Ballard said, “Peewee only said this morning every hand is needed.”
“He ain’t gonna be missed.”
Del said, “Hang on. I ain’t getting in that box.”
Crow said, “You got two choices. This”—and he snapped the whip—“or that.”
Ballard said, “Peewee needs to hear about this.”
Crow slowly turned to Ballard.
“Is that so? While we’re at it, maybe we’ll let him hear how you’re taking a nip here and there while on the job.”
Ballard rubbed at a lump on his neck and fell silent.
Crow said, “That’s right. I know ’bout that.”
Del had to hand it to Ballard. Least he tried. Del won’t about to be whipped, nosirree, only the idea of getting in that tight space made him think maybe he ought to take the first choice.
They passed a section of shanties where colored women hung clothes, sat on porches snapping beans with bowls in their laps, watching the young’uns playing with chickens in grassless, sandy yards. Nearby, voices rang out from the open door of a tumbled-down shack evidently used as the schoolhouse where children shouted their ABCs. All was normal until he and Crow appeared, and again, everything came to a standstill. What an unusual sight to behold, a white man on a horse, his whip taunting another white man. Del didn’t see the open mouths, he could only sense their amazement in the utter stillness that fell over the camp.
He couldn’t quite believe it was happening himself. He could run into the woods off to his left, except it would only give Crow reason to shoot him. They passed through the middle of the camp, while Del tried to think of how to stop what was happening, and then, before he knew it, they’d arrived. Crow got off his horse.
He said, “My old man once told me, lie down with dogs, get up with fleas. Go on. Get in, and get comfy.”
Del wished he had more fight in him, but suddenly he felt as ancient as one of them five-hundred-year-old longleaf pines. He did as he was instructed, and as soon as he sat, he was instantly surrounded by what he was certain was the smell of death. Crow took out his knife and got to cleaning his nails, mumbling to himself about the nature of things. Finally, he snapped it shut and stood over Del like a mourner at a funeral observing a deceased individual.
He said, “Don’t many last long in here. You be thinking on the error of your ways. Who knows. Maybe you’ll come out a changed man.”
He slammed the lid, clicked the padlock, and Del was entombed.
Chapter 8
Rae Lynn
Butch turned a skeptical eye on her and said, “It’s your word against mine.”
Rae Lynn, despondent and exhausted, repeated what she’d said one too many times already. “I done what I had to. He was in terrible pain. He was dying.”
Butch said, “Uh-huh. For all I know, you shot him both times.”
“Why in God’s name would I do that?”
Butch shrugged. “Can’t say. Could be all manner of reasons.”
“You ain’t been by here in over a week, so what could you know about any of it?”
“I know what I seen, that’s what I know.”
Rae Lynn found herself doing what Warren used to do, waving her hands, swatting at his words. Butch had parked himself at the kitchen table after he’d come in on her kneeling at Warren’s side, and hadn’t left. She thought at first he’d be helpful to her, in her grief. But no. He’d listened to her and deduced she was covering up something. Now, she was simply exhausted, and overwhelmed. She sat slumped over, occasionally resting her forehead on her arms. She felt like she’d been turned inside out. Butch reclined in a chair, in no hurry, hands behind his head, eyelids drooping enough she couldn’t read what was in them.
Eventually, he said, “I got me an idea on how to fix this.”
Rae Lynn sat up straight and crossed her arms.
“Ain’t nothing needs fixing. Him lying in there, it ain’t fitting me not tending to him as I should.”
“You gonna get word to Eugene?”
She expelled her breath and said, “Of course.”
“What’re you gonna tell him?”
Truth was, she wasn’t sure. She felt guilty, but not for the reasons Butch thought. She should’ve held the ladder as Warren had asked and maybe he wouldn’t have fallen. She should’ve gone for the doctor despite him telling her not to. The situation was difficult, if not impossible, to understand beyond anyone but herself and Warren. She could contact Eugene, tell him he fell off the ladder and died from his injury. It was the truth. There didn’t need to be nothing more said. Butch’s expression had turned sly when Rae Lynn hesitated.