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Authors: Bette Lee Crosby
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didn’t—I stared him right in the eye, and waited for an answer.
“Well actually, I’m self-employed. I do consulting ,” Elliott finally said.
That answer didn’t surprise me one bit. Consulting is what most people claim to do when they don’t really have a job. Elliott struck me as the type of person who was looking to avoid work rather than find it. He was a sly one all right. Thing is, you don’t get to be my age without having a few tricks up your own sleeve. While we were having the butterscotch pudding I brought up the subject of Margaret Louise. “I trust your grandma taught you to be a good and faithful Baptist, like Papa taught us.”
“Yes, indeed.” Elliott answered. “And I am a devout Baptist to this day.”
Will’s eyes opened real wide and Becky sniggered quietly.
“That’s nice to know,” I said and took another spoonful of pudding. The rat was in the trap as far as I was concerned. Everybody knew Papa was a staunch Methodist and the only thing he hated more than vagrant Negroes was Baptists. Papa always claimed that the Baptists were a bunch of rabble-rousing hillbillies using the house of God to cover up their sins. Papa had more than a few sins of his own, but in his mind being a God-fearing Methodist equalized any transgressions.
After dinner, I helped Becky do the dishes then took my leave. On the drive home I turned the car radio to the Revival station and added my voice to those of the Gospel Singers. Each time they’d bellow about the Lord God lifting them across the river of sin, I jumped in with a chorus of Amens . I felt right good about what I’d done.
D ear sweet Becky died three months later. Looking back, I’m certain she knew about the cancer that day in her kitchen. I suppose it was pretty far gone by then and she probably thought telling me wouldn’t have made any difference. If I’d known, I’m sure I could have done something—but, maybe not.
Will fell apart after that. He’d sit in the chair and stare at the television, not even taking notice of whether it was turned on or not. When I came over that Saturday, two weeks after the funeral, he was sitting there watching a Bugs Bunny cartoon. I snapped the TV off and said, “When’s the last time you took a bath?” You could actually smell him as soon as you came through the front door.
“I forget,” Will answered.
“Did you also forget to change your underwear? Eat dinner?” I knew I was being a bit harsh, but when someone’s grieving the way he was, you have to do something to help them snap out of it. When nothing seemed to work, I told him; “Will, you’re gonna have to come to Middleboro and stay with me.”
He looked up and his eyes were so sad they about broke my heart. “Okay,” he said. And that was how it happened. We loaded his clothes into my car and drove back to Middleboro. He followed me out the door of that house and never looked back again.
A girl named Rosalina once told me that her grandmother had the ability to put a hex on people—supposedly the woman caused a wart the size of an egg to swell up on her sister-in-law’s nose and Rosalina could recount plenty of other instances as well. A man who cheated the grandmother got hit by a garbage truck; a neighbor kicked a dog and got his cellar flooded; a heavy-handed butcher had thirty-six pounds of pork sausage spoil overnight—not one of those incidents had a logical explanation, other than the hex. I’ve often thought if I had such an ability Elliott Emerson would have started looking like Pinocchio as he sat there telling all those lies to Detective Nichols.
After he had blurted out the worst of his accusations, Elliott told the detective, “This girl’s unscrupulous; she has no job. Swindling old people out of their life’s savings, that’s what she does for a living!”
“Destiny Fairchild?”
“Yes! Destiny Fairchild!”
“On what is this allegation based?”
“She’s stolen my
“Well actually, I’m self-employed. I do consulting ,” Elliott finally said.
That answer didn’t surprise me one bit. Consulting is what most people claim to do when they don’t really have a job. Elliott struck me as the type of person who was looking to avoid work rather than find it. He was a sly one all right. Thing is, you don’t get to be my age without having a few tricks up your own sleeve. While we were having the butterscotch pudding I brought up the subject of Margaret Louise. “I trust your grandma taught you to be a good and faithful Baptist, like Papa taught us.”
“Yes, indeed.” Elliott answered. “And I am a devout Baptist to this day.”
Will’s eyes opened real wide and Becky sniggered quietly.
“That’s nice to know,” I said and took another spoonful of pudding. The rat was in the trap as far as I was concerned. Everybody knew Papa was a staunch Methodist and the only thing he hated more than vagrant Negroes was Baptists. Papa always claimed that the Baptists were a bunch of rabble-rousing hillbillies using the house of God to cover up their sins. Papa had more than a few sins of his own, but in his mind being a God-fearing Methodist equalized any transgressions.
After dinner, I helped Becky do the dishes then took my leave. On the drive home I turned the car radio to the Revival station and added my voice to those of the Gospel Singers. Each time they’d bellow about the Lord God lifting them across the river of sin, I jumped in with a chorus of Amens . I felt right good about what I’d done.
D ear sweet Becky died three months later. Looking back, I’m certain she knew about the cancer that day in her kitchen. I suppose it was pretty far gone by then and she probably thought telling me wouldn’t have made any difference. If I’d known, I’m sure I could have done something—but, maybe not.
Will fell apart after that. He’d sit in the chair and stare at the television, not even taking notice of whether it was turned on or not. When I came over that Saturday, two weeks after the funeral, he was sitting there watching a Bugs Bunny cartoon. I snapped the TV off and said, “When’s the last time you took a bath?” You could actually smell him as soon as you came through the front door.
“I forget,” Will answered.
“Did you also forget to change your underwear? Eat dinner?” I knew I was being a bit harsh, but when someone’s grieving the way he was, you have to do something to help them snap out of it. When nothing seemed to work, I told him; “Will, you’re gonna have to come to Middleboro and stay with me.”
He looked up and his eyes were so sad they about broke my heart. “Okay,” he said. And that was how it happened. We loaded his clothes into my car and drove back to Middleboro. He followed me out the door of that house and never looked back again.
A girl named Rosalina once told me that her grandmother had the ability to put a hex on people—supposedly the woman caused a wart the size of an egg to swell up on her sister-in-law’s nose and Rosalina could recount plenty of other instances as well. A man who cheated the grandmother got hit by a garbage truck; a neighbor kicked a dog and got his cellar flooded; a heavy-handed butcher had thirty-six pounds of pork sausage spoil overnight—not one of those incidents had a logical explanation, other than the hex. I’ve often thought if I had such an ability Elliott Emerson would have started looking like Pinocchio as he sat there telling all those lies to Detective Nichols.
After he had blurted out the worst of his accusations, Elliott told the detective, “This girl’s unscrupulous; she has no job. Swindling old people out of their life’s savings, that’s what she does for a living!”
“Destiny Fairchild?”
“Yes! Destiny Fairchild!”
“On what is this allegation based?”
“She’s stolen my
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