The Choiring of the Trees - Donald Harington [95]
“You ort to see this yere big house where Very lives at,” she said, and held her hands high over her head. “It’s the beatenest house ever I seed. That’s whar I’m a-stayin. Today we’re gonna go out to the state capitol buildin and see the governor! We’re gonna give that governor Very’s position with all them names on it!” Rindy began to smile for the first time. “I’m gonna stand up thar in front of the governor and swaller my teeth and tell ’im it was all a big mistake. Then you jist wait and see if you aint out of yere in two shakes of a dead lamb’s tail, I bet ye!”
“I hope that governor believes ye,” he said.
“Oh, Very says he’s got to believe me! I’m gonna tell him the truth, jist edzackly lak it was.”
For the first time he was able to soften his tone. “That’s fine spoke. I ’preciate that, Rindy. I shore do.”
“And when you git out and come back up home, I hope ye won’t be mad at me no more. I’ll do anything you want me to do iffen ye’ll fergive me.”
“All I want ye to do is stay away from that Sull. He aint a bit o’ good fer ye.”
“Don’t I know it? I shore learnt my lesson. He’s the meanest feller on this airth. What he done to Waymon—” Rindy put both hands over her mouth.
Nail put both hands on the screen, in defiance of Bird. “Yeah? What was you about to say?”
“I aint sposed to mention Waymon.”
“Rindy. Look at me. What did Sull do to Waymon? Tell me.”
She whispered, “He shot him in the back.”
“Naw! When was this? He aint dead, is he?”
Bird said, “Big boy, take your hands off that screen. Your time is up anyhow. Better get on back to your roost. Here comes Short Leg.”
“Listen,” Nail said to Bird and raised his manacled wrists to gesture toward the anteroom, “could you get that lady to come back in here for just a second? I got to ast her something.”
“Sorry. You caint chaw your tobacco twice. Here’s Short Leg.”
“Rindy! Waymon’s not kilt, is he? Don’t tell me he’s kilt!”
“No, Nail, he’s still alive,” she said.
“Goddammit! Jist let me git out of here!” Short Leg took his arm and led him toward the door. “Rindy, you make that governor let me out of here!” he called to her from the door.
“I will,” she said.
Off
For the longest time he heard nothing from the outside world. He became painfully aware of this fact of prison life: if you expect nothing, you’ll be satisfied, but if you’re waiting for something, even death, time will drag, each day will last a week, and if you take a minute to wonder when you’re going to get what you’re expecting, the minute will become an hour.
Could it be possible, as his calendar told him, that here it was March already and that weeks had gone by since Viridis and Rindy had made their visits to him and to the governor? Or had he just imagined both of those females and their visits? No, he had at least some proof of it, in the form of the sketchbook that Timbo Red was now filling up with drawings: Viridis had brought it for him, not exactly smuggling it in, as he had suggested, but openly giving it to Mr. Burdell and telling him that it was a gift from the employees of the Arkansas Gazette, for Timbo Red, a talented young artist, and Burdell had let the boy have it, and Timbo Red was beside himself with joy. Nail would have been very happy for the kid too, except that it was really hard to be happy about somebody else’s good fortune when your own luck was running so bad. He couldn’t understand it. He spent all his time watching for the appearance of Farrell Cobb and an expected letter from Viridis. After a few weeks he even got up his nerve and asked the warden, “Mr. Burdell, sir, you aint happen to have heard anything about maybe Mr. Cobb is sick or anything like that?” and Mr. Burdell had just looked at him and grinned and shrugged his shoulders.
It was enough to drive a fellow crazy, if he wasn’t already. Nail had two things that kept him from going over the brink: his tree charm, which he would finger in moments of intense anxiety, and the one December letter from Viridis, by now reduced almost to shreds; but no matter if it did eventually