The Sport of Kings
By P. Absbury
8:35 p.m CST, Saturday, July 10, 1954, Pachuta, Clarke County MS.
Glare and shadows blend neither outdoors nor in the homes of men, even less
so in their hearts.
If one didn’t know any better, a body would have sworn that John The
Revelator made the living room of Mose Hawkins’ home his refuge from the
exhausting responsibilities of prophecy. After all, his voice leapt from the
pages of the Bible that Mose studied dutifully from its cradle in his lap,
and the scratchy phonograph off in the far corner carried his message in the
wailing of Blind Willie Johnson, singing of his blessings and miracles in a
1930 Columbia recording. All of these media were crude blessings to Hawkins;
the record player and 78’s being the only Christmas gifts his late wife
Mellie was able to muster the previous year, and the holy book a gift
received through the benefaction of a travelling Baptist minister who had
made his way through southeast Mississippi ten years earlier on a caucasian
crusade to convert the poorest Southern blacks to God’s word. Mose had
accepted the donation figuring the Lord meant for him to have something good
to read on Saturday nights before church the next morning, and even if that
crazy-ass cracker was trying to save him from Hell in exchange for a small
donation to his cause, at least the good book was free.
The breeze had picked up some, carrying a moment of relief from the swelter
of the still-warm summer evening. Leaving the windows open, for where he
lived and the hue of himself, was a risk that had crossed his younger mind
from seeing homemade Klan firebombs sail through the windows of his
neighbors in Pascagoula as a teenager. But Mose had grown away from the
fears in his life as he’d aged, rather beautifully the world must say, and
now he had a home and land right in the wretched heart of a state where all
his life his friends had been hated, mocked, shunned and murdered, American
citizens treated as prisoners of a race war where mercy was for the weak and
there was no middle ground for your beliefs. It wasn’t everyone that treated
black folks wrong, but there were more than enough that did, and you always
made sure to watch for signs of trouble, especially where talk revealed Klan
strongholds. It was not a life that anyone should have to lead, but the
fools who knew no better, were too lazy to learn and too old to change were
all around him, and Hawkins had given the bigots the finger by buying real
estate right off of Highway 18, four miles south of Pachuta, the only black
man to own more than an acre within at least fifty miles every direction. It
was progress, even if the collective hatred resisted it.
Mose arose from his green high-backed chair and set his Bible next to his
pack of Chesterfields on a side table, then stretched from his inactivity
with an audible grunt, only slightly softer than the cracking sound of his
42-year old joints. He reached down for his steel cup and took another swig
of the potent corn whiskey he’d bought from Scratchy Fillmore south of
Quitman. When the sting of the alcohol struck his throat, he winced-even
after having tasted the cheap hooch for over thirty years, it still stabbed
at his palate.
He set the cup back down on the table and moved his boot gently into the
rear end of his dog, stirring his old friend out of his slumber. Smokey
reacted with a bark to being awakened, then trotted over towards the front
door, wagging his tail in anticipation of being let out into the front yard
to relieve himself. Hawkins walked over to the door and opened it, following
the mutt onto his front porch and watching as Smokey ran out towards the
road, barking up a storm at some birds that had perched in a line on
telephone wires across the road. The sun had set and dusk was about to
become nighttime in Clarke County. As the dog sniffed around for a grassy
target, Mose surveyed the elderberry and Virginia creeper bushes off to the
left at the fenced border of his property, then looked straight up at the
bright and clear full moon that took the place of the sun on watch from the
sky. It was a beautiful sentinel in the dark celestial blanket, a watchman
of sorts, illuminating everything in sight enough to make out colors and
shapes if not intentions.
Mose took a deep breath of the humid air and cleared his throat, a reminder
of 28 years of smoking. He then slapped his right hand on his thigh and
called out to Smokey: "C’mon now, buddy. Time to haul it in." His voice was
craggy and resonant, a cigarette and gospel-soaked baritone that had pleased
the ears of many a Mississippi brown sugar mama and stood out in the
Hallelujah choirs of Holy Redeemer Baptist Church, which he’d attended for
24 years, never having missed a Sunday sermon of Preacher Charles for any
reason. And he wasn’t about to let a canine bladder delay the long sleep he
required to make the next day a productive one.
Smokey came racing back towards the porch, all flapping ears and bristling
tail and bark, then bound over the porch steps in one leap and into the
house. Mose stuck his hands in the pockets of his overalls and looked at the
moon once more, wondering what secrets it held in its vigil over the world
that night.
He might have learned one of them if he’d had occasion to look at the house
to the right of his property that evening.
9:01 p.m.
Common sense should be enough to persuade any man not to hog the Wild Turkey
when another man in the room has a loaded Winchester within reach, but then
again Tommy Perkins wasn’t known for his smarts anyhow. He showed his
dullness especially when drunk, which he was by then with a fifth being
passed around Hank Petitbon’s dinner table. This night for he, Hank and
Jimmy Ray Taylor was nothing out of the ordinary, really-they spent more
time than they should getting drunk and sitting at this very spot, talking
about the accessibility of the local women and the relative merits of
different tobaccos and liquors. Hank was the only homeowner and husband
among the three; Tommy had been kicked out of every place in town cheap
enough for him to live because of his insobriety and lack of available coin,
and since he was also chronically unemployed, things weren’t getting much
better anytime soon. Being around Hank and Jimmy Ray was his only social
life to speak of, and the other two men suffered his presence almost out of
pity for Tommy’s cruel combination of alcoholism and stupidity. But he was
even more determined to suck down sauce that night than they were happy
with, and combined with his penchant for wisecracks, Hank was done with
hospitality.
"Gimme back that fucking bottle before you start pissing Turkey, you idiot.
