Precious Bones (15 page)

Mama looked over at Little Man with that smile in her eyes. “Little Man, you do know that Nolay isn’t exactly considered white, but he’s married to me, a white woman?”

“Well, yes, ma’am, course I know that, but it ain’t the same. Mr. Nolay is a Native American, and that’s something to be mighty proud of.”

“That’s one way to look at it. But I can assure you, that’s not the way everyone sees it. And we might all be surprised what could come about in the future.”

I looked over at Little Man, and sure enough that question mark was crawling up between his eyes. I had to turn away to hide my smile.

Soon as we pulled into Little Man’s yard, Miss Melba came out to the truck and told Mama about the final plans for Peckerhead’s funeral. “Since Willy was not a churchgoin’ man, his brother, Joe, wants to have the funeral this Tuesday at their house.”

Mama shook her head. “Thanks, Melba. We’ll be sure to be there.”

On the ride home I asked, “Mama, are you sad that Peckerhead Willy died?”

“No, Bones. The death of that mean old man doesn’t make me sad. It’s Alvie and the kids I’m concerned about.”

“Mama, you know this morning, when Ironhead came out to the house and told us about Peckerhead, he said Nolay wasn’t out fishing with him. I thought that was where he was supposed to be.”

“I thought that was where he was, too.”

“Well, if he wasn’t fishing, where was he?”

“You know your daddy. He can change his mind like the wind changes directions.”

I sure agreed with how fast Nolay could change, but it wasn’t the wind that bothered me. It was what I had seen the sheriff holding.

Sunday morning, Mama had one of her callings, and we ended up at the Bethany Baptist Church. Everyone was buzzing around like bees, talking about Peckerhead’s death. Preacher Jenkins had us all bow our heads as he said a special prayer. “Lord, look down on the Reems family, and bring them your comfort, as only you can comfort, for their tragic loss. And Lord, reach out your loving arms and embrace this lost sheep back into your fold. Forever and ever. Amen.”

During the prayer I had my eyes squeezed shut, but when he asked the Lord to reach out and embrace Peckerhead, I had to open them. I looked around to make sure Preacher Jenkins wasn’t playing a joke on us. But he was standing in front of the pulpit, eyes closed and arms raised toward heaven.

When we got back from church, Nolay was home. Soon as Mama parked the Champion I jumped out and ran inside the house. Nolay was sitting at the kitchen table finishing up a bowl of grits. “Nolay, did you hear what happened to ol’ Peckerhead Willy?”

“Nope. I just got in. What happened to that ol’ scallywag?”

“He’s dead. He got run over by a train.”

Nolay turned his full attention on me. “What are you saying? When did that happen?”

“I think it happened Friday night, the same day you, me, and Little Man went out to visit Mr. Charlie. Yesterday morning Ironhead came out and told us. And when me and Little Man went to the movies we saw right where it happened.”

“You don’t say. Now, that sure is curious.”

Mama walked in the kitchen and continued, “It is such a tragic thing. The funeral will be this Tuesday.” She turned and stood in front of Nolay. “And I do hope you will be here to attend and pay your respects.”

“Of course I’ll attend. But I ain’t gonna pay no respects.”

Mama shook her head and rolled her eyes. “And Nolay, when Ironhead came over, he said you weren’t out fishing with him.”

“Yeah, I changed my mind and went up Jacksonville way.” Nolay stood up and took his bowl over to the sink. “I gotta go change out of these clothes.” He turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving me and Mama standing there looking at each other.

Monday afternoon I strolled down to the Last Chance to sit a spell with Mr. Speed. On the walk there, I decided it would not be a good idea to tell him about John Wayne and the war movie. I would stick with Roy Rogers and Trigger.

After I got settled in on the bench next to Mr. Speed, I told him the story from start to finish. The whole time, he bobbed his head up and down. At the end I said, “Mr. Speed, that Trigger sure is something. I think horses must be the smartest animal there is.”

“Pigs are smarter. The smartest animal is a pig. A pig.”

“Pigs? You mean like my Pearl?”

“Yep, smarter. Pearl is smarter.”

