Carnal Innocence

pride was a touchy thing. “Well, I’ve got to run into town for some things.” He strolled off the porch, improvising as he went. “That woman runs me ragged fetching this and picking up that. How come women can’t figure out what it is they need all at once?”
    Cy stared down at the silver handlebars, focusing on the splotches of rust. “I don’t know.”
    “One of the mysteries of the universe.” He laid a friendly hand on Cy’s shoulder and felt him flinch. With a guilty start he realized again how thin the boy was, and how hard he’d been working. “Why don’t you load that up in the Olds, Cy? I can give you a ride most of the way home.”
    Cy’s knuckles whitened on the handlebars. “I don’t want to trouble you, Mr. Tucker.”
    “I’ve got to drive right by your turnoff. Come on, let’s get to it before she can think of something else to send me for.”
    “Yes sir.” Head down, Cy wheeled the bike over to the drive. His head was ringing like an anvil by the time Tucker had plucked the keys out of the ignition and unlocked the trunk.
    “God knows why she drives this old boat,” Tucker muttered. “You could fit three dead bodies in the trunk.” He shoved some of Della’s debris aside. A cardboard box full of old clothes meant to go to the church. Three pair of shoes to be taken in for repair next time she was passing through Greenville, a box of mason jars and an over-and-under Winchester.
    Cy’s gaze lit on the gun. Then jumped away. Tucker noted the look as he hefted the Schwinn into the truck. “She’s been hauling that thing around in there for months. Says she might need to shoot some crazed rapist if the car breaks down somewhere.” Tucker pulled out a length of rope and wound it carelessly around the bumper. “I can’t quite picture Della sitting on the hood with a shotgun across her lap, laying for crazed rapists, but there you go.”
    Cy said nothing, nothing at all, and climbed in the car. Tucker pulled one of his cassettes from the glove compartment. “I hide these in here,” he told Cy. “A woman never goes in a glove compartment. How about some Presley?”
    “Okay.” Cy linked his stiff fingers in his lap. “Fine.”
    “Boy, Presley’s not fine. He’s king.” Tucker flipped in the cassette and revved the engine to “Heartbreak Hotel.” He sang the opening bars along with the King as they headed down the lane. “You getting along all right at home?”
    “At home?”
    “Your mama doing better?”
    “She’s … she’s getting by.”
    “If you need something—money or something— you can ask me. You don’t have to tell her where it came from.”
    Cy had to stare out of the window. He couldn’t face the concern, the simple kindness. “We’re getting along.” He caught a glimpse of Toby’s truck at the end of Caroline’s lane and wanted to weep. How could he ever go whistling up to Jim again? After today, he’d be the same as a murderer.
    “You want to tell me what’s on your mind, Cy?”
    “Sir?” Cy swiveled his head back. His heart bobbed up to his throat. “Nothing, Mr. Tucker. I’ve got nothing on my mind.”
    “I haven’t been fourteen in a while,” Tucker said easily. “But I remember what it was like. I remember what it was like to have a father with a heavy hand and a short fuse.” Tucker glanced over, and his eyes were so fullof understanding, Cy had to turn away again. “You weren’t limping when you got into the car, Cy.”
    The ball of fear in his belly spread. “I guess, I guess my leg’s feeling better.”
    Tucker said nothing for a moment, then moved his shoulders. “If that’s the way you want it.”
    They were driving along the skinny trickle of Little Hope now. Cy knew that they’d be coming up to the culvert in less than a mile. “I—I keep the bike down by the stream. In the culvert.”
    “All right. I’ll drop you there if you want.”
    “Maybe you could …” Help me take it down. Help me wheel it down off the road and into the culvert where my daddy’s waiting for you. You’ll help me take it down, because you’re willing to help when you’re asked.
    “Could what?”
    Almost there. Almost there. Cy wiped the back of his hand over his dry mouth. It wasn’t icy fear in his belly now, it was a sick green fist of horror. I
just have to ask him, and he’ll do it.
And Cy caught the glint of light— reflected off the lens of binoculars. Or perhaps a knife.
    “Stop! Stop the car!” In panic he