The Innocents (7 page)

“Who’s Mr. White?” the man said, a little coy this time.

“Son of a bitch,” Fannie said. She clicked off on the phone and tossed it facedown on her desk.

•   •   •

W
ill you open up a fucking window?” Milly said.

“Can’t take it?”

“I’m so damn high, I think I’m gonna puke.”

“Don’t you puke,” Nito said. “Not in my car.”

“Slow down,” she said. “Open a window. Please.”

“God damn,” Nito said.

Ordeen sat in the front seat, giggling, finally cracking that window a bit. It had been Ordeen’s idea to hotbox after they rode the Square for an hour and then headed on back to Blackjack. He had in a Ying Yang Twins CD and then switched it out with Yo Gotti while they followed that long white highway line.

“You at your momma’s?” Ordeen asked.

“Nope.”

“Daddy’s?” Nito asked.

“Y’all just take me back to my car at the Gas & Go. I got to work tomorrow.”

“I drop Ordeen, then I drop you,” Nito said. “Cool?”

Nito’s eyes shifted up in the rearview to connect with Milly. Milly didn’t like Nito or his staring, but she wanted to get back to her own piece of shit, find some place to park for the night, and then figure it all
out in the morning. She had things needed to be done, some money to get, and then she could get free of Tibbehah County.

Ordeen lived off ReElection Road with his family, about fifty of them crowded in a dozen trailers on his granddaddy’s old land. The Davis family had the nicest stretch of road in the county, as their supervisors had paved it in exchange for the whole bunch of them casting their vote on Election Day. Nito slowed the old car to a stop, turning down the music to a soft bass bump. Ordeen popped open his door, spilling smoke out into the warm night. Crickets and frogs making a racket.

“Y’all OK?”

“Cool,” Nito said.

Ordeen looked to Milly and Milly nodded. He slammed the door and Nito Reece asked Milly why didn’t she crawl up front with him, riding on the way back to the Gas & Go.

“I’m good.”

“Come on.”

“No,” she said. “’Cause you’re going to try and mess with me.”

“Ain’t like that,” Nito said. “Shit. You don’t want to be seen with a black boy?”

“You know that’s not true,” she said. “And I just got seen with two black boys circling the Jericho Square. Who the hell’s gonna see us up in Blackjack?”

“Your daddy.”

“Fuck my daddy.”

“Whew,” Nito said. “Come on up, girl. Ain’t much longer to go. We about to run out of road.”

“I don’t need no shit,” Milly said.

“I ain’t gonna give you no shit.”

They rode up the curving county road, on the way to Blackjack, Yo
Gotti pumping from the speakers.
I done been through it all / I done been through it all.
Milly had the window down, hot wind blowing in and washing out all that weed, air rushing against her bare arm, feeling good to breathe again, and get free of all that pressure in the club and at her daddy’s house. Old ranch houses and busted trailers whizzed by, old wooden barns and brand-new metal sheds. Dogs barking in the middle of the night and deer waiting, glowing yellowed-eyed, to cross the big road.

She closed her eyes, nearly falling asleep, until the car stopped cold back at the lone Gas & Go and Nito killed the engine. He didn’t wait two seconds before he’d pressed himself on her and slid his hand down into her shorts.

“Here we go, baby” he said. “Here we go. Shh.”

“Get the hell off me, you son of a bitch.”

“What you got?” he said. “You ain’t got nothing else, Milly Jones.”

She twisted his hand away from her and reached for the door handle. As she jumped out, trying to catch her breath, Nito nearly toppled out onto the asphalt but caught himself with the flat of his hands. He smiled up at her, drunk and high, with his gold-tooth smile. “So it’s like that, Cheerleader,” he said.

“I never liked you, Nito,” she said. “Your head is broken.”

“Yeah?” Nito looked her up and down. “But you know where to find me. Won’t be long.”

L
illie drank coffee early that Wednesday morning at the Fillin’ Station diner, saying hello, doing the standard meet and greet, before Boom Kimbrough showed up. He had on his blue coveralls, right arm folded and pinned to the shoulder, taking a seat across from her. “You easy to find,” Boom said.

