A Fine Cast of Characters - J. Dane Tyler [67]
Martin blinked. “This person told you she murdered someone? She told you?”
The man stared down at Martin a moment, then shook his head and snorted. “Pathetic. She was our Ol’ Mamma. That means great-granny, BB-balls. ‘Course she told us the story.”
Martin swallowed. The stranger shook his head again.
“Daddy had an Uncle Zak—name was Isaac, but they all called him Zak—who walked into a general store and found the proprietor dead behind the counter. Shot right in the face. Uncle Zak was leaving to get help just as some other folks showed up. Well, they told the law Zak must’ve did it, and Daddy’s family, dirt poor like they were, couldn’t get a fancy lawyer or nothin’. So Uncle Zak went to prison.”
The ember at the end of the cigarette flared in the dark.
“Zak wasn’t cut out for prison life though. Got raped. Beaten. Raped some more. And that was just the guards. ‘Fore too long he ran out of things to say to himself to make himself feel better. Well, they come for him again, but he fought back. Beat a guard to death with his bare hands, and shot another before they tackled him. ‘Course they found him guilty of those so-called murders. Sentenced him for all three killings. Zak said if he was gonna be found guilty, might as well be guilty.
“Said that right up ‘til they hanged him.”
He leaned on the rail with one elbow and crossed his feet. He stared at the cigarette in his fingers.
“I reckon neither of them would’ve thought much of you.”
Martin dropped his eyes between his feet and sniffed.
The stranger adjusted his hat. “When I met my cousin Sharon she was something like seven. She was a barefoot tow-headed kid in a red dress with little yellow flowers on it. We ran, hid, played tag, chased lightning bugs… kid stuff. Became fast friends, even though I only saw her a few times. One summer we visited her family, and Sharon wasn’t there. I asked after her, and her mother looked at me with tears in her eyes and a smile on her face. Said she was sorry, she thought my parents told me. Sharon had passed on the previous fall. Seems she had an aneurysm in her brain. Busted wide open one night. She cried and screamed about her headache until she fell still and quiet. Never woke up. Her parents never did get over it, I think. They say we ain’t meant to bury our children. It leaves a hollow shell where a person used to be, and that’s what her mother was. A shell.”
Martin looked down again, ran his hand through his cold, moist hair.
“But they had other children, so there wasn’t much time to grieve their only daughter. They went on about their business for their boys, who were younger than Sharon. Late in life they had another little girl, and she’s the apple of their eye to this day. Wasn’t easy to go on, but they did.”
Martin opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He closed it.
The stranger rolled the shrinking cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, studied it, then turned his hidden face back to Martin.
“Now, Mamma was a different story altogether,” he said. “She didn’t let on about the pain she felt for years. Years. One day she couldn’t reach over her head to get the supper plates no more. Daddy found her crumpled in a heap on the floor, took her to a doctor and sat with her while he told her she had six or seven weeks to live. Said if she’d come when she first suspected something was wrong he might’ve been able to help her. She looked that bonesetter right in the eye and said he’d have just