Rainwater

FOURTEEN

Ella spent a restless night.

Mr. Rainwater didn’t come down for breakfast, sending word by Margaret, who’d been upstairs gathering laundry, that he wanted only coffee. Ella sent Margaret back to his room with a tray. When she came downstairs, Ella expected a report on his condition. But Margaret said nothing until she asked.

“He seemed all right to me, Miss Ella.”

Ella didn’t fish for more, and she resisted the impulse to go and check on him herself. Yesterday she’d pestered him with questions until he’d lost patience with her. She wouldn’t make that mistake again, because she didn’t want to spark his temper. Nor did she want any more talk of her being beautiful, which she wasn’t, or of his wish not to be regarded by her as an invalid. The impropriety of such personal dialogue made her uncomfortable.

Besides, neither her appearance nor how she regarded him had any relevance to their particular situation, which was that he was a resident in her boardinghouse. Only that. Nothing more.

Nevertheless, she hoped that, if his pain became unbearable, he wouldn’t let his masculine pride prevent him from alerting her to it.

After lunch a soft rain began to fall, causing steam to rise off hot surfaces—rooftops, automobiles, railroad tracks. It made the air even heavier with humidity. But the summer shower was a novelty, a rare and wonderful blessing that Ella wanted to enjoy, so she took a sack of string beans with her onto the front porch. She sat in the rocker with the sack of beans and a ceramic bowl in her lap. Solly was beside her on the floor with his bag of empty spools and the box of dominoes.

It was mindless work, breaking the end off the bean pod and pulling away the string that sealed it, then snapping the pod in half or thirds and placing the sections in the bowl. She would cook the beans tomorrow. Maybe she’d toss in some new potatoes with the red jackets still on. It would make a good side dish with baked ham.

Her mind wandered from tomorrow’s menu to yesterday’s unsettling confrontation with Conrad, to the menace he’d wreaked at the Thompsons’ farm last night, and then to the late interlude in the kitchen, where she had barely avoided breaking dishes she’d been washing for watching Mr. Rainwater’s hands as he’d dried them.

Ella, he’d said. Twice.

She hadn’t acknowledged his addressing her by her first name, because it had been inappropriate, and she hadn’t wanted to emphasize the inappropriateness by making it an issue that required further discussion. After his saying what he had about her being beautiful, she’d asked him to excuse her and had beat a hasty retreat to her room.

Still, she had the memory of his speaking her name. Secretly she was glad to have heard the special resonance his voice had lent those two ordinary syllables. Somehow she knew it was a memory she would hold on to for a long time. Possibly forever.

She was so lost in thought that at first she didn’t realize Solly was no longer sitting on the painted planks of the porch floor but had got up and moved to the railing.

“Solly?”

He didn’t respond, of course. He was intent on standing a domino on its end, directly in line with the post beneath it and squarely in the center of the board that formed the rail. While she’d been woolgathering, he’d been lining up the dominoes, so that now, a dozen formed a straight line along the railing.

She left the sack of beans and the bowl in the seat of her chair and moved closer to the railing, but not so close that she encroached on the boundaries which were invisible to her but crucial to her son. She didn’t want her nearness to distract him from what he was doing.

After watching him for several minutes, she saw that he was lining up the dominoes in ascending order. But, more important, he wasn’t picking them out of a scattered pile, as he’d done before. He was searching in the box for the next one in sequence before placing it at the end of the line.

This wasn’t the uncanny talent that idiot savants frequently displayed, as explained to her by Dr. Kincaid. Apparently Solly possessed that extraordinary trait, too, but today, with the dominoes, he was reasoning. He was thinking it through before choosing the next domino. Essentially, he was counting!

Tears came to her eyes, and she pressed her fingers to her lips to contain a sob of joy.

“Margaret said you didn’t have the good sense to come in out of the rain.”

She whirled around as Mr. Rainwater pushed open the screened door and stepped onto the porch.

“Look.” She pointed at the dominoes on the railing. “He took it upon himself to do this. I didn’t begin the project for him. And watch.”

Mr. Rainwater came and stood by her side. Solly had added only two dominoes to the row before Mr. Rainwater realized what had caused her excitement. “He’s sorting through those in the box until he finds the next one in sequence.”

“Don’t you think that’s significant?”

“Absolutely.”

“Sunday, in the cemetery, I remember him gazing at the iron pickets of the gate. Obviously he’s intrigued by the ordered and precise placement of things. Couldn’t that fascination be fed and nurtured? It could even be developed into a skill, don’t you think?”

“I certainly do. He could be building bridges one of these days.”

She smiled at his optimism. “I’d be satisfied with much less than that.”

Mr. Rainwater reached out and touched Solly’s shoulder. The boy flinched, but he didn’t stop what he was doing. “Good job, Solly.”

“Very good job, Solly,” she repeated.