“I think I do more business here from six to eight a.m. than all day at the sheriff’s department,” she said. “I get tips, find out where fugitives are hiding, know about who’s gotten into it with who. It’s really one-stop shopping.”

“You eat breakfast?”

“Not yet,” she said. “Want to join me?”

“Why I’m here.”

“No,” Lillie said. “You’re here because something’s on your mind.
You get a sausage biscuit every day of the world from the Sonic, along with a tall Mountain Dew. Tell me I’m lying, Boom Kimbrough.”

“Hard being friends with the law.”

“Hard being around folks who’ve known you too long,” Lillie said. “What? You worried about Quinn getting in deep with his two-bit old man? I saw that shit a mile away. I never bought the notion of Jason Colson showing up here and now because he wanted to connect with his kids. You know that’s bullshit, right?”

“Don’t know,” Boom said. “Not sure. I wanted to talk to you about something else. I had a call last night from Coach Mills.”

“Hmm.”

Boom nodded, but before they could continue, Miss Mary, a frizzy-headed old woman who used to shack up with old Sheriff Beckett, showed up to take their orders. Lillie wanted a fried egg, over easy, with some toast. Boom wanted a sausage biscuit and a tall Mountain Dew. He looked to Lillie as he ordered, cracking a smile.

“Can’t beat a man of routine,” Lillie said.

“Coach thought maybe you and I could talk through things,” he said. “He said he didn’t feel comfortable asking too much of you.”

“But since you used to coach his linebackers, you could translate?” Lillie said. “Not to mention, you have a penis.”

“Come on, Lil,” Boom said. “Let’s not go down that road. He just wanted to save us some trouble. He thinks if Ordeen Davis gets put into the system, he won’t ever get out. I know you ain’t like Hamp Beckett, thinking that every black boy running loose has trouble in mind.”

“He loved you like a son.”

“I was good at football,” Boom said. “And I spoke his language.”

“Hunting and fishing?”

“That’s right.”

“Ordeen is good at football,” she said. “Doesn’t make him a good person. He had a gun in his car. A shit ton of weed and pills.”

Boom nodded. Miss Mary poured some more coffee for Lillie and set down Boom’s tall glass of Mountain Dew. Lillie had set her scanner on the table. Cleotha was giving directions to a fender bender down off County Road 380 involving a truck and some loose goats. According to Cleotha, the goats were still loose and causing trouble.

“I’ll let Kenny handle that one.”

“Man hates goats,” Boom said. “Thinks they the nastiest thing on earth.”

“I know,” Lillie said.

Boom leaned back into the booth, tapping his left index finger at a framed photo on the wall of
Daredevil
Jason Colson
jumping a dozen Ford Pintos back in 1977. She shook her head at the sun-faded image, Colson in helmet and black jumpsuit flying high and wild back in those days. Somewhere near the cash register was another story about Quinn, only ten years old, being lost in the National Forest while Jason experienced some halcyon days out in L.A. Quinn made it through—just barely. The headline out of Memphis was
COUNTRY BOY CAN SURVIVE
.

“I’m not asking you to give the boy any breaks,” Boom said. “I just want you to consider that Ordeen Davis is a hell of a lot like I used to be.”

“How do you know that?”

“His momma’s my pastor,” Boom said. “I known that kid since he was born. Coach said he nearly made it to D-1 but got fucked on account of his grades. He ain’t stupid, he just hadn’t had the chance. Almost good enough to make it out.”

“Isn’t that what we’re all trying to do?” Lillie said, taking a sip of hot
coffee and putting it back down. Be just damn good enough that we can all escape this purgatory.”

“Gate’s open,” Boom said.

“Who says?”

“You consider going easy on Ordeen,” Boom said. “Coach believes in him.”

“And you believe in Coach?”

“Damn right,” Boom said. “I don’t know where half the boys in this county would be without him. He’s a good man.”

Lillie nodded as Mary set down the platters of breakfast.

•   •   •

S
o what do y’all do out here?” Milly asked.

“Well,” Caddy said. “We started out as just a church. My boyfriend wanted to build a place different than traditional churches we’d both grown up in.”

