The Devil's Beating His Wife (3 page)

"I can serve the tea, Nelly," said the doctor. "You go on back to the canteen."

She smiled prettily in my direction. "Oh, I don't mind, sir."

Doctor Finley accepted the teacup she held out. He placed it on the table before me. "Drink this. It will calm your nerves," he said in a distracted manner.

I gave a brief smile as I took the teacup and peered over its edge in Nelly's direction. She stared back at me, keen interest in her eyes. The doctor glanced at me and then back at Nelly. He stood abruptly, grabbed Nelly's arm, and briskly walked her towards the door.

"I shall make sure you find your way back to the canteen, unharmed."

They left me alone in the small wooden structure that served as the doctor's office. I sipped at the tea, cursing the malty flavor. Ever since arriving in England, the people here had crammed tea into my hands every chance they got.

I felt cold, they gave me tea. I was crying in pain, they poured me tea. I took a piss, they waited for me to relieve myself and then they shoved more tea at me. Tea was the universal cure around here, and it annoyed me more than comforted me. Give me a shot of whiskey and a cigar, and I'd be happier than a magpie.

The door flew open and the doctor strode back into his office. Rubbing his hands together, I could swear I heard him mumble that he needed more tea. I laughed, and he glanced at me with confusion on his face.

"Don't trust me around Nelly?"

"I don't trust Nelly around you or anyone," he said, smiling with affection. "She's a dear girl, but needs to be a bit more discriminating in her choice of company."

"Ah."

As he sat down in his leather chair, he glanced over the edges of his glasses. "Besides, I didn't think you had room for anyone but your Spicey."

"That felt like a low blow, doctor."

"Hmm," he said, sipping his tea. "Please do continue."

"What else is there? I was finished."

"I hardly think so."

"You know my story now."

"Your brother is responsible for the death of Spicey's brother. How is that?"

I bit down on my lip. Hard. Rage consumed me. I wanted to toss the fucking tea into his face. That benign smile of his returned, as if he knew my thoughts.

I sat back in my chair and resumed tapping the armrests with my thumbs. I focused solely on keeping my good leg still so it didn't bounce from my pent-up energy. This man wasn't going to let me go until I told him everything.

"They hung him."

"Who are they?"

"My brother. His friends—Charlie, Richard, Mitchell, and Nixon."

"You were there?"

It took a moment for the word to form in my mouth. "Yes."

"You were involved." Not a question. That bothered me.

"I was there, but I wasn't involved."

"Tell me more."

I licked my lips and reached for my water glass. Only a few drops were left, not enough to moisten my tongue. The doctor lifted my teacup from the table and refilled it. He plucked the used teabag from the tray and dipped it into the water. After a few seconds, he turned towards me and I reluctantly reached out to take the cup.

"The tea should help."

"Of course." I drank. The warmth eased the tension in my throat. It didn't satisfy my thirst, but I didn't let the doctor know. I was afraid he would shove another damn cup of tea at me.

"So—"

"I wasn't involved!" I shouted. I took several deep breaths to calm myself before I was able to continue. "My brother went to his friends and got them worked up enough to go over to Spicey's house. I was in the car, but I wasn't involved. They all got out of the car and stormed up the steps. The door was locked, but my brother's friend Charlie busted through the thin frame. I heard a faint scream. I think it was Spicey's mama. Lights turned on in the house and then the next thing I knew, bloodcurdling screams filled the night. Then abrupt silence.

"I climbed out of the car. I didn't know whether to run into the house or run away. The next thing I knew, they all came pounding out of the house. That boy was with them, a hood over his face. There were bloodstains smeared on the cloth. Sweat poured down his body and he was breathing hard, real hard, like a horse after a race. Spicey's mother came running out of the house. She yelled and screamed to let her boy go."

I lifted the tea. My hand shook so bad that I couldn't raise it to my mouth. I set the cup down on the table and glanced at the doctor.

He stared back at me. The kindly expression had left his face.

