A Far Piece to Canaan (35 page)

“Ben,” I yelled, moving back to the door, and pounded. “Ben, it's Samuel! Open th' door, Ben. Cain's gonna get me, Ben!”

The snarls grew a lot louder, causing me to whirl around. Cain was ready to come. “Get back, you sonamabitch!” Cain didn't move. “Get back, damn you!” and I took one step toward him. He stayed put, little tufts of yellow back hair standing straight up, and he snarled harder, his fangs looking like white daggers in his brown-red mouth.

I turned back to the door. As my fist rose to pound, it hit me Ben might not be inside. He could have gone for help. I could be pounding on an empty cabin. I had to get to the window. I moved ahead slow, one hand on the wall. Cain was going crazy, and making little motions in and out toward me. Abel was starting to snarl now too and I knew it wouldn't do any good to call him. I stretched and peeked in when I was close enough to see inside. “B-e-e-e-n,” my voice quaked.

“Sa . . . Samuel,” come a weak answer, and I stretched up and looked through. Ben was pulling himself up by the table edge.

“C . . . Cain . . . b . . . back, Cain,” he called, and somehow Cain heard him over all the barking and froze. You could see the hate in his eyes and it was terrible.

This time I ran to the door and grabbed the knob. It was still locked. “B-e-e-e-n! B-e-e-e-n,” and I was so scared I could hardly say the words.

“H . . . hang on . . . Samuel . . . be there . . . m . . . minute,” and there was a sound of scooting furniture, followed by a softer thump of a body.

A lock clicked. I shoved hard and it gave a little then pushed back shut with a rap. He was lying against it.

“Wait,” he gasped, and there was more sound, then another thump.

I jammed my shoulder against the door, fell through, then kicked the door shut.

What I saw was awful. Ben was on his back, his legs kind of curled under him, face death white and sweaty. He was soaked in blood and so was everything else. The room seemed to spin, and the carvings wavered around like they were moving. Somehow, things was getting warped. I rolled onto my knees beside him, grabbed his shoulder, and bawled.

“Don't cry,” he whispered, and raised his hand from his belly to my head.

There was a long rip in his pants and blood poured out. He was hurt so bad! I looked back to his face. “You got t' get help! You been stabbed! He stabbed you, didn't he?”

“Y . . . yeah. Went t' c . . . cave after I dropped you o . . . off. Afraid you might not t . . . tell. Dark . . . didn't see him. Got m . . . me before I shot. Shot time after time . . . kept comin' . . . kept shootin' . . . Did posse f . . . find him? . . . He dead?”

“Yeah. How'd you get home? I didn't see any signs.”

“River. Found log. Lil' currents if y' know . . . how t' find.”

“You got t' get to a doctor, Ben!” and I started to get up.

“Huh-uh. No doctors.”

“Ben, you'll die if you don't get a doctor!”

“No doctors . . . Samuel. Can't . . . some water.”

I jumped up and got the dipper from the water bucket, and he drank a little sip at a time. He had to struggle to keep his head up, so I grabbed the blood-soaked pillow off the bed and stuffed it double under his neck. He looked terrible. His eyes were pale blue, white and strange. “Ben . . . you got to have a doctor!”

He looked up at the ceiling. “Can't . . . doctor'll call police. I've killed . . .”

“But it was a crazy man,” I said, loud. “They'll let you go. He almost killed me and Mr. Mac! They'll let you go, Ben. You're gonna die here!”

I tried to get up but he grabbed my wrist.

“Not . . . talkin' 'bout . . . crazy man.”

I stared at him, and he looked into my eyes. “Who?” I asked.

“Long time ago,” he gulped, and looked back at the ceiling.

“I don't believe it,” I yelled, and tried to pull away, but he hung on.

“Begley ain't . . . my name. N . . . name's Willis . . . Ben Willis. Everything I told you . . . true. Left things . . . ou . . .”

He looked like he was fading, and I tried to get free, but he clamped down hard.

“Back in . . . Depression had a little . . . little money. Made a lot with it . . . married prettiest woman in Higgins County . . . had a boy. Worked all time . . . drank hard. Come home . . . no Jimmy . . . w . . . wife with another man. Killed them both . . . grabbed clothes chest . . . guns . . . other stuff . . . started driving. One night . . . wound up . . . Spears . . . loafers laughing about Cummings . . . sold me this land. Drove . . . car into a sinkhole . . . twelve years ago.”

