Stumptown Kid (12 page)

He nodded, and we walked out the door.

People followed us for a few blocks. They were talking about Luther, loud enough for him to hear. Some defended him, and other people seemed disappointed that he wasn’t a murderer.

“Come on,” I said, turning down a side street. “This won’t get you home sooner, but we’ll lose those people who’re followin’ us.”

The guilt I was carrying around with me was getting heavier and heavier.

“Luther,” I said, “what happened just now—”

“It’s over, Charlie,” Luther said. His voice was flat. “But I’ve made up my mind. I got to get home. Amos took a beating for me, and I got to see him. And have it out with this Ruckus fella. This town isn’t good for me anyway.”

How was I going to tell Luther what I did? What if he hated me? The guilt and the shame were boiling up inside of me now. I couldn’t just pretend that it didn’t happen. If I didn’t say anything, there wouldn’t be much difference between me and Vern when he busted Mrs. Banks’s window.

I looked up at Luther. A voice inside my head screamed,
Say it!

I took a breath and said it fast. “Luther, this whole thing was my fault.”

Luther frowned and looked at me. “Why’s it your fault?”

I blinked hard to keep the tears inside my eyes. “I told Will Draft about why you came up here from Tennessee. That’s how everybody knows. I shouldn’ta told him. I—I’m sorry. I’m real, real sorry.”

Luther didn’t say anything for a while. I felt better because I’d said it and the boiling in my chest was simmering down. But I wanted to know what he was thinking, if he hated me now. His face didn’t tell me.

“Charlie,” he finally said. His words came out slow. “This is
my
problem. If I’d told everybody the whole story right away, none of this would’ve happened.”

I wanted to believe him, but I wasn’t sure I did. “I bet Mr. McNally would still have acted like he did,” I said. “Because you’re colored.”

Luther was quiet again for a bit. “Charlie, you’re still a boy. Your daddy died, but no one put you in charge of fixin’ the world’s problems. You shouldn’t have to worry about grown-up things yet. Your mama can take care of herself, and so can I.”

He patted my shoulder. “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong. But I got to go home. Tomorrow, after the game.”

At least he wasn’t mad. But even so, I walked alongside Luther feeling sick. Everything was messed up now. My mom was sad. Will wasn’t my friend anymore. Everybody felt different about Luther, and they seemed mad at each other, too. We were probably going to get killed by the Wildcats tomorrow. And now Luther was leaving.

It couldn’t get any worse.

We got to the boardinghouse and walked up the outside stairs. Luther was about to open the door to his room when another door opened down the hall. A tall man with glasses poked his head out.

“Oh, Luther,” he said. “Mrs. Hollingsworth gave me one of your letters by mistake.”

“Thanks, John,” Luther said. He took a few long strides down the hall and took the white envelope. He looked at it. “From my brother George.”

The man went back into his room. Luther came to his door, turned the key in the lock, and we went inside. “He’s probably tellin’ me about Amos.” Luther ripped the envelope open and quickly read the letter.

He frowned and swallowed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

He didn’t seem to hear me. He sank into a chair next to the window and sat, his body stiff. I think he was reading the letter again. When he finished, he pulled a bandanna out of his pocket and patted his forehead.

I was getting nervous again. What did the letter say?

“You okay, Luther?” I asked him. I was still standing in the middle of the room. “What’s wrong?”

“Seems Ruckus Brody’s comin’ up here to Holden,” Luther said.

“Oh no.” I started breathing fast. “He said he’d kill you.”

“Yes, he did.”

Panic spread through me like fire through dry timber. “But how’d he know where you were?” I asked him.

“Seems Ruckus has a friend in the post office,” Luther said. “When my daddy got my letter, the fella saw my address and gave it to Ruckus. Ruckus told him he’s headin’ up to Iowa.”

“Luther, you got to get out of here!” I said.

Luther slowly shook his head. “No, Charlie. Not this time. Like I said, I’m gonna face Ruckus Brody.”

“But he’s gonna
kill
you, Luther,” I cried. “You can’t stay around here.” The back of my throat burned, and I could feel tears about to come again. I blinked over and over, trying to hold them back. “Please don’t die, Luther. It was real bad when everybody said my dad died. I don’t want you to die too. Please go away!”

Luther got up and put his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t you worry, Charlie. Like I said, this is a grown man’s trouble. It’s not for you to take on.”

