It’s as if the whole of Kentucky has come to see Joseph Carl hang. With not enough rooms to rent, these visitors to town have stayed the night in their cars or on the ground, and a few thought to bring tents and wooden cots. They’ve built fires to grill their food. I’ll remember this too, the smell of frying bacon. It’s like a perfume, sweet and greasy. As we walk among the crowd, Daddy forcing a path for us, we pass through the smell of it. I can’t stop the ache in my stomach, the way I inhale, the way my eyes flutter and then close, the way I slow my step to smell it a few moments more. I can almost remember the taste of it and how it would fill me up. I’ll remember this always—the grease popping in a dry cast-iron skillet, the rumbling in my stomach—and I’ll never eat bacon again.
Their faces are unshaven, these people who have come from Illinois, Ohio, and West Virginia and as far away as California. Their clothes are creased and unkempt, and yet they’ve worn their finest. The men wear ties, pulled loose after many long hours of travel and more still of waiting until dawn. The ladies wear skirts and jackets and have pinned their hats in place. They’ve stayed awake all night, fighting one another for a spot. Even now, one man will shout out, pushing another, and yet another will stumble between and point to the gallows that rise high above them so all will have a good view.
At the top of the rise overlooking the field where we’ve gathered, cars are parked, each one with its headlights pointed at the spot where Joseph Carl will hang. People stand in truck beds or sit on the rooftops of cars, their feet dangling over the windshields, shifting about ever so carefully so as to not cause a dent. Tipping a bottle or sucking on the end of a cigar, they look down on the gathering, a few pointing at Juna and me as the crowd parts to make room for us.
We’ve fought through the onlookers until we’ve reached the front. It’s a place of honor, a place our family has earned. That’s how Daddy told it as he parted folks, pushed them aside with his gloved hands, cleared a spot big enough for Juna and me. It’s a place the Crowley family has damn sure earned.
At first, as we fought through these many strangers, they didn’t realize it was Juna Crowley passing them by, but then she would look one of them square in the eye and he or she would call out. It’s her. It’s Juna Crowley. That’s the one. It happened over and over as we stumbled and tripped and bounced through the crowd. That’s her. That’s Juna Crowley. They say she’s evil, you know. Evil through and through. And then they’d laugh, some out loud. Others would turn away, but their shoulders would shake; they’d lay their heads back and shove the next fellow so he’d not miss out on the joke. But as Juna continued to stare at them with her black eyes, and as she cradled her belly and they saw the signs of the child who grew inside, the laughter would quiet and they’d turn a shoulder or step from her path.
By the time Joseph Carl’s trial was over, folks had started talking about the child making its way inside Juna, and now the news has spread to strangers come from across the country. There was no mistaking it, no hiding it. The baby was evil to be sure. The proof was in how quickly it grew. Not like any other child, but in a few short months, already it was making itself known. Look closely, when the breeze takes her skirts, and you’ll see.
To keep the peace, men have come from all around the county. They’ll stand at the crossroad into town and keep watch for those Baines. The men will level their guns, waiting for a truck. They’ll listen for dried oak leaves being crushed by a leather boot, the snap of a birch branch that could only mean someone was trying to sneak through the brush. They’ll listen for a man drawing hard on a cigarette, the breath he exhales. They’ll stand as long as they must to see justice done. They’ll keep those Baines from passing this road so Joseph Carl will hang and maybe their crops will grow again and they’ll stop being hungry and their children will stop crying with bloated stomachs and bloodshot eyes. They’ll rid themselves of something evil, and their lives will be good again. And because not a single Baine is among the crowd, the men must be keeping to their posts.