Dark River Road (6 page)

Dempsey’s battered old Ford truck rattled down the gravel and stopped, the motor humming better than a truck this old should be able to do. The body might look like it’d been in a train wreck, but the engine had been kept in good condition.

Tansy scooted over next to her daddy, and Chantry stepped up into the truck. She handed him a biscuit stuffed with ham but didn’t say anything. He guessed she was still mad about yesterday. He ate without talking, not that he ever talked a whole lot anyway. Dempsey had the radio tuned to a gospel station, one of his favorites. It was quiet on the town streets, a few folks just getting ready to open stores as the truck rolled down Main. Buford’s Department Store had big plate glass windows with dressed mannequins and July 4
^th
Sales banners plastered across the front. Tyler’s Drugs sat on another corner, and the big new red and white gleaming tiles of the Dairy Queen sat at the far end of Main near Market Street.

He stared out the window as they passed fields of new corn stretching far as he could see. A mile or two down the road, cotton stalks bent buds that would soon turn into white fluff under the early morning breeze. The sky was so blue it looked polished. It was going to be another blistering hot day.

Amazing Grace
came on the radio, and Tansy hummed along at first, eyes half-closed. The gospel singers on the radio cranked it up. So did Tansy. She had one of those voices that sounded as if it should come from someone the size and maturity of Ella Fitzgerald. Mama had some Ella Fitzgerald tapes that she liked to play when Rainey was gone. He didn’t like any of that “colored” music played while he was there, he always said before Mama shushed him.

“
When we’ve been there ten thousand years,”
Tansy sang, her voice soaring up from deep in her chest, “
bright shining as the sun, we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise, than when we’ve first begun. Oh yeah, Lord, than when we’ve first begun. Um hmmm
 . . .
”

He liked it when Tansy added stuff to the songs, personalized them and made them hers. He may not know much about music, but he knew when something sounded good. Man, she could sing her heart out, too. It never failed to make him look at her with new respect.

By the time they reached Six Oaks the sun was all the way up in the east and gleaming on the wide green front lawn of the house set way back off the road. Oaks lined the driveway, but it was the six ancient oaks in front that gave the house its name. Huge, with spreading branches that went out to tangle together in a thick canopy, the oaks had stood in front of the Quinton house since the first part had been built way back in 1827. He knew that because Dempsey had told him. Through the years the house had been added on to, until now it sprawled over several thousand feet of living space. There were a couple of sun rooms, covered porches, lots of French doors and a huge Olympic size swimming pool in the rear. A pool house bigger than Chantry’s entire house stood behind the pool. A waterfall splashed over high rocks into a fish pond, and bright gold fish called Koi darted among lily pads that bloomed with delicate purple flowers like orchids.

“Young Mr. Quinton wants a dry creek bed running behind the house,” Dempsey said. “He’s ordered white river rock for it, but we gotta dig the ditch.”

Young Mr. Quinton was Colin, old man Quinton’s son and Chris’s daddy. There was another son but he’d left Cane Creek a long time ago, so now there was just Colin living with his family at the house. There was probably enough room so none of them would ever run into each other if they didn’t want to. Chris’s mama and daddy were always off someplace, going to visit castles or pyramids, leaving Chris behind with his grandfather and a house full of servants. Chris got most anything he wanted. Like a new truck when he was only fourteen and not supposed to drive anything that wasn’t related to farm work. In Mississippi, it was legal to get a special license to help out on the farm, but as far as Chantry knew, Chris Quinton had never done a day’s work in his life.

“I didn’t think it flooded this high up,” Chantry said as Dempsey got out of the truck.

“It don’t. They just want it for looks.”

Chantry thought about having enough money to put empty creeks in flat delta land. It seemed pretty wasteful to him. While Dempsey took out a can of spray paint and the landscape drawing, Chantry got the shovels from the back of the pickup. He’d dressed for the heat in cut-off Levi’s and a sleeveless tee shirt, with brown lace-up work boots and white socks. Tansy wore snug red shorts and a halter top, and smelled like flowers.

“You come to a party or to work?” he asked her, irritated that she’d be so obvious. She gave him a narrow look and shrugged.

“I’m not digging. You are.”

“No? Just why are you here then? Besides to get Chris Quinton to look at your bare belly.”

