II

They’re calling us heroes. The newspapers, that is. I suppose we are, but I don’t
know that I feel heroic. I do, however, feel a difference in me now that papa’s
dead. Liberation would be the word. Papa would have hit me if I had ever used that
word in front of him.

Papa had been drinking, of course. And smacking mama around. Cassie and I were
hiding out in my room, wondering when it would all stop. At one point, I heard mama
scream. That’s when I went out to investigate.

Papa was pointing a gun at mama. I didn’t even think about what to do. I just did
it. I stepped in front of mama just as papa shot. The bullet hit my bible. Yes, I
carried a bible with me, right over my heart, but only when I was wearing overalls.
It was fortunate that I was wearing them at this point.

I staggered backward and fell. The impact of the bullet stunned me. Mama fell as
well, trying to hold me up. That’s when Cassie came charging out of the room and
started to wrestle with papa, trying to get the gun out of his hand. We heard
another shot. Papa took a bullet to the gut. He died two hours later, in a lot of
pain.

Cassie stood and fairly sprinted out of the house. She came back a few minutes
later with her dad. The sheriff. The look on his face was one that will not soon
leave me. Pinched and drawn, with worry written clearly in the eyes.

Mama should have never been home. She was supposed to go to San Antonio to see her
sister, but papa beat her so bad the night before that she refused to go. I believe
that papa beat her so severely so she wouldn’t go. He was like that.

Cassie shouldn’t have been there either. Her father told her never to go to my
house when my papa was around, but Cassie often defied her father. Her father was
so relieved that Cassie wasn’t injured or killed that he never punished her. On the
contrary, he hugged her tightly and kissed her on the cheek. I had never seen him
do that before!

I’m supposed to write a story for the newspapers. The one in San Antonio wants to
give me – and Cassie – fifty dollars each for our story. An astounding sum. Some
rich people in San Antonio also want to give us full scholarships for college.
Imagine! Going to college! It’s in Denton, but that’s even better. Cassie and I can
get away from the blight of the Hill Country and experience a different kind of
life.

A different kind of life. I’m filled with a substantial happiness, and I wonder
when it will leave. Never, I hope.

The real hero is mama, and I’ll make sure the newspapers know that. All those years
of insisting that I go to school, even when papa beat her for her sass. He called
it that, anyway. It was grit and toughness and love. I’ll call it the stuff that
heroism is made of. That has a nice ring to it. And it’s the truth.

**************

All three steps to the elevated porch squeaked under Mr. King’s tread, though the
man was not heavy. Like the rest of the porch area, they needed paint; rusted nail
heads poked out of the wood, loosened by years of neglect and Hill Country weather.
The evening was soon to turn into dusk.
“Just spoke to the judge. Cassie ain’t to be charged. He said she did us all a
favor by shootin’ that man.”

Sheriff Culverson didn’t show it, but a wave of relief flooded his body. He relaxed
a little and felt his breath coming easier. Mr. King sat down and lit a cigar,
offering one to the sheriff. Both men took some time to light their cigars,
ensuring that they had a proper draw. This was not a task but a ritual, and it was
not to be taken lightly.

The sheriff went inside his house and returned in a few moments, bearing a bottle
of whiskey and two small tumblers. Each man filled their glass to the amount
desired and sipped. Mr. King grimaced at the first sip, then took a second, larger
sip.

“I reckon she did us all a favor, sure, but it was an accident. I’m damn happy the
judge was of the same mind,” the sheriff said. He took another sip of whiskey and
sat his glass down, concentrating on puffing his cigar and enjoying the news.

“You know, I’m surprised one of those women hadn’t killed the man before. He sure
liked to beat his women,” Mr. King said.

“The mama,” the sheriff said. Mr. King turned his head slightly.

“Pardon?”

“The mama. She made that girl, Esther, get an education. I hear she took a beatin’
or two for her daughter. Damn fine woman, in my opinion.”

Mr. King nodded and smiled. He had already heard the news.

“You went to visit the widow, I hear.”

The sheriff glanced at Mr. King and then quickly glanced away.

“Offer my condolences, in an official capacity.”

The sun had disappeared behind the horizon, bestowing faint light and beautiful
colors to the sky. Fireflies came out of hiding, their pinpricks of light giving
the large front lawn a magical appearance. As if fairies were in attendance. As if
a miracle had been bestowed.

“You were there for two hours, sheriff. That’s a lot of…uh…condoling.”

The sheriff turned and stared at Mr. King, his steely blue eyes narrowing a little.
Mr. King laughed and hastened to explain.

“The old biddies in town. You know what they’re like. Most of ‘em had you and the
widow makin’ a baby during your visit.”

“Vicious old cats,” the sheriff spat out the words.

“Makes sense, though. You and the widow. Esther and Cassie are best friends. They’d
be tickled pink to become sisters, so to speak. And the widow’s a fine, strong
woman.”

“You done have us at the altar.”

Mr. King tamped the ashes from his cigar onto the porch and scuffed them with his
boots. He poured himself more whiskey and watched the fireflies perform their
chaotic, beautiful dance.

“Your wife’s been gone for twelve years. I reckon you grieved enough, sheriff. I
figure the widow’s grievin’ was nonexistent. Can’t really miss a man that beats
you, can you?”

The sheriff poured himself another three fingers of whiskey and stood at the
railing beside Mr. King. He sighed and turned to Mr. King, handing him a dollar
bill.

“I’m hirin’ you for a two-minute consultation, Mr. King.”

Mr. King looked at the bill and put it in his breast pocket.

“What’s on your mind, sheriff?”

The sheriff paused for a moment, trying to get the words out of his mouth.

“I heard Esther ‘n Cassie talkin’ one day last year, just before Christmas. Esther
was tellin’ her that she wanted to shoot her daddy dead so he’d stop beatin’ her
mama. Well, that froze me.”

Mr. King looked at the sheriff, a thoughtful expression creasing his face and
pursing his lips.

“I figure she would have done it one day, sheriff. I guess Cassie took care of
that, though.”

The sheriff sighed.

“I reckon.”

“So, why the dollar?”

“We got attorney-client confidentiality now, right?”

Mr. King laughed, nodding his head.

“Yes. Very clever, sheriff. But I wasn’t gonna divulge that little piece of
information anyway.”

“I expect a receipt when you get to the office tomorrah.”

“Yes. Of course. Come by after work, sheriff, and I’ll buy us a couple of beers. I
seem to have an extra dollar in my pocket.”

The night darkened and the breeze stilled; even the fireflies slowed down. Soon,
they were gone, letting the darkness of the night have its way. Both men remained
silent. Cigar smoke curled and drifted upwards past the porch lights, disappearing
into the blackness.

Mr. King left after finishing his whiskey.

“See you tomorrow, sheriff. And I’ll expect a wedding invitation.”

“I want that receipt, young man.”

The rest of the night passed as it should have. Frogs croaked lazily, crickets
chirped, and lights winked out one by one across the countryside. Two young ladies
were dreaming of adventures at college, one sheriff was thinking of matrimony, and
one widow was contemplating the mysteries of fate and providence.

The bible with a bullet hole in it was, in due time, returned to its rightful
owner. The whereabouts of the mangled word of God is currently unknown.