Where Southern Cross the Dog (17 page)

Travis moved his head toward hers and breathed in her sensuality.

The small waves lapping at the shore were the only disturbance on an otherwise silent evening.

“Did you have fun tonight?” Hannah said.

“More than I expected, actually. Thanks for inviting me.”

She paused. “What do you think changes things?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like people. The way they think, how they act.”

He thought for a moment. “Time. Time passing creates change. It's slow, but change will come.”

“It'll never pass fast enough for us, will it?”

Travis said nothing for a long minute. “Probably not,” he murmured at last. “Not here.”

He turned slightly and lifted her chin with his left hand until she was facing him. He looked into her eyes. A single tear coursed down her cheek. “But don't let that ruin it for us tonight. We can't change how fast time passes, but we've got now.”

Then he leaned down and let his lips brush hers. She was motionless. Quiet. His lips glided over her cheeks, kissing her salty tears, shed in frustration. She let him, never moving, never speaking.

He looked at her again, and her face shone while the moon's rays danced on it. “Hannah, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever met, and I'm falling in love with you. Nobody can take that away either. No matter what happens.”

He pulled her tight and kissed her deeply. This night was theirs alone under that big Mississippi moon, the river flowing at their feet. She kissed him back. Her breath was hot and sweet, and he tasted her longingly. He pulled her onto him, her leg straddling his and his hands moving from her waist, down her hips, slowly massaging the side and back of her legs. She pushed hard into him, and her skirt inched up.

Travis lay back, breathing hard. She gave him a light kiss on the neck and lay her head on his chest again. He knew what he wanted must wait. The slow stirring of the water sounded like a lullaby, and he drowsily spoke to her in half-sentences and slurred words before they both drifted off to sleep.

The sun crept over the horizon, and Travis rustled. He opened his eyes, and it took him a full minute to remember where he was. His throat was dry, and his head throbbed.

Travis looked at his watch. “Hannah, get up, we've got to go.”

She opened her eyes.

“Come on. You'll be late for church. And I certainly don't want your dad mad at me.”

Travis grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet. They ran back to his car hand in hand through the cotton field, he in one furrow and she in another, lifting their arms over the crop, laughing heartily. On the cabin porch, they could see a few stragglers soundly sleeping off the evening.

Travis sped back to town, and they both were seated in their proper pews before the sermons began.

I just can't stay here long.

—Lemon Jefferson

LUKE FINISHED A PLATE OF COLD BEANS AND TOSSED his dish into the basin. It clanged around and finally came to rest. Wyatt, who was settling in after lunch for a short nap, looked over at Luke.

“I'm gonna lay down for a while.”

Luke looked at him disdainfully. How was this day different from any other?

Luke hadn't been left alone since the four Klansmen brought him to the cabin several days prior. He hadn't been broken out of prison so much as moved to a different one. Whether it was Ned, Bo, Edgar, or Wyatt, someone was here 'round the clock, day in, day out. It was clear they didn't know what to do with him.

Ned told Luke that Sheriff Collins had already been by to see Elma. Now there wasn't any chance of visiting her—at least not until the sheriff stopped watching who came and went from the house.

Luke had to admit, however, that Ned had found a good hiding place. Luke knew no one was going to find him in the middle of nowhere. He had wandered around the area a little without recognizing a thing. There was no water nearby, and the trees were cut back only about ten feet from the cabin. The road leading up to it was narrow, and Luke could see only twenty-five yards or so before the lane wound through the trees and was no longer visible.

He stepped outside on the small porch and listened. It was still. Nothing. He turned around and went back inside where Wyatt, true to his word, was napping.

What did fate hold for Luke now? Elma was a prisoner, held captive by a watchful sheriff, and he was confined at the cabin while that same sheriff searched all over the county for him. Safe hiding place or no, wouldn't they eventually stumble upon him? He was an admitted murderer. They weren't going to stop looking for him.

