arkansastraveler (31 page)

We bowed our heads, and the room was quiet as the man started praying.

“This is your servant’s prayer,” the man said, his voice starting soft and pleading, its bass tremor pouring out over us like thick molasses. “Hear us, oh, Lord of Hosts. Hear us and show us your mercy and grace. Your never ending mercy and amazing grace. We thank you. We thank you for your child, Quinton. We thank you for his courage and his heart. We trust your child to You, oh, Father, to You who knit him in his mother’s womb. We thank you, Holy God of Israel.”

Murmurs of “amen” and “yes, brother” echoed through the rustling crowd.

“We thank you,” he continued, “for Quinton and for all who gather in your name tonight. Oh, Jesus, we thank you for our families because they need us; we thank you for our friends because they love us; we thank you for our brothers and sisters in You because they give us comfort, and, Sweet Jesus, we thank you for our enemies because they keep us on our knees looking up to You, looking up to the hills of glory, looking up to the hills from whence came our help. Because you are our help, oh, Holy Spirit . . .”

I sank back deeper into the sofa, knowing from experience that this would be a long prayer. Feeling more than a little guilty, I opened one eye a slit to see how Grady was taking the news.

He was gone. Curiosity prompted me to slip down the hallway and search for him. In his haste, the door to his study had been left open a crack. His angry voice was low but distinct.

“Why in heaven’s name did you do that?” he said. He was quiet for a moment as someone on the line was obviously explaining themselves. “Of course he’d carry a gun, you idiot. I would, too, if I were him. Your men had no cause to pull him over except pure harassment. You should
have called me first. It was supposed to be a diversionary tactic, not the ruination of some young man’s life. Get this straightened out now.” He slammed the phone down.

Propelled by some force I couldn’t control, I pushed open the door.

His expression of surprise was genuine. I guess he thought no one would think to walk out during the prayer for Quinton. “What the . . . ? How much did you hear?”

“Diversionary tactic, huh? That’s pretty low even for a politician. The fact that it’s your own son’s murder you’re using is beyond my capacity to understand.” I stared at him a moment. “Does being elected mayor mean that much to you?”

He stared back, his hand still in his pocket, his face hard and unyielding. “There was talk of me running for governor next term.”

My eyes widened involuntarily. “Are you saying that since it was a higher office you aspired to, your son, not to mention Quinton Tolliver, were expendable?”

His back stiffened. “My son was a troubled boy. It’s . . . better this way.”

“For who?”

“There are people I owe. All this”—he swept his hand around the lavish office—“the high-class life Toby enjoyed, the new trucks, the hunting trips, the expensive bass boats, was all made possible by people who expect me to give back. Toby could never understand that.”

“Does money mean that much to you?”

His face flashed hard with anger now. “You don’t know what it was like growing up here. It hasn’t been that easy for me.”

My expression of disbelief set him off more than any words I could have said.

He pointed a finger at me. “I am so sick of everyone thinking I’ve had it easy. You don’t know.
No one
knows what it was like.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, looking around the lavish office. “Poor Grady Hunter, he’s really had to suffer. Try that story on one of the people in town who have to eat boxed macaroni and cheese four times a week.”

“You don’t know,” he snapped.

I shrugged. “All I see is a pretty good life here and not much concern about anyone else.”

His face grew red. “When my father died, he left my mother and I destitute. The great high and mighty business man, Grady Hunter Senior, so respected in Sugartree, died with five hundred dollars to his name. The shame of it drove my mother into a depression she never came out of. She died before I could. . .” He stopped and inhaled deeply. “Before I could earn it back. It was real touch and go when Toby was small, though we did our best to hide it. The
family name
.” He spit out the words. “I promised my mother I would keep the shame of my father in the family. I did whatever it took to restore our family’s pride and financial standing. And the people who helped me—well, without them, I’d just be some high school history teacher barely making ends meet.”

“And your son would probably be alive.”

“I’ll make sure Quinton Tolliver is released. He won’t suffer for this.”

“Is that right?” Gabe said behind me. “That’s certainly debatable. I think he’s suffered already. But, without a doubt, this second arrest will guarantee your reelection.”

We both turned to stare at Gabe. His dark face was a neutral mask. How much had he heard of Grady’s diatribe?

“I never meant to hurt Amen,” Grady said. “She’s . . . she’s a friend.”

