Who Let That Killer In The House? (9 page)

“I didn’t think I should tell anybody, since I didn’t mention it in my job interview.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He looked down at his hands, which he was rubbing back and forth with a swishing sound. A college ring gleamed on one thick finger. “This was the first chance I’d had since college to teach in my subject, and I didn’t want to mess up. My previous school valued me more as a coach than a chemist. I figured most of the kids I went to school with would have moved away, and frankly, it didn’t occur to me that grown-ups would remember me.” The sweet, self-effacing little boy had become a sweet, self-effacing man.

He leaned forward, clasped his hands together between his knees, and examined them like he’d never noticed them before. The shiny toes of his loafers swivelled back and forth, pendulums marking passing time. “But that’s not what I came to talk about.” He came to a dead stop.

“Is it about Yasheika, or Hollis?”

He looked up, startled. “Hollis?”

“She told Bethany she was going over to see you at lunchtime.”

He shifted his feet uneasily and rubbed his palms together again. “Yeah, Hollis came in for a little chat. Did she tell Bethany what it was about?”

“No.” I hesitated, then added, “Bethany’s scared you’ve picked Hollis for the team and didn’t pick her.”

That made him laugh. “I wouldn’t do that. And I wouldn’t go into a championship game without my Deadly Duo. Don’t tell Bethany—I’ll start calling the girls tonight after I talk to one more coach down at the south end of the county—but she and Hollis are definitely on the team. We’ll be practicing every day, starting Friday. We need all the work we can get in.”

“They’re going to be thrilled.” I hoped that was true. Surely this spat, whatever it was, would soon blow over.

I was so busy wondering whether we’d close the store again for the district championship game, I didn’t understand what DeWayne meant when he said, “It’s about Ronnie.” Seeing my blank look, he added, “What I came to talk to you about. Apparently you told my baby sister this morning that it was Buddy Tanner who—who identified our daddy at his trial—” His left hand started to tremble. He pinioned it with his right.

I jumped in to defend myself. “I didn’t know she didn’t know.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming you. She’d have found out as soon as she started poking around the records. She doesn’t blame you, either. But she went down and jumped all over poor Ronnie, saying he ought not have taken a job with Buddy, after what he’d done.”

“I doubt if Ronnie even knew,” I pointed out. “He was an infant when it happened, just like Yasheika. The Colders shut down the meat-packing plant and moved to Mississippi right after that, and Buddy had such nightmares that folks didn’t bring up the subject any more than they had to. I doubt if Ronnie ever heard Anne Colder’s name, growing up.”

Now both DeWayne’s hands and arms were shaking. He clutched the arms of my wing chair like it was about to take off with him in it, but kept talking like I couldn’t see. “That’s what I figured.” He shook his head. “Yasheika has gone off the deep end about this. She’s convinced there’s a way to prove Daddy innocent and she’s the one who’s gonna find it. She also thinks Ronnie is a traitor to the whole African American population by accepting a job from Buddy.”

“Never seemed to me like she cared whether he agreed with her or not.”

Laughing again stilled his tremors some. “You got that right. Those two are like cats and dogs. I won’t let them be in the same room if I can help it. Pick, pick, pick, that’s all they ever do. Or at least Yasheika picks at him. She’s the dog. He’s like a cat, stalking away with his nose in the air. I’ve told him and told him she’d respect him more if he’d give as good as he gets.”

“He won’t fight,” I told him. “He grew up with a daddy who beat his mother and saw him kill her when he was five—”

“He never!”

“He certainly did. Ronnie was right there in the living room when Buck shot Janey. The miracle was that Buck ran out of the house and didn’t kill the child. Ronnie had a bad temper, too, when he was little, but we’ve all worked to help him keep it under control. He won’t fight now, especially with a woman. He’s too scared of how it might end.”

“I can understand that.” DeWayne was trembling again, so fiercely that the whole chair shook. He spoke through tight lips. “Kids shouldn’t have to go through things like that.”

“Kids shouldn’t be in cars when their daddies are arrested.” I leaned over and put both hands on his. “Have you ever gotten counseling for this?”

