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I wish I could say that was the last I saw of Henry; I would sleep easier at nights had I not seen the poor boy’s skull smashed to pieces and his broken, bloodied face staring up at me from the bayou.
The storm came quickly, violating everything in its path. During the summer months we get weeks of baking heat followed by torrential storms. That year they seemed to have held off longer, but for the few days prior the air had been thick with anticipation of the impending storm.
The last of the customers left as what started as summer rain turned into a full downpour; I feared that it would soon turn into a hurricane. I struggled to pull the storm shutters closed as the rain beat down fiercer by the second and the wind blew harder. It wasn’t a night to be out, and my mind momentarily switched to Henry, hoping he would return home soon.
I busied myself with the closing-time chores; clearing away the last few glasses, counting up the night’s takings and writing down the stock used, when the door to the bar started rattling in its frame. I initially dismissed it as the storm, but it was too frantic… too persistent to be a force of nature.
Miss Emma burst in no sooner had I unlocked it. She was soaking wet, her pretty white dress ragged and dirty. My heart sank into my belly almost taking the wind out of me; I thought she’d been hurt. She looked frantic, panicked, and she was barely able to speak or breathe properly. She collapsed to her knees and started sobbing uncontrollably. She shivered as I bent down and touched her shoulder. ‘Miss Emma, what’s wrong?’ Looking back, I don’t know how I knew, but something inside me told me it was Henry… I knew he was hurt. ‘Where’s Henry?’ I turned cold, a chill shot up my spine and my mind raced to try and think what could have happened.
She looked at me through tear-filled eyes, unable to voice the words that her mouth formed. In desperation she scrambled to her feet and grabbed my hand. She pulled me from the bar, through the town, past the cotton fields and into the bayou.
At times I had difficulty in keeping up; she was quick-footed while I stumbled through the foot-deep water tripping on tree roots and snagging my pants on bushes. The bayou isn’t somewhere many folks venture. It’s dark and sinister, even during the day. The trees creak like new leather in the wind, groaning under the morbid atmosphere. I remember the tales I was told as a child of the monsters that live in the swamps. It may seem pathetic, but those stories rang clearer than ever that night.
My heart beat hard against my chest like a caged animal trying to escape its confines. My mouth was dry yet my brow was sweating. I stood for a second, physically unable to take one more step forward, and I could see her up ahead standing still then falling to her knees; a black silhouette against the flashes of brilliant lightning.
I got a second wind. I remember breathing so heavily it felt as though every breath was my last. I scrambled over and looked at what she was kneeling over. Henry was looking back at me, his beautiful blue eyes, now dead, looking directly into mine; his sandy blonde hair caked in blood and fragments of skull; his face bloody and shattered; his smile replaced by a grimace revealing broken teeth. Angela’s smile that was once so precious, now grotesque and angry. Frozen for all time in the horror that was his last breath. I ran my hand over his face, tracing contours that now felt so alien and unnatural. This wasn’t happening to me again. I couldn’t lose another loved one. Henry was all I had, and now he’d been taken by the hands of someone else.
I grabbed Miss Emma’s shoulders and violently shook her, demanding she tell me everything. She couldn’t speak, but she froze, looking at something behind me.
Mr. Williams stood over me, his normally immaculate shirt almost invisible in the driving rain. Big red spots stained his forearms and hands. ‘Joseph, what happened?’ His voice was shaking; a stark contrast to the man who struck the fear of God into most people.
‘It’s… it’s Henry,’ I replied looking back at my boy, ‘someone’s hurt him.’
Miss Emma crawled through the thick water, backing off from Henry’s body. She had a fear in her eyes, like a deer in a shotgun’s sight. Her face was questioning, searching the scene for an answer.
‘We’ve got to call the Sheriff,’ I said, trying to stand. My legs were weak and the stagnant water seemed to be pulling me down, fixing me to the spot.
‘This has nothing to do with you, Joseph. I suggest you walk away right now,’ Mr. Williams said from behind me. I looked up to see his face cold and unapologetic. I don’t remember anything after that.