“Yes, Grady, we know all about your friendship,” I said. “I saw the picture. I think you just took advantage of her when she was vulnerable.”

He licked his lips nervously. “What picture?”

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud . . .” I started, but Gabe interrupted me.

“Mayor Hunter,” he said, moving in front of me smoothly so that I had to peer out from behind him. At that moment, it occurred to me that Gabe worried about Grady becoming violent. I glanced around. Was there a gun within reach? I didn’t see one.

“Mayor Hunter,” he said again, his voice easy, nonthreatening. “What happened with your son?”

Grady’s face turned pale. For a moment he couldn’t speak. Then he stuttered, “I . . . he . . . Chief Ortiz, you know someone killed my son.”

“Mayor Hunter,” Gabe repeated yet again. “What happened with your son?”

He swallowed hard. “I told you, someone killed him.”

Gabe moved a step closer, his voice still steady and insistent. “Mayor Hunter,
what happened with your son
?”

He didn’t answer this time but stared over Gabe’s shoulder at the painting on the study’s wall. It was of the old mill down in Little Rock. The opening scene in
Gone With the Wind
.

“Mayor Hunter.” Gabe’s voice became softer. “What happened with your son?”

“My father used to take me to that old mill,” Grady said, his voice jerky. He raised a trembling hand to his mouth. “He liked to stand and watch it. Sometimes we’d stand there for hours and watch it. He knew every stone and patch of moss. He loved that movie. Said Rhett Butler was a man’s man.”

“Mayor Hunter,” Gabe said. “You need to tell me what happened with your son.”

He continued staring at the painting. “My son was a troubled boy. Right from the beginning. He was a troubled boy.”

“But you tried to help him.” Gabe’s voice was deceptively gentle.

Grady moved his eyes from the painting to Gabe’s face. In that instant, his face seemed to drop, and the sharp,
handsome features seemed to blur, as if we were seeing a picture shot through cheesecloth.

“Chief Ortiz,” he said, “people depend on me. You know how that is.”

Gabe nodded. “Yes, but sometimes, even though people depend on us, we have to do what is right.”

He shook his head slowly. “Sometimes you start out right, and things . . . pile up. People come at you and ask and ask . . .” The words caught in his throat. “People depend on me,” he repeated. “I can’t let them down. It’s important that I don’t let them down.”

“It’s more important to do what is right,” Gabe said.

Grady’s jaw set stubbornly. From where I stood I could see his throat flex. “I have many important friends.”

“You can’t avoid this,” Gabe said. “Now that you’re a suspect, your whole life will be an open book. I’ve already given a name of an FBI contact to one of Sugartree’s detectives. There will be an investigation.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he insisted.

“What happened with your son?” Gabe asked again.

“I told you,” Grady snapped. He was visibly breathing harder now. “
Someone
killed him. Someone killed my boy.”

“What happened with your son?”

“I told you . . .”

“What happened with your son?”

Grady swore, his fist clenched involuntarily. “I’ve had just about enough of this, Mr. Ortiz.”

I noticed that he took away Gabe’s official title. That little change told me that Gabe’s interrogation was wearing him down.

“Mayor Grady,” Gabe said, “you killed your son.”

I gasped softly, surprised Gabe would say it outright. Was he trying to shock Grady into confessing? Would it work?

Grady started rubbing his hands. His eyes darted behind Gabe’s back to the door.

“Close the door, Benni,” Gabe said.

I swiftly did what he said. The murmur from the crowded living room became muted.

“Mayor Hunter, the FBI will tear the Sugartree police department apart. Whatever it is you and the police chief have going will be exposed. It’s over.”

“He’s an old friend,” Grady said stiffly. “I asked him out of respect for my feelings not to investigate too deeply into my son’s death, that it was too upsetting to me. He did nothing wrong. I assured him it was one of Toby’s marginal friends, the result of an argument. I didn’t want him to harass Quinton. I did everything I could to keep that from happening.”

“Mayor Hunter,” Gabe said, “aren’t you tired of all this? Don’t you want it to be over?” His voice sounded kind, understanding.

Grady wilted slightly. “Yes, I am tired.”

“Tell me what happened with your son. I have a son, so I know how boys can be. Sometimes they can push you and push you until you can’t take it anymore.”

“He was trouble from the beginning,” Grady said, his voice a whisper.