The girl had just shown up that morning, wanting to know if Caddy had a place to take a shower and do some wash. She said she’d heard good things about the kind of work Caddy did and could use a little help. They stood together in the middle of the barn, where Caddy had opened up the doors to let out all the stale heated air and let some light come inside. Hay bales had been spaced out evenly on the dirt floor in place of pews.

“How’s that?” Milly asked.

“He wanted it all stripped-down,” Caddy said. “Back to the basics. Ole-time religion and all that. That’s why we started to hold services in an old barn.”

Milly looked up at the rafters and clean, unfinished walls. “Doesn’t look that old to me.”

“That one got burned down,” Caddy said. “This is the new one, but it serves the same purpose. We have services on Wednesday night and Sunday. A lot of our members make up the band. We play everything from ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ to ‘Ring of Fire.’”

“Cool,” Milly said. “First Baptist is all into the contemporary stuff. Praise music, wanting you to raise your hands and all that. I remember one song said it was supposed to be sweet incense to your heart and that bugged me. How can your heart smell something?”

“Whatever works,” Caddy said. “But that sugary stuff wasn’t helping me a bit. Jamey just wanted folks to have a place that got back to the roots of things without all the bullshit. He liked good food and good music. More than anything, he wanted a place where people didn’t judge each other. He didn’t care what you’d done. He believed every person had the right to start over and walk in His path.”

“Sounds like a good man,” Milly said. “I’d like to meet him sometime.”

Caddy nodded. “He died,” she said. “A few years back. We’re just trying to keep things going in the way he would have wanted. We got another trailer to help folks who need a place to stay. Just this summer, we added three little cabins, mostly for battered women with nowhere else to go. That big shed out back is filled with fresh and frozen food we grow here or that is donated. The Piggly Wiggly gives us some scratch-and-dent cans and such to help people supplement. It’s been hard. Especially hard after the tornado.”

“I don’t need much,” Milly said. “Just a place to shower. Get some clothes clean.”

“When’s the last time you ate?”

The girl shook her head. She had blonde hair, bangs cut blunt above her black eyebrows, and a mess of freckles across her pug nose. The
nose was pierced with a blue stone and the back of her hair tipped with black dye. She wore a tight black T-shirt and cutoff shorts with cowboy boots. “I got your name from a girl I work with.”

“Where do you work?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not say.”

“That’s fine,” Caddy said. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“She said you’d helped her a few years ago,” Milly said. “Said not to say her name because you might be ashamed she’d gone back into the life.”

“You work at the Booby Trap?”

“They call it Vienna’s now,” Milly said. “Miss Fannie is trying to make the place more respectable. She’s got an antique bar she bought in Kansas City and everything.”

“You got a place to sleep?”

“I’m not staying here much longer,” Milly said. “I’m only dancing to make enough tips to leave town.”

“You know where you’re going or what you’ll do?” Caddy said.

Milly shook her head. She looked down at her hands, short fingers with short nails painted black. Milly chewed at a cuticle, looking out a little square window at her white Kia loaded down with probably everything she owned.

“I left here a long time ago thinking I would start over,” Caddy said.

“What happened?”

Caddy smiled. “Got as far as Memphis.”

“And then what?”

“And then the bottom really fell out,” Caddy said. “I was up there a while. I never thought I’d live to see thirty.”

“I don’t know if I’ll make twenty,” Milly said, sort of laughing.
“I used to be someone. And now I’ve gotten about as low as I can get. My daddy thinks I’m nothing but a whore.”

“What do you think?”

“I think my daddy is a coward,” she said. “I think he’s just like everyone else in this rancid county, wanting to be all smiles and pats on the back and not facing the bad stuff that goes on. People around here hate when you tell the truth.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Your brother was the sheriff,” Milly said. “Wasn’t he?”

Caddy nodded, walking toward the mouth of the barn, where a little wind had kicked up. She pulled the wet T-shirt away from her body, nearly sweating through the thin white cotton that morning in the garden.

“My daddy said he was a troublemaker,” Milly said. “He said that Sheriff Colson got kicked out of office because he didn’t understand the law.”