Mr. Rainwater said, “I think this calls for a celebration. An ice cream cone at the very least. Would you let me treat you and Solly?”

“Before dinner?”

“Celebrations should be spontaneous. Rules can be broken—”

“Mr. Rainwater!” Margaret burst through the screened door. Her eyes were wide; she was breathless with alarm. “My boy Jimmy just called from the store, said there’s gonna be trouble out the Hatchers’ place. Said you need to get there fast. Conrad Ellis and his bunch were in the store talkin’ ’bout what they was gonna do to any riffraff that showed up out there tryin’ to interfere with gov’ment business.”

“I’m leaving now.” He brushed past the maid and went inside only long enough to snatch his hat from the hall tree. “Where is the Hatcher place?”

“I’ll go with you.” Ella took off her apron and tossed it onto the chair.

“Absolutely not,” he said. “It could be dangerous.”

“It’s easier for me to show you to their place than to give directions.” Sensing his hesitation, she added, “We’re wasting time.”

He nodded and charged down the front steps, Ella following.

“Watch Solly, Margaret,” she called over her shoulder.

“Don’t you worry none ’bout him. You and Mr. Rainwater take care of your ownselves. Jimmy said those peckerwoods was drunk and actin’ wild.”

By the time they arrived at the beef cattle ranch located several miles west of Gilead, the situation was already tense. Assembled there were Ollie Thompson, Mr. Pritchett, the postmaster, a minister, the shop teacher at the high school, the man who ran the salvage yard, and so many others whom Ella recognized.

They nodded somberly when Mr. Rainwater parked his car and joined them just outside the barbed-wire fence that delineated the pasture. He was the only one of them unarmed.

Standing apart from them was another group, mostly Negroes but some whites. By their gaunt faces and shabby clothing, Ella knew they must have come from shantytown. She recognized the recent widower with the three children, whom Mr. Rainwater had befriended. Standing a full head taller than the others was Brother Calvin, looking grim but calm.

Mr. Rainwater had advised Ella to remain in the car, when actually she had no intention of getting out. The only other woman in sight was Mrs. Hatcher, who was standing in the hardscrabble patch of yard in front of her house, holding on to her husband’s arm as though trying to restrain him from doing something reckless.

The rain shower had been short-lived but the cloud cover was thick and oppressive. The air seemed too dense to inhale, made no easier to breathe by the stench of manure from the loaded cattle truck that rumbled through the pasture gate and then down the dirt road in the direction of the main highway.

A wide, deep pit, larger even than the one at the Thompsons’ farm, had been gouged out of the pasture. Possibly a hundred head of bawling Angus cattle had been herded into it. Around it, men, with their hats pulled low and rifles aimed, stood awaiting the signal from their leader to start firing.

When they did, Ella jumped.

Even though she was prepared for the barrage, the racket was deafening, assaulting more than the ears. Ella covered hers with her hands, but that only dulled the sound, it didn’t mute it. She felt the concussion of each shot against her chest, against her eyelids when she closed her eyes.

The first gunshots had alarmed the cattle. Their lowing of discontent escalated into bellows of terror, heard even above the cacophony of gunfire, which seemed to go on forever. Then there were left only a random few bawling sounds coming from the bottom of the pit. Each was silenced with the clap of a gunshot that echoed off the low-hanging clouds.

The silence that followed was as thick as the gunsmoke that wafted above the carnage.

Ella waited for several seconds, then opened her eyes and lowered her hands from her ears. Her palms were wet with nervous perspiration. She wiped them on her skirt. But none of the men, either in Mr. Rainwater’s group or with Brother Calvin, had moved a muscle.

The shooters lowered their rifles and began a slow progress toward the row of black cars, parked fender to fender along the road. A few of them lit smokes. Some entered into mumbled conversations among themselves. All avoided eye contact with the silent spectators.

The leader stopped to say something to Mr. Hatcher. The government man paused, as though waiting for Mr. Hatcher to respond to what he’d said or, by some other means, to acknowledge it. But Mr. Hatcher did nothing except give a brusque motion of his hand. The man moved on and joined the others, who were climbing into the government cars.

No one moved as they drove away.

The convoy had gone several hundred yards, but was still in sight, when Mr. Hatcher called out, “Y’all help yourselves if you like.”

Still no one moved. It was Mr. Pritchett who called out, “What did he say to you, Alton?”

“He said they’d be buried sometime today before dark. But not to let y’all butcher any meat off those carcasses or there’d be trouble and weren’t nothin’ he would do to stop it.”

Then Mr. Hatcher turned and crossed his yard to a chopping block that was used for splitting firewood. He grabbed the long handle of an ax and worked the blade out of the heart-wood. Shouldering the ax, he walked toward the pit. “He can go to hell. For myself, I ain’t gonna deny hungry folks some scraps of stringy beef.”

