Twenty-one
The New Year brought new revelations about Eddie, some impressive, some heartbreaking. For one thing, I learned that Eddie received a pension of some sort, though he never said exactly what it was. It was delivered to the post office general delivery and Eddie rode Patrice's new bicycle to pick it up. I imagine that's how he went undetected. Most people recognized him immediately on the wrinkled old bike he rode before his arrest.
I didn't even know he was gone until he didn't show up for lunch. It wasn't unusual for him to sleep quite late, though sometimes he was up early puttering around the back yard or the garage. At any rate, when Blanche put sandwiches out for just the two of us, I finally got around to wondering about him.
“He's been gone all mornin'," Blanche said.
“All morning? What time did he leave?"
“He was headed off on Patrice's bike when I got here this mornin'. Said he was goin' to the post office to pick something up and he'd be back for lunch."
You can't imagine the thoughts that went through my head as concern for him settled in. First I worried that he'd been arrested again. He was not supposed to leave my house without telling me where he was going. It was part of the agreement for posting his bail.
Then I worried that he'd been killed. I was certain Ralph Kornegay would be happy to finish what he started. Then it occurred to me that I would lose fifty thousand dollars if Eddie disappeared and couldn't be found. I fretted myself into a frazzle by mid-afternoon.
When the girls came in from school, I told Blanche to take them on home. I needed help, but pickings were slim in the help department. Lord knows I couldn't call the police.
I picked up the phone to call Poopsie's office and thought better of it. But, thinking of the judge made me think of Clara Jean, and thinking of her put me in mind of Chip Smallwood. I called him at home and, mercifully, caught him on his day off. He was at my house fifteen minutes later and we formulated a plan together.
I could think of only two places Eddie might go. The first was to the Greyhound Bus Station down on Miller Street. I thought maybe he picked up money or even a ticket at the post office.
Clara Jean was much more graceful getting into Chip's car than I was. Even with Chip offering a steadying hand, I all but fell into the low bucket seat of the Camaro he drove. We headed to the bus station first, but the clerk there said no one had booked a ride at all that day.
“Do you think we could find out what he picked up at the post office?" I asked Chip.
“I really doubt it,” he replied. “They aren’t allowed to give out personal information like that.”
The second place I thought of was a bar and I shared that with Chip.
“It’s possible,” he agreed. “That yellow bike shouldn’t be too hard to spot if you want to just drive around and look.”
“The Shamrock isn’t too far from the post office,” I said, offering up one of the only bar and liquor stores that came to mind.
Chip chuckled. “I doubt he’d go there, Ma’am. He’d most likely head for one where he wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Oh, right,” I said, feeling silly again.
“I know of a few we might check, though. The County Line Bar is just south of town. He might be behind the line.”
“Behind the line?” I wondered.
“It’s a window at the back of the bar. That’s where blacks are served.”
I think I gasped aloud because Chip went on quickly.
“Yeah, it bothers me, too. There’s no real rule about it, so it’s hard to fix the problem.”
“I had no idea,” I murmured, more to myself than to Chip.
“Fact is, blacks could go inside and the bartender would serve them, but it wouldn’t take long for the patrons to make them feel plenty unwelcome.”
I was too stunned to speak. I sat numbly as Chip headed south of town and cruised through the parking lot of the County Line Bar. We drove past a few old pickup trucks, one rumpled sedan and a work van with a logo and contact information crudely painted on the side. Chuck’s Handyman Servis You name it, we fix it. Resonable rates.
As we rounded the building, I caught sight of a small clearing in the woods just behind the parking lot. A rusted barrel puffed dark smoke into the air. It was surrounded by a circle of cast off chairs and squatty stumps of once large trees. Only one old man sat nearby and he was far too big to be Eddie. I glanced at the back of the building and noticed the window Chip spoke of, but there was no yellow bike parked in the area at all.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Chip offered. “Who would think this was still going on?”
“Do you see a lot of this at work?”
“Every day,” Chip nodded and pulled out of the parking lot back toward town.
We went down Pine Street, the main drag through colored town. I had never, in all my years, been down that street. The houses were colorful and small. Dogs and chickens wandered freely in front yards and under porches. A small general store I didn’t know existed bore a battered screen door with a Sunbeam Bread logo rusting across its middle.
Nearing the end of the street, people were lined up at the open window of a small, faded green block building. The smell of hickory smoke was enticing and I could see that it came from behind the place.
“Cal’s Ribs,” Chip said. “Best you’ll ever eat. He’s only open three days a week and there’s always a line.”
“Smells wonderful,” I offered, though I couldn’t imagine myself eating ribs of any kind. Too messy, I thought.
Chip pointed out another bar, though you’d not have known it from the street. There were no signs to indicate that it was anything other than an abandoned storefront. There was still no yellow bike in sight.
“Anywhere else you can think of?” Chip asked.
I started to shake my head no, but a thought leaped to mind as if it had been sitting there waiting all along.
“The woods,” I said, nodding triumphantly.
Chip smiled. “Yep, the woods.”
We found Eddie easily. Chip knew the spot well, he told me later. There was a low fire burning among a circle of small rocks. The first thing I thought when I saw him was, He’s sitting on a throne.
