The Heavenly Table (11 page)

“The army. He’d already signed the papers by the time I got there.”

“So you was right after all.”

“At least we know where he is now,” Ellsworth said. He turned and watched some purple martins darting and pirouetting in the darkening air across the road. “Who knows? Maybe this will be good for him.”

Biting the bacon rind in two, Eula tossed the flower into the yard and started to stand. “Well, go ahead and get washed up while I put out your supper. Then you can tell me all about it.”

15

I
T WAS AFTER
midnight when they left the shack and started through the piney woods toward Tardweller’s manse. They had decided to leave most of their belongings behind, and so, besides the two books and their blankets, they carried only Pearl’s old shotgun and his straight razor and the two machetes. A sickly yellow half-moon lit their way. When they arrived at the edge of the yard, they stood in a copse of evergreens and watched for signs of life inside the dark two-story house. Except for the chirping of the crickets and the gurgling of their guts, everything was quiet.

“I ain’t never stole nothing in my life,” Cob said miserably. He wished more than anything that his brothers would change their minds, and just head back to the shack. If they got some sleep, maybe tomorrow they wouldn’t be so gung-ho about turning outlaw. And wait a minute, what about the chicken bonus? Why, he bet they hadn’t even thought of that.

He was just getting ready to mention it when Cane said suddenly, “Come on, let’s go,” and they were hurrying across the open ground to the barn, stooped over like apes. Chimney unlatched the door quietly and pulled it open just enough for them to slip inside. They stood there for a minute while their eyes adjusted to the darkness, and then Cane handed Cob the shotgun. “Keep an eye on the house,” he whispered.

“No, I already told ye, I ain’t a-killin’ nobody,” Cob said loudly, trying to give the gun back.

“Jesus Christ,” Chimney hissed, “keep it down.”

“You don’t have to,” Cane said. “Just let us know if you see someone coming, that’s all.” Then he and Chimney set the machetes by the door and went feeling their way among the stalls, the horses now snuffling and stamping their feet nervously.

Inside the house, Thaddeus Tardweller was slouched in the parlor in his favorite chair when he heard a noise through the open window that made him sit up. His wife and daughter were spending the night at a cousin’s house on the other side of the county, and he had enjoyed a comfortable evening alone drinking brandy in the dark and idly thinking of all the women he had molested over the years. Almost like a man’s voice, he thought as he reached under the chair for his revolver. Draped in a long white nightshirt, he stepped out onto the porch and stood listening with his head cocked toward the barn. Goddamn, he almost wished somebody was out there, just to liven things up a bit. Only once in his life had anyone dared to steal from him, and he had made that whole pack of mulattoes pay for the one’s mistake. He had killed all the men and boys in a flurry, but then his lust got the better of him; and while he was fucking the prettiest of the wenches, the other three he had locked in the shack got away. It wasn’t until he was finished with her that he realized he should have made them dig their own graves first. Not being accustomed to labor, it had taken him two days to cover up all those niggers, and he’d nearly lost his mind, what with all the flies and the stink. When he was done, he told everyone that the fever had wiped them out, and, since the ones who escaped never showed their faces again, nobody even questioned it. Thank God for the memories, he thought. Sometimes they were all that kept him going these days. Staggering off the porch, he pulled back the hammer on the pistol and began crossing the yard, the hem of his nightshirt dragging through the dewy grass.

Cob, unfortunately, was much too tired for the task he’d been assigned. It had been, to his reckoning, the longest day of his life; and as soon as his brothers turned away, he had set the shotgun down, pressed one blurry eye against a crack in the siding, and promptly nodded off. As he dreamed of Pearl walking through clouds with a white napkin tied around his neck, Cane and Chimney finished choosing three horses from among the six in the stalls, two brown thoroughbreds and a gray Arabian. They had just started to bridle them when they heard Tardweller yell in a drunken voice, “Come on out now, you sonofabitch, and I’ll let you go.” A moment or two later he added with a snicker, “I give you my word as a God-fearin’ Christian.”

