drop of Indian blood in ’em.
“Anyway, Bob got in a tussle with a friend, another Seminole, and killed him in a drunk fight. He was sentenced to death by the tribal council. No one wanted to keep him in a jail, ’cause there wasn’t none, so they turned him loose, told him what day to be back for his execution. He showed up on that day, which wasn’t unusual. That was the way things were done with our people. They gave him a big lunch, laughed with him, gave him a smoke, a snort of whiskey, and if one had been available, they might have given him a woman. After he ate, they pinned a white paper heart on his chest where they felt it beatin’, and he stretched out on the ground on a blanket, and me and another colored-mix fella was given the job to shoot him.
“One man covered Bob’s nose and mouth so he couldn’t breathe good, and Bob didn’t fight a lick. Me and this other fella, Cumsey was his name, leaned over and shot him right through that paper heart with our rifles. I remember I had an old Henry rifle, and with him lyin’ down there on the ground and me with that rifle barrel just an inch from his chest, I was still afraid I’d miss, I was shakin’ so much.
“I liked Bob. He was a good fella. Like me, he loved his drink too much and it got him in trouble. Hell, I been in some trouble and ain’t no one ever shot me for it. I think about that now and then. Think about old Bob lyin’ there, his breath cut off, and me and Cumsey shootin’ him through the chest.”
“I wouldn’t have come back if they had let me go,” I said.
“But Bob did. He had his honor. Honor was important then . . . What’s your name?”
“Stanley.”
“You mind I just call you Stan?”
“No.”
“A man gave his word, he stuck by it, even if it was gonna mean his death. Least it was that way amongst the Seminoles. I can’t say I’ve been able to live up to that good as old Bob. Hell, I think I agree with you. I’d have run off.”
“How could you shoot him if you liked him?”
“Bob broke the law. Law laid down the law, and it laid it down on him. It was my job to uphold tribal law, and I did. I can’t say as I felt all that good about it, but he did murder a man, and there wasn’t no reason on it ’cept too much firewater . . . They’re startin’ to file in now.”
I saw cars moving in through the soft darkness, parking next to speakers, turning off their lights.
“How’s about I show you some more about this here projector?” he said.
8
THAT NIGHT, lying in bed, I dreamed I smelled smoke. The feeling was so intense, I tried to awake, see if a fire had started in my room.
But there was another feeling that was more frightening than the smoke. It was again that sensation of someone in the room. It was stronger this time than it had ever been, and it took every ounce of courage and energy for me to open my eyes.
When I sat up in my bed, the stench of smoke went away immediately. Still, I had the uncomfortable impression of someone moving in the shadows. I fumbled for the lamp beside my bed, turned it on, was greeted with nothing.
An empty room.
I tried to remember what Buster had told me about thinking something was one thing, but not letting yourself decide it was until I knew for certain.
But in the night, that didn’t seem to be a line of thinking that was helping much.
I noted the closet door was slightly open.
I had pulled a fresh pillow from there before bedtime. Had I failed to close it completely?
I sat up in bed for a long time, then slowly eased the covers off, took hold of my crutches, made my way to the closet, fearing any moment the door would swing open to reveal . . .
I was uncertain.
I took hold of the doorknob, started to pull it wider, decided I was being silly. I pushed it shut. Inside, I heard a kind of shuffling. Perhaps some of my junk shifting.
Or something lying down.
Goose bumps roamed over every inch of my skin. I crutched back to bed, feeling a coldness at my back in a room that was anything but cold. The fan in the window was beating the hot air about, and the water-cooled straw at its back was making things more muggy than comfortable, but in that moment, I was cold as a body on a cooling board. I climbed back in bed, sat against the headboard, pulled the covers up to my neck, stared at the closet door. I didn’t turn out the light.
I decided then and there something must have followed me home from the house on the hill and was roaming the shadows of my room as well as hiding in my closet, maybe under the bed.
Something not of this world.
In time, however, sleep was stronger than fear, and I fell asleep with the light on, slept late into the morning.
In the sober light of day, I finally had the courage to look in the closet.
Nub came out wagging his tail. I felt like an idiot. And I thought of Buster’s wisdom, and never forgot it. To this day, I’m a skeptic.
———
NEXT DAY, a hot morning, nearly noon, I looked out through the crack between water fan and window frame, saw a large black man standing out by the highway, looking at our drive-in.
I had never seen him before. I eased up to the crack, got down on my knees, and looked out. He was big and tall and wore a wide-brimmed hat, work shirt, and overalls. He just stood there looking, smoking a cigarette. Perhaps he was taking in the mural, the cavalry and the Indians.
After a while, he tossed the butt of his cigarette and walked away. I didn’t think much of it at the time.
———
DOWNSTAIRS, Rosy greeted me, waddled about the living room, slapping about with a duster. I went to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of milk.
Through the sliding glass door I saw Buster out back. He was carrying a paint can and brush. It was hours before he was supposed to be at work and it surprised me to see him.
As I went out, Nub eyeballed me like he might get up, but this time he held his place on the cool tile floor of the kitchen. Even a loyal dog needed a break now and then.
I made my way to the projection booth, tried to strike up a conversation, but he wasn’t having any. It was as if a dark cloud full of thunder and lightning had fallen over him. He was in no mood to talk, and said so.
“This ain’t my birthday, little boy, and I ain’t been drinkin’. I got work to do. No offense, but I really don’t want company.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, just leave me alone.”
I crutched back to the drive-in, went inside, and sat down at the table. Rosy Mae came over, said, “He hurt your feelin’s, that old man did, didn’t he?”
“No.”
“Yes he did. I can tell way yo’ face is hangin’. Don’t pay that old buzzard no mind no how. He jes’ a messed- up old man. He happy one day, mad the next.”
“He was nice yesterday.”
Rosy Mae sat down at the table. “Mr. Stanley . . . Stanley, he like that. Just as moody as an old milk cow, only worse. He thinks he’s a high-falutin nigger. Heard tell he supposed to been some kind’a law in the Indi’n nations. Supposed to be part Indi’n or somethin’.”
“He told me that.”
“I don’t even know it true. He could just be one of them red niggers from over Louisiana. He drinks, one time it make him friendly, next time it make him like a poison snake you done shook up and let go.”
“He’s not drinking today.”
“Maybe it’s when he’s not drinking he is who he is. Or maybe it’s the want of a drink that makes him like that.
