Between the Lies Page 7

  “Kids outside?” he asked her.

  “Yeah. Adam bought them a new BB gun. I’m afraid they’re shooting up your chicken coop.”

  Hick shrugged. “Good thing we don’t have chickens.” Nodding to Mourning, he said, “Welcome home. We’re glad to have you back.”

  She gave him a wide smile that lit up her face. “Thankie, Sheriff.” To Hick, there was something otherworldly about Mourning Delaney. She was only seventeen, but seemed older, wiser, like some ethereal changeling. She had a peculiar beauty, not like a Hollywood starlet or even Miss Carol Quinn from New York City. Her beauty was primitive, wild, like the swamp where she was raised.

  Maggie brought him a cup of coffee and peered into his face. “You get enough sleep?”

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d got enough sleep. “I’m fine. Can I help you with anything?”

  “No. Go and see the boys. They’ve been asking about you.”

  Hick pushed through the front door and squinted into the sunshine. He paused on the porch, sat the coffee cup on the railing, and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, cupping his hand over the lighter. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs and headed out to check on the boys in the side yard.

  Danny, Adam and Pam’s youngest boy, turned and ran toward him “Uncle Hick! We’re shootin’ at the coop!” It seemed the yard was filled with boys—Adam and Pam had four of their own and had adopted two more, Jack and Floyd Thompson, grandsons of Claire Thompson, a woman who had died in prison six years earlier. Hick’s own sons rounded out the numbers and added to the chaos.

  Benji, Adam and Pam’s oldest, came over, a sheepish grin on his face. “I’m sorry, Uncle Hick.” He didn’t quite meet Hick’s gaze. “I didn’t think to ask if it was okay to nail the target to the chicken coop.”

  “It’s okay. But next time, you need to ask folks before you start shooting things up.”

  Benji nodded gravely. “Yes, sir. I will.” Then he looked up, eyes gleaming. “You want to see our new gun?”

  There were days when Hick marveled at how much Benji Kinion resembled Adam. At only fifteen, he was tall, stocky, calm, and easy going like his father, and gave the impression of a much older boy. He was quick to own responsibility for doing wrong and took it upon himself to protect and look after the flock of boys that followed in his wake.

  “Sure.” Hick took the air rifle Jack Thompson handed him. It was a Defender and closely resembled the M1 Hick had used in the war. It felt funny in his hands, lighter than he thought it should. Quickly, he handed it back to Jack. “That’s a fine weapon you have there.”

  “Most kids have real rifles.” Jack’s voice held a hint of embarrassment. “But Mr. Kinion says unless we mean to hunt, there ain’t no point in having a real one.”

  “He’s right,” Hick said. “You’d be shooting up street signs and getting yourself in a mess of trouble. Believe me, we deal with it every day.”

  “I guess.” Jack frowned, evidently still not convinced.

  Little Jake had wrapped himself around Hick’s leg like he was trying to climb it. Hick reached down and picked him up and then took Jimmy’s hand. He nodded toward the coop. “Let’s see how you boys are doing.”

  The paper target nailed to the side of the chicken coop was riddled with holes, as was the coop’s door and supporting posts.

  “I’ll bet you could hit a bulls-eye, Uncle Hick,” Benji said.

  Hick shrugged and put the struggling Jake down. “I’m not much for shooting anymore.”

  Jack Thompson shaded his eyes with one hand and looked up at Hick. “Why?”

  Hick felt a hand cover his and looked down to see the understanding eyes of his nephew, Henry, trained on his face. Henry, only two years younger than Benji, was fair and slender with a much more boyish face. Built more like a Blackburn than a Kinion, he was the only one of the four boys that resembled Pam, and he and Hick had always been close.

  Hick thought about Jack’s question. It was hard to put into words the gut-wrenching certainty of knowing that some things can never be changed or made right, that some things, once done, can never be undone. That once a trigger is pulled, you can’t un-pull it.