His forehead was beaded with sweat and he spoke in gasps. “Twice. In college and again before I moved down here. Nothing seems to help. I keep seeing the police stop our car and haul Daddy out. I never saw him again until I went to visit him in prison when I was in college, but I see that in all my nightmares. I also see kids at school, staring, pointing, whispering, laughing behind my back.” He shuddered. “Some would tag me and run, like they had done something real brave. Others sang a little jingle they made up.” He sang in the falsetto
nyah-nyah
tune of children, “ ‘Gerrick’s daddy killed a girl. Now he’s gonna fry-y.’ ”

“Oh, honey!” I didn’t know what else to say. I wanted to gather him up and hold him like he was still eight years old, but he was at least twice my size. All I could do was keep my hands on his until they grew calm.

He tried to smile, but it looked like rictus. “It’ll pass in a minute. But now you know why I didn’t want Hopemore to know who I am. I couldn’t stand going through all that again.”

I wished I could tell him that we were a well-mannered town, that not one soul would stare, point him out, or whisper behind his back if they learned who he was. Unfortunately, it wasn’t true. I could list several people who’d have a field day if they knew the Honeybees’ coach and high-school chemistry teacher was Gerrick Lawton’s son. I decided the best thing I could do was take the conversation back a bit. “Do you think if Yasheika knew about Ronnie’s past, it might help her understand him better?”

“It might. Is Ronnie’s daddy still in jail?”

I hated to answer that question. “Ronnie’s daddy was executed.”

Seeing his face, I decided it was time to lighten up a bit. “You’d think, growing up around Joe Riddley, Ronnie would have learned that a man and woman can fight without him hitting or shooting her. Joe Riddley can be an ornery old coot.”

DeWayne rewarded me with a faint smile, so I added, “Of course, Ronnie doesn’t have to fight for most things he wants. He’s so sweet, folks just give it to him.”

“Not Yasheika.” DeWayne’s tremors subsided again, and he stood to go. “Ronnie will never get along with her unless he stands up to her. She’d eat him alive and despise him for letting her. It’s a shame, because they’re both fine people except when they’re together. It’s like they’re magnets with the same pole.” He stood. “I wonder if Ronnie would benefit from assertiveness training.” Then his rueful chuckle rolled between us. “Of course, I took a course in that once, and it didn’t do me a speck of good. But maybe Ronnie learns better than I do. I’ve already told him to go ahead and work for Buddy. It’s a fine opportunity, no matter what Yasheika thinks.”

I couldn’t help but be curious about one thing. “Have you told Buddy who you are? You used to play together, didn’t you?”

He turned at the door. “All the time. Daddy would take me over on Saturdays when he cut the Colders’ grass, and Buddy, Anne, and I played in the cemetery. We used to climb on the gravestones, and Buddy made up all sorts of games.” A shadow darkened his face, and another tremor passed over his whole body. I appreciated the courage it took for him to stand there and say, “I’d have been there that day, except I had a cold and Mama kept me home. If I’d gone—” Now he was shaking so hard he had to hold on to Joe Riddley’s desk. “I’m sorry, Judge. I’ll be all right in a minute. This never happens except when I start thinking about all that mess.”

“Sit down.” I shoved Joe Riddley’s desk chair his way. When he’d lowered himself into it, I asked, “You don’t believe your daddy killed her, do you?”

He shook his head. “Daddy loved children. He’d never have hurt Anne. I think he was trying to help her, like he said, when Buddy found him. It was somebody else who killed her—somebody who found her in the time Buddy was gone. I’m sure of it.” Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead again. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them away. “You see how it is. Any time I start thinking about that day or talking about what happened, it all rolls over me again. I feel like I’m drowning or something.” He stared at his hands, willing them to grow still.

“I don’t want to prolong your suffering, but tell me one thing. Do you have anybody in mind who could have killed Anne?” As far as I knew, nobody had ever talked to Little Gerrick about that day.

“Not anybody in particular, but tramps were all the time hanging out around there. Freight trains still stopped in town back then, remember? Men would climb off and stay a few days, hang out in the cemetery.” He was growing calmer again.

“Why didn’t I know that? Did other people?”