On second glance, I realized it was an ancient barber’s chair, the bottom section made of ornate metal and the cushions covered with red leather that had seen much better days. I would find out later that it was stuffed with horse hair, but at first it just looked like an odd piece of furniture to find in the middle of the woods.
A paper bag sat on the metal stand to which the chair was mounted. Eddie was quite still as we approached, his chin resting on his chest. Then his head snapped upright suddenly and he reached down and grasped the paper bag without looking.
“Eddie?” I spoke softly. “What are you doing here?”
His head jerked again and he looked in our direction, straining, it seemed, to bring us into focus.
“Aw, hey, Miz Ora,” Eddie tried to enunciate carefully, but it only served to slur his words even more. “Who dat you got with you?”
“It’s me, Mr. Mims.” Chip spoke softly. “Chip Smallwood.”
Eddie squinted again.
“You comin’ to take me back to jail?” he asked.
“No, Eddie, not to jail. I came to take you home.”
“Ain’t got no home.” Eddie wobbled a bit, but reached down and brought the bag to his mouth for a drink.
“Sure you do, Eddie,” I said. “Your home’s with us right now.”
“Naw, it ain’t. Used to have a home in Alabama. I ever tell you 'bout Alabama?”
“No,” I said. “You never have.”
“Had me a girl in ‘bama. Tressa. Tressa Lee Mims. Pretty girl, too. Her mama took good care of her. Grow’d her up good and fine.”
“Tressa,” I repeated. “Pretty name. She’s your daughter?”
“Yup, my baby girl. Had another one, too, but I lost her a long time ago.”
Chip and I exchanged looks. Neither of us was sure what to do, so we stood there for a few minutes.
“You ready to go home, Eddie?” I was the first to break the silence.
“Can I take my chair?” he asked, as if it were the most reasonable question in the world.
“Um,” I started, but Chip cut me off.
“I’ll come back and get it for you tomorrow, Eddie. I can’t fit it in my car today.”
“You’ll get it tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. I promise.”
“Can I bring my bottle?”
Oh, Lord, I thought. Give me the right words now.
“Let’s leave it here, Eddie. If you still want it tomorrow, Chip can bring it when he gets your chair. That sound okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” he said and tipped the bottle to his mouth again.
Chip took the bag from his hand and set it on the ground.
“Come on, buddy, let’s get you home,” he said and helped Eddie from the chair.
Eddie cooperated, trying to stand on his own, but taking the help that was offered. Then he stopped suddenly and leaned away from Chip to look at his face.
“I didn’t kill that boy,” Eddie said.
Lord, Jesus, help me. I froze for a moment, purely unable to move or speak.
“Miz Ora, tell him. Tell him I didn’t kill that boy.”
“Eddie, he knows you didn’t kill anybody.” My voice was rattling like coins in a tin can.
“He knows?”
“He knows you didn’t kill anyone,” I repeated.
Chip looked at me then and the question was there on his face. I could see it, plain as day.
“Tha’s good,” Eddie mumbled and sighed hard. “Let’s go home now.”
There are so many things about this time in my life that I swear I could never imagine happening to me. This was a scene out of the Twilight Zone. Chip Smallwood, half-carrying a drunk old man to his car, with me toddling along behind pushing a bright yellow bicycle, in shoes that were never meant for walking in the woods. Standing at the car, a two door coupe, I tried to figure out which of the only two options would be the least difficult to accomplish. Either I had to crawl into the back seat, dress and all, or Chip would have stuff the barely conscious Eddie in there somehow. I swallowed my dignity and folded myself behind the bucket seat on the passenger side. Getting out would be the real test, I learned shortly thereafter.
Chip managed to fit Patrice’s bike in his trunk with the front wheel and handlebars hanging out over the bumper. He tied the trunk lid down with a shoelace.
Eddie was asleep before we’d traveled the few blocks to my house. Chip carried him from the car, just picked him up like a child and deposited him into his bed. I made a pot of coffee as Chip got Eddie undressed and covered him up.
I was pouring two cups when Chip appeared in the dining room. He took the coffee gratefully.
“Do you need me to stay tonight?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“He’s probably out for the night anyway.”
“Most likely,” I agreed.
“This isn’t good.” Chip said.
“Nope. Not good at all.”
“I have to report it, you know.”
“I figured as much.”
We sat silently for a few minutes. The question still hung there, but it was never spoken aloud, nor answered. Harley Odell was on my porch the very next day.
The meeting went well, I thought. Harley explained to Eddie that he would revoke his bail if Eddie drank again. Eddie quietly acknowledged that he understood.
Harley asked where he got the alcohol and Eddie told how he cashed his meager monthly check and used part of it to buy liquor.
“Where’s the rest?” Harley asked.
“I got a little savings account my daughter Tressa keeps for me. I get me a money order from the bank and send it down there. Sometimes I keep enough for food, but I most times spend it on the bottle if I keep it long enough.”
“Ever thought about getting help, Mr. Mims?”
“Thought about it. Reckon I could go to the VA if I had a mind to, but I don’t rightly care for doctors in the first place. And the military ain’t exactly been the best move I ever made, neither.”
“You serve in the war?” Harley asked.
“Sho’ nuff did.”
“Where’d you train?”
“Alabama mostly.”
“Tuskegee?” Harley asked hesitantly.
“Mmm-hmmm,” Eddie nodded.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Harley whispered and the meeting was over.