“How does she watch them? You don't have a television,” Scratch said.
“See those cardboard boxes?”
“Yeah,” Scratch got up and examined three boxes sitting on top each other sideways.
“That's her television,” Immy laughed. “The bottom one is the phonograph where she listens to Miles Davis.”
Immy chuckled and Scratch joined in. He stopped, looked inside the top box. A piece of white paper lay inside. He reached in and retrieved it. A familiar smell offended his nostrils. Lye soap. He showed the paper to Immy.
She looked away. Embarrassed and ashamed.
“What's this?” Scratch asked.
“I thought I destroyed those letters,” Immy said.
“There were more?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“They been coming regular every month,” Immy said. “All saying the same.”
“All demanding 500 dollars,” Scratch said.
“Yes.”
“You've been paying,” Scratch reread the letter.
“Twenty a week,” Immy said.
“Do you even have 20 dollars to spend?”
“No, Allan. I don't. I'm working at the factory cuttin' up chickens one shift, leaving, coming back for another shift until 10pm and packaging chicken parts. Damn, I hate chicken!”
“You've met this blackmailer?” Scratch asked.
“Nope,” Immy shook her head. “I mail the money.” She got up, went to her bedroom and returned with an address book. “Send the money here.”
“Looks like a PO Box,” Scratch said.
“That's exactly what it is,” Immy said. She leaned against the living-room wall, her hands behind her back. “I sat in my car, waited to see if anyone picked it up. I waited two hours. I didn't see anyone go to the box.”
'I'm not surprised,” Scratch said. “They came the next day or two, I'm sure.”
“No,” Immy said. “I'm not sure, but I needed gas. So I drove around the corner, got some gas, drove back and I caught a glimpse of a woman leaving the post office. Just before they closed.”
“Can you describe her?”
“White,” Immy said. “Light-brown hair, glasses. Our age. Reminds me of a schoolteacher we once had,” Immy shrugged. “That's all I remember. You've got that same letter?”
Scratch sighed. “Yeah, Immy. I have. Only this person or persons wanted to meet up with me 10pm at the lake. For some reason they think I have the whole sum of 500 dollars. They agreed to you paying a little at a time?”
“They had no choice. I wrote back, explained I didn't have the thing,”
“Why did you pay?”
“Why do you think, Allan?” Immy raised her voice. “I didn't want people to know my daddy fucked me and my brother killed him for it!”
She took a few steps and burst into tears. Scratch consoled her. He put his arms around Immy and she sobbed hard, her cries muffled against his chest. Faint footsteps cut the situation short. Immy pulled away from Scratch. Micha stood in the open area of the dining room. He rubbed his eyes as he softly called out to Immy.
She told the little boy she was OK and took him by the hand back to the bedroom he and his sister slept in.
Scratch sat the table, drank the coffee from a chipped white mug. He read the letter to himself.
“I know who you really are. I know what you really are. You and your father committed a vile sin. Your brother killed your father for that sin. Pay $500.00 and no one will ever know, except you and me. If you don't pay, your brother will go to the electric chair and everyone will know your shame and why. Send the money to PO BOX 445. Instalments are fine.”
After a few minutes, Immy came back in the dining room. They stared at each other, trying to read each other's minds like in a science-fiction serial they saw at the movies when they were kids. Finally, Immy spoke.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
“No more payments,” Scratch said.
Immy sighed, tapped her long fingernails on the wooden table. “OK,” she said.
“I think I know who is blackmailing us,” Scratch said.
“Who?” Immy leaned in closer to her brother.
“Deputy of Coleman County.”
“You're talking about Deputy Shaw,” Immy said.
“How do you know him, Immy?” She didn't answer him. She looked away. “I asked you how you knew him!” Scratch grabbed Immy's wrists.
“Get the hell off of me!” Immy screamed. She jerked out of his grip, stood and ran to a corner of the room.
Scratch stood. “I'm sorry, Immy.” He held his hands up. “I didn't mean to do that. I just… needed an answer that might make a difference to my decision on this matter.”
He took a few steps toward Immy. She relented, fell into Scratch's arms. They hugged. She separated from Scratch, wiped her eyes with a hand and went back to the table. Immy fell on to her chair, worn out from everything. She slumped forward and stared at the floor. She couldn't look Scratch in the eyes.
“There was a party in Rockville,” Immy said and her eyes moved to see Scratch's reaction. He wasn't judging her now. He was listening intently. “An old beat-up trailer. That damn thing was falling apart, Scratch.”
“Rockville? Never heard of that area,” Scratch said.
“Used to be called Wisteria,” Immy said. “You were in Korea when they changed the name. Some family's son became a senator or something. Bob Rockner.”
“OK.”
“Anyway, Celeste Holmes asked some of the girls at the factory if we wanted to make some extra money. Well, of course we all did. Who doesn't need money? Except your boss.”
Scratch sighed. “Can I go one day without a person mentioning him? What kind of party was this?”
“It was a party. The kind you don't invite your preacher to,” Immy said.
“How many girls?”
“Celeste could only get three of us,” Immy rubbed her face. “So she had to come, too. Then it was me, Corinne Hawkins, Debra Smith and Lanie Bright. We got 100 each. That kept us in groceries for two weeks, Scratch.”
Scratch nodded. “It's OK, Immy. You don't have to explain yourself. Who was at the party?”
“Older, rich white men. I don't really know who they were by face. Except one was talking about owning a