A cheer went up. Brother Calvin gave a signal that seemed to unleash the men with him. They clambered over and under the fence, then ran pell-mell toward the pit, carrying knives, hatchets, and containers for whatever meat they could carve off the bony carcasses. Without a moment’s hesitation, they plunged down into the mass grave. Ella realized then what a motivator hunger was.

It wasn’t until they had begun hacking at the dead cattle that anyone noticed the roar of engines. She thought perhaps Mr. Rainwater was the first to hear the sound above the gleeful shouting of the shantytown men as they went about their amateur butchering. He was the first to turn toward the sound, and his expression immediately registered alarm.

Ella whipped her head around.

Across the road, speeding out from the cover of dense woods, were several pickup trucks and cars, overflowing with men brandishing firearms and screaming like banshees. They must have been hiding there, motors idling, waiting for this moment.

Their vehicles jounced over the rough ground but didn’t slow down. They reached the road going top speed, crossed it, and then braked hard at the edge of the ditch. Men spilled from the vehicles and eddied around Mr. Rainwater’s car in a swarm.

Ella saw Mr. Hatcher scramble out of the cattle pit, his boots fighting for purchase in the moist soil. He ran back to his wife, who seemed petrified by fear. He shooed her into the house and saw to it that the door was locked, then ran back to the rim of the pit, the bloody ax still in his hand.

Brother Calvin admonished the men with him to remain calm and not to do anything foolish. Men from town spread out, taking up positions along the barbed-wire fence, forming a human barricade against the onslaught of the new arrivals.

But all this Ella saw in her peripheral vision, because she was watching Conrad as he stayed behind his vanguard until they were toe-to-toe with the townsmen. Then two of them moved aside and let him saunter between them. He walked straight up to Mr. Rainwater.

Without thinking, Ella opened the car door and got out.

Conrad looked Mr. Rainwater up and down, then turned his head only and made a scoffing sound. His friends laughed. Turning back to Mr. Rainwater, he said, “Are you their ringleader?”

“No.”

“Well, whoever your leader is better tell those niggers and ne’er-do-wells to get out of that pit, or they’re liable to get buried along with those dead cows.”

“Would you shoot unarmed men?”

“They’re armed with knives.”

“Nobody with a knife has threatened anyone.”

“They’re breaking the law.”

Mr. Rainwater made a show of looking around. “There isn’t a lawman here to arrest them.”

“The government men put me in charge of making sure no cattle were butchered.”

“Do you have documentation of that?”

Conrad hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he ruminated. “I don’t need documentation. I’m in charge.”

“So you said,” Mr. Rainwater said drily.

“Are you going to get those men out of there, or not?”

“Mr. Ellis, if the government was dead set against these men getting some free beef, Mr. Hatcher’s property would be crawling with agents wearing badges. Their sole purpose would be to prevent the field dressing of these cattle.”

“Cattle.” Conrad spat into the dirt. “They’re hide and bones, that’s all. Not fit for human consumption.”

“Some of the malnourished people in shantytown would beg to differ.”

“You sure do use a lot of fancy words.”

“Then I’ll try to put it more simply. Why would you want to do something so distasteful that even law enforcement agencies avoid it? It’s got nothing to do with you, so wouldn’t you rather just turn a blind eye? Why don’t you and your friends let these men take what meat they can get and carry it back to their hungry families?”

Conrad thrust his face to within an inch of Mr. Rainwater’s. “Why don’t you kiss my ass?” That won him another round of laughter from his friends, but even that ceased when Conrad drove his fist into Mr. Rainwater’s face.

Mr. Rainwater had seen the blow coming and dodged, but not fast enough or far enough. Conrad’s knuckles grazed his cheekbone, splitting skin, drawing blood. Mr. Rainwater reeled backward but was saved from landing against the barbed wires by the quick reaction of Tad Wallace, owner of the salvage yard, who put out an arm to catch him.

As soon as he’d steadied Mr. Rainwater, Mr. Wallace lunged at Conrad. But Mr. Rainwater grabbed him by his shirtsleeve and pulled him back. “That’s what he’s asking for. An excuse to attack.”

Others murmured agreement. Mr. Wallace backed down.

With the back of his hand, Mr. Rainwater swiped at the blood trickling down his face. “You got what you came for, which was a swipe at me. You’ve made your point. Everybody saw it. They’ll talk about it for weeks. You hit me, and now you’ve got bragging rights. So clear out and leave these folks alone.”

Looking amused, Conrad glanced over his shoulder at his buddies, and they all chuckled on cue. “No, we’re not ready to clear out just yet. And don’t think you and these other yahoos can scare us off with a few shotguns and some rusty knives.”

“What about the promise of damnation? Would that scare you?”

