Long Division(80)

“Your grandmother took me down to Lake Marathon,” he said, ignoring my question. “When we get out the car, she had some folks waiting for us.”

“But is Baize really gone?”

“Some beat me. But most, they just watched.”

I looked at LaVander Peeler. Pot Belly’s story sounded too made up, even more made up than everything that had happened the past few days.

“I told them I’m already saved,” he said. “Every time I say that, they beat me in my face until your grandmother made them stop and say something about a man named…” his voice trailed off for a bit. “…Tom Henry, they said his name was.”

“That’s my granddaddy.”

I could see Pot Belly feeling the grit on his teeth with his tongue. “Wait, were you there when my granddaddy died too?” He looked down. “Please just tell me.”

“That’s what I’m saying. I ain’t do it. I don’t even know no Tom Henry. The folks at the lake,” he started talking slower than before, “they said Tom Henry was the one who saved me from drowning back in the day.”

“Wait. You’re the white boy my granddaddy died trying to save?” I asked him.

“Please let me go, man. They blaming me for stuff I ain’t do.”

“You kicked me in my back and called me out my name,” I told him.

“I did that,” he said. “And I’m sorry. But I don’t know nothing ’bout that little girl. And I don’t know nothing ’bout no Tom Henry. They blaming me for everything wrong, but I ain’t do it.”

I looked as hard as I could into each of his eyes and tried to imagine my grandfather looking in those eyes as he was choking on water, running from death. “You been cross-eyed your whole life?”

“I swear before God, man, that I ain’t do what they say I did. I ain’t do it.”

“Who did it then?” I asked him.

I wanted to feel more hate, but I figured that being saved and falling in love with Jesus was making me feel what I felt. And what I felt was the feeling you would have when you read a good mystery book and made that big connection a few pages from the end.

“Y’all mad at something more than me,” he said. “I ain’t do it.”

“I don’t know why,” I told him, “but I don’t hate you even if you were there when my granddaddy died. And right now, I don’t even hate you for kicking me in my back and calling me a ‘nigger.’ For real.”

“He kicked you in your back?” LaVander Peeler asked.

“Yep,” I told him. “I already told you that. He kicked me in my back, and then he called me ‘nigger.’ But I don’t think he even knows what a ‘nigger’ is.” I looked back at Pot Belly. “I just want you to be honest with me. Do you know where Baize Shephard is? Did you kill Baize Shep—”

“No,” he said before I could finish her name. “Hell naw.”

“You know where she is?”

“I ain’t do it. I don’t know nothing about that little girl.” “You know who killed her?”

Pot Belly closed his eyes. “You serious?” he asked me. “That story you reading, it said that little girl disappeared, and the man responsible for that disappearing is the man who wrote that story.”

“I know what this book said, but it’s just a book. I’m asking you where Baize’s body is.”

“You find the man who wrote that story, look to me like you find that little girl.” Pot Belly’s voice was cracking and he was sobbing.

“So she is dead, right? I know you didn’t do it but I think you know who did.”

“You killed that girl,” he said through some quivering lips.

“Who?”

“You,” he said, as calm as anything I’d heard in days. “You know what you did to that girl, and that’s your business.”

“How could I kill her? I wasn’t even here.”

“You did it, man. You did it. You wrote it in your book. Please let me go.”

I heard him. I saw him. Whether I believed what he said didn’t matter. I saw that he believed it. LaVander Peeler, without a tear in his eye, walked closer to Pot Belly. He got on his knees, wiped off his mouth, got a few inches from Pot Belly’s face, and said, “All things considered, I don’t believe you can use ‘nigger’ in a sentence.”

“What in the devil is wrong with y’all?” Pot Belly asked. “Why are y’all doing this?”

“You can’t use it,” he said. “All things considered, I bet you can’t even spell it, much less use it. Am I wrong?”

“Please,” Pot Belly said, “Y’all making this personal. I’m so sad and I just want to go home. I’m sorry for calling you out your name.”

“Can you at least spell it?”

“N-I-G-G-E-R,” he said.

“That ain’t right,” LaVander Peeler told him.

“N-I-G-G-E-R,” he slowed it down this time.

“Nope,” LaVander Peeler said. “All things considered, I don’t think that’s right.”

I got up to pull LaVander Peeler out of Pot Belly’s face when he cocked his arm back and jabbed Pot Belly in his left eye. Almost in the same motion, Pot Belly reared his head back and butted LaVander Peeler right in the middle of his face. LaVander Peeler grabbed his face with both hands, made these snorting sounds, and wobbled out of the shed.