“That’s bullshit,” Caddy said. “My brother is the bravest person I’ve ever known.”

“My daddy is good with bullshit,” Milly said. “I wish I still had a brother. I got a sister and, to be honest, she’s about the furthest thing from brave there is. All she does is play on her phone all day and eat Klondike Bars.”

“Let’s get you fed.”

“Are you going to preach to me?”

“No.”

“Good,” Milly said. “Because I don’t think Jesus can help with my troubles.”

“You’d be surprised,” Caddy said. “There was a time after Jamey died that I felt I had to handle everything myself. I think it was mostly
about pride. I believed I was the only person who could make things right. You put too much weight on your back and it’s going to break you.”

“I don’t want any more on my back,” Milly said. “I want to take some off. And I want someone to listen to what I have to say.”

“OK,” Caddy said. “But how do you get that done?”

“Folks got to stand up,” Milly said. “I can’t carry all this mess on my own.”

“I understand.”

“How can you?” Milly said. “I’ve done some rotten things in the last year. Mainly, just for the money. Or drugs.”

“Come on,” Caddy said. “Let me tell you a little about myself and where I’ve been.”

•   •   •

Q
uinn could tell his mother had been crying the moment she opened the door of his childhood home over on Ithaca Street. She wiped away the tears and told him to come on inside, she was just making a pimento cheese sandwich for Little Jason and would be glad to make some more. Quinn told her he’d appreciate that and she snapped open a bottle of Coke and sat it on top of the kitchen table.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s just so sad,” Jean Colson said. “So damn sad.”

Quinn knew. He’d heard it a hundred times. But he knew all he could do is agree with her.

“You see it in Charley Hodge’s face when he brings out his guitar,” Jean said. “He knows how much Elvis is hurting. He stands there by his side, not knowing if he’ll be able to get through ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ They knew it was the end. They always did.”

“I thought you weren’t going to watch those last concerts anymore,” Quinn said. “Elvis looks terrible. He sounds terrible.”

Jean turned around from the sink counter where she was cutting his sandwich and pointed the end of the knife at her son. “Hush,” she said. “He was putting his soul into those last few performances. The last concert, the one that was on that CBS Special, shows him hitting those high notes on ‘Unchained Melody.’ That’s a very difficult song.”

“Momma?” Quinn said.

Jean looked to him. He pointed to the knife in her hand. And she looked down at the blade, glinting in the light. “Oh,” she said. She set the sandwich in front of him and called to Little Jason, who was in the family room on the same couch Quinn had played on growing up. He bounded into the room and gave Quinn a hug, wanting to know if he wanted to play some video games. “Maybe we can get that Call of Duty?”

Quinn looked over his shoulder to Jean and smiled. She smiled back. “Not until you’re twelve,” she said. “Besides, your uncle’s played that game plenty.”

Quinn ate some of the sandwich, Jean Colson never short on talent in the kitchen. She added something to the pimento cheese making it smokier and richer than anything he’d ever tasted. She’d won two local awards for it but refused to share the recipe. Jean was good at keeping secrets. Served with a side of Golden Flake chips and bread-and-butter pickles.

“Good?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good to have some real cooking?”

“Food’s not bad in Afghanistan,” Quinn said. “I kind of miss it. My favorite was this
qabuli pulao
.”

“What’s that?”

“Qabuli pulao,”
Quinn said. “It’s made with lamb, rice, raisins, and carrots. It’s their national dish. Good stuff.”

“Better than my meat loaf?”

Quinn looked to Little Jason, Little Jason stifling a giggle, as neither of the Colson boys were fans of her meat loaf. But Quinn just smiled and said, “No, ma’am. Just can’t compete.”

Jean finished washing off the utensils and the cutting board and came up to the table, taking a seat, still drying her hands. Jean, like Quinn, had a face of sharp angles and prominent cheekbones, but with much lighter coloring than her son. Her eyes were a bright blue that matched her pale skin, and her red hair that once was natural was now colored. She had on faded mom jeans and a flowered shirt open at the collar, a gold cross on a chain around her neck. “Everything all right on the farm?”

“Yes, ma’am.”