Ten
We buried Marcus beside his father, in the Mt. Zion A.M.E. Church cemetery. It was the first time I ever stepped foot in Blanche's church and I stuck out like a sore thumb. The service was not like any I ever attended, but I have no intention of describing it here. Of all the details I must give to satisfy my conscience before I die, there are some that will be left to the memories of those who were there. I owe Blanche this.
We may not ever know the exact details of Marcus's death. What we do know is this: on Friday morning, the day after Thanksgiving, Marcus was headed north on Interstate 75 when a trucker locked up the brakes on his tractor trailer rig to avoid a disabled vehicle in his lane. There were no skid marks on the highway to indicate that Marcus reacted at all. The hood of the car went beneath the trailer and the windshield took the full impact. Marcus was pronounced dead at the scene.
Blanche blamed herself, of course, but I knew I was the one who sent the boy to his death. I’ve lived with it every day since then. Blanche was right. Once a lie is told, you have to keep on telling it. You not only have to repeat it time and time again, you have to embellish it, layer upon layer until you don‘t even remember the truth. Every day I didn’t tell Blanche what I knew was another day I lied to her. Guilt cloaked me like a wool blanket in summer and no amount of sweet tea or gentle ceiling fans ever soothed me again.
I begged Blanche to take some time off after the funeral, but she refused saying she could not bear to sit around her house and look at things that reminded her of Marcus. I could not tell her how well I understood. It was all I could do not to insist that she retire so I would not have the daily reminder of what I had done. But, even I recognized the cowardice in that and forced myself to go on.
Two days after Blanche buried her only son, Eldred Mims was arrested for the murder of Skipper Kornegay. Dovey Kincaid hightailed it over to tell me herself before I'd had a chance to read it in the morning paper.
"Miz Beckworth? Miz Beckworth!" She shouted as she banged her fist against the screen door.
I barely got the inside door unlocked and opened before she charged into my home without waiting for an invitation.
"Have you seen this?" she demanded, waving the Mayville Free Press under my nose.
"Why, Dovey Kincaid! I've been looking all over for that paper. Where'd you find it?"
"It was right there on your front step..." she began and stopped as my sarcasm dawned on her. “That's real funny, Ora Lee. You won't be laughing when you see what's on the front page. I tried to warn you about that awful old man, but did you listen to me? No, you did not!"
"What are you talking about, Dovey?"
"I told you he was dangerous, didn't I? He's the one killed Ralph Kornegay's son. It says so right here. They arrested him last night."
I snatched the paper from her and flipped it open. Homeless Man Arrested for Murder of Police Chief's Son read the bold headline.
"Oh, dear Lord." My hands shook so hard the paper crackled aloud.
"I'll say 'Dear Lord!'" Dovey huffed. "We could have all been killed. But you wouldn't hear a word of it. Harmless old man, you called him."
"Dovey, it's time for you to leave."
"Well, harmless, my foot! He's a cold-blooded killer, that's what he is! And you had him skulkin' around here big as you please. 'Won't hurt a fly,' you said."
"Get out of my house, Dovey," I warned again.
"He cut that boy to shreds is what he did! Pure shreds!" she said, wagging her finger in my face for emphasis. "Well, I wanna know what you have to say for yourself now, Miss Know-it-All."
To this day, I don't know what came over me. Maybe it was the schoolgirl tone of her name-calling that just pushed me over the edge. I rolled up that newspaper and popped Dovey Kincaid right in the head.
"Oh!" she screamed, throwing her hands up to cover her face.
"I said get out of my house and I mean get out of my house!" I punctuated my words with swats aimed at her perfectly coiffed hair.
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" she wailed as she bobbed and weaved to escape my blows. She fled through the front door with me on her heels. I stopped at the edge of the porch and watched her run blindly across the street, cupping her head in her arms and shrieking the whole way.
I stood there for a few moments puffing tiny clouds of fog into the cold December air as I tried to catch my breath. I turned to go back in and Blanche materialized at the screen door.
"Could you call me a cab?"
"Already did. Be here in ten minutes."
"You hear all that?"
"Ain't deaf yet, I reckon."
"Good Lord, what have I done?"
"Look like you done run that one off for good, I'd say."
I couldn't bring myself to tell her I wasn't talking about Dovey Kincaid.
