“Lord, please, please have mercy on him. Take him. Give him peace. Free him of this awful pain. Don’t let him have to do this,” she whispered.
She put her memories and prayers away, and left the barn. Halfway to the house she heard it, exactly the same as with sweet Bessie. The gunshot echoed through the woods and she almost screamed, No. Instead, she ran, her mouth set, her shoes thudding against hard-packed soil, slipping in the lowlying area that always held water, where mud slick as oil caused Warren’s truck to get stuck time and again. The house came into view, and she slowed to a walk, hoping she was wrong. Her legs trembled, and the tremors traveled upward until she shook all over. She was petrified as she climbed the steps. At the threshold of the front door, the old clock on the mantel clicked away time, a sound she usually barely noticed, but it now filled her ears. From where she stood, it was easy to see Warren was no longer in the bed. He’d slid off it and onto the floor, his legs twitching with an unnatural movement, like he was having some sort of fit.
She put a hand over her mouth to quell the sound welling up inside of her as she willed herself forward. Warren’s midsection was covered in blood. Her gaze traveled to his face to discover him staring at her, mouth opening and closing, as if trying to speak. With his eyebrows raised, he seemed to inquire, Would she? She quickly knelt beside him, brushed his hair back.
She whispered, “Dear God, Warren, what have you gone and done?”
His mouth moved, and she made out the words, just barely.
“Messed . . . up. Finish. It. Please.”
He’d managed to get out of the bed and over to the dresser, and she couldn’t help but think, even in this, Warren had somehow bungled. The gun lay on the floor by his hand. She knelt by his side and picked it up. He nodded, reassuring her. Like Bessie, she reasoned. Merciful at this point, she rationalized. She laid a trembling hand on his forehead, moved his head so he faced away from her, and saw his gaze turn to the blue sky visible through the open window. Lord, dear God, how it could be such a pretty day when such was happening. She took a breath, gripped the handle with both hands, her amputated finger making the hideous task more difficult. She aimed close to his temple, doing her best to not to touch his skin. She didn’t want that to be the last thing he felt. He lay with eyes wide, waiting, and she spoke the final words he’d ever hear.
She murmured, “I love you with all my heart, Warren Eugene Cobb. You was such a good husband to me,” and squeezed the trigger.
The sound was deafening, and the high ringing that followed quickly became muffled, like she’d stuffed her head with cotton. She let out one loud sob, then heard a noise behind her. She twisted around to find Butch Crandall in the bedroom doorway, looking at her in disbelief.
“Rae Lynn? What in tarnation is going on here?”
Chapter 7
Del
The shack rouser shouted and rang a cowbell at 4:30 a.m. Del groaned and swore to himself and he heard other work hands doing the same, their bone-deep fatigue echoing around the camp. He rolled off the mattress, the one he’d yet to fix, and went outside in the dark to relieve himself. Nearby pump handles squeaked, and the scrape of a log pulled from a wood stack blended with the mild odor from morning cook stoves and the fresh-scented pines above him. He was reminded of home, and of his mother in the kitchen in the early-morning hours cooking breakfast. He stretched, reaching his arms over his head. Her and Pap had been close, hardly ever apart their entire lives. Their dedication to one another was something, and he wondered why it came to him so clearly this morning. Since he’d come of the age where women interested him, that sort of commitment generally never crossed his mind.
He pumped his own water and splashed it over his face and neck. After he dried off, he brushed his hands through his hair, which still hung long, as did his beard, and realized he could smell himself. He’d not washed proper since he took to living in the woods, and his clothes reminded him of Ned Baker’s and Ollie Tuttle’s, stiff with grime. He had a tang he normally couldn’t abide, but it wouldn’t do him any good to stand out, particularly now. Inside, he fixed a pot of chicory coffee and drank every last bit of it laced heavy with molasses. He set some beans inside his syrup bucket with an opener he found hanging on a nail by the cook stove. It had to be good enough because it was all he had time to do. He stood by his fence, and to his left came the sound of creaking wheels. The sky offered a pale-auburn light from the east as the wagon broke through the early-morning haze. It came slow enough for him to hop into the back as it rolled by. The same workers he’d ridden with the day before sat hunched over, elbows on knees, heads down, whereas others sat sideways, staring into the woods. Everyone appeared intent on mustering enough strength to face a new day. Del caught a whiff like a few had been into something a little heavier than coffee. It wafted off their bodies, powerful and sharp.
The one-eyed driver looked back at him, the deep scars near his brow on the left side giving him a bit of a lopsided appearance. He turned back around but kept his head tilted in a way so he could listen to whatever might be said. Del got the sense the workers in the back weren’t used to a white man riding along.
He broke the silence and said, “Name’s Del Reese, woods name, Butler. My family, we used to work the camps. Grew up doing this sort of thing.”
The man who sat closest spoke in a low voice like he didn’t want to be heard.
He said, “Yeah? Well, what you think you doing now?”
Del hesitated. “What do you mean?
He snorted, looking around at his companions.
“I mean, what you doing, with us?”
Del kept his tone level.
“I’m doing like everybody else. Working.”
The man jerked his thumb at Del, gesturing to the others. “Like everybody else. How about that?”
The rest of the men said nothing, although a few sent a cynical look his way. Del figured he was the odd man out with whites and the coloreds, apparently.
After a while, the man said, “Nolan Brown, woods name Long Gone, ’cause one of these days, you watch, I’m long gone from here.” He assessed Del, still wary. “We ain’t never had no white man do the kind a work we do, not in this camp.”
Del said, “Ain’t no big deal, not to me. Work’s work.”
Nolan said, “Cause ain’t nobody gone do you like they do us.”
Nolan made a circular motion toward the others. Del’s experience in a labor camp had been with his parents when he was younger. He knew of what Nolan hinted about, but he’d stopped working camps after his pap and mother returned home, and had never experienced or seen what the other man suggested.
Nolan said, “What’s Butler stand for?”
Del gave a small laugh. “It was painted on the outside of a grain bin I worked in once. Swallow Hill’s an interesting name.”
Nolan said, “S’posed to be ’cause a them barn swallers nesting in some of the buildings, but I say it’s ’cause what goes on round here is hard to swaller.”
The others grunted in agreement, and then, one by one, they slowly introduced themselves to Del.
“Earl Dillon, or Big Time.”
“Leroy Ratliff, or Dewdrop.”
Nolan leaned in toward Del and said, “Dewdrop’s also the name a the juke joint in the middle of the camp. It’s the only way round here to have any kind a fun.”
Del didn’t drink, but he reckoned he could understand it might help after a long day.
The next man said, “Jonesy Jones, or Steady Now.”
Nolan cut in again and said, “Steady Now, my foot. Every time I turn around, you gone missing. Best not let boss man see it happening.”
Jonesy rubbed the back of his neck and said, “I got something wrong with my innards. Can’t keep nothing down.”
Nolan said, “You right. Pecker a yours is always aiming for the sky seems like.”
The others snorted quietly against the palms of their hands, smothering their laughter.