Redemption (5 page)

“
But this clean?”

Lester shrugged. “Happens all the time.”

“
But every hose at once?”

“
Stranger things have happened.”

They already have, Lester,
Overton thought.
They already have.

5

Gotta do a little spring cleanin’, then we’ll dump this car where no one will find it for a while. We’ll get back home by sundown, the prettiest time of the day.

One more? Okay. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings, right? Just one more today, then we’ll rest. One more to make everybody sweat. One more to make ‘em play connect-the-dots.

Creep down a paved driveway for half a mile. Stop in front of a custom-built log home. Mechanics make good money these days, or should I say
take
good money these days? He got a home and forty acres, a satellite dish and a garage for not doin’ one thing and keepin’ his mouth shut about the rest.

Think up a plan. Get out. Look around. Not one but two propane tanks. Garage is open. Don’t mind if I do. Propane lines through the cinder block going upstairs. Make a few little cuts until—that’s the ticket. Daa-em. Why does propane smell like old diapers? Add Annie’s trash to Lester’s wealthy trash. Shut garage. Imagine more fireworks tonight. Bet these will be better than the ones last night.

Have your last cigarette, Lester. Them things will kill you for sure.

Blaze up 620 to I-60 to the Calhoun Regional Airport. Take ticket at long-term parking. Watch the arm rise. Park between other cars. Park. Don’t wipe it down. Must be a million prints on this old boat. Leave it unlocked with the keys on the seat. Wipe keys. Maybe someone will steal it? Take Annie’s package. Walk to Kroger. Pick up a few things from the list.

“
Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen ...”

Shouldn’t sing. Don’t be stupid and draw attention to yourself like Crazy Annie. Just smile and say “How ya’ doin’?” to whoever you see.

That’ll make you invisible in Calhoun for sure.

6

After the sun set and no one else committed suicide, Overton drove up 115 and turned onto an unmarked dirt road. The road, deeply rutted on each side with a huge hump in the middle, carried him through a tunnel of weeping willows before emerging into a clearing.

“
Home, sweet home,” he said, and he parked the cruiser in the barn next to a dusty Jeep Wrangler. He shut the barn doors and walked the dirt path past healthy strawberries and blueberries and a split-rail fence covered with ivy.

Even from the back, the farmhouse was magnificent, though graying with age. Two solid stories, a shiny tin roof, no gutters, a front and a back porch, two towering red brick chimneys.
This is the way houses looked when they were homes,
Overton thought. The only light burned in the kitchen at the back of the house. “Time for some home cooking.”

He stepped onto the back porch, knocked twice, and entered the kitchen, letting the aroma of biscuits and gravy soothe his day away.

“
It’s about time,” she said from the sitting room. “Long day?”

“
Longest in quite a while.” He loaded a blue china plate with biscuits and smothered them with peppery gravy. “How was yours?”

“
Can’t complain.”

“
Been busy?”

“
As a honey bee.”

“
Strawberries are lookin’ good.”

“
Watered ‘em most of the day. Hope the well holds out.”

He snatched a fork from a drawer and poured himself a tall glass of lemonade. “I’ve been craving some of your lemonade all day.”

“
Anythin’ else?”

He blushed.
She is the only woman who has ever made me blush.
“I’ve been craving your biscuits and gravy, too.”

“
That all I am to you? A plateful of food and a glass of lemonade at the end of the day?”

He stood in the doorway to the sitting room and smiled at her. “Maybe I meant more by ‘biscuits and gravy’ than what’s on this plate.”

“
Nasty man,” she said with a laugh. “Come here, but leave the plate in the kitchen. I got all you’ll
ever
need right here.”

Overton took a sip of lemonade. “Why Callie Poindexter, I do believe you’re horny.”

They barely made it up to her bedroom, the only bedroom currently in use. Once there, they took their time, enjoying each other with practiced hands and gentle embraces.

They had first met the day Overton discovered Jeremiah Poindexter’s body on the statue. It had been Overton’s duty to inform Callie since Sheriff Hughes rarely dealt directly with what he called “the colored folk” of Pine County. “That’s the deputy’s duty, son,” Hughes had told him. “And when you become sheriff, your deputy will do the same for you.”

Callie hadn’t cried out, hadn’t wailed, hadn’t cursed when Overton told her the news. “Take me to my boy,” she had said.

He then had the unpleasant duty of having Callie identify the body. “That’s him,” she had said. “That’s Jeremiah. Make sure you inform his daddy, Jimmy Lee Sellers, Senior, that his son is dead.”

Overton had been stunned.
She would have had to be ... fifteen?

“
I’m sure you’ve heard that rumor. It’s true. J never knew.”

“
J favors you,” Overton had said weakly.
“Thank you.”

Overton would never forget the call he made to state senator Sellers, one of the most powerful politicians in the state of Virginia. “Sir, Miss Callie Poindexter wanted me to inform you that your son, Jeremiah, is dead.”

“
I heard.”
No denial.
“Is there anything I can do?”

“
Well, sir, it’d be nice if you spoke to Miss Poindexter about that.”

“
I will.”

And then, as friends had descended on Callie’s farmhouse in droves to drop off food and offer condolences, Overton had questioned her.

