Rainwater (25 page)

“You’re not hungry?” he asked, nodding down at her plate. She’d barely nibbled at the food.

“It’s the heat, I think.” But it wasn’t the temperature. It was him. She was worried sick about him.

He saw through her fib. “Don’t fret over me, Ella.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I love you for your concern, but I don’t want to cause you one moment of heartache. Ever.”

Peering deeply into his eyes, she said hoarsely, “You will.”

He returned the drumstick to his plate. Staring into near space, he said, “Then I should never have come to you.”

She shook her head furiously. “No. Oh no. It would have been like not reading the book because of the sad ending. I had a choice.” Not caring who saw, she reached out and stroked his cheek until his eyes met hers again. “I wouldn’t have missed loving you. Not for anything in the world.”

They gazed at each other, communicating without words, apart from their environment, unmindful of anything going on around them. The spell was broken when, simultaneously, they became aware of Solly’s restlessness. “He needs the bathroom.” She stood up and took her son’s hand.

“Where’s the nearest one?”

“It’s an outhouse, I’m afraid. Behind the church. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll clean up here and meet you at the car.”

It was deep twilight by now. Stars were out. The moon was a china plate rising above the rooftops. The crowd had thinned considerably. Even those who had stayed to take down the tables and collect dishes and trash had departed. She had been so wrapped up with Mr. Rainwater, she hadn’t noticed.

Jimmy and Margaret drove past in his ancient jalopy. Margaret waved, calling out, “I’ll see you in the morning, bright and early.”

Hurrying Solly along, Ella led him by the hand down the side of the church toward the rear of the building. The two outhouses were a distance from the sanctuary. One was marked for men, the other for women. Ella knew that one would be as bad as the other, and she dreaded taking Solly into either.

It was dark behind the church, where the area was enclosed by tall shrubbery. She considered letting him go in the bushes but knew that he would balk because of his innate fastidiousness. Besides that, she didn’t want to risk him being seen making water in the outdoors. If a normal boy did, people would smile and say boys would be boys. If Solly were caught doing it, there was no telling what the repercussions would be. It could be said that, because he wasn’t right in the head, he was a deviant.

The stench assailed her when she opened the flimsy door to the women’s outhouse. Holding her breath, she guided Solly inside. The cubicle was dark, which was probably a blessing, but it was a disadvantage to her getting his shorts unbuttoned. That accomplished, she stood him in front of the hole. He was barely tall enough for the stream to clear the bench, but he did his business without mishap.

Hastily she buttoned up his shorts. “Good job, Solly. Good job.” She must remember to scrub both their hands with soap and hot water as soon as they got home. If she could convince Mr. Rainwater to stop at Dr. Kincaid’s house on the way, they could wash there.

Determined to persuade Mr. Rainwater to see the doctor tonight, she pushed Solly through the outhouse door and quickly closed it behind her.

“Hey, Ella.”

Startled, she spun around. Conrad Ellis was there, his shoulder casually propped against the exterior wall of the building. The deputy’s badge was pinned to a uniform shirt, and he was wearing a leather holster with a pistol in it. His birthmark looked as dark as ink in the faint light. A cigarette dangled from his lips, which formed an insolent smile.

He tilted his head toward the small enclosure. “Niggers sure know how to stink up a place, don’t they?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Official duty,” he said, tapping the grip of the pistol with his index finger like a gunfighter about to draw. “Keeping the niggers from running amok.”

Ella’s heart was beating hard and fast, but she realized the worst thing she could do was to show him her fear. She took Solly firmly by the hand and started walking quickly away.

But Conrad wasn’t having it. He stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “What’s with you these days? You think your shit don’t stink? You’re too good to say a polite hello to old friends?”

“If I say a polite hello will you get out of my way?”

He took the cigarette from his mouth and threw it in the grass, grinding it out with the toe of his shoe even as he took a step closer to her. “Depends.”

“On what?”

He leered. “On how polite you’re willing to get.”

Instantly she understood his intention. She opened her mouth to scream, but he lunged and slammed her into the wall of the outhouse, clamping one of his hands over her mouth.

