The Pecan Man(20)

“Well, of course something isn’t right, Blanche. The boy just found out his baby sister was raped and his mama lied to him about it. How would you feel?” I hated snapping at her like that, but her intuition frightened me.

“This thing jus’ gets worse and worse, don’t it? My mama always said lyin’ was bad and she was right. I tried to teach that to all my babies, too. Once you tell a lie, you have to keep tellin’ and tellin’ and tellin’ to make it stand.”

I couldn’t respond to that. I just looked down at my hands. We sat in awkward silence, each lost in unspoken thought and apprehension. She never had time to voice the questions I was prepared to answer with lies of my own. A knock at the front door saw to that.

I crossed the living room and opened the door, expecting to turn away an ill-timed sales pitch. The sight of two police officers made my heart gallop in my chest. In all my planning, I'd not expected this so soon.

“Mrs. Beckworth?” I recognized the speaker immediately. Barry Tinsley and his family attended our church.

“Barry?" I said, my voice already shaking. “What can I do for you?"

“I need to speak with Mrs. Lowery, Ma'am. Is she here today?"

I stepped aside and motioned toward Blanche, who was already on her feet.

“Mrs. Lowery," he said as he stepped inside the door and removed his hat. “Your son is Marcus Lowery, Ma’am?”

Blanche nodded, her eyes darting from Barry to me and back.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lowery. Marcus was killed in a car accident this morning on I-75.”

Blanche hit the floor before he finished his sentence. She didn’t utter a sound, just fainted dead away.





Ten





We buried Marcus beside his father, in the Mt. Zion A.M.E. Church cemetery. It was the first time I ever stepped foot in Blanche's church and I stuck out like a sore thumb. The service was not like any I ever attended, but I have no intention of describing it here. Of all the details I must give to satisfy my conscience before I die, there are some that will be left to the memories of those who were there. I owe Blanche this.

We may not ever know the exact details of Marcus's death. What we do know is this: on Friday morning, the day after Thanksgiving, Marcus was headed north on Interstate 75 when a trucker locked up the brakes on his tractor trailer rig to avoid a disabled vehicle in his lane. There were no skid marks on the highway to indicate that Marcus reacted at all. The hood of the car went beneath the trailer and the windshield took the full impact. Marcus was pronounced dead at the scene.

Blanche blamed herself, of course, but I knew I was the one who sent the boy to his death. I’ve lived with it every day since then. Blanche was right. Once a lie is told, you have to keep on telling it. You not only have to repeat it time and time again, you have to embellish it, layer upon layer until you don‘t even remember the truth. Every day I didn’t tell Blanche what I knew was another day I lied to her. Guilt cloaked me like a wool blanket in summer and no amount of sweet tea or gentle ceiling fans ever soothed me again.

I begged Blanche to take some time off after the funeral, but she refused saying she could not bear to sit around her house and look at things that reminded her of Marcus. I could not tell her how well I understood. It was all I could do not to insist that she retire so I would not have the daily reminder of what I had done. But, even I recognized the cowardice in that and forced myself to go on.



Two days after Blanche buried her only son, Eldred Mims was arrested for the murder of Skipper Kornegay. Dovey Kincaid hightailed it over to tell me herself before I'd had a chance to read it in the morning paper.

"Miz Beckworth? Miz Beckworth!" She shouted as she banged her fist against the screen door.

I barely got the inside door unlocked and opened before she charged into my home without waiting for an invitation.

"Have you seen this?" she demanded, waving the Mayville Free Press under my nose.

"Why, Dovey Kincaid! I've been looking all over for that paper. Where'd you find it?"

"It was right there on your front step..." she began and stopped as my sarcasm dawned on her. “That's real funny, Ora Lee. You won't be laughing when you see what's on the front page. I tried to warn you about that awful old man, but did you listen to me? No, you did not!"

"What are you talking about, Dovey?"

"I told you he was dangerous, didn't I? He's the one killed Ralph Kornegay's son. It says so right here. They arrested him last night."

I snatched the paper from her and flipped it open. Homeless Man Arrested for Murder of Police Chief's Son read the bold headline.

"Oh, dear Lord." My hands shook so hard the paper crackled aloud.

"I'll say 'Dear Lord!'" Dovey huffed. "We could have all been killed. But you wouldn't hear a word of it. Harmless old man, you called him."

"Dovey, it's time for you to leave."

"Well, harmless, my foot! He's a cold-blooded killer, that's what he is! And you had him skulkin' around here big as you please. 'Won't hurt a fly,' you said."

"Get out of my house, Dovey," I warned again.

"He cut that boy to shreds is what he did! Pure shreds!" she said, wagging her finger in my face for emphasis. "Well, I wanna know what you have to say for yourself now, Miss Know-it-All."