The Pecan Man Read online

  I decided to tread lightly. I expressed my condolences first and my concern for Eldred Mims second. I told him I was absolutely convinced of the man’s innocence and cautioned him not to jeopardize his job by losing his cool. He defended his deputies for “using appropriate force to subdue a combative suspect.”

  “Combative,” I repeated in a dry monotone.

  “Yes, Ma‘am,” Ralph replied, “He was combative all right.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” I said. “The man doesn’t weigh an ounce over a hundred and twenty pounds.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re defending this man, Mrs. Beckworth.” His anger was evident in his use of my last name, even though we'd known each other for years.

  “I’m defending him because he’s innocent, Ralph.”

  “How about if we let a court decide that?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” I replied. There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.

  “I’ll be visiting him regularly, Ralph. If he’s beaten up again, I’ll make sure you’re held personally responsible.”

  I doubt my threat worried Ralph Kornegay a bit, but at least he knew I was watching.

  “Is that all?” I could hear him spitting through his teeth.

  “For the time being, yes.”

  “Goodnight, Mrs. Beckworth.”

  I didn’t bother to respond. I knew his phone was on its way to the receiver and the dial tone I heard confirmed that within seconds. I cradled the handset back on its perch and locked up for the night.

  Twelve

  I spent the next few days visiting Eldred Mims at the county jail every afternoon. His entire face was swollen, nearly beyond recognition. It was difficult for him to eat, so I took him soft food, despite the objections of the guards whose job it was to search visitors for contraband. One day it was mashed potatoes and gravy. Another day, chicken noodle soup. He especially liked Blanche’s sweet potato casserole.

  At some point I realized that I missed the smacking noise he usually made while talking. He held his mouth as still as possible while he ate, allowing the food to melt in his mouth before swallowing it. It made him seem like more of a stranger than he really was to me, that absence of familiar noise.

  I didn’t know what to say to him at first. I wanted to ask him why he lied to the lawyer, but I felt like it would take too much effort and a lot more privacy to do the subject justice.

  So we talked, well - I mostly did the talking, about the weather and about the Christmas holidays coming up. We talked about what we would plant in the spring and how maybe it was time for a real garden in the back yard, a garden that grew fresh vegetables we could put up. I knew Blanche would not be thrilled with the prospect of canning, but we talked about it anyway, just like it was a sure thing. I left when it seemed he was tired of conversation. I could tell it still hurt him to speak, but every day it got easier to understand what he said. His jaw had not been broken, thank goodness, just dislocated and bruised.

  He didn’t seem too worried about the trial. Once when I talked to him about getting out of jail, he stopped me cold. “I’m innocent until proven guilty, Miz Beckworth. Tha’s what the law says. All’s I got to do is stick to the truth, way I see it. They cain’t convict me of somethin’ I ain’t done.”

  I thought about it a moment and then said, “One would hope not, Mr. Mims, but then, they shouldn’t have beat you up for nothing either.”

  “That's what I get for resistin’ arrest, ain’t it?”

  The man had a remarkable sense of humor. Even I had to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it. I let the matter drop for a while.

  Finally, one day when there was a disturbance at the other end of the ward, I seized the opportunity to ask him why he hadn’t told Jeffrey Thatcher the truth about Marcus following him home on Thanksgiving.

  “That boy didn’t follow me home,” Eddie said.

  I felt my jaw drop in spite of my many years of instruction in good manners.

  “You don’t have to lie to me, Eddie,” I leaned forward and whispered. “I know Marcus talked to you that evening.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin' about,” he spoke with his jaw clinched tight and turned his head toward the wall. I couldn’t let him off the hook this time.

  “You most certainly do know what I’m talking about. Marcus followed you home from my house and asked you about what happened to Grace.” I paused briefly and got only silence for response.

  “Marcus came to my house that night. He stayed the night and left for North Carolina the next morning. I know he spoke to you because he told me he did.”