“
Who was Jeremiah out with, Mrs.—”

“
It’s Miss, and please call him J. Everybody called him that. J was supposed to be out with Sharese.”

“
Sharese White, ma’am?”

“
Yes, and I ain’t no ‘ma’am,’ Deputy Overton. Please call me Callie.”

“
Uh, yes ma’am.”

“
Callie.”

That was the first time he had noticed her eyes, the first time he had ever truly looked at a black woman’s face. Her eyes were the darkest brown, a
pure
shade of brown, a brown only God could make. Long black eyelashes, thick black eyebrows, high cheekbones, the whitest teeth.

“
Callie,” he had said, and though embarrassed, he had smiled. And in a house full of black people, she had touched his hand.

Overton had led the long funeral procession to the cemetery and filled in for Isaiah Poindexter, J’s younger brother, as a pallbearer. “Isaiah ain’t in his right mind today,” Callie had explained. “Would you help us?”

“
It would be my honor.”

He had been the only white pallbearer, the only white man present. The good senator had found the time to send a funeral wreath and an envelope of cash.

A few days after the funeral, Overton had turned down Callie’s long driveway, had parked in front, had knocked on the front door, and had asked, “How are you holdin’ up?”

“
I’m doin’ all right. How you doin’?” She had worn jeans and a T-shirt, her hair stuffed under a Yankees baseball cap, and at the moment, Overton had wanted to be her friend, even if she rooted for the wrong team.

“
Okay.” He had looked at the hat in his hands. “Uh, I know I should have called first, but I wanted to let you know in person how the investigation is going.”

“
How’s it goin’?”

“
Not very well. Sheriff Hughes thinks it might—”

“
That man thinks?” Callie had interrupted.

“
Sometimes.”

Then Callie had laughed, a juicy chuckle filled with honey. “Well, why don’t you come on in and tell me what that man
thinks
he thinks.”

Many months later, the investigation had yielded nothing. “We have pursued every lead possible and come up empty,” Sheriff Hughes had told reporters, “but we think it may have been Klan-related.”

Klan-related?
Overton had thought at the time.
Ain’t no Klan around here. Hell, there ain’t but a few real rednecks left in Pine County with all the jobs headin’ to Calhoun.

Despite the failure of the investigation, Overton and Callie became friends and much later, lovers. “I’m not that kind of woman,” Callie had said, and Overton respected her wishes until one night he had found her sobbing on the couch in the sitting room.

“
I can’t stop crying,” she had said. “I can’t stop crying for my boy.”

He had held her, had kissed her tears away, had made love to her with a passion that scared him.

“
I can used to that,” she had said afterwards. “And I suppose I can get used to you, too.”

Callie didn’t want their relationship to be common knowledge, so Overton had spent his lunch breaks at the farmhouse, the car hidden in the barn. This had continued for a year until Isaiah had skipped school and caught them together.

“
Get the hell out my house, man!” Isaiah had howled as Overton scrambled for his clothes.

Callie had only sat up in bed. “It ain’t your house, boy. He stays.”

“
It ain’t yours either, Mama.”

“
Deed says it’s mine, and as long as you are in my house, you will not disrespect me or anyone I choose to be here.”

“
But him? Fool didn’t do nothin’ to find out who killed J when I know he
knows
who did it! You sleepin’ with the enemy, Mama! Ain’t you had enough trouble from white people?”

“
This man ain’t no trouble. Why you gotta make trouble? You supposed to be in school.”

“
Forget school, and forget you, Mama!”

“
Get out,” Callie had said calmly, and Isaiah had stormed out of the farmhouse.

“
Callie, I’m sorry,” Overton had said.

“
What you sorry for? I’m the one should be sorry. I raised him, and I didn’t raise him to disrespect no one. He’ll get used to the idea.”

“
Really?”

Callie had frowned. “No. No, he won’t. His daddy’s black. He’ll probably go to Jersey to be with his daddy for a while, but he’ll be back.”

Isaiah hadn’t come back, hadn’t written, hadn’t called, and Callie never mentioned his name again.

So for sixteen years, Overton only came after sundown, never used the front door, left before dawn, and never phoned. “Don’t want folks talkin’ bad about us,
you
especially,” Callie had told him. “We gotta keep your job. Gotta keep rakin’ in them white votes, you know.”

Sixteen years. Except for a pair of boots and his favorite fishing pole, he hadn’t known anyone or anything for that long. “When you gonna make me your wife?” she had asked during the third year. “When you gonna make an honest woman out of me?”

He wanted to, but Callie only joked about getting married. “I like being single,” she had said.

So they shared each other a few nights a week, talked for hours, and grew old together. It was like marriage to Overton, yet it was better than marriage. She didn’t nag, and he didn’t leave his underwear lying all over the house. She cooked for him, and he did the dishes. She listened to him, and he loved hearing her talk. She massaged his shoulders, and he loved her the best way he could.

“
We’re probably the happiest couple in Pine County,” she had told him as he held her through a long winter’s night. “And we ain’t never gettin’ divorced, Mr. Man.”

“
Never?”

“
Not till death do us part.”