But being a fugitive holed up in the middle of the woods was no way to live. It didn't suit him. Besides, the meals in jail had been regular and the cooking better, and he knew his neighbors had watched over Elma while he was in his cell. Those same people wouldn't be so helpful to the wife of a fugitive.

Luke walked by Wyatt to make sure he wasn't merely resting his eyes. He shuffled his feet. Wyatt didn't move.

The car keys lay on a table near the fireplace. Luke picked them up and slipped out the front door. He walked to the window and looked in. No movement from Wyatt.

Luke knew that when he started the car Wyatt would hear the old motor rumbling and come running. Luke wasn't sure what Wyatt would do, but if Ned had told Wyatt to keep him here, then anything was possible. Luke considered running into the woods if it came down to it.

Luke stepped off the porch and walked over to the car, which faced the cabin. The quickest way out to the main road would be to back the car out ‘til he could turn around. He wasn't sure how far that would be, but he did know he'd have to go slowly; if Wyatt came running out the front door, he might even be able to catch up with the car on foot.

Luke took a deep breath, started the car, and threw it into reverse. He backed out slowly at first, until he saw the cabin door move. He pushed down on the accelerator, and the car lurched backward down the narrow path.

He alternated looking to his rear, while he steered the car, and to the front. Wyatt had come out yelling. Fortunately, he wasn't carrying a shotgun. Still half asleep, he ran toward the car but tumbled over a pile of stacked firewood.

Luke backed up until he saw a small clearing. He turned the steering wheel forcefully and the car spun around, pointing him away from the cabin. Still, he couldn't speed up on this impenetrable path. He glanced into the rearview mirror but didn't see Wyatt. He wasn't sure how far the main road was from the cabin, but he recalled from his ride in the trunk that from the time the car turned off a paved road till they arrived at the cabin, it had been less than ten minutes.

Out of the corner of his eye, Luke saw something move. A blur. Suddenly, Wyatt landed squarely on the hood of the car. He flattened himself out, gripping the edge of the hood near the windshield. “Stop this car, Luke!” he screamed. “Get outta there!”

Luke sped up. Wyatt yelled, pounding on the windshield with his fist.

“Get off the car,” Luke hollered, waving his arm at Wyatt.

Wyatt kept pounding.

Luke yanked the steering wheel from side to side, rocking the car. Wyatt became more frantic. With one final blow, he cracked the windshield with the palm of his hand and kept punching until
the hole was big enough to put his arm through. He reached in and flailed wildly, smearing blood on Luke's face and shirt. Luke tried to push his arm away, but Wyatt hooked Luke's shirt with a finger and held on tight. He had no other choice; Luke slammed on the brakes. Wyatt flew from the car's hood and landed violently on the ground, tumbling over and over. Luke steered around him and sped away.

At last the car emerged onto the main road. Luke looked both ways. He didn't recognize the area. He turned left. He hoped Wyatt wasn't hurt badly.

Luke realized that everyone in three counties would now be looking for him. He drove fast, finally free. He considered Elma but wanted to keep her out of the mess he'd gotten himself into. She needed her peace. He could drive out of the county—hell, out of the state—if he kept going. It wouldn't take long; Helena, Arkansas, was just thirty miles away. Memphis was twice that. He looked at the gas gauge. He could probably make it.

But what then? More running? A new life? Where would he start? He had nothing—and no one.

He pushed hard on the accelerator and sped down the road.

I lay down in my cell at night.

—Joe Evans

EARLY MONDAY MORNING, CONRAD HIGSON STRODE confidently out of his house, got into his car, and headed to Memphis at a leisurely speed.

He passed field upon field and row upon row of crops. He thought about the sharecroppers who worked the land, the landlords who owned it, and the struggle of both groups against the land, the elements, as well as each other. And of the coal mines in Germany where poor men fought the earth and the companies who owned it. What they harvested was the only difference.

He pulled over to the side of the road and sat for a while staring at the field hands. Watching the sacks slung over their shoulders sway while they shuffled through the rows, bent into the dirt itself where the white puffs hung, had a somewhat mesmerizing effect.
The drone of song heightened that effect as it arose from the field, lower and sweeter than the chirping of birds, the pickers singing against the heat, dust, and boredom.