Dropping the bridles, Cane and Chimney hurried past a still sleeping Cob to the door and peered out. The Major was no more than a few feet from them, weaving a little as he awaited a response. “Goddamn,” Chimney whispered, as they bent down and picked up the machetes. If by some miracle they got out of this alive, he thought, he would strangle Cob with his bare hands. Cane should have known better than to trust him with anything. The stupid sonofabitch— Just then, one of the horses kicked against the side of its stall, sounding like a cannon going off, and Tardweller jerked the door open. “Well,” he said, as he started to step inside, “I give you a chance, you thievin’ piece of shit, but you—”

When Cane grabbed for the pistol, Chimney brought the corn cutter down on top of the man’s skull with as much force as he could muster. A splinter of bone flew sideways through the air and bounced off his cheek. As the Major dropped to his knees, a stream of blood sputtered out of the top of his head like a small geyser. Chimney stepped back and swung the machete again, burying the blade in the back of the man’s thick, meaty neck, but he remained upright, his eyes blinking rapidly and his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish sucking air. The boy tried to jerk the knife loose, but it was wedged tight between two vertebrae. “Jesus Christ, do something,” he yelled to Cane, as the big man let out a bellow and slowly, miraculously, started to get back up.

Cane stood with a shocked expression on his face, the pistol in one hand, a machete in the other. In all the months of imagining their escape, nobody had gotten hurt. At least not on the first goddamn night. How could he have been so stupid? He heard Chimney yell, “Shoot the sonofabitch,” then watched him step back out of the way. Raising the revolver, Cane pointed it in the direction of Tardweller’s head. He drew a deep breath and tried to steady his aim. But just before he pressed the trigger, a blast exploded off to the side of him, lighting up the entire scene in reddish orange for a second, and something wet splattered against the wall. He whirled around, saw a grim-faced Cob standing in the shadows with the shotgun, a gray wisp of smoke rising from the barrel.

For maybe a minute, they stood silently looking down at the Major in his bloody nightshirt, sprawled out on the floor with the top of his head gone. “Holy shit,” Chimney finally said in an awed voice. “I never saw that coming.”

“Me, neither,” Cane managed to say.

“Goddamn, Cob, you did good,” Chimney said. Then, placing one foot on the dead man’s lower back for leverage, he bent down and grabbed hold of the machete’s wooden handle.

Cob was still standing there with the shotgun raised to his shoulder. Everything had happened so fast. Why, just this morning, he had seen the Major and Pearl talking together, as alive as any two people could be. He heard Cane call his name in a faraway voice. He was vaguely aware of the horses, upset over the commotion, nickering and bumping against the stalls. For a moment, he couldn’t move, and wondered if maybe he was still dreaming, but when he saw his brother yank the machete loose from Tardweller’s neck, he flung the shotgun down and turned away just as most of his funeral supper sprayed from his mouth onto the straw-strewn floor.

Cane waited until he finished being sick, then started out the door with the pistol. “Get them horses ready,” he ordered in an urgent voice.

“Where you going?” Chimney said.

“Up to the house.”

“You sure you don’t want me to take care of them?”

“No,” Cane said. “I’ll handle it.” He looked over at Cob wiping the vomit off his chin. “You two did enough already.”

—

F
INDING THE DOOR
ajar, he entered the house trembling, still unhinged by what had just happened in the barn. He moved from room to room in the dark looking for Tardweller’s wife and daughter, so relieved when he didn’t find them that he almost got down on his knees and thanked God. He hoped they were off somewhere visiting, something Chimney had mentioned they did on occasion, and not already halfway over to the next farm after hearing the shotgun blast.

The house smelled faintly of perfume and spices and tobacco, and he was suddenly aware of the stink roiling off his filthy body, a mix of shit and sweat and fear. Lighting a candle, he began searching hurriedly through closets and drawers. He found another 12-gauge and a box of shells. He took a black frock coat hanging from a door and three white shirts folded on top of a polished bureau and a gold pocket watch lying on a nightstand. He hunted all over for the purse he knew the squire carried, but it was not to be found. In the kitchen, he came across a bar of soap and a box of cartridges for the pistol and two bottles of brandy in a sideboard, along with a large smoked ham barely nibbled on and a pan of light rolls covered with a cloth. Wrapping everything up in the coat, he started out the front door, then stopped. He had never been in a house this fine before, and after what had just happened in the barn, it might be the only chance he’d ever get to experience one. Going into the parlor, he sat down carefully in a soft upholstered chair. He was disappointed not to see any books. A box on a side table was filled with cigars, and he stuck a handful of them and some matches in his shirt pocket. Just for a minute, he tried to enjoy the flowered wallpaper, the painting of the fox hunt above the mantel, the spinet piano in the corner, but he was suddenly overwhelmed with shame. He had lost his nerve back there in the barn, broke his promise to Cob to take care of everything. As he went out, he quietly shut the door behind him.

