Joe Lansdale - Sunset and Sawdust

They found Zendo’s wife out in the yard. She was a big coffee-colored woman in a bright sack dress with a toddler clutching her leg. She had a pan of shelled corn in one hand and with the other she was tossing it to the chickens that gathered around her like servants before the queen.

Sunset got out of the truck and walked up to the lady, passing a small pig that was rolling in a damp depression in the yard, grunting, turning its head as if hoping for some sort of positive comment.

Nearby, a dog lay in the middle of a flower bed that had died out. The dog looked dead himself, but when Sunset walked up, his tail beat a few beats, then went still.

“Not a watchdog,” Sunset said to Zendo’s wife.

“Naw he ain’t,” the lady said. “I used to have a pig that would bite you, but we eating on him. Can I help you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How come you got that badge on? You some kind of farm inspector?”

“I’m the constable.”

“Naw you ain’t.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Really? You the constable? How’d that happen? Thought Mister Pete was the constable.”

“No. I shot him.”

“That’s funny,” the lady said. “You done shot him and took his badge. You funny, miss.”

“Yeah, well, I really am the constable. And I really did shoot him. And he really is dead. And once again, I really am the constable.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, no offense.”

“Like to talk to your husband. Could you tell me where I might find him?”

“He ain’t in any kind of trouble, is he?”

“Nothing like that.”

Zendo’s wife told her, with what Sunset thought was reluctance, that Zendo was still in the field.

On her way out to the truck she passed the hog and the dog again, but this time neither took note of her.

They drove to where the wife had indicated, got out of the truck and started walking toward where they could see Zendo having his dinner under a tree.

Two sleek, sweat-shiny mules stood nearby, still in plow harness, but the plow was no longer attached. The plow was leaning against the tree with Zendo. The mules had been hobbled and were mouthing grain from two flat pans.

The field Zendo had plowed, running the middles, cutting up weeds, was dark as sin, the rows straight enough to have been laid out with a ruler. The dark soil exploded with all manner of vegetables. Corn growing tall and green. Tied tomato vines twisted around wooden stakes, tomatoes dangled from them like little evening suns.

Zendo was biting into a biscuit when he saw a redheaded woman, a teenage girl, and two men walking toward him.

The woman looked roughed up, and his first thought was to run, just in case he was going to be blamed. Then he noted she was wearing a badge on her shirt. He considered this, but couldn’t get a fix on it.

By this time, they were standing beneath the oak, looking down at him. He put the biscuit in his lunch bucket and stood up. It wasn’t a long trip. He had a large head, broad shoulders, and a short body. If he mounted a Shetland pony, the pony would have to be cut off at the knees and placed in a ditch for Zendo’s feet to touch the ground.

“Howdy, this hot day,” he said, hanging his head, starting to shuffle his feet. “How is you folks? It sure is one of God’s good days, now ain’t it, even if it is hot.”

“It’s me,” Clyde said. “You can cut the ‘I sure is dumb’ routine.”

“Is that you, Mr. Clyde? I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age, if you’ll pardon the joke. We got to do us some more fishing.”

“I agree,” Clyde said, stuck out his hand, and they shook. Hillbilly did the same, hesitantly. Zendo didn’t offer to shake hands with either Sunset or Karen.

“Crops look great, Zendo,” Clyde said.

“Bottomland,” Zendo said. “And I treat it good. I run the creek water in it sometimes, does it with lots of cured manure and compost.”

“Sure looks good,” Clyde said. “Zendo, this is Sunset Jones. She’s the constable in these parts now.”

“Say she ain’t,” Zendo said.

“No. She is.”

“Shut me up. Really? You the constable, miss?”

“I am.”

“You’re yanking on me.”

“I tell you I’m not,” Sunset said.

“I thought Mister Pete was the constable.”

“He’s dead,” Sunset said.

“Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Zendo said.

“He was my husband.”

“Well, now, I’m sure sorry. How did he die, you don’t mind me asking?”

“I shot him.”

“Say you did?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Dead.”

“Yes.”

Karen started back to the pickup.

“We’ll be here just a little while,” Sunset said to Karen’s back.

Karen didn’t answer, just kept walking.

“She’s still sensitive about her father’s death.”

“I hear that,” Zendo said. “Yes, ma’am. I understand. Mr. Pete was a good man.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Sunset said. “He was a sonofabitch, and I’m glad I shot him.”

“Say he was a sonofabitch?”

“That’s what I’m saying. I bet you agree with me.”

“Well, ma’am,” Zendo said, “I ain’t gonna argue with you none.”

“We’re here about dealings Pete had with you.”

“Me and him didn’t have no dealings.”

“A body in a pottery jar,” Sunset said.

“Oh, yeah. Was that. Said he wouldn’t gonna make no big deal out of it.”

“I read it in his files. Tell me about it. Tell me where the baby ended up, or if you have any idea whose it was.”

Zendo told them pretty much what Sunset had read in the files. He found the body plowing, where someone had buried it in a large pottery jar, probably the night before. It was buried deep, but he was plowing deep, and the top of his middle buster broke the rim of the jar.

“I thought it might be one of them Injun pots. I’ve found a bunch of em. But it weren’t. I looked in that pot and seen there was a tow sack stuffed in there. When I pulled that off the top, I seen a little baby about the size of a newborn kitten.”

“Black or white?”

“Couldn’t tell. It was all dirty, and there was some kind of stuff in there.”

“Stuff?”

“Something sticky. It was on the edge of the pot and dirt had stuck to it. It was all over the baby. It was like someone had dipped the baby in it. I thought it was molasses.”

“Was it molasses?” Sunset asked.

“I thought it was, but it had a smell to it, and I figure it was oil mixed in with the dirt.”

“Car oil?”

“Maybe. I didn’t know what to do with it. I feared it might be a white baby and white folks would think I killed it cause it was on my land, so I hid it in the woods.”

“You buried it?” Sunset asked.

Zendo shook his head. “I ain’t proud to say I didn’t, but I didn’t. Mr. Pete found the pot, knew the dirt on it was mine. Ain’t no one around here got dirt this good. Not the way I treat it.

“Thought he was gonna think I done it for sure. But he didn’t. Wasn’t hard on me at all. Didn’t even ask me if I knowed anything about it, just took and buried that poor thing over in the colored graveyard. Or said that’s what he was gonna do.”

“You know Pete found it himself?” Sunset asked.

“He just come to me about it. I reckoned he did. Suppose someone else could have found it, told him, and he figured out it come from my place.”

“Where is the graveyard?” Sunset asked.

“Clyde here knows,” Zendo said.

Clyde shook his head. “Not anymore. I used to. But I ain’t been out in that neck of the woods in years. Since you and me hunted there last, and that’s been-good grief, we was kids.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Zendo said. “You and me was the same tall then. Now you just like a tree, and me, I’m like a stump.”