Grif Stockley - Religious Conviction

“Not at all likely,” he grunts.

“She and Wallace had been married less than a year, and the word is she was crazy about him. Her daddy complained she was spending too much time at home with him instead of being at the church.”

So if she thought he hung the moon, why would she kill him? At the edge of the woods, I detect some movement. I think I’d be nervous at night out here.

“Was Wallace a member?”

An ugly sound comes from Bracken’s throat.

“Not in good standing,” he says, spitting over the railing into the yard, which is blooming with yellow forsythia and pink redbud trees. A butane tank only a few feet from the deck is mostly hidden by dense shrubbery, out of which arises a birdhouse for martins.

“Shane Norman wouldn’t have let his daughter marry Wallace if he hadn’t joined his church, but right after they married, he quit coming much.”

A small gray rabbit hops into the cleared field and cautiously sniffs the shot-up can. I am reminded of the days when my father and I used to hunt rabbits when I was a kid, and I look to see if Bracken will load the rifle.

He yawns and looks down the barrel.

“Maybe Wallace was playing around,” I guess, “and she caught him at it.”

Satisfied with his job. Bracken props the rifle in the corner against the beam supporting the roof. My father never fired a shot without cleaning and oiling his guns afterward. I think those acts of maintenance somehow gave him as much satisfaction as firing the guns. When his schizophrenia and drinking got bad (eventually he hung himself at the state hospital in Benton), my mother took the guns and gave them to her brother, telling my father someone had stolen them. He had to know what she had done (burglary of the home of a white person in a small town thirty-five years ago was as rare as a comet sighting), but, probably as a result of his illness, he preferred the theory that a crime had been committed. Bracken glances in the direction of the rabbit which has tentatively hopped a couple of feet toward the garden.

“That’s more of a possibility,” he says, standing up and heading down the steps off the porch, “but we haven’t turned up a woman in Wallace’s past.

By all accounts he was deeply in love with her, too.”

The creature sees Bracken and scampers back into the woods. Bracken turns and says somewhat sheepishly, “Live and let live.”

I file away this story. Bracken, who chews up opposing attorneys for breakfast, won’t even fire a warning shot at a rabbit. Perhaps dying is having a mellowing effect on him. It occurs to me that I am going to have the experience of watching a man die. It is a sobering thought. Rosa’s death was not a good experience, but then I was too close. Maybe I can learn something at this distance. I follow him out to his garden where he shows me snow peas, spinach, onions, and broccoli Wynona and Trey have recently planted. He says the spinach especially will be delicious, as if he will be around to eat it. I want to ask him about his cancer but don’t dare. I have been too intimidated by this man to presume familiarity I don’t feel. Curiosity rather than sympathy is my dominant emotion, and though I’m beginning to warm to him, the myths about him shape my feelings to a far greater degree than this homey snap shot. Wearing beltless faded blue jeans that are far too roomy in the back (they are in danger of sliding down his wasted shanks to his knees if he jams his hands in his pockets one more time). Bracken confesses he doesn’t have the energy to do much more until the trial.

“I had to browbeat Leigh to get her to see you tomorrow,” he says, frustration working into his voice.

“She’s been about as useless as I am.”

Embarrassed, I study the ground in the growing dusk.

Only last year Bracken won outright acquittals in four first-degree murder cases in a row. His ability, the courthouse talk goes, has been exceeded only by his arrogance. Obviously, the specter of his own death has vanquished the Chet Bracken of legend.

“I’m a little surprised somebody in that church hasn’t tried to cover for her,” I say, voicing a notion that has recently occurred to me.

“They raised that bond money in a hurry.”

Bracken bends down to pull up a weed.

“I know Nor man, and he wouldn’t allow anyone to do that,” he says sharply.

“If she goes to prison, they’ll have ten members there for her on visiting day the rest of her life, but nobody would be permitted to lie for her no matter how much it would help. We don’t do things that way.”

We. It is hard to take seriously Bracken’s conversion.

If he’s so hot for it, how come he isn’t in church to night? Rainey was going. His sanctimonious tone sticks in my craw. Is he suggesting that I would suborn per jury? A decade ago, when Bracken was first making his reputation, the prosecuting attorney of Blackwell County claimed that he had bought a witness in a rape case but couldn’t make the charge against him stick. I can’t keep my irritation pushed down.

“Joining a church doesn’t make a person a saint.”

Bracken smiles as if I had said something funny. He pokes at his teeth with the weed he has pulled from the ground.

“I want you to talk to Leigh’s father, too,” he says mildly.

“You’re not going to get a feel for what I’m talking about until you do.”

“I’ll be glad to,” I say, inwardly groaning at the thought. It is not only the Jim Bakkers, Jimmy Swaggarts, and Oral Robertses who have given Protestants a bad name. During John Kennedy’s campaign for the presidency. Catholics were suspect in Bear Creek.

Home during the summer from Subiaco, I was told more than once everybody knew the Pope would be calling the shots if he got elected.

“Did Wallace keep a gun in the house?” I ask, wanting Bracken to focus on the murder itself.

Bracken leads me back to the deck.

“Leigh claimed he didn’t own one, and the cops can’t prove he did, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’ve got three guns in this house that were given to me.” Apparently exhausted by our excursion to the garden. Bracken sinks gratefully into his chair.

Seated again, I watch the rabbit bound into the cleared ground and head for the garden. Bracken doesn’t even bother to wave his arms.

“As circumstantial as the case against her is,” I point out, “maybe we could get a good deal for her.”

Bracken reaches for another beer.

“The sticking point is her father-he doesn’t want her to have to spend a day in prison.”

I finish my beer but decide against another one. How can a father believe his daughter is capable of murder?

Sarah won’t even kill one of Woogie’s fleas. Bracken’s hand shakes slightly as he brings the can to his mouth.

“He thinks it’s just a matter of time before some evidence turns up that takes her off the hook.”

Wishful thinking is the only thing the brain is good for, according to my friend Dan. If not for that ability, there wouldn’t be any reason to get out of bed most mornings. Trey bounds through the door, then, almost standing at attention, says formally, “Mr. Page, would you like to wash up before supper?”

I can’t resist smiling at this kid and then remember what it is about him that is so unnerving. The child is being raised the way I was thirty-five years ago in the Delta. Form was substance, and substance form, and God pity the white middle-class child who didn’t intuitively understand that.

“Show me the way. Trey,” I say, but turn to Chet.

“Where were you raised?” I ask, guessing his answer.

“Helena,” he says, pushing himself up from the chair.

“About a mile from the bridge.”

The bridge that leads to Mississippi, he doesn’t have to say. I nod.