  “A gun, a real gun,” he finally said, “isn’t a toy. It’s something that has power, more power than most understand. It has the power to hypnotize a man into thinking he’s invincible. It seduces you into thinking you have some sort of control over a situation.” He looked at the air rifle. “You can learn to shoot just fine with an air rifle like that, but a real gun is only good for one thing—taking life. And once that life is gone, there ain’t no bringing it back.”

  “Is that why you don’t carry one?” Henry asked.

  “Yes.”

  Benji’s eyebrows drew together giving him a thoughtful look. “But our daddy carries one.”

  Despite the fact that Benji looked like a mature, young man, he was just a boy trying to make sense of the world around him. Hick put his hand on Benji’s shoulder. “I’m not saying he’s wrong, not by a long shot. I’m just saying that I’m not willing to kill anyone so there ain’t no point in me carrying one.”

  “But, Daddy—” Benji began.

  “Hickory,” Maggie’s voice called from the house. “Come on in. Dinner’s ready.”

  Hick smiled at the flock of boys around him. “Who’s hungry?” A unanimous shout answered the question.

  Flicking the cigarette toward the empty coop, Hick followed the stampede to the house. Inside, the place was a chaotic jumble of seemingly starving boys, the four older ones maneuvering around Maggie and Pam who were trying to fill plates for the little ones. Hick relieved Maggie of Jake, who was hanging onto her skirt, and sat down at the table.

  Maggie brought a plate for Jake and set it down in front of Hick. “You want me to fix you something?”

  “Sit down and eat. Jake and I will share, won’t we?” He gave Jake a hug and the boy looked up at him, nodded, and took a big bite off a chicken leg.

  She turned and went back, filling another plate for Jimmy who sat in the front room with the other kids. The house quieted some once the feeding frenzy began, save periodic eruptions of laughter from the boys.

  By the time Maggie sat down, Jake had almost finished. He was gnawing on a chicken leg and adamantly refusing the fried okra Hick’s mother kept offering. Jake pursed his lips, shook his head “no!”, and squirmed in Hick’s lap. Hick placed him on the floor and he quickly ran into the front room with the big boys.

  “You still hungry?” Maggie asked, beginning to rise.

  Hick put his hand over hers. “Sit still. I’ll get something when I want it. You eat.”

  “You sure?” Her eyes were puffy and she looked tired.

  “I’m sure. You stay off your feet for a while.”

  He kissed her, rose from the table, and drifted into the front room. As he watched the boys, he imagined Thad Burton looking out at him from behind bars. Thad would never have the idyllic childhood these boys took for granted. Instead, he would live under the shadow of Earl Brewster and a world full of Earl Brewsters who believed he was trouble, destined for prison, simply because he was colored. He would grow up walking a thin line, and still even toeing that line and doing everything right wouldn’t be enough.

  Hick walked onto the front porch and picked up his coffee cup, its contents now cold. He started to take it inside when the squad car turned into the drive.

  “You’re just in time for dinner,” he told Adam as his brother-in-law stepped out of the car.

  Adam frowned. “I’d be glad to eat a bite, but I need to talk to Benji and Jack.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Got a complaint. Harrington says the boys shot up a bunch of bottles with that damned air rifle. They left glass all over a corner of his field, and he drove right over it. Now his tractor’s got a flat.”

  “Of all places. Philemon Harrington’s not the most easy going man in the world.” Turning to the front door, Hick called, “Benji!
Jack!”

  “Yes, sir?” Benji said, opening the door with Jack Thompson close behind. Benji saw Adam and his eyes widened in surprise. “Hey, Daddy, I thought you were at work today.” Adam looked down at the boys. “I got a question for ya’ll, and I want the truth. You been shooting that air rifle down around Philemon Harrington’s cotton field?”

  “No, sir,” Benji said.

  Adam pursed his lips. “Boy, I never thought I’d see the day you’d tell me a lie.”

  Benji’s mouth fell open. “But, Daddy, I ain’t—”

  “He’s not lying, sir.” Jack stepped forward. “He ain’t been shooting the rifle.” Jack’s gaze dropped to his shoes. “I have.”

  “Why?”