I shoved Luther away. “You told me there wasn’t nothin’ wrong with walkin’ away from a fight! You told me fighting never solved nothin’, remember?”

“I know,” Luther said. “But Charlie, this is different. What kind of life do I got if I keep running? I shouldn’t have left in the first place. My brother took a beating meant for me. I need to get this settled so I can go back home and live near my family.”

“Maybe it’ll be just your dead body that goes back home,” I told him. “Like my dad.”

“Sometimes a man’s got to stand up for himself,” Luther said. “And this is one of those times, Charlie.”

“So what are you gonna do?” I asked him. “Sit around like a duck, waitin’ to get blasted out of the water?”

“I’m going to be careful, Charlie, that’s what,” Luther said. “Go about my business, but I’ll be watchin’ my back.”

“You got a gun?” I asked him.

“Of course not,” he said.

“You got a knife?”

He shrugged. “A pocketknife.”

“That’s no good,” I told him.

“And what makes you the expert on weapons?” Luther asked, frowning.

“Well, I’m no expert,” I said. “But you gotta have a weapon for protection.”

“I’ll think about it.” He didn’t look at me when he said it.

I had to think of something, but it was like my head was spinning with questions. When would Ruckus get here? How could I make Luther see that he had to protect himself? How could I help him? How could I make sure he didn’t die?

I didn’t know what I’d do. But I had to do something.

By the time Luther was finished thinking about it, he might be dead.

After my dad died, a friend of his in Korea sent us his bayonet. It’s the long knife that fits on the muzzle of Dad’s rifle. Mom keeps it in the back of the hall closet.

She never lets me hold it unless she’s with me. She says she’s worried about an accident. But I don’t know what kind of accident I could have, unless I was running and playing war or something.

I knew Mom would never let me give the bayonet to Luther. Not because she wouldn’t want Luther to have it, I bet, but because she wouldn’t let me carry it over to him. And if I asked her to come with me to give Luther the bayonet, she’d want to know why. And then I’d have to tell her about Luther killing that white ballplayer, and she might think different of him. I didn’t want to take that chance. I knew she’d hear about it soon—the story would be all over town within a day or so—but I had to get the bayonet to Luther
now.
It might save his life.

My plan was to sneak into the house, get the bayonet out of the closet, and take it back to Luther without Mom knowing. It might be hard, but I had to do it somehow.

It was still light outside, but the sun was sinking. The shadows stretched long across the front yard as I came up to our house from the side. Mom had been spending a lot of time in her room lately with the door closed. If she was there now, that would work out good. I could pull open the closet door, take the bayonet, and be gone without her even knowing I’d been in the house.

But if she was in the living room watching the television set, I’d have to sneak in the back door. It would be real hard to get to the closet, open it, get the knife, and leave without drawing her attention. All she’d have to do was turn and look back over her shoulder and she’d see me.

I thought maybe I should wait till she was asleep. But then I thought if Ruckus was on his way north to kill Luther, there was no telling how soon he could get here. I had to get Luther the bayonet right away so he could protect himself.

I sneaked up to the side window of the living room and peeked in.

Mom was sitting on the davenport, watching the television set.

Uh oh.

This was going to be hard.

I walked real careful around back, trying not to step on any sticks or leaves, and walked as soft as I could into the kitchen through the back door.

A man on the television was acting silly and dressed up like a lady. Mom was laughing. That surprised me, but I was glad. For one thing, she must be feeling better. And for another, if she was laughing, she’d be less likely to hear me behind her.

I stepped into the living room and crept across the hardwood floor behind her. I stopped at the closet in the hallway.

My heart was pounding hard. I reached out and wrapped my hand around the closet doorknob. I twisted it slowly, keeping one eye on Mom and praying the hinges wouldn’t squeak when I opened the door.

The audience on the television laughed hard then, so I pulled it open. The hinges squeaked a tiny bit, but Mom laughed again, leaning forward.

She didn’t hear it.

I reached into the closet and felt under a pile of folded sheets on the middle shelf. My hand closed around the bayonet’s leather case, and I pulled it out.

But just then the man on the television disappeared and a commercial came on. Mom turned her head and jumped a little.

“Charlie, you startled me!” she said. “I didn’t know you were home.” She got up and came over to me. “What are you doing with your dad’s bayonet?”

My shoulders started to sag, but I pulled myself up. I had to tell her the truth now. She had to listen to me and help Luther.

