Goodnight, Irene

No matter how hard he tried, his eyes wouldn’t focus. He couldn’t tell if it was from the tears or the blood, but he couldn’t see more than just blurred colors and indistinct shapes all around him. They dragged him through the dirt and gravel, his head knocking hollowly on the ground. He could feel them binding him by the ankles, with some rough, fibrous material. Rope, he guessed. He heard them talking, but their voices sounded garbled, underwater. It might have been the concussion.

He felt the lower half of his body being raised off the ground, heard the effort of them lifting him. He thought they were going to hang him upside-down by the ankles, until he heard the motor roaring to life.

•

The day had been one of those record-breakers. Hot enough to fry an egg on your forehead, if you had one to fry. They’d decided to drink out on the front porch – it wasn’t much better, but at least it was outside. And the beer was cold.

Cody’d come by earlier that afternoon. He was a lanky scarecrow of a white boy, and everything about his presence there made everyone nervous. They did their best to make it clear that they didn’t like him hanging around, but that seemed to give him all the more encouragement to do so. He was like that. They’d sat drinking, not talking much, not looking at where he stood leaning against the porch beam. He waited doggedly for them to offer him a beer, but finally left after an uncomfortably long while.

“Goddamn,” Hardy said, leaning back in his chair. “Boy can’t take a fuckin’ hint.”

They all laughed at that.

The sun was setting now, surely slower than it ever had before. It burned like a half-closed eye over the windrow of eucalyptus trees, and glistened in the sweat on dark brows. It was bad already, and summer not even started. It was going to be a long one this year.

Clarence hollered through the doorway to his wife to bring them out another six-pack. The way things were looking, the night wasn’t going to be letting up much on this heat. He’d have to drink himself stupid just to get to sleep tonight. He hated the sweat and the itching, but she wouldn’t let him sleep naked. Not in her bed.

“Hey, when we gonna run them bails?” Jeffrey whined, blowing the head off the last can of beer. “Gettin’ hot as a motherfucker out here.”

He was just a young kid, about twenty, always bitching about something. Clarence had taken him on as a favor to his sister-in-law, and he had come to regret it ever since. Here this boy was, half their age, yet doing half the work they did. No account little fucker. Clarence thought it must be all that weed he smoked. That shit was a drain on your energy. And his too, to tell the truth.

“Early Tuesday. I keep tellin’ you.” Hardy said with good-natured exasperation.

“I just want to get it over with.”

“You know what?” Clarence said, leaning forward in the rocker. He pointed one gnarled brown finger at Jeffery. “Why don’t you just take the fuckin’ week off?”

Jeffrey sulked in his chair, suddenly cowed and hurt-looking.

“Nah, I didn’t mean that…I just was wondering.”

Clarence frowned, shaking his head. No account little peckerwood.

They sat in silence for a while, drinking and sweating it right back out again. The little shack stood just off the unpaved county road, surrounded by a short, rusted chain-link fence. There was no lawn left there to protect; in being neglected, it had all gone dry brown and overrun with milkweed. A stained plywood plank was hung over the entrance, the paint grown faded and unreadable. But everyone knew it was Clarence’s place. Everybody knew Clarence. Everyone black, anyhow.

They soon had to cut Jeffrey off, because they knew from experience he couldn’t handle his liquor. They seemed to know his limits better than he did. One more, and he’d be puking it right back up into the weeds. They didn’t let him anywhere near the old crow, but he could have all the moonshine he wanted, so long as he didn't drink it in front of them.
He wobbled down the steps and started home, muttering to himself. Hardy called after him.

“Don’t forget! Tuesday! Early!”

The boy flipped them the bird and they laughed hard.

It wasn’t much longer before Hardy begged off. He’d catch hell from Dolores if he showed up late and drunk for dinner again. He waved Clarence goodbye and hit the dusty trail, maintaining a straight line by following the shoe prints left in the dirt before him.

Clarence sighed heavily. Now he had no excuse. Time to go inside.



“Cold beans? Ain’t we got any of that pork left? Greens?”

“No. Now eat.”