  Eddie turned his head slowly back toward me. “What time did he come to yo’ house that night?”

  “He got there about 9:30. Why?”

  “He look all right to you then?”

  “Eddie, if you know something I don’t know, I think you’d better tell me. I know you didn’t kill Skipper Kornegay, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why you’d lie to your attorney about talking to Marcus when Marcus told me himself that you did.”

  I wasn’t even sure what I expected him to say. I just knew it was odd that he’d lie about something like that.

  He studied my face for a minute, like he was trying to see something in it. His dark eyes darted back and forth a couple of times and then his face went blank and he stared back at the wall.

  “I thought you said you were sticking to the truth,” I said quietly.

  “I don’t know if I can trust you, tha’s all,” he said, still staring at the wall.

  “You can,” I said, and I meant it.

  He turned and looked me straight in the eye.

  “I saw Marcus twice that night. Once when he came to talk to me and then later on that night when that boy chased him into the woods.”

  “Oh,” I said and my shoulders sagged heavily. “What else did you see?”

  “I didn’t really see what happened,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I just saw what was left when it was done. He musta come straight to yo’ house from there.”

  I nodded. “He did.”

  “Then you know, too?”

  I took a huge breath. “I do.”

  He looked back at the wall.

  “Why haven’t you said anything to the police? Or to your attorney for that matter?” I was baffled by his silence.

  “I’m not really sure ‘zactly why. I jes’ know that Miz Blanche done been through enough this year and I cain’t go bringin’ no harm to her or her family. Why hadn‘t you told?”

  “Same reason, I suppose. I just couldn’t put her through it. She still doesn‘t know.”

  “I didn’t figure she did,” he said.

  “I still don’t get it, though. You could be out of this jail by now.” I was genuinely puzzled.

  “Miz Beckworth, with all due respect, I jus' as soon not talk about it no more. The boy done been killed and laid to rest and nothin’ I can say go'n bring him back to his Mama. Tellin’ about Marcus wouldn’t do nothin’ but bring a heap of grief onto a family what done had more'n they share already. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about the boy. Not now, not ever.”

  Thirteen

  By Christmas time, things were settling down around my house. I decided not to put up a tree at all. Walter had always climbed the pull-down attic steps to retrieve the Christmas decorations and huge artificial tree we erected each year, but neither Blanche nor I had any business trying such a thing. With all the time I had spent visiting Eddie, I hadn’t had time to miss the decorations.

  Every year, I gave Blanche a sizable bonus at Christmas and I made sure her family’s name was on the list of Christmas charities I supported. I wanted her children to have a decent Christmas without being embarrassed or beholden to me, so I kept my benevolence at arm's length. At least, that's what I told myself I was doing. Blanche's children soon proved me wrong once again.

  I remember sitting by the fire one night thinking about the holida
ys of the past. It was the night I finally burned Marcus’s clothes, as a matter of fact. I had forgotten to call the chairman of the Needy Family program at the Baptist church to remind her about Blanche. I also had a feeling, which turned out to be accurate in the end, that my absence from the Ladies’ Auxiliary over the past year would not put me in good stead with that group. I thought about buying gifts for the children myself and quickly pushed that thought aside. What did I know about buying gifts for children? I didn’t know their tastes in toys or clothes, much less their sizes.

  That’s when I thought about the bag of clothes that was still up in my closet. Blanche had been gone for hours. There was no reason I couldn’t finally rid myself, once and for all, of the evidence I’d been hiding. I put my embroidery on the lamp stand, rose from my chair and walked over to the fire, which was burning low in the grate. The black metal screen, which kept the popping embers from scorching my thick oval rug, was warm to the touch. I moved it aside, reached for the wrought iron poker hanging in its stand and nudged the glowing logs. They crackled and hissed, then settled back down to an orange glow. I left the screen where it was and went upstairs to retrieve the clothes.

