Del chipped quickly, then called out “Butler!” and hurried to the next longleaf, thinking Crow a troublesome, odd man.
Several days passed without incident. Occasionally he’d catch the boss man out of the corner of his eye watching him. Del was efficient and fast, made his numbers, and he wasn’t worried. Knowing how Crow thought didn’t keep him from trying to make friends at Swallow Hill, either. To hell with him. He’d speak to who he wanted, when he wanted. The coloreds were cautious, filled with distrust whenever he tried to strike up a conversation. Del noted Crow had a tendency to appear out of nowhere, overly interested in Del’s attempts at being friendly.
At one point, Crow said, “Who taught you this work?”
Del looked him in the eye and said, “Colored man by the name of Mr. Leroy.”
Nobody had minded nine-year-old Del tagging along, asking questions about whatever came to mind. Not Pap, nor his granddaddy. They were busy overseeing the crops of trees assigned to them. Some said Mr. Leroy had been close to a hundred years old when he’d taught young Del about chipping a tree too deep, explaining how it could ruin it for future gum collection. He’d demonstrated how making a scrape too wide affected the running sap. About having to get the “scrape,” a job nobody really liked, when after some period of time the sap would dry, and workers had to, as implied, scrape it off. It was Mr. Leroy’s wife who gave Del his first taste of “dooby,” a meal made of wild meat, like squirrel or raccoon, onions and cornbread.
Crow said, “Your daddy didn’t teach you.”
Del said, “No.”
Crow said, “Maybe that’s your problem.”
It worried Del, but he tried not to let it. One afternoon Crow started looking at the crop Del was working. Del was confident he was doing a good job, so he kept chipping, calling out, and moving on as he finished.
Crow approached him and said, “Stop.”
Del shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked up at the man astride his horse. Crow stuck his thumb over his shoulder.
“You missed some back there.”
“Huh? I ain’t missed none.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“Where?”
Del backtracked to check the longleaf, and he’d not missed a one. Crow followed, his expression conniving.
Del said, “Ain’t nothing been missed.”
Crow swung a leg around and dropped to the ground. He went to a cluster of loblolly pines.
“Them two, and all them over there.”
Del said, “They ain’t marked. They ain’t turpentine trees.”
Crow said, “Says who?”
“You can’t chip much off’n them. They ain’t big enough, and they ain’t been marked.”
“Reckon you think you’re smarter’n me. Reckon you know it all. You forget yourself.”
Del said, “I ain’t forgetting nothing.”
“You questioning me? I said them trees is part a this drift; they’s fine to work, and you missed’em. Now you wantin’ to argue.”
Crow climbed back into the saddle and brought his horse around so he was behind Del.
Crow said, “Head on back to the camp.”
“What for? It ain’t . . .”
Crow unhooked the whip from the saddle horn, let it unravel so the tip rested on the ground. Del shoved the bark hack in his pocket and did as he was told. If the man was itching to have Peewee fire him, so be it. Distant calls from the other workers stopped as he and Crow made their way back the way they’d come. They passed by Nolan, who also stopped working when he saw them.
Crow said, “Long Gone, what’re you looking at?”
Nolan shook his head. “Nothing, boss man.”
Crow tossed his tally book to Long Gone, and said, “Keep up with their counts,” and to Del, “Keep going, Butler.”
Del was surprised Crow entrusted Long Gone with the tally book. This was more like it had been in the other camps, but he couldn’t think about that now. They passed by more workers, and one by one, each paused in astonishment before they quickly turned back to their trees.
Jim Ballard rode up and said, “What’s going on here?”
Crow said, “Mind your business, Ballard. I got this.”
Ballard said, “Ain’t getting involved, just asking.”
“He’s doing nigra work, it’s only fair he gets the same thing if he screws up.”
Del said, “I ain’t screwed up.”
Ballard gave a short laugh and said, “Since when you ever been fair? Where you taking him?”
Crow said, “Where you think? Move, Butler.”
Ballard said, “Peewee only said this morning every hand is needed.”
“He ain’t gonna be missed.”
Del said, “Hang on. I ain’t getting in that box.”
Crow said, “You got two choices. This”—and he snapped the whip—“or that.”
Ballard said, “Peewee needs to hear about this.”
Crow slowly turned to Ballard.
“Is that so? While we’re at it, maybe we’ll let him hear how you’re taking a nip here and there while on the job.”
Ballard rubbed at a lump on his neck and fell silent.
Crow said, “That’s right. I know ’bout that.”
Del had to hand it to Ballard. Least he tried. Del won’t about to be whipped, nosirree, only the idea of getting in that tight space made him think maybe he ought to take the first choice.
They passed a section of shanties where colored women hung clothes, sat on porches snapping beans with bowls in their laps, watching the young’uns playing with chickens in grassless, sandy yards. Nearby, voices rang out from the open door of a tumbled-down shack evidently used as the schoolhouse where children shouted their ABCs. All was normal until he and Crow appeared, and again, everything came to a standstill. What an unusual sight to behold, a white man on a horse, his whip taunting another white man. Del didn’t see the open mouths, he could only sense their amazement in the utter stillness that fell over the camp.
He couldn’t quite believe it was happening himself. He could run into the woods off to his left, except it would only give Crow reason to shoot him. They passed through the middle of the camp, while Del tried to think of how to stop what was happening, and then, before he knew it, they’d arrived. Crow got off his horse.
He said, “My old man once told me, lie down with dogs, get up with fleas. Go on. Get in, and get comfy.”
Del wished he had more fight in him, but suddenly he felt as ancient as one of them five-hundred-year-old longleaf pines. He did as he was instructed, and as soon as he sat, he was instantly surrounded by what he was certain was the smell of death. Crow took out his knife and got to cleaning his nails, mumbling to himself about the nature of things. Finally, he snapped it shut and stood over Del like a mourner at a funeral observing a deceased individual.
He said, “Don’t many last long in here. You be thinking on the error of your ways. Who knows. Maybe you’ll come out a changed man.”
He slammed the lid, clicked the padlock, and Del was entombed.
Chapter 8
Rae Lynn
Butch turned a skeptical eye on her and said, “It’s your word against mine.”
Rae Lynn, despondent and exhausted, repeated what she’d said one too many times already. “I done what I had to. He was in terrible pain. He was dying.”
Butch said, “Uh-huh. For all I know, you shot him both times.”
“Why in God’s name would I do that?”
Butch shrugged. “Can’t say. Could be all manner of reasons.”
“You ain’t been by here in over a week, so what could you know about any of it?”
“I know what I seen, that’s what I know.”
Rae Lynn found herself doing what Warren used to do, waving her hands, swatting at his words. Butch had parked himself at the kitchen table after he’d come in on her kneeling at Warren’s side, and hadn’t left. She thought at first he’d be helpful to her, in her grief. But no. He’d listened to her and deduced she was covering up something. Now, she was simply exhausted, and overwhelmed. She sat slumped over, occasionally resting her forehead on her arms. She felt like she’d been turned inside out. Butch reclined in a chair, in no hurry, hands behind his head, eyelids drooping enough she couldn’t read what was in them.
Eventually, he said, “I got me an idea on how to fix this.”