“Mom, I have to take Dad’s bayonet to Luther,” I said. “I promise I won’t take it out of the case.”

“Absolutely not, Charlie. You know how I feel about—”

“But he has to have it,” I begged.

Mom frowned. “And shame on you for trying to sneak in here and get it.”

“Mom,”
I said. “Please. Luther’s in danger.”

“What? Whatever for?” Now she looked worried. That wasn’t a good sign.

“A man from Tennessee is comin’ up here to kill him,” I said. “Please, Mom, he needs to protect himself.”

“Wait. Wait just a minute.” I could see fear edging into Mom’s face.
“Why
is a man coming to kill Luther?”

“Sheriff Engle knows all about it,” I said, talking fast. “See, Luther accidentally killed a man—” Mom gasped and put her fingertips on her mouth. I started talking
real
fast. “It wasn’t his fault, Mom! Ask Sheriff Engle. Luther was pitchin’ a game against a white team down in Tennessee, and the batter was drunk, and Luther’s fastball—it was a good pitch, the ump said so—it hit the batter in the head, and he died. So the batter’s brother who hates colored people is comin’ up here to find Luther. We
have
to give him Dad’s bayonet, Mom. It’s the only way he can protect himself.”

The bathroom door had been closed all this time, and I hadn’t even noticed. But now it flew open behind me and Vern came charging out. “What’d I tell you, Mary?” he hollered. His face was red and he waved one arm around his head like he was a crazy person. “This—this coach who Charlie says is so wonderful has
killed
somebody. I told you no good would come of this!”

“What’re
you
doin’ here?” I couldn’t believe that Mom had let Vern back into our lives. And he’d been waiting in the bathroom, listening to everything we said. I got madder and madder.

“Calm down, Charlie,” Mom said, putting up her hands. “Vern came here to make up.”

“Tell him to get out of our house!”

“Charlie, lower your voice,” Mom said firmly. “He came to apologize for what he said about Luther.”

“Well, obviously I was right about him!” Vern shouted. “Now we find out he’s a
murderer.”

“Will you two just calm down,” Mom said. Her voice was shaking. “Let’s sit down and straighten this out—”

“It was an accident!” I cried. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“Charlie,” Mom said, “how could you know this about Luther and not tell me?”

“Listen, Mom!” I yelled. “You’re not listening. It wasn’t Luther’s fault! I told you, you can ask Sheriff Engle.”

“So why did he come up North then, Charlie?” Vern asked. “You explain that to your mother and me.”

“I don’t have to explain nothing to you, Vern!” I screamed. “I
hate
you!”

“Charlie!” Mom’s voice was loud and angry. “Don’t you talk like—Give me the bayonet.” She held out her hand.
“Now.”

Rage boiled up inside of me. I wanted to jump on Vern and hit him and kick him. But I didn’t do that. Instead I did something even worse. I started bawling like a little kid.

“What’s Luther going to do?” I cried. I shoved the bayonet case toward Mom. She took it and slapped it on the hall table.

“I’ll take that,” Vern said, and scooped it up.

Seeing Vern holding my dad’s bayonet set off something that felt like a bomb inside me. My chest vibrated with every slam of my heart.

“Luther will just have to take care of himself,” Mom said. “I’m sorry about what happened to him. But if Vern is a big enough man to admit he was wrong, I think we should give him a chance to show us—”

“Vern just told you what you wanted to hear.”

“Why, I ought to put you over my knee!” Vern hollered.

Mom whirled on Vern. “Vern, you better leave. Right now.”

“Mom,” I pleaded. “I gotta help Luther. I don’t want him to die. We can’t let him die.”

“Oh, Charlie,” Mom said, wrapping her arms around me. “You miss your father so much. So do I, honey. But you can’t protect Luther. You’re just a little boy, and—”

I shoved her as hard as I could, a new feeling of rage roaring through me.

“I’m not a little boy!” I shouted. “I’m Luther’s friend. And he needs me! Maybe you don’t have to help him. But I
do
.”

I turned to look again at my dad’s bayonet in Vern’s hands and I didn’t even think about it. I ripped it right out of his hands and ran past him and Mom, through the living room and kitchen and out the back door.

“Charlie!” Mom cried behind me. “Come back here! Come back here right now!”

But I kept running as fast and as hard as I could toward Luther’s boardinghouse.