Something landed hard on the ground beside her, and she realized that, in his forward motion, Conrad had also knocked Solly aside. The way Conrad had her pinned against the outhouse wall made it impossible for her to move her arms, but she extended her fingers as far as she could, groping hopelessly to touch her son even as she struggled to free her mouth from Conrad’s hand. Overpowering him was impossible, but if she could scream, someone would hear her.

“You should be nicer to me, Ella, you really should.” All insouciance gone now, he was panting like an animal. “Like you’re nice to that boarder you’ve got. How come you’re giving him what you never gave me, huh?” His damp breath smelled of whiskey, but she was powerless to turn her face away.

A sound of outrage issued from her throat when he squeezed her breast with his free hand, but that only made him maul her more roughly. “How come you like that pale pantywaist instead of me? If you wanted a man, why didn’t you call on me?”

He managed to work his hand between their bodies and push it between her legs. She tried to evade his crude thrusting motions, but she couldn’t back up, and he was pressed against her so solidly, she couldn’t move from side to side. The unforgiving buckle of his holster was gouging her belly.

And Solly, was he hurt? When he was shoved to the ground, had he been knocked unconscious? Looking out the corner of her eye, she tried to see him, but her entire field of vision was filled with Conrad’s face, congested with rage, bloated from liquor, his small eyes smoldering with resentment and cruelty.

She heard, coming from somewhere not too distant, the sound of revving engines, a sharp whistle, and then someone calling Conrad’s name. Either he didn’t hear it or he ignored it. Grunting with the effort, he pushed her feet apart with his, making it impossible for her to close her legs. To her horror, she realized that he was fumbling with his fly and muttering curses of frustration when he couldn’t get it open.

Her mind was screaming, This cannot be happening to me. But it was, it would, if she didn’t stop it.

Suddenly, she ceased struggling and went limp. Confused, Conrad staggered back. It was only a few inches, and he relaxed his hold on her only marginally, but Ella used that split second of his befuddlement to cram her knee into his crotch.

He opened his mouth to scream, but only a thin gasp of agony came out. He clutched his groin with both hands and dropped to his knees, then toppled facefirst onto the ground. Ella covered her face with her hands, partially to block out the sight and sound of him as he writhed in pain at her feet, partially to regain her breath, slow down her pounding heart, and pull herself together.

She heard the rumble of racing motors coming nearer, the squeal of tires, men laughing and whooping drunkenly. Conrad’s crowd. Closing in. She had to move, get away from him before his friends arrived. But she couldn’t move just yet. She needed a few more seconds to collect her wits.

“Ella?”

Her name. Shouted in Mr. Rainwater’s voice. His dear, dear voice. It was a blessed sound reaching her despite Conrad’s choked sobs.

“Ella?”

Conrad’s groans intensified.

And then there was another sound. An abrupt cracking sound that was inexplicably wet-sounding, like the splat of a ripe melon being busted open.

Conrad’s moaning abruptly ceased.

Ella lowered her hands from her face.

Conrad still lay on the ground at her feet. But he was no longer moving. The back of his head had been split right down the center of his skull. It was too dark now to distinguish color, but the lumpy matter inside the crevasse glistened, and the liquid spilling out of it and pooling on the ground appeared as black as motor oil reflecting the moonlight.

Over him stood Solly, a large, bloodstained stone in his hands.

Ella clapped her hand over her mouth, although she continued to make strange cooing sounds of profound horror. She sank to her knees, looking in turn at Conrad’s gaping skull and her son’s placid, angelic face.

“Ella!”

She saw Mr. Rainwater’s shoes skid to a stop beside Conrad’s still form. His breath left his body in an audible gush. He knelt beside Solly, and Ella watched as he removed from her son’s small hands the stone with which Conrad Ellis had been brained. Only then did she raise her eyes to meet Mr. Rainwater’s and saw in them the disbelief and alarm that matched hers.

“Good job, Solly.”

In unison, they turned and stared aghast at the boy, who’d spoken the words. He was staring down at the damage he’d wreaked, having no comprehension of what it signified except an end to suffering, and speaking the words of commendation that recently had so often been repeated to him. They had penetrated his mind, had been recorded, and now he called them forth. “Good job, Solly. Good job, Solly. Good job, Solly.”

