The Pecan Man (18 page)

I was too stunned to speak. I
sat numbly as Chip headed south of town and cruised through the parking lot of
the County Line Bar. We drove past a few old pickup trucks, one rumpled sedan
and a work van with a logo and contact information crudely painted on the side.
Chuck’s Handyman Servis You name it, we fix it. Resonable rates.

As we rounded the building, I
caught sight of a small clearing in the woods just behind the parking lot. A
rusted barrel puffed dark smoke into the air. It was surrounded by a circle of
cast off chairs and squatty stumps of once large trees. Only one old man sat
nearby and he was far too big to be Eddie. I glanced at the back of the
building and noticed the window Chip spoke of, but there was no yellow bike
parked in the area at all.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Chip
offered. “Who would think this was still going on?”

“Do you see a lot of this at
work?”

“Every day,” Chip nodded and
pulled out of the parking lot back toward town.

We went down Pine Street, the
main drag through colored town. I had never, in all my years, been down that
street. The houses were colorful and small. Dogs and chickens wandered freely
in front yards and under porches. A small general store I didn’t know existed
bore a battered screen door with a Sunbeam Bread logo rusting across its
middle.

Nearing the end of the street,
people were lined up at the open window of a small, faded green block building.
The smell of hickory smoke was enticing and I could see that it came from
behind the place.

“Cal’s Ribs,” Chip said. “Best
you’ll ever eat. He’s only open three days a week and there’s always a line.”

“Smells wonderful,” I offered,
though I couldn’t imagine myself eating ribs of any kind. Too messy, I thought.

Chip pointed out another bar,
though you’d not have known it from the street. There were no signs to indicate
that it was anything other than an abandoned storefront. There was still no
yellow bike in sight.

“Anywhere else you can think
of?” Chip asked.

I started to shake my head no,
but a thought leaped to mind as if it had been sitting there waiting all along.

“The woods,” I said, nodding
triumphantly.

Chip smiled. “Yep, the woods.”

We found Eddie easily. Chip
knew the spot well, he told me later. There was a low fire burning among a
circle of small rocks. The first thing I thought when I saw him was,
He’s
sitting on a throne.

On second glance, I realized it
was an ancient barber’s chair, the bottom section made of ornate metal and the
cushions covered with red leather that had seen much better days. I would find
out later that it was stuffed with horse hair, but at first it just looked like
an odd piece of furniture to find in the middle of the woods.

A paper bag sat on the metal
stand to which the chair was mounted. Eddie was quite still as we approached,
his chin resting on his chest. Then his head snapped upright suddenly and he
reached down and grasped the paper bag without looking.

“Eddie?” I spoke softly. “What
are you doing here?”

His head jerked again and he
looked in our direction, straining, it seemed, to bring us into focus.

“Aw, hey, Miz Ora,” Eddie tried
to enunciate carefully, but it only served to slur his words even more. “Who
dat you got with you?”

“It’s me, Mr. Mims.” Chip spoke
softly. “Chip Smallwood.”

Eddie squinted again.

“You comin’ to take me back to
jail?” he asked.

“No, Eddie, not to jail. I came
to take you home.”

“Ain’t got no home.” Eddie
wobbled a bit, but reached down and brought the bag to his mouth for a drink.

“Sure you do, Eddie,” I said.
“Your home’s with us right now.”

“Naw, it ain’t. Used to have a
home in Alabama. I ever tell you 'bout Alabama?”

“No,” I said. “You never have.”

“Had me a girl in ‘bama.
Tressa. Tressa Lee Mims. Pretty girl, too. Her mama took good care of her.
Grow’d her up good and fine.”

“Tressa,” I repeated. “Pretty
name. She’s your daughter?”

“Yup, my baby girl. Had another
one, too, but I lost her a long time ago.”

Chip and I exchanged looks.
Neither of us was sure what to do, so we stood there for a few minutes.

“You ready to go home, Eddie?”
I was the first to break the silence.

“Can I take my chair?” he
asked, as if it were the most reasonable question in the world.

“Um,” I started, but Chip cut
me off.

“I’ll come back and get it for
you tomorrow, Eddie. I can’t fit it in my car today.”

“You’ll get it tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow. I promise.”

“Can I bring my bottle?”

Oh, Lord,
I
thought.
Give me the right words now.

“Let’s leave it here, Eddie. If
you still want it tomorrow, Chip can bring it when he gets your chair. That
sound okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” he said and
tipped the bottle to his mouth again.

Chip took the bag from his hand
and set it on the ground.

“Come on, buddy, let’s get you
home,” he said and helped Eddie from the chair.

Eddie cooperated, trying to
stand on his own, but taking the help that was offered. Then he stopped
suddenly and leaned away from Chip to look at his face.

“I didn’t kill that boy,” Eddie
said.

Lord, Jesus, help me
. I
froze for a moment, purely unable to move or speak.

“Miz Ora, tell him. Tell him I
didn’t kill that boy.”

“Eddie, he knows you didn’t
kill anybody.” My voice was rattling like coins in a tin can.

“He knows?”

“He knows you didn’t kill
anyone,” I repeated.

Chip looked at me then and the
question was there on his face. I could see it, plain as day.

“Tha’s good,” Eddie mumbled and
sighed hard. “Let’s go home now.”

There are so many things about
this time in my life that I swear I could never imagine happening to me. This
was a scene out of the Twilight Zone. Chip Smallwood, half-carrying a drunk old
man to his car, with me toddling along behind pushing a bright yellow bicycle,
in shoes that were never meant for walking in the woods. Standing at the car, a
two door coupe, I tried to figure out which of the only two options would be
the least difficult to accomplish. Either I had to crawl into the back seat,
dress and all, or Chip would have stuff the barely conscious Eddie in there
somehow. I swallowed my dignity and folded myself behind the bucket seat on the
passenger side. Getting out would be the real test, I learned shortly
thereafter.

