I didn’t remember Pops coming home that night, but he was at the kitchen table drinking black coffee, talking in low tones with Audy Rae, when Buzzy and I opened the back screen door. “Morning, boys,” he said quietly.
“Hey,” I said as barely a whisper. Buzzy nodded to them, then went over to the refrigerator, examining the cluster of family pictures magnetized to the door: my mom, my cousins and uncles, a spread of me.
“How is Mr. Paul?”
“Not good, Kevin.”
“Is he gonna die?”
“They don’t know yet,” Pops replied grimly. Buzzy acted as if he hadn’t heard the report. Audy Rae was busy at the stove, pouring pancakes.
“Can I have a cup of coffee?”
“Okay,” he said. “Buzzy?”
“Sure,” Buzzy replied, not taking his eyes off the photos.
Audy Rae brought over two cups overloaded with cream. It tasted bitter, tasted appropriate.
“Where’s Mom?”
“She’s upstairs in her room. Probably going to sleep in today.”
I smirked. Mom had slept in past noon just about every single day since Josh’s funeral. By now Pops had perfected the art of casual understatement whenever anyone asked about her condition.
“Did you tell her about Mr. Paul?”
“No, and I’ll likely hold off on that for a while. I think she’s got enough on her mind right now.”
Audy Rae delivered the pancakes. Buzzy dug in as if it was a last meal, but I couldn’t eat.
After a while Pops spoke. “Buzzy, Sheriff Binner is going to come by after breakfast to talk to you about what you saw last night. I called your mom and she said it was fine as long as I was there with you.”
Buzzy looked up from his pancakes, nodded, then went back to stuffing a three-stack triangle into his mouth.
“He told me he didn’t see anything, Pops,” I said, although I wasn’t sure why.
“Then he can tell that to Sherriff Binner. It’s what sheriffs do after things like this.”
I pushed the pancakes around on my plate.
Sheriff Binner pulled up at ten o’clock. Zebulon Binner was a large man, even by Missiwatchiwie County standards. His arms hung from his body at forty-five degree angles; the fat on his biceps pushed out the edges of his tight short shirtsleeves like a hand-squeezed balloon. Wrists the size of my thighs, head like an overinflated beach ball. His most impressive feature, however, was his belly, which hung long and low and looked as if an undigested boulder had lodged in his gizzard. His colossal thighs forced a duck-like gait that made his arms and belly swing in opposition.
“Zeb, how are you this morning?” Pops asked.
“Same as last night. Dang hip jus creaks when it gets humid like this.”
“You’ll be creaking all week, then. They say weather’s not gonna break until Friday.”
Sheriff Binner grunted.
“How’re Floreese and the kids?”
“Floreese’s runnin things in the bridge club now, so she pretty much leaves me alone,” he said with a chuckle. “Boys are great, cuttin wood all summer for walkin money.”
“You can put me down for a half cord,” Pops said, then turned to Buzzy. “Zeb, I don’t believe you’ve met Elrod Fink.” Buzzy visibly flinched at the sound of his real name. “He goes by Buzzy, though.”
Zeb Binner stuck out a meaty hand and Buzzy shook it. “How are you, son? I’ve known your daddy an grandaddy for years.” He paused to catch his breath and mop his brow with a handkerchief. “My boy Jake blocks for your brother.”
Buzzy nodded and tried to smile. Sheriff Binner pulled up a wicker chair, sat, and put both his elbows on his knees. “Can you tell me what you saw last night, Buzzy? Start from the beginnin.”
Buzzy shifted in his chair. “Well, I was walkin from home to Kevin’s house for a campout. He an his grandaddy was helpin out my grandaddy an he asked if I wanted to camp out so I said yeah. I walked over Kinder Mountain and down into town cause it’s quicker than the highway. I came out down by the old railroad wayside, then came up Green Street. So I’m walkin up Green when I hear this moan come out the alley. I thought it was a cat or somethin, so I kept walkin; then I heard someone say, ‘Help me,’ an I turned back an saw him there on the ground.”
“What did you do next, son?”
“I jus ran to Dr. Peebles to get help.”
“Did you go in the alley at all?”
Buzzy paused and looked Sheriff Binner straight in his eyes. “No, sir.”
My head shot up. Pops noticed my reaction, but said nothing.
“That alley was awful dark, son. How could you know it was Mr. Paul, as bad as he was beat up?”
“Maybe I went in a little bit, but I was scared whoever done it to him would still be there.”
“So you went in just enough to see who it was an then ran to Dr. Peebles?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay… was there anyone in or around the alley? Anyone on the street that you saw?”
“No, sir, there warn’t nobody nowhere.”
“And you’re sure bout that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Zeb Binner sat back in his chair with his hands on his knees, paused for a few seconds as he appraised Buzzy, then said, “That’s all I need, son. Thanks for your help.” He patted Buzzy’s shoulder.
“Why don’t you boys go out back and take the tent down,” Pops said.
Buzzy got up quickly and opened the screen door. I followed deliberately. We went through the house and out the kitchen door. “Come on,” I said and started to run to the front of the house to eavesdrop.
Buzzy didn’t move. “No, man, let’s jus get the tent,” he said.
“Buzzy, we gotta hear what he’s saying.” I continued on and he tailed me reluctantly. We plastered ourselves against the wall of the house and inched our way toward the front of the porch. Near the porch edge we got on our stomachs and made like marine recruits crawling under barbed wire. We lay flat on our backs, looking up at the clouds and listening. The sky was summer blue and empty except for a few crisscrosses of jet stream and an errant cloud wisp.
“… gotta drain in his head tryin to relieve the pressure—that’s the most important thing—brain’s so swelled up. They gonna take him to Louisville tomorrow night. Got some Indian surgeon guy who’s best in the world at this kinda stuff. Beside the skull, he’s got a broken nose, five broken ribs, one punctured lung, a busted eye socket, and not a lot a teeth left. With all that, bein in a coma probably ain’t a bad thing right now.”
There was silence for a while; then Pops said, “Paitsel’s a mess. I was up with him til don’t know when last night. What did you get from the scene?”
“Not a damn thing, not even a bloody footprint or anythin.”
“You been out to the Budgets? This has Budget written all over it.”
“I’m headin out there right now. We’ll see what comes of it.”
“I’m going with you, Zeb.”
“Now, Art, you know that ain’t gonna be helpful. Let me do my job an see where things lay.”
“You heard about that meeting the other night.”
“I did… don’t mean nuthin other than a motive.”
“I’m telling you, Gov Budget’s got his hands in this.”
“That may be… it’s jus too early to say what’s what. You look like a rabid dog pissed on your head… go on an get some sleep. I’ll come by tonight and let you know what we got.”
We heard him walk down the stairs, then the sound of a car door closing, an engine starting, and tires pulling away—then footsteps on the porch. Suddenly the streaky clouds were obscured by Pops’ face looking down at us.
“How’s the tent coming?” he asked without a hint of amusement.
“Not too good,” I replied.
“I can see that.”
“Umm, we’ll just do that right now,” I said and started digging my heels in the dirt, slinking away on my back.
“I imagine you’ll make better progress if you get up and run.”
And that’s exactly what we did.