A Dark Path Page 7

  He rattled pots in the cabinet until he found the right one. “Is there any butter?”

  I checked the refrigerator as Orson filled the pot with water. “There’s one stick.”

  “It’ll have to do.” He turned the burner on high then sat the water on to boil.

  “How much are you thinking of cooking?”

  “All of them.”

  “It’s a full box.”

  “I’m a hungry man.”

  “Why are we talking about grits?”

  “I like grits,” he said without missing a beat. “They are one of my favorite things in the world.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  The pot was percolating. Orson poured two cups and left them black. “I knew you would ask about what happened.” He pushed a mug over to me. “He’s a son-of- a-bitch.”

  “Dando?”

  Uncle Orson lifted his scalding cup to his lips. He blew once and sipped. It was the way a lot of combat veterans drank their coffee. They learned in the field to suck it down when they got the chance. Hot was just another hardship. He nodded in answer as soon as the coffee left his lips. “A bastard son-of-a-bitch.”

  “So you don’t like him?”

  “Like’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “Then what?”

  “That’s what I don’t want to talk about.”

  “If you don’t talk to me, we can make it official and talk to the sheriff.”

  “He knows.” Orson turned to the pot that was ready to boil and opened the seal on the canister of grits.

  “So you came all this way to talk to me because you knew I would want to talk about it. But the only thing you really want to say is you don’t want to talk about it.”

  He nodded and added salt to the water.

  “And. And—everyone already knows what it’s about but me.”

  “I told you what it was about.”

  “What?”

  “I told you he’s a son-of-a-bitch.” He stirred the boiling water as he added grits right from the canister.

  “You know I’m going to find out.”

  “I’m asking you not to.”

  “That won’t cut it. If it wasn’t about me, and if it wasn’t important, you wouldn’t be making a big deal out of it.”

  “I’m not making a big deal. I’m making grits.” He cut the stick of butter in half and dropped it in the pot. “These would be better if we had some bacon grease.”

  “Who’s Cherry Dando to you? And don’t say a son-of-a-bitch.”

  “He was around here a long time ago. He shows up every so often and is always dragging trouble along—like a dog with a burning branch tied to his tail.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Uncle Orson stirred the thickening pot of grits and turned down the flame. Other than that, he didn’t say anything.

  “No answer?” I asked him, knowing it sounded like an accusation. When he didn’t respond that time I said. “You’re hiding something. The only question is, does it protect you or me?”

  He turned to look at me that time. The sadness in his eyes said it all.

  “So it’s me. What makes you think I need protecting?”

  “What makes you think you don’t?”

  “I don’t want to have this conversation.”

  “See how it works?”

  “It’s not the same, and you know it. You don’t want to talk about—” I waved my hands in the air at invisible thoughts. “Who knows what? I don’t want to talk about how you think I’m some delicate flower you have to protect.”

  “Delicate?” Orson looked genuinely surprised. “Have you met yourself, young lady? You’re the strongest, most righteous person I’ve ever encountered. And I fought George Foreman in ’71. Kicked his ass.”

  “That George Foreman was a white kid—and you had fifty pounds on him. I’ve seen pictures.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Grits are ready.” I handed over a couple of bowls. He scooped out heaping spoons full. When the bowls were filled, he dropped in more butter to melt over the top. “All I’m trying to say is that you’re the toughest person in my life, man or woman. But the past weighs more than the proverbial camel’s straw. Memories and secrets—yesterdays—they’re all bricks. They are thick, stone loads that bear down until they crush you. And it’s not that they smash you flat, the weight crushes you down and shapes you until you become just another piece of rock in a wall.”

  “That doesn’t sound like something you can protect anyone from.”

  “I can keep this one brick off your back. I can keep the load from growing quite as quickly.” He stirred his grits with a fork—mixing the yellow melt of butter into the creamy mass. “I’m asking you to let me keep a secret.”

  “Whose?”

  “Your father’s. Yours. The family’s. A past that should be forgotten, but can’t be. That’s pretty much the nature of living with family sometimes. All those yesterdays staring at you—the same old eyes—each new generation.” He took a bite of his breakfast. “It needs more salt.” Then, after another sampling bite, “And more butter.”

  We talked more. Uncle Orson evaded more. I got nothing from him except a headache and new bit of anger that sat in my chest like a splinter of hard wood.

  At one point, I gave up and went to shower. While I waited for the hot water to wind through old pipes, I called Devon Birch of the DEA. We agreed to meet later that morning.

  When I was out of the shower and dressed, I tried, one more time, with Uncle Orson. He seemed sad again at first—then became mad. I let it go for the time being. I told him that I had to get going to my meeting with Birch. It was half true. It would be my second stop of the morning. My first stop would be with Earl Turner.

  I never called Turner. The visit would be a drop-in. Sheriff Benson asked me to talk with Earl Turner; to take an official statement, but that was before I learned about the truck. If I made an appointment, there would be more time to think about what to say. I wanted his thoughts to be a little fresher.