Hardy sat down at the table. To think, he’d stopped drinking for this. This was some kind of shit, right here. Cold beans for two days in a row. She didn’t even chop some onion in there, maybe throw a little lard or chicken stock in with them. Didn’t even bother heating the shit. He wished he’d known she couldn’t cook before they got married. But no, all he’d had was a taste of Dolores. That was all he'd needed at first. Now he was hooked for good, and starving to boot.

“Naw. I’m goin’ into town. Fuck this.” he left quickly, before she had a chance to start yelling.

It wasn't until he reached the driveway that he realized he didn't have any money. He looked back forlornly at the house only for a moment before climbing inside the truck.

He cranked the motor and groaned when it didn't fire up. If this thing didn’t start, he was in for it. Either that, or he was walking five miles into town. In this heat. He said a little prayer and tried it again. Thank you, Jesus. He'd have to make a quick stop at the still to pick up one of those cloudy mason jars. He knew plenty of people in town who'd stake him a proper dinner for a pull or two of good corn liquor.

“Fat bitch.” he said as he pulled out of the driveway. He said it under his breath, though he was now well out of earshot.



Jeffrey glanced around the corner to make sure there weren’t any cars parked out front. He looked up and down the street to make sure no neighbors were watching. He tried to seem casual as he walked up to the house, like it wasn’t anything. But he was nervous.

He rapped quick and hard on the door. There was someone in there, he could see the light.

She opened the door, smiling. He almost stopped being afraid.

“Hey, Jeffrey.”

“Hey, baby.”

They kissed there in the doorway, although it made him uneasy. He hadn't seen anyone, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there were eyes on him. On them. Maybe that was what excited her. He pushed her gently back through the doorway.

“Anyone home?”

She laughed. She could tell he was nervous; it seemed to make her giddy. That also made her look sexy. He pulled her against him as he closed the door behind. She pushed away from him, though tenderly, affectionately.

“Ew. Have you been drinking? You stink.”

He laughed.

“So I’ll brush my teeth.”

They went upstairs. To her parents room.



Clarence set the alarm for 5:00, though he knew he wouldn’t need it. He just liked waking Annabel. What woke him -- and almost always just before the alarm went off, sometimes even when it didn't -- was something hidden somewhere in that wrinkled old brain of his. Years worth of habit and toil showing their effect. Though in fairness, this exactitude seemed to come at the expense of what little memory he had left.

He rolled over in bed just before the buzzer went off. Annabel groaned beside him. He smiled.

He scooped up a double-helping of coffee grounds and switched on the gas burner. His sleep had been just as restless as he’d expected, and he knew he’d be dragging ass the rest of the day. Maybe four hours good, solid sleep. The sun not even up yet. It was mornings like this that made him feel his age.

Christ.

Coffee always gave him a sour stomach, sometimes even the runs. Especially this cheap, freeze-dried crystalline shit. He thanked God he wasn't a bean picker, at least. They had it worst of all. He could already feel the sour brew kicking him in the guts. He never had much of an appetite, at least not this early in the morning. Maybe a splash of Hardy's shine might take the edge off. Fuck it. If he was going to be sick, he might as well be drunk.



The sun was only just risen, but it was already hot outside.

Hardy was early, as usual. Jeffrey late. As usual. No account motherfucker.

“Don’t help, you gettin’ here ten past eight.” Hardy said to him, taking a bandanna from his back pocket to wipe his forehead. “Half the fuckin’ day gone, already!”

“Man…” was all Jeffrey had to offer in his defense. They climbed elbow-to-elbow into Hardy’s truck. Jeffrey called the window seat, and commenced to smoking his shit despite their protests.

“The man pulls us over, it’s on you.” Clarence grumbled. Jeffrey just laughed. The boy was already half-lidded. No class, these kids today. No goddamn class.

He flicked it into the weeds as they pulled through the cattle gate onto the back driveway. Servant’s entrance, Jeffrey thought with a sneer. The man was already out there, standing like he had a steer horn stuck up his ass. He stood there, his fists on his hips, staring them down from across the field.

“Hope you all runnin’ on nigger time don’t expect to be paid for white man’s time.” he said as they climbed out, spitting tobacco down his chin. The front of his bib overalls was browned by ages of tobacco dribble.

“No, sir.” Hardy said.

Steppin’ fetchit motherfucker, Jeffrey thought. If the man started with him today, he’d knock him on his fat white ass. Job or no job; jail or no jail.