His hand dropped off my arm, and his eyes rolled back. I didn't know what to do so I put my hand over where the blood was coming out of his belly to stop it. He opened his eyes and touched my hair, and I put my arms around his neck and hugged.

“Don't die, Ben. I love you, Ben. Everybody thinks you're Ben Begley. They'll never know. I'm going to get a doctor.”

I jumped to my feet and started to the door and he grabbed my ankle. I could have pulled loose because there was no strength in his grip, but I didn't.

“No. They'll . . . send me to . . . electric chair . . . druther die now.”

“No!” I yelled, and jerked my foot loose, then grabbed for the door.

“No, Samuel . . . No . . . Sam . . . ,” but he was too weak to stop me and I belted out of the cabin and ran. A yellow blur come at my head and my arm went up and great, slathering, brown-red jaws with white ripping teeth clamped down three, four inches above my wrist. I felt my bones snap as I flipped and went rolling and screaming to the ground with the snarling, tearing Cain on top of me. Between his legs, I could see Ben hanging on to the doorknob, his body half outside. He was yelling and Cain quit biting.

I crawled out from under Cain and started running. Blood was pouring from my floppy right arm and me trying to stop it with my left hand. I was screaming like I had after the crazy man tried to stab me. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something, half running, half floating. It was yelling, but I couldn't hear what. I must have gone couple hundred yards before I knew it was Fred. He caught up and grabbed at my arm, but I pulled away.

“Hit's bleedin' bad,” he yelled, whipping off his shirt. “We got to wrap hit!”

“Ben's dyin'! Ben's dyin'! We got to get help!” I screamed, and Fred grabbed again and got me, pushing his shirt against my arm, and tied it with the sleeves.

We started running as hard as we could, tearing up the gravel lane, leaping tire and water ruts, both of us yelling, and me holding my floppy arm. Dad's car was in the Mulligans' yard so I ran to the door and started pounding until it flung open and there stood Dad and Alfred.

“Samuel! My God!” Dad yelled, and he grabbed for me and I pulled away.

“No . . . No . . . Ben's hurt . . . dyin' . . . help me,” but Dad didn't understand, then Fred yelled.

“Hit's Ben Begley. He's hurt bad! He's dyin'!”

Dad kind of acted confused then said, “Your arm . . .”

“It's okay! It's okay,” I yelled. “Help Ben! We got t' get t' Ben!” and I went running to the Ford, pulled the door open, and climbed in back. Alfred and Fred and Dad were there in a flash.

Then here come the sheriff's car down the pike and Dad jumped out and ran to the Mulligans' gap and started waving his arms. The sheriff's car seemed to rear on its back wheels and streak toward us, then screech to a stop in front of Dad.

My heart sank. He was telling the sheriff about Ben! “Leave him alone . . . leave him alone!” I screamed.

Dad ran back to the car as I was trying to get out. “Stop it, Samuel. We'll help him.”

“No, no, not the sheriff!” I yelled.

“Get back in th' car,” Dad shouted, and pushed me through the open door. “Alfred . . . hold him,” and Alfred grabbed my Levi's and pulled me over Fred and into his arms.

“Where's Begley?” Dad yelled, slamming the door and getting behind the wheel.

“Down past Langley's and keep a-goin' toward th' river!” Alfred yelled.

“Tell the sheriff t' go away,” I screamed, twisting and trying to break Alfred's hold, but I couldn't. Finally, I was so wore out I couldn't fight anymore. We were tearing down the Dry Branch Road now with the sheriff's siren wailing behind us, whipping around curves that Dad didn't know well, our tires just squalling. Strange things were happening to me. First, the trees on the lane flashing past started bending from side to side, their limbs moving like arms in water. Then Alfred's nose started growing. When his mouth fell open on a sharp curve, the inside looked like a red cave with big white rocks in front. His wild hair and black and white stubble beard began to grow out of his face and turn to grass and briars and bushes and I shuddered as his arms squeezed me tighter and a voice from his mouth said hollow like an echo, “Hit's okay, Samuel. We'll be there in a minute.”