As each eye opened slowly, the light of the day flooded my vision. I saw nothing for a few minutes until my eyes adjusted. I was in a cell. The Deputy was sitting guard. I tried to sit up, but my head was throbbing.
‘Take it steady, Joseph,’ Deputy O’Shea suggested, his Irish brogue warm and reassuring.
I pulled myself to a sitting position and looked around. Ol’ Donovan was in the cell next to me, probably pulled in off the streets for his own safety. He was a lousy drunk at the best of times. I also noticed my cell was locked. I looked at O’Shea who promptly disappeared into the front office.
As I stood I had to take a hold of the cell bars for support. Although I was standing, it felt as though my head had yet to catch up.
‘Joseph.’ It was Sheriff Donald Jackson. He was a kind-spirited sort of fellow with a mean streak when it came to criminals. Not many people crossed him without some kind of comeuppance, but he was always fair and straight-minded.
‘What’s happened?’ I asked, finally regaining some of my composure and strength.
He looked at me solemnly before pulling up a chair right outside the cell door. ‘You don’t remember?’
‘Henry… he’s been hurt, he was down in the bayou.’
‘I know, Joseph. Mr. Williams brought you here. He said that you…’ He didn’t finish his sentence, but I knew what he was implying.
‘No.’ I whispered the words, stumbling backwards. ‘No,’ I repeated with more conviction, ‘I didn’t… I found him. Miss Emma took me there, shown me what happened. Shown me Henry. Then Mr. Williams shown up. He… he...’ I couldn’t remember. My head ached as I tried to recall what I said, what I did, but nothing came. The harder I searched for an answer, the more clouded it became.
‘Calm down, Joseph. It’s OK, Mr. Williams told us everything.’
The fireflies hovered just above the cotton fields as the ochre, gold and russet of the late July sunset were surrendering to the inky black of night. The atmosphere was as smoky and sultry as the intoxicating blend of champagne and stout the locals call ‘Black Velvet’ – a favourite of Miss Emma’s, and her last drink that fateful evening.
Miss Emma was as beautiful and fragile as a porcelain angel. Her chocolate hair was tied loosely back and a few curls escaped, falling onto her delicate shoulders. Her thin cotton dress moved like finest silk as she danced barefoot in the corner to the slow gentle hum of ‘Love Me Tender’. She visited my bar every Thursday evening to dance and talk to the regulars. Not that she was like one of them harlots; she was just interested in folk. They were so far removed from her family’s circle; she was fascinated by tales from the river or the farms or town. She knew they all watched her dance but she didn’t mind; she only had eyes for my son Henry.
Henry was all I had after my wife was taken away from us fifteen years ago. He don’t remember her much, ‘cept what he saw in my old and fading photographs. Sometimes it pained me to look at him – he had Angela’s blue eyes, sandy blonde hair and her smile; the kind of smile that could warm the coldest of hearts in the darkest of winters. But he was more than just a son; he was my best friend too.
This is a laid-back old part of Mississippi, not much happens here and the pace of life is as slow as one of them beautiful old paddleboats that cruise up and down the river. Folks go about their own business with little care what one says against another. Most of the workers tend the cotton farms, but there’s a grocery store, my bar, a schoolhouse, a sheriffs office and the law courts. We live a simple life free from the so-called industrial revolution happening all around us.
That summer started out pretty much like any other. The temperature was as high as the emotions running through town. A corporation from the city wanted to build a factory on our river; they said it was for a new soda drink and would bring industry and jobs to Bracken Falls. But we didn’t want no factory churning out smoke and smog choking our idyllic town. We didn’t have the money to fight them with lawyers, so people power was all we had. A few of the women had come into the bar to discuss the mornings meeting with the owners of the proposed business.
Miss Rose, the local schoolmistress, was heading up the campaign. She burst into the bar with an enthusiasm that was only dampened by the sweaty afternoon. ‘Those men don’t know what they’re getting into, Joseph,’ she said as she hitched her skirt up to sit at one of the bar stools in a most un-ladylike manner.
