Man in the Blue Moon (18 page)

“Did he put his mouth on you the way a husband might do with his wife?” The sheriff’s words were low, and he tilted his chin when he said them.

Macon looked over at the peacock feathers that were still swaying from Neva’s movement.

“Come on now, man-to-man. Just me and you talking,” the sheriff said in a voice only loud enough for Macon to hear.

Clive Gillespie leaned closer, his buttocks balanced on the edge of the chair cushion.

Macon slid away from the sheriff, knocking the vase and shaking the feathers yet again. “He . . . uh . . . am I in trouble?”

“No,” Neva said and stepped forward. “Macon, you’re not in any trouble whatsoever.”

Clive stuck his arm out, blocking her. “Let us leave the sheriff to do his job.”

“Now, there’s nothing to be ashamed of,” the sheriff said and patted Macon on the shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault, now. We know that. Just tell me one thing. Did he put his mouth on you the way men do the women in the picture shows you see in town?”

Macon looked down and bit the corner of his lip. It only took a nod of his head to cause the sheriff to rise up from the floor. The clock ticked, and the sheriff’s knee made a popping sound.

“You sure I’m not going to get in trouble?” Macon asked again before Mrs. Pomeroy sent him outside to draw circles in the dirt underneath the sable palms.

“I’m not comfortable with one bit of this,” Neva said.

“Sit down,” Clive said without looking at Neva. “Sheriff Bissell, what are next steps with this matter?”

The sheriff rotated his head back and forth, and more joints popped. “Oh, let me figure on it. I expect we’ll need to put a formal investigation together. We’ll need to talk to the nigra girl too.”

“I am not comfortable with this at all,” Neva said louder. “Now I want to know what law gives you—”

“And I want to know what teacher can hear about perversion . . . such unnatural affection toward a child, and not report it to authorities?” Clive tilted his head and raised his eyebrows at Neva.

“There was . . . there was nothing perverse about what I was told. Unusual, yes, but . . .”

“Like I told you before, Neva, as a school board member I will not—let me say I
cannot
—let this go uninvestigated.”

Neva jumped from the seat. “Investigate what? Rumors and innuendos?”

“Really, Miss Clarkson. I would think if I were in your position about right now, I’d be worried about my employment. Or maybe you’d prefer to work at the cannery, shucking oysters?”

“All right, all right,” the sheriff said. “Let’s not get carried away.” His words were drowned out by the hour chime on the clock that played “Way Down upon the Swanee River.”

“More lemonade, anyone?” A glass pitcher wobbled in Mrs. Pomeroy’s grip. Sweat ran down the sides of the pitcher.

As her guests stood outside at the front gate, Mrs. Pomeroy stood by the rug that was half cleaned and ran her hand down the side. The sheriff started to open the driver’s door to his car, then shook his head and laughed. He held up the glass that now contained only a shriveled lemon and half jogged back to where Mrs. Pomeroy stood.

“I expect you didn’t mean for me to drive off with your glass,” he said as he handed it back to her. The sheriff looked down at Macon, who was sitting on the ground, cleaning off his marbles. “And I appreciate you, young man, for telling the truth.” He reached down and rubbed Macon’s head the same way he might if Macon had been Mrs. Pomeroy’s yard dog. “You’re helping us. You’re helping your mama, too. She’d be proud.”

The sheriff took three steps and then turned back toward Macon. “That fella, Lanier. I never did hear how he was to end up here in Dead Lakes.”

Macon tossed the marbles into the ring that he had drawn in the dirt with his bare finger. He took the cat’s-eye marble that Clive Gillespie had fancied and put it in his pocket. “He just showed up one day is all.”

The sheriff chuckled. “Just like that, huh? Just like magic.”

“Showed up to help us out. He’s my daddy’s cousin.” Macon repeated the script exactly the way Ella had instructed him and his brothers the night after Lanier arrived.

Mrs. Pomeroy clutched the line, weighing down the rug until the fringed tips of the carpet were tangled in crabgrass. The back of her hair was tangled in perspiration.

The sheriff grunted as he knelt down on the ground. He scooped up a wayward marble that was in a clump of dried moss and tossed it back into the circle marked in the dirt. “Well, I be dad-gummed . . . just like magic.”

After the visitors had driven away, Mrs. Pomeroy never seemed to notice the rug as it drooped lopsided on the line or the dirt on Macon’s arms as he lay on his stomach shooting marbles. She could only lean against the sable palm and stare across the road at Ella’s store.

“You promise I’m not going to get in trouble?” Macon continued asking until Mrs. Pomeroy, unable to summon enough energy to lift the rug swatter, retreated to a wicker chair on the porch and threatened to switch him if he didn’t hush with his questions.