Then Fred reached over and squeezed my good arm. His eyes had grown big and were made up of little circles in a pool. His cheeks sucked in and the top of his head began to get wide and flat, his hair turning to grass, green and brown, and I could feel his hand squeeze my arm, off and on like milking a cow, while the siren behind us wailed, first just a wail, and then started making sense calling Ben's name, its voice going up and down like a Holiness preacher. “Sinner . . . sinner, hit's the day of judgment and you ain't been saved . . . Jesus don't want you, sinner, he's going to cast you out and away from him and your soul will burn in hell's fire through everlasting time,” up and down and up and down the words wailed, then the inside of the car started changing, the seats turning to hills and the fuzzy brown seat covers green with grass and I reached out to touch it, soft and lush and cool, and saw Dad's bald spot in the back of his head getting bigger and bigger until it turned into a rock with bushes growing around it and moss covered, then suddenly the sky turned red and through the opening in front of our moving ground I could see smoke and flames leaping high into the air, red and yellow dripping hungry tongues jagged on the edges licking the roof of Ben's cabin like they come from the mouth of a hundred-headed snake, black smoke curling around and pouring through the roof and out the window and door and little chinks in the walls, the melon patch around it not dead, growing and green with little melons everywhere being crushed as we rolled over them while a great shining, floating chariot flashing red and white fire pulled by a team of black and white flying horses, their manes and tails of gold and up on top at the rains was God and next to him the Devil all racing toward the roaring, leaping flames and smoke. Then I saw God and the Devil get down from the chariot, and I screamed, “Wait, God, wait,” and pushed on the side of our rolling ground and it opened and I struggled out, while branches and trees kept snagging at me until I tore away and went running toward the fire and God and the Devil, the flames leaping higher and higher as I got nearer and nearer, and a voice, Ben's voice, come out of the flames, and him and Cain and Abel walked out and stopped in front of me, and Ben said, “Forgive Cain. Forgive Cain,” and I screamed “I do! I do! I forgive you, Cain!” and then Ben pointed toward a spot on the ground and there was the bobcat and mother coon and her babies, all watching Ben and Cain and Abel as they got into the back of the chariot, then God and the Devil drove off and it got dark.

I
t is rare to be able to state unequivocally that one has just awakened from the worst nightmare of one's life. There is no question in my mind, however, that I had just achieved that state of certainty. The sheets were wet with sweat and I was more exhausted than when I had lay down to sleep. I definitely needed a drink and took one.

My God, I thought, that was exactly the way it had happened. I felt amazed that I had come through my break from reality. After a half dozen more deep swallows of some sort of alcohol, I felt better. I laughed when I remembered the Hebrew prayer thanking God for giving the Jews the “fruit of the vine.”

“You are indeed a wise God,” I said aloud. I began to wonder if I was turning into an alcoholic, then it occurred to me that I rarely drank. I thought about Ben, wondering if he had been drunk when he murdered his wife and her lover. I had my problems, but where did he stand on the great scoreboard of life? He murdered three people and left a son without a father or mother. But he died because he didn't want to chance my not telling the adults what I knew. The truth was, he also died for our community because they didn't have the courage to face up to their responsibilities and take on the crazy man years before the disaster happened.

They embraced Ben after he died heroically. They wound up building him a monument; a huge stone that took them days to move into place. Would they still have erected the monument had they known of his past? I didn't know. Would I have told of his murderous past had I learned of it after he saved me from the river? I decided I would not have told then and still would not tell. Was my decision the correct one? I didn't know and wondered what the great philosophers would have done if they had faced that question in real life outside their ivory towers. I suddenly remembered my philosophy professor who had been sleeping with my college girlfriend. He was married and the subject he taught was ethics. So much for an unlived philosophy!

The big question, I thought, was what would have happened if everybody had just told the truth. Fred, LD, Lonnie, and I would have gotten in trouble (in the case of Lonnie, perhaps horrible trouble) but I doubted that the community would have gone after the crazy man. They were too scared of the unknown. Ben was a triple murderer and they surely would have executed him if they had known about him before the crazy man incident happened. Instead, ignorant of his previous murders, the neighbors said prayers for Ben, built him the best monument they could, and began turning him into a legend before we left Berman's.