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“What happened, son?” I said. “Please, tell me everything.” At first the boy just stared at me without speaking a word. Fanny came up behind us. “It’s okay, Leroy. This here’s Mr. Corbett. He’s all right to talk to.”
At last the boy spoke. “You know who is Annie?” he said. “The one cook for Miz Dickinson? She got a girl, Flossie, little older than me?”
I didn’t know who he was talking about, but I nodded so he would continue.
“Well, it was that Mr. Young,” he said, “Mr. Jasper Young.”
I knew Jasper Young, who owned the hardware and feed stores. He was a quiet, grandfatherly man who exercised some influence behind the scenes in Eudora.
“What does Jasper Young have to do with it?”
“I can’t say.” The boy stared down at his dishes.
“Why not?”
He shot a look at Miss Fanny. “Lady present.”
“Aw, now, come on, Leroy. Not one thing in this world you can’t say in front of me!”
He wiggled and resisted, but at last he turned his eyes away from Fanny and fixed them on me.
“Mr. Young want some lovin’ from Flossie. She didn’t want to go along with it. So he… he force the love out of her.”
What an incredible way to put it.
He force the love out of her.
The rest of the boy’s story came quickly.
Flossie had told her mother of the rape. Annie told her husband. Within minutes, her husband and son, crazed with rage, broke into Jasper Young’s home. They smashed china and overturned a table. Then they beat Jasper Young with their fists.
A neighbor summoned a neighbor who summoned another neighbor. Within an hour, no more than that, Annie’s husband and her son were hanging from ropes in the swamp behind the Quarter.
“Where are they, exactly?” I asked the boy.
“Out by Frog Creek.”
That was not the place I’d visited with Abraham, but I knew where it was.
I practically ran all the way back to Maybelle’s. I didn’t ask if I could borrow the bicycle, I just climbed on and rode out the old McComb Road, toward the swamp.
Toward Frog Creek.
Chapter 43
I CAME UPON A VISION of horror, all too real. Two men, one young, one older, naked and bloody, dangling from ropes. Already the smell of rotting flesh was rising in the morning heat. Flies were on the bodies.
On the ground beneath the stiff, hanging bodies, amid the cigar butts and discarded whiskey bottles, sat a woman and child. The woman was about thirty-five years old. The boy was no more than four. He was touching the woman’s face, touching the tears on her cheeks.
The woman saw me and her face furrowed over in rage. “You go on, now,” she shouted. “They already dead. You cain’t do no more to hurt ’em.”
I walked closer and she drew the boy to her, as if to protect him from me.
“I’m not going to hurt anybody,” I said. “I’m a friend.”
She shook her head fiercely. No.
I wanted to comfort her terrible sobbing, but I stayed back. “Are you Annie?”