We ain’t hardly had enough out of it to fill the cap."
Tommy took another swig of whiskey after that and gave Hank a boozy smile.
"Whas th’ matter? This is only my third shot off it."
Hank glared at him. "Mebbe so, but your ’shots’ would overflow a goddamned
canteen. I didn’t buy that so you could weasel all of it before anyone else
gets a turn. Give it here."
Tommy chuckled and raised the whiskey once again to his mouth, but this time
Jimmy Ray reacted by grabbing the end of the container with both hands and
attempting to wrest it from Tommy’s grasp. The two men struggled against one
another, grunting in the tug of war and shouting epithets at one another,
until at least, a few moments later, the bottle slipped out of Tommy’s hands
and fell to the tile of the kitchen floor, shattering glass all over the
place and spilling the liquor in a wasted spray to a radius of several feet
from impact. Shocked and disgusted, Jimmy Ray shoved Tommy backwards into
the wall behind them, and Tommy raised a woozy fist to fight back when the
shrill voice of Mrs. Petitbon halted the men cold.
"Stop this nonsense! Who the hell do you two think you are, fightin’ in my
house?" She had been awakened by the shattering of the whiskey bottle, and
walking into the kitchen from the rear of the house dressed in a
hastily-thrown-on housecoat, her hair a mess, she was in no mood to be
polite to her rowdy company.
Jimmy Ray backed off of Tommy and stood silently for a moment, then sat back
down in his chair. "Sorry, ma’am." he replied softly. "Didn’t mean to stir
you none."
Tommy balanced himself against the wall and grinned at Amanda Petitbon with
a smile that revealed two missing cuspids lost in a bar fight six years
prior. "Don’t mind us, Ms. Amanda." he stammered. "We just got a lil’ too
loud for ya, I s’pose." He reached uneasily for his chair and sat back down.
"You’re drunker than I’ve ever seen, Tommy Dale. And now your clumsy ass had
better clean up that mess you two made on my kitchen floor." She had a
serious look of disdain for her husband’s associates on her face, and Hank
glanced at her purposefully before he spoke up. "We’ll get the mop and some
rags in a minute, honey. You get on back to bed now."
Amanda became defiant. "Don’t you let those men sit at my table until they
get this mess cleaned, Hank. I’m not going to bed until I know they’re
done."
Hank’s voice shot up ten decibels of angry in reply to his wife. "I told you
we’d get to it in a bit. Get on back to bed, now."
Amanda still refused to move, and Hank rose from his chair, walking towards
her. As he neared, she dropped her face behind her raised right arm,
anticipating the violence she’d known throughout ten years of marriage, but
Hank didn’t hit her this time. Instead, her grabbed her by the hand and led
her unwillingly towards their bedroom, and the combat of a frustrated couple
came spewing forth in the shouting match that followed. The voices stopped
all of a sudden, then came the sound of a door slamming as Hank walked back
into the kitchen. He sat back down in his chair and looked at Tommy again,
breathless from the heated exchange with his wife. "Rags are underneath the
sink and the mop is inside the laundry closet over there. Get to it." he
said, angling his right thumb over his left shoulder. Tommy looked at him
incredulously as Jimmy Ray arose from his chair and walked towards the sink.
"You can’t be serious." Tommy said to him "Who the fuck you think I am, your
maid?"
Hank leaned over the table, barely a foot away from Tommy’s stunned look,
and snarled "Get your worthless ass out of that chair and clean up that
fucking mess. NOW."
Tommy did not move, but Hank did. Reaching behind his chair, he grasped at
the Winchester shotgun that had been leaned up against the wall, and in one
motion, he flipped open the chamber and took two shells from the opened box
of ammunition he had laid out on the table. Sliding them into the chamber,
he clicked the barrels shut and pulled on the shunt of the weapon, loading
it, then swung the end of the barrel in a blur to the front of Tommy’s face.
"I’m gonna say this one more time, motherfucker. You get out of that chair
and clean that mess with your fuckin’ tongue if you have to."
Tommy was coherent enough to realize Hank’s seriousness, but he had to
insert his wit once more, wrong time, wrong place. "Oh, what you gonna do,
badass, shoot me for slipping your whiskey on the floor? You got to be
kidding me, pointin’ that thing at me over shit like that."
The right thumb of Hank Petitbon was almost enough to move the ass of Tommy
Perkins, for his next insistence was to cock the hammer of the Winchester in
preparation for use. The blood flowed from Tommy’s face, and he sat in his
chair, frozen with fear. All of a sudden Hank’s eyes, those icy blue,
demonic eyes, narrowed towards Tommy’s, and the message they carried was all
too clear: Move or die. Obey or end. In a flurry of thoughts, Tommy cringed
back, his hands over his face, and began to rise, ever so slowly, still
foolish, still drunk. Tommy’s left eye then watched as Hank’s index finger
moved towards the trigger, and before he could react, the Winchester was
angled up towards his face.
Now Tommy moved; so fast that body overturned chair overturning body, and
the frightened drunk went flying in a mess of flailing arms and legs
chest-first across the kitchen floor, landing on top of the mess of glass
and whiskey and knocking the already-cleaning Jimmy Ray into the countertop
near the sink. The slice of shards penetrated some areas of Tommy’s abdomen
and his legs, and he squealed in pain. Laying there for a moment, Tommy then
sat up and glanced at the areas of him that had been cut; fortunately, Jimmy
Ray had already cleared most of the larger pieces, and his wounds were
smaller than he thought, although he was bleeding from skin-deep rips around
his belly and on his arms, one from his right thigh. As Tommy surveyed his
damage weakly, Hank stood above him and reached out his left hand towards
the man, taking Tommy’s right arm and hoisting him from the mess below him
on the floor. "Jimmy Ray, get him some bandages and alcohol from the
medicine cabinet in my bathroom." Jimmy Ray nodded and walked towards the
bedroom as Hank looked Tommy over. "You’re bleedin’ some, but you’ll live."
