"You-you'll be…" The bones were jerking and jumping. He'd got down the steps, and his nerve was coming back. "If I ever get you up-"
"Me, doc? But I sleep swell. I don't have headaches. I'm not worried a bit. The only thing that bothers me is that corncob wearing out."
He snatched up the briefcase and went loping down the walk, his neck stuck Out like a buzzard's. I slammed the door, and made more coffee.
I cooked a big second breakfast, and ate it all.
You see, it didn't make a bit of difference. I hadn't lost a thing by telling him off. I'd thought they were closing in on me, and now I knew it. And they'd know that I knew it. But nothing was lost by that, and nothing else had changed.
They could still only guess, suspect. They had no more to go on than they'd ever had. They still wouldn't have anything two weeks-well, ten days from now. They'd have more suspicions, they'd feel surer than ever. But they wouldn't have any proof.
They could only find the proof in me-in what I was-and I'd never show it to 'em.
I finished the pot of coffee, smoked a cigar and washed and wiped the dishes. I tossed some bread scraps into the yard for the sparrows, and watered the sweet potato plant in the kitchen window.
Then, I got out the car and headed for town; and I was thinking how good it had been to talk-even if he had turned out to be phony-for a while. To talk, really talk, for even a little while.
18
I killed Amy Stanton on Saturday night on the fifth of April, 1952, at a few minutes before nine o'clock.
It had been a bright, crisp spring day, just warm enough so's you'd know that summer was coming, and the night was just tolerably cool. And she fixed her folks an early dinner, and got them off to a picture show about seven. Then, at eight-thirty, she came over to my place, and.
Well, I saw them going by my house-her folks, I mean- and I guess she must have been standing at their gate waving to 'em, because they were looking back and waving. Then, I guess, she went back into the house and started getting ready real fast; taking her hair down and bathing, and fixing her face and getting her bags packed. I guess she must have been busy as all hell, jumping sideways to get ready, because she hadn't been able to do much while her folks were around. I guess she must have been chasing back and forth, turning on the electric iron, shutting off the bathwater, straightening the seams in her stockings, moving her mouth in and out to center the lipstick while she jerked the pins from her hair.
Why, hell, she had dozens of things to do, dozens of 'em, and if she'd just moved a little bit slower, ever so little-but Amy was one of those quick, sure girls. She was ready with time to spare, I guess, and then-I guess- she stood in front of the mirror, frowning and smiling, pouting and tossing her head, tucking her chin in and looking up under her brows; studying herself frontwards and sidewards, turning around and looking over her shoulder and brushing at her bottom, hitching her girdle up a little and down a little and then gripping it by both sides and sort of wiggling her hips in it. Then… then, I guess that must have been about all; she was all ready. So she came over where I was, and I…
I was ready, too. I wasn't fully dressed, but I was ready for her.
I was standing in the kitchen waiting for her, and she was out of breath from hurrying so fast, I guess, and her bags were pretty heavy, I guess, and I guess.
I guess I'm not ready to tell about it yet. It's too soon, and it's not necessary yet. Because, hell, we had a whole two weeks before then, before Saturday, April 5th, 1952, at a few minutes before nine p.m.
We had two weeks and they were pretty good ones, because for the first time in I don't remember when my mind was really free. The end was coming up, it was rushing toward me, and everything would be over soon. I could think, well, go ahead and say something, do something, and it won't matter now. I can stall you that long; and I don't have to watch myself any more.
I was with her every night. I took her everywhere she wanted to go, and did everything she wanted to do. And it wasn't any trouble, because she didn't want to go much or do much. One evening we parked by the high school, and watched the baseball team work out. Another time we went down to the depot to see the Tulsa Flyer go through with the people looking out the dining car windows and the people staring back from the observation car.
That's about all we did, things like that, except maybe to drive down to the confectionery for some ice cream. Most of the time we just stayed at home, at my house. Both of us sitting in Dad's big old chair, or both of us stretched out upstairs, face to face, holding each other.
Just holding each other a lot of nights.
We'd lie there for hours, not speaking for an hour at a time sometimes; but the time didn't drag any. It seemed to rush by. I'd lie there listening to the ticking of the clock, listening to her heart beat with it, and I'd wonder why it had to tick so fast; I'd wonder why. And it was hard to wake up and go to sleep, to go back into the nightmare where I could remember.
We had a few quarrels but no bad ones. I just wasn't going to have them; I let her have her own way and she tried to do the same with me.
One night she said she was going to the barbershop with me some time, and see that I got a decent haircut for a change. And I said-before I remembered-whenever she felt like doing that, I'd start wearing it in a braid. So we had a little spat, but nothing bad.
Then, one night she asked me how many cigars I smoked in a day, and I said I didn't keep track of 'em. She asked me why I didn't smoke cigarettes like "everyone else" did, and I said I didn't reckon that everyone else did smoke 'em. I said there was two members of my family that never smoked 'em, Dad and me. She said, well, of course, if you thought more of him than you do of me, there's nothing more to be said. And I said, Jesus Christ, how do you figure-what's that got to do with it?
But it was just a little spat. Nothing bad at all. I reckon she forgot about it right away like she did the first one.
I think she must have had a mighty good time those two weeks. Better'n any she'd ever had before.
So the two weeks passed, and the night of April fifth came; and she hustled her folks off to a show, and scampered around getting ready, and she got ready. And at eight-thirty she came over to my place and I was waiting for her. And I…
But I guess I'm getting ahead of myself again. There's some other things to tell first.
I went to work every working day of those two weeks; and believe me it wasn't easy. I didn't want to face anyone-I wanted to stay there in the house with the shades drawn, and not see anyone at all, and I knew I couldn't do that. I went to work, I forced myself to, just like always.
They suspected me; and I'd let 'em know that I knew. But there wasn't a thing on my conscience; I wasn't afraid of a thing. And I proved that there wasn't by going down. Because how could a man who'd done what they thought I had, go right on about his business and look people in the eye?
I was sore, sure. My feelings were hurt. But I wasn't afraid and I proved it.
Most of the time, at first, anyway, I wasn't given much to do. And believe me that was hard, standing around with my face hanging out and pretending like I didn't notice or give a damn. And when I did get a little job, serving a warrant or something like that, there was always a reason for another deputy to go along with me. He'd be embarrassed and puzzled, because, of course, they were keeping the secret at the top, between Hendricks and Conway and Bob Maples. He'd wonder what was up but he couldn't ask, because, in our own way, we're the politest people in the world; we'll joke around and talk about everything except what's on our minds. But he'd wonder and he'd be embarrassed, and he'd try to brag me up- maybe talk me up about the Johnnie Pappas deal to make me feel better.