Beverly, across the table from him, rolls her eyes at her husband.
“Because his family used to have some money, John forgets that ninety-nine percent of the human race can be bought. Bonner and Butterfield aren’t the Kennedys, honey.
They’re just high-pocketed country niggers on the make.”
John chews patiently but gives me a wink as if to say his wife can’t help but believe that nothing is as it seems. Every murder involves a
giant conspiracy that, if she but had enough time to unravel, would implicate Pope John, Boris Yeltsin, and Madonna.
“Don’t patronize me, buddy boy,” Beverly warns her husband.
“I know that little smirk. You think you know all these people because you grew up with them. You have no idea what’s going on.”
John shrugs, apparently not wanting to incur his wife’s are. Beverly looks as if she could be a mean drunk.
“That’s for damn sure,” he says, his tone still friendly.
“Do you really think Paul is involved in this?” I encourage Beverly, who is chewing vigorously on a piece of meat she has cut for herself.
The deer tastes disappointingly like chicken. It doesn’t have the gamy distinct flavor that I remember from my childhood. Maybe it is the way it has been cooked.
“Of course he is!” Beverly says.
“Everyone’s heard about the tape. Why else did Willie tape him if he wasn’t afraid of Paul? Just like you say, nobody’s ever crossed the Taylors And when they started going down economically, Paul couldn’t stand the fact that an old Chinese man had, outside our one factory, the only decent business in town. He had him killed and now he’s bought off a nigger sheriff, judge, and prosecutor, the way people have been buying them off for years. What else is new?”
Beverly’s face is flushed, but I’m not sure whether it is from liquor or from anger. Hell may have no fury like a woman scorned, but the way she looks I doubt if she was ever in the running for Paul’s affections.
Perhaps she has been jealous for her husband’s sake. The Taylors have been top dogs here for years, and Beverly, for one, is glad to see them get their due.
Perhaps to change the subject, John turns to his wife.
“I’ve heard that Gideon here has been calling on the widow Marr. She would have married him, but he broke her heart by joining the Peace Corps.”
Beverly rolls her eyes at her husband.
“John’s told me that at least twice, but since it’s usually after a pint of bourbon he never remembers. I admire Angela, and I’m sorry I’ve never gotten to know her as much as I would have liked. For all those years she was so involved with their farm.
What is she going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I say too quickly, but not wanting to betray what I think was told to me in confidence.
For all I know, she may have told the entire town that Cecil wants to buy her half of the farm, but she seemed too angry about it for me to feel comfortable enough to gossip about it.
“Angela and I are just friends,” I add, hoping I’m not blushing. If my face is as florid as Beverly’s, I look like as big a fool as I sound.
John leans his elbows on the table and snickers, “And I’m the ghost of John Lennon.”
Beverly laughs, but defends me.
“Dwight’s body isn’t even cold,” she scolds her husband.
“You just know how a man would react, not a woman. Men can barely wait for the funeral to be over before they’re trying to get in another woman’s pants.”
Knowing me too well, John scoffs, “It’s cold enough. He was sick for years.”
I say nothing. If I start talking about Angela, I may not be able to shut up. There is much I want to know about the past thirty years, but Rome wasn’t built in a day, and I like both John and Beverly too much to let them think I accepted this invitation just to grill them for more information about the principals in the case. There will be plenty of time for that, I hope. I switch to coffee, hoping to sober up for the drive home. Beverly pumps me for anecdotes about John. She doesn’t even know he tried to shoot his sister, and I delight her with stories he either has forgotten or told her so long ago neither of them remember. One Halloween John broke into the nursing home and hid all the bed pans that weren’t in use.
“I thought he was going to jail for that.”
Far from being apologetic for the implicit cruelty in his behavior, John concludes the evening with a joke. Licking at his glass for the last drop of the amaretto Beverly produced and I couldn’t resist, he tells the story about the old man in the nursing home who went around on his birthday asking his fellow residents to guess how old he was. ““You’re seventy-three,” says the first man he asks.
“No, I’m seventy-eight!” the old man cackles.
Then he hobbles a little further down the hall and asks an old woman in a wheelchair, “It’s my birthday. Guess how old I am.” The old woman peers over her bifocals at him and tells him to unzip his pants. He does, and she takes his old shriveled penis into her hands and begins to rub it as she looks from his member to his face and back again.
“Seventy-eight!” she says finally.
“How did you know?” the old man marvels.” Delighted that we haven’t yelled out the punch line, John grins at us and says in an old woman’s voice, ‘“Well, I heard you tell that old man down there.”” I stand up, and take my leave, dimly aware that there is a moral here somewhere.
Women, I think the message is, know what they’re doing.
Instead of trying to drive all the way back to Blackwell County, I head for the Bear Creek Inn and check in. I’ll drive home tomorrow morning.
Poor women. They never quit trying to change us. When they do, that’s when we’ll need to worry. Betty gives me a wistful look as she takes my
money, but the last thing I need is to accept her invitation to watch television. Inside room number nine, I begin to think about Angela and wish there was a way to call her. I feel as if I have a crowbar in my pants, but it is probably because I have to piss so bad.
I go to bed with the room spinning, my last thought that once again I am in a motel room in my hometown.
Hung over, I arrive home at ten the next morning and find an urgent-sounding message on my machine from Tommy Ting. I sit down in my recliner in the living room and dial his number, wishing I’d had more sense than to keep drinking with John last night.
“Connie is worried,” Tommy says, without preliminaries, “that you’re going to argue that our mother killed our father!”
I look across the street into the park where I was going to walk Jessie. Damn, I wish Amy would bring her back. I miss her.
“No jury would buy that for two seconds,” I say, not really answering the question.
“Anybody just looking at her will know how ludicrous that is. She’s so frail she can hardly lift a tea cup. Now, I can’t take responsibility for what Dickerson might do.”
“Will you talk to him and convince him not to make that argument?”
Tommy presses me.
“It would kill her!”
Tommy doesn’t know what he is asking, but I don’t want to piss him off.
On the whole, I am getting some good information from the workers at the plant. At least Darla Tate was helpful.
“Sure, I’ll talk about it with him. Dickerson is too smart to insult a jury’s intelligence.”
He seems mollified, and I tell him what I have found so far.
“I’m not at all convinced that the Mexican worker didn’t kill your father,” I tell him, thinking of the dignified expression on Alvaro Ruiz’s weathered face.
“The sheriff doesn’t seem to consider him a suspect,” Tommy reminds me.
“It’d be a mistake at this stage,” I insist, “to eliminate anyone.”
Perhaps Tommy unconsciously is worried that I will try to pin the murder on another defenseless minority.
“Anyone could have set up Class Bledsoe. Hell, Ruiz could have gotten someone to do the job for him. Class was a sitting duck.”