Home Fires (8 page)

“I heard that Starling’s a racist.”

“But why would he take his anger out on a church?” 

“Because it’s at Starling’s Crossroads? And he already used green paint one time this week, right?”

I nodded glumly. “But it still might just be a coincidence.”

Dwight pushed open the courtroom door and stood back for me to enter.

“All rise,” said the bailiff as soon as he caught sight of me.

“Oyez, oyez, oyez. This honorable court for the County of Colleton is now open and sitting for the dispatch of its business. God save the state and this honorable court, the Honorable Judge Deborah Knott presiding. Be seated.”

Normally Cyl DeGraffenried is already standing when I walk in. Today, the bailiff was halfway through his spiel before the words seemed to register enough to bring her to her feet. Reid was defending a young Hispanic for possession of marijuana and when he requested that the case be thrown out because of sloppy police mistakes with the search warrant, her opposing argument was so unfocussed that I granted Reid’s request and dismissed the charges.

Cyl didn’t even shrug, just called the next case in an absentminded voice. We were almost to the midmorning recess before she got herself up to speed. By noon, she was again demanding heads on a silver salver but somehow her heart didn’t seem to be in it.

“Left it a little late, ain’t you?” asked Leamon Webb, who runs the Print Place down from the courthouse in Dobbs, when I stopped in on my noon recess. “Judge Longmire had his campaign stuff printed up in February.”

“That’s because he had a challenger in the May primary,” I said, feeling a little testy.

I told myself it was still only June. Plenty of time till the November election and it’s not like I have any serious competition this year. (
“Not as if,
” came Aunt Zell’s schoolteacher voice in my head.)

Everybody’s a critic these days. First Minnie, who wanted to know if I was getting complacent; then my niece Emma, who was busy putting stuff together for Vacation Bible School; and now Leamon.

Minnie’s my sister-in-law and campaign adviser and Emma’s the family computer whiz who gets saddled with any electronically creative project her relatives can think up, so I’m obliged to listen to them grumble. But Leamon Webb’s not one drop of kin and there are other print shops in the county. Besides, I hadn’t eaten lunch yet and I didn’t have time for any hassle.

“If you’re too backed up to do it—” I reached for the folder with Emma’s camera-ready sheets that lay on the counter between us.

“Naw, now, I didn’t say that.”

Leamon slid the folder out from under my hand and looked at the mock-ups my niece had done of a simple single-fold leaflet and pasteboard bookmarks. Both had a dignified head-and-shoulders picture of me in my judge’s robes and “RE-ELECT JUDGE KNOTT” in bold block capitals. In the picture, the lacy edge of a standup white collar was meant to remind voters that I was both feminine and womanly. My shoulder-length dark blonde hair was pinned up in a modified French twist to make me look more mature and my blue eyes looked candidly into the camera. The bookmark stated my background and experience—the legal and professional bits, not the personal, thank you very much.

Because I’m only thirty-six and haven’t sat on many boards or commissions, the leaflet encompassed lots of tasteful, if useless, white space. A short text elaborated that I’d begun my law studies at Columbia and finished at Chapel Hill and that I’d been a partner in the well-respected firm of Lee and Stephenson right here in Colleton County. It also mentioned that I was a member of First Baptist of Dobbs and that I’d been born near Cotton Grove, smack-dab in the middle of Judicial Court District 11-C.

It did not mention a disastrous attempt at marriage, my lack of husband and 1.3 children (the county average in my socioeconomic age group), nor that my father had once run white lightning from Canada to Mexico.

I didn’t expect anyone else to mention those last three things either, since Howard Woodlief was my only opposition this time and judgeships aren’t hotly contested before statewide television cameras. Mine was nothing like the race shaping up between Richard Petty and Elaine Marshall for Secretary of State. Even CNN was interested in that one, since she would be the first woman elected to North Carolina’s Council of State if she won, while King Richard would be its first NASCAR champion if he took the checkered flag.

Then there was the Jesse Helms/Harvey Gantt rematch.

With all those horses crashing through the woods, my run for reelection would be lucky to get a mention in the Dobbs
Ledger
.

Which was why I needed bookmarks and leaflets to remind the voters I’d be on the ballot.

