Sometimes old stories become songs. Sometimes it's the other way 'round. - MM
The grass out back needed cut something fierce. Following the heavy afternoon rain, the whole yard
shimmered in the early evening sun like diamonds had somehow taken root in the dirt and grass alike. Steam rose from the fields beyond the house. The air smelled of wet earth, fish grease, and mildew.
Inside, the baby just would not stop crying.
Eddie sat slumped at the kitchen table while Mama had just started frying bluegill in an iron skillet blackened by thirty years of suppers. He looked bad. Worse than he had in a good while.
His hair hung damp against his forehead and there were dark half-moons beneath his eyes. His shirt was streaked with mud up to the elbows. He kept rubbing at his temples like he was trying to press the pain out through his skull.
“Can Mary fry some fish, Mama?” he muttered weakly. “I’m as hungry as can be.”
“I’m already fixin’ it,” Mama answered softly.
Eddie lowered his head onto his folded arms.
“Lordy,” he groaned. “I wish somebody’d keep that baby quiet. My head’s killin’ me.”
Mama nodded toward the back room. “Mary, go tend to the baby.”
Mary scooped the baby up and disappeared down the hallway while Mama rested a hand against Eddie’s shoulders. The old kitchen fan buzzed overhead with a tired wobble.
For a while nobody spoke.
Then Eddie suddenly sat upright.
“I seen Clara last night,” he said.
Mama paused.
“At Miller’s store?”
He nodded slowly.
“She was dancin’ with that Jackie White.”
His voice changed when he said the name. It flattened out. Went cold.
Rainwater dripped from the cuff of his jeans onto the floorboards.
“I killed ‘em both.”
The skillet hissed.
Mama stared at him without blinking.
Eddie looked down at the table while he spoke, calm as somebody discussing fence posts.
“Jackie was easy. I hit him with a tire iron soon as they stepped behind the store.” He scratched absently at the dried mud on his wrist.
“Clara screamed some. Tried runnin’. Didn’t make it far.”
Mama’s hand slowly slid away from his shoulder.
“I buried ‘em both beneath old man Jenkins’ sycamore...you know, the one in the field.”
Outside, thunder rumbled somewhere far off in the hills.
Nobody in the county liked that tree much.
Lightning had struck it twice and never killed it. The bark peeled away in great white strips that looked like old skin. Kids dared one another to touch it at Halloween. Folks claimed horses spooked whenever they passed near it after dark.
Eddie swallowed hard.
“You think I’m psycho, don’t you, Mama?”
Mama forced herself to move again. She picked up a chipped coffee cup with trembling hands and filled it from the old percolator.
“No, baby,” she whispered.
But she set the cup down carefully.
Too carefully.
Like she was afraid sudden movements might startle him.
Eddie wrapped both hands around the coffee.
“You oughta let ‘em lock me up.”
The baby started crying again from the back room.
Eddie shut his eyes tight.
His jaw twitched.
“Don’t hand me Johnny’s pup neither,” he muttered. “I might squeeze him too tight.”
Mama said nothing.
The kitchen suddenly felt too small. Too hot. The walls damp with old summers and old grief.
Then Eddie smiled faintly.
Not happy.
Just remembering.
“I been havin’ those crazy dreams again.”
Mama’s fingers tightened around the edge of the sink.
“What dreams?”
Eddie stared out the window toward the fields.
“I woke up standin’ over Johnny’s bed last night.”
The fan creaked overhead.
“My hands was right there near his throat.”
Mama shut her eyes.
“And?”
Eddie shrugged.
“I don’t rightly know.”
From the hallway came the soft creak of a floorboard.
Mary stood there pale as milk, the baby against her shoulder.
“You should take the baby and go stay with Aunt Ruth tonight,” Mama said quietly.
Mary didn’t argue.
That frightened him more than anything.
Eddie looked up slowly.
“You really think I’m psycho, don't you Mama?”
“Nobody said that.”
“But you’re thinkin’ it.”
Mama turned back toward the stove before he could see her face.
The fish had started to burn. Smoke curled toward the ceiling in thin blue ribbons.
Then Eddie laughed softly to himself.
“You know that little girl next door? Betty Clark?”
Mama froze completely.
“What about her?”
“I seen her down by the park earlier.”
A long silence filled the kitchen.
Finally Mama whispered:
“Eddie...she's...”
“She was sittin’ on a bench.”
His eyes drifted somewhere far beyond the walls of the house.
“Thinkin’ up some kinda game.”
Mama’s breathing became shallow.
Eddie frowned faintly.
“Funny thing is...”
He looked down at his own hands as though noticing them for the first time.
“...I was holdin’ a wrench.”
The baby began crying harder.
Mama suddenly shoved her chair back and stood.
“You stay right there,” she said.
But Eddie’s face twisted with confusion.
“Then my mind just sorta...walked away.”
Mama hurried toward the telephone mounted on the wall beside the pantry.
The cord shook in her hands.
Eddie watched her quietly.
“You’re callin’ the sheriff, ain't ya? Better let 'im lock me up.”
Mama didn’t answer.
He nodded slowly like a man finally understanding something important.
“Guess maybe you should.”
Her fingers slipped against the rotary dial.
Then the coffee cup shattered against the floor.
Mama gasped.
Eddie was standing now.
Not angry.
Not wild.
That was the worst part.
He looked calm.
“Mama?”
She backed away from him until she hit the sink.
“Mama,” he said again softly. “Why're you scared of me?”
Outside, the evening cicadas screamed from the soaked trees.
Mama opened her mouth to answer.
Eddie’s eyes drifted toward the cast iron skillet cooling on the stove.
Then toward the heavy butcher knife lying beside it.
“Mama,” he whispered sadly.
The baby cried.
The fan creaked.
The skillet popped softly.
"Say something Mama..."
Then as softly as any loving son:
“Mama...why don’t you get up?”
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