By the time Mr. Busby crossed the river bridge into Bainbridge, Georgia, the woman who ran the café had already pulled the tray of peanuts she roasted that morning out onto the sidewalk. A chalkboard advertising the blue plate special was propped sideways on the tray. After adjusting the tray on a card table that dipped in the middle, she stepped away to examine her display. Her hands were placed on two sharp bones that stuck out from the sides of her dress like the handles of concealed pistols. The smell drew the attention of everyone who journeyed by foot, car, or wagon, including Mr. Busby. A man paused to scoop up a handful of peanuts before walking inside.

Busy watching the customers who filled the café, Mr. Busby did not see the group of men who paused in the median, trying to cross the street. “Whoa now,” one of the men yelled just as Mr. Busby pulled the reins, fighting to stop his wagon.

With each step across the street, past the furniture store, and by the market window with fresh chickens and guineas hanging from silver hooks, they shook their heads and cussed. One of them took off his cowboy hat and flapped it at Mr. Busby as if he were a gnat. “Watch where you’re going, junk man.” They laughed, scooped up peanuts, and nodded to the café owner as they entered.

Two men with matching gold timepieces dangling from their pockets walked out of a building with stained glass on its doors. The noon sun hit the glass in such a way that it seemed to flash in rays of pink and gold light. Temporarily blinded by the brightness, Mr. Busby looked to the left of the window and noticed that all of the others on the building had been painted black. The man with the broadest shoulders pulled the watch from his pants pocket, flipped open the face, and glanced up at Mr. Busby before hiding it back inside his trousers. He never acknowledged Mr. Busby’s nod or the group of other workers who filed out of the building and walked ten paces behind him.

The horses slapped the brick street with their hooves and whinnied when a whistle from the warehouse roof blared. Looking up at the roof of the building, where statues of owls were perched, Mr. Busby noticed for the first time that the top of the building had a faded illustration of a cartoonish smiling moon with block letters that spelled out,
Blue Moon Clock Company, Established 1872
.

An eagle flew out of the woods and above the river with a piece of bear grass hanging from her beak. She soared over a patch of lavender water hyacinth that dotted the shore and swooped down as a snapping turtle jumped from a log into the murky water. The bird finally came to rest on one of the broken pines that populated a small island in the middle of the river. Tucking the thick, rope-looking grass into the top of the tree that had long ago been ripped away by a hurricane, the eagle pecked at the makings of a nest. She sat on the twigs and limbs that were beginning to take the shape of a crown and tilted her head down to where the rafts of logs were coming into view around the river’s bend.

“See there how that tree limb is sticking up out of the water.” Bonaparte stood at the front of the raft and pointed with a fistful of cornbread to a shrub oak that seemed to rise up from the river at the edge of the island. “See there,” he said to no one in particular.

“Yeah,” Ella said.

“I see what you’re talking about,” Samuel added and gripped the pole he held tighter.

“I don’t see it,” Lanier said.

“Up there to the right,” Bonaparte said and took a bite of the cornbread. Flakes of cornmeal sprinkled the tops of his boots. “That means there’s been freshets flooding the place. The flash floods, I’m talking about. Everybody pay close attention.” Bonaparte wiped the remaining crumbs from his hands and picked up his pole. He held on to it the same way he might if he’d been carrying a gun. “The current is fixing to change on us.”

Lanier copied Bonaparte’s stance and took position at the opposite side of the raft. Narsissa secured the washtub over the supplies and screwed the tops on the water canisters. “Keaton,” she said and motioned for him to sit next to her. He turned his back toward her and faced the island that was coming up ahead.

The plywood floor of the raft shifted with the changing river current and made a whining sound as it sloshed against the cypress logs that were secured underneath. Ella gripped the rail and then let go before easing closer to Bonaparte. “What should we be doing?”

“Hold on tight.” He never turned to face her.

“Should we check on the other raft?” Ella asked, reaching out but never touching Bonaparte’s arm.

“I’ll check it,” Samuel said. He handed his pole to Ella and then straddled the back of the raft.

“Be careful,” Ella yelled.

Samuel stuck his hands out to balance himself. His legs were wobbling when he shouted, “I got it. You be careful.”

The chain that connected the two rafts together sloshed and kicked up a spray of water against the shifting current. As Samuel moved, the raft jostled to the side, and Ella yelled once more, “Be careful.” She watched him hunch down over the chain. His body swayed with the way the raft seemed to fight against the change of stream. Samuel soon leaned down and balanced himself with his fingers spread out against one of the logs.

Samuel squinted as he looked toward the front. “Bonaparte. Hey, Bonaparte, one of these spikes is sticking out sideways.”

“Just one spike?” Bonaparte yelled without turning around.

Samuel shook his head and peered down at the spikes, hunching down over the back of the raft. “All of ’em.”

