Chapter 5: Our Own
Murder finds another motive.
The bell over McCready’s door
gives one tired rattle
when I push inside.
Past the aspirin
and canned beans,
Earl Pickens drags
a bag of deer corn
off the stack.
Gets it up with one hand.
Then he sees me.
Doesn’t set it down.
“Cal,” he says. “You keep busy.”
“Been a busy couple days.”
On the counter, Wade’s picture
is taped to a jar
half full of folded bills.
Earl nods toward it.
“Folks been good it seems.”
“What’s it for?” I ask.
“His family.
Burial. Groceries.
Whatever they need.”
“Yep, folks have been good,” I say.
I look along the counter.
“So, where’s Jude’s?
I don’t see nobody passing one
for Jude’s lawyer?”
His eyes settle on me.
“Vance has Jude.”
“That’s why
he needs a jar.”
He smiles, not warm.
Just a smile built
for easy days.
“We look after our own,” he says.
There it is.
He looks past me,
like that settles it.
“That other fella—Jude—
he was always passing through.
Never could stay put.”
“He grew up here.”
“Maybe, but he didn’t stay here.
Wade was one of ours.
Good boy.
Had his faults, sure.
But don’t we all?”
“Everybody does.”
Earl snorts, shifts the bag.
The girl at the register
calls out his total.
Earl walks up,
lays down cash,
takes his change.
He turns to me.
“Ain’t the same thing.”
When he leaves,
the bell rings again.
Cold comes in after him.
I keep my hand
on the freezer lid
till the cold works
through my palm.
Then I step outside.
Light lies pale
across the lot,
caught hard
in the windshields.
I wait for the glare
to give up the cabs.
In one,
a man bends low
over the wheel,
thumbnail working
under the corner
of a decal
inside the glass.
He gets it loose,
folds it into his palm.
Looks up
and finds me watching.
“You keep busy, too,”
I say inside my cab,
breath showing in the cold.
Earl’s loading the deer corn
into his pickup.
Behind him,
the other truck pulls out.
Low in the windshield,
the bare square shows—
four green corners
and the white tip
of a deer antler
still stuck to the glass.
I watch it
all the way to the road.
Earl shuts the tailgate,
looks up at me.
He doesn’t wave.
Doesn’t have to.
###
Later,
I again come up
on the club road.
Don’t turn in.
Just ease off the gas.
Two trucks by the entrance—
one’s Earl’s.
Low in the windshield
of the other,
four green corners
and the white tip
of a deer antler.
Same truck from McCready’s.
I read the plate.
Say it under my breath
once, then twice.
Two men stand by the ditch,
hands buried in their coats.
One turns
and looks straight at me.
I quit moving my mouth.
Keep driving.
###
That night,
Della’s bar fills early.
Lot near full before dark.
Men step down in clean jackets,
work boots hitting gravel.
Women lean close
to visor mirrors,
fix their lipstick,
press their lips together,
then open the doors.
People coming with that look
folks wear
when they want the world
to know they’ve had
a hard day.
Inside,
room smells like beer,
fryer grease,
wet wool steaming off coats.
Glasses knock.
Stools drag.
Every table’s got somebody
leaned in close.
Wade’s name
moves booth to booth—
every pass,
he comes out a little cleaner.
By nine,
he’s halfway to being a saint,
and the man ain’t even cold yet.
Della works the bar
without smiling.
Slides a bourbon
to a man from the co-op.
Then sets a beer
in front of a deputy
who hadn’t asked for another
yet.
“Ain’t right,” Della says,
louder than she needs to.
“Man dies
and folks act like
they done solved it
by supper.”
Deputy down the bar
clears his throat.
“Sheriff’s just trying
to keep things calm.”
Della turns,
looks him over.
“Calm for who?” she asks.
“And for how long?”
He colors up,
quick and sharp.
“Ain’t my place.”
“That’s the problem,” she says.
“Too many places
ain’t nobody’s
till something breaks.
Then everybody wants
to act like
they been put in charge.”
Room goes quiet
long enough
to hear the fryer
through the wall.
I drink half my beer,
watch a couple from church
whisper over cold fries.
Watch a club man
laugh too hard at nothing.
Watch a stranger
nursing a highball,
the level hardly moving.
Della catches my eye,
tips her head to the back.
I follow her
past the kitchen,
down a narrow hall
by the stockroom.
Cases of beer
stacked up to the ceiling.
Ice machine kicking on and off—
like it can’t make up its mind.
“They been here,”
she says.
“Who?”
“Club men.
Sheriff’s friends.
Men I don’t see
twice a month
suddenly taking all evening
to finish one drink.”
“They say anything?”
“Not much.”
She crosses her arms.
“That’s how you know
they’re listening.”
I lean on the wall.
“Anybody say Wade
had enemies?”
She lets out a low laugh.
“Honey, Wade had responsibilities.
That’s what a man calls enemies
he still has to eat lunch with.”
I can’t help it—I smile.
She doesn’t.
“You didn’t hear this
from me,” she says.
“I never do.”
“Wade’d been asking questions.”
“What kind?”
She shrugs, one shoulder up.
“Little ones. Money.
A drug seizure
that didn’t quite seize.
Wade got roughed up last year
out by the timber road,
and after that…
he decided forgetting
was best for his future.”
“Decided?”
Her face shifts.
“Decisions get made
for people all the time.”
From the kitchen, tray hits metal—
both of us look.
Then back at each other.
“You think Wade
knew something?” I ask.
“I think Wade knew enough
to get tiresome.”
We let that hang between us.
Out front,
the jukebox is going.
Folks talk over it.
When we walk out,
the stranger’s still
in the corner.
Same drink.
In the mirror behind the bar,
I can see the hall
we just came from.
From his chair,
so can he.
He raises his glass.
I put the money beside my bottle.
And leave.
###
At home,
I leave the lamp off,
sit on the bed, boots still on.
Room mostly dark,
yard light coming through
the blinds in stripes.
Truck passes
up the road, tires hissing
on old pavement.
Then nothing.
I think about Earl
with his bag of deer corn.
“We look after our own.”
I think about those trucks
by the club road.
The man in the corner
with his glass lifted.
And Della in the hall
saying Wade knew enough
to get tiresome.
I listen to the house settle.
Fridge kicking on,
board popping in the wall.
And all at once
I get that feeling—
like folks being patient with me.
Not coming for me.
Not yet.
Just letting me
look around long enough
to learn the rules.
I take my boots off,
set them on the floor.
Headlights cross the blinds,
slow at the mouth
of my drive,
then leave the room dark.
I listen for the engine
to turn back.
It doesn’t.
I open the nightstand drawer,
take out the .38.
Check the cylinder.
All six still there.
I set it beside me.
Then I put my boots back on.