Hank said, almost with a smile. He still had the Winchester in his right
hand, though he’d uncocked the hammer.
Tommy stared at him in disbelief, shock and even some anger, still dazed
from the sequence of events. "Why the hell did you do that to me, Hank? I
thought we was friends."
Hank, his expression unchanged, replied "We are. But you remember one thing
if nothin’ else, boy. When I tell you to do something, you do it then. Goes
for everyone else around here too." His voice had loudened enough to be
heard to the back of the house.
The two men looked at each other for a moment, gauging the thoughts of the
other, when Jimmy Ray walked back into the room with the items Hank had
requested. He handed the bandages and alcohol to Tommy, who took them and
gave Hank one last look before he retreated towards the table. Hank reached
down and picked up the chair with his left hand, then walked back towards
the table and set it where Tommy had been sitting before. "Clean y’self up
good now, y’hear? We don’t need you bleedin’ all over creation later on."
Hank sat back down in his chair and rested the Winchester against his left
thigh, reaching for a Camel and lighting it. He motioned for Jimmy Ray to
sit down and looked again at Tommy, saying nothing. When Jimmy Ray returned
to his seat, Hank again spoke. "We’re gonna go over this one more time to
make sure we got it down. No more whiskey, either. We gotta have our wits
about us to do this right."
And on those words his hand brushed unintentionally over the three white
costumes they had laid out on the kitchen table.
9:47 p.m.
Sunday folks considered mixing the blues and the Bible to be an invitation
for instant damnation, but Mose had reached an unconscious compromise with
the Lord that evening. That Devil music was off in the corner being sung by
a guitar preacher of well-known faith, and Mr. Hawkins had the Bible in his
lap most of the night, even with his free hand holding a cup of corn whiskey
here and there. But he’d done this many a time before and nothing bad had
happened to him on those nights, not even Mellie’s passing two months
earlier, at least not to his belief. She’d been fighting off the cancer in
her abdomen for a year longer than the doctors thought possible, and she’d
remained faithful and pious to her end, even as Mose barely held himself
together through it all.
He thought of her for a moment as he read on, and a tear found the corner of
his right eye, which he removed with a finger. It was still too fresh, too
raw for him to have healed properly, but the living had to go on no matter
what, and Mose was tough as nails when he had to be. But in the privacy of
his home, he could miss her, want her again and show nothing but his heart
to Smokey and the walls, because they wouldn’t reveal just how much he was
hurting, how lonely it was being just himself again after 19 years. He
reasoned she was watching over him, just like his mama and papa, like sister
Rose and brother Harry. All gone, but none forgotten. All loved beyond any
measure of comprehension by this mountain of good-hearted man. But you go on
no matter what.
Hawkins rose from his chair once again and walked over to his record player,
pulling the arm off of Blind Willie’s voice and placing the 78 in its
sleeve. As he held the record, he thought about what Willie and his wife
Angeline sang over and over again: "What’s John a-writing? Ask The
Revelator." Another stanza of the Johnson gospel also flooded his thoughts:
"Well Moses to Moses, watching the flock/Saw the bush where they had to
stop/God told Moses ‘Pull off your shoes/Out of the flock, a-well a-you I
choose.’" Mose smiled as he thought of his namesake, and for a moment he
felt a flush of pride at what he had fought so hard to achieve to this point
in his life.
His eyes looked around at the small house he lived in, painted in a faded
off-white, stained with tobacco smoke and dust and years of
Mississippi-drenched air. Setting the album down in his small collection, he
returned to his chair and once again stirred Smokey from his roost at the
foot of it. Mose opened his door and watched his sole company race around
the front yard, sniffing for a place of relief. As he stood on his front
porch, Hawkins reached for a Chesterfield and his matches and lit one,
blowing a puff of smoke into the night air in front of him before
extinguishing the match and tossing it into the yard. Smokey finished his
business and raced back into the house, and Mose turned to follow him, then
stopped and looked back out over his lawn.
And for a moment, just for a moment, Mose Hawkins looked high into the sky
once again and saw the shining grandeur of the full moon as never before.
And if the world could have seen how deep the moon’s power was captured off
the reflection from his brown irises, they would have understood what he
sensed that instant: Someone was watching over him, his every move and every
twitch, waiting. As the light glinted off his eyes back into the world, a
slight chill curled his toes as he became aware that whatever observed him
did not announce itself as either good or evil.
10:15 p.m.
Tommy was having trouble getting the material over his head, a task not
aided by the pain that still persisted from the newly-ribboned skin around
his gut.
Grunting audibly, he mixed up the sleeves with the head slot and wound up
trying three times to poke his forehead where his arms belonged. Finally
Jimmy Ray, aware of the time crunch they were under, grabbed the costume and
forcibly guided Tommy’s head through the right slot, then pulled the white
cotton down around his torso and admonished him: "Swear to God himself He
didn’t give you but third-rate shit for brains, son. If Hank’d seen this
he’d a-killed you out of mercy."
Tommy was still drunk from the whiskey but sober enough to question things.
"Why we doin’ this, Jimmy? What the hell that boy ever done around here but
live?"
The slap across Tommy’s face was hard and lightning fast. "Shut your mouth,
y’hear?" Jimmy Ray snarled. "You already done got y’self in enough trouble
with Hank tonight, and I’m tellin’ you for your own good, keep your smartass
shit to yourself."