Mr. Speed had met Pearl on several occasions when me and Nolay had taken her for a ride in the back of the truck. She sat back there with her snout sticking out over the edge, just like a dog.

“Golly, that sure does make me proud to have Pearl as a friend.”

“Friends, good friends.”

I looked over at Mr. Speed and thought about what a good friend he was to me. Nobody else would let me carry on without laughing or saying what strange ideas I had. I couldn’t always tell for sure, but I was pretty certain Mr. Speed felt the same as I did about things—the important things, anyway.

Mr. Speed was holding up his finger. “Shines by the knuckle. Heard ’em talk, talk, it’s by the knuckle.”

I pointed to the side of my finger and said, “You mean here, this is where we live?”

“The swamp will dry up. Soon. Dry up.”

“Yes, sir. It’s starting to do that right now. It’s nearly autumn already.”

“Heard talk. Look for it here, shines gold, gold.”

“Yes, sir, I will do that.”

Right now, I had no idea what Mr. Speed was trying to share with me. We sat in each other’s silence for a while longer as Mr. Speed bobbed his head up and down. The pages in his mind seemed pretty soggy today.

I looked over and said, “Mr. Speed, I best be getting back home. I still got some chores to do. I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

“Again, soon.”

On my walk back home, Mr. Speed’s words hung on to me like leaves on a tree. I couldn’t stop a smile spreading across my face at the thought of my Pearl being smarter than Roy Rogers’s Trigger.

Tuesday morning, the day of the funeral, Mama took charge. She insisted I wear a dress. “It would not be proper for you to go dressed as a cowboy.” Armed with a huge bowl of potato salad, Mama herded me and Nolay into the truck. “This is not an occasion for the Champion; we are to be humble and civil.”

At the end of our driveway, before we turned onto the county road, a group of colored people stood on the side of the road. I recognized Blue and several of the colored women from the shanties. Nolay stopped the truck. Blue shuffled over to Nolay’s side, holding his worn straw hat in his hands, his eyes cast respectfully downward.

“Mista Nolay, Miz Lori, the ladies here have some offerin’s for Miz Alvie and the chilluns. We was wonderin’ if we could trouble you to take ’em out to her place when y’all go. We
know Mista Joe don’ take kindly to colored folks, but the ladies here would like to do the Christian thing and give somethin’ to Mista Willy’s famlee. Don’t intend to be no bother, Mista Nolay, but shore would ’preciate it.”

“No bother at all, Blue, just put the stuff in the back of the truck. We’ll see that it gets there.”

The ladies began to load brightly printed flour sacks filled with fresh garden vegetables in the back. Mama looked at the precious sacks being used. She leaned out the window and said to one of the women, “Bertha, do you want the sacks returned? I can bring them back if you like. It won’t be a bother.”

“No, Miz Lori, it’s all a offerin’. We sure do ’preciate you doing this. If you could, you let Miz Alvie know in private that our prayers are with her and the chillun.”

“I will do that, Bertha, I will surely do that. And thank you and the rest of the ladies.”

On our ride out to the Reems place, the cab of the truck was filled with a deafening silence.

As we drove up, we saw an assortment of cars and trucks parked haphazardly in the Reemses’ desolate yard. I recognized Mr. Cotton’s blue pickup and swallowed a sigh of relief that Little Man was somewhere close by. There was a gathering of men milling around the old broken barn door. Whackerstacker Joe leaned against the wall and passed a jar of moonshine around the group of men.

Mama leveled her eyes on me and Nolay. “Nolay, you keep away from that moonshine. And Bones, you conduct yourself like a young lady. This is a funeral; you are here to pay your respects.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Nolay replied in a squeaky little-kid voice, then looked down at me and winked.

Women clad in their best dark-colored dresses filled the front porch and spilled out into the yard. Old Ma Reems sat in her decrepit rocking chair, tobacco stains dripping down both sides of her chin. The usual blank stare covered her craggy old face.

I found Little Man around the side of the house with a group of kids. We were just getting ready to start a game of tag, when Miss Melba came around the corner and said, “Little Man, you and Bones come inside and pay your respects.”

