"Right over there in the ditch," he said.
"He hooked one wheel over the side and went in. Snapped the axle like a stick. No mystery, my friend. It's a way of life."
I got back to Missoula late but in time to pick up Alafair at the baby-sitter's before she went to sleep. The baby-sitter had run an errand, and a friend of hers, a third-grade teacher and assistant principal at the school named Miss Regan, had come over to stay with Alafair. The two of them were watching television and eating from a bowl of popcorn in the enclosed side porch. Miss Regan was a pretty girl in her late twenties, with auburn hair and green eyes, and although her skin was still pale from the winter months, I could see sun freckles on her shoulders and at the bottom of her neck.
"Come see, Dave," Alafair said.
"Miss Regan drew a picture of Tex and she ain't ever seen him."
"Don't say 'ain't," little guy," I said.
"Look," Alafair said, and held up a piece of art paper with a pastel drawing of an Appaloosa on it.
"That's very nice of Miss Regan," I said.
"My name's Tess," she said, and smiled.
"Well, thank you for watching Alafair. It was good meeting you."
"She's a sweet little girl. We had a lot of fun together," she said.
"Do you live in the neighborhood?"
"Yes, only two blocks from the school."
"Well, I hope to see you again. Thanks for your help. Good night."
"Good night," she said.
We walked home in the dark. The air was warm, and the maple trees looked black and full under the moon. The lights of the bridge reflected off the swirling brown surface of the river.
"Everybody says she's the best teacher in the school," Alafair said.
"I bet she is."
"I told her to come down to New Iberia and visit us."
"That's good."
"Because she don't have a husband."
"Say 'doesn't.' "
"She doesn't have a husband. How come that, Dave?"
"I don't know. Some people just don't like to get married."
"How come?"
"You got me."
We ate a piece of pie before we turned out the lights and went to bed. Our bedrooms adjoined, and the door was opened between them. Across the river I could hear the whistle of a Burlington Northern freight.
"Dave?"
"What?"
"Why don't you marry Miss Regan?"
"I'll give it some thought. See you tomorrow, little guy."
"Okay, big guy."
"Good night, little guy."
"Good night, big guy."
The next morning I made long-distance calls to Batist, the bondsman, and my lawyer. Batist was managing fine at the bait shop and the bondsman was tranquil about my returning to Louisiana by trial date, but the lawyer had not been able to get a continuance and he was worried.
"What have you come up with in Montana?" he said.
"Nothing definite. But I think Dixie Lee was telling the truth about Mapes, that he killed a couple of people here, maybe Indians."
"I tell you, Dave, that might be our only out. If you can get him locked up in Montana, he won't be a witness against us in Louisiana."
"It's not the ninth race yet."
"Maybe not, but so far we don't have a defense. It's that simple. I hired a PI to do a background on Mapes. He beat the shit out of another kid with a golf club in Marshall, Texas, when he was seventeen, but that's the only trouble he's been in. He graduated from the University of Texas and flew an army helicopter in Vietnam The rest of the guy's life is a blank. It's hard to make him out as Jack the Ripper."
"We'll see," I said. I didn't want to concede the truth in his words, but I could feel my heart tripping.
"The prosecutor's talking a deal," he said.
I remained silent and listened to the whir of long-distance sound in the earpiece. Through the window I could see the maple tree in my front yard ruffling with the breeze.
"Dave, we're reaching the point where we might have to listen to him."
"What deal?"
"Second-degree homicide. We'll show provocation, he won't contend with us, you'll get five years. With good time, you can be out in three or less."
"No deal."
"It may turn out to be the only crap game in town."
"It's bullshit."
"Maybe so, but there's something else I'm honor-bound to tell you. We're going up against Judge Mouton. He's sent six men I know of to the electric chair. I don't think he'd do that in this case. But he's a cranky, old sonofabitch, and you never know."
After I hung up the phone I tried to read the paper on the front porch with a cup of coffee, but my eyes couldn't concentrate on the words.
I washed the dishes, cleaned the kitchen, and started to change the oil in my truck. I didn't want to think about my conversation with my lawyer. One day at a time, easy does it, I told myself. Don't live in tomorrow's problems. Tomorrow has no more existence than yesterday, but you can always control now. We live in a series of nows. Think about now.
But that sick feeling around the heart would not go away. I worked my way under my truck, fitted a crescent wrench around the nut on the oil pan, and applied pressure with both hands while flakes of dried mud fell in my eyes. Then the wrench slipped and I raked my knuckles across the pan. I heard the telephone ring inside.
I crawled out from under the truck, went in the house, and picked up the receiver. The skin was gone on the tops of two of my knuckles.
"What's happening, Dave?"
" Dixie?"
"Yeah. What's happening?"
"Nothing important. What is it?"
"Are you always this happy in the morning?"
"What do you want, Dixie?"
"Nothing. I'm in the lounge over in that shopping center on Brooks. Come on over."
"What for?"
"Talk. Relax. Listen to a few sounds. They got a piano in here."
"You sound like your boat already left the dock."
"So?"
"It's nine o'clock in the morning."
"Big deal. It's twelve o'clock somewhere else. Come on over."
"No thanks."
"Darlene dumped me in here while she went running around town. I don't want to sit in here by myself. It's a drag, man. Get your butt over here."
"I've got a few other things on my mind."
"That's what I want to talk with you about. Dave, you think you're the only guy who understands your problem. Look, man, I pick cotton every day in that same patch."
"What are you talking about?"
"Some people are born different. That's just the way we are. You go against what you are, you're gonna have a mess of grief. Like Hank Junior says, some people are born to boogie, son. They just got to be willing to pay the price."
"I appreciate all this, but I'm going to sign off now."
"Oh no you don't. You listen to me, 'cause I been there in spades, right where you're at now. When I got to Huntsville from the county jail, I hadn't had a drink in six weeks. I felt like I had fire ants crawling on my brain. Except I learned you can get almost anything in the joint you can get outside. There was a Mexican cat who sold short-dogs of black cherry wine for five bucks a bottle. We'd mix it with syrup, water, and rubbing alcohol, and it'd fix you up just about like you stuck your head in a blast furnace.
"So one time we had a whole crock of this beautiful black cherry brew stashed in a tool shack, and one time while the boss man was working some guys farther on down the road, we set one guy out as a jigger and the rest of us crapped out in the shack and decided to cooler ate our minds a little bit. Except about an hour later, when we're juiced to the eyes, the guy outside comes running through the door, yelling, "Jigger, jigger."
"The boss man was this big redneck character from Lufkin named Buster Higgins. He could pick up a bale of hay and fling it from behind the truck all the way to the cab. When he took a leak he made sure everybody saw the size of his dick. That's no shit, man. The next thing I know, he's standing there in the door of the toolshed, sweat running out of his hat, his face big as a pumpkin. Except this guy was not funny. He thought rock 'n' roll was for niggers and Satan worshipers. He looks down at me and says, Tugh, didn't your parents have enough money?"