Tommy rubbed his right hand against his cheek and replied "I wasn’t bein’
smart, I swear. I just don’t know why we goin’ along with him. I got no
gripe with the man. Wouldn’t care less if someone else did him in, but why
we got to do it? Hank’s the one with the beef, let him smoke this boy
himself."
For the first time that night, James Ray Taylor spoke his own mind, as close
to Tommy Dale Perkins’ face as his conscience. "You listen to me, Tommy, and
you better listen good, you understan’?" The veins in his forehead bulged,
almost to fissure. "I ain’t fool enough to argue with Hank Petitbon on much
o’ anythin’, and I sure as hell ain’t stupid enough to call out his
motivation on this one. He’s crazier’n shit, but that man done showed once
already tonight he wouldn’t think twice to kill you three ways. Only thing
he said to me was this darky said somethin’ to his old lady, and around here
that gets ‘em killed. It ain’t my business why he gonna do this, but he
asked me to help, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m gonna have him shove that
Winchester in my face for not doin’ it."
Tommy’s mind, feeble though it was, grasped the severity in his friend’s
tone. "It’s all about not bein’ at the end of a gun, then, bein’ scared? Why
not just say no? What you think he’d do, kill a man for tellin’ him no?"
And on that, again with the same look of seriousness as before, James Ray
Taylor revealed his skill of observation. "Ask y’self that question."
10:31 p.m.
Man and beast as wretched symphony, Mose and Smokey in unison at rest.
Mellie’s only complaint about her beloved husband had been his snoring; she
always used to say he resonated so loud the scratches on all those records
he loved was his lungs shaking the ground as the singers did their thing.
Mose, as usual, had fallen asleep in his chair, and his old friend, knowing
the coast was clear, had hopped up between his chest and lap and napped with
him, his bulky frame causing the lungs of the already-rumbling Mr. Hawkins
to strain from the extra weight. The lights were still on, and the
thunderous, scratched blues of Son House’s "My Black Mama" toiled away in
the far corner.
As man and his best friend rested their weary selves, hand and paw had been
placed near each other on the precious Bible Mose had spent his Saturday
night reading, perhaps guided by a force neither were aware of before they
each slept. Just above Mose’s outstretched finger was a piece of gospel,
almost a guide of the way he had always tried to live. It was the last thing
he would remember reading before he dreamed of Heaven, Mellie, his family
and everything good he so loved. The words read thus:
""For the Son of man is not come to destroy men’s lives, but to save them."
Luke 9:56
10:42 p.m.
Hank Petitbon was now attired for his evening out, in white cotton from head
to toe, the hood parked over his neck, ready for use. He adjusted the gown
to ensure proper fit, and admired the costume in his mirror, turning from
side to side to get the best view possible. His eyes trailed down to the
four-sided black cross awash in sea of red, the symbol of his indignance and
defiance at all of it. He wasn’t about to let them talk to his wife,
pregnant and vulnerable, and get away with it. Nobody but himself got a
moment out of her day, and that good-for-nothing uppity sure as hell wasn’t
worthy of her time. He’d already torn into her for talking to Mose that
afternoon, and when she’d made the mistake of mentioning comforting Hawkins
over the loss of his wife, that was enough for Hank. He had convinced
himself Mose propositioned her that day, and when his bigotry mixed itself
with his ego, the Winchester was selected as payment for such an offense.
His blue eyes saw his reflection in the mirror one last time, and what gazed
back at him was right to him, righteous to him, owed blood for Mose Hawkins
crossing the line between black and white.
Hank Petitbon stepped into his kitchen and he saw his two compatriots
sitting at the table, nervously awaiting what was about to happen. Hank
looked at Jimmy Ray and asked "You got the rope?" Jimmy Ray nodded yes and
placed his hand upon the bunched twine. Hank nodded and looked at Tommy with
a deadly stare. "You better be sober and awake enough to do your part, boy.
Ain’t no room for fuckups now."
Tommy looked at him with a hint of fear in his eyes and replied "I know,
Hank. I won’t let you down, won’t let anyone down."
Petitbon smiled at him and walked over towards the Winchester, picking it up
and running his right hand over the barrel, stroking it almost as gently as
he would a kitten’s fur. He then took his weapon under his arm and motioned
with his left hand for his companions to move.
As he turned to observe them, Jimmy Ray remarked to Hank, pulling his hood
over his head, "Well, lookit you, mister. Ain’t you ready to raise some hell
tonight."
Hearing those words, Hank Petitbon lifted the shotgun and looked down upon
it, then back at Jimmy Ray with a mischievous twinkle in eyes, a half-smile,
sinister and foreboding on his face. He started to say something, but
instead reached behind his head and covered his face with his hood. "Let’s
go." he said. "We got work to do."
10:47 p.m.
Mose’s front door disappeared faster than his sleep.
The boot-clad foot of Hank Petitbon was the first thing Mose saw as he
snapped to life from the commotion that brought itself from his porch. As
the door slammed to the floor from the kick of the first intruder, Smokey
barked loudly and jumped towards Petitbon to attempt intervention. Hank
swung the butt of the Winchester into the dog’s side and sent him yipping in
a line across the floor into the wall. Mose, still dazed and not fully
awake, stood up and started to speak, resist, do something, but he too found
the crack of the shotgun upon him, on his forehead, so sharp that he dropped
to the carpet, his brain exploding in pain from all quarters. All he could
do was try to move away, but Hank stood above him and drove the gun’s end
into the back of his head.
Pain beyond belief. A singe, then the black night of unconsciousness.
Nothingness.
Hank stood above Mose’s body as Jimmy Ray and Tommy made their way into the
house. He turned his head towards them and pointed down at his chosen prey.
"Throw his ass in the back of the truck. And hogtie him, too. Make sure
noone hears him, neither."
