

“Sure. We can sit on the dock. Want coffee?”

“You’re on a damn island, and you can’t see water,” he grumbled. “Just trees. If you cut some of the damn things, you’d have a view. You could sit on your porch and look at the lake. Isn’t that why people build on the water, for the view?”

“Probably,” I said. “Don’t forget I have to go everywhere in a boat, though. I see lots of lake water. I like the privacy, and I don’t much like cutting down trees.”

I dragged a couple of canvas chairs down to the dock. When I came back up, I found him in the kitchen, splashing rum into a glass.

“Where do you keep your ice?” he asked, popping open a can of cola.

I opened the freezer and handed him a tray. “Why don’t you mix that with orange juice? At least you’d get some vitamins.”

He peered sideways at me. “Is that a joke?” he asked, handing me the glass. “Carry this. I need my hat.”

He stopped by the door to put on a white cloth fishing hat, pulling the brim low over his ears. It accentuated his tan. A cord dangled jauntily around his neck. Despite his years, he was still a good-looking man.

He followed me down the front steps and onto the path that led through the trees. I turned back twice to check his progress over the uneven ground. The second time, he made a shooing motion with his hand. When we were settled, he sipped his drink, then leaned down stiffly, and set it on the boards at his feet.

We sat and looked at the day. The sound of a marine engine echoed over the lake. The morning was fresh and lovely. The long Canadian winters made the arrival of spring more acute--the new warmth and green brought an aching beauty. The air smelled like a kept promise.

“Have you thought about what I told you last night?”

“Yes. It’s a pretty wild story. Did Mom know about this?”

“She knew,” he said. “All of it. The only one I ever trusted enough. When she died, she took it with her, and I never expected to tell anyone else.”

The dock moved gently beneath us whenever a boat went past. I leaned back, lulled nearly to sleep by the softness of the air and lapping sounds of the water.

“Are you going to tell me the rest of it?” I asked. “What did you tell Wanda that has her so pissed off?”

“It’s not what I said. It’s something I did, a long time ago, when I was a boy. I was part of Eli Tull’s story, and no one ever knew. It got hushed up.” He shifted and held out his glass. “Get me another one, would you?”

“You might want to take it a little bit easy, Dad,” I said, taking it from him. “It’s still pretty early.”

The year’s first real heat was on the way, and I figured that we’d need to move into the shade soon.

“Save your advice. I need a drink,” he said simply. “I can’t tell you the rest of it otherwise, about my part in things. It’s the most important part, and I want a drink to tell it with.”

I nodded, resigned, and took the glass. “Now’s the time to tell me, Dad. I’ll be right back.”

I walked up the finger of granite that anchored the dock, through the screen of trees, and into the shady clearing in front of my cabin. The yellow dog was lying in front of my steps, and he scrambled to his feet when he saw me. We looked at each other for a few seconds, and then he trotted around the side of the cabin and was gone.

“This is beautiful,” Dad said, when I came back. “You shouldn’t forget how lucky you are, seeing something like this every day.”

“I try to remember that,” I said, setting his drink down.

“It’s easy to forget what’s important. You look right at it and you don’t even see it anymore. Do me a favor? Leave me alone for a minute. Let me think.”

I watched a water skier in the middle of the reach. She skipped the boat’s wake and tumbled. Her head popped up, and the boat turned to come back for her.

“Don’t you want to just get it done with?” I asked.

“I’m going to,” he said. “I just need a minute to get my thoughts together. This isn’t easy.”

“Sure,” I said, and stood up. I figured that he needed to get the drink in him. “I have some stuff to move from under the porch. I’ll give you a few minutes and come back.”

From time to time, I glanced along the path down to the dock, where he sat motionless, looking out at the lake. His ankles were crossed beneath the canvas chair. The sun was bright and stinging, and his hat looked very white. Its brim cast a shadow over his face. After a while, I left the trees and walked down to talk to him.

“You doing okay?” I asked. “Hot out here.”

He didn’t answer, and didn’t move. His hands rested on the chair arms, relaxed and very tanned. The last slivers of ice in his rum and coke moved slightly, stirred by the breeze. All at once I knew.

“Dad?”

We were perfectly, finally, still. The lake sounds faded away, leaving only the silent two of us in the brilliant spring light. I looked at him, and he looked at nothing that I could see.

Later, I most remembered the ice that hadn’t yet melted, and the twin tracks of tears that were still drying on his face. It wasn’t a look of pain. It seemed more the expression of a man who had endured a painful mystery for the entirety of his life, and at last wept at the beauty and simplicity of its revelation.