“Oh God!” Ella crawled over to him and clasped him against her, pressing his face against her breasts, muffling his incriminating litany. Having lived for the day she would hear him speak, now she wanted to shush his sweet voice, silence that chant that would condemn him. “Ssh, Solly. Ssh. No, baby, no.”

On the street in front of the church, they heard shouts and laughter, the slamming of car doors, breaking glass, running footsteps. Lantern light flickered through the trees.

Someone called in a singsong voice, “Con-rad? Where are you?”

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

“Let’s go nigger knockin’!”

Solly was now screeching and trying to escape Ella’s grasp. His hands were flapping at his ears like the wings of an injured bird. Above his head, she frantically looked at Mr. Rainwater. Their gazes locked and held for no longer than a few seconds.

And then he did the oddest thing.

He dipped his hands in the blood that had collected under Conrad’s head.

Ella gaped at him with bafflement as he slowly came to his feet, the stone in his hands, and turned toward the onrushing group of men who were now rounding the corner of the church, led by the sheriff himself.

Still several yards away, one of the men drew up short. “What the hell? Conrad?”

One by one, the others saw what had brought their friend to a standstill. They stared at Ella, Solly, and Mr. Rainwater, trying to register what their minds refused to accept.

Then the pack surged forward as one, yelling and cursing. Two of them tackled Mr. Rainwater, following him down when he fell and pummeling him with their fists.

“Stop! No!” Ella screamed. “Leave him alone.”

But nobody was listening to her. They were like rabid dogs, salivating, waiting their turn at Mr. Rainwater.

“Hold off, hold off!” Sheriff Anderson elbowed his way through them, pushing bodies aside, until he hauled the last man off Mr. Rainwater. Gripping him beneath his arms, the sheriff pulled him to his feet. But he couldn’t stand on his own, so two of the men held him upright while the sheriff jerked his bloody hands behind his back and cuffed them. His head was bowed low over his chest. A ribbon of blood hung from his lower lip. He swayed on his feet.

Ella, finally grasping what was happening, made a low keening sound, then croaked, “No.”

The sheriff turned to her. “One of these men will see you and your boy home, Mrs. Barron. They’ll stay with you till I get this character locked up. Then I’ll come around to question you.”

“No! Mr. Rainwater didn’t do anything.”

“Ella.”

“It wasn’t—”

“Ella.”

Wildly her eyes swung to him who spoke her name as no one else ever had. His head was raised now. He was looking directly at her. Quietly he said, “Do as the sheriff says. This is the way it’s to be.”

Realization of what he meant to do came to her slowly as she stood there breathing hard, sobbing dryly. Furiously, she shook her head. “No!”

As distraught as she was, he was perfectly composed. “It’s all right.”

She looked down at Solly, who, since she had released him, had calmed down and was no longer screeching but was still flapping his hands at the sides of his head and chanting in a whisper, “Good job, Solly.”

Then she looked back at the man who’d touched her son, reached him, when no one else had, even she.

She looked at the man who had touched her.

His image began to waver as her eyes filled. Again she shook her head, saying feebly, “No, no.”

His eyes had never looked more serene. Certainly never more loving. Slowly he nodded. His lips moved, and she read the word on them. Yes.

EPILOGUE

“He died before they could execute him.”

The couple hadn’t moved for the past hour. The afternoon was leaning toward dusk, but the passage of time had gone unnoticed. The woman was sniffing. Her husband passed her his handkerchief. She thanked him and daintily blotted her nose.

“That’s his pocket watch?” she asked. “Mr. Rainwater’s.”

The antiques dealer nodded. “He asked Dr. Kincaid to have it engraved with the date on which the doctor brought him to my mother’s house and introduced them.” He fingered the characters etched into the gold. “After the sheriff took him away that night, they never saw each other again.”

“Surely she attended his trial,” the woman said.

“There wasn’t a trial. He confessed. He refused to see her in prison. He didn’t want to leave her with that memory of him. Dr. Kincaid carried messages back and forth between them.”