The two accomplices did as they were told and collected Mose Hawkins, Tommy
grabbing under his shoulders and Jimmy Ray taking his ankles. As they
carried Mose out of his front door towards the truck, Hank Petitbon aimed
the Winchester at Smokey and fired once, blistering the old dog beyond death
in a mess of blood, intestines and bone shards.
"Serves you right for shittin’ all over my yard. Noisy motherfucker." Hank
muttered. He looked around Mose’s house and shook his head in disdain. "No
wonder his wife kicked so young. This place ain’t fit for a pack of
shitflies." He reached into his pocket for a shell and reloaded his weapon.
"What is this goddamned world comin’ to, lettin’ someone like him in my
neighborhood. Nerve of some people."
Hank turned his attention towards the truck, which now was occupied by his
henchman and Hawkins in the back. He walked out the entryway and onto the
porch, turned and fired another shot towards the record player, blasting it
into pieces of wood and destroying Mose’s copy of the acetate voice of Son
House forever.
11:35 p.m.
Mose came to and saw the moon again through the trees of a forest this time,
with one less secret to consider.
He was dazed from the impact of the shots to his head, and as he tried to
move his hands, he realized they were expertly bound behind his back by a
knot and thick rope, and something sharp was jutting into his right wrist.
Opening his eyes was an excruciating experience, and what caught his first
complete vision was even more of a horror.
"’Bout time you woke up, boy. I only hit you twice and you’ve been cold for
near an hour now." Hank had removed his hood and was chewing on a cigarette,
with a satisfied grin on his face. Tommy and Jimmy Ray were standing off to
his left, saying nothing, each with a beer in his hand. Hank put out his
cigarette into the dirt and stood up, walked to where Mose was bound and
kneeled in front of him.
"I guess you’re wonderin’ why we asked you here tonight, Missah Hawkins." he
said. "I figure you get might as well get your last request. It’s only
right." Hank started laughing at himself and rested the Winchester barrel-up
on the ground to his right.
Mose finally had enough coherence to speak. "What the hell you doin’ to me?
Why you brought me out here, tie me up like dis’?"
Hank spoke again. "Well, now, boy, I guess you don’t remember what you said
to my wife, now do you? Seems pretty obvious to me why I’d bring you way out
here to discuss things, right?"
Mose looked at him and replied, defiant as ever. "I didn’t say nothin’ wrong
to her, didn’t do nothin’ neither. You hear otherwise, you heard wrong."
Hank sneered at his reply and shook his head. "No, suh, I sho’ don’ think ah
did." His inflection was mocking, angry, meant to offend. "I heard from some
folks nearby that you told my wife she’d look even better than she does on
top of you like a merry-go-round horse. Said she’d enjoy gettin’ pregnant
with ol’ Mosey more’n me." Hank stood up and turned his shotgun, aiming it
towards Hawkins’ face. "Now, Mose, look this in the eye and tell me I’m
wrong."
In the moonlight, his figure was striking, carved out by shadows and visible
enough to see the dead cold venom that seemed to smoke from his eyes like a
cauldron of lava. Mose’s frightened yet brave eyes met those of Hank’s for a
moment, just a moment, and the two men could almost see the soul of each
other, Mose singed with the palpable hatred from his tormentor, and Hank
seeing the barrier of strength that steeled Hawkins’ gaze. After the
interchange, Mose spoke up. "It don’t matter none what I tell you, you ain’t
gonna believe me anyhow. You got the gun, you gonna be right."
"Oh, you’re right about that one, boy." Hank said. "But see, even if I
didn’t have this piece in my possession, I’d be right. Can’t you people get
it through your fuckin’ skulls you ain’t allowed to talk to us? You been
here all your life, and you ain’t figured that out yet? I didn’t figure you
were that dumb. Guess I was wrong about one thing after all."
Mose grimaced at the rock he realized had been poking at his skin, but he’d
moved his hand just right so that the rope was now more on it than him. He
glanced at Hank to make sure he didn’t see the movement of his wrists,
slicing at his bindery every so slightly. Hank wasn’t looking at his hands,
really. He was checking to see if he could scare Mose into an admission.
But Mose’s mind was racing in his captivity as he watched Hank Petitbon turn
and pace around the grass of the forest. He thought of Mellie, of his
family, wondering about Smokey and what was about to happen. He decided to
try his luck at negotiation.
"You got to believe me, I never said nothin’ out of proper to Ms. Amanda. We
just talk about my wife bein’ gone and I ask her if she got a name yet for
her baby. That’s all."
Hank turned back to him and replied. "That’s bullshit, and you know it." He
walked over in front of Mose and kneeled down again. "You got one more
chance to tell me the truth, boy. Confess what you did and make it right
with God before you see Him." Now he twisted this into something wholly
unholy.
Mose continued to move his hands imperceptibly, slicing at the rope. "I can’
confess to somethin’ I never done. Ain’t no lie to hide the truth here."
Petitbon shook his head. "I shoulda known better than to talk to your lyin’
black ass. Can’t even get the God’s honest truth from a condemned man
anymore." He shook his head and turned towards Jimmy Ray. "Jimmy, you
believe this shit? What’ll he think of next?" Jimmy Ray laughed, albeit a
bit nervously.
Hank spoke again. "You know, before you die, Mose, I just had to compliment
you on your choice of decorations. I just LOVED what you did with that
matchstick shithole you call a home. ‘Course, I think what’s left of that
mutt o’ yours added a nice touch."
Mose was stunned beyond belief. "What you mean by sayin’ that? Where’s
Smokey?"