“I don’t know. The fellas were real quiet and stayed back in the bushes if folks were around, but we kids saw them when we were playing. Sometimes one would be asleep with his foot sticking out from a bush, or we’d leave a sandwich on a tombstone and watch until a hand crept out to grab it. They didn’t bother us and we didn’t bother them, but I always figured one of them might have been a little crazy, so he killed Anne, then caught the next train out.” He exhaled a long, sad breath. “I’m not a fighter like Yasheika, so I’ve never tried to do anything to help Daddy except go see him pretty regular.”

“How is he?”

He lifted his big shoulders in a shrug. “Mad, frustrated, hopeless. I wish Yasheika could get him out—Mama’s never cared for any other man. But I don’t think we’ll ever learn the truth about what happened that day. Who could trace a tramp after all this time?” He stood again and headed back to the door. “And to answer your earlier question, no, I haven’t told Buddy who I am. I—I hadn’t really seen him until last Saturday. He generally drops Hollis off for practice and doesn’t hang around. . . .”

He stopped. We both knew that wasn’t the real reason he hadn’t said anything, even at the table last Saturday. When he, Anne, and Buddy played together as children, it hadn’t mattered that two were white and one was black, or that one’s daddy owned the meat-packing plant where the other’s daddy worked. They had not yet crossed the divide where such things begin to define us. I couldn’t fault DeWayne for wanting to meet Buddy as the chemistry teacher instead of as the yardman’s son.

A worry wrinkle appeared between his eyes, though. “You think maybe I ought to tell him and warn him that Yasheika plans to stir around in the case?”

“He might like to know ahead of time if it’s all going to be raked up again. Buddy’s had some bad dreams, too.”

He heaved a sigh from the soles of his loafers. “Some days it
all
seems like a bad dream. But I’ll talk to him.” He added, to himself, “Maybe I can sound him out about this Hollis thing.”

“What Hollis thing?” Bethany stood in the doorway brandishing my new
Statesman
.

Before I could remind her again that employees knock—and that nobody reads my paper before me—DeWayne said, “Just something she came over to talk about today.”

Bethany lifted her chin, sending her hair swinging from side to side. “I’m glad she’s talking to somebody. But look! Look!” She thrust the paper at him and pointed to the front page.

A broad grin creased his face. “Well, just look at that. We’re famous.”

She turned pages. “And there’s two pictures with the story on the sports page. Look!”

While he browsed, Bethany asked, “May I borrow your car for a minute, Me-mama, to run over to the paper office for some more copies?”

“As long as you leave my paper where I can read it.” I couldn’t help sounding snippy. It was, after all, my paper.

DeWayne handed it to me with a happy laugh. “We even made the society page. Here, Judge. I’ll go get a paper of my own.”

“Give me your phone number before you go,” I told him. “I want you and Yasheika to come over some evening for supper and a swim.”

He took a card from his wallet. “This will reach me almost anytime. We don’t have a phone, just cell phones.” Seeing my surprise, he grinned. “That’s what a lot of folks do in cities these days.”

I stuck the card in my pocketbook and decided that was a real sensible plan. Why attach a phone to a house instead of to the person who used it? I thought for a second about canceling our phone and getting Joe Riddley a cell phone, but changed my mind. The way he lost his keys since he’d gotten shot, that would never work.

Once DeWayne and Bethany had gone, I enjoyed the
Statesman
almost as much as Bethany had, particularly references to her pitching ability in the sports section and the big picture on the front page under a one-inch heading: “We Won!” It was the shot Slade took of Bethany and Hollis hugging DeWayne at Myrtle’s front door. The three of them looked happier than Christmas.

Slade had written an editorial about DeWayne, too. He’d interviewed the high-school principal, several students, and two other girls on the team and wrote glowingly about DeWayne’s contributions to the community. His column concluded, “Coach Evans has been in Hopemore for two years, but he is making a major impact on this community through lives he touches—those of his students and the girls on his team.”

I called the paper to say I was real pleased with the stories and to put in my order for an eight-by-ten print of the picture. And I vowed that not by one word or facial expression would I let anybody know that DeWayne Evans was Little Gerrick Lawton unless he chose to reveal that himself.

Not until the next morning would we learn that not everybody in Hopemore was happy with that week’s
Statesman.