To the east of the crowd, elm trees, their leaves having faded to a pale yellow, block the rising sun. It’s the job of one of the boys from town to stand under those trees and watch for the first hint of daylight. We can’t see that boy from our place of honor, but he must be shuffling from foot to foot as he waits, trying to fight off the chill. By now, he’s probably bored and kicking at the piles of leaves, wilted and slimy, that lie at his feet. Finally he sees that first glimmer of orange, and he calls out to one fellow, who calls out to another. The crowd quiets. Feet stop shuffling about. The last man swallows the last mouthful of whiskey. Cigars still glow, though a few are tossed on the ground and boot tips stomp on them, twist until they’re snubbed out.
As the shout travels through the crowd, growing louder as it passes from one man to the next, folks begin to press forward again. My body is forced up against Juna’s and her bulging stomach. I imagine a small foot kicks up against me or that an elbow pokes at my ribs. The closeness of many bodies and jacket sleeves rubbing against one another and of heavy boots stepping into soft spots in the damp ground stir up the smell of our dark, rich soil. Folks press forward to fill in, but they’ll stand no closer than Juna and me to the spot where Joseph Carl will hang.
Sheriff Irlene is the first to mount the ladder leading to the top of the platform. With one hand, she hikes her skirt up about her ankles, and with the other, she holds the side rail. Two men follow behind, waiting until she reaches the top before taking to the first rung. The one fellow has to shove the other to get him moving. As the men climb, the joists and posts creak under their weight. The smell of the fresh-cut lumber lifts into the air.
I still have the three letters Joseph Carl sent me. I read them over and over. Even before this happened, even before he came home, I would slip them from their yellowing envelopes, press them flat, and by the light of one of Daddy’s lanterns read the words written with a slanted hand. I read them to imagine a fresh life, and when I wrote letters back to Joseph Carl, I told him I would come one day, and Ellis too. We’d ride a train, and he’d find us and our two packed bags at the station. But never, in all those imaginings, did I picture Dale coming with us. I never imagined him staying home with Daddy or boarding the train with me. I dreamed of the day I’d leave Daddy and Juna, but never Dale. I didn’t plan for him under either circumstance. I wonder if I knew, somehow, that he was too kind and sweet and would not long survive this world.
Up on the platform, a man wearing a black denim jacket and a leather hat that sits low over his eyes steps forward, slaps his hands together, and hollers for folks to quiet down. A baby cries nearby, and a mother makes a ticking sound to calm the child. Joseph Carl will be next, probably followed by Daddy because he insisted on standing close enough to hear Joseph Carl let out his last breath. That’s why this man has hollered for us to quiet down. Joseph Carl will next climb the steps, so folks do as the man says. The mother gets her baby to stop fussing. The men wrap their arms around their women. Children are hoisted onto shoulders because they’ll need to see what happens when a man does wrong.
When the crowd has settled, Sheriff Irlene gives a pat on the shoulder to the man in the black coat and steps forward. She wears a blue belted jacket and a long gray skirt. On her head sits a simple blue hat she might wear to a wedding or a funeral.
“At a quarter after midnight,” she calls, her head tipped back so her voice will carry, “I’d say about five hours ago, in keeping with the laws of this county, Joseph Carl Baine was hung until dead.”
Puzzlement keeps the crowd silent for a good long while, long enough for the sheriff to keep on talking. She says he was hung here inside this county as was required by law and that Dr. Alfred Wanton attended and confirmed the death, which was sudden and apparent given the break in the man’s neck. At this point, the shouts begin. Folks want to know how they can believe what they didn’t see. Dawn, they yell, it was meant to happen at dawn. The man in the black denim shouts out again for folks to quiet themselves, and the sheriff says that Daddy is viewing the body just now and he’s the only one deserving of seeing. The rest could have seen had they been present, but there wasn’t no one nowhere who said the man had to hang at dawn or that he had to hang from these very gallows.
“Go on home,” the sheriff says, pulling a few pins from her hair and slipping them onto the cuff of her sleeve. She takes the hat from her head, holds it in both hands, and works her fingers around its brim. “Go on home and see to your own.”