Hank busted out laughing. "Oh, I do believe you were incapacitated then! I
am sorry to say that your little shit-droppin’ buddy got in the way of one
of my shotgun shells. What’s left of him is next to the pieces of that
Godawful shit that was playin’ on your record machine. I thought since we
dropped in, I might as well do some redecoratin’, add to th’ AM-BI-ANCE a
lil. Place needed a civilized touch." On that, there was collective laughter
from the three white-robed kidnappers.
Mose closed his eyes for a minute, feeling a rush of anger, sadness and
outrage as he realized what had happened to Smokey. He’d probably done
nothing more than bark at the men, tried to defend his master and his home
against the strangers, and he paid for it with his life. It was beyond mere
cruelty, but reasoning with men consumed with such hatred did no good. Folks
from all walks of life had tried for decades to show men like these three
how to live, how to treat everyone with respect and with dignity. But these
boys, and countless more like ‘em, didn’t see anything but what they were
told, what someone else had spewed into their ears and minds out of
prejudice and fear. Mose Hawkins, bloodied and beaten, sore and bound, felt
for a moment as if everything had been lost: His wife, his dog, his home,
his family, his freedom and dignity, maybe soon even his life. But while he
thought all these things, two thoughts also crept in: He still had his wits,
and his hands were almost free.
"If you gon’ kill me, Hank, you might as well get it over with. I ain’t gon’
tell you nothin’ ya’ll want t’hear anyhow. Not even what really happened,
neither."
Petitbon turned him, his face twisting in confusion. "What do you mean, what
really happened? What the fuck kinda bulllshit you tryin’ to sell me?"
Mose found himself smiling, invisible in the darkness. "Oh, it ain’t no
bullshit, believe you me. You wanted t’know what I said to your old lady,
but you never asked what I did wit’ her." One strand of rope left. Keep
talking.
For a moment, Hank Petitbon didn’t know what to do. This was a show of
defiance he’d never expected. In most cases, you knock a man down and wave
death in his face, and he’ll sing like a opera star. But Mose hadn’t
revealed anything until now.
Hank snapped the fingers on his right hand and pointed at the case of
shotgun shells that Jimmy Ray had placed near his left foot, near the
remainder of the rope used to bind their captive. Jimmy Ray carried the box
over to Petitbon and Hank reached in, taking two more shells out of it and
inserting them in the chamber of the gun. He then engaged them with a smile
on his face and walked back in front of Mose Hawkins, kneeling down as he
had before. Once again their eyes met, gauging the intentions of the other.
No secrets were obvious to either man, nor was the moon revealing anything.
"So now you got somethin’ to tell me, Mose? What you got to say for
yourself?"
"I got to say your wife know how to fuck like noone I ever had before. Too
bad you never figured out what she can do." Mose Hawkins smiled after he
said that. He was signing his death warrant with every word, every moment he
spoke as he did now. But as doomed as he was, he knew one thing about the
small mind of Hank Petitbon-plant the right seed and the doubts will grow.
And it had bought him the time he needed.
Hank stood up for a moment, still somewhat in disbelief, and a laugh escaped
him. "Well, well. Don’t that beat everything I never heard. Man got a gun in
his face and he takes to insulting my family just like he did before." Hank
turned back to Mose and asked him "So, you claim my wife’s an incredible
piece of ass, eh? What kinda thing is that to say to man in my position?"
Mose’s mind was racing, and his ears, keen as Smokey’s were, heard something
the gunman did not: The faint sound of footsteps from the east. But he had
to keep talking as long as could.
"Oh, mebbe I best ask Ms. Amanda about positions. Don’t think there was one
she didn’t like." Tommy and Jimmy Ray had both stirred, pacing a bit,
interested in the turn of events, perhaps anticipating what Mose’s words
were about to cause Hank to do.
Strangely, Hank had started to laugh at this taunting from his prisoner. He
shook his head slightly, then narrowed his eyes at Mose. "Oh, you think so,
boy? Why don’t you tell me which one she like, suh?" Again, the mock in the
voice.
Mose Hawkins, for a moment, had the upper hand, even as his own were still
tucked behind him. With a rush of adrenaline stirring within him, he glared
back at Hank and replied. "Think she like doggy most of all, yes she do.
Show off that birthmark on her ass somethin’ pretty."
It took Henry Steven Petitbon a moment to realize what had just happened,
but when that moment had evaporated in the past, he stood up and aimed the
shotgun at the face of Mose Elijah Hawkins, right between the eyes. Hank’s
own narrowed in anticipation, then he lowered his head in alignment with the
barrel of the Winchester and said: "You got just long enough left to regret
this, motherfucker. May your vile ass burn in hell where it belongs." Mose
closed his eyes and thought about what Mellie was doing in Heaven right
then.
And right then, as Hank prepared to pull the trigger on his evening in the
woods, a voice, sweet as Louisiana sugarcane, piped in from the East. "What
the hell is going on here?"
11:47 p.m.
Expert marksmen say that to obtain the proper angle on a kill, no matter
your weapon of choice, the eyes must be aligned perfectly with the barrel of
your gun.
Amanda Petitbon, a month pregnant and confused as to the whereabouts of her
husband and his two good-for-nothing friends, walked into the clearing where
the execution of Mose Hawkins was about to transpire. Distracted by her
voice, Hank turned his attention in her direction and snarled at her. "Go on
home, Amanda. NOW!"
Looking over the scene in a flash, she spoke back to him. "What are you
doin’ to him? Drop that gun and stop this!"
Now his eyes were opened. And Mose had his orders.
Without thought to impede him, Hawkins grabbed the barrel of the Winchester
and swung it to the left of him, pulling on it and removing it from the
grasp of Hank Petitbon, who was pulled forward by the momentum. Mose stood
up, all 6′4" of him, and grabbed the throat of his captor with his massive
right hand, twisting Hank’s slender body and guiding his head violently into
a nearby pecan trunk. And again. And again. The sound of bone on wood echoed
with a sickening crunch, and Petitbon slumped down in a heap of
unconsciousness.