Ignoring him, she swept her hair up off her shoulders and into a scrunchy piece of elastic atop her head, securing it with expert twists. Reaching over the edge of the truck bed, she picked up some gloves, a bucket, and a small spade and started off toward the flowerbeds that ran along a bricked veranda beside the house. Her compact little butt moved in a way he’d never quite seen before, and long golden legs flashed like scissors.

She was headed for trouble and he couldn’t do anything to stop her. He hated that.

By lunchtime, they had about ten feet of ditch dug out. It was long but shallow, with the banks sloped. Chantry sweated so much he’d taken off his shirt and tied a strip of cloth around his head to keep the sweat from dripping into his eyes. Dempsey kept on his tee shirt, but it was wet clear through, sticking to his wiry frame like a second skin. For a man in his fifties, Dempsey kept in pretty good shape, Chantry thought. He could outwork most men half his age.

Tansy pulled an old cooler from the cab of the truck and took out their lunches. She had a mad look on her face, and Chantry guessed she hadn’t seen Chris Quinton all day. He didn’t say anything to her. Anything he said would be wrong.

Dempsey didn’t say anything to her, either, even when she turned the truck radio to a pop station and turned it up pretty loud. A band called U2 played their new number one hit, then the DJ segued into a slower tune by Billy Vera. He knew this only because Tansy kept up with all the names of the songs and their artists. Some of it stuck with him, but most of it didn’t. When a really fast, loud song played, Dempsey looked pained but still didn’t say anything.

They ate sandwiches and drank sweet tea out of Mason jars. Mama had made Chantry two meatloaf sandwiches and he finished them both. He was still hungry, and when Dempsey offered, he took his extra sandwich, too. Thick ham slices on white bread.

“Good God,” Tansy said, and gave him a disgusted look, “how do you eat so much and stay so skinny?”

“I’m not skinny,” he said around the last bite. “I’m lean. Mean. Fit.”

“You just a skinny white boy.”

“Hunh.” He flexed his arms, sucked in his stomach and threw out his chest. “I’ve been working out. Superman ain’t got nothin’ on me.”

Some of Tansy’s good humor returned. She poked at him, laughing when he skidded out of reach. Sitting on the lowered tailgate of the truck in the shade, Dempsey watched with a faint smile as Tansy chased him around the truck.

“Too damn much energy,” he heard Dempsey say as they rounded the rear of the truck.

He let Tansy catch him after a minute, and she tackled him with both arms around his middle to take him down on a patch of grass under one of the old oaks. They rolled over a couple of times just like they used to do when they were small kids, roughhousing familiar fun. Panting and laughing, he lifted to his elbows to look at her. She’d rolled to one side, and her halter top had come down so that one of her breasts was bared. The pink nipple was tight and beaded, her breast full and firm, and he couldn’t help staring even as he moved to cover her.

“Hey,” he said, and started to reach to pull up the edge of her top, but Tansy had already caught the material between her fingers to give it a tug.

“Well looka here, the fag wants to cop a feel,” a voice said behind him, and he didn’t need to turn around to know it was Chris Quinton.

Chantry didn’t like being on the ground with Chris standing over him, and immediately got to his feet and turned around. Tension made his muscles tight, and he watched warily as Chris and his two friends made a half-circle around him. Behind them, Cinda and Mariah watched from the side veranda. They wore two-piece bathing suits and looked like they’d just gotten out of the pool. He wondered how much they’d seen and what Cinda thought seeing him roll around on the ground with Tansy.

“He trying to cop a feel?” Chris said to Tansy with a grin. “I didn’t think fags liked girls. Come on over here by me, and I’ll keep him from touching you.”

Tansy still sat on the ground. Chantry knew she didn’t know what to do, and he kept his eyes on Chris. The others would do whatever Chris wanted. He just had to keep his eye on Chris to figure out what would happen next.

When Chris stepped to one side Chantry pivoted to keep him a safe distance away, facing him without backing down. Adrenalin pumped blood fast through his veins, pounded in his ears and made him edgy. Indecision flickered on Chris’s face. Chantry waited; then he heard Dempsey come up behind him, his voice slow and easy.

“Hey boys, you come out to see how it’s goin’, or to help dig?”

Chris looked startled; then he shrugged. “We just came out to say hello. We’re on our way to town. So, is this where my father’s new creek bed is going to be?”

