Bill Crider: Too Late to Die

Milsby was, in fact, referred to these days as “the Milsby community” rather than as a town, and the old school served as the Milsby Community Center. Most of the residents who lived near the place remained fiercely loyal to the idea that they were part of a real geographical place on the map, and they tried to have as many activities in the school building as possible: community dances, bingo games (just voted in by the precinct, and as legal as marriage), church suppers, and candidates’ forums with cake auctions.

Classes had long since disappeared from the former learning center. When the number of Milsby graduates per year had finally shrunk to one or two-three at most-the town fathers had realized that the tax burden was no longer worthwhile. They could consolidate their school district with Clearview’s and save money. Their children would have to be bused, but that was a small sacrifice. Many of the local residents regarded the day of consolidation as a day of infamy, and it ranked right up there with December 7, 1941, as a topic of conversation whenever sneaky maneuverings were brought up. It was their impression that Milsby had begun to die the day the first students were bused to Clearview.

The town had begun to die long before then, of course, about the time that many of the men on surrounding farms found that they could make plenty of money just by putting their money in the soil bank and not farming a lick. Their families had nothing to tie them to the land, and they left for the delights of the big cities and easier jobs than the daylight-to-dark work required by farming.

But the old schoolhouse still remained. Built in the early part of the century of sturdy red brick, the building was not pretty at all. It was, however, serviceable. Despite the generations of careless youngsters that had subjected it to all kinds of abuse, its rooms still could be used for the activities of Milsby, especially the cafeteria, where the forum was to be held.

Rhodes pulled the county car into the dusty parking area and looked around for a good spot. He had deliberately arrived late, knowing that Ralph Claymore would do the same. At forums like this one, the candidates were not given an opportunity to speak according to the office for which they were running. Instead, as each one entered the building he was given a list to sign. The names were called from the list, the candidates speaking in the order in which they arrived. Claymore liked to arrive late, believing that speaking near the end gave him an advantage.

Rhodes didn’t necessarily share Claymore’s belief. He was pretty sure that nobody ever recalled a thing that any of the candidates said. He was convinced that the main purpose of the forum was to sell cakes, which wasn’t a bad cause, since the money would go to the upkeep of the building. But on the off chance that Claymore was correct, Rhodes had decided to speak near the end also. At least there was the chance that he would get to speak after his opponent and answer any charges that were made, even if it wouldn’t do much good.

Rhodes parked by a Trans-Am, owned no doubt, by one of the other candidates. Surely no one in Milsby drove such a car. He got out and walked to the back door of what had once been the school boiler room, went through the room, and turned left into the hail where the cafeteria was located.

Mrs. Wilkie was waiting for him.

Her hair was spectacular. Rhodes was certain that he’d last seen a similar color and style worn by Carol Burnett in a skit parodying The Little Foxes . Otherwise, Mrs. Wilkie bore no physical resemblance to the svelte Ms. Burnett; tonight she had her formidable girth swathed in something resembling a Hawaiian tent.

“Why, good evening, Sheriff,” Mrs. Wilkie cooed breathily. “You’re just in time for the auction. But don’t forget to sign in first.” She handed him a yellow legal pad and a pen.

Rhodes was glad to see that Claymore’s name was only one person above his own. “Good evening, Mrs. Wilkie,” he said. “You’re looking mighty spruce tonight.”

Mrs. Wilkie simpered and took back the legal pad.

Lord , Rhodes thought, what a man won’t say to get himself elected .

“You just go on in, Sheriff, and have a seat with the other candidates,” Mrs. Wilkie said. Rhodes started for the cafeteria door. “My cake’s devil’s food,” she called after him in a stage whisper.

The cafeteria was brightly lighted by long fluorescent tubes. To Rhodes’s left, the candidates sat in metal folding chairs lined up along the institutional-green wall. On the other side of the room, the Milsby crowd mixed and mingled in conversation. Rhodes didn’t take a count, but it seemed likely that the crowd didn’t outnumber the candidates by many. He turned to his left to look for a seat.

Ralph Claymore was sitting between a candidate named Peter Something-or-other, Rhodes couldn’t recall, who was running for county clerk and Ivy Daniels, who was running for justice of the peace in precinct 4. The clerk candidate was stoutly built, with sandy hair, and in his navy blue suit he looked like a young senator more than a small-town boy. Rhodes had heard good things about him and hoped he’d win. Ivy Daniels didn’t look small-town either. Her short black hair had flecks of gray in it, but her tailored suit revealed the curves of a still youthful body. Naturally, Ralph Claymore was giving none of his attention to the young senator. He was talking animatedly to Ivy Daniels.

And he’s a married man, Rhodes thought. Well, at least Ivy was unattached, or had been the last he’d heard. He wouldn’t have minded talking to Ivy himself, but he didn’t have too much time for that sort of thing. He walked over to the end of the row of chairs and sat next to Jack Parry, a candidate for county judge.

“Howdy, Sheriff,” Parry said, putting out his hand. He was a big, folksy man, bluff and bald, with a full beard and a cigar always in his mouth-that or a dip of snuff.

Rhodes shook Parry’s hand. “How you doing, Jack?” he said.

“Fine, but I’d a hell of a lot rather be having a quiet drink somewhere else right now. How about you?”

“Sure enough. Think we could have skipped out?”

Parry smiled around his cigar. “Not a chance. We might lose only a couple of votes from this crowd, but they’d tell everybody they know which ones of us didn’t show up. No telling how many votes that would be.”

Just as Rhodes was about to answer, a man walked to the front of the cafeteria to a makeshift podium fitted with a juryrigged sound system. “‘Good evening, y’all,” he said. On the second word, there was an electronic scream from the speakers near him, but it died away and he went on.

“I’m Jerry Bob Tyler, and I want to welcome ever’ one of you to the annual Milsby cake auction and candidates’ forum. I know you all look forward to hearing what the electioneers have to say just as much as I do”-which meant not at all, Rhodes thought-”but first we’ve got a real treat for you. Len and Belle are goin’ to do a little of their famous pickin’ and grinnin’.”

Len and Belle tottered out from somewhere in the Milsby crowd. Len, who looked to Rhodes to be about ninety years old, with a fringe of very white hair outlining a pink and liver-spotted skull, held a fiddle. Belle, just as old, and with almost as little hair, carried a mandolin. They stood tentatively by the podium for a second or two, they twanged a few strings. Seemingly satisfied, Len stamped his foot on the floor four times, and they broke into as spirited a rendition of “Soldier’s Joy” as Rhodes had ever heard. It was hard to believe that the fingers of two people so old could be so nimble.

The crowd on both sides of the cafeteria began tapping their feet and clapping their hands in time with the music. The first song ended in a furious crescendo of fiddle and mandolin harmonies, and before anyone could draw a breath Len had stamped his foot again and begun “The Orange Blossom Special.” By the time that one was over, the old man’s head was completely red, and Belle’s face wasn’t much better. But they looked happy.