As we climbed up the dilapidated steps, I whispered to Little Man, “I ain’t ever been inside the Reemses’ house, have you?”

“Naw, this is the first time.”

On one side of the rickety front porch, several boards had been set on top of a couple of sawhorses to make a table. It was covered in worn bedsheets and laden with bowls and platters of comfort food brought by well-meaning neighbors.

Little Man stepped up and pulled open the squeaky screen door. I slid in behind him and stuck my hand in his back pocket. The only light inside the room was from flickering kerosene lanterns and some candles. The sour smell of misery rushed over us. I blinked to adjust to the dimness. People stood in small groups; some sat in chairs and on an old couch that was set along the wall. Muffled voices and the cries of babies hung in the thick, stale air.

I was just ready to tell Little Man I wanted to leave when
he let out a sigh and whispered, “Lordy, Bones, looky there.” I tightened my grip on his pants pocket and peeked around his shoulder. A long pine box sat in the middle of the floor. An assortment of candles and wilted flowers was on the top.

Seated beside the pine box was Miss Alvie. She cradled a baby in one arm, her other hand limp as a dishrag on top of her protruding stomach. Next to her sat Martha, Ruthie, and the dirty-faced little boys. Today the boys’ faces had been scrubbed pink-clean.

I turned to bolt out the door, but the soft hand of Miss Melba wrapped gently around my arm. She whispered, “Bones, you and Little Man go up and give your respects to Miss Alvie.”

Even in the dark, Miss Melba must have seen the terror in my eyes, because she kept her hold on my arm and began to nudge me and Little Man. Sandwiched between the two of them, I felt my wooden legs jerk forward.

Little Man shuffled up and stood in front of Miss Alvie. “My condolences, Miss Alvie.” I peeked around his side and whispered, “Me too.” Martha and Ruthie sat still as little sticks, their eyes glued to the floor. Shadows shimmered across their pale white skin. Miss Alvie looked at us; her eyes mirrored the hopelessness of a trapped animal’s. I watched her thin lips form the words “Thank you” but no sound came out.

I was still clutching Little Man’s back pocket as we turned in unison and walked toward the light of the screen door. When we stepped out on the porch we saw, parked directly in front of the steps, a shiny black hearse. The two back doors were open, and a small crowd of boys was hanging around,
looking inside. Little Man let out a whistle and headed straight down the steps to join the other boys.

Sheriff LeRoy’s car was parked in front of the hearse. I watched as he walked down the steps and headed for his car.

A group of men began to make their way up from the barn to the house. Whackerstacker Joe swaggered in front, followed by his three boys. He walked past the back of the hearse and said, “Y’all get on outta here. We got bizzness to do.”

The men went inside the house. In a few minutes, the screen door squeaked open, and they carried out the pine box. Miss Alvie and her brood walked down the steps and stood behind the hearse as the pine box was slid inside. Martha’s and Ruthie’s milk-white skin glistened in the hot sun. Standing next to the pink-skinned Reems boys, they looked like two white cranes that had landed in a pigpen.

The Reems clan loaded up in cars provided by neighbors and proceeded follow the long black hearse, with Sheriff LeRoy’s car leading the way down the road.

Mama came out of the house and signaled it was time for us to go. On the way home she kept saying, more to herself than to us, “That poor woman and those poor kids. What will she do now?”

Nolay cleared his throat. “I was talking with some of the boys and Sheriff LeRoy about what happened to Peckerhead. LeRoy seems to think it wasn’t an accident. Says he’s investigatin’, but it looks like ol’ Peckerhead was laid across the tracks on purpose.”

Mama turned her head. “On purpose? You mean LeRoy thinks it was murder?”

“He didn’t say those exact words, but I do believe that’s what he’s thinkin’. Says there appears to have been a scuffle of some sorts and he’s collecting evidence.”

Evidence
. That word bounced around inside my head. Was that what I saw Sheriff LeRoy holding when we passed him on the train? And where was Nolay that night, the very night he was supposed to have been fishing with Ironhead? He said he was up in Jacksonville, but doing what?