Leamon’s lips moved as he read to himself the closing motto that Emma had composed: “Caring, Compassionate and Competent.”

Emma loves alliteration.

So do most of the voters in this district.

“Real nice,” said Leamon. “Now was you thinking black ink on white or can we juice it up with a little color?”

With no time left for a sit-down lunch, I grabbed a salad and a bottle of apple juice at the sandwich shop across the street and carried them back to the courthouse, intending to eat at my desk. But when I tried to open the office door, it was locked.

Odd. I never push the button latch when I leave because I’ve never had a key. No problem though. Luther Parker, who shares the connecting lavatory, wasn’t back yet, so I scooted across his office, through the lavatory, then stopped short as I opened the inner door.

Cyl DeGraffenried was there, hunched in the chair before my desk.

She whirled around to face me.

“Sorry,” she said. “I thought you were— I needed a little privacy— I—I—”

Her hair was disheveled and as she stood up, it was clear from her swollen eyes that she’d been crying. Indeed a last tear trickled slowly down her smooth dark cheek as she stood there staring at me helplessly. In the time that I’ve known her, I’ve never seen Cyl DeGraffenried cry or look helpless and it left me at a loss, too.

“That’s okay.” I gestured awkwardly with my brown paper bag and started to back out. “I’ll eat at Luther’s desk. You take all the time you want.”

I retreated to Luther’s office and a few minutes later heard water running in the lavatory sink. I was halfway through my salad when she opened the door.

Cold compresses had worked magic on her eyes and every hair was in place. I could almost swear that she’d even sent her beige linen suit out for a quick press.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine. And I apologize for inconveniencing you.”

Not only was every hair in place, so were all her defenses.

“You didn’t inconvenience me.” I unscrewed the top of my juice bottle. “Apple juice? There are cups—”

“No, thank you,” she said brusquely, heading for the door.

“Look, Cyr," I said. Is there anything I can do? Would it help to talk?”

“To
you?
” There was so much scorn in her voice that I felt as if I’d been slapped.

“Why not me?” I asked indignantly just as Luther Parker opened the door.

“Excuse me,” said Cyl, and Luther stepped back to let her pass.

His chocolate-brown eyes moved from Cyl’s disappearing back to my usurpation of his desk.

“Something going on I should know about?”

“What’s her real problem, Luther?” I asked him bluntly.

He looked at me over his rimless glasses. “You mean right now or in general?”

“Either one.”

He shrugged. “Beats me. But then I’ve always lived in Makely, so how would I know? My wife knew her when she was a kid, though.”

I was confused, knowing that Cyl grew up down near New Bern. “Really? Louise has down east connections?”

“No, but Ms. DeGraffenried has Cotton Grove connections. When she first started working for Woodall, I remember Louise said something about seeing her at church with her auntie or granny or somebody when she was just a little girl.”

Louise Parker’s great-great-grandfather had been Mount Olive’s first black preacher and, according to Maidie, she’s never moved her membership over to Makely even though she and Luther must be married at least thirty years.

“Was Cyl wired this tight back then?” I wondered aloud. “Is that why she grew up and turned into a Republican?”

Luther’s big dark face crinkled with laughter. “You say Republican like some people say Satan. Democrats have no monopoly on virtue, Deborah, and this is a yellow-dog, big D Democrat saying it to you.

“Who said anything about virtue?” I asked.

Never let a bleak past
Cloud a bright future

—Barbecue Church

When I came down the hot marble steps of the courthouse that afternoon, Ed Gardner was sitting on a green slatted bench beneath the magnolia tree that shades our memorial to those Colleton County boys who died in the First World War.

A bronze doughboy in khaki leggings and campaign cap holds a carbine at the ready and squints into the sunset. He’s as feisty as the Confederate general rising in the stirrups as his fire-breathing stallion plunges into battle on the other side of the courthouse. World War II’s monument is a tall slab of white marble with the names of our dead in brass letters. Daddy’s brother Pat’s name is on that one.

None of my eleven brothers were old enough for Korea, but Frank was a machinist mate with the Sixth Fleet in the Far East during Vietnam. He wound up making a career out of the Navy and has now retired to San Diego. One of the lucky ones.