Now all present saw the hulking figure of a free man come towards them.
Tommy and Jimmy Ray backed off, trying to run, but the unsure footing of the
forest floor betrayed them, and each went sliding in a mess of mud and
flailing arms. Mose caught Jimmy Ray first, seizing him by the back of his
neck and slamming him to cold into a nearby tree as he done with Hank. Tommy
was still sloshing about in the slick mud, screaming and scared, flailing to
get away, when Mose Hawkins’ big right hand caught his ankle, and Tommy was
dragged backwards like a garbage bag to the roadside. Mose reached to his
side and flipped him up faceward, then dropped his right knee in Tommy’s
chest and leaned over him. The eyes of Tommy Dale Perkins met those of Mose
Hawkins, and each man traded a secret of what was about to happen. Tommy
covered his face with his hands, cowering and pathetic.
On that, Mose Hawkins put him to sleep with the butt of the rifle twice to
his forehead.
Amanda Petitbon had been frozen in fear, screaming in helplessness as Mose
subdued the men. Hawkins turned to her and gripped both hands around the
Winchester. Their eyes met, not wavering.
"You need to get on home, Ms. Amanda. This ain’t no proper place for you
here." Mose was panting from the exertion of freeing himself.
She was shaking, barely able to breathe. "Please…don’t hurt anyone,
Mose…please…."
"I ain’t mean to do you no harm, ma’am. But you got to get on out of here.
Please, go on now. You seen too much already."
Her body language resisted his exhortations, but slowly she backtracked, her
hands over her mouth, easing away from the scene. Finally, she stepped off
and walked slowly away, turning her head to make sure she was not being
followed.
Sure she had left, Mose caught his breath and thought of what to do next.
His eyes scanned the forest for the rope. Seizing it and the box of shotgun
shells, he started to work.
12:17 a.m., Sunday, July 11.
Hank did not rejoin the conscious world with ease, but he willed himself
awake despite the crust of the blood on his face and the searing pain of
concussions and open wounds.
He realized he was sitting, bound, in the middle of the floor of the forest,
his robe caked with mud and his blood all over him. He turned his eyes
behind him, and looked at Tommy to his right and Jimmy Ray to his left. Both
were still unconscious at least, probably dead, tied up with him. Hank moved
his gaze back forward and saw the person of one Mose Hawkins sitting in
front of him, Hank’s Winchester in his right hand, barrel up.
Mose spoke up. "I wouldn’t think too long about tryin’ anything. You move an
inch and I’ll kill all three of you motherfuckers deader than hell."
Hank had difficulty speaking. "Where…is my wife?"
"Oh, I imagine she went back on home." Mose replied. "This wasn’t no place
for her to be, really. Ain’t her business no more. But she gave me my
chance, and I’ll have to repay her that. Might even fuck her extra deep
tonight. My way o’ sayin’ thanks."
Hank resisted the information he was now obligated to hear. Mose walked on
over towards him and kneeled down in front of him, his face not more than
six inches from that of Hank. "What’sa matter, Mr. Petitbon? You havin’
trouble dealin’ with your wife likin’ it from me more’n you?"
Hank responded with a sneer. "You’re full o’ shit, boy. Ain’t no way…" The
pain in his head was too much to continue.
Mose’s toothy grin came forth for the first time that night. "Oh, now, there
is a way, lot’s of ‘em really. On her back, on top, from behind, even up her
butt. How you think I know about that mark on her ass? Ain’t somethin’ folks
reveal in your polite conversations."
Hank couldn’t think enough to say anything, so Mose continued.
"See, women love to talk about everythin’ when someone willin’ t’ listen,
and since you and these two fuckers are always out gettin’ drunk and makin’
asses out o’ youselves, Ms. Amanda come to the fence here and there and just
talk about whatever come to mind. And me bein’ on my own now, I took the
time to listen to her. Sure enough, she tell me how you can’t get it up, and
ain’t never home when she want it. So, we talk and talk and talk about what
we think, and sure enough I got her all over the place, all the time. Ain’t
never seen a woman who suck you down with her own shit on you snake. She
ever do that for you, Mr. Hank?"
Petitbon could feel the rage begin to build in his heart, but he was
helpless to do anything about it. He could only murmur, weakly, "That’s a
goddamned lie, you fuckin’ n-"
The Winchester was pressed against his forehead before he could finish the
insult. "Go on and say it, I dare you." Mose said. "Won’t be like you the
first man ever call me that, call my family that. I heard ‘em say that all
my life, and why? ‘Cause they too stupid to think of anythin’ better? Must
be."
"I ain’t afraid of you or that gun, boy." Hank managed, still slurring his
words.
"Could be so. But I wonder what you really afraid of. You scared of me
enough to do this tonight, so where’s YOUR proof?" Mose was now as coherent
as he had even been in his life.
"Only proof I need is that your ugly-ass wife was so scared to look at you
she went and died rather than have to do it another day." Hank managed a
sneering laugh. Hatred with no bounds.
Mose did not react as Hank had hoped. He had his own ideas.
Hawkins slowly moved the barrel of the shotgun down from Petitbon’s forehead
to his chest, speaking deliberately as he moved it. "I wonder if blowin’
your heart out the other side of you might change you…" Mose said. Then he
moved the front of the Winchester lower, aligning it with Hank’s crotch.
Mose spoke again "…or mebbe I should blast off you nuts instead. Ain’t
like they got a use anyhow."
A realization hit Hank Petitbon at that moment, and a tear found its way
down his cheek. Perhaps it was fear, indignation, remorse or regret. No
matter what it was, Mose took the barrel away from him and set the shotgun
face up again.
