“Is that telephone box still outside the drugstore?” Joel asked the nearest driver.
“It is.”
“Can you take me there?”
“Hop in.”
The square was packed with late Saturday shoppers. Even during the picking season, the farmers and their field hands cleaned up after lunch and headed to town. The stores were filled, the sidewalks packed, the Atrium was showing Bing Crosby in Blue Skies, and a long line waited around the corner. Live bluegrass was entertaining a throng on the courthouse lawn. Joel preferred to avoid the crowds and asked his driver to stop on a side street. The phone box in front of Gainwright’s Pharmacy was occupied. Joel stood beside it, fidgeting for the benefit of the young lady using the phone, and tried his best to avoid eye contact with the packs of people passing by. When he was finally inside he punched in a nickel and called Aunt Florry. After a few rings she answered.
Assuming, as always, that someone was listening on their rural party line, he said quickly, “Florry, it’s me. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“What? Who?”
“Your favorite nephew. Bye.”
As the only nephew, he was confident she got the message. Showing up unannounced would give her too much of a shock. Plus, he was starving and figured a little advance notice might get some hot food on the table. Back in the cab, he asked the driver to ease by the Methodist church. As they left the bustling square, they passed Cal’s Game Room, a pool hall known for its bootleg beer and craps in the back. As a young teenager in Clanton, Joel had been strictly warned by his father to stay away from Cal’s, in much the same way that all proper young men had been cautioned. It was a rowdy place on weekends, with a rough crowd, and there were usually fights and such. Because it was off-limits, Joel had always been tempted to sneak in during his high school days. His friends would brag about hanging out at Cal’s, and there were even stories of girls upstairs. Now, though, with three years of college behind him, and in the big city at that, Joel scoffed at the notion of being tempted by such a low-end dive. He knew the fine bars of Nashville and all the pleasures they offered. He could not imagine ever returning to live in Clanton, a town where the beer and liquor were illegal, as were most things.
The lights were on in the sanctuary of the Methodist church, and as they passed it the driver said, “You from around here?”
“Not really,” Joel said.
“So you haven’t heard the big news this week, about the preacher?”
“Yeah, I read about it. A strange story.”
“Shot him right there,” the driver said, pointing to the annex behind the sanctuary. “Buried him this afternoon. Got the guy in jail but he won’t say anything.”
Joel did not respond, did not wish to pursue this conversation that he had not initiated. He gazed at the church as they eased past it, and he remembered with great fondness those Sunday mornings when he and Stella would be dressed in their finest, bow ties and bonnets, and walked into the sanctuary holding hands with their parents, who were also turned out in their Sunday best. Joel knew at a young age that his father’s suits and his mother’s dresses were a bit nicer than the average Methodist’s, and their cars and trucks were always newer, and they talked of finishing college and not just high school. He realized a lot as a child, but because he was a Banning he was also taught humility and the virtue of saying as little as possible.
He had been baptized in that church when he was ten years old; Stella at nine. The family had faithfully attended the weekly services, the fall and spring revivals, the cookouts, potluck suppers, funerals, weddings, and an endless schedule of social events because for them, and for many in their town, the church was the center of society. Joel remembered all of the pastors who had come and gone. Pastor Wardall had buried his grandfather Jacob Banning. Ron Cooper had baptized Joel, and his son had been Joel’s best friend in the fourth grade. And on and on. The pastors came and went until Dexter Bell arrived before the war.
Evidently, he stayed too long.
Joel said, “Head out Highway 18. I’ll show you where to stop.”
The cabbie replied, “To where? Always like to know where I’m goin’.”
“Out by the Banning place.”
“You a Banning?”
There was nothing worse than a nosy cabdriver. Joel ignored him and glanced through the rear window at the church as it disappeared around the corner. He had liked Dexter Bell, though by his early teens he was beginning to question his harsh sermons. It was Pastor Bell who had sat with the family on that horrible evening when they had been informed that Lieutenant Pete Banning was missing and presumed dead in the Philippines. During those dark days, Pastor Bell took charge of the mourning—directing the church ladies and their endless parade of food, organizing prayer vigils at the church, shooing folks away from the house when privacy was needed, and counseling the family, almost daily, it seemed. Joel and Stella even whispered complaints when they grew tired of the counseling. What they wanted was to spend time alone with their mother, but the reverend was always around. Often he brought his wife, Jackie; other times he did not. As Joel grew older, he found Jackie Bell cold and aloof, and Stella didn’t like her either.
Joel closed his eyes and shook his head again. It wasn’t really true, was it? His father had murdered Dexter Bell and was now locked up?
The cotton began at the edge of town, and under a full moon it was plain to see which fields had been picked. Though he had no plans to farm like his ancestors, Joel checked the market on the Memphis Cotton Exchange every day in The Nashville Tennessean. It was pretty damned important. The land would one day belong to him, and to Stella, and the annual harvest would be crucial.
“Gonna be a nice crop this year,” the cabbie said.
“That’s what I hear. About another mile and I’ll get out.”
Moments later, Joel said, “Up there at Pace Road, that’ll be fine.”
“In the middle of nowhere?”
“That’s right.” The cab slowed, turned onto a gravel road, and stopped. “That’ll be a dollar,” the driver said. Joel handed him four quarters, thanked him for the lift, and got out with his small duffel. After the cab turned around and was headed back to town, he walked the quarter mile to the driveway leading to his home.
The house was dark and unlocked, and as he eased through it he figured Mack, the bluetick hound, was either at Nineva’s or at Florry’s. Otherwise, he would have been barking when Joel approached on the gravel drive. In earlier times and not that long ago, the house would have been alive with the voices of his parents, and music on the radio, and perhaps friends over for dinner on a Saturday night. But tonight it was a tomb, dark and still and smelling of stale tobacco.