  Turner lived in the north side of Springfield. His home was a beautiful cottage made out of field stone. Everything about it was perfect. The lawn was lush and green. Flowers were blooming. I was surprised that the windows were open and lace curtains were billowing out. There didn’t seem to be an air conditioner. Out back there was a detached garage. To the right of the bi-fold door was an old fashioned gas pump. More than old fashioned, the pump was an antique with a big glass globe on top that showed the gas for your car.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  I stood in the drive, looking around for the owner of the voice.

  “I asked you, what’re you doing here?” A sharp-faced black man glared distrustfully at me from a small window. He was visible only when he leaned close to the screen.

  “Are you Earl Turner?”

  “Who’s askin’?”

  “I’m Detective Katrina Williams, Taney County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Lemme see a badge.” His face came close to the screen then faded back.

  I pulled my credentials and held them up toward the window.

  “Get closer,” the invisible face demanded.

  I stepped in and pressed my ID and badge right up to the screen. “Can you see that?”

  “I’m not blind.”

  I pulled back and tucked the ID case away.

  “Benson send you?”

  “Sheriff Benson asked me to speak with you, yes.” I was already annoyed by his attitude and at trying to talk through a screen. “May I come in?”

  “I’ll come out.”

  It took a minute. Earl Turner appeared from the back of the house and waved me down the drive. He disappeared again as I walked. At the end of the dr
ive, I was stunned to find a whole other building at the back of his property. It was an entire gas station from another age. There was a steep, peaked little building with two garage bays on the side. An island with two pumps was in front. The entire place was gleaming with bright, white paint and gloss, red trim. Standing over it all was a big, red, white, and blue diamond-shaped sign that read, DX.

  When I stopped gaping, I found Earl seated under a big Catalpa tree. He gestured to one of the three other Adirondack chairs in the shade. “Come on,” he said, waving again. “You wanted to talk, come do it.”

  I decided to get right into it. “Tell me about your grandson,” I said as I sat.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything you have to say. The sheriff has some suspicions—”

  “I know what he thinks. And I’m thinkin’ he’s right. Those old boys killed Tyrell.”

  “Why are you so sure?”

  He fixed me in a look that could have been pity—if it wasn’t coming at me like the point of a nail.

  “You’re that big ass deputy from down there.”

  “Don’t call me that, Mr. Turner.” I waited for an apology. Then I waited for any kind of reaction before I said, “It’s Detective. I’ll treat you with respect and I ask the same.”

  “You ain’t takin’ notes.”

  “You haven’t said anything I need notes for.”

  “You know ahead of time what I’m going to say?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Chuck said a deputy would come to take a statement from me.”

  “Yes.”

  “A statement. Isn’t that official and permanent?”

  “Are you afraid I’m going to forget something?”

  “Hell, girl. I’m afraid you’re going to make stuff up. I’m afraid that when it comes to the word, any word, of a white cop against the word of an old black man, the only word that matters is ‘black.’” He sucked his teeth and added, “You dig that?”

  “You think I’m here to work against you?”

  “I think things are the way they are.”

  I took a long, slow breath. “Mr. Turner, this isn’t an official statement about anything. When we get to that point, notes will be taken. I promise.” For a second, I thought he was going to say something. He didn’t, but the look on his face told me Earl was keeping an account of everything I said. Nothing was passed without being weighed and tallied. “How old is Tyrell?”

  The gap between my question and his answer was pretty deep. Earl finally said, “Nineteen.”

  “Where are his parents?”

  “His mother is dead.” The statement left little room for a father.

  “He lives with you?”

  “He did.”

  “You seem pretty sure he’s been killed. Why?”

  “Experience.”

  “Yours or his?”

  Earl grinned. It wasn’t a happy look. “Guess.”

  “I understand you have reason to distrust. . .” I pointed at myself. “The system. Maybe white people in general. I’m no one to judge. I have my own issues. But you don’t know me as an individual. I’m asking you to give me a chance.”

  “You don’t know me, missy. You think you do.”

  “That’s not true—”

  “Yeah? Tell me somethin’. And answer without thinkin’ it through, or making it right in your head.”

  It was my turn to stare at him. I nodded.

  “Just spit it out when you have an answer,” he demanded again.

  I looked but gave nothing more.

  “Where’s the boy’s father?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered without pause.

  “What do you think?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, then shut it.

  “Yeah,” Turner agreed. “It’s an easy thought ain’t it?”

  “I apologize.”

  “Don’t say you’re sorry. Say your thought.”

  I stared for a long time and he kept his gaze welded to mine. I broke first and looked away before I said, “I assumed you had no idea who the father was.”

  “Black boy. No daddy. That’s a conclusion it don’t take much jumpin’ for someone like you to get to.”

  “Then tell me. Where is his father?”