The man walked off with a grunt meant to pass as concession, giving them all a last hard look. His eyes were small, with cataracts as gray as pebbles. They set about work, each of them drenched in sweat within minutes. The sun was unforgiving. They moved like metronomes, pitching and throwing with the bailing hooks. They stacked the flatbed high and lashed it down with wire. First load of the day. First of many.



They were sitting, drinking on the porch of Clarence’s place when the boy approached them.

“Hey, y’all.” he said in a self-conscious, stilted attempt at bonhomie. He leaned up against the shack and hooked an arm around porch rail with an unconvincing attitude of familiarity. He was tall and rail-thin, dressed in tattered overalls that were at least two sizes too small for him. His light brown eyes leapt around in his head as though he had epilepsy. He was walleyed, which gave him an especially crazed look. His hair was a lighter brown, like straw, cropped unevenly at the sides. He was rank with the smell of cow shit.

“Hey, Cody.” Jeffrey said laughing. The other two grunted their greetings.

“Did you all hear about the county fair this next week?”

“Yuh.”

This seemed to be the extent of the conversation as it stood. He remained there, smiling stupidly while they drank their beers. They were all dog-tired, none of them really game for this kind of nonsense. Fucking ragged-assed kid always sniffing around the place -- it made Clarence wary. He would have called the law on him years ago, if it hadn’t meant more trouble for them than anyone.

“What you all drinking there?” he said at last.

“Beer.” said Clarence. It got to be more of a headache every time with this punk.

“Is it good?”

They just sat looking at him. Hardy wore an open look of disbelief. Jeffrey only laughed. The kid seemed to be favoring him, as he appeared the most approachable of the three. If only he knew.

“Can I have one?” he finally asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Hell, no.” Jeffrey said with exaggerated incredulity.

The kid grinned stupidly. Clarence wondered to himself if the boy weren't a little touched in the head.

"Aw," he said. "Why not?"

“This here is nigger beer, son!”

Cody seemed altogether unsure whether he should laugh at this or not. He’d probably never heard that word, not coming out of one of their mouths. The tension underlying the situation was lost on none one, not even him. Only Jeffrey seemed to be laughing. The old men just sat there in silence, watching him. Measuring him with their bloodshot, cloudy old eyes.

“It’s what?” Cody said in stunned disbelief.

Jeffrey leaned forward over the porch banister toward him, sinking down to his eye-level.

“See, we’re niggers,” Jeffrey said with a wide-eyed, simpering grin. “So we gots to drink nigger beer. It’s different than white man’s beer. In fact…” he looked from side-to-side in an exaggerated conspiratorial gesture. “This beer is poison to white men! Kills ‘em dead!”

Cody looked to the old men, for some kind of corroboration. They looked away from him. Hardy was trying not to crack a grin. Clarence wondered what Jeffrey was playing at – sometimes, he just couldn’t read him. Much less understand him. He’d have to step in, if this got too heavy.

Cody turned back to Jeffrey with a cartoonish expression of dawning incredulity. He seemed to be happy, like they were letting him in on a joke.

“No!” he said.

“Calling me a liar?” Jeffrey’s voice suddenly hardened, and he began to stand. Clarence was poised to jump out of his chair at a moment’s notice. “You fucking honky?”

Cody took a step back, all at once shaken and trembling. His former appearance of hokey camaraderie disappeared without a trace. His eyes had begun to dart nervously again, little brown olives in a cocktail shaker. He had all the appearance of something caught in a pair of headlights, uncertain quite where or whether to move at all. His smile remained, but the panic that contorted his face caused it to look more like a grimace.

"What the fuck you laughin' at?"

Jeffrey had started down the porch steps. His attitude had changed so abruptly, even Hardy was a little taken aback. Clarence rose and put an arm on his shoulder, which was immediately shrugged off. He didn’t turn his attention from Cody. His posture was tense as he stalked forward with his head cocked to one side.

“You got somethin’ to say, come out and say it!” he shouted, inches away from the boy’s face. “Punk-ass motherfucker!”

“Come on, now…” Clarence said in a placating tone. He’d taken a hold of Jeffrey’s forearm, trying to lead him back onto the porch. He felt Hardy there at his side, waiting for a cue. Clarence shot a glance at Cody. “Boy, you best get going. I ain’t fit to hold him back.”