I went straight to the police station and demanded to see Eddie. It was all I could do not to turn myself in immediately when I saw what they did to that pitiful old man. According to Ralph Kornegay, Eddie resisted arrest. That was the official account of the facial lacerations and bruises and the broken bones in his right arm. By the time I got to him, his bones were set and his wounds bound, but his attorney had not made it by to talk to him yet. That didn’t surprise me a bit.
Eddie lay quietly on the lower bunk of the jail cell, his swollen face turned toward the wall. The sound of the key turning in the lock echoed loudly down the row of cells, but it did nothing to move him.
“Eddie?” I spoke softly first and when he didn’t answer, a little louder. “Eddie? I’ve brought you some food.”
He mumbled something then, but did not look up. The guard behind me spoke for him.
“He can’t eat anything, Miz Beckworth. Can’t hardly open his mouth.”
“He has to eat, Mr. - what was your name?” I asked and answered my own question by reading his nametag. “Mr. Smallwood. Oh! You Binky Smallwood’s boy?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
That’s the thing about southern boys; they can be mean as snakes and twice as deadly, but they’re raised polite. This one didn't have a mean bone in his body, if memory served me correctly, but his father was a piece of work.
Binky Smallwood was a pompous little barrel of a man with six sons and an exhausted, but forgiving wife. He attended The Mayville Baptist Church every Sunday, but it was his Monday through Saturday habits that caused his unsuccessful bid for deaconship there. This was the youngest of the Smallwood crew, as Binky was fond of calling them. Binky was captain of his ship and he made sure everyone knew it.
Our pastor was a forward-thinking man who believed in Southern Baptist doctrine, but had a decidedly Christ-like point of view. He once preached an inspired sermon on marriage and all that it entailed. I remember him looking straight at Binky Smallwood when he said, “If you have to tell everyone you’re the head of your household, then make no mistake about it, you are not.” I have no doubt the message went straight over the fool's head.
“I taught you in Sunday School, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“I was rather fond of you as I recall,” I said.
“Yes, Ma’am."
I said a quick prayer that this apple had rolled a good way from the tree.
“Do me a favor then, would you?” I asked.
“Yes, Ma’am?”
“Could you find Mr. Mims some tomato soup?”
“Yes, Ma’am, I could try,” he responded, but did not move.
“Could you do that now, maybe?” I prodded.
“Now?” He hesitated and looked around, obviously weighing the risks of leaving me alone with Mr. Mims.
“Doesn’t look to me like Mr. Mims has any fight left in him, Mr. Smallwood.”
“I’m Chip, Ma’am.”
“Chip. That’s right. I had forgotten.”
“I shouldn’t leave you alone with the prisoner, Ma’am.”
“Would you like to search me?”
I raised my arms. Chip backed away horrified.
“No, Ma’am, that won’t be necessary.”
“Run along then, Chip. I’ll be fine and we’ll both be here when you get back.”
He hesitated, struggling I'm sure with protocol and reason. Then, taking the handcuffs from his belt, he leaned down and reached for Eddie's left arm.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Mims," he said softly as he snapped one link around Eddie's wrist and the other to the rail of the metal bed.
“Do you really think that's necessary?"
“I'll take it off when I get back," he said and let himself out of the cell without looking back.
I turned back to Eddie as soon as I heard the outer door latch shut.
“Eddie, look at me,” I commanded.
He moved his head slowly, almost imperceptibly, and cut his eyes toward me as he did. I moved closer to him and knelt beside his bed.
“I know you didn’t do this. I’m going to get you out of here.”
He didn’t respond.
“Do you understand me? I’m going to get you out of here before they hurt you again.”
“Don’t,” was all he said before he cut his eyes away again.
I wasn't one to pray often. I was raised Methodist myself and we were taught not to bother God with anything real specific, just the Lord’s Prayer at night and a litany of blessings on friends and family. I looked down at the frail man who had tended my flowers with care and never asked a thing of me and I felt compelled to ask for help.
I bowed my head and spoke aloud, “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us…” My voice caught. I tried again. “Forgive us our trespasses…” I couldn’t go on.
A feeble voice rose up, “As we forgive those who trespass against us.”
I didn't cry at my own husband's funeral, but I cried then. And the tears didn't stop until the Public Defender arrived to meet his new client.