A Death On The Wolf (26 page)

When Frankie and I went in the house, Sheriff Posey, Frank Thompson, and Daddy were all sitting in the living room waiting for us. Daddy had told the sheriff what he knew of the previous night’s events, and Frankie’s dad had given his version. But the sheriff wanted to hear it straight from Frankie, which he did. He took Frankie for a walk and left the rest of us waiting in the living room. That was the longest half-hour I think I’ve ever spent, sitting there in the stony silence, the tension between my father and Frank Thompson so thick you could feel it in the air. Daddy would not look at the man; his contempt was that palpable. As for Frank Thompson, he sat there the entire time leaned back on the sofa with his eyes closed, appearing to be as affected by the situation as a man waiting for a bus down at the Trailways depot.

I don’t believe my father had shared my quiet hope that once Frankie’s dad sobered up things would be more or less back to normal. To the extent I had thought about it, I knew Frank Thompson would have some fences to mend: harsh, nearly unforgivable, words had been spoken to his son in a drunken rage. But I had allowed myself to forget the biggest obstacle to a return to normalcy: the physical assault. Throttling your son into unconsciousness is not normal by any standard under any circumstances and was an unforgivable act of brutality in Daddy’s eyes. When the sheriff returned with Frankie, that was the first thing Frank Thompson was confronted with, and he vehemently denied it.

“
I never laid a hand on him,” Frankie’s dad announced. “That goddamn pervert did it.” Frankie just sat there beside me emotionless (we were both jammed together in the only sitting chair in our living room) as his father lied through his teeth.

Sheriff Posey was standing in the middle of the room. When he pulled the front of his suit jacket open to put his hands on his hips, I noticed the shoulder holster, and the grip of a cocked and locked Colt .45 automatic. Joe Posey was heavyset, a few inches less than six foot, with a big beer belly that hung over his belt. You could tell he tried to look neat and presentable, his body just didn’t cooperate. “Frank,” he said, “your son told me exactly what you did to him, and I believe him. You’re just lucky he’s refusing to cooperate as a witness, else I’d arrest your sorry ass right now and put you under the jail. You need to get some help with your drinking so that you can be the kind of father that boy deserves.” He jerked a thumb in Frankie’s direction.

Frank Thompson stood up. “I’ve said all I’m gonna say on the matter. I didn’t touch him. If he says I did, he’s a lying little faggot.” He looked over at Daddy. “You can come get his clothes in about an hour. I’ll have ’em packed up and ready.”

“
Wait a minute,” Sheriff Posey said, holding up his hand. “You were serious about not letting Frankie come home?”

“
You got that right.”

“
Why the hell not?” the sheriff asked. “Where’s he supposed to go?”

“
I don’t give a shit. I didn’t raise no faggot so he’s not comin’ home with me. Call his grandma over in Saucier, maybe she’ll take him.”

“
Doesn’t your wife have a say in this?” Daddy asked, his voice calm, masking a rage bubbling under the surface.

“
She sure as shit don’t have a damn thing to say about it, Lem Gody. I’m not henpecked and nobody tells me how to run my house.”

“
I thought I’d seen it all,” Sheriff Posey said, “but you take the cake, Frank.” He looked over at Frankie. “Do you know your grandmother’s phone number, son?”

Frankie nodded his head yes. He was trying to stifle his sobs and the tears were rolling down his face. Daddy was so mad I just knew at any minute he was going to leap out of his recliner and knock Frank Thompson into next week.

The sheriff looked back at Frankie’s dad. “Get the hell out of here,” he said dismissively.

Frankie’s dad went to the front door then turned back to Daddy. “Remember what I said, Lem. You come get his things in an hour or I’ll burn ’em, I swear to God I will.”

And that’s all it took. Daddy was up and after Frankie’s dad so fast that the sheriff literally had to jump in his way to stop him. Frank Thompson hurried out the door like the coward he was.

Frankie jumped up and ran to the bathroom. I followed him and got there just as he slammed the door and locked it. I jiggled the door knob and Frankie yelled, “Leave me alone!” I could hear him sobbing so I decided to let him be and went back to the living room.

