The Pecan Man(18)

“But, he didn’t, did he?”

“No ma’am, he didn’t,” Marcus sighed. “I had barely calmed my breathin’ down and all of a sudden he was just there, right in front of me. He was holdin’ out his right hand and he threw his left one up in the air like he was sword fightin’ or somethin’. I heard the click before I saw the blade. I hate knives, Miz Ora. Jesus help me, I hate ‘em.”

Marcus seemed resigned then. “I figured I was a dead man. I almost didn’t even try to fight him off. If he’da come cut me up slow, I’da pro'bly let him. But he just jumped on me swingin’ and so I fought him."

“Well, that’s self-defense, Marcus! You fought him in self-defense. No court will convict you for that!”

“But, that’s not all.” Marcus dropped his chin to his chest and shook his head from side to side. “I don’t remember what all happened, I swear I don’t. I just remember doin’ everything I could to keep him from hittin’ me with that blade. I reckon he got me a few times anyway. I don’t even remember tryin’ to get the knife outta his hand; but all of a sudden, it was in mine. We wrestled around ‘til my forearm was across’t his neck and I was pressin’ on his throat as hard as I could. He stopped fightin’ for the knife and started grabbin’ at my arm and that’s when… Oh, Jesus…” Marcus wailed. He grabbed the back of his head in both hands and rocked back and forth.

“That’s when what, son?”

Marcus stopped rocking and took a deep, wrenching breath. He looked me straight in the eye and delivered his confession.

“I stabbed him, Miz Ora. Over and over and over, I stabbed him. I don’t even know how many times it was, but it wadn’t no self-defense made me stab that boy like I did. It wadn’t nothin’ but pure hate and that’s the truth.”

He didn't shed another tear after that. He just laid his head on his arms and stared up at the table. I got up from my chair and put my arms around him, pulling him as tight to me as I could get. I wasn’t his mama and my bony arms will never be called anything near soft, but I did what I could do to give him comfort.





Nine





I woke Marcus the next morning when the coffee finished brewing. He was nearly speechless in his sorrow, but I had no more time for comforting words. After he forced down two cups of coffee and was awake enough to listen carefully, I told him the plan I concocted through my largely sleepless night.

“We have to get you out of town before anyone sees you. Walter’s car has enough fuel in it to get you at least three counties up the road, so you can stop at a gas station without being recognized.”

“I can’t take Mr. Walter’s car, Miz Ora,” Marcus protested.

“Why? You can drive, can’t you?”

“Yes’m, I can drive. It’s just that...” He looked incredibly uncomfortable, but I didn’t have time to argue.

“Spit it out, son.”

“Well, it just ain’t really like you to let me take your car.”

I stared at him hard for a minute, my fists pressing into the thin skin over my hip bones. He made a good point, no matter how much I wanted to deny it.

“You can make payments."

“But, where am I gonna go?”

“Just hush and listen. Then you can ask questions if you have them.”

He nodded.

“I have enough cash for you to get a hotel room in Atlanta for the night. When you get up tomorrow morning, go straight back to Fort Bragg. When anyone asks, you can tell them you got into a fight in a bar.”

“I don’t know…”

I lost my patience.

“Do you have a better idea?”

“No ma’am, not really.”

“You have options, Marcus. You can stay here and go to jail if you want to, but you asked for my help and I’m trying to give it to you. Do you want it or not?”

He fell silent and I finished giving him instructions. If questions ever arose, our stories would be the same: Marcus spent Thanksgiving night at my house, crying on my shoulder from 6:30 until midnight, and slept on my couch. Other than being upset with his mother, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, no visible wounds, no marks on his clothing. He never saw Skipper Kornegay and was nowhere near the woods where the boy was killed.

I persuaded Marcus to write his mother a note saying he’d talked to Eddie and was too upset to face her right now, but that he'd call her when he got back to Fort Bragg.

There were only two other people who might tell the story that connected Marcus and Skipper Kornegay, but I doubted Skipper’s friends would implicate themselves in the rape of a child.

If Blanche had questions, I'd come up with answers. She’d been through a lot in the past few months and the last thing she needed was to watch her son go to prison for taking a child molester off the streets. I have consoled myself with that truth often over the years.

Marcus took a few more of Walter’s clothes and accepted the turkey and dressing I packed for him. When he was ready, I followed him to the garage to get the car. As he turned the ignition, he rolled down the window and looked up at me with the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut.

“I’m scared, Miz Ora.”

“Me, too,” I said.