The Pecan Man(23)

“Mr. Thatcher…” My voice sounded thin, despite the heavy sarcasm in it. “Mr. Mims has been arrested for a murder he did not commit. They can’t possibly keep him here under these circumstances.”

“And what circumstances are you referring to, Mrs. Beckworth?”

“Any of them!” I was nearly frantic. “He’s been beaten within an inch of his life, and you know as well as I do that he couldn’t possibly have resisted enough to warrant these wounds. He is old and feeble and as far as I know, has never hurt a fly. I will not have him sitting in this jail waiting to be beaten again. You absolutely must do something to help him.”

Jeffrey Thatcher sighed heavily and set his briefcase on the floor. He scratched the back of his neck and pushed his glasses back up on his nose.

“Common sense tells me you’re probably right, Mrs. Beckworth, but the law tells me I have to go through the process it sets forth. I’ll do the best I can do, but I can’t make any promises. I can’t even give you any hope.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Try to get some rest, Mr. Mims.” With that, Mr. Thatcher gave a nod to Chip Smallwood, who unlocked the cell door and ushered him out.

Eddie took a few sips of the soup before he waved me away. I took my leave soon after. I need to make a few phone calls.

Chip Smallwood walked me to the cellblock door. I spoke quietly so Eddie would not hear.

“How’s your mama and daddy doin’, Chip?” I had to check a few things out before I could get where I was going with him.

He shrugged. “Not too bad, I reckon. I don’t really see ‘em too much.”

That was a good sign.

“What a shame,” I sympathized. “I thought you were pretty close to your parents.”

Chip shifted uncomfortably. “Mom and me’s close, I reckon. I try to see her when I can.”

“You and your daddy have a fallin’ out?”

My rudeness was appalling, but I pressed on anyway.

“Well, you know, fathers and sons don’t always see eye to eye. I wouldn’t call it a fallin’ out, though.”

Now, as a rule, a southern gentleman does everything he can to honor his father and mother. They could be drunken fools and you’d never hear a word against his parents. I suddenly thought of an incident from many years back, a vivid reminder of Chip's strong character.

We were finishing crafts in Sunday school one morning and I turned around just in time to see Chip Smallwood hurl a box of crayons at a boy sitting across from him. I was absolutely shocked. Chip had never given me a moment’s trouble before.

I called the two boys to me and suggested that Chip apologize. I didn’t think for a moment he would refuse, but that’s exactly what he did. He tucked his little chin to his chest, crossed his arms, stared straight ahead and uttered not a word.

“Did you hear me, Chipper?” I asked. “I need you to apologize so we can finish up our projects.”

He looked away without speaking.

“Chip, honey, I know you didn’t mean to throw those crayons at C.J., so let’s just say ‘I’m sorry’ and get it over with, okay?”

“Aw, he meant to do it all right. He was aimin’ straight for my hayed, Miz Beckworth,” whined C.J. McComb.

I never did get the boy to apologize, nor utter a word in his own defense. He clamped his teeth shut and refused to discuss the incident ever again. It was years before I learned that C.J. had kicked Chip under the table hard enough to leave a bruise on his shin.

Chip didn’t tattle out of a sense of honor. It was clear to me now. He wouldn’t rat anyone out, but he by God wouldn’t apologize to the rat, either.

“You working the late shift tonight?”

“Yes, Ma’am, three to eleven.”

“So you weren’t here when they brought Mr. Mims in, huh?”

“No, Ma’am, not exactly, but they went to the infirmary first and I was here by the time they brought him to the cell.”

“Did he look like that when they got him here?”

“I reckon he did. They kept him in the infirmary for quite a while.”

”You think he put up that big a fight?”

“That’s what they say.” His leather holster crackled as he squirmed a bit and looked away.

“I know what they said. What I’m asking is, do you think he really did?” I looked him straight in the eye and he held my gaze.

“I wasn’t there, Mrs. Beckworth. I really couldn’t tell.”

“That’s what I figured you’d say,” I said, resigned, but not angry.

“I’m sorry…”

I cut him off with the wave of my hand. “No need to apologize, son. Like you said, you weren’t there.”

He opened the outer door, walked me through it and clicked it shut.

“Chip,” I said.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“If you had been there, would you have let them beat him like that?”

He took a deep breath and studied his fingernails.

“No, Ma’am,” he said finally, “I don’t reckon I would’ve.”

“You were a good boy, Chip Smallwood.” I patted his arm. “And you’re a good man.”

He nodded and reached back towards the cellblock door. He pressed a button on the wall and waited to be buzzed back in.