The professor drove on, stopping for lunch at the small roadside restaurant he always visited on his way to Memphis. He sat at a small table in the corner and ordered the same thing he always did: ham, turnip greens, okra, and iced tea. For dessert he'd have apple pie.

“Best apple pie this side of Memphis,” Higson would say to the proprietor.

“And the other side, too,” the owner would yell from behind the counter.

They'd both laugh, and Higson would leave a little extra change. From the time he arrived until he paid his bill, precisely one hour would elapse.

As the professor continued his trip to Memphis, the Washington-bound parcel securely on the backseat, a car passed him going in the other direction. Though his features were indistinct because of the car's speed, Higson caught a glimpse of a broad smile on the man's face.

Later that afternoon, Luke drove into Clarksdale. The sun was smoldering and the streets were deserted. Everyone was hiding from the heat.

First, he stopped at the drugstore. “Let me get a meatloaf sandwich and a drink,” he said to the waitress, pulling from his pocket thirty cents that he had won playing poker with Wyatt and Bo at the cabin. “Thanks,” he said when his sandwich arrived, wrapped in crinkling wax paper, along with a cold bottle of Coca-Cola. He picked up his food and left. A few more hours of freedom would be nice.

Luke drove down to the courthouse and parked in front, under the hot sun. Then he took his lunch to the shade of a white oak on the courthouse lawn.

He sipped his drink and slowly ate his sandwich. He was going to miss meals like this. He watched the people come and go from the courthouse, scurrying as if they were squirrels storing up food for the winter. Two deputies walked from their patrol car into the building, never once looking at anyone but each other. Luke laughed to himself as he watched them enter the courthouse. Maybe nobody was looking for him after all.

He stretched out under the tree and laid his head back on a soft patch of grass. His eyes closed, and he drifted off to dream of freedom, his family, and men in hoods.

Luke felt his foot move. It wasn't a twitch; someone was kicking it, gently. Through his hazy summer slumber, he heard his name being called.

“Luke,” the rough voice said. “Wake up. Hey Luke, get up.”

Luke opened his eyes. The sun's harsh glare was shaded by the tree, but he still had difficulty seeing the face before him. The man came into focus, and Luke recognized him. He smiled. “Hello, Bill. How's it going?” he said.

“You know there's a few people looking for you. Where've you been?”

“Oh, here and there. Mostly there.”

“Is that your car?” Montgomery said motioning to Luke's stolen transportation.

“Yeah.”

“What happened to the windshield?”

“Rock hit it.”

“One of the county employees mentioned the smashed windshield to someone at the front desk. Who does it really belong to?”

“Couple guys I know.”

“Do I know them?”

“Doubt it. They're friends, not from around town.”

Montgomery sat down next to Luke, who didn't move but continued to lie still on his back. His eyes were open wide now, and he was gazing up at the tree.

“Maybe they'll come back and get it sometime,” Montgomery said.

“Maybe.”

“What'd you come back for, Luke?”

“I don't know. Nowhere else to go, I guess. It seemed better than where I was at.”

“And where was that?”

“Out in the woods somewhere. Playing cards and eatin' beans every day. Not doing much of anything.”

“Who took you out there?”

“You know who. Same guys broke me out.”

“Who was that?”

Luke looked at Montgomery. “Does it really matter? You know you'd be wasting your time messing with those fellas.”

“We might eventually find out who they are. But whether the sheriff wants to arrest them, I don't know. I do know he was pretty upset that someone broke out of his jail.”

“That's a shame he was riled.” Luke smirked.

Montgomery paused for a moment. It was hot, even under the shade of the tree. “Why'd you break out if you were planning on coming back?”

“I didn't break out. I was broken out.”

“Then I'll ask you again, why'd you come back?”

“I don't know. The sheriff was gonna get me soon enough anyway.” He stuck a blade of grass in his mouth.