"I just thought they were going to rough him up a bit," I said. "I didn't know or else I...." I didn't know what else I would have done. Carver was my brother, my little brother. But that night, he was the leader and I was the follower. "Spicey had come running out of the house, too. There was blood on her face, and I remember rushing towards her, wondering who had hit her. I felt rage at that moment, but then she began striking out at me. My brother swung around and slammed his fist against the side of her head. She crumpled to the ground. I knelt beside her, but her mother grabbed her into her arms. She glanced between her daughter and her son. I could tell she was torn between saving her boy and helping her girl. She gently laid Spicey on the ground and she rushed to the car. My brother's friend ordered me to get into the backseat, and I did. They settled that boy beside me, and we drove into town, leaving Spicey lying in the dirt and her mother screaming."

"Where did you take him?"

"Like I said, we went into town. Look, there ain't no reason to go on. I'm sure you know what happened."

"I don't know, but I have an idea. Tell me, Lieutenant." He had stopped calling me son. I was no longer Baxter to him.

"We drove into town where they have the hanging tree. You know what a hanging tree is? I bet you do. They probably have hanging trees here in England. I swear, I just thought they were going to scare him. Make a lesson out of him before letting him go. Instead, they tied the rope around his neck and pulled him into the air. He kicked out, trying to find his footing. I stood there, next to the car, watching as he fought for life. Then his legs stopped, but his body didn't. He was swinging in the air. I'll never forget it."

"I can imagine seeing an innocent man murdered would be unforgettable."

I glanced at the doctor. "I don't mean that. I won't forget the blackness of the night and the whiteness of his uniform. They hung that boy in his new Navy uniform."

CHAPTER TWO

Three weeks later: April 10, 1945, Wilkinson County, Georgia

"It's so good to have you home, Baxter," said Mother. "I am so glad you're back." Her piercing voice had spooked me awake. I had jerked out of my sleep, feeling as though a bomb was shrieking through the air. She stood at the foot of my bed, folding my laundry and placing it into the dresser.

Bright sunlight shone through the window. An old metal fan blew hot air throughout the room. It wasn't even noon, but the temperature had already reached eighty degrees.

"You came back at the right time, I tell ya." Mother tucked the neck of one of my shirts under her chin as she folded the arms. Even though sweat poured down her brow, she continued to smile. She was acting entirely too happy about folding my freshly bleached underpants and undershirts.

As her fingers fluttered over an unsightly pair of stained drawers, I nearly leapt across the bed to snatch them from her. But she grabbed them and snapped them into the air. She didn't cluck her tongue. She didn't say a word about them. She just folded them and softly placed them into a drawer.

Relaxing, I sat back and watched her do her thing. I never particularly enjoyed doing laundry. Growing up, I would toss my clothing into the drawer or cram things into the closet. The strict, regimented life of the Army had changed that. Thank God, that was all over.

Mother's dark blue eyes peeked over at me as if she was afraid that I would disappear. "Are you sure you don't want something to drink?" she asked, fanning herself with one of my socks. "It's hotter than a fire burning in Hell." Wisps of blond hair were plastered to her temples. Mother lifted a thin wrist and swiped at the moistened strands.

She walked over to where I was leaning against the pillows. She ran her fingers through my hair and clucked her tongue. "You need a trim. And a shave. You should be ashamed of yourself looking this unkempt."

I no longer felt the pressure to shave on a daily basis. A beard equaled freedom, something I hadn't experienced since the moment I began ROTC. Throughout my time in the Army, I had conformed to military standards. My hair was never longer than an inch. My face was always freshly shaved.

But that life was behind me. I had left cold and dreary England nearly a month ago. They had loaded me onto a plane that wobbled with every gust of wind. The plane took me to Fort Benning, where I'd remained for the last three weeks. Initially, there had been talk of keeping me in the veterans' hospital as the doctors had wanted to run some additional tests. I guess they had hoped there was some fight left in me, but in the end, they realized my leg was damaged beyond repair. When it was clear that I was no longer any use to the Army, I was formally processed out. Within one day, I was back here on the farm.

"On second thought, Mother, a glass of water would be nice." I smiled sweetly. It was too early in the day to listen to her nagging.