Chip managed to fit Patrice’s
bike in his trunk with the front wheel and handlebars hanging out over the
bumper. He tied the trunk lid down with a shoelace.

Eddie was asleep before we’d
traveled the few blocks to my house. Chip carried him from the car, just picked
him up like a child and deposited him into his bed. I made a pot of coffee as
Chip got Eddie undressed and covered him up.

I was pouring two cups when
Chip appeared in the dining room. He took the coffee gratefully.

“Do you need me to stay
tonight?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“He’s probably out for the
night anyway.”

“Most likely,” I agreed.

“This isn’t good.” Chip said.

“Nope. Not good at all.”

“I have to report it, you
know.”

“I figured as much.”

We sat silently for a few
minutes. The question still hung there, but it was never spoken aloud, nor
answered. Harley Odell was on my porch the very next day.     

The meeting went well, I
thought. Harley explained to Eddie that he would revoke his bail if Eddie drank
again. Eddie quietly acknowledged that he understood.

Harley asked where he got the
alcohol and Eddie told how he cashed his meager monthly check and used part of
it to buy liquor.

“Where’s the rest?” Harley
asked.

“I got a little savings account
my daughter Tressa keeps for me. I get me a money order from the bank and send
it down there. Sometimes I keep enough for food, but I most times spend it on
the bottle if I keep it long enough.”

“Ever thought about getting
help, Mr. Mims?”

“Thought about it. Reckon I
could go to the VA if I had a mind to, but I don’t rightly care for doctors in
the first place. And the military ain’t exactly been the best move I ever made,
neither.”

“You serve in the war?” Harley
asked.

“Sho’ nuff did.”

“Where’d you train?”

“Alabama mostly.”

“Tuskegee?” Harley asked
hesitantly.

“Mmm-hmmm,” Eddie nodded.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Harley
whispered and the meeting was over.

Twenty-two

Just after Harley Odell left my house, Eddie went to his room
"for a rest" he said. He came back out fifteen minutes later and
announced that he had made a decision he thought I ought to hear. We walked
into the back yard for privacy.

“I'd like to talk to my lawyer
today, if I can," he began.

“I think I can arrange
that," I said. “Is there any specific reason why?"

“I'm going to change my plea to
guilty, Miz Ora," he said, as if it were the most rational thing he'd ever
done.

“Eddie, I can't let you do
that." I sounded more tired than emphatic, so I repeated myself. “I just
can't let you do it."

“With all due respect, Miz Ora,
you can't really stop me. It's the best thing to do and I know it, sho' as I'm
sittin' here right now."

“Why do you say that?"

“'Cause it's true. I'm gettin'
too old and tired and sick to live like I been livin'."

“But what's that got to do with
going to jail?"

“It's the safest place for me.
They got a bed and a toilet and three meals a day, and it won't cost me a
dime."

It sounded so logical that I
almost agreed on the spot. It might not seem possible, but my conscience was
wreaking havoc on my heart. Even I had to admit his confession was just too
convenient for me. I was willing to risk a trial and hope for acquittal, any
small chance that I might not have to admit what I had done for Marcus. I swear
though, by all that's holy, if a jury had found him guilty, I'd have owned up
to it. I'd have come forward and taken my punishment, whatever it would be.

But I could not let him plead
guilty.

“Eddie," I said, and my
voice broke. I reached over and laid my hand on his painfully thin knee.
“Eddie," I tried again.

“I done made up my mind, Miz
Ora, and I really don't want you to change it for me."

“I can't do it, Eddie. You'll
die in there."

“Better'n dyin' in the woods,
ain't it?"

“I don't know how to answer
that question. I just know I can't let you pay a debt you don't owe."           

“I reckon I'm the bes' judge of
that. Sometimes the debt you pay ain't exactly the one you owe, but it works
out jus' the same anyway. Lord knows I done caused my share of heartache in
this life."

“Haven't we all?"

“Miz Ora, I jus' want you to
sit there and think about it hard now. Let's say you did tell the truth 'bout what
you know. What good that go’n do?"

I pulled my cardigan tight
around my shoulders and stared at the empty garage in front of me.

“The truth won't bring neither
of those boys back to they mama's. Won't bring Grace no comfort. Won't do
nothin' for Blanche but cause her more heartache. You know this town won't
believe nothin' they hear. They'll believe exactly what they wants to believe.
Whites'll take one side and blacks'll take the other, and never the twain shall
meet."

I tried to swallow the lump in
my throat, but my neck burned with the effort and tears spilled down my face.         

“This is just such a mess. How
did I make such a mess, Eddie?"  

“I don't reckon it was your
doin', Miz Ora. You did what you thought was best. Things was just against us
all along. But, now that you mention it, you could be in a heap of trouble for
not saying nothin' about Marcus."

“You let me worry about that. I
won't have you taking the rap for me, Eddie."

“Ain't tryin' to. I'm jus'
tryin' to do the right thing."

“Don't do anything yet. Let me
think about it awhile, could you?"

“There's just one more thing I
gotta say 'bout this."

I looked up at him and he
swallowed hard and continued, “I been tryin' half my life to stop drinkin', but
I come to think it just ain't no use. I don't want to go to my grave bein' a
slave to the bottle. I just want to talk to Mr. Thatcher and see can he make me
a bargain or somethin'."