Carnal Innocence

done, Tucker figured he would do some feeling out of his own.
    The next morning, strung out after barely five hours’ sleep, Burke was spooning up corn flakes, worrying about having an armed escapee in his territory— they’d found the Buick ditched out on Cottonseed Road, and nobody was thinking Austin was in Mexico now. On top of that, there was the issue of whether he’d have to rent a tuxedo to give his daughter away.
    Susie was already on the phone with Happy Fuller, and the two of them were mapping out wedding planswith the intensity and guile of generals mounting a major campaign.
    He was wondering how long the county sheriff would be on his back, when the screams and crashes from next door had him jumping to his feet.
    Holy Christ, he thought, how could he have forgotten about the Talbots? By the time Susie came rushing in, Burke was already clearing the fence that separated the yards.
    “You’ve killed him! You’ve killed him!” Darleen screamed. She was backed into a corner of the small, jumbled kitchen, pulling her hair. The elastic bodice of her shortie nightgown was drawn down, cupped beneath one white, jiggling breast.
    Burke looked politely away from that to the overturned table, the splattered remains of soggy cereal, and the prone figure of Billy T. Bonny, who lay facedown in a pool of grits.
    Burke shook his head and looked at Junior Talbot standing over Billy T. with a cast-iron skillet in his hand.
    “I sure hope you didn’t kill him, Junior.”
    “Don’t figure I did.” Junior put the skillet down calmly enough. “Only whacked him once.”
    “Well, let’s take a look.” Burke bent down while Darleen continued to scream and yank at her hair. In the playpen, Scooter was raising the roof. “Just knocked him cold,” Burke said, taking in the sizable lump coming up on the back of Billy T.’s head. “Should probably get him over to Doc’s, though.”
    “I’ll help you haul him.”
    Still crouched, Burke glanced up. “You want to tell me what went on here, Junior?”
    “Well …” Junior righted a chair. “Seems I forgot to tell Darleen something. When I came on back, I saw that Billy T. there had snuck into the kitchen and was forcing himself on my wife.” He shot Darleen a look that shut off her wailing like a finger on a switch. “Ain’t that right, Darleen?”
    “I …” She sniffled, and her eyes darted from Burke to Billy T. and back to Junior. “That’s right. I—hewas on me so quick, I didn’t know what to do. Then Junior came back, and …”
    “You go on and see to the baby,” Junior said quietly. He reached over with that same unruffled calm and pulled the pink rayon over her breast. “You don’t have to worry about Billy T. bothering you again.”
    She swallowed and her head bobbed twice. “Yes, Junior.”
    She rushed out and in a moment the baby’s wails turned to hiccoughing sobs. Junior looked back at Billy T. He was beginning to stir a little.
    “A man has to protect what’s his, don’t he, Sheriff?”
    Burke hooked his arms under Billy T.’s. “I expect he does, Junior. Let’s haul him out to my car.”
    Cy was happy. It shamed him a little to be so happy when his sister had just been put in the ground and the whole town was whispering about his father. But he couldn’t help it.
    It was almost enough just to be out of the house where his mother was sprawled, glassy-eyed with whatever pills Doc had given her, watching the
Today
show.
    But it was better than just getting out of the house, better than walking away from the police car that sat in the yard waiting to see if his daddy would try to come home. Cy was going to work. And he was going in style.
    His shoes kicked up dust and his lips whistled a tune. The prospect of walking and biking ten miles didn’t daunt him in the least. He was embarking on the Cy Hatinger Freedom Fund. The fund that was going to buy his way out of Innocence on his eighteenth birthday.
    The four years stretched painfully long, but not as hopeless as they had been before he’d become a man of all work.
    He like the title, and imagined himself with one of those business cards, like that Bible salesman from Vicksburg had given his mother last April. It would read:
    C YRUS H ATINGER
    MAN OF ALL WORK
    · · ·
    No job too big
    No job too small
    Yes sir, he was on his way. By the time he was eighteen, he’d have saved enough to buy himself a ticket to Jackson. Maybe even New Orleans. Shitfire! He could go clean to