The Pecan Man(15)

“What was she doing in the woods?”

“She was takin’ a shortcut, I suppose.”

“Gracie knows better’n to take any shortcuts, Mama. Besides, I played in every stick of any woods we got close by and there ain’t a rock in ‘em that’s big enough to trip over. Now, somebody better tell me what happened to Grace and they better tell me now.”

I raised my hands in a gesture that clearly said don’t look at me!

Blanche raised herself out of the chair, wiped a forearm across her face.

“Don’t be makin’ such a fuss outta nothin’, Marcus. Gracie fell. That’s all they is to it.”

Marcus stood, too, rising a full foot over the compact bulk of his mother. I watched the fear and anger wash over him like a baptism. I can’t imagine how much it hurt that boy to stand there and hear his mama tell him what he knew was a lie.

He hesitated for a moment, then turned and headed off in the same direction as Eldred Mims. We hoped he might be headed home, but he wasn’t and we should have known that. We should have known.





Eight





Blanche was solemn and quiet as she put away the last of the dishes and prepared to walk the two miles home. By the time they got there, it would be six-thirty and turning cool with the setting sun.

“Want me to call you a cab?”

“Naw, we all right, Miz Ora. Night air do us good.”

I suddenly felt silly for never having gotten a driver's license. My father disapproved of young women driving and, once I married Walter, I had no need to learn how. His Ford LTD was still sitting in the garage. It sat in the parking lot of the Rotary Club for nearly a week after his death before a fellow Rotarian thought to bring it home.

“Really, Blanche, I don’t mind paying for a cab tonight. There’s a breeze kicking up and - well - let me call a cab for you. I’ll be right back.”

Blanche might have argued, but Grace fussed as Patrice zipped her jacket. She wasn’t the only tired child. The twins yawned and fidgeted as they shifted leftovers from arm to arm. Blanche said nothing, so I called City Cab and gave them the address. The taxi arrived in minutes and the girls crowded into the back seat with Blanche taking the front. I gave Blanche a five to pay the driver and shut the door. I leaned into the open window and asked quietly, “What are you going to do about Marcus?”

“He’ll be all right,” she said softly. “He’s prolly out somewhere blowin’ off steam. He’ll be fine. What he don’t know can’t hurt him. That’s just all there is to it.”

“Thanks for today, Blanche. That was the best Thanksgiving I’ve had in years.”

“It was the onliest Thanksgivin’ you had in years, Miz Ora.”

“The only one with family, anyway.”

I patted Blanche on the arm and stepped back from the curb and the taxi pulled away. The side mirror reflected Blanche’s grin in the fading light and one dark arm reached out the window and gave a little wave as they turned the corner toward home.

I sat on the porch until the street lights flickered on, then went into the house and poured a glass of iced tea. I watched the evening news, and then I read for an hour or so until I felt sleepy. I had just turned off the porch light and locked up when I heard a commotion near the back door. It sounded like something had been thrown onto the stoop and then crashed into the bushes. I froze for a moment. The bushes rattled again and finally there was a low, insistent knocking on the door.

I looked at the clock. It was nearly nine-thirty. Long past the time when anyone should come calling, especially at the back door. My mind raced with unspoken questions. I couldn't remember where Walter kept that old pump-action Winchester he used to run the squirrels out of the pecan trees. Lot of good it would do me. I hadn't a clue how to fire it.

The knock sounded again, a little louder this time.

“Miz Beckworth? Miz Beckworth! It’s me - Marcus!”

I could barely make out what he was saying, since he spoke in nothing more than a loud whisper. I peered out between the blinds covering the back door. Sure enough, I could tell it was Marcus from the sound of his voice and the shape of his head. I wrenched the door open and he stumbled inside. Looking at his face in the fluorescent light, I might not have recognized him at all. One eye was swollen shut and thick black dirt covered his hair and one cheek. I grabbed a kitchen towel from the counter, but I couldn't figure out what to do with it.

“What in heaven’s name? Are you all right?”

“I’m in trouble, Miz Ora. Bad trouble.”

“I’m callin’ your mama.”

“Oh, Lord, Miz Ora, please don’t do that. It’ll kill her. It’ll kill her, what I done.”

I saw then the ever-widening red stain on my linoleum floor. It was blood that held the dirt to his head, despite the steady flow. I tossed the towel onto the floor, as if mopping up the mess would stop the bleeding.

“What happened to you? Why are you bleeding?”

The more I stood gaping at him, the more I realized how serious this was. Marcus’s right hand bled profusely. His shirt was saturated with blood and dirt. I flung a drawer open and pulled out several more towels. Marcus reached for one and I wrapped his hand with the largest, remembering finally the first aid I learned at the Ladies’ Auxiliary. He winced and clutched the towel against his chest.