  “I got tired of shooting at those old paper targets and wanted—”

  “You wanted something that would break? Make some noise?”

  Hick could see Jack struggling not to fidget under Adam’s questioning. “Yes, sir.”

  Adam sighed. “Well, Mr. Harrington drove right up on one of them bottles while he was mowing down the brush and sliced his front tractor tire. You know how much it costs to get a new one?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, you’re gonna find out.” Jack looked up. “You’re gonna work for Harrington after school every day until it’s paid for. You’ll probably still be working for him come October break.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jack’s voice was quiet, full of resignation. “I knew nobody drove their cars back in there. I didn’t reckon on a tractor.”

  “Can I help him, sir?” Benji asked. “If there’s two of us working, it won’t take as long to pay Mr. Harrington.”

  “Sure. You both start tomorrow right after school. Now go on in and finish eating.”

  “Yes, sir,” they said in unison and fled back inside, the screen door banging closed behind them.

  Adam shook his head. “Damn, stupid kids.”

  “Come get some dinner.” Hick held the door open. “There’s plenty.”

  Adam, never one to turn down food, followed Hick inside.

  10

  Sunday, July 18, 1954

  Hick’s eyes fluttered open after snatching a couple more hours of sleep on the couch. Dusk had descended, throwing the room into shadow and softening the stifling heat of the day. The chirping of crickets outside was overpowered by the sound of laughter coming from the bathroom where Mourning was giving Jimmy and Jake a bath. Earlier Hick had laughed at the boys’ appearance. After their Sunday of play, brown streaks and sticky watermelon juice decorated their arms and ran down their thin chests. Caked-on dirt rested in the little crevices of their necks, their fingernails were black, and their bare feet and ankles were covered in dust. Now Mourning likely had them covered in bubbles.

  Maggie sat at the end of the sofa, a cross-stitch in her lap. Hick moved carefully, thinking she was asleep.

  She turned and smiled at him. “You awake?”

  He stretched and yawned, then sat up and rubbed his face. “Yeah, what time is it?”

  “Eight o’clock. I was going to wake you at nine if you were still asleep. I know how hard it is for you to sleep on that lousy cot at the station.”

  “You take a nap?”

  “I tried.”

  He yawned and rubbed his face again, trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain.

  “You want some coffee?”

  “Is it made?”

  “No, but it won’t take a minute,” she said, rising from the sofa.

  “Come here,” he told her, grabbing her hand and coaxing her beside him. “I can get coffee in town.” He ran a finger along her jawline and kissed her. Her eyes were so puffy they worried him. “I want you to listen to me,” he said. “I want you to spend more time with your feet up. Let Mourning take care of things. She wants to help, and she’s able, but you’re always jumping up when you should be sitting down.”

  “But, Hickory—”

  “Don’t ‘But, Hickory’, me.” He pulled her fingertips to his lips. “You’ve only got a few more months. Mourning wants to help more, but you can’t seem to let her.”

  “I just—” she began, but he cupped her face and kissed her.

  “Do this for me. If something were to happen—”

  “Nothing’s going to happen.”

  “Please. For me. For the boys.” He held her gaze, and finally felt her resistance dissolve. Her posture relaxed and her expression grew resigned.

  “Alright. If it makes you feel better, I promise to stay off my feet more.”

  The light from the bathroom door suddenly sliced into the room and two squealing, pajama-clad boys padded across the floor and climbed onto the couch. They smelled of soap and Hick buried his nose into their hair.

  “They’s ready for bed,” Mourning announced. “You want me to read ’em a story?” At seventeen, Mourning Delaney had finally learned to read and was understandably proud.

  Maggie sighed softly, but she only said, “Thank you, Mourning. That would be nice.”

  The two little boys kissed Hick and Maggie and then followed Mourning into the bedroom. The door closed and the light shown beneath it. Listening, they heard her halting voice begin the story. “Five little puppies dug a hole under the f-f-fence…”

  “Magdalene Benson Blackburn, you are a worker of wonders.” Hick said. “I don’t reckon anyone ever thought a Delaney would read so well.”