  “Shit.” Turner spit the word. “Who knows? But you’re thinkin’, it’s about black men and bastards. Everyone thinks it. Even a lot of black folks. We judge each other just like the white world is judging us. Black boy without a father. Hell we made clichés out of ourselves with that one.” Earl stopped his rant and looked straight at me again. “Did Chuck tell you anything about him?”

  “Nothing, except he was your grandson.”

  Turner held up his good arm and put it on display for me. “What makes me black and you white?”

  “You mean skin color?”

  Earl nodded knowingly. His face took on a lawyer’s look, the kind that said he’s caught you in a trap with your own words. “If it was just about skin color Tyrell Turner would be white. Sure he had a tan, but the boy was closer to your skin than mine.”

  If an old car had pulled up to Earl Turner’s personal gas station and a bow tied attendant had come out to pump the ethyl—I could not have been more surprised. “You’re saying his father is a white man.”

  “Assumptions,” Earl pronounced. “Ain’t they a bitch?”

  “You think it’s news to me that being a poor father knows no race? I’m a cop. I’ve seen it all. I know the worst of us resides in the deep red of our hearts—where skin makes no difference.”

  “Oh you think it’s that easy? You imagine my daughter had a fling with some white boy? Or maybe you think she was in love with some college boy who promised her roses and picket fences. Is that it? You think it was young love gone bad?”

  I didn’t have any answer for his questions or for the simmering anger that threatened to boil. I kept my mouth closed and listened.

  “It was rape.”

  The word hit me like being punched in the gut with a fist made out of ice.

  “See? That’s the thing. A man who wouldn’t waste his spit on a black girl won’t think nothin’ about taking her body like he picks an apple out of a neighbor’s field. It’s easy. Like breathin’. In your mind you make a person into an animal. Then you can do anything.”

  “Mr. Turner, I’m so sorry.” It was all I could do to get the words past the burning sand that clogged my chest.

  “Her name was Elaine. Twenty years ago she was workin’ at one of those tourist places down at the lake. She didn’t come home one Friday night. She was found where they dumped her on the side of the road. Crying. Beat up. Bloody.”

  My heart was in a wrench and being twisted. Even under the shade, my skin burned; all of it, not just what was uncovered.

  “She was a beautiful girl. That one thing used her up though. I asked her—I begged her to talk about it.”

  A bead of sweat rolled from out of my hairline, down the side of my face and neck. I felt every inch of its travel. When it streamed under my collar, I suddenly remembered myself naked—exposed.

  “The marks they left on her no words could wipe away. It was all I had.” Earl Turner looked at me with depths of pain in his eyes that saw no bottom. Not from his side or from mine. “Elaine had Tyrell. She lived for fifteen more years before she. . . I don’t think she ever left that ditch.”

  The tiny rivulet hit the thick track of scar that curled under my left breast. I jumped to my feet.

  “You goin’ somewhere, girl?”

  I know I said, “I have to. . .” And I remember saying something more. I don’t know what it was—or if it had any real meaning to anyone. I don’t remember much of anything until the moment I walked into my therapist’s office.

  Chapter 6
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  Dr. Regina Kurtz was the kind of woman I could never be. She was poised and stylish in heels and pearls. Each time I saw her, I had to convince myself that she was not judging me for my boots and jeans. Her effortless femininity put me on defense. Usually. Right now, I needed the company of a woman.

  My arrival, early and agitated to the point of sobbing, caused a flurry of activity that the doctor handled with quick assurance. I was ushered into her session room while plans for other patients were shifted. When we were alone, I didn’t wait for her to ask what had happened. I spilled like a British Petroleum oil well. It all rushed out in what felt like a single gasp of air—the night with Billy and the euphoria, the truck and bikers, my gradual slide into depression and the flashback to Iraq. All of the feelings and incidents were like tremors before the quake that was Earl Turner’s description of his daughter’s rape. There was a resonance to it, a sympathetic vibration that worked in my life.

  I didn’t finish so much as end. My words dissolved to meaningless sounds, and I cried again.

  “You did the right thing,” Dr. Kurtz told me. She matched her voice to the room, making it soft. Even her words seemed chosen for the light, indirect and soothing. “I’m glad you made it here.”

  “Nothing feels like the right thing.”

  “You got out of a trigger situation. You sought help.” She let the thought hang for a moment. “Do you realize how big a step that is for you?”

  “I’m crying.” I took a tissue, wiped at my running nose, and dabbed at my eyes. “Hell—I’m blubbering like a child, out of control and useless. It doesn’t seem like a step at all. If it is, it’s backward.”

  She let me cry some more. I almost thought she had fallen asleep when she asked me, “Who got hurt?”

  “No one got hurt. I–what do you mean?” I wiped my face with the wrong tissue, then rubbed at that with the back of my hand. “What’s that supposed to mean? It wasn’t about anyone getting hurt. I fell apart. I ran.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “I’m a cop. I can’t crack up and I can’t lose control.”

  “Is it so important to be a detective?”

  “What do you mean? To me, or in general?”