Just walked off. He hadn’t gone home, and no one knew where he was.
My dad tore the town apart looking for him. We went out to the Chapman place, found it burned to the ground, house and barn and all the sheds. The animals had long ago been sold and Richard had been given the money.
I guess Richard did the burning, but he was nowhere to be had. The police sifted through the fire, the wreckage, to see if he had gotten burned up himself, but no bones were found.
After a few weeks, we decided he had done what he told me he was thinking about doing. Caught a train out of Dewmont, rode on somewhere where he could get a job and start a life. Being near us, even if we did care, was just too much for him.
———
BUSTER STILL RAN the projector, but into the school year he decided he had to cut back. The walking was really getting to him. I took over on Fridays and Saturdays. The rest of the week the job was his.
One night, a Thursday, I went out to see him in the projection booth. He had a big RC and was sipping it. When he saw me, he smiled, said, “It’s just RC, Stan.”
The cardboard box full of paper clippings and police files was on the floor beside him.
I said, “Guess we need to turn those back.”
“Know what,” he said, “only if you want to. Figure it don’t matter none. This stuff is forgotten. You want to keep it, you can. Or you can toss it. I ain’t gonna try to return it. Jukes done quit them jobs. He got him work over at the railroad making twice what he was makin’.”
I sat down in the spare chair, said, “Richard’s not coming back, I guess.”
“Hard to say. But I doubt it.”
“He took my Roy Rogers boots with him.”
“That’s not good.”
“He left a note that said thanks. I guess that was for everything.”
“You think he owes you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I figure a boy like that, he’s startin’ out with enough debts. Ain’t no need to give him one more.”
“Yeah. But it was my Roy Rogers boots.”
“That’s too bad. But, you know, in a year, you won’t care. And in twenty years, them boots will be somethin’ you think about all the time.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will. It’s about thinkin’ you grown up, then knowin’ you ain’t.”
“You said bad people don’t always look bad. But Chapman and Bubba Joe. They sure looked like monsters.”
“Sometimes I’m wrong. A lot of the time.”
“I still don’t know why Chapman killed Margret or Jewel Ellen.”
“Sure you do. They was different, and he wanted them. Or he wanted that Margret anyway. That’s the one he killed. I can bet you that. He laid for Margret, jumped her, had his way, and killed her.”
“And Jewel?”
“Now, if you done told me all Chapman told you correct-like, he didn’t say he killed her, now did he? Took credit for them others and was proud of it, but he didn’t say he killed her.”
“He seemed confused when I mentioned it.”
“That’s what I’m sayin’. Now, Chapman could have done it. Won’t never know. And that’s the way it is in life. There’s gonna be all manner of stuff you never can find out the truth on and can only guess.”
“So you still think one of the Stilwinds killed Jewel?”
“I do. I think it was a coincidence. Not all planned and clicked together like I said things will do, and they do sometimes. But not this time, Stan. And let me point out, Stilwind don’t look like no monster. Chapman was crazy, Bubba Joe was pissed-on stupid. Stilwind. He’s the real monster.”
“One of the Stilwinds could have killed her on the same night to make it look like the killer did it? It could be like that.”
Buster grinned at me. “I don’t think so. I don’t think one could have known about the other quick enough for both crimes to come down in an hour or so. I think Chapman’s hate, Stilwind’s need for Jewel Ellen to keep her mouth shut, just come together in the same night.”
“Coincidence?”
“That’s right.”
“Mystery books I’ve been reading say there’s no such thing as coincidence.”
“They’re wrong. You live long enough, you’ll find life is so full of coincidence it’ll make you crazy.”
“Well, it’s not very satisfactory.”
Buster grinned. “Now you’re learnin’. That’s life. Ain’t always satisfactory, but sometimes the part that is, is pretty damn good. Thing to remember is, enjoy life, ’cause in the end, dirt and flesh is pretty much the same thing. You understand that?”
“I think so.”
“Good.”
———
AS SCHOOL WENT ON, and I got involved with making new friends and trying not to get beat up by bullies, I saw less of Buster. At nights I took to doing homework or watching television, and it got so most of the time we just nodded at one another.
Then one cool night in October, he didn’t show. I had to run the projector. Though it was late, when I finished, I talked Daddy into allowing Drew and Callie to drive me over to Buster’s.
Driving down into the Section, Drew said, “They need some lights down here.”
“I think they’d be glad to have them,” Callie said, “but I don’t believe the city gives them out down here.”
Drew pulled up in front of Buster’s house. It was dark. I got out and went on the porch and knocked. He didn’t answer. I hesitated about going in. He hadn’t been drinking of late, but it occurred to me he might have fallen off the wagon.
I finally bit the bullet and tried the knob. It was locked.
I went to the window on the porch, pushed at it, and it came up with a squeak. I got down close to the crack I had made and called his name, but he didn’t answer.
I pushed the window up all the way and climbed in. Buster was lying on the bed, the covers up to his chin, his hands holding them as if he had just pulled them up.
I knew as soon as I saw him, he was dead.
25
DADDY HAD THE BODY put in the colored funeral home, and he paid for it to be embalmed. We tried to find the relatives Buster told me about, but no luck.
They buried him in the colored graveyard near where Bubba Joe had tried to kill me. They put him down without a stone between two other heaps of dirt without stones—recent burials.
I took the books the way he wanted. While I was gathering them, Callie, who was helping me, came across a note.
It read:
“Stan, you are my true friend. I give you my books, and my records. You’re gonna like them. Enjoy your life. Buster.”
“He knew he was dying,” I said to Callie.
“I suppose he did,” she said.
———
I DIDN’T GO BACK to the grave until some years later, and by then I couldn’t find it. Grass had grown over most everything and there were no longer mounds and what stones that had been there were gone or broken.
After Buster’s death, lots of things changed. There was a rumble in the air about civil rights, and there was