Gabe moved a step closer. He was within hand-shaking distance now. “Grady,” he said, using the mayor’s first name. “Grady, what happened with your son? If you killed your son, you have to confess. God can’t forgive you if you don’t confess.”

I looked at my husband in surprise. God was not someone whose name he invoked thoughtlessly. And, I was sure, in most interrogations, an experienced criminal would scoff at such a blatantly manipulative statement.

And Grady Hunter was, without doubt, an experienced criminal, but he was also a grieving father and a man raised in the church, a man who’d wandered deeper into the abyss than he’d ever thought possible.

“It’s all up to you,” Gabe said. “No one can make that
decision but you. Your soul depends on it.” He sounded for, all the world, like the revival preachers I’d grown up hearing every summer of my life.

“You find the suspect’s weakness and play it,” I remember him saying once about interrogating people. “Most people show their vulnerable spot five minutes after you meet them, if you know what to look for.”

Grady choked back a deep-throated sob, but wouldn’t answer.

“You need to decide right now,” Gabe said, his voice insistent. “There’s not much time left.”

Grady stared at him and wouldn’t answer.

“You need to decide,” Gabe repeated, unrelenting. “You need to take responsibility. You
know
this, Grady. You know this. It’s over. Just let other people take care of things now. It’s over.”

Grady’s eyes welled up, and he looked straight at Gabe. “He was going to blackmail me with that picture. He was disgusted that I would kiss a black woman. It was that group he was in . . . He was a sweet boy, really he was. He used to love to help his mother make baskets for the poor. I don’t know what happened to him . . . Those boys he hung around . . .”

“Grady.” Gabe closed the distance between them and put a hand on his shoulder.

“God have mercy on me,” Grady said, his voice wet and choked. He brought a hand to his face, covering it. “I killed my only son.”

We were all silent for a moment. The air seemed thick and warm in the spacious study. In the background, we could hear talking, an occasional laugh, no one aware of the momentous act taking place a few feet away.

“How?” Gabe asked softly.

Grady kept his eyes focused on Gabe’s expressionless face. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I didn’t mean to kill him, I just wanted him to shut up, to go along with the program.
He taunted me, called me a nigger-loving fool. He was drunk and he wouldn’t shut up . . .” His hand fell away. “So I picked up a piece of wood and hit him once. Then I couldn’t stop. I was out of my mind with anger. Oh, God help me, I couldn’t stop. I loved my son, but he wouldn’t shut up. He just wouldn’t
shut up
.” His head dropped, and he started sobbing. The horrible sound of his grief filled the beautiful room.

“You need to tell the police,” Gabe said. “You need to put this to rest.”

“Yes,” Grady whispered. “Rest.”

Then he looked back at Gabe. “Chief Ortiz, will you kindly escort me down to the police station?”

Gabe took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, sir, I will.”

T
HE NEXT DAY
, at the Sunday morning church service, the story of Grady’s confession was the talk of the church. More than a few people turned and stared when Gabe, Elvia, and I walked into the crowded sanctuary. It was obvious it had gotten around that Gabe was the one who’d convinced their beloved mayor to confess to murdering his son. From some of the people’s openly hostile expressions, it wasn’t something they’d be congratulating him for. I gripped his arm, squeezing it in support. I was proud of my husband and stared boldly back at the angry faces, daring them to say a thing.

But there were just as many smiles and looks of approval as we walked down the aisle to a middle pew where Amen, her son, Lawrence, and Quinton slid down so we could join them. After Gabe accompanied Mayor Hunter to the police station last night, I took Amen aside and told her what had just happened. For the first time in my life, I saw Amen Harriet Tolliver cry.

“What a fool I was,” she said, wiping her streaming eyes with the sleeve of her pale yellow blouse.

“No, you were a vulnerable woman who was grieving for her husband. You were just being
human
.”

She smiled through her tears. “Thank that handsome husband of yours for me.”

“I will, but it would be better if you did.”

“Oh, I will, don’t you worry. And
thank you
. For not giving up.”

I leaned over and hugged her. “No problem. Want my Sugartree Hornet sweatshirt, too?”

She laughed as she hugged me back. “I don’t want any part of that ratty old sweatshirt, girl. I want a brand-new one.”

“I’ll send you one from the San Celina Police Department.”

“And I’ll wear it with pride.”

When I sat down next to Amen in the pew, she reached over and grabbed my hand, squeezing it hard. Her palm was warm and damp. Her dark eyes were shiny with tears.