“Well, I didn’t hear no shots,” Chimney said when Cane returned to the barn. “What’d ye do, strangle ’em or slit their throats?” A lantern had been lit, and he was standing next to one of the thoroughbreds showing Cob how to cinch the girth straps on the saddle.

“I went all over,” Cane said, “but they ain’t there.”

Chimney stopped and studied his brother for a moment. Satisfied that he was telling the truth, he spat and said, “Ah, they probably out fucking somewhere, knowin’ them two whores.”

Spreading the coat out on the floor, Cane began passing out the supplies for them to stick into their saddlebags. As he handed Cob the ham, he cleared his throat and said, “I owe you an apology, brother. I should have been the one killed him. It’s my fault you got your hands bloody.”

“Aw, don’t worry about it,” Chimney said. “Hell, even ol’ Bloody Bill fucked up a time or two, right?” He threw a saddle on the Arabian and reached under its belly for one of the straps. “But I reckon it’s a good thing we had Cob backing us up. Jesus, I still can’t get over it. Him a-snorin’ one minute and then BAM! Talk about blowin’ somebody’s brains out. He’s a goddamn natural, that’s what he is.”

“Well, anyway,” Cane said, “it won’t happen again. I guarantee both of ye that.”

Cob didn’t say anything. In fact, it is doubtful that he heard a word that was being said, for he was now holding a ham the size of a newborn infant. It was like something he’d imagine you’d find on the heavenly table, in between the roast beef and the spare ribs, but instead it was right here, in his dirty hands. He had heard Pearl talk about sin and gluttony and false riches enough to know he should toss it to the ground and stomp it, but, shit, what would be the sense of doing that now? He had just killed a man. He was going to hell anyway. Raising it up to his mouth, he tore a big hunk off with his teeth and began to chew.

“Jesus,” Chimney said, prying the ham loose from Cob and sticking it in a saddlebag, “what do ye think you’re doing? You just puked your guts out.”

Cane looked over at them as he lifted himself onto the other thoroughbred. “Come on, boys, this ain’t no time to be fuckin’ around.”

“How long you think ’fore they catch us?” Cob asked.

“Pretty damn soon if we don’t get to moving.”

When they came out to the main road, they stopped and looked behind them. It was only then that Cane, with just a corner of the barn’s pine-shingled roof visible in the moonlight, realized they should have brought Tardweller with them, hid his body where no one would ever find it. For a moment, he considered turning back, but quickly dismissed the idea. He told himself that at least this way the man’s wife could give him a proper burial, though the real reason wasn’t quite so compassionate. In truth, he wasn’t sure he could handle looking at it again. “Well, brothers,” he said, “ain’t nothing ever gonna be the same now.”

“That’s for goddamn sure,” said Chimney, then he gouged his horse in the flanks and the others followed. Moving northward at a canter, the hooves of the animals pounding against the hard-packed earth, the enormity of their crime slowly began to pale in contrast to the feeling of freedom that grew inside them with each passing mile. From time to time they saw a midnight lamp glowing like a tiny star in a distant farmhouse or settlement, but met nobody on the dark strip of road. Finally, just before dawn a mile or so outside of Farleigh, their bodies aching and the insides of their thighs rubbed raw from riding and the horses slathered with foamy sweat, they cut off into a woods where they found a shallow, rocky creek. They took their first bath in over a year, then sat naked in the soft, green grass under a sycamore tree and ate most of the ham and bread while the horses gazed at them stupidly.

“Heck, this is a regular picnic,” Chimney said, stretching out his skinny legs and wiggling his toes. “Just think, this time yesterday, we was gaggin’ down another one of them damn biscuits and gettin’ ready to go cut brush.”

Cane got up and went to his horse. He came back with the three shirts he had stolen, handed each of his brothers one. “I don’t reckon they’ll fit, but at least they’re clean.”