Boys Life

Stevie had been encouraging Lainie to leave Miss Grace’s and straighten up her act. They’d started talking about getting married. Miss Grace had been in favor of it, because she didn’t want any girl working for her who couldn’t put her all into the job. But Donny Blaylock fancied himself to be Lainie’s boyfriend. He hated Little Stevie anyway because as much as Donny wanted to deny it, Midnight Mona could leave Big Dick dragging. He’d decided the only way to keep Lainie working was to get Stevie out of the picture. The crash and burning of Midnight Mona had been the wreck of Lainie’s dreams as well, and from that point on she didn’t care about what she did, with who, or where. As Miss Grace had said, Lainie had gotten as rough as a cob.
    The last I heard of Lainie, she was going home, older and wiser.
    Sadder, too.
    But who ever said everybody gets a happy ending?
    Some of this information came right from the jackass’s mouth. Donny was behind bars in the Zephyr jail, which stood next to the courthouse. He’d been found, dancing with a scarecrow, by a farmer with a very large shotgun. The sight of iron bars in front of his face had squared up some of Donny’s raggedy edges, and he had come out of his madness long enough to admit running Little Stevie off the road. It was clear that this time a Blaylock was not going to escape the long arm of the law, even if the hand on that arm was dirty with Blaylock cash.
    November had touched the yards of Zephyr with frosty fingers. The hills had gone brown, the leaves falling. They crackled like little fireworks when somebody came up the walk. We heard them on a Tuesday evening, when a fire burned in our hearth, Dad was reading the newspaper, and Mom was poring over her cookbooks for new pie and cake recipes.
    Dad answered the door when the knock sounded. Sheriff Junior Talmadge Amory stood under the porch light, his long-jawed face sullen and his hat in his hand. He had the collar of his jacket turned up; it was cold out there.
    “Can I come in, Tom?” he asked.
    “I don’t know,” Dad said.
    “I’d understand if you didn’t care to talk to me anymore. I’d take it like a man. But… I sure would like to have my say about some things.”
    Mom stepped up beside my father. “Let him in, Tom. All right?”
    Dad opened the door, and the sheriff came in from the night.
    “Hi, Cory,” he said to me. I was on the floor next to the fireplace, doing my Alabama history homework. A certain area where Rebel used to lounge in the hearth’s glow seemed awfully empty. But life went on.
    “Hi,” I said.
    “Cory, go to your room,” Dad instructed, but Sheriff Amory said, “Tom, I’d like for him to hear me out, too, seein’ as he was the one found out and all.”
    I stayed where I was. Sheriff Amory sank his slim Ichabod Crane body onto the couch and put his hat on the coffee table. He sat staring at the silver star that adorned it. Dad sat down again, and Mom-ever the hospitable one-asked the sheriff if he’d like some apple pie or spice cake but he shook his head. She sat down, too, her chair and Dad’s bracketing the fireplace.
    “I won’t be sheriff very much longer,” Sheriff Amory began. “Mayor Swope’s gonna appoint a new man as soon as he can decide on one. I figure I’ll be done with it by the middle of the month.” He sighed heavily. “I expect we’ll be leavin’ town before December.”
    “I’m sorry to hear it,” Dad told him. “But I was sorrier to hear what Cory had to tell me. I guess I can’t kick you around too much, though. You could’ve lied when I came to you about it.”
    “I wanted to. Real bad. But if you can’t believe your own son, who in the world can you believe?”
    Dad scowled. He looked as if he wanted to spit a foul taste from his mouth. “For God’s sake, why’d you do it, J.T.? Takin’ money from the Blaylocks to shield ’em? Lookin’ the other way when they sold their ’shine and suckered people into that crooked gamblin’ den? Not to mention Miss Grace’s house, and I like and respect Miss Grace but God knows she oughta be in some other line of work. What else did you do for Biggun Blaylock? Polish his boots?”
    “Yes,” the sheriff said.
    “Yes what?”
    “I did. Polish his boots.” Sheriff Amory gave a wan, tired smile. His eyes were black holes of sadness and regret. His smile slipped off, leaving his mouth twisted with pain. “I always went to Biggun’s house to get my money. He