The Saints of Swallow Hill(26)

Butch shrugged. “Can’t say. Could be all manner of reasons.”

“You ain’t been by here in over a week, so what could you know about any of it?”

“I know what I seen, that’s what I know.”

Rae Lynn found herself doing what Warren used to do, waving her hands, swatting at his words. Butch had parked himself at the kitchen table after he’d come in on her kneeling at Warren’s side, and hadn’t left. She thought at first he’d be helpful to her, in her grief. But no. He’d listened to her and deduced she was covering up something. Now, she was simply exhausted, and overwhelmed. She sat slumped over, occasionally resting her forehead on her arms. She felt like she’d been turned inside out. Butch reclined in a chair, in no hurry, hands behind his head, eyelids drooping enough she couldn’t read what was in them.

Eventually, he said, “I got me an idea on how to fix this.”

Rae Lynn sat up straight and crossed her arms.

“Ain’t nothing needs fixing. Him lying in there, it ain’t fitting me not tending to him as I should.”

“You gonna get word to Eugene?”

She expelled her breath and said, “Of course.”

“What’re you gonna tell him?”

Truth was, she wasn’t sure. She felt guilty, but not for the reasons Butch thought. She should’ve held the ladder as Warren had asked and maybe he wouldn’t have fallen. She should’ve gone for the doctor despite him telling her not to. The situation was difficult, if not impossible, to understand beyond anyone but herself and Warren. She could contact Eugene, tell him he fell off the ladder and died from his injury. It was the truth. There didn’t need to be nothing more said. Butch’s expression had turned sly when Rae Lynn hesitated.

“Tell you what. Just so we’re square on the matter; it ain’t nothing hard, it’s simple. You be with me, you know, in that way, like husband and wife, and I won’t say nothing to nobody. Not to Eugene, not to nobody. It’ll be our little secret.”

Rae Lynn could not believe her ears, and she gaped at Butch, appalled. At least he had the decency to flush a brilliant red after he spoke. This is his way of fixing things? God forbid. Speechless, she stood up and pointed at the door.

Butch stood too, and with a hint of anger, he said, “You think on it. You think on it good. There ought to be something to come out of what you done.”

He left, and she slammed the door and locked it. It was then, and only then, she broke down, allowed her grief to consume her.

Butch came a day later with a crudely made coffin. She was grateful, but it was quickly apparent he’d helped only on account of his idea of restitution for keeping his mouth shut. He’d even joked about it. This, as they went about digging poor Warren’s grave, near to his first wife, Ida Neill Cobb. Sakes alive, it was nothing but out-and-out blackmail. Who knew he’d turn out like this? When he made suggestions again as they were tamping down the last shovelful, she went inside, shut the door, and locked it again until he left.

A hellish week later, she stood at Warren’s grave, shooing away flies, trying to have a prayerful moment. The flies didn’t care about layers of dirt because they knew what was beneath the soil. The things of nightmarish dreams, of which she’d had plenty. It was why she was so tired. She kept seeing Warren, what he’d done, and the pitiful look he’d turned on her after she’d come back to the house. She’d cried tears of anger and remorse, but crying got her nowhere. She had to figure out what to do, how to handle Butch, especially after what he’d gone and done.

Just this morning, she’d gone to the post office to check the mail and was shocked to have a letter from Eugene. Back home, she ripped it open, and read:



Received a letter regarding my father’s passing from Mr. Butch Crandall, on your behalf, I presume. Arriving June 14th at 2:00 p.m. and expect full cooperation as I resolve the matters of my father’s estate as per his will. Mr. Crandall has indicated there are matters of importance that need discussion. Please make sure he is present. Sincerely, Eugene Cobb, Esquire.





She tucked it back into her apron pocket, but throughout the morning, she kept pulling it out and rereading his terse, short sentences. Its very presence made her feel like she was inside a pressure cooker about to explode. Thanks to Butch, Eugene would arrive in three days, and he expected Butch to be around as well.

Speak of the devil. Here he was in that old truck, heaving along the path and making her grit her teeth. Without Warren around, Butch had become more emboldened, showing up when he pleased, talking dirty. She always made sure she was outside when she heard him coming, but he still followed her around the yard like a puppy dog, talking about all manner of nasty things he’d like to do to her. He apparently thought this was enthralling to hear. It was to him, because she’d caught him messing with himself through his britches when she’d stepped out from behind the sheets she was hanging. He had the nerve to flick his tongue at her and laugh when she cussed him.

Rae Lynn grabbed a rusted pail filled with cracked corn and began throwing out kernels, murmuring to the hens as they clucked and pecked about her feet. She seethed while glancing at the sky. The sun only just up good enough to clear out the morning mist, and here he was already. He approached her and looked at the sky too, maybe recognizing it might be a tad early. It didn’t stop him from starting in on his sorry idea.