  I remembered washing Marcus’s bloodstained pants and shirt several times before I placed them in a paper grocery sack and set them on the top shelf of my closet. So I was surprised by the strong odor that rose from the bag when I brought it down and unrolled the top. Old blood has a distinct smell, especially when it is competing with bleach and detergent.

  I took the clothes downstairs and burned them, grocery bag and all. The house smelled peculiar for days, even though I sprayed Claire Burke Vapourri liberally throughout the following week. Blanche remarked on it one day.

  “What’s that awful smell you tryin’ to cover up, Miz Ora?”

  My heart nearly stopped beating.

  “I think maybe a squirrel or something died in the chimney flue. It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”

  “You want me to call somebody ‘bout it?” she asked.

  “No, I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s the holiday season; by the time we get somebody out here to check on it, the smell will have worn itself out. Let’s just let it be for a few days.”

  “Awright,” she said reluctantly. “If you say so.”

  I was still tiptoeing around Blanche for the most part. She managed to settle back into her routine. In fact, she seemed busier than usual, but there was something missing in her that I wasn’t sure she’d ever reclaim. I missed the long, easy chats we used to have over coffee and morning chores.

  A week or so before Christmas, Blanche and I were putting groceries away when I asked nonchalantly if she’d finished all her Christmas shopping.

  “I ain’t even started, Miz Ora,” she sighed.

  “What do you mean you haven’t started?”

  “It just don’t seem like Christmas this year. I can’t make myself even think about a Christmas list without my boy’s name on it.”

  What was I thinking? I told Blanche she was off the list at the church, so gifts from them would not be forthcoming. I even gave her an extra hundred dollars to make up for the slight, but it hadn't even occurred to me that she wouldn’t feel up to buying gifts for her children.

  “Blanche, you can’t do this.”

  “It’s all right, Miz Ora. The girls understood when I told ‘em. They said they don’t feel much like celebratin’ either.”

  “And you took that as the truth?” I demanded. “It’s Christmas, Blanche!”

  “You ain’t got to tell me somethin’ I already know.”

  I knew that tone. It meant Blanche would not be moved.

  “I’ll tell you what,” I said, making my voice equally stubborn, but somehow still pleasant. “We’ll have Christmas here.”

  Blanche protested, but I cut her off.

  “Now, I know you aren’t feeling up to the task and I understand why,” I said using all the logic and persuasion I had learned teaching Sunday school. “But, we have to start somewhere to get your family back to normal.”

  Blanche just huffed and shrugged her shoulders.

  “Besides, it’s my first Christmas without Walter. I could really use the company.” I wasn’t lying when I said it, but I was a bit surprised when my heart gave a little lurch at the thought.

  “That's real kind of you to say, Miz Ora, but I know you just being nice. You ain’t complained once about being by yourself.”

  “Well, just because I haven’t complained doesn’t mean I haven’t felt it, Blanche. I’m serious. I want you and the girls here for Christmas. I want a huge tree and decorations and lots of presents under the tree. It’s not just my first Christmas without Walter. It’s the first time I haven’t been involved in all the charities and holiday functions we did together.”

  “Y’all sho’ did do a lot of charity. I been wondering why you ain’t still involved in all that.” Blanche was not being intrusive, just candid.

  I pulled a couple of packets of Earl Grey tea from the pantry, and then busied myself putting water in the kettle and heating it on the stove. Blanche took two teacups down from the cabinet, opened the packets I had left on the counter and hung the teabags over the edge of the cups. We were quite a team, I thought. One starts a task and the other finishes without a word being spoken.

  I turned to face her and put my hands on my hips. “To tell the truth, I hadn’t thought past my relief at being freed of the obligation. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the work Walter and I did. I guess it’s just that I never felt like I had a choice in the matter.”

  “I know just what you mean,” Blanche said under her breath.

  “But I do have a choice now, and I would love for you and your children to spend Christmas with me this year.”

  “You ain’t got to do this, Miz Ora.” I could tell Blanche was softening.