“
Is he okay?” Sheriff Posey asked me as I sat back down.

“
He locked himself in the bathroom and he’s crying,” I said.

“
Well, as soon as he gets out of there we need to get in touch with his grandmother because if she won’t take him I’ve got to call in a social worker.”

“
Hold on, Joe,” Daddy said. He’d sat back in his recliner and his eyes were closed and he was pinching his brow like he had a splitting headache. He probably did. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked at the sheriff. “His grandmother in Saucier is Frank’s mother, and she’s as big a drunk as he is. If Frank is serious and you let that boy go live with her, you might as well write him off right now.”

Again, I was being blindsided by another open secret about Frankie’s family of which I knew nothing. Had I been walking around unconscious for the last fourteen or so years, ever since Frankie and I first met? How come I didn’t know these things? How come I didn’t know my best friend’s dad was a drunk who hit him? How come I didn’t know his grandmother was a drunk, too?

“
What about his mama’s parents?” the sheriff asked.

“
They live up around Philadelphia somewhere,” Daddy said. “I don’t think they were ever too pleased about their daughter marrying Frank.”

“
Well, it’s either his grandma or the State of Mississippi, so we got to figure out who to call.”

Daddy looked over at me. “How would you feel about Frankie living with us for awhile?” he asked.

The question took me by surprise but I didn’t have to think about my answer. “It’s okay with me,” I replied. So many thoughts were racing around in my head at the prospect of Frankie moving in I couldn’t keep it all straight.

“
Think about it a minute, son, before you jump in with both feet. If Frank Thompson starts going around town running his mouth about his son being a faggot, that talk is going to come right back to this house, right back to you. It won’t be nice and it could get ugly.”

“
He won’t say anything, Daddy,” I said.

“
Why do you think that, son?” Sheriff Posey asked.

“
Because he’s ashamed of Frankie. The last thing he’d do is go around telling everybody that his son is queer.”

The sheriff looked at Daddy and jerked his thumb in my direction. “He’s got a point,” he said. “So, is he queer?” he asked my father. “I mean he told me he went to the motel willingly with that jaybird and it wasn’t until things started getting rough that he wanted out.”

“
Hell, Joe…I don’t know what’s going on with Frankie. But it doesn’t matter. You don’t strangle your kid just because you find out he might be queer.”

“
Yeah, you’re right about that. So, you’re okay with him staying here?”

“
Yes,” Daddy said. “And what about this Peter Bong character? He threatened to kill Frankie. Are you gonna pick him up?”

“
If I can find him. I’ll put out a bulletin on him. Based on what you and the boy told me, I’ve got a good description: Five-ten, one-hundred sixty pounds, olive complexion, long hair, ponytail, Australian, rides a Vincent motorcycle. And get this: when I asked Frankie if the guy had any tattoos or other distinguishing features he told me there was a mermaid tattooed on his ass.” Sheriff Posey shook his head. “Think I should put that in the bulletin?” he asked with a cockeyed grin.

“
Sheriff Posey, do you think he’ll come back here after Frankie?” I asked.

“
I don’t know, son. Y’all should start locking your doors at night if you don’t already. But I got a feeling that if Bong wanted to make sure Frankie never talked he would’ve killed him right there in that motel room. That boy doesn’t know how lucky he is.”

“
Joe,” Daddy said, “can you hang around here, eat some dinner, and then go with us down there to get Frankie’s things? An hour is just enough time for Frank to get all liquored up and I don’t want to have to kill that man if he starts something.”

“
Not a problem,” the sheriff replied. “I’ll stay here as long as you need me. What’s for dinner?”

Forty-five minutes later, after a hasty meal of pot roast over at Aunt Charity’s, we turned into Frankie’s driveway behind Sheriff Posey’s cruiser. There was a bonfire in the front yard sending a plume of dark smoke straight up into the early evening sky.

“
I don’t believe this,” Daddy said as we got close enough to the house to see what was happening.

“
Is that my stuff?” Frankie asked from the backseat of Daddy’s car. He moved from the middle of the seat to up behind Daddy to get a good look.

