The Choiring of the Trees - Donald Harington [65]
So Timbo Red commenced attempting to draw a bear from memory or imagination, and Nail would point out that the ears were a little off, or the nose was too flat, and the eyes looked a little more gentle than that, et cetera. Soon, between Nail’s talking and Timbo’s drawing, they had themselves a pretty fair bear.
Nail wanted to tell Timbo Red about Miss Monday. He wanted to tell the boy that he hoped to get him one of those drawing-sticks made of charcoal that real artists use, and something to draw on more permanent than a pissed-on floor. But he didn’t want to count his chickens before they hatched, and he hadn’t even been able to send the request off to the lady.
Nail and Timbo Red talked about other things. They talked about hunting and fishing, and which was the best gun for a squirrel and the best bait for a bass. Timbo Red had never seen a panther up close, and Nail described one and their habits and how to shoot one if you had to.
Sometimes, when they weren’t talking about wildlife, Nail would tell the boy some of the old tall tales that he’d heard from the oldtimers: tales of kings and princesses and monsters, tales of trickery and daring and brave escape. Nail had never before been a storyteller, just a listener, and he was a little surprised to discover he had a talent for it. The boy made a rapt audience, especially for the stories about brave escape, and that helped.
Out of the blue one evening Timbo Red asked him, “Was the gal ye took willin, or didje really have to force her?”
Nail stared at the boy, not understanding the question for a long moment. Then he simply said, “There wasn’t no gal.”
Timbo Red, for one, believed him. He got Nail to tell him the history, to tell him about Dorinda Whitter and Judge Sull Jerram and the county sheriff and the moonshine business and all that. When Nail had finished the long story, Timbo Red declared, “I knew a gal lak thet wunst.” Timbo Red talked about this old Stone County gal who was cut from the same bolt of gingham that Rindy was, and who got an innocent man in bad trouble, although he left the country before they could send him to the chair. “What’s thet cheer like?” Timbo Red inquired, and wanted Nail to give him a complete description of Old Sparky. On the floor Timbo Red drew a chalk picture of Old Sparky that was amazing, considering he had never actually seen the chair himself. For some reason that drawing was allowed to remain for several days before it got pissed away.
One day Nail was telling Timbo Red the story of the king and his daughter Rhonda, who was beheaded by her father because she wouldn’t let him seduce her. The climax of this awful tale was interrupted by the appearance of Farrell Cobb. Nail just looked up from watching the reactions of his listener to his tale and there was the lawyer standing there, unsmiling. Farrell Cobb himself looked like someone who’d just been required to behead his own daughter. He looked like a preacher at a funeral. Nail’s heart took a jump and got caught in his throat.
“Bad news, huh?” Nail said.
Cobb nodded. “I regret to say,” he obviously regretted to say, “that the state Supreme Court doesn’t want to hear your appeal.”
“What do you mean?” Nail asked. “Did they shut the door on ye?”
“Figuratively, yes. Literally, I was allowed to present my request to be heard. They gave me all of an hour. Most of them listened. Judge Bourland spoke to them also, on your behalf. Judge Hart asked some intelligent questions and seemed genuinely interested in our case, but the others…” Farrell Cobb raised his hands as if trying to lift an impossible weight off his shoulders. “I’m sorry. The general feeling seems to be that unless Circuit Judge Villines recommends commutation of his original sentence, that sentence must be carried out.”
“But Villines is in cahoots with those fellers who did it!” Nail protested.
“Did what?” Cobb asked.
“Raped the girl and tried to pin it on me!”
“Why would Judge Villines want to do that?”
“That’s a long story, and I