Cody broke out of his reverie, the words seeming to register somewhere in his brain, however distantly. He ran down the road in a sprint, but his eyes never once left Jeffrey. There was such an expression of hurt on his face. Hurt, and uncomprehending.

Jeffrey sat back down laughing, like none of it had happened. He grabbed another beer out of the tub and cracked it open. He seemed very satisfied. Clarence and Hardy just looked at each other, shaking their heads.



The next day went a little easier. There wasn't a lot of pitching and carrying left to be done, and the sky was overcast, with a nice breeze coming up from the South. For once, they worked like a well-oiled machine. Hardy ran the backhoe while Clarence and Jeffrey picked and dug. They finished a day’s work in five hours.

It was Friday.

Annabel had the place filled with all kinds of mouth-watering smells by the time he got home. Friday was usually a busy night; most of the locals saved the real money and hard-drinking for going into the city on Saturday, using Friday and Clarence's juke as a sort of rehearsal for the main event. Clarence had invited his cousin to come play some bottleneck guitar tonight. He usually paid folks in beer, and they were happy to get it.

He gave Annabel a firm slap on the ass; he was feeling playful tonight. She smiled over her shoulder, stirring a pot of pork hocks. The kitchen was a recent addition to the place, by popular demand. Most of the county knew what a good cook she was. Hell, most of the kids in their neighborhood grew up on her food.

He exchanged a laugh with Hardy on his way out of the kitchen, as if there were an unspoken joke between them. He liked Hardy. He’d known him for ten years now, ever since Hardy had moved into town with that thick-backed woman of his -- he’d known at first sight that he liked the man. Just something about his face.

Jeffrey, on the other hand…

He'd come tearing into town like a goddamn whirlwind. That child had been responsible for more broken windows and dead cats than any tornado. Still, Clarence couldn’t fault him. His father had taken off on him and his mother not five months after moving into the tract housing on the other side of the railroad tracks. He was a wild card, but Clarence had to admit to a certain guarded paternal affection.

He wasn’t here, not tonight. He had a date to make in the city. Young, dumb and full of cum. Sniffing around some piece of chicken – and white. That was dangerous, Clarence didn’t care how you worked it.

The place was already half-full. Most all the faces he recognized. Every one of them black. That just couldn’t be helped. Segregation might be a no-no on the books, but some habits died hard. He didn’t bother them; they didn’t bother him.
Jim Washington had had a good run on a dice game in the lunch room at the slaughterhouse; he was buying for the house. The rest of that night was a happy, sweetly noise-filled blur.



“Sherriff done killed Hardy.” he said.

“What?”

“Yeah. Went out there to Hardy’s place. Guess he must’ve riled those coonhounds, because Hardy came running outside with his shotgun. Sheriff just shot him dead on his porch. I saw ‘em loading him up into the truck with a sheet over him.”

“Goddamn.”

“Yeah.”

The shock was numbing. Clarence just stood for a while, staring at nothing.

“What the fuck was the sheriff doing out there?”

“I don’t know.” Jeffrey appeared uncomfortable, like he couldn’t stand still. He wasn’t used to dealing with such delicate situations. It was hard to bluff your way through this. He saw the tears in Clarence’s eyes, and it made him worry. He’d never before known the man to cry.

“Shit…” Clarence had to sit down now. This was all too...it was all too unreal. He stared down at his hands, which seemed altogether at a lack for purpose. Who but God could’ve seen it coming?

“You…need anything?” Jeffrey offered weakly. Clarence waved him away.

He needed to be alone.



Clarence didn’t work for a while, so he didn’t see Jeffrey again for a couple of weeks.

He thought about going out to see Hardy’s wife, but by then she had family there with her. She’d get by without him and his empty words.

He drank a lot more then, and Annabel knew enough to leave him by himself until he’d toughed it out. He came to her one night, crawled into bed smelling just a little of sour mash. She turned on her side to face him in the dark. His eyes were wet, but focused. She reached out to touch him.

“I ain’t never told you this…” He seemed lost in thought, his eyes pitch dark pools. “They hung my grandfather. Over in Natchez. Around ’25, ’26.”

“Clarence.”

“My daddy told me about it, when I was about ten.”