  “I’m well aware of that,” I replied.

  “I just don’t think I’m up to it is all.”

  “Well, you think about it and let me know,” I said reasonably. “In the meantime, I’m going to get the girls to get my tree down from the attic. Even if they don’t have any presents, I think it will be good for them to help me decorate my house.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, I think they’ll like that a lot,” Blanche said.

  The whistle sounded on the teakettle and we dropped the conversation as we had our tea together.

  Fourteen

  Just after lunch, I made an excuse to call another taxi to pick me up. If Blanche was suspicious, she didn’t let on. I gave instructions to the driver to take me to an address on Canal Street and he silently drove me there. I asked him to wait and he did as I walked up the clean-swept, but cracked and broken sidewalk to the front porch. I’d seen Blanche’s house before, but I had never been inside. I was raising my hand to knock on the door when it was opened by a young man I guessed to be around twenty years old. I couldn’t say which of us were more surprised, but I found my voice first.

  “Is Patrice home?” I asked.

  “Uh, yes ma’am, she’s, um, in the bathroom right now,” he stammered.

  “And you would be…?” I fished for a name.

  “Um, late, actually.”

  “Well, that’s not what I meant, but I’ll bite. Late for what?”

  “For work,” he replied as he tried to angle his muscular body around my slight one.

  “Hold on there a minute,” I told him as I blocked his path with my left hand. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” I didn’t add “alone with Patrice”, but you can bet I was thinking it.

  “I’m a friend of Patrice’s. I was just visiting with her before work and I’m really late right now, Ma’am.” He kept his tone polite, but I could tell it was all he could manage.

  I heard Patrice’s voice before she appeared in the doorway. “Who’re you talkin’ to, Cedric?” She stopped short when she saw me through the space between his arm and the door jam. “Mrs. Beckworth! What are you…? Why…? Is
something…? Is everything okay?” She finally managed to ask.

  “Everything is fine at my house, but perhaps I should be asking you that question.”

  “Oh,” Patrice paused. “Oh, yes, everything’s fine. Cedric was just helping me study for a Latin test.”

  “Quota hora est?” I asked, looking straight at the young man.

  “Say what?” Cedric sputtered.

  I could see Patrice’s shoulders fall as he failed my impromptu exam.

  “Studying Latin are you?” I intoned drily.

  “Go on to work, Cedric,” Patrice sighed.

  “And don’t come back,” I added.

  “No problem,” he said as he abruptly dropped his respectful tone. “Later, Patrice,” he threw over his shoulder as he slid around me.

  “About two years later or she’s jailbait,” I threw right back.

  He grunted and broke into a jog as he stepped off the porch and headed down the sidewalk.

  I turned my attention back to Patrice.

  “Would you like to come in?” Patrice asked softly.

  “Actually, I was hoping I could get you to come shopping with me. The taxi is waiting.”

  “Does Mama know you’re here?” I knew what she was asking.

  “No, it was supposed to be a surprise. Turns out it is quite a surprise.”

  “It’s not what you think, Mrs. Beckworth,” she protested.

  “Oh?” was all I said.

  “I’ll get my coat,” she said and opened the door wider to usher me inside.

  I stepped into the living room of Blanche’s small frame house and was struck by the darkness of it. The inside walls were covered with wood paneling. A large brown gas heater burned noisily at one end of the room and a picture of The Last Supper hung wearily over a deep red couch at the other end. I studied the picture as I waited for Patrice to reappear from the door of what I presumed was her bedroom. The scene was the same as I had seen it in numerous churches and homes over the years. A green-walled room surrounded a long table around which Christ’s disciples gathered, their attention focused on the robed man gesturing from the center of the table. The man’s hair was long and wavy as I had seen depicted in many paintings and renderings of Jesus. The biggest difference was in his skin-tone, which was four shades darker than any I had ever seen. If Patrice noticed me staring when she emerged from her room, she did not acknowledge it.