“Stop your crying,” Jack said. “I’ll handle this.”
He stood up from the wooden box in the center of the room and stepped out into the hallway. We could see Arnold through the open door.
“Sheriff,” Jack said. “What can I do for you?”
Arnold Beckham was a short man with a wiry ring of black hair above his ears. He looked Jack up and down. Then he began to speak. It was as if, on his way over, he had prepared a speech.
“Now look,” he said. “I know what’s going on in there and I know who’s in there with you. And I don’t care a damn what you do or who you do it with. But by god, boy, the first time somebody calls me up in the middle of the night complaining how his kid ain’t home in bed yet, or somebody else says there’s empty beer bottles scattered all over their petunia patch—well by god, boy, I’ll close you down so fast you won’t have time to kiss it good-bye or even hide your beer. You understand me?”
“On what charge?” Jack said.
“You ain’t listening,” Arnold Beckham said. Then he did something none of us expected. He reached up and grabbed Jack’s shirt at the throat and pulled Jack’s big face down toward his own. “I don’t need no charge,” he said. “On whatever comes to mind.”
“Let go. We’ll keep it quiet. You don’t have to worry.”
“No, now,” Arnold said. He twisted the shirt tighter in his fist. “You still ain’t listening. Because I’m not going to worry. See? I’m not the one that’s going to worry.”
“All right. We’ll keep it down. Now let go. You’re messing my shirt up.”
“Am I? Well tough titty.”
Then Sheriff Beckham stared into Jack’s eyes. Their faces were only inches apart. But finally he released him.
“So is that all you wanted?” Jack said.
“No, that is not all I wanted,” Arnold Beckham said. “I’d like a fishing cabin in the mountains and a young girl waiting on me. And just now I wisht I was in bed. But that’ll do for starters. Now you mind what I said.”
He turned then and we could hear him walking back down the narrow hallway. But he stopped before he reached the stairs. “And you tell that little girl of yours to go home now. I seen her mom leaving the hospital already.” Then he went on.
Jack reentered the room and closed the door. He sat down at the wooden box again. We were all watching him, looking for proof that something had registered. But it hadn’t. All Jack said was: “Wanda Jo. You heard what Arnold said. Your old lady’s got off her shift at the hospital. So you better leave that homework till tomorrow.” Then he smoothed his shirt over his chest once more. And gathering up his cards, he said: “Now who dealt this goddamn mess?”
So the point of all that was wasted on Jack. He had had his first brief taste of law and authority. He had been warned officially. But the warning hadn’t meant much to him. It had merely meant that he had to be more careful, a little more circumspect. It never occurred to him that he might have to alter in any real way whatever he wanted to do. I suppose to him it was like a complicated play in football—a double reverse, say, with a fake dive into the middle, by which you could still score, only it would take a little more practice and finesse to do it. It was merely a lesson in subtlety, a brief instruction in the need for secrecy.