“Jesus, Clarence...”

“He also told me about some of the shit he went through back there in Mississippi. Gettin’ knocked around by all the white school kids, by their daddies, by the law. It was strange. It was like he was telling me -- not just to tell me -- but to teach me a lesson. It was like he was warnin’ me. Gettin’ me ready for something.” He paused, closing his eyes. She didn’t say anything, for a while thinking he had fallen asleep.

When he spoke again, it was in a hoarse whisper. His eyes remained closed.

“Bunch of men raped my mama. When she was just twelve.”

She strained to see his face. There was nothing there, no visible reaction to what he was saying.

No tears.

“Her daddy took her to the sheriff. She knew the boys who’d done it. Knew them by name.” he swallowed dryly. If he hadn’t been talking, she would have sworn he was sleeping. “The sheriff laughed them out of there. Told them he didn’t deal in nigger affairs.”

“Why are you telling me this, Clarence?”

“I don’t know.”

She waited. But he seemed finished. She lay there next to him, crying in the dark.



They’d been hired on to do some drywalling work in the city. Jeffrey was clueless. Clarence did both their jobs, while he stood to the side smoking. It was still comforting to be around him. Just to be able to talk with him. Even if he was a toe-headed peckerwood.

“That fuckin’ sheriff, man…” Jeffrey said, watching Clarence sweat. “Someone ought to teach that trick a lesson.”

Clarence sighed, the hammer dropping to his side.

“Who, maybe? You?”

“Fuck you right, I should!” he kicked a bucket of nails, spitting. “Pulling some shit like that!”

“What you gonna do, huh? Start up a chapter of Black Panthers? Write your fucking congressman?” he dropped the hammer and spoke directly into the boy’s face. “Why the fuck you even bother bein' angry, man? You just in the same mess as any of us. You just too fuckin’ stupid to know it.”

They stood there a while without speaking. Jeffrey fixed his eyes for just a second, all pain and directionless anger. Then he walked out. Clarence remained there a moment, facing the empty space where the boy had been standing. Then he went back to work.



Word got to him later, about what had happened.

The story was, the sheriff caught him breaking and entering. Over at Georgia Calder’s parents place. That fucking white girl. Clarence knew she was trouble without meeting her. He knew it was going to come to this, sooner or later.
Jeffery resisted. Took a club to the head, a boot to the ribs, all perfectly legal. Was laid up in the county hospital until he was fit for arraignment. The parents were pressing charges, of course. Clarence had paid Jeffery's mother a visit, though he later regretted it. He couldn’t have helped anyway. She didn’t seem too surprised or bothered by the whole thing.

Clarence shut down the juke. He couldn’t bear to be around people, least of all people laughing and enjoying themselves. It just didn’t feel right. He kept to himself. Annabel pleaded with him; begged him to say something. To let her help him. The stubborn son of a bitch. He would just try and smile to put her at ease, but there was something resigned and tragic about it, like the smile of a condemned man.



He was driving through town when the patrol car pulled up behind him. He didn’t notice it until the siren squalled, then he saw the flashing lights in his mirror. The sheriff sauntered up to the truck, smirking, thumbs hitched in his belt. His eyes were lost behind dark sunglasses.

“You runnin’ on me, boy?” he said with a chuckle, as Clarence lowered the window.

“No, sir. I just didn’t see you there, is all.”

“I bet you didn’t. License and registration.”

He stood there staring down at the papers for a long time, occasionally stealing a suspicious glance up at Clarence’s face. He seemed to be savoring the moment.

“I phone this in, you ain’t gonna have no warrants, is you?” he smiled. “You make me work for it…” He was coy and threatening, all at once. It looked very practiced. Clarence knew that face – that smile – from the campaign posters stuck all around town hall. From the campaign posters that appeared – usually unchallenged – every few years.

“No, sir.”

“Be right back. Don’t you go nowhere.” He winked. Just beneath the smoky dimness of his glasses.

Clarence watched him in the mirror, saw him talking into the handset, laughing. He was taking his time, making small-talk. Having a great old time. Sucking on his toothpick and calmly digesting his lunch. It hit Clarence all at once; caused him to grit his teeth and wring his hands on the steering wheel so hard his knuckles popped. The same man who’d shot one of the finest people Clarence had ever met – his friend, his best friend. Who’d put that boy Jeffrey in the hospital, and would soon put him away in jail for a long, long time. This smirking, pink sow-faced motherfucker. And here he was, toying with him. Talking to him like he was a fucking child – and this man younger than Clarence, even.