The raft made a creaking sound again and jerked toward the tall, wheat-colored grass at the edge of the island. Samuel hovered over the back with a hand positioned on either side of him, seemingly ready to pounce and tackle the raft that was bouncing and thrashing behind them.

“Samuel,” Ella said. “Samuel. Get away from . . .” Her words were drowned out by a loud crackling sound. Her first thought was that Samuel had set off firecrackers and that at any moment he would fall backward in a fit of laughter. They would all jump, and then she would chastise him for scaring her. It would be the sort of thing they would talk about during family gatherings for years to come. But there were no fits of giggles from childish pranks, only the explosion of wood as the rear raft broke apart.

“Samuel!” Ella screamed as she watched her son fly up in the air like a rag doll, flailing forward and then backward nearer the edge of the raft. She screamed as the other raft shifted to the side and an iron spike that had secured wood was hurled upward, barely missing Samuel’s head before landing in the water. Ella scrambled on hands and knees toward him, never feeling the splinters that wedged into her palms.

Samuel tumbled backward, past Ella and toward the front of the raft. His shoulder struck the tub where Narsissa sat, knocking her to the floor. Narsissa scrambled upright and pulled Samuel’s arm away from the edge of the raft where he was sliding. Like cards being shuffled on the water, cypress logs in the second raft behind them snapped free from the deck and flew up in the air along with the iron spikes that rained down like oversized nails.

Bonaparte staggered backward and gripped the pole tighter until the muscles in his forearms stretched the patches on his sleeve. “Push ’way from that island,” he hollered. Lanier shoved his pole over the top of the leaves of the shrub oak that bobbed above the water like hair on a dead man.

The sound of chaos as they scrambled to protect their work broke the tranquility of the river. Cypress soon spread out across the river surface. In the days to come the sight would burst in Ella’s mind in flashes, the same way the kaleidoscope that her aunt had once entertained her with would explode into colors with a playful twist of the hand.

When they had made their way past the island and regained their footing, they stood in silence watching half of their shipment scatter like misplaced pencils, drifting farther down the river. Ella was the first one to step away from the end of the raft. She sat on top of the overturned washtub, gripped the side that was now jagged at the corners, and stared as the water rode up over the edge of the raft and slapped at her boots.

Lanier stepped toward her, casting a shadow across the spot on the floor that held her downward gaze. She never felt the thorn that lodged in her palm or the touch of Lanier’s hand when he reached down and caressed her shoulder.

Mr. Busby started his day by brokering a deal with the furniture store owner to let him set up his studio inside. For a complimentary portrait of the staff, Mr. Busby even got to set up a display table on the sidewalk in front of the store.

When the woman who ran the café argued that Mr. Busby was stealing the spot that she used to entice customers with her roasted peanut table, he promised her a portrait if she’d leave him in peace to unfurl his torn black velvet tablecloth over two sawhorses and a piece of plywood. “Madam, we all have a job to do,” he said and unpacked framed photos from his satchel and placed them on the display table.

He was careful to cover the torn spot of the velvet tablecloth with a portrait that people would not pick up and examine. Looking inside his bag, he pulled out the photograph of Ella and her family on the day of the timber cut. With the image of the man Ella had hired to help her tucked in the corner of the photograph like a blurred ghost, Mr. Busby knew he was safe in using that frame to hide the tear. The South Georgia crackers would not see the work as art but rather as a smudge of film. They would look at it and blink before turning back toward the photos at the front of the table. Pictures of women wearing wide-brimmed hats long out of fashion and men with handlebar mustaches wearing blank stares—these would be the pictures that would catch their fancy. They would hold and inspect the black-and-white pictures, smudging the glass surfaces of the frames with their working-class fingers. They would not have an inclination toward any documentation of a woman dressed in men’s work boots standing in front of a stack of cut pine alongside a Creek Indian and three dirty-faced boys. The reality would be too harsh and familiar.

A woman with a mouth shaped in a permanent upside-down V stood over the table of photographs. She clutched the folds of her stomach like there was money tucked inside. “Do you charge by the number of people in the picture?” the woman asked. Mr. Busby shook his head and turned his attention to one of the men he had seen yesterday upon his arrival. The man was broad-shouldered and wore a black jacket that was snug at the sides. A gold chain hung from an inside pocket and draped down to the man’s waist. He jostled the chain and slowed his step when he walked by, glancing down at the table.

The man paused long enough to give Mr. Busby hope that a man of wealth might be interested in his services. “Pictures are living memories,” Mr. Busby called out. But the man hastened his step and crossed the street, turning the corner toward the spot underneath a streetlamp where he kept his freshly washed automobile.

