The Pecan Man(40)

On second glance, I realized it was an ancient barber’s chair, the bottom section made of ornate metal and the cushions covered with red leather that had seen much better days. I would find out later that it was stuffed with horse hair, but at first it just looked like an odd piece of furniture to find in the middle of the woods.

A paper bag sat on the metal stand to which the chair was mounted. Eddie was quite still as we approached, his chin resting on his chest. Then his head snapped upright suddenly and he reached down and grasped the paper bag without looking.

“Eddie?” I spoke softly. “What are you doing here?”

His head jerked again and he looked in our direction, straining, it seemed, to bring us into focus.

“Aw, hey, Miz Ora,” Eddie tried to enunciate carefully, but it only served to slur his words even more. “Who dat you got with you?”

“It’s me, Mr. Mims.” Chip spoke softly. “Chip Smallwood.”

Eddie squinted again.

“You comin’ to take me back to jail?” he asked.

“No, Eddie, not to jail. I came to take you home.”

“Ain’t got no home.” Eddie wobbled a bit, but reached down and brought the bag to his mouth for a drink.

“Sure you do, Eddie,” I said. “Your home’s with us right now.”

“Naw, it ain’t. Used to have a home in Alabama. I ever tell you 'bout Alabama?”

“No,” I said. “You never have.”

“Had me a girl in ‘bama. Tressa. Tressa Lee Mims. Pretty girl, too. Her mama took good care of her. Grow’d her up good and fine.”

“Tressa,” I repeated. “Pretty name. She’s your daughter?”

“Yup, my baby girl. Had another one, too, but I lost her a long time ago.”

Chip and I exchanged looks. Neither of us was sure what to do, so we stood there for a few minutes.

“You ready to go home, Eddie?” I was the first to break the silence.

“Can I take my chair?” he asked, as if it were the most reasonable question in the world.

“Um,” I started, but Chip cut me off.

“I’ll come back and get it for you tomorrow, Eddie. I can’t fit it in my car today.”

“You’ll get it tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow. I promise.”

“Can I bring my bottle?”

Oh, Lord, I thought. Give me the right words now.

“Let’s leave it here, Eddie. If you still want it tomorrow, Chip can bring it when he gets your chair. That sound okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” he said and tipped the bottle to his mouth again.

Chip took the bag from his hand and set it on the ground.

“Come on, buddy, let’s get you home,” he said and helped Eddie from the chair.

Eddie cooperated, trying to stand on his own, but taking the help that was offered. Then he stopped suddenly and leaned away from Chip to look at his face.

“I didn’t kill that boy,” Eddie said.

Lord, Jesus, help me. I froze for a moment, purely unable to move or speak.

“Miz Ora, tell him. Tell him I didn’t kill that boy.”

“Eddie, he knows you didn’t kill anybody.” My voice was rattling like coins in a tin can.

“He knows?”

“He knows you didn’t kill anyone,” I repeated.

Chip looked at me then and the question was there on his face. I could see it, plain as day.

“Tha’s good,” Eddie mumbled and sighed hard. “Let’s go home now.”

There are so many things about this time in my life that I swear I could never imagine happening to me. This was a scene out of the Twilight Zone. Chip Smallwood, half-carrying a drunk old man to his car, with me toddling along behind pushing a bright yellow bicycle, in shoes that were never meant for walking in the woods. Standing at the car, a two door coupe, I tried to figure out which of the only two options would be the least difficult to accomplish. Either I had to crawl into the back seat, dress and all, or Chip would have stuff the barely conscious Eddie in there somehow. I swallowed my dignity and folded myself behind the bucket seat on the passenger side. Getting out would be the real test, I learned shortly thereafter.

Chip managed to fit Patrice’s bike in his trunk with the front wheel and handlebars hanging out over the bumper. He tied the trunk lid down with a shoelace.

Eddie was asleep before we’d traveled the few blocks to my house. Chip carried him from the car, just picked him up like a child and deposited him into his bed. I made a pot of coffee as Chip got Eddie undressed and covered him up.

I was pouring two cups when Chip appeared in the dining room. He took the coffee gratefully.

“Do you need me to stay tonight?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“He’s probably out for the night anyway.”

“Most likely,” I agreed.

“This isn’t good.” Chip said.

“Nope. Not good at all.”

“I have to report it, you know.”

“I figured as much.”

We sat silently for a few minutes. The question still hung there, but it was never spoken aloud, nor answered. Harley Odell was on my porch the very next day.



The meeting went well, I thought. Harley explained to Eddie that he would revoke his bail if Eddie drank again. Eddie quietly acknowledged that he understood.