William Gay - I Hate To See That Evening Sun Go Down - Collected Stories

This has all gotten out of hand, Clarence said in frustration, rising to go, resting his hand a moment in passing on Beasley’s shoulder. You were together thirty years. What’s this all about?

I just couldn’t stand that goddamned yip yip yip, Beasley finally said.

BEASLEY HAD ON clean overalls. He had on a clean chambray shirt so faded by repeated launderings that its collar had gone soft and shapeless. He was freshly shaven and there was a streak of talcum on his throat.

Well, the elusive Mr. Beasley, the lawyer said. Take a seat there, Mr. Beasley.

Beasley seated himself in a wooden chair with rollers on it. It creaked when he adjusted his weight. He sat studying the lawyer. The lawyer’s name was Townsley. He was a thin young man given to the wearing of loud sport coats. Today he wore a coat of some woolly fabric in blue and green checks whose clash was almost audible. The coat had plastic buttons as big as golf balls. He had smooth oily hair, smooth oily skin, a smooth oily voice.

I’m only here because my son-in-law said I ought to be, Beasley said. I thought there might be some misunderstanding and I aim to clear it up. It’s never been my intention to beat her out of anything. I want that understood. The farm’s half hers and always has been. I thought she knew that. If you want it in writing then that’s what I’m here for.

I’m afraid it’s not that simple, the lawyer said. The time for arbitration has come and gone. What we’re asking for is an accounting of assets. Then an equal division of them.

Half the farm? That’s fine with me. Half of two hundred acres is one hundred acres. That’s fine with me.

It’s not that simple, Townsley said again. We’re asking half the value of your total assets in cash. Your wife no longer has an interest in the farm. There’ll be an appraisal of your properties to determine their value. Which you will pay for, by the way, it’ll be itemized on the bill for expenses. The court has already sent you a demand for an accounting of assets by certified mail. Ignore it at your peril. Ignore it and you’ll be in contempt of court.

I don’t have that kind of money, Beasley said after a time.

The lawyer shrugged. We’re not asking for more than you’ve got, he said. Simply half of it.

BEASLEY ALREADY HAD his glasses on when the deputy brought the warrant and so did not have to get up to go get them. He had been sitting before the fire reading a seed catalog that had come that day and he laid it in a magazine rack and took the warrant and unfolded it and read it. Then he handed it back to the deputy.

The deputy looked outsize and strange in Beasley’s small parlor. His pressed khakis, the black garrison belt. The bolstered pistol and all that it conveyed.

I have to arrest you, the deputy said. But it don’t amount to that much. We’ll go to city hall and post bond. They’ll let you sign for yourself, hell, everybody knows you. Or Clarence could sign for you.

I don’t want anybody signing for me, Beasley said.

What?

I don’t want to tie Clarence up. He might be out some money.

How’s that?

I might just head out. All this is getting too heavy to carry around. Hellfire, a man’s not rooted to the ground the way a goddamned tree is.

All they want you to do is comply with the court, the deputy said. I heard the judge say so himself. Talking to Townsley. He said you were an arrogant son of a bitch and he was going to teach you a lesson.

Then let’s be for learning it, Beasley said.

BEASLEY WAS TURNED into the bullpen with other nightshade denizens who’d run afoul of the law. It was a weekend and business had been brisk and here were miscreants of every stripe. Dread-locked black men and pony tailed white drug dealers, luckless drunks and wifebeaters and child molesters of every taste and inclination. Beasley judged he could keep himself entertained for a day or two just reading the tattoos.

A huge black man stood regarding this clean-cut and well-barbered man of advancing years with some interest.

What’d they get you for? he asked.

Contempt of court, Beasley said.

Shit. And I thought I was a judge of character. I had you figured for a murderer at the very least.

Later they locked him into a cell with a heavyset man named Brenner. Brenner was a soft sluglike man who was awaiting trial for murdering his mother. He had lived in a house trailer with her for years out on Metal Ford Road, supported by her government money. Then one day she met a widower from Jack’s Branch and began to have a social life. One night Brenner watched through the window as she and the widower made love. When the man left Brenner went inside to confront her. He’d had in mind a heart-to-heart talk, tears of repentance. But things had gotten out of hand and he was caught iὴ the act of burning her body.

Brenner wanted Beasley to understand why he had killed her. My mother was a great lady, he said. A saint. I revered my mother. I wouldn’t have harmed a hair on her old gray head. She changed. Something happened to her morals. I believe it’s these times we live in.

Beasley just looked at him and didn’t say anything.

What are you doing in here? Brenner asked him.

When Beasley told him contempt of court Brenner just shook his head in disbelief. That’s a bullshit charge, he said. That’s just paperwork. You must be crazy.

At least I never burned my mama in a goddamned brush pile, Beasley told him.

NO ONE EVEN KNEW he was in jail for a week and then Clarence came to get him. Berneice is just jumping up and down, he said. She said get you out and no mistake about it. Why didn’t you call somebody?

I didn’t see much sense in it, Beasley said.

They were standing in a concrete courtyard. It was enclosed by a chain-link fence. The day was coldlooking and bleak. A few flakes of snow fell. You could see the street from here and Beasley stood watching the cars pass as if he had some interest in where they were going, some investment in what they were up to.

Clarence lit a cigarette. His hands shook. He was wearing a heavy overcoat and he put the burned match into a side pocket. I don’t understand you, he said through the smoke. This has gone way too far. Way too far. It’s gotten out of hand and we need to get our act together here.

Telephone poles ran along the street and small sparrows had aligned themselves on the wire. Beasley watched them. They all flew away, as if they’d simultaneously received the same urgent message.

Will you not come, or what?

I may as well lay it out and get it over with.

God damn, Clarence said. I don’t know about you, Finis. I think I’m beginning to not know about you.

Beasley had his hands in his pockets and he was hunched against the weight of the cold. He smiled. I’m beginning to not know about myself, he said.

Later he lay on his cot with his fingers laced behind his skull and thought about things. Things had gotten out of hand, Clarence had said, and Clarence was undoubtedly right. He couldn’t fathom what had happened to him. Some core of stubbornness he hadn’t even known about had set up inside him like concrete. There had been some curious juxtaposition of lives. He’d been switched around somehow and he was living out the balance of someone else’s chaotic life. Somebody somewhere had burnt out and they’d handed it to him to finish up. Somewhere somebody was placidly living out the balance of his.

JUDGE MORRIS made her tell that part about you shooting her terrier dog twice, a deputy named Harris told him. He couldn’t believe it. He’s going to give you a minimum of thirty days, or I’ll kiss your ass right here in front of the courthouse.

They were sitting facing the courthouse in a police cruiser. Harris kept glancing at his watch. It was not quite time to enter the courtroom and Harris sat in the cruiser smoking cigarettes.