He took his license and registration back without comment.

“Y’all have a nice day now, son!”

Nothing. He hadn’t been speeding. Hadn’t run a light, hadn’t made an illegal turn. Hadn’t even spit on the sidewalk, for Christ’s sake. It was all a game. He was playing, like a mean dog with something he'd caught.

It was then that Clarence made up his mind to kill him.



He went into the city that very evening, not sure what he was looking for. He drove slowly through a part of town where the word nigger would sure enough get a person killed. There he felt eyes on him from every shadow, from every darkened underpass and alleyway. After a while, having been solicited and then taunted by every kind of human tragedy, he found some eager youngsters hanging outside of a pool hall. They’d sized him up as he climbed out of the truck, each probably thinking in the back of their minds about rolling him. This fat old country coon in his dirty workshirt and overalls. One of them laughed.

These same cold, steel-eyed boys listened to his story without reaction or comment. All the time, he was certain they were going to jump him. Kill his dumb country ass. They were straightforward enough at last; $500, cash. Up front. Clarence told them he’d swing it, somehow; that he’d come back with it.

And he did, somehow.

They drew up a plan like it was a football play. Huddled over the kitchen table in that little tenement, talking in whispers. But they didn’t seem nervous. Maybe a little excited. But not scared. Clarence did enough worrying for all of them.
He sketched a map of the layout around the sheriff’s house, like a game of tic tac toe with street names written along the sides. One circle drawn at the intersection of two lines. A number written above it. They kept reassuring him. It didn’t make him feel any easier.


The street outside was dark. No lamps or porchlights on. There was a dog barking about five houses away.

They sat crammed into the black sedan, six in all. The old man had parked his truck in an alley a block away. They were sure they had it down like clockwork. There were no jokes, nobody was laughing. By the time it all started, he felt like he was being carried by them, caught up in a river current and just helplessly along for the ride. It was out of his hands now. He couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to.

Running low, keeping close together like a pack. Looking quickly over shoulders, looking for any sign of movement apart from their own. They stepped quietly onto the porch. There was no light on in the front room, but they could just see light through the window, toward the back of the house. One of them tried the door; it was open. Nice small town. No need for the sheriff to keep his door locked at night. All the niggers kept to their part of town, wouldn’t be caught dead here, least of all after dark.

They crept through the living room in a single column, military fashion. It took Clarence back to his days in basic training, before the war. But this felt like a dream. It just didn’t seem possible.

The sheriff was seated behind a big oak desk in his office. The room was decorated with plaques and awards, photos of the man shaking hands with people. The head of a big 10-point buck mounted over the wall behind him. He looked up at them, half shocked and half amused.

He started to stand.

“What the fuck is this…” he started to say. “Some kinda – “

But one of them was already moving. He picked up a large stone paperweight, and before they knew it, was swinging it into the sheriff’s face. He reeled backward over his chair, blood dripping over the fingers clutched at his mouth.
He was trying to shout, but it was through a mouth full of broken teeth and blood. They all descended on him at once, all except for Clarence. He stood watching dumbly. The sheriff moaned and shouted alternately as they set about him with feet and fists. After a while, one of them shouted at Clarence to go check the front door. He walked out of the room in a trance.

The street was still dead quiet, just one porchlight on at the end of the block.

Jesus Christ, he distantly heard himself saying in his head, what have I gone and done now?

They drove out across town to the black side. The sheriff was in the trunk of their car. Clarence drove behind, the dim beams of his headlight playing on the rear of the car, on the trunk. Where he was. The man.

The boys were operating independent of any command or instruction on his part, and seemed to savor the work. They went about it swiftly, mechanically. Like it was just some job that had to be done. They lifted the bloody mess out of the trunk, set it heavily in the dirt. Took out a length of good, thick rope. Began tying a double-hitch around his ankles. Clarence watched, amazed at their economy of movement.