"Aw, why you cryin’ now? What you got to cry about? You here wit’ your
friends, ain’t ya?" Mock could be turned around as could a gun.
Mose kneeled down once again and spoke. "You remember this for the rest o’
you life, you hear me? You ever come around my house, my friends, anyone I
know with so much as stiff chin, I’m gon’ kill everythin’ you got, just like
you did me tonight. I already done got you wife, but I can take more’n that
from you. Ain’t got no dignity no more, no secrets neither." Mose stood up
and raised the shotgun high in the air.
"An’ I gonna make goddamned sure you never forget tonight."
With that, the barrel of Hank Petitbon’s Winchester was driven into his
right kneecap with the force of a piledriver, shattering bone into
fragments. Hank screamed at the top of his lungs in an explosion of pain,
and then Mose crushed Hank’s left knee with the same violence. Hank was
crying, wiggling, gasping for air through the intensity.
Mose leaned down once more and whispered in the ear of his tormentor. "I
imagine the sheriff’ll be out here sometime tomorrow t’ look for you three,
mebbe sooner. I got to get on home now, ’cause I need to sleep some ‘fore
church tomorrow. But I think I’m gon’ stop by your house on the way and show
my ‘preciation to your wife. An’ I’m gonna lay her harder than I ever did
befo’. Might even fuck her up the ass, too. See if she like swallowin’ ol’
Mose down like she did befo’." Hank said nothing.
On that, Mose Hawkins stood up and walked through the forest towards where
the truck that brought him to this place was parked. Standing to one side of
it, he aimed the shotgun at the right driver’s side tire and fired once,
obliterating it with a squeal of air and fragments of rubber. He then turned
and fired once at the rear tire, destroying it as well with an explosive
blast. On that, he walked back over to where the three men were bound, and
said. "Just so you don’t get no ideas about leavin’ too soon. Might as well
enjoy the pretty night, o’ what’s left of it. Ya’ll have a good evenin’
now." Hank had already lost his battle with the pain, beyond unconscious.
And with that, the striking, hulking figure of Mose Hawkins, blanketed by
what moonlight could poke through the trees, disappeared slowly into the
Mississippi night.
3:25 p.m. CST, Sunday, June 17, 1956
The service at Holy Redeemer that day had been much like so many before;
Preacher Charles had held the audience spellbound with his stories of
damnation and how men could be saved through acceptance of the truest words
of God Almighty. Mose Hawkins had now been present at church for 26 years
straight, a mark he held in as much pride as the little beagle puppy that
now sniffed around his front yard for some relief.
"Come on now, Mellie. Time to haul it in." Mose slapped his right thigh
gently, leaning against his fence.
Mellie came running towards her owner in a flurry of excited yips and ears
and tail. When she got to Mose, she sniffed his leg and panted, wagging her
tail in excitement until Hawkins reached down and picked her up, stroking
the back of her neck and planting a kiss on the top of her head.
A voice sweet as Louisiana sugarcane greeted man and puppy. "Mighty pretty
little girl you got there, Mr. Mose."
As Mose turned his gaze to the right, Amanda Petitbon approached the fence
with a beautiful smile on her face, attired in a yellow sundress, her
daughter Amelia dressed the same, situated in her right arm. Mose admired
the two ladies and tipped the brim of his straw hat with his free hand.
"Could say the same for you, Ms. Amanda. You ladies sure do look wonderful
today. Pretty as can be, today." Was he speaking of the ladies or the
afternoon sunshine and clear blue skies?
Amanda smiled back at him and replied. "You’re lookin’ well yourself, sir.
How has the day treated you so far?"
"Oh, it’s been a good one, yes, ma’am. Gettin’ even better now." Mose smiled
at Amelia. "You wanna pet my puppy, little darlin’? She won’t hurt you
none."
Amelia resisted and grasped at her mother’s dress at first, but Amanda
reassured her and the little girl slowly reached out towards Mellie. Mellie
responded with a conscious sniff, hesitant at first, but eventually reached
her head across the low fencing and gently licked Amelia’s tiny hand with
fervor. Both Mose and Amanda chuckled at the display of young affection.
A voice carried from the porch of the Petitbon home. "Come on now, Amanda.
We got to be at Mama’s inside of an hour for dinner."
Hank Petitbon looked down towards his fence, leaning unsteadily on the cane
he now employed. He put his right hand on his hip and said nothing further,
letting no emotion skip his face but a look of expectation.
Amanda looked at Mose with a look of resultant disappointment. "There’s our
invitation, I gather. Sorry to have to cut it short, Mr. Hawkins."
Mose grinned at her. "Oh, don’t you worry none about it. Gotta do what you
gotta do. You two ladies be good now, y’hear?"
Amanda smiled at Amelia and said to her "Say byebye to Mr. Mose, honey."
Amelia looked at her mother with her brown eyes and then back at Mose
Hawkins and gently waved a tiny hand in goodbye, saying "By-by Mismos."
Amanda and Mose again laughed, taken in by the adorable little girl.
As Mrs. Petitbon walked with her child back towards her home, Mose looked up
towards their porch and gazed at Hank’s face for the first time in what
seemed forever. Saying nothing, their eyes locked once again and neither
uttered a word or moved an inch. Light wrapped around one man and a darkness
painted another, a combination of glare and shadows that would never seem to
blend, no matter where they were. But something seemed to be understood,
traded, acknowledged by one of them, though it was unclear which man grasped
it at that moment. And as he held his Mellie in his arms, Mose Hawkins
looked at Hank Petitbon for a little while longer as a half-smile curled on
the right side of his mouth.
Copyright C 2007 P. Absbury