“District Eleven-C,” said Talbert. “Judge Knott is one of the few with a D after her name to ride in unopposed last election.”
I had been appointed in the summer and my place on that ballot was mostly pro forma. Because local Republicans hadn’t sensed the potential for such widespread bloodletting, they didn’t bother to run anybody against me for the rest of Perry Byrd’s term. I can only hope the pendulum swings back a little before I have to run again.
“I don’t believe I caught your name, Mr.—?”
His eyes briefly met Talbert’s. “Just call me Tom.”
The wind shook loose another cloud of yellow leaves from the branches above us and he gave an exaggerated shiver. “Hooks, I think I’ll head on back to the car. Reckon there’s any hot coffee left in the thermoses, Bob?”
“Yes, sir,” the younger man answered smartly, which made me think he was either a very junior member of the man’s firm or maybe his chauffeur.
“Coming, Hooks?”
“I’ll be along in a minute.”
“Nice meeting you, Judge,” he said, and then they were gone.
“You didn’t happen to see a half-grown beagle pup, did you?” I asked, ready to keep walking myself.
Talbert’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “That’s why you’re poking around out here? Looking for a lost dog?”
I almost asked him if there was anything here he didn’t want me to see, like maybe plants that deviated from the USDA’s list of recommended nursery stock? Somehow, I managed to control my tongue. “I was afraid he might’ve tried to follow me.”
“Over to Stancil’s place? Something going on over there? We heard sirens and horns before.”
“Jasper Stancil’s been killed,” I said. “They’re treating it like a homicide.”
Briefly I described events and it was almost like speaking to a computer. His face didn’t change expression. He didn’t frown or exclaim, but I could sense a realignment of facts and a new set of calculations going on behind his pale blue eyes.
Okay, so the bloodlines were a little attenuated. G. Hooks and Mr. Jap were probably only third cousins twice removed and it wasn’t like the two of them had anything in common beyond some land boundaries. Even so, three generations back, those land divisions were the result of a very real family connection and for him to treat Mr. Jap’s death like a problem in binary logic suddenly made me forget all my self-administered lectures on discipline and discretion.
I heard myself say, “I guess this complicates your plans?”
“Plans?”
“To buy a strip of road frontage from Jasper Stancil.”
It was almost enough to ruffle his composure.
Almost, but not quite. Of course, he’s been practicing control at least twenty years longer than me.
He gave a polite nod, said, “Hope you find your dog,” and turned to follow the others.
Just before he disappeared into the underbrush, he glanced back at me. “You’re up for election again when? Next year, is it?”
14
« ^ » …Their behavior at home is consistent with their appearance abroad.“Scotus Americanus,” 1773
I’d asked for it, of course, but I didn’t like the implications of Talbert’s question. I hadn’t had to spend much money on campaigning before. If he decided to take a personal interest in my next election, he could channel enough money to an opponent to more than swamp me. Even down here at the bottom of the political food chain, money makes a difference.
Even less did I like the corollary thought to the question I’d asked G. Hooks. Mr. Jap’s death might complicate his plans, but suddenly things were rosier for Daddy and the brothers who still live and farm along Possum Creek.
If we could keep Adam from selling, there would be no access to the Talbert land. No access meant no immediate development, no change to our way of life here on the north side of Possum Creek. For a little while longer, we could fish and hunt or just revel in the sheer luxury of space.
Adam’s right: we may not all live here—I’m a judge in Dobbs, Frank’s retired out in San Diego, Will’s an auctioneer in Cotton Grove, Herman’s an electrician in Dobbs— yet, except for Adam, our roots go down deep in these sandy fields and scruffy woods. Even the grandchildren, who are starting to scatter out across the state, look to this part of Colleton County as a fixed anchor. My brothers aren’t much for putting emotion into words, but Haywood once said it for them: “When you step out on your own back porch and everything is Knott land for as far as you can see, why boys, don’t y’all’s spirit just fill up in a plenteous amplitude?”
I crossed the creek in a bittersweet mood that echoed the falling leaves and I wondered how much longer such plenteous amplitude could endure.
Adam accused me of romanticizing our land. If by that he means I know the spiritual value of what we have and don’t want to see it disappear beneath a gridwork of named streets with manicured grass and biscuit-cutter houses, he’s right. Guilty as charged.
As I came up the slope, Hambone rushed down to meet me, whimpering in his relief at finally seeing someone he could attach himself to. Almost immediately, his confidence was restored enough that he dashed into the edge of the woods and began to bark at something. His little beagle tail wagged happily and he kept running back and forth as if wanting to share something wonderful with me.
“Whatcha found, boy?” I asked.
The leaves and grasses had been smoothed down into a narrow trail that led into the undergrowth, and sure enough, there by the trail sat one of Andrew’s homemade wooden rabbit gums. He and Daddy raise and train rabbit dogs, and rabbits are integral to that training.
Out back of his house, Andrew has fenced in a quarter-acre circle with shoulder-high chicken wire. The yard itself is overgrown with weedy grass and shaggy bushes, and Andrew’s hauled in tree limbs, a few logs, and several lengths of hollow plastic pipes, six to ten inches in diameter. He traps rabbits and releases them into the training yard, then turns the pups in. The rabbits bounce around the yard and the puppies yip and tumble after them till the rabbits get tired and go hide in the hollow pipes.
The object of the exercise isn’t to have the dogs catch the rabbits. It’s to get them familiar with the rabbit’s scent and to learn to break off the hunt when called.
Like Daddy, most of my brothers hardly ever take a gun with them when they go out to the woods to run the dogs. Mainly they just like to be outdoors, listening to the song the dogs sing when they catch the scent.
The trap door had fallen shut on the rabbit gum Hambone had found and when I hefted one end of the thing, I felt the telltale slither as the animal inside scrabbled to maintain its balance. Rabbit, possum or coon? From the lively scratching, it was probably a rabbit, but sometimes other young animals will go in after the fruit bait and trip the door.
Hambone was beside himself with excitement as I set the box down and I couldn’t resist. I grabbed him by the collar and held it tightly with one hand while lifting the trap door with the other.
Instantly, a rabbit tumbled onto the ground, blinked once in the afternoon sunlight, and lit out across the bean field. I gave him about a ten-foot head start, then let go of Hambone’s collar. He lunged after the rabbit, yipping and singing as if he’d been doing it all his life. I knew there was no chance in the world that he’d ever catch up, but he’d have a blissful twenty minutes thinking he might.
Smiling to myself, I carefully returned the box to the same place Andrew had left it, reset the trap door, then took a handful of leafy twigs and brushed away most of our tracks so maybe Andrew wouldn’t notice that we’d freed one of his rabbits.