Beneath the Apple Leaves(86)
“This is Mr. Simpson, from the bank. Says your boy clobbered his son.”
Mr. Simpson kept silent, saw Andrew’s arm, his face suddenly angry—a look of failure knowing his son got beat up by a cripple.
“Heard about that,” acknowledged Wilhelm. “Seems your boy was drunk, Mr. Simpson. Giving a young lady a hard time. Way I heard it, sounds like he got what was coming to him.”
The officer and Mr. Simpson exchanged knowing looks. “Normally, I’d agree with you, but that’s not why we’re here.”
The sun landed hotly on their backs, the fire of the earth rising with hay pollen and the sound of katydids jumping. The officer rolled a stone under his foot. “Seems some words were thrown around during the fight.” His gaze pierced Andrew. “Unpatriotic words.”
“What?” Andrew stepped forward, but his uncle pressed him back.
Wilhelm said, “I’m not one for beating around the bush, Mr. . . .”
“Tipney. Sheriff Tipney.”
“Well, Sheriff, I expect you come right out with what you and Mr. Simpson are accusing this young man of so we can get back to our work.”
Mr. Simpson spoke up. “Your son . . . your nephew . . . said it was just a matter of time before Germany won this war. Said the Kaiser would be headed to America next and he’d be the first one to shake his hand. Said he was honored to share the name. Then he called my son a coward before hitting him on the head with a rock.”
Mr. Simpson heated now and his mustache hairs blew with the thrust of air coming from his nose. Andrew squared his shoulders, his dark gaze turning his blue eyes indigo, landing first on the sheriff’s and then Mr. Simpson’s.
“Don’t need to answer to them, Andrew.” Wilhelm put on his hat and prepared to go back to the fields. “His boy got beat and looking to make up for it through lies. Any man with half a brain could see that. Good day, gentlemen.”
The sheriff chewed his gum slowly. “Not that easy, I’m afraid. Using that talk is a criminal offense. Young man’s coming with me to the courthouse.” He waved Andrew forward. “You’re under arrest, son.”
“Whoa. Hold on!” The fury stretched out Wilhelm’s tan neck. “It’s one man’s words against another.”
“True, but in these times can’t be too careful. We’ll bring him to town until it’s figured out.” The sheriff shoved his hat high upon his forehead and eyed Andrew. “Look, you don’t look like a bad kid, but sometimes things are said in the heat of anger and we can’t have this now, not here. Not with American boys fighting and not coming home.”
“I never uttered those words.” Andrew seethed. “Besides, why aren’t you out finding the boys that terrorized the Muellers? The ones that beat a young man to pulp and destroyed a little girl’s wig.”
The sheriff nodded solemnly. Motioned him forward again, ignoring the accusation. “We’ve done enough talking now. Let’s get going.” He scratched his ear. “We’re at the Plum jail if you want to inquire about bail. They’ll deny it, but you’re welcome to apply.” The men turned and walked through the blond rows of hay.
*
“Coffee?”
Andrew shifted in the small cot in the jail cell, rose and took the steaming mug from between the bars. “Thanks.” His limbs ached from the stiff, springless bed. He hadn’t slept a wink during the night, finally dozing off just before the sheriff entered.
The officer pulled up a wooden chair and sat down, propped his shoes against the bars and rocked back and forth. “You hungry?”
Andrew shook his head.
“Didn’t think so. Something about being behind bars sucks away a man’s appetite.” The sheriff sipped his coffee easily; the reserve and seriousness from yesterday’s ride to the station had disappeared and his manner was friendly.
“Look, kid,” he started. “I know Danny well. He’s spent more nights on that cot than any other young man around here. But he’s pretty hot right now on account you taking him down. He don’t like to lose, that one.” He chuckled to himself. “Hothead.
“Anyway, I don’t think you said those things. Despite your name, I don’t believe a word of it. But Mr. Simpson’s got clout and he wasn’t going to shut up until there was some justice served. Arresting you is about the most humane thing I could do.” He smiled. “You can thank me later.”
“Thank you?” Andrew couldn’t help but chortle. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t send flowers.”
The sheriff laughed at that, lowered his feet to the floor. He rested his elbows on his knees, held his mug between his two palms. “You hear what happened in Illinois?” he asked. “To Robert Prager?”
“No.”
“German American said the wrong thing to the wrong people and they came for the man. Stripped him naked and wrapped him in the American flag, paraded him around town, beat him up pretty good. Finally, a couple of levelheaded citizens called the police and they took the man into protective custody. Well, the mob was still thirsty, flooded the jail and pulled out poor Prager and lynched him.” He drank his coffee as easily as if he were talking about the price of corn or the hope for rain this summer.
Andrew’s stomach soured, and he let the image settle, remembered Pieter’s talk of tar and feathering.