JACK WAS SITTING at the counter drinking coffee and eating a plate of biscuits with apple butter when Tazwell Minnix pulled up to the Blackwater station the next morning. Tazwell’s father, R. L. Minnix, sat beside him in the car, dozing peacefully. The dew a faint trace on the grass, the air still slightly crisp before the dead heat of August set in. In the lot Tom C. Cundiff was in the process of beating a man senseless.
To Jack the scene at the filling station struck him momentarily as some kind of spiritual ceremony: a man in a dusty coat, bareheaded, was on his knees in the parking lot, hands bent in supplication to a man who stood before him, a queer figure in a dirty bowler hat, suspenders, and stained shirt. A small group of men stood on the low covered porch, watching with halfhearted interest. A few glanced toward the new car at the pumps. R.L.’s head was slumped to his chest, snoring lightly. Tazwell shut the engine down by the petrol pump and climbed down from his truck, watching the peculiar episode that was unfolding. The man on his knees was crying.
Please, Tom, the man begged, don’t hit me no more. I swear I’ll leave you be.
The side of the kneeling man’s face was a crimson mask of running blood. He had rippled clumps of scalp and hair on his forehead, fresh wounds, and his hands shook as he pleaded.
Tom C. Cundiff’s arms hung loose at his sides. In one hand he held a pistol, the hand spattered with blood and his sleeve stained to the elbow. Tazwell froze in horror. Cundiff languidly looked over at him, eyes like dark pinholes, his face twisted with wrath.
Please, Tom.
There was a stir of motion among the watching men and they began to back away. Tazwell saw a man standing in the doorway of the station, a tall, wiry man with a jagged scar under his chin who looked upon the scene solemnly. Another young man with a dark shock of hair trotted across the lot to Tazwell’s car.
Tom, Forrest said from the doorway, that’s it.
Fuel, sir? Everett Dillon said.
John Horsely began to sob, his hands clenched in front of him. Cundiff let out a short sigh and rearing back quickly on his heels he dealt Horsely such a clout on the side of his head that it shattered the stock of the pistol. Horsely dropped to the side like a felled tree, his feet bouncing. Cundiff tossed a crumpled piece of paper on the fallen man’s body and spat a thick stream of dark juice on his back.
There’s your goddamn answer to that, Cundiff said. Tell Carter Lee to stick it straight up his ass!
The men standing around the front porch began to drift away. Cundiff snapped his suspenders and shifted his quid of tobacco before walking back inside the station. Forrest stood there looking at Horsely’s inert form with a blank look. Tazwell rushed over to the body and knelt beside him and felt under his bloody collar. His scalp was a mess of blood and torn skin, but he was still breathing.
What is going on here? Tazwell said.
Someone ought to take him up to Rocky Mount, Forrest said.
Jack got out of his seat and cupped his hands on the window to see better.
Isn’t this man a sheriff’s deputy? Tazwell said. Isn’t this John Horsely?
Yeah, Forrest said. That’s him.
Tazwell looked around wildly. A few faces showed through the windows, shimmering in the morning sun, including the bewildered-looking face of Jack.
I came here, Tazwell said, to speak to your brother Jack.
The cicadas began their shrill chord of language in the trees across the road. Bluebottle flies were buzzing about Horsely’s head, settling in the sticky clumps of hair, crawling down his collar and across his face.
Did you know your brother came to our service last night? At the Brethren church in Burnt Chimney. Our Love Feast ceremony.
The faintest smile cracked Forrest’s face.
I know the place.
Well he was there, Tazwell said, and he was drunk or crazy.
Forrest just stared at him.
Tazwell picked up the crumpled paper that Tom C. Cundiff tossed and smoothed it out. It was a summons to appear in court.
That man assaulted an officer of the law, Tazwell said.
Yeah, Forrest said. Shoulda known better than to come around empty-handed and alone when Tom’s been into the stump whiskey for a few days. You gonna take him in?
What?
I mean Horsely here.
Tazwell looked back toward his truck to see the staring, horrified face of his father through the windshield. Jack backed away from the window and sat at the counter.
THEY LOADED the deputy into the back of truck and when they left Forrest came in and leaned against the counter. Jack rubbed his scabbed ear and pushed the crumbs around his plate.
What happened to your face? Forrest asked him.
Ain’t nothing.
That so?
Maggie scraped the grill with a spatula, a cigarette clenched in her teeth, her ivory dress worked through with pale roses. Jack knew she was listening. Cundiff shuffled out, mumbling to himself, fired up his car and tore out of the lot and the other men drifted off the porch. Forrest punched the till and lifted out a stack of bills and began counting.
I heard, Forrest said, about what happened over at Winnie Mitchell’s place. You and Cricket Pate.
Who told you?
Doesn’t matter now, does it?
Jack sipped at his coffee. Maggie strode over and filled his cup. He caught her giving him a slight grin, her lips bending around the cigarette. Oh, God, Jack thought, how many people know? The whole damn county?
The question is, Forrest said, what are you gonna do about it?
This question stunned Jack.
What am I gonna do?
As soon as he said it he wished he hadn’t.
You expecting someone else to handle it? Forrest said.
Jack was thankful no one else besides Maggie was in the station. He shifted on his stool, scraping the top of his foot with his boot heel.
That ain’t what I meant, Jack said.
Forrest set down the stack of bills and stepped around close to Jack. He balled one fist and set it on the counter next to the empty plate. Maggie came over and collected the plate and fork on her way into the kitchen and for a moment Jack thought she shot him a sympathetic look but he couldn’t be sure. She strode into the back, her dress whispering against the swinging door.
Here it is, Forrest said. As long as you’re my brother, you better never let it happen again. You understand me?
I get it.
I don’t think you do.
What if I can’t? Jack said. You know I ain’t . . . like you and Howard like that. I never been like you.
Forrest reached and gripped Jack’s arm with his other hand, bending down close to his face.
There is only one answer, Forrest said. People will know, and you will suffer for it for a long time, maybe the rest of your life. Do something about it. If those animals out there see for a moment you are afraid, then they’ll be at the door and it’ll be over.
They told me, Jack said, to tell you that they are coming for you next.
I know it, Forrest said.
Forrest slapped the stack of bills into the register drawer. After a moment, Jack saw a wave of something like weariness cross his brother’s face.
You wanna be a part of this, Forrest said, you best be ready to do what’s necessary.
I am, Jack said. I’m just saying.
You want the money, but don’t want to work for it.
Forrest’s throat worked hard, the white rope of scar tissue undulating as he spoke.
We control the fear, Forrest said. You unnerstand? Without that fear, we are all as good as dead.