Dempsey went through the motions of showing Chris and his friends the proposed creek bed though Chantry was pretty sure he wasn’t fooled either. He didn’t relax until Chris was gone, his new red truck disappearing down the driveway. He heard the tires squeal when it got to the highway. When he looked at the house, Cinda and Mariah were gone back inside. The veranda was empty. Then he looked over at Tansy. She stood staring at the empty drive with something like disappointment in her eyes.
You Keep Me Hangin’ On
played loudly on the old truck’s radio. He felt like shaking her.

Someone came and burned a cross
in Dempsey’s yard that night. Chantry woke up when he heard truck tires scratching off down Liberty Road. He looked out the window and saw a red truck fly past, then saw the glow of flickering flames light up the night sky. He put on his pants and climbed out his window and looked up the road. Then he saw the burning cross.

“Hold on, boy,” a thick voice said from the porch shadows when Chantry leaped off the porch to go see about Dempsey, “where you think you’re goin’?”

Rainey. Chantry stopped and turned to look at him. He sat on the porch steps smoking a cigarette, face lit up by the fire and moonlight. His eyes squinted with a mean look, but his lips stretched into a smile of satisfaction.

“You knew about this,” Chantry said. “Why?”

Rainey took a deep drag off his cigarette, then he flipped it out into the yard. “Some folks don’t need to forgit what they are.”

“If you’re talking about Dempsey, he’s a better man than you’ll ever be,” Chantry said back hard and quick. Anger made his chest tight and his hands curl into fists at his sides.

He’d forgotten Rainey could move so fast. He was up off that porch step in a flash, and swung his left arm so quick Chantry couldn’t jerk back fast enough. Rainey’s fist clipped his jaw and sent him staggering back against the side of the house. Then Rainey had him by a hand full of hair and banged his head against the wood siding.

“You lissen to me, boy, I done tolerated enough of your going off down to that house all the time. Now you’re dumb enough to play with that little yella gal right in the Quinton’s front yard? Shee-yit!”

Chantry just looked at him.
Chris Quinton
. Who else would have told everybody about what happened? And Chris had a new red truck
 . . .

“What is going on out here?” Mama asked from the front door, and Rainey let go of Chantry’s hair and turned around to look at her.

“I caught him tryin’ to sneak out of the house,” Rainey said. “Or maybe back in.”

Mama looked past Rainey and Chantry to the burning cross in Dempsey’s front yard. Her lips tightened. She looked back at Rainey. “If I find out you had anything at all to do with this, Rainey Lassiter,” she said quietly, “I will ensure that you are arrested.”

Rainey grinned. “You think anybody in this town would arrest me for it, even if I had planted that cross?”

“Perhaps not, but the Federal authorities might be very interested in finding the culprit.”

One thing about Mama, she didn’t bluff. If she said she was going to do something, she did it, and Rainey knew that just as well as Chantry did. His grin disappeared, and he didn’t say a word when Mama told Chantry to go down and help Dempsey put out the fire.

Dempsey had it almost out by the time Chantry got there. It wasn’t a big cross, just two six foot one-by-two strips of dry pine doused with gasoline. The cross-piece had been nailed on and come loose, and Chantry kicked the thing down so that it lay flat on the ground. Tufts of dry grass burned, but Dempsey used a garden hose to wet everything down.

For a moment neither one of them said anything. Then Chantry looked up to see Tansy standing on the front porch in her pajamas. She had her arms crossed over her chest like she was cold, but it was a hot night even without the fire. There was a look on her face like she’d had when her mama died. Desolation, disbelief.

“Go on back inside, baby,” Dempsey said gently, and after another look at the still smoldering cross making charred marks in the grass, she turned around without a word and went back inside.

“Chris Quinton did this,” Chantry said quietly, and Dempsey shrugged.

“It don’t matter who did it.”

“It matters to me.”

Dempsey looked at him with a faint smile. “There was a time not so long ago when men would have come with a rope and I’d be hanging from a tree limb. No one would’ve done much about that, either.”

Chantry looked at him for a minute. Dempsey had a weary look in his eyes, like a man who’s seen things he didn’t want to, and never wanted to see again. It made him think about the whispers he’d heard at times, men disappearing if they’d crossed old man Quinton or any other white man. Chantry had always figured they’d just run away. Maybe they hadn’t. Maybe some of those men had disappeared forever.