“Thank you,” Quinton said, looking first at Gabe, then at me.

We both nodded our acknowledgement.

Before the sermon started, Brother Woodward, Sugartree Baptist’s current pastor, took the pulpit and said, “Though this is unconventional, we’ve decided to hold the vote for the church merger this morning. We figured this was the time when the most members would be present. Considering the sensitive nature of this subject, we’ve also decided a written vote would be the most harmonious. A ballot is in your program. If you are a member of this church, please fill it out with your vote and put it in the collection plate. The results will be announced after the sermon.”

The sermon, a joint effort by both Brother Woodward and Brother Folkes, was naturally about forgiveness, tolerance, and how Christians should be the first to be willing to change, to accept strangers in their midst, not the last. Glancing around at the faces of the people, I imagined I
saw more expressions of agreement than dissent, but then, as Gabe so often accuses me, maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see.

Emory was sitting up front with Miss DeLora and Uncle Boone. I watched the back of my cousin’s blond head and wondered if he had anything planned for today. There was still the dinner-on-the-grounds this afternoon and the all-day singing. If he had a plan, it better be implemented soon since our plane left at nine
A
.
M
. tomorrow.

The choir sang one more medley of gospel songs, and then Brother Woodward returned to the pulpit.

“Our closing scripture will be read by Emory Littleton, after which the results of the vote will be announced. Then we will all partake with great joy of the feast the kind ladies of both churches have prepared for us and continue to praise the Lord for the rest of the day.” He nodded at Emory.

Emory, looking like a picture from an Aramis cologne ad, stood and walked up the steps to the pulpit. His navy suit, white dress shirt, and deep maroon tie were absolutely perfect. He looked over the audience, spied us in the middle row, and trained his eyes directly on Elvia. Next to me, I sensed her tensing. I slipped my arm through Gabe’s and waited to see what my cousin would read.

“My text this morning,” he said in his smooth as caramel drawl, “is the book of Ruth, chapter 1, verses 16 and 17. May we all be blessed with the kind of loyalty and faith the widow Ruth felt toward her mother-in-law, Naomi, who was giving her permission to leave her and go back to her people.” He opened the Bible in front of him.

Bible pages softly rustled in the congregation as people searched for the verse. He spoke without looking down at the Bible, having obviously memorized the words. His eyes never left Elvia’s face.

“ ‘Entreat me not to leave you or to return from following you; for where you go, I will go, and where you lodge,
I will lodge; your people shall be my people, your God my God; where you die, I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord do so to me and more also if even death parts me from you.’ ”

He continued to stare at Elvia whose face was frozen. The room was as still and quiet as the center of a tornado.

He slowly closed the Bible and said, “Please, Elvia Marisol Aragon, marry me.”

“
Muy cojones
,” Gabe murmured.

There was a long, silent moment. Elvia took my hand. I squeezed it. Whatever she decided, I tried to tell her with my touch, would be okay. I would still love her and be her friend.

She slowly nodded yes, and Emory’s face broke into a smile that I could see held relief as much as joy. The church broke out into loud applause, and Emory came down the aisle and took his place next to Elvia. Over her head, he caught my eye and winked.

“Well,” Brother Woodward said when he returned to the pulpit, “that will certainly help make this a day to remember.” His smile quickly turned to a sober expression. “Now, I have the results of the vote. There’s no use draggin’ it out, but apparently neither church is ready for this step. The decision to merge lost by twenty-three votes. Let us pray in the spirit of Christian fellowship and for a reconciliation. As the Lord himself says, ‘Do not be discouraged. In this world you will have much tribulation, but fear not, I have overcome the world.’ ”

Before he could pray, a voice rang out of the audience. A very familiar grating voice that had spent more than its time on earth nagging at me and Emory.

“For heaven’s blessed sakes, what is
wrong
with you people?”

We all turned to look at Aunt Garnet, who stood up, her pale, rice-powdered face indignant. Next to her, Dove’s eyes widened with surprise.

“
Muy cojones
,” I murmured this time.

“If we don’t merge, both churches will die. And we’ll deserve to. The most important thing is what God wants us to do. Can you imagine Him wanting any of his churches to fade away?”

“Garnet,” a male voice behind her said, “the vote’s done already been taken. You’d best let it go.”

