Passing through Perfect (Wyattsville #3)(61)
“I figured a man of law had to do what was right,” Benjamin said sadly, “but I was wrong as wrong can be.”
A hard edge settled across Benjamin’s jaw as he told Paul that he was certain the deputy had warned Luke Garrett, and how by the time the sheriff got back from vacation the whitewall tire was missing and Garrett was clean-shaven.
“But the sheriff could investigate it, couldn’t he?” Paul asked. “Somebody had to notice the guy had a beard a week earlier.”
“Yeah, I’m betting plenty a’ bodies noticed, but white folks don’t turn on their own.”
“What about some of your own people?” Paul asked.
Benjamin gave a sarcastic grunt. “In Alabama, a colored man’s word ain’t worth speaking. Sheriff Haledon told me what’s done is done. He said the best I can do is take care of my boy and that was the end of it.”
“All you needed was one friend,” Paul said, “one person willing to stand up and say ‘I know the truth’.”
Benjamin sat there and thought back on the people he’d worked for, white people mostly. Abigail Evans had always treated him fairly; she’d even invited him in for a glass of cold lemonade last summer. When she heard what happened to Delia, she’d held his hand and told him how sorry she was for his loss. And Butch Dudley, he’d shared in the work of painting his house. Benjamin could still see the splatters of yellow paint on both white and black hands. They’d passed the turpentine soaked rag back and forth, wiping away the spots of paint stuck to their skin. Butch was an honorable man, a daddy to two boys, not someone likely to lie for a man like Garrett.
There were others, perhaps some would be willing to swear Benjamin was a man who spoke the truth. But did any of them even know Luke Garrett? Benjamin felt a lead weight drop into his heart. He knew the truth was that he’d not asked one of them. Not one. He’d just sat there and listened when the sheriff said nothing more could be done. He’d not argued or fought for the truth. Isaac had argued for the truth, but Benjamin had not.
The sound of the rain was a heartless reminder of the night Delia was killed. The image of lifting her from the muddy roadside came to mind, and Benjamin’s eyes grew teary. He rubbed his shirtsleeve across his face and wiped them away.
He stood and stared down at his feet. He’d told everything there was to tell but said nothing about how Luke Garrett had yelled the word “nigger.” That somehow seemed too shameful to tell.
“Maybe there was such a friend,” he finally said, “but I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to go looking for them.”
“We’ve all got regrets,” Paul said. He moved closer and wrapped his right arm around Benjamin’s shoulder. “It’s always easier to know what you should have done when it happened yesterday.”
On Saturday the store closed at six, but lost in their shared stories and the drumming of rain Benjamin and Paul lost track of time. They were still standing there talking when the telephone rang. Paul lifted the receiver and said, “Klaussner’s Grocery.”
“Oh, thank God you’re there,” Carmella gasped. “I was worried sick when you and Benjamin didn’t come home.”
Paul glanced up at the clock on the wall. Seven-fifteen. “Sorry, Aunt Carmella, we lost track of time.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake, come on home,” she scolded. “I’ve had dinner waiting for over an hour.”
After the lights were out and the store locked, they circled around the building to the back where Benjamin’s truck was parked. With his leg stiffened by the brace Paul found it difficult to get into the cab, so he sat sideways as Benjamin lifted his leg and eased it over the edge of the door.
~
As they sat at the dinner table, Benjamin felt the tension in his stomach melt away; not because of a single word or gesture, but something he couldn’t touch his finger to—a sound maybe. He ate slowly and listened.
It was the sound of ordinary, everyday small talk, the sound of a family gathering and sharing. It brought back memories of Delia and the early years of their marriage, a time when Otis was alive and their own table was ringed with the same happy sounds. When Carmella laughed he could almost hear the sound of Delia’s laughter threaded through long-forgotten conversations and suddenly it came to him: laughter was the cord that tied a family together. Sadly, he couldn’t remember the last time he and Isaac had really laughed together. He knew it had not happened since the night Delia died.
He looked across at Isaac sitting next to Jubilee and watched them share grins of mischief. Isaac was young. Young enough, perhaps, to move on without carrying a sack of fears and regrets on his back. Last night at the dinner table he’d held out his plate for a second helping and gobbled it down with gusto. Afterward he’d plopped down on the puffy bed and slept the sleep of angels.
For a brief moment Benjamin wished his heart could once again be that of a child. Watching them together, it was difficult to distinguish boy from girl or black from white. They were simply two kids enjoying a friendship.
“Benjamin?” Sidney repeated.
“Oh, sorry,” Benjamin answered. “I was thinking back.”
“Isaac was saying that you lived on a farm in Alabama. What kind of farm?”
“Ten acres, leased. Year-round crop rotation. Watermelon in the spring, corn in the summer. Winter, mostly turnips and chicories.”