They both regarded her coolly; then the first lady continued. “Well, the family says he got hit by a car, but I heard it warn’t no such thing.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know exactly what, but Lida Wickle said she heard it was some real bad accident at home, poor woman saw the whole thing happen. Imagine, seein your child get kilt. It’s no wonder she’s crazy.”
“Where’s her husband, then? He die too?”
“No, he sent her to live with Dr. Peebles. Lida said Dr. Peebles an him had a bust-up ten years ago an barely spoken since.”
“What was the bust-up?”
“Lida didn’t know. That’s the thing about these Peebles—they don’t tell you their business. My friend Deloris is friends with Jeb Peebles’ wife and when Jeb died Deloris didn’t even know he had the cancer, never even tole her. Suffer in silence, them Peebles do.” They were quiet for a moment. “How bout Simp?”
“Flyrock size a basketball come down from number two. My friend Kitsy’s husband is a volunteer fireman, second truck on the scene, an she said Simp didn’t have much of a head left.”
“That’s awful. Poor Betty.”
“You don’t know the half. When them trucks pulled up she was out there with him jus holdin his hand. Kitsy said she had gathered up all the broken skull pieces an brain pieces an tried to fit them all back together on top a Simp’s head.”
I closed my eyes on the scene in Simp Dodger’s backyard only to be greeted by the visual of Josh dying in our driveway in Redhill. I shook my head and looked out the window for anything to pull me away from the reliving of that scene.
“You goin to Paul’s meetin tonight?”
“I don’t know, Bebe… more minin means more jobs. That’s a good thing. Ain’t like nobody’s usin them mountains.”
“You seen what they done to Corbin Holler. It ain’t there no more. Gone like it never was.”
“That ain’t a bad thing. Ain’t nuthin good ever come outta Corbin.”
“They say all the water round there is cancer water. I’m goin to the meetin to see what it’s all bout.”
Mr. Paul pulled the silver hair dryer off my mother and led her back to the number one chair, unwinding the curlers and poking her hair with the sharp end of a black comb, then fogging everything with hair spray.
The final result was spectacular given the steady decline Mom had allowed herself in the last three months. Even Mr. Paul was proud as he held the hand mirror for her to see all the angles. Mom nodded impassively. Mr. Paul led her to the chair next to Audy Rae. The Soap Opera Digest lady and her friend watched Mom, returning to their magazines only when they were met with Mr. Paul’s disapproving glare.
“Annie,” he said, squatting to face her, “I swear, you are surely as beautiful as your mother.”
Mom smiled, this time from her eyes. “What a lovely thing to say, thank you.”
Mr. Paul stood for an awkward instant, then turned to the magazine ladies with a sigh. “Hello, Miss Lorraine, Miss Bebe… Miss Lorraine, if you please.” Miss Bebe peeked over the top of her periodical until the bell on the front door jingled and Pops walked in, arms full of veterinary supplies, followed by Paitsel Meadows with a scoop of ice cream in a cup—mint sprinkles trailing from the top—and Petunia Wickle, fresh from her lunch break at Biddle’s.
“Well now, don’t you girls look pretty as peaches,” Pops said to us with a chuckle. Petunia looked at me and laughed. Mr. Paul brightened at the sight of my grandfather.
“Paul, you are an artist.”
Mr. Paul just smiled into Miss Lorraine’s thinning hair. Paitsel put the ice cream cup on the cutting-station counter. “They was out a chocolate, so I got you strawberry.”
Paul grinned and took the cup. “What a lovely surprise. I thought you had to go to Knuckle today.”
“He don’t got the part. There’s a place near Johnson City with a ton a Chevy blocks. He’ll have it.”
Paul moved to the trash can and began gently sloughing the sprinkles off the scoop with the spoon. We all watched as he cleared the ice cream of every mint piece. He must have felt all our eyes on him. He looked up and smiled. “I’m gonna just take a few of these off… such a nice surprise.”
Paitsel shook his head and smirked over to Pops. “Some people there ain’t no pleasin.”
Pops laughed. “I don’t even try.”
“You two hush up now,” Mr. Paul said and loaded a spoonful of sprinkleless ice cream. “Hits the spot on a hot day like today.” He offered the next spoon to Paitsel.
“Nah, I take mine with sprinkles.”
Pops chuckled and took the spoon.
“I guess I’ll get on down to Johnson City,” Paitsel said as he pushed open the door. We said good-byes and followed him out to the sidewalk.
I turned to sneak a last look at Petunia, but she was gone. All I could see was Mr. Paul, ice cream put to the side, looking into the gray double mirror in front of him, pondering the red ribbon, the exceptional hair. And the rifle-shot slap.
Chapter 7
THE NEW BEST KINGS OF THE EARTH
I left Pops and Paitsel talking about a tapping valve and walked up to the tree house, where Buzzy was plugging a bee-dug hole on a roof truss with chewing gum.
“Bout time.”
“Had to get a haircut.”
“You look like a dork.” He flashed a gap-toothed grin. “Come on. With a lame-ass cut like that, you’re gonna need the Treatment.” He was limb to limb before I could ask or argue. I got to the ground as quickly as I could and ran to catch up.
“What’s the Treatment?”
He stopped, turned back to me and laughed, then kept on down the trail, pacing faster than before. We crossed the valley, through cow fields and corn, until we came to Route 17 and the entrance to Grubby Mitchell’s farm.
“This is Runnin Creek. We follow it past the farm to the hollow where Mr. Mitchell dams it all up. The Treatment is in there.”
“What exactly is this Treatment thing?”
“It ain’t really a thing you can describe.” He took off up the creek.
A quarter mile into the hollow we came to a wooden dam and a wide pool held back by it. On the left edge of the pool was a tarn of black loamy mud, smooth and glistening like freshly poured black concrete. A twisted old hickory clung to the high bank, a big branch hanging over part of the mud pit. Thrown over the branch was a rope with a simple noose at the end. The bark on the branch had been worn smooth from use.
“This used to be called the Nigger Treatment, but my grandaddy hides us if we use that word, so now we jus call it the Treatment.”
I had read about the lynchings of blacks in the South, but I thought it all ended in the sixties. “Buzzy, why did you bring me here?” I asked, confused that he would speak so lightheartedly of murder.
He looked at me quizzically. “I thought you would like it.”
“Why would I like a place where they killed black people?”
“What are you talkin bout?”
“The noose… the Nigger Treatment! This is where they lynched black people, isn’t it?”
He looked over at it and started laughing. “It ain’t for hangin people.”
“What’s it for, then?” I said defensively. The noose, the tree, the name—it all added up to me.
“I’ll show you,” he said and stripped completely naked, hanging his clothes on a thick root jutting out from the bank.
The end of the noose rope was tied to another root. He untied it and handed it to me. “Tie this tight round your waist. When I swing out over the mud, you walk up the bank to lower me into the Treatment. Once my hands disappear into the muck, jump off the bank an your weight will pull me out.”
“Uhhhh… Buzzy, I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
“I done it a hundert times.”
“What if I can’t pull you back up?”