  “Mourning’s a smart girl. She did all the work.”

  Hick ran his thumb across Maggie’s cheek. “You’ll stay off your feet?”

  “Lord have mercy. I said I would.”

  He patted her shoulder, stood, and stretched out his back. “I need to get ready for the night shift.” He left her on the couch and went into the bedroom to put on a clean uniform.

  Maggie had moved to the porch swing by the time Hick finished dressing. He stepped outside, lit a cigarette, and leaned on the railing to watch the last light of the setting sun.

  He glanced at Maggie and saw she was watching him. “Do you remember the first time you asked me to marry you?” she asked.

  “You mean the time you turned me down when I was leaving for the war?”

  “No, silly. The first time. When we were eight.”

  He laughed and took a drag of his cigarette. “I asked you when I was eight?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I don’t remember asking. I reckon I just always assumed you’d marry me.”

  “Humph.”

  He tossed the cigarette into the yard and joined her on the porch swing. He draped an arm around her shoulders which she promptly reached up and pinched.

  “Ow! What was that for?”

  “For assuming I’d marry you. You were conceited, weren’t you?”

  He smiled and shrugged. “Maybe. What’s your point?”

  She took his hand and caressed it. “I don’t want you to take this wrong, Hickory Blackburn, but you were a spoiled little boy.”

  “Well, I got what I wanted didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did,” she admitted. “And I’m glad of it.” She kissed him, then pulled back and studied his face. She wore an odd, thoughtful expression.

  “What is it?”

  “You know I’ve always loved you. I loved you since as long as I can remember, and I don’t reckon I could love you anymore than I always have. But that conceited kid, the one who played such good baseball in high school and walked around this town so cocky … he wouldn’t have done a thing to help a little colored boy in another town.”

  “I—”

  Maggie cut him off with a finger to his lips. “I have always loved you for who you are, but every day I realize how much I love you for who you’ve become. I know the war was hell on you. I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t. But if you ever wonder, I think it made you a better man. I don’t love you more now than I did before, because that would be impossible. But I respect you more than any person I’ve ever known. I just want you to know that.”


  He gathered her in his arms and held her close, feeling her heart beat and her breath warm against his neck and knowing how much he needed her. He wanted to say something, anything. He wanted to tell her that she was his reason for getting up in the morning, for living, that she was his everything, but words, especially those words were hard to find and harder to say. Instead, he whispered, his face buried in her hair. “You’d better get some rest. I need you to take care of yourself.”

  Maggie ran her hand through his hair and smiled. She understood the meaning behind the words. “I will,” she whispered. “See you in the morning?”

  “See you then,” he promised and reluctantly left his wife to go to the station.

  The hours always went by slowly on the night shift because so little happened in the small town of Cherokee Crossing. Since Deputy Metcalfe’s retirement, Hick and Adam had begun trading the night shift, and the disruption to their family lives was becoming stressful. It had been bad enough to be gone every third night, but every other night was tough and, although Adam seemed able to sleep on the small cot at the station, Hick slept in fits and starts.

  The ticking clock, unnoticed during the day, was loud and irritating and there were times Hick had to stifle the urge to throw a shoe at it. Each click was a reminder that tomorrow would be another long and exhausting day. He had just lit a cigarette and re-shuffled the cards for another game of solitaire when the sound of an engine caught his attention. Parting the blinds with his fingers, he watched a car swerve and then finally stop in front of the station. He rose and looked out of the front door. Royal Adkins stepped out of the car, paused, and glanced around him. He held on to the car, stumbled a bit, and wove his way toward the station.

  Hick opened the door and let Royal in. “Evening, Sheriff,” Royal said with a slight slur.

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Deputy.” Hick escorted him to a chair, afraid the young man might trip over his own feet. The smell of beer was thick on his breath.

  Royal turned and looked at the chair and squinted. Trying to appear sober only emphasized his drunkenness. He held both of the chair’s arms and gingerly lowered himself onto the seat, with a pleased look on his face as if it were some great accomplishment to sit down.