“Y’all aren’t worried about Satterfield killing off more of the fine citizens of Cooke County?”
“Fine citizens?” Waylon guffawed. “Well, that narrows it down to one—and I reckon Jim can look after his own self. Where do you live and when you want me to show up?”
“Actually, I want you looking after my son and his family,” I told him. “If Satterfield really wants to hurt me, it’s them he’ll go after, not me.” I told him about the pictures I’d found in my mailbox, and by the time I described the final, blood-smeared images, I could hear a low, rumbling growl coming from Waylon’s end of the line. I gave him Jeff’s address—in a neighborhood in the western suburb of Farragut—and arranged to meet him there, so I could introduce him to Jeff and the family, as well as to the FBI agent posted outside the house. I hung up feeling relieved and grateful to have the big man as backup.
WE WERE GATHERED—JEFF, JENNY, THEIR BOYS, Waylon, and I—in their living room, making small talk after introductions. Visually, Waylon stood out like a sore thumb in the suburban living room: the hulking, homespun man perched on a fancy sofa three sizes too small for him. Yet there was a gracious ease about Waylon—an openness and genuine warmth—that I hadn’t fully appreciated before, and it quickly put everyone else at ease, too. Waylon, talking to Tyler about soccer: “I never even seen a soccer ball till I was twenty-five, maybe thirty. But we started gettin’ some of them Hispanics in Cooke County, we got us a couple Mexican restaurants, and they got a channel that’s always showing soccer. So I got kindly interested. Still got a lot to learn, though—lost a couple hunnerd bucks on that last World Cup.” Waylon, talking to Walker about his learner’s permit: “I learnt to drive on my daddy’s tractor when I was twelve. He took me out to the south field one morning, showed me how to work the gas and the clutch and the gearshift, and said, ‘Don’t come home till you kin drive home.’ ’Bout sundown, I finally made it back to the barn. Trouble was, Daddy didn’t really show me about the brake, and I drove plumb through the back wall and into the pigsty.”
The chime of the doorbell made me jump. “It’s just the pizza delivery, Dad,” said Jeff.
“I’ll get it,” said Waylon, getting to his feet with surprising swiftness for a man of his bulk. As he passed, he shot me a glance, and I remembered telling him how Satterfield had escaped capture years before by trading places with a Domino’s driver. The deputy took a quick peek through the peephole before opening the door, where a scrawny, pimply-faced teenager strained beneath the weight of three huge pizzas. Waylon took the boxes and followed Jenny’s motion beckoning him into the kitchen, while Jeff smoothly rotated in to pay for the food and tip the driver.
“Waylon,” I heard Jenny say, “you’ll have some pizza with us, won’t you, before you disappear into the darkness?” Given the FBI agent’s prominent presence in front of the house, Waylon had suggested that he watch the back, and he’d brought night-vision gear and camouflage—including a leaf-laden ghillie suit—so he could stand guard unseen. It was as if Waylon had studied the FBI’s agent’s example and done exactly the opposite. I decided to join them in the kitchen. “We ordered way too much,” Jenny was saying when I walked in. “I hate to send you out there hungry. Say you’ll have some.”
“If you’re sure you’ve got plenty,” Waylon said, “I don’t care to have a slice.”
I could see Jenny’s puzzlement—was he accepting or declining?—so I chimed in with, “I could go for a couple pieces myself,” giving Jenny a nod that I hoped made it clear that Waylon and I were both on the meal plan.
“Great,” she said. “Do y’all mind paper plates? We like to give the dishwasher the night off when we order pizza.”
Waylon shook his big, shaggy head. “Paper plates is fancy china for me,” he said. “Unless my girlfriend’s cooking, I eat straight outta the can.”
Jenny laughed. “Tell me about your girlfriend.”
“Miss Jenny, you get me started on her and I won’t never shut up. She’s my favorite subject.” He grinned. “She’s a teacher. Junior high math. Name’s Gracie. She’s got two boys, seven and nine. Sweet little guys.” Waylon suddenly looked self-conscious, even shy. “You know what? I never thought I’d be a dad. And I’m not, exactly. Maybe more like a uncle. But them two boys get to me like nothin’ else in this world, you know what I mean?”
Jenny beamed. “I think I do, Waylon. They’re lucky to have you in their lives.”
I was surprised by this tender side of Waylon—surprised and ashamed, I realized: ashamed that I had assumed Waylon would be with a woman of low class or intelligence, and ashamed that in all my years of acquaintance with him, I had never delved into Waylon’s personal life as deeply as Jenny managed to do in sixty seconds.