Darlene put her hand on his thigh. “I can’t believe Latrell shot Mr. Spearman. He was a nice teacher,” she said.
Titus chewed his food. He swallowed it, then took a deep breath. “I tried to talk him down. I thought I had him, then he charged at us, swinging that rifle. I’ve never seen a man look sadder than Latrell did this morning. Until I saw Cal and had to tell him his son was dead,” Titus said. A silence settled between them that lasted for longer than Titus thought was normal. Darlene turned her body so she was staring at his profile. She fidgeted, pulling at an invisible thread on her pants. Titus knew she wanted to ask him a question. He waited for her to finally get her nerve up.
“Did y’all find some bad things at Mr. Spearman’s house today?” Darlene said.
There it is, Titus thought.
Titus sat his plate on the TV tray next to the couch. He turned and faced her.
“Why’d you ask me that?”
“When we was closing up the shop today, Bucket Miller came in and said that Joyce down at the Safeway told him that Davy said he wasn’t going to the vigil tonight. Said that y’all had found some stuff at Mr. Spearman’s house and that people was gonna be mad they’d wasted their candles on him. Then I saw Gladys at the gas station and she said somebody said they saw you taking stuff out his house today. I mean … I was just … He was one of the few nice white teachers when we was in school. It felt like he really cared about us,” Darlene said.
Titus made a mental note to have a talk with Davy tomorrow about his loose mouth. The grapevine in Charon County was as invasive as kudzu. By morning everyone would have a different version of what they had found at Spearman’s house.
“Yeah, me too,” Titus said.
“Is it true?” Darlene asked.
Titus didn’t answer. He took her hand in his. Felt the rough end of the nub on her pinkie. He felt like the words trapped in his throat were like hornets in a nest. They were ready to burst forth and sting.
What he wanted to say but couldn’t bring himself to was:
“Think of the worst thing you’ve ever seen. Now imagine seeing it dozens of times. See it and hear the screams that come with it and the cries for mercy or for God or for mama and knowing that there will be no mercy, no rescue, no divine hand of God coming down to smite the devils. Think of seeing that and knowing that it will stain you forever like the fucking mark of Cain.”
Instead, he said:
“Let’s go to bed.”
SEVEN
Titus was up by seven making coffee. Darlene had slipped out of his bed around 6:00 A.M., giving him a kiss on the cheek before she eased down the stairs. She had to take her mom to an early morning appointment with the physical therapist, then go and open the flower shop by ten. Mrs. Gilchrist was recuperating from her own major surgery, a complete knee replacement. That was how they had met, in the lobby of the physical therapist’s office. Adult children who had switched roles with their parents and were now the ones who soothed the patient when the doctor approached with the foot-long needle.
“You was trying to make me walk funny last night, huh? Call me later, Smokey,” Darlene had whispered in his ear with a laugh before she left.
Titus sipped his coffee.
She’d thought he was being extra-passionate last night. Over the past year he’d learned their definitions of passionate differed greatly. He didn’t mind, not really. She never left him totally unsatisfied. Darlene wanted to make love even when they’d just been friends with benefits. Not have sex. Not fuck. She wanted to make love.
That was fine, and if he’d had any problem with it he should have spoken up when they had first started dealing with each other. It wasn’t like he wanted her to re-create Story of O, but when so much of his life was dedicated to his religion of order and control, there were times he felt the need to be a sinner and give in to the forces of tumult and discord. To dive into the center of the maelstrom and come back to the surface with wounds that told a story of real passion.
“Dig your nails in my back,” he’d whispered last night. In the cold light of morning, he didn’t know why he had asked. He supposed the lizard part of his brain had taken over and it had conveniently forgotten that Darlene didn’t like to be the aggressor. But he had needed that aggression last night. He had needed it to chase away the pictures on Jeff Spearman’s phone that were now pictures in his head. He had wanted to feel … anything besides disgust. Say what you will about her, but Kellie never had a problem with aggression. In fact, she craved it. If she had been in his bed last night, he’d—
Stop it. You got a good woman. Appreciate that, he thought.
He finished his coffee and headed out the door. His father was still in bed. He’d checked on him before he’d come downstairs. Going into his father’s bedroom was like stepping through a time machine. His father hadn’t changed anything in the room since his mother had died. The curtains were the same. The carpet was threadbare. Her nightstand with her reading glasses and her copy of The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman was exactly as it had been the night he’d heard his mother’s death rattle rumble up from her mouth like someone shaking dice in a cup.
His father had been on his side of the bed. Always on that side, never on his mother’s side. Titus saw the steady rise and fall of his chest. Heard him snoring and watched him shift his position a bit. His father never spoke about his dreams, but Titus hoped he saw his mother there. He hoped his father’s dreams were not like his own.
As he was opening the door to the SUV, his phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the screen.
“Huh, that’s a surprise,” he said under his breath.
It was a text message from his brother. It was only two words long.
you alright
Titus sent back his response in kind.
Yeah, I’m good.
Okay.
Titus’s finger hovered above the screen. He felt like there was more to say, but then he reconsidered. Why should he be the one to say it? Marquis liked to act like he was the only one who missed their mother. Then he used that as an excuse for the life he was living. After Titus had been elected, he’d taken the opportunity to go through the archive reports. His predecessor hadn’t been the most devoted record keeper, but the arrest reports were mostly intact. He’d seen Marquis’s name again and again. Seen how his father had put up the house for bail. He’d also seen how his father had almost lost it because Marquis was late to his court date. Titus loved his brother, but he hated that he seemed to think he had a monopoly on grief.
After a long minute he typed a response.
Hey you gonna be around this wknd? Pop wants u 2 come ovr he wants to get some oysters
Marquis’s response was so quick Titus wondered if he had rehearsed it.
Working this wknd. Building a shed for Vanessa Ferguson over by Tank Billups place
A gear locked in place in Titus’s mind. Tank Billups owned Norton’s Marina. Had a big brick house over on Stamper Hill Road near the Cunningham homeplace. That was where Marquis was working this weekend, supposedly. Tank’s name had shaken a memory loose. A memory that he shared with dozens of people in the county.
He jumped in the SUV and tore out for the office.
* * *
* * *
Titus saw Trey leaning against his car talking to Pip when he pulled into the parking lot. Trey was wearing a dark brown suit that was a few sizes too large for his wiry frame. His hair was cut into a short flattop that was going prematurely gray at the sides. Trey was the first Black investigator for Charon County. He’d been Titus’s third hire. He had an associate degree in criminal justice and, like Carla, planned to leave Charon after a few years under Titus’s learning tree. Titus had little doubt that Trey would succeed wherever he decided to go. He was smart, ambitious, and tenacious. Those were the qualities that could make for a very good cop or a very bad one. Titus was betting Trey would be the former.
Pip was in his uniform. The bottom three buttons on his shirt were performing a labor of Hercules as they kept his belly from spilling out. Pip was Titus’s oldest deputy and looked like every stereotypical characterization of a Southern deputy. Wide head, jowly face, and a balding buzz cut that screamed “cop” even when he was in street clothes. The only thing he was missing was the virulent racism.
Pip had been raised Mennonite. He’d left his family’s farm on the northern end of the county for the Peace Corps for a decade, then had come home and joined the sheriff’s office. When he was growing up, Titus learned to see Pip as the nuanced ying to the rest of the sheriff’s office’s belligerent, frothing-at-the-mouth yang.
When Pip asked Titus if he could stay on, Titus was surprised.