She smiled down at me and blew a kiss. As long as her eyes were on my face, I beamed at her. The moment she turned around, the grin disappeared from my face and I narrowed my eyes as I watched her exit. I wasn't thirsty. I just needed a few moments to myself.

Today was the third day of my new civilian life. I had forgotten how good it felt to be lazy and sluggish. If not for the heat, I probably would have stayed in bed for another hour or two. But it was probably for the best. I had a mission to complete, anyway.

I stuffed my hand under the pillow and felt around until my fingers brushed against the telephone directory. I snatched the book from its hiding place and set it on my nap. My fingers thumbed through the names until I came across Ms. Della Harrell's address and telephone number. My fingers caressed the page, wanting to absorb every ounce of information. Over the last few days, I had been stealing glances at this listing. Since the first moment I found it, I had been shackled with fear and uncertainty. What if Spicey had found another man? What if she had forgotten about me? I would never know the answers to my questions as long I as hid in this bedroom.

Grabbing the pillows, I shoved the directory back into its place. I then tossed back the covers, rolled onto my side, and placed my weight on my good leg. Struggling to stand, I lost my balance and grabbed at the headboard to steady myself.

Just as I began to pant with exertion, Mother re-entered the room with a glass in her hand. She set the glass on the nightstand near my bed. Swiftly, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my waist, helping me to balance.

"Baxter, why didn't you ask for my help?" Her eyes were narrowed.

"I don't need your help." I slapped at her wandering hands, but she kept grasping at me. "I've been in the same position for too long. That gets my leg all knotted up. I am A-Okay." I pushed her arms away. I was twenty-five years old. Too old for my mother's coddling. "Have you seen Carver today?"

Huffing with impatience, she walked towards the door. Placing her hand on the doorknob, she glanced back at me and said, "I don't keep tabs on him, Baxter. Since he and—" her lips puckered and she visibly swallowed back other words, "his wife moved out, they've kept to their own business." She pulled the door closed, leaving me standing in the center of the room. I hobbled over to the dresser and pulled freshly folded clothing from the drawers.

Leaving my room, I made my way down the narrow hallway that led to the small bathroom. Because of my leg, Mother feared that the stairs would be the death of me, so she had converted the servant's quarters into my new bedroom suite. The room was small and the bathroom was smaller, but they suited my needs. After years living in tents and foxholes, home rivaled the monstrous palaces of Germany and France.

Splashing hot water and soap onto a washcloth, I quickly cleaned my body. I scrubbed my underarms and briskly scoured my groin. My skin felt layered in grime, even though I had bathed the night before. I enjoyed feeling clean. It was another thing I planned to enjoy now that I was out of the Army. Eventually, I'd fix up enough courage to get into the bathtub, but with my unreliable leg, I was too afraid I would find myself stuck in the tub, relying on my mother or father to help me get out. That's the last thing I needed.

Once I was cleaned and dressed, I left my quiet refuge and entered the noisy domain of my mother's house. I heard pans clanging together. Curses floated through the air into the hallway. I followed the noises, knowing they would lead me to the dining room.

Father sat at the dining room table with the morning paper in his broad hands. At the familiar sight, my feet stumbled to a halt. Throughout my childhood, this had been our daily ritual. The familiar sequence was firmly etched into my memory.

I walked over to the chair at the foot of the table, directly facing Father. As the oldest son, it had been my spot. I took my seat and glanced over at the chair at my father's right. Carver's chair was empty now. Probably had been for the last few years.

The old wooden floorboards creaked as Mother entered the room. She had taken a few minutes this morning to freshen herself up as there was no hint of perspiration on her now. She looked cool and composed, and she grasped a large iron pot. It must have been heavy because when she placed it in the center of the table, it made a large thunking sound and shook the table.

"Dammit, Cecilia, is that oatmeal again?" asked Father as he pointed at the pot. There was a sneer on his face and a whine in his voice. He folded the morning paper and slapped it down onto the table. He glanced my way and gave me a long-suffering look.