Passing through Perfect (Wyattsville #3)(41)

“It weren’t no accident. My boy seen it and he said—”

“Boy? How old is this kid?”

“Eleven, but he got a good eye and he saw—”

“Eleven?” The deputy laughed. “You want me to start investigating a murder because of what a kid says?”

“It’s your job!” Benjamin said angrily.

“Don’t get uppity with me, boy!”

The sound of shouts brought Sheriff Haledon from his office. “What’s going on here?”

“I got a wise-ass nigger trying to tell me how to do my job,” the deputy answered.

“Sir, that ain’t the way it is,” Benjamin said. “I come here to report somebody murdered my wife and near-killed my boy.”

The sheriff recognized Benjamin. He’d done work for Missus Haledon, and he’d done a good job. He painted their back fence and repaired a broken window in the storage shed. He was blacker than most but known for being polite, unlike the smart-mouthed coloreds who lived on the far side of Bakerstown.

“I’m real sorry to hear about your missus,” the sheriff said. “Come sit in my office, and I’ll hear what you got to say.”

As they walked away the sheriff turned and shot an angry glance back at the deputy.

Once the sheriff was willing to listen, Benjamin explained what Isaac said.

“The driver was a white man with hair on his face; a beard or maybe a heavy mustache.”

“I ain’t being negative,” the sheriff replied, “but that description fits half the men in Clarkson County.”

“He was driving a blue truck,” Benjamin added.

“That ain’t much neither; you yourself drive a blue truck. There’s likely hundreds of them right here in Bakerstown.”

“This truck had a whitewall tire on the back wheel. There ain’t many like that.”

“Probably not,” the sheriff conceded, “but I can’t offhand say I seen a truck like that around Bakerstown. Could’ve been somebody passing through.”

“Cross Corner Road don’t go nowhere. Ain’t no reason for a passerby to be driving that road.”

“True enough.” The sheriff pulled a single-sheet form from his desk and scratched out a line or two. “I’m gonna look into this, Benjamin. You just sit tight and leave this to me. If the responsible party is here in Bakerstown, I’ll find him.”

Benjamin stood. “Thank you, sir. I’m mighty grateful.”

The sheriff nodded. “Don’t you worry, Benjamin. Just go on back to work and take good care of your boy.”

As soon as Benjamin was out the door, Sheriff Haledon slid the paper under a huge stack of others.

“Damn shame a thing like this has to happen,” he said, and that was the end of it. Haledon was originally from Wisconsin and had no problem with the coloreds, but he also wasn’t ready to butt heads with Mayor Wilkes who was fifth-generation Alabaman.





A week later Isaac was released from the hospital with a plaster cast on his leg. Benjamin checked him out and left owing the hospital one hundred and eighty-seven dollars. Since his daddy had gone back to work by then, Isaac was brought home to stay with Luella.

Thus began a new chapter of Benjamin’s life. With Doctor Goldsmith’s help, he’d struck a deal with the hospital. In exchange for wiping clean his debt, he would clean the colored ward every night for one hundred and eighty-seven days. He’d mop the floors, empty bedpans, carry trash to the Dumpster, and do whatever else needed doing. It had the sound of a hard bargain, but Benjamin was thankful to get it.

Every morning he rose early, drove into Bakerstown, and continued the handyman work he’d done for the past two years. In a single day he might paint the porch of a house, cut back a row of unruly oaks, and clear the soot from a chimney, but at the end of the day he’d head over to the hospital. Some nights he was too tired to drive home, and he’d pull the truck around to the back lot of the hospital and lie down across the seat. In the morning he’d be stiff and bent, but still he’d push on to the next job.

When the pain would settle into his back and shoulders it was a welcome relief, because it pulled him away from the more painful thoughts of Delia that troubled his heart.

Regardless of what job he was doing, every hour of every day Benjamin had his eyes open watching for the blue truck. Sooner or later either he or Sheriff Haledon would find it, of that he was almost certain. Day after day he returned to the sheriff’s office and asked if they’d found the owner of the truck yet. The sheriff would generally give a helpless shrug and say, “Not yet, but we’re still looking.”

On days when Benjamin encountered Deputy Moran, his answer would be a hard-edged “Nope” and nothing more.





Weeks passed and Benjamin settled into this grueling new routine. He worked until his arms ached and the muscles in his thighs quivered when he stooped to lift a load of bricks or lumber. He took to carrying a blanket and pillow in the truck; then when he left the hospital too exhausted to even raise an eyebrow he’d make a bed in the flat bed of the truck and sleep like a dead man. It was never for long, because at the first break of day his eyes would open and he’d drive home to feed the chickens and the dog. He’d throw some water on Delia’s vegetable garden, then turn around, drive back to town, and start whatever job he had for that day.