At that, my own dear gramma stood up, linked her arm through her younger sister’s, and said, “Garnet’s right as rain on this, and y’all better listen to her. I move we take another vote.”

“I second that motion,” Miss DeLora called out.

A round of voices called out their approval.

“Third it.”

“Fourth it.”

“Another vote! Let’s take another vote!”

Now I didn’t think that Emory’s little drama could be upstaged, but if any two people could do it, it was the Mosely sisters. Next to me, Gabe chuckled. I jabbed my elbow into his side.

“Hey,” he said, with a soft groan. “You have to admit, only in your family . . .”

The unexpected and unprecedented uniting of the Mosely girls on
any
subject was worthy of consideration, and with the congregation so worked up, the deacons and two pastors had a quick meeting up front and decided to let the people vote one more time. As pieces of paper were passed out, scribbled on and then collected, the choir sang another round of gospel songs.

After the votes were tallied, Brother Folkes stood in front of the congregation, clutching his large black Bible as if it were a shield. He glanced over at Dove and Aunt Garnet, gave them a nod and smile, then said, “The votes have been retaken. I’m sorry to say the motion to merge the churches still lost by eighteen votes.” He cast Dove and Aunt Garnet an apologetic look.

“That’s okay, baby sister,” Dove said, her arm still linked with Garnet’s. She patted the top of her sister’s hand. “We convinced five of ’em. There’s still hope.”

“And on that note,” the pastor replied, “let us bless the food and eat.”

A
FTER
E
MORY
’
S IMPASSIONED
proposal in the church, he and Elvia started planning an early-spring wedding. I, of course, was asked to be matron of honor, a role in my best girlfriend’s life I thought I would never play. She swore to me the bridesmaid dress would flatter me. She promised there’d be no chiffon or large hats. I told her I’d wear a gunny sack and dance down the aisle barefoot if that would assure me that she and Emory would become man and wife.

We settled on gray silk.

Amen dropped from the election shortly after Grady Hunter’s arrest when her car was fire-bombed outside of a Burger King on the edge of town. Lawrence had just stepped out of it moments before.

“I’ll try politics again when he’s away at college,” she said. No one could blame her. She worked on the campaign of a sociology professor who’d been one of her supporters on the city council. He ran against a conservative businessman who had many of the same ties to big business as Grady Hunter’s. The sociology professor won by a very small margin of votes.

“It’s a start,” she said.

Amen and Duck were married by a justice of the peace a month after we returned to San Celina. That wasn’t good enough for Miss DeLora. So they were married again by Brother Woodward and Brother Folkes in Sugartree’s sanctuary.

“You’re double-married,” I told her when I called to give my congratulations. “Just like me and Gabe. And now you two can legally feed among the lilies.”

“Thank God for good ole Solomon,” she replied, laughing.

Dove and Aunt Garnet were in harmony for that one glorious moment in church, but peace with the Mosely girls was not meant to be. When they got home that night, they commenced to arguing about what their daddy’s favorite vegetable was—corn or peas. Since there was no way possible to verify his preference, it is still being argued to this day. They hugged the next day before Dove and Isaac left for their drive home to California, but they weren’t speaking.

“Ain’t family grand?” Uncle WW said, grinning around his pipe.

The church merger never happened, though a group of people from both churches meet two Saturday nights a month in various houses, singing songs of praise and praying for healing among the races. Sugartree Baptist did co-sign a loan for Zion Baptist to buy a lot over by the Dairy Queen. Together the two congregations are planning to build Zion Baptist a church.

As Amen would say, it’s a start.

Isaac published a photograph series in
Oxford American
magazine depicting Amen’s short career in politics. The series brought a lot of attention to the causes Amen was concerned about, and a clearinghouse for charities in Little Rock offered her a job. She’s in charge of hundreds of thousands of charity dollars, deciding where they should go, how they would best be used. She is, as they say, in Razorback heaven.

On the day they got back to San Celina, Isaac surprised Dove with a one-carat diamond ring. She called me in a panic, not knowing what to do.

“Marry him,” I said in between bites of an apple.

“Well, I believe I will,” she replied. So it looks like there’ll be two weddings come springtime.

As for me and Gabe, we’re still going strong. Working,
arguing, making up, still looking for the perfect house, being in love. As Uncle WW would say, just living this grand ole life as God intended.

And, I guess, in the end that’s really what it’s all about, isn’t it?