Lee Martin - Late One Night

The deputy said, “Your kids? They’ll come to see you in prison sometimes if they can bring themselves to forgive you for what you did, and if they can manage for someone to drive them down to Menard, which is where you’ll end up. Or maybe they’ll never come and it’ll just be you and those walls and all that time to know the way you ruined them by killing their mother and their sisters and their baby brother. You think they’ll ever be able to get the picture out of their heads of how those kids clung to Della in the flames and the smoke, or what their charred bodies looked like when all was said and done?”

That’s when Ronnie covered his face with his hands. “I didn’t do it,” he said. “I swear.”

“All right then,” the deputy said. “Tell me why we should believe you.”

He was outside that night, Captain said, because he was worried about the goats. “We tried to patch the fence for Della, but they kept busting out.”

He kept his eyes down, focusing on the boots Biggs was wearing. The toes were stained with road salt. Biggs stood in front of the couch, listening to the story.

“So you were outside and you went back behind the trailer to check on the goats?”

Captain nodded.

Biggs said, “Tell me everything you saw.”

“He saw Ronnie’s car,” Shooter said, but Biggs wouldn’t let him go on.

“I want to hear the boy tell it. Let him say what he’s got to say.”

“Ronnie drives a Firebird,” Captain said. “It was parked along the road. That car can go fast. I helped him work on it when he still lived with Della. He said I was his right-hand man. You know what kind of carb that car has? A Barry Grant Six Shooter with a three-deuce setup. Sugar tits! Now that’s something.”

Captain was getting worked up, and Shooter rubbed his back and said, “Wesley, just tell the story. Tell it plain and simple for the sheriff.”

“Ronnie was behind the trailer,” Captain said. “He had a fivegallon gas can. He was sloshing gas all along the back of the trailer. And he reached into his pocket and jerked out a book of matches.” Captain looked up at Biggs for the first time. “He had a book of matches. He lit one up.” Captain was rocking back and forth a little. “He had a gas can and a book of matches. The whole trailer went whoosh. That’s what I remember. That big whoosh. And Ronnie ran away.”

Biggs was quiet for a while. Then he squatted down in front of Captain so the boy would have to look him in the eye.

“You felt pretty close to Ronnie, didn’t you, son? Like you said, you were his right-hand man.”

“I like Ronnie,” said Captain. “He always treated me good.”

“You wouldn’t want to see him get in trouble if he didn’t do anything wrong, would you?”

Captain squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head from side to side until, finally, Shooter had to take him by his shoulders and tell him to stop.

“He had a gas can and a book of matches,” Captain said again. “He lit one up and everything went whoosh. That’s what I know.”

Shooter stood up from the couch. “You got what you need?” he asked Biggs. “Captain always thought the world of Ronnie. This hasn’t been easy for him.”

The words came from Captain’s mouth in chunks, like they were made of steel and hard to bite off. “I always — thought the world — of Ronnie — sugar tits.”

“Wesley, don’t talk like that,” Shooter said. “It’s not proper.”

Biggs said to Shooter, “Why’d you wait so long to tell me your story?”

“I was thinking about Wesley. Things have never been easy for him. And this?” Shooter couldn’t go on. He laid his hand on Captain’s head and stroked the blond hair with a tenderness that almost made Biggs uncomfortable to see it, this moment that should have been private. “But I know what’s right and what’s wrong,” Shooter said, “and I know I have to teach Wesley as much. So what I’m telling you is the right thing to do. I know that for sure now, no matter how this ends up.”

Angel was surprised to see her grandmother in the emergency room waiting area. “Grams?” she said.

“Oh, honey.” Lois got to her feet and put her arms around Angel, gathering her in. “It’s your gramps. He fell and hit his head.” She let go of Angel just enough to hold her at arm’s length so she could get a good look at her. “Honey, are you all right?”

Angel nodded. “I’m fine, Grams. Is Gramps going to be okay?”

“I’m waiting to hear, honey. Missy’s been sitting with me. She just now went out to call Pat. Guess she wanted some privacy.”

Angel saw her then, Missy. She was standing outside the glass doors to the emergency room with her back turned. She had her head down, and Angel could see her nodding as if she were agreeing with what Pat was saying in response to what she’d called to tell him. Then she dropped her cell phone down in her purse.

Angel told her grandma she’d be right back. Then she went out through the doors to where Missy was standing, and she told her everything that Brandi had told her about the high blood pressure and the baby and bed rest.

“We have to take care of her,” Angel said. “She doesn’t have anyone else. Her family is all the way out in California.”

She’d already made up her mind. She wouldn’t be like her father — she’d stay where she was needed.

“But who’s going to take care of you and your sisters?” Missy said.

“We’ll take care of one another.”

“You’re all in my custody now.”

Angel said, “We’re going to stay with Brandi tonight.”

And with that, Angel turned and went back into the hospital. Missy had no choice but to follow.

A doctor was there to talk to Lois, and he was saying that Wayne was going to be all right. He had some stitches in his head, and he was still a little confused, but his vital signs were good, and she could see him now. They’d admitted him and wanted to keep him at least overnight to make sure that he was strong enough to go home.

Missy said she’d wait as long as Lois needed her to.

Angel went back to check on Brandi, and in a few minutes she was back. “They’re releasing her,” she said, and Missy told her she’d drive Brandi home too, and she’d stay that night to help take care of her if that’s what she wanted. She’d drive Lois home first, and then she’d go to her own house and carry in the groceries — who knew if the milk and frozen things would be any good now — and she’d tell Pat what was going to happen.

“Pat can do for himself.” Missy bit her lip and looked away. Then she took a deep breath and turned back to Angel, a tremulous smile on her lips. She waved her hand in the air as if she were swatting away an annoying fly. “He won’t even know I’m gone,” she said. “He’s used to a quiet house.”

After Biggs left, Shooter let Captain sit there on the couch, rocking back and forth, his bomber jacket still clutched to his stomach.

The furnace clicked off and then enough time went by for it to come on again. The hem of the curtains by the front window — the long curtains Merlene had sewed — danced a little in the air from the floor vent.

Finally, when the quiet had become too much for him, Shooter walked across the room to where Captain was sitting and he reached down and took hold of the bomber jacket. For a few seconds, Captain held onto it. Then he let his grip go slack, and Shooter pulled the coat away from him.

“Change out of your school clothes,” Shooter said in a tired voice. “I’m going to take care of the trash. Then we’ll think about supper.”

Captain got up from the couch and went into his room. He tried not to think about anything. Don’t think about the fire , he told himself. Don’t think about the goats. Don’t think about Della or Emily or Gracie or the baby. Don’t think about Mother . She’d bought him that bomber jacket. Don’t think about that. Don’t think about Ronnie. Don’t think about the sheriff and the questions he asked. Don’t think about anything .