No one had noticed that Brother Calvin had climbed out of the pit, circled around, and now was on the outside of the fence, standing behind some of Conrad’s gang. His rumbling voice startled them. As he walked forward, they parted. A few of them did so grudgingly, but none impeded him until he stood only a foot away from Conrad. Even he was diminished by Brother Calvin’s imposing height and the breadth of his shoulders.

But Conrad wasn’t intimidated by the larger man. He sneered at him. “Aren’t you the nigger preacher who’s been keeping the others agitated?”

“You know who I am. You broke a window of my church, which didn’t offend me nearly as much as it offended God. I know you’re a bigot, and that doesn’t make any difference to me. You’ll have to answer for your hatred and prejudices to the Almighty. What matters to me is that people are hungry, and through the generosity and good-heartedness of Mr. Hatcher, here’s a chance for them to get some free meat.

“Not just colored people, either. Whites, too. You remember Lansy Roeder?” He motioned toward the pit, where Ella could see the rawboned man in overalls holding a butcher knife in one hand, a basin in the other. His hands, forearms, and clothes were blood-smeared. Lansy hadn’t wasted any time trying to get some of the beef before it spoiled.

“Lansy says y’all went to school together,” Brother Calvin said to Conrad. “Bank foreclosed on his place three months ago. He and his family were moved out and had nowhere else to go, so they’re camping in shantytown. He’s picking cotton, but he’s making next to nothing. His children are starving.”

Conrad remained unmoved. “It’s not my fault he can’t feed his kids. If he couldn’t feed them, why’d he keep having them?” He snickered. “’Course his wife has a real nice shape on her.” He looked over his shoulder at his cronies. “Maybe he should put her to work, huh, guys? I know she’d get my business.”

His friends roared with bawdy laughter. Several whistled. Lansy dropped his basin and charged forward. Knowing he wouldn’t stand a chance against Conrad, two men wrestled him to the ground and held him there while he shouted invectives. This indignity made Conrad’s group laugh all the more.

But when Conrad came back around to Brother Calvin, he wasn’t laughing, or even smiling. “I’m giving you one minute to get away from here, or we’re going to start shooting. And I’m not bullshitting you, preacher.”

Mr. Rainwater stepped forward. “You’ll have to shoot past us.”

Conrad extended his hand behind him, and one of his friends slapped a pistol into his palm. He aimed it at Mr. Rainwater’s middle. “Fine by me. I’ll start with you, Mr. Fancy Words.”

Ella’s blood froze in her veins. There was a nervous shifting among Mr. Rainwater’s allies. They’d left their lunches uneaten, closed their shops, hurried from their homes, to rush to the aid of their neighbors. Now, they were threatened with becoming victims of the violence they’d hoped to prevent. The reality of a standoff against armed men was much more daunting than the prospect had seemed during their covert meetings.

In contrast to them, Mr. Rainwater remained unflappable. “I didn’t think you were that stupid, Mr. Ellis.”

Conrad made a jabbing motion with the pistol.

Mr. Rainwater didn’t flinch. “I didn’t think you would be stupid enough to gun down men in cold blood when there are so many witnesses.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Yes, I’m sure you would. Since you’ve got Sheriff Anderson in your pocket.” Mr. Rainwater angled his head to one side. “Who do you know at the FBI?”

Conrad blinked. “The FBI?”

“The Federal Bureau of—”

“I know what FBI stands for. This isn’t their business.”

“It will be. You said the government men put you in charge. Which I doubt. But if that’s true, and a bunch of people wind up dead or seriously injured, who do you think is going to be left holding the bag? The marksmen, who were just doing their job? People from DRS? Bureaucrats?” He snuffled and shook his head. “If this turns into a bloodbath, they—from President Roosevelt on down—are going to blame you for shedding a bad light on a government program that’s meant to help people. But I guess you want a fight so bad, none of that matters to you.”

One of Conrad’s cronies stepped up behind him and whispered something in his ear. Ella couldn’t hear what he said, but it didn’t set well. “Shut up,” Conrad barked and, as though swatting at a housefly, motioned him back. To Mr. Rainwater, he said, “You think you’re smart, don’t you?”

“I think you are, Mr. Ellis. I think you’re too smart to continue this.”

“Come on, Conrad,” one of his friends whined.

“Yeah, let’s get outta here.”

“Let ’em have the goddamn cows. Who cares?”

“Let’s go get drunk.”

Muttering among themselves, they lowered their weapons and began shuffling away, slowly returning to their pickups and cars.

Eventually, Conrad was the only one left facing the line of resolute townsmen.

He took a few steps backward, then he pointed his pistol at all the men in turn, wagging it like a shaking finger. “Y’all know me, and you know I mean what I say. This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.” Then he fired the revolver into the air until all six chambers were empty. Only then did he turn and stalk away.

Ella still stood in the wedge of the open car door. Fury blazed from Conrad’s eyes as he stormed past her, snarling, “You chose wrong again, Ella.”