As Daddy came to a stop behind the sheriff’s car, I looked at the mess in the yard. Frank Thompson had gutted Frankie’s bedroom and dragged everything, including the furniture, out into the yard. He had piled most of Frankie’s clothes on the bed, along with what looked like his sleeping bag, and set it ablaze, mattress and all. It was burning wildly, no doubt fueled by the contents of the discarded can of charcoal starter fluid lying on the ground beside it. Frankie’s dresser was just a few feet away with all the drawers pulled out and there were a few pieces of clothing in a pile beside it. Old toys, GI Joes, cars, tanks, and trucks were scattered everywhere. All of Frankie’s board games were in a pile, no doubt waiting to be burned. The Monopoly box top had come off and the money was blowing all over the place. Frankie’s dad was sitting on the porch smoking a Camel with a beer in his hand looking rather proud of his handiwork. It was a heartbreakingly surreal scene that left me speechless.

Daddy got out of the car, adjusted his trousers, which revealed a flash of bright metal. The nickel plated Smith & Wesson Model 27 he kept in the drawer of his bedside table was stuck in his waistband. “You boys stay in the car,” he said to us.

When Frank Thompson saw my dad, he did an exaggerated check of his wrist watch and said, “You’re late.” Then he waved his arm toward the fire and grinned.

Sheriff Posey got out of his cruiser and pointed at him. “Frank, get a hose and put that damn fire out right now or I’m gonna arrest you.”

Frankie’s dad didn’t move. “Arrest me for what?” he said. “This is my property. I can have a fire if I want to. I can burn the whole goddamn house down if I want to.”

I looked back at Frankie. “Your dad’s crazy,” I said.

“
He’s just drunk,” Frankie replied. He seemed strangely calm to think he was watching his bed and clothes burn to cinders in his front yard.

“
Lem,” the sheriff shouted, “help me get this hose over there and put that fire out before it spreads and does burn his damn house down.” He pointed to the rolled up garden hose attached to the faucet in the flower bed.

As Daddy and Sheriff Posey started for the hose, Frankie’s dad stood up. He had Frankie’s old little league baseball bat in his hand. “You leave that goddamn hose alone, you fat sonofabitch!” he yelled, pointing the bat at the sheriff.

“
Sit your drunk ass back down,” Daddy said. He was pointing the .357 Magnum at him. Frankie’s dad saw the gun about the same time I did and put his butt back in the chair and dropped the bat.

Sheriff Posey turned the faucet on and he and Daddy dragged the hose over to the fire and showered it with water until it was just a steaming, stinking, smoldering, smoking mass of burnt wood and charred clothing and foam rubber. It smelled horrible. Daddy came back over to the car. He leaned down and looked in at me. “You and Frankie go back to the house and get the pickup. We’ll never get all this stuff in the car.”

I jumped out and ran around and got behind the wheel. Frankie got out and took my place in the front passenger seat. I adjusted the driver’s seat, started the engine, got us turned around, and then we headed down the drive.

As we pulled out onto the road and I hit the gas, Frankie pointed to the clock on the dash and said, “I wish I’d said no.”

I looked at the clock. It was 7:20. “What are you talking about?” I said.

“
This was about the time yesterday when me and Peter got to the motel and he asked me if I really wanted to do this.”

“
You mean he gave you a chance to back out and you didn’t take it?”

I waited for an answer, but there was none coming. Frankie was just staring out the open window at the pine trees flashing by. I put my foot in the four-barrel and that big Chrysler 383 roared as we raced back to the house.

— — —

We got all of Frankie’s stuff hauled back to the house by eight o’clock. We brought Frankie’s dresser and mirror back too, and the only reason Daddy had us load that in the back of the pickup was because Frankie’s dad said he would burn it if we didn’t. We put it under the carport, along with Frankie’s other stuff, except for the few pieces of his clothing we salvaged, which we brought into my room and piled in the middle of the floor. Frankie and I were now going through that pile to see what he had left to wear. I had just finished giving Sachet her bath and she was sitting at my desk, wearing one of my tee shirts for a nightgown, dividing her time between coloring and watching us.