By this time, the sheriff had become more or less conscious. He was moaning again, trying to speak. But it was all wet, hysterical gibberish. He’d shit his pants; the tan khaki seat of his pants was soaked through, brown and reeking. They’d noticed and begun joking about it. One of them handed the other end of the rope to Clarence. He just stood holding it in his hands, looking down at it mutely.

“Move, nigger! It’s your game now, motherfucker!”

“We all in this together, son.” he was laughing. “Time to get your hands dirty.”

He bent to the trailer hitch on the truck, working without feeling his fingers. The first attempt was weak; the rope slid away like an uncoiling snake. One of them pushed him aside roughly.

“Useless motherfucker…”

“Get in the truck, asshole!”

He didn’t seem to be in control of his body anymore. He felt as though they moved his legs for him, seemed to guide his hands to the ignition, to close the door behind him. It was all so like a very bad dream. He heard them hooting and cheering when he hit the gas, a little hesitantly at first. One of them pounded on the window, yelling at him. So he gunned it.

They spent that evening taking turns with the truck. Hauling the body back and forth, over the country roads. Some paved, some not. Clarence had since retreated to a ditch, retching. They didn’t seem fazed by it. If anything, it only added to the party atmosphere. Some drank beer, some smoked weed. They joked, they played grab-ass. They seemed like kids.

What was left of the sheriff didn’t seem worth much.

He looked skinned; there were great, dark red wet patches of exposed muscle gleaming in the car lights, covered in dirt and rocks. It reminded Clarence of a hunting trip he’d taken with his father. Dressing a deer carcass. They undid the rope from his ankles; no easy feat, as it had become embedded in the flesh of his calves.

Somehow, he was still alive.

They beat him again, spit on him, put cigarette butts out on him.

Then one of them tied the noose.



It was well into the night before they’d finished. Clarence heard an owl somewhere off in the dark of the woods. They’d found a big, old poplar tree out in a field, and parked the automobiles with the headlights casting a glow on the scene, giving it the appearance of a stage. The final act. Drop the curtain, already. Please, God.

The sheriff was trying to say something through his ruined mouth, but the rope cut the words short in his throat. They weren’t even going to hear the man’s last words. There was something so savage about that; it was the one thing that rubbed Clarence the worst, out of everything.

He hung there, his legs kicking weakly with what energy was left in him. The boys sat around watching in a kind of enraptured silence. They’d stopped shouting, stopped joking. Faces grave and unblinking, ghastly and mask-like, lit from beneath by the yellow headlights. Clarence watched them while they watched him die.

They’d set fire to the body at last, but by that time it was probably beyond feeling anything. The dry hanging leaves of the tree soon caught, and it all went up like a tinderbox. They sat, watching the flames wavering in the gentle night breeze. The rope broke, the black smoking thing fell in a heap.

It finally ended, like a party winding down. Last call.

“Make like you never met us, right?” the youngest one said, sticking a finger in Clarence’s face. He was smiling while he said it. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen. And then they were gone, like leather jacketed furies, moths drawn by fire and then dispersed at its faltering light.

Clarence just sat there for a while, trying to breathe through his mouth for the terrible smell that was in the air. He didn’t hear the boy approaching him from behind.

He sat down on the truck bumper beside the old man.

“Quite a fire you got goin’ here.” Cody said finally. “Who we burnin’?”

Clarence still didn’t seem completely aware of his presence. He just sat there staring at the dying embers.

“It was me that did this.” Cody said, laughing proudly.

Clarence seemed to snap out of his trance for a moment. What was the boy on about? Had he seen what had happened? Was he crazy? Clarence wasn’t sure he was quite well himself anymore.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he said in a dry, quiet rasp. It was hard to hear above the crackling of burning wood. The boy was looking at him almost pityingly. But still smiling a little.

“See, I told them that Hardy was moonshinin’. Had a still in his barn.” his eyes glittered in the firelight. He seemed to be giddy with the retelling. “Told Georgia’s parents that Jeffrey was messing around with her. Told them when, so’s they’d know when to put the law on him.”

Clarence couldn’t quite look at the boy. He was sitting close beside him with the fat, white harvest moon forming a perfect halo around his wheat-blond head. The picture of saintly innocence.

“Tell me…” he asked, in deadly earnest. “Why din’t you just gimme a beer?”

There, in the dwindling light, Clarence cried like a baby.