At the end of Main Street, coal from the noon train engine blanketed the air the same way the smell of roasted peanuts had the day before. Steam poured from the side of the engine that had just pulled up to the depot where an advertisement for Coca-Cola covered the outside wall. Ignoring the No Parking sign that was nailed beneath the painting of a Coke bottle, the man parked his shiny car and then made his way up to the train platform. He stood next to a wooden bench, fingering the chain on his watch and observing as depot agents stacked luggage on the deck.

J.D. Troxler made his way down the steps of the first-class railcar. His shoulders were broader than the younger brother who waited for him at the station platform, but a similar gold watch chain dangled from his waist, shaking with his every move. Shifting his weight as he walked down first one step and then another, he waved away the assistance of the colored steward who stood at the bottom stair. A woman with a sky-blue dress that formed tightly at her waist came out of the train behind him and nodded to him before disappearing into the smoke and crowd of townspeople who lined the depot, waiting on travelers.

“That one is a looker. Did you bring her back with you from Atlanta?” the younger brother, Parker, asked as J.D. walked up to him.

“Only a hangover,” J.D. said. He scratched the stubble of whiskers and the scar that ran down the side of his jaw, a permanent medal from the days of his youth when he had been foolish enough to wager a bet that he could fight a bear in a circus cage.

“You got the deal, I understand,” Parker said, running his fingers up and down his watch chain. He paused only long enough to motion for a porter to gather J.D.’s luggage.

J.D. looked a moment longer at the spot where the woman had stood. Then he turned and shook his head at Parker. “What are you doing? Wandering around town, waiting for my train? You’re so lazy you wouldn’t breathe unless you just had to.”

J.D. shook his head while Parker rattled off excuses and numbers of production achieved while J.D. was in Atlanta securing business and exerting his freedom from family.

When Parker maneuvered the car back into his assigned spot as vice president of Blue Moon Clock Company, the president made his way toward the café, where he snatched up a handful of peanuts every afternoon. It was the one time he allowed himself freedom from the desk that sat below a mounted head of a wild boar he’d killed and oil portraits of his father and deceased sister, Octavia. He had personally retrieved the painting from her home after her murder and had driven the nail into the plaster with the butt of his pistol, vowing to unseat the sheriff who couldn’t deliver justice. “Calamity is not the same as commitment,” his father had written in the letter to J.D. before he tied cinder blocks to his ankles and jumped into the Chattahoochee River. The man who had started the Blue Moon Clock Company and held part interest in a textile mill in Columbus and a department store in Macon never owned peace. The official obituary would call his death a drowning due to a fishing accident. For the Troxlers, there was no such thing as suicide.

“Where are the peanuts? Where’s Lula?” J.D. eyed Mr. Busby with suspicion and then turned in a half circle.

The café owner came out of the door with a white napkin. The smell of the roasted peanuts drifted from the tie at the top. “Here you go, Mr. Troxler,” the café owner said before handing the napkin to him. She pulled at the edge of her skirt and almost curtseyed. “This picture taker is just borrowing my spot for the day. Tomorrow I’ll be right where I’ve always been.”

J.D. bit into a peanut and glanced down at the table before turning to step off the sidewalk.

“Pictures are living memories,” Mr. Busby cried out. He reached up and grasped at the air. “Uh, sir, just so you know . . . I take business portraits too. Lots of businesses are forgoing the old-timey painted portraits and going for the celluloid. I can make portraits any size you want them.”

J.D. turned and spat a peanut hull. The broken shell landed at the corner of the table where the photograph of Ella and her family was displayed. The sun cut across the side of the table and highlighted the broken tip of the picture frame. Flecks of the silver frame sparkled, and J.D. Troxler stepped closer to the table. Mr. Busby massaged his hands in anticipation of a corporate order.

Peanut crumbs from J.D.’s fingers scattered across the frame as he held it up. The torn spot in the black velvet tablecloth was revealed for all to see.

“Now, that is not representative of my work,” Mr. Busby said while placing his hand over the torn spot in the cloth. “That was just a favor I did for a neighbor lady . . . an experiment, so to speak. This batch of photographs might be more what you had in mind.” Mr. Busby tried to hand J.D. a photograph of the mayor of Eufaula sitting in a wingback chair.

Stuffing the napkin of peanuts into his pants pocket, J.D. Troxler brushed away the crumbs on the frame and pulled the picture inches away from his eyes.

“That’s not representative of my corporate work,” Mr. Busby said again, dancing around him, daring to reach for the photograph. “That’s artistic flair. . . . That blur is artistic license.”

J.D. held it up higher toward the sunlight and pondered the picture. He moaned and cursed Lanier Stillis all in the same breath.

J.D. motioned for his brother to move out from the street and yelled, “Parker, get over here and tell me if I’m seeing things.” J.D.’s voice could be heard all the way to the dock, where bales of cotton were being loaded onto a steamboat.