I poured her a barley water with a little lemon, although she looked as though a double whiskey would be a more suitable order. ‘They certainly don’t ma’am, ‘specially trying to get one over on you.’
‘We’re all gonna lose a lot o’ land, ‘specially Mr. Williams. They want to put that thing right over his cotton fields.’ Mr. Williams was Miss Emma’s father. He was a good honest God-faring man, always polite and always perfectly presented. A lot of people in town got a lot of respect for him; he was even running for Mayor. ‘Hello, Henry,’ she said, looking towards the cellar door. Miss Rose was a lovely lady, although lady was perhaps not the most appropriate word. On the outside she was a delicate flower, on the inside a Venus Flytrap. I knew a few men that had been lured in by her beauty only to be spit out shells of their former selves.
‘Good day, Miss Rose,’ Henry replied politely, wiping his hands on his apron and disappearing into the back room. He had been working the cellar, counting stock and organising space for the following morning’s delivery. I can’t honestly blame him for his swift disappearance; she had that look in her eye, like an eagle after its prey.
‘I’m sure it’ll get worse before it gets any better, Joseph,’ she said as she drained the glass of the barley water. ‘Y’all know how stubborn people around here can be, and the extremes they’ll go to protect what is theirs, and no bullish conglomerate is going to browbeat us into selling up our land.’
She had a point; people in this town were mostly stubborn old goats, protective and close-knit. There was no way that this organisation was going to win the battle without a lot of blood sweat and tears.
The afternoon continued without too much drama. Miss Rose returned after an afternoon of deliberations with the factory folks. She said that although they might have won the battle, the war was far from over. The locals had come in at their usual times and ordered their usual drinks, and Miss Emma arrived as if on cue at seven o’clock.
‘Good evening Joseph,’ she said as she walked into the bar, bringing with her the scent of jasmine, iris and magnolia from the cotton fields.
‘Good evening Miss Emma, the usual?’ Miss Emma loved Black Velvet, and I always kept a small bottle of champagne behind the counter for her. She was the only customer who could afford it, but I didn’t mind getting it in especially.
‘Hello, Miss Emma,’ Henry said from the doorway to the back storeroom.
Her face lit up as she looked at him, like a child on Christmas morning. ‘Hello, Henry,’ she replied, and mouthed the words ‘I love you’. There was also something else she wasn’t saying; there was a curious expression on her face, although she smiled her eyes were deep with concern. I didn’t know it at the time, but looking back, I suppose it wasn’t too hard to guess why.
The evening grew weary. The heat from the day was suffocating the air, making it sticky and unnerving. The sky was turning dark and malevolent, threatening everyone with its wrath. Outside, the breeze was picking up yet everything was still and silent. The calm before the storm, if you will.
Miss Emma had spent her usual few hours talking, drinking and dancing. The last song she put on the Wurlitzer was ‘Love Me Tender’. She danced slowly in the corner of the room, writhing gently to the notes. As the song came to a close she walked towards the door, her delicate body framed by the front porch light. Henry looked at me and I told him to go. He smiled Angela’s smile. He didn’t need to thank me; I knew how much it meant to him.
I watched as they slow-danced in the rain, captivated by each others touch; she was barefoot, carrying her shoes in her hands; he was shirtless. They kissed, slow and lingering. My heart melted, I remember what it was like to be that much in love and I prayed that theirs would be as powerful as Angela’s and mine. I’ve always said that when true love comes it comes but once, and you must seize it or lose it forever. It was clear for all to see how much in love they were. And that was part of the problem. The jealous few would look to ruin it for them. She defied her father by coming down; she said it didn’t matter because she was in love. I knew that their relationship wouldn’t have a hope in hell of continuing, so I put money aside for them. They didn’t know, and I didn’t want them to. I wanted them to get out of this two-story town and start a new life together, away from those that would seek to wreck it for them. I know I’m an old romantic because I know what it feels like to cry when your world has been ripped apart, and I don’t want anyone else to have to feel that. They stayed out in the rain for a few minutes before disappearing into the cotton fields and into the black night.
