Two
When you're as old as I am, it takes a while to make a point. The Pecan Man had a name - Eldred Mims. I called him Eddie. The people of Mayville didn’t know his name at all, until he was arrested and charged with the murder of a sixteen year old boy named Skipper Kornegay.
Now, twenty-five years later, his name has made the papers again. I suppose it is noteworthy news that Eldred Mims died in prison of old age. His sentence was twenty-five years to life. I guess it worked out on both counts.
I feel pretty certain that most townspeople would just as soon forget the man, but now that I’m the only one left who even knows the whole truth, I think it’s time I told it.
In the spring of 1976, the Pecan Man began mowing my lawn. For two weeks I watched him ride that rickety old bike out of the woods dragging an equally pathetic lawn mower behind him. He wouldn't return until late afternoon, his ragged shirt plastered to his gaunt body by wind and sweat. I figured he'd found a few yards to mow outside of our neighborhood, since no one near us would hire him. This was before the murder, mind you, when people just thought he was dangerous because he was homeless and black. After the murder they were certain of it. I just thought he looked hungry and I was willing to take a risk.
On the third Monday that I watched him strike out for parts unknown, I flagged him down with a whistle my Mama taught me years ago. It's a pretty darn good whistle, too. It startled him enough to make him bring his bike to a shaky halt at my driveway. I waved him up to the porch. He left the mower and pushed the bike as far as the stoop.
“Mawnin’, Ma’am."
Eldred Mims had an unusual voice, high-pitched and squeaky, and each word was punctuated by the smacking noise made when his toothless gums made contact. It was like they were made of suction cups. The sound was distracting at first, but you got used to it easy enough.
I used to joke to Blanche that I couldn't understand why the neighbors were so afraid of the man.
"One thing was certain," I'd tell her, "He may gum you to death, but he sure ain't gonna bite."
Where was I now? Oh, yes, Eldred Mims stood in front of me; beat up old cap in hand.
"Mighty fine day, isn't it?" I asked him with a wave of my fan.
"Yes'm," he smacked out his reply. "Look like it go'n be fine, 'jes fine."
"Care for a glass of tea?"
He looked taken aback by my question, as if it were the last one on earth he expected me to ask. Then he shuffled his feet, rubbed his neck with the hand that held his limp cap and mumbled something I couldn't understand.
"Speak up, man!" I complained. "I can't hear worth a hoot."
"I said, No'm, tha's okay, but I thank you for axin'. I sho' nuff do."
"Hot as it is out here, you don't want tea? What's the matter with you that you can't accept my hospitality?"
Now, I knew doggone good and well he was trying to be polite by not accepting, but I was pretty sure it had been a while since he'd had a glass of cold sweet tea and, quite frankly, he looked like he could use some. I pressed on.
"Blanche!" I hollered over my shoulder, throwing my voice in the general direction of the door.
Blanche's wide body appeared in the doorway a moment later. I always got a kick out of watching her materialize at that screen door as if by magic. Of course, there wasn't any magic to it. It was just that you couldn't see her until she got right up to the screen and the outside light hit her white uniform.
"Blanche, we have a visitor here. Could you bring this gentleman a glass of tea?"
She answered by stepping out of the door and reaching for my glass.
"I'll get you some more while I'm at it." And she disappeared the same way she came.
"I'm Ora Lee Beckworth," I said with a far less intimidating tone.
"Pleased to meet you, Ma'am," was his shaky reply.
"You got a name?"
"I reckon I do, but mos' folks jus' call me the Pecan Man."
"I knew that much," I said, "but, I'd rather call you your given name, if you have one."
“Eldred, Ma'am.”
I realize now that he must have said “Eldred Mims” and not “Eldred, Ma'am” like I thought, but that's the way I heard it at the time.
“What’d your mama call you?” I asked.
He grinned then, displaying an engaging smile despite the missing teeth. “She call’t me Eddie.”
“Eddie it is, then,” I said and returned his smile.
Blanche reappeared with the tea just as I persuaded him to park his bike and sit on the edge of the stoop. He mumbled a thanks and took the glass from her, holding it tightly in his lap like he was afraid he might break it.
"So, you mow lawns for a living?" I asked.
"Yes'm, I do."
"Interested in doing mine?"
"Yes'm, I reckon I am."
"Okay, good. This is what I need. Every Wednesday morning, I need my front and back lawn mowed. Every Saturday, I need my flowerbeds weeded and hedges trimmed as necessary. Can you handle that for me, and how much do you charge?"
"I can do that for ya, Miz Beckworth. Won't cost ya' but five dollars a week, I figure."
"Five dollars a week!" I let my indignation set in before I continued. "Why, that's highway robbery! And I'll have you know, I am not a thief!"
He looked at me, confused and slightly horrified, but his eyes lit up when he realized what I meant.
"I'll pay you ten dollars and not a penny less."
He grinned again. "Yes'm, that'll be fine. It sho' will be fine."
"A day," I added, pleased with his reaction and even more pleased with myself for causing it.
His face fell.
"No'm," he said, "that'd be too much. I can't take ten dollars a day jus' for mowin' this here little bitty lawn and pullin' some puny weeds out da' garden."
I realized I'd pushed it too far and, though I thought the job well worth my offer, I backed down without taking offense at his unintentional disparagement of my garden.
