Hours passed, and as the sun rose higher, heat built inside the little box too. He needed to relieve himself and as he rubbed sweat from his face, he vowed, somehow Crow would pay. His head pounded in rhythm with his heart as he watched the streaks of sunlight coming through the cracks, slanting across him as time passed. He closed his eyes again, imagined pine branches waving in the evening’s hot breeze, the horizon smeared with a melting orange sun. After a while, he roused and became aware of someone laughing directly above him, and thought he might be dreaming. He frowned, listening intently. The laugh came again and he recognized it. He didn’t react, refusing to give Crow the satisfaction of begging to be let out. Something told him if he did, he’d never let him forget.
The snickering stopped abruptly and next came a loud knock, near his right ear. He looked through the narrow gap in the wood, remembering how the other man who laid here before him, who’d likely died in this very spot, had stared up at him, desperate and scared. He saw nothing. A heavier, steady thumping started on the lid, like someone dancing a jig, and dust from the top fell, and he had to shut his eyes.
Then, the voice he was beginning to despise said, “Yoo-hoo, anybody home?” Crow stamped his feet some more. “Hello?”
Crow hammered his fists against the wood. “Golly, I sure do smell something worser’n a skunk! What y’all reckon that is? I know. It’s the smell of chicken shit!”
Ballard’s oddly pitched voice came through, above the din of Crow cavorting about, enjoying himself.
He said, “Peewee told me directly we can’t be losing no more men, got too much work to do.”
Del heard the annoyance in Crow’s voice as he replied to the other woods rider.
“I’m only showing this one he can’t be skipping work, and if he does, he ain’t getting off no different than nobody else.”
“Yeah, well, since when have loblollys been part of a crop? Besides, we got business to discuss, so when you’re done entertaining yourself, Peewee needs you in his office.”
There was some mumbling, a click, and the squeal of rusty hinges. Del lay straight-legged, arms at his sides, squinting up at the man standing over him. Crow chortled at him, then pressed a hand over his heart and began play-acting.
“Dearly beloved, who are gathered here today . . .”
He thought this hilarious and laughed hard enough to start wheezing. Overcome, he squatted, while Ballard, stoic and serious, stood nearby. The other work hands rubbed their jaws in nervousness, and some allowed a few random chuckles here and there, wary and forced. Crow wiped his eyes, leaned toward the box, and peeked in at Del, who’d not moved.
He said, “Boo!” and fell onto the ground howling again.
Del sat up. His entire body shook, and he thought he might get sick. He would’ve liked to have punched Crow if he’d had the strength, but he’d never been the fighting type, and what good would it do nohow? He stood, and ignoring the other man, he stepped over the side and began walking away, intent on getting water, but mostly wanting to get away from crazy Crow.
Crow’s laughter subsided, and he called out, “Hey. You.”
Del stopped but didn’t turn around.
Crow called out, “You understand, right? How things is? You chose how it’s gonna be. Can’t blame nobody but yourself, is how I see it.”
Del paused, then faced him, and Ballard suddenly came forward, as if anticipating a fight of some sort. Del would only have told the man his choices ought not matter so much. The work got done, didn’t it?
Ballard said, “Okay, everyone, let’s all get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow we go at it again, bright and early. Come on, Sweeney. We got to meet Peewee.”
Crow kept his gaze on Del and said, “That’s right. Tomorrow’s another day for you poor suckers.”
Del let it go. He really didn’t care to explain himself. He started walking again while the spot between his shoulder blades remained tense, aware Crow watched him. Once again he’d somehow managed to get on the wrong side of a boss man, but this time, he surely wasn’t to blame. As soon as he was at the shack, he went directly to the well. He pumped the handle and when the water gushed from the spout, he stuck his face under it and drank, and drank. Eventually he stuck his whole head under, blindly reaching over so he could keep pumping. He straightened up, and feeling better, he sank into a chair on the porch. He mulled over the idea of leaving, only he’d already run from Sutton’s. Is that the kind of man he’d become? Somebody who ran away when in a tough spot? If all he had was his name, and his reputation, then he had to prove both meant something, at least to himself.