“Ever notice anything odd about monument horses?” Ed asked as he ambled toward me.

Smiling, I said, “The fact that they’re usually well-endowed stallions and almost never geldings or mares? Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

He crushed out his cigarette and buried the butt in the border of bright yellow marigolds that lined the walk. “Must’ve played hell with battle formations every time a couple of mares went into heat.”

I laughed. “Wonder how many lieutenants got busted to corporal because their mares led a general’s stallion astray?”

“We’ll never know,” said Ed. “They always leave the good stuff out of the history books.”

He glanced up at my high-heeled white sandals. “I was gonna ask you if you had time to take a walk along the river, but those shoes aren’t made for dirt, are they?”

In times past, we’d have automatically headed straight for the lounge at the Holiday Inn where you can drink and smoke, but Ed’s quit drinking and cigarettes aren’t welcome at most alcohol-free places these days, even in North Carolina. Besides, it was a nice day. Hot, of course, but at least a breeze was blowing.

“Dirt’s no problem” I said. “I keep a pair of sneakers in my car.”

We crossed the street to the parking lot, catching up on gossip as we went. I asked about his wife, Linda (“She’s doing good, just working too hard”), he asked about Kidd (“Doing just fine”), and we both agreed it was too bad we didn’t see much of each other now that neither of us hung out at Miss Molly’s anymore. I changed shoes, locked my purse in the trunk of the car and stuck the keys in the pocket of my beige and white coatdress.

From the parking lot, it was only a short walk to one of the steps that led from the adjacent street down to the town commons. There’s a scattering of benches and picnic tables and some grassy play areas where you first enter, then paths meander off along the riverbank through clumps of azaleas. The azaleas had finished blooming, but butterfly bushes made colorful splashes of purple, yellow or white, and swallowtail butterflies floated from one to another as we passed.

Ed’s eight or ten years older, so gray hairs are popping out on his brown head and in the closely cropped brown beard that softens a jutting chinline. A couple of inches taller than I, he’s compactly built and gives off the vibes of a tightly wound spring. As usual, he wore a short-sleeved cotton shirt—today’s was brown checks with white buttons—jeans and scuffed brown boots that looked as if they’d been walking on charred wet ashes.

“You just come from Balm of Gilead?” I asked.

“What’s left of it. Which is damn little.”

“Enough to draw any conclusions?”

He paused to light a cigarette and moved around to the other side so the breeze could carry his smoke away from me. (Ed’s more of a gentleman than he likes to admit.)

“You mean did the dog find accelerant and track the gas can back to the Amoco station where the bad guy bought five gallons with his own charge card? No.”

“But you did find gasoline residue?”

“Well, Sparky was wagging his tail like it was gas and it smelled like gas to me, too, but we’ll have to wait and run it through the lab first.” He took a deep drag and exhaled twin jets of smoke through his nostrils. “Tell me about your nephew and his little friends.”

“A.K.’s not part of this,” I said. “He hasn’t been out from under his parents’ noses since last weekend.”

“You sure about that?”

“A.K. might lie to my daddy, but Andrew and April never would.”

Ed grinned. He knows the legends some of his older revenuer friends have told about Daddy. “Then tell me about his friends.”

Again I shook my head. “I really don’t know them. I heard that the Starling boy’s family used to own the land that the church stood on, but that was back probably before he was even born. As for Raymond Bagwell, all I know is that one of my old high school teachers thinks he’s a fine young man that Starling’s led astray.”

With the edge of his boot, Ed scraped out a small hole, dropped his cigarette butt into it, then tamped the dirt back over it. “You get a good look at the words painted on the church wall?”

“Pretty good. And before you ask, yes, it looked like the same color green paint and I suppose they could’ve been lettered by one of those boys. Can’t you compare the two?”

He shook his head. “There’s not enough on that videotape to go to court with. All we’ve got’s part of a KKK and a swastika. Your brother alibis your nephew, Bagwell and Starling alibi each other—any fifty-dollar lawyer could argue that the angle distorts the letters or that the paint is black, not green. If there’d been even a smear left, we could’ve tried matching it to what I hear was used in the cemetery.”