"Fine," I said, "but lunch and all the tea you can drink come with the job both days. And, if I were you, I wouldn't turn down one of Blanche's sandwiches or she'll be downright offended."
"I'll 'member that. I sho' will.”
After he left that day, Blanche appeared at the screen door with a pot of beans in one hand and two colanders in the other. We sat in companionable silence listening to the low whirring of the fan and the rhythmic creaking of our rockers keeping time for the soft percussive pops of the beans we snapped. When we'd finished all she'd brought out, she set her colander in the crook of her arm and sat gently rocking as if she held a sleeping baby and not a pot of beans. Finally, she stood up and gathered all she'd brought out. She didn't look at me when she spoke. She looked out across the front lawn.
"That man is old and homeless, but he ain't stupid, Miz Beckworth. Don't be hurtin' his pride more than he can take, you hear me?"
I didn't answer, but she knew I heard.
Eddie showed up on time every single day he worked for me. I never saw him with a watch, but he always seemed to know what time it was. He would start mowing promptly at 10:00 a.m. and finish just before noon. He would never join me on the porch, but ate on the same side of the stoop without fail.
We didn't talk much, although Lord knows I tried to get information from that raggedy old man. I think it was the not knowing that made people nervous. Several of my neighbors made their disappointment in my choice of employees readily apparent, but I ignored most of their complaints. That is, until Dovey Kincaid dropped by with a lemon chess pie and a bucketful of advice.
I've known Dovey since she was a newlywed and moved into the house across the street. I'm only fifteen years her elder, but by then she was treating me like I was old and feebleminded.
"Hey, Miss Beckworth!"
Southerners always call their elders Mr. or Miss Whatever. Doesn't matter if you're married or not; the only thing that changes with familiarity is whether they call you by your first or your last name.
Anyway, Dovey never called me Miss Ora Lee. I never liked her enough to let her get familiar. Truth be known, callin' me Miss Beckworth was her way of saying she didn't want to be familiar in the first place, but that was fine with me. Southerners are mostly happy to give tit for tat.
Dovey didn't wait to be invited to sit down. She put the pie down on the table beside me and settled her big ol' square behind into one of my rockers.
"Beautiful day, ain't it, Miss Beckworth?"
"It started out that way." I could barely disguise my contempt. Dovey Kincaid hasn't visited me one time in her life to be social. I could tell right off she was on a mission.
"It sure did, Miss Beckworth. It really did." She sighed like she'd just had a bite of heaven and settled herself into the rocker.
"What brings you all the way across the street, Dovey?"
"Well, I was just bakin' a few pies for the Woman's Club bake sale and I looked out and saw you sittin' here and I thought to myself, 'Now, Dovey Kincaid! Here you are bakin' pies for charity, and there sits your very own neighbor over there all by herself!' So, I whipped off my apron, picked up a lemon chess pie and headed right on over." She smoothed her skirt with both hands, then clasped them together like she was saying a prayer and dropped them into her lap. Then, as if she had forgotten her manners, leaned forward, cocked her head to the side and aimed her best debutante smile right in my direction.
I grinned back, but not in the name of being mannerly.
"Is that so, Dovey?" I chuckled. "Well, that is just as charitable a thing as I can imagine. I'll make sure Blanche takes it home with her tonight."
I asked a mental prayer of forgiveness for insulting Blanche that way, but I just couldn't help myself.
"Oh! Well, of course, Miss Beckworth," she sputtered as tat collided solidly with tit (if you'll pardon the expression). "But, I do hope you'll try a little bite yourself before you do. I worked awful hard on that pie for you not to at least get a taste of it."
"I appreciate the thought, but I'm afraid it might be a little sour for me. Lemon gives me gas."
Judging by her expression of horror, she no doubt wanted me to think I had offended her gentility, but she forgets the fact that sound carries a long way when windows are open. She may not have lost her virginity on her wedding night, but Lord knows she lost any discretion she might have had.
"What do you really want, Dovey?" I asked as she composed herself.
"Well, I did want to ask you about that awful old man you've hired to mow your lawn. Now, I know it's none of my business, but do you think it's a good idea to have him in this neighborhood all the time? Honestly, Miss Beckworth, we don't know a thing about this man and you've got him over here plunderin' through everything."
"Plundering? He's weeding my garden! How do you get plundering out of a little yard work?"
"Well, you know what I mean. He's just getting mighty familiar with your property. It isn't right, Miss Beckworth! The other day, I saw him rummaging through your garage when your back was turned."
"I sent him to look for some slug pellets, Dovey. He's trying to get my flowerbeds back in order, for crying out loud."
"Well, still - I don't think it's good for him to be around all the time. It's bad enough that we're three blocks from the loony bin. Now folks ridin' through will be thinking the neighborhood's gone colored all the sudden. And besides, it just isn't safe."
"Oh, for heaven's sake! That man couldn't hurt a fly if he wanted to. He's seventy years old if he's a day." (I was ten years off on that, but I didn’t know it at the time.)
"Maybe so, but he's got a dangerous look to him and I don't like it. And he's fit enough to haul that mower around everywhere he goes. That says to me that he's fit enough to do whatever harm he has a mind to."
"Well, it says to me he's hungry, and if you had a charitable bone in your body, you'd be baking a pie for him. Now, you can take that pie of yours and waddle your fat butt on home. No one here needs your kind of charity."
Don't you know, she scooped that pie up and was back inside her front door before the rocker she vacated came to a rest.