“Hold it, Uncle Hugh Bob!” Van Dorn has swung lightly over the rail. I pitch him the rest of his Snickers bar. He catches it without seeming to try, resumes his perch. “Throw him yours, Uncle Hugh Bob.”
“What?”
“Throw him your Snickers.”
“Shit, he’s got his own Snickers.”
“Throw him your Snickers.”
“Oh, all right.” He does so.
Where is—
The uncle has replaced his shotgun and is opening the door.
“Where do you think—” I begin.
In walks Vergil and the sheriff, followed by two young deputies.
I experience both relief and misgivings.
The scene which confronts the sheriff is as peaceful as a tableau.
Coach is sitting aslant, one arm looped over his head, but no more hangdog than any coach who has lost a game. He is not even pooching his lips.
Mrs. Cheney, next to him, is plucking at one of her own buttons, eyes modestly cast down in the same sweet-faced, madonna-haired expression she is known for.
Mrs. Brunette is busy putting articles back in her purse, Mr. Brunette helping her with one hand, the other fiddling with her hive hairdo — just as any faculty husband-and-wife team might behave at any faculty meeting.
Van Dorn, seated on the top step, surveys his staff with a demeanor both equable and magisterial, a good-natured and informal headmaster munching on a Snickers bar, but headmaster nevertheless.
Sheriff Vernon “Cooter” Sharp is a genial, high-stomached, vigorous man who affects Western garb, Stetson, Lizard-print-and-cowhide boots, bolo tie with a green stone, cinch-size belt and silver conch buckle, and a holstered revolver on a low-slung belt like Matt Dillon. He is noted for his posse of handsome quarter-horses from his own ranch, which parade every year in a good cause with the Shriners, clowns, and hijinks rearing cars to raise money for the Shriners’ hospital. He and his posse are famous statewide and are invited to many events, including Mardi Gras parades.
Now he’s taken off his hat again to wipe his forehead with his sleeve, but left on his amber aviation glasses, and is looking around, surveying the peaceful scene with the same queer, for him, expression of gravity and solemnity and here-we-go-again rue. He’s shaking his head, mainly at me.
“What we got here, Doc?” he asks, not offering to shake hands.
The two young deputies are standing at ease, hands clasped behind them, pudding-faced and bored.
“Sheriff Sharp, I want you to arrest Dr. Van Dorn, Mr. and Mrs. Brunette, Coach Matthews, and Mrs. Cheney for the molestation and sexual abuse of children.”
“Oh me.” The sheriff sighs and, nodding mournfully, catches sight of Mrs. Cheney. “Doc, we been that route.”
“Do it, anyway.”
“Hi, Lurine,” he says to Mrs. Cheney, giving a little wave, hand at pistol level. “How you doing?”
“Hi, Cooter,” says Mrs. Cheney, fingering buttons, eyes still downcast.
“We have evidence, Sheriff. Vergil, did you—”
“I showed him the pictures, Doc, but he wouldn’t hardly look at them because he says they are not admissible.” Vergil is taking the photographs out to show them again.
Sheriff Sharp waves him off. “They neither here or there. Y’all know we’ve had a regular epidemic of pictures like that all over the pa-ish. It’s terrible. I hate to think of little children seeing stuff like that. But I’m here to tell you we’re cracking down. On drugs too. And minority crime.”
“You don’t understand, Sheriff,” I say patiently. “That’s not the problem here. What we’re talking about here are criminal molestation and photographic evidence.”
“The thing is, Doc,” he says, turning to face me but not looking at me, looking anywhere but at me — he can’t stand the sight of me! — “we got a problem here.” I’m the problem.
“What’s the problem?”
“Doc, as I told you, we been this route before,” he says wearily, pushing up his amber glasses and rubbing his eyes. “The same charges have been brought before against those same folks before—” He nods toward the Brunettes, a loving couple. “They were dismissed then for lack of evidence and they’ll be dismissed again — those pictures ain’t worth a dime, and now you’re also wanting to charge Dr. Van Dorn here and Coach Matthews, who won state last year in triple-A — and even this little lady”—he stretches out a hand toward Mrs. Cheney—“who has done more to he’p people than anybody you can name, people you know, children, your children, Doc, old folks, Miss Lucy’s mamma — I don’t know, Doc.” He is shaking his head in genuine sorrow. “To tell you the truth, Doc, you the only one we got a warrant for. We got a pick-up order on you from Dr. Comeaux yesterday. Now I wasn’t going to bother you, Doc, since I been knowing you and your family for a long time. But it looks like you hell-bent on—”
“Now you listen here, Cooter,” says the uncle, who, I see with some dismay, is hopping from one foot to the other in a peculiar fashion, coat flapping open, “I was here so don’t tell me what I saw. These folks all crazy as hell. You know what that little lady and the Coach were—”
“You just hold it, Hugh Bob,” says the sheriff, holding out a hand but not bothering to look at the uncle. “You just watch your mouth when you talking about Lurine — Mrs. Cheney. Ever’body knows you were pestering her when she was staying out at Pantherburn with Miss Lucy’s mamma, your sister, before she died.”
The pudding-faced, flat-topped deputy leans over to say something to the sheriff.
“Weapon?” says the sheriff. “What you talking about, weapon? You got a weapon, Hugh Bob?”
The uncle opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, the deputy simply lifts the uncle’s coattails and extracts the Colt Woodsman from his jacket pocket.
The sheriff, again overcome with sorrow, accepts the gun, sniffs the muzzle.
“This weapon has just been fired, Hugh Bob.”
“It sho has.”
“Who at?”
“Him.” The uncle nods at Coach, who appears lost in thought, studying his palms, which are open on his knees. The sheriff walks around him, looking him over. The other side of his head is not bleeding but is encrusted with a maroon clot.
“Coach?” he says, peering down at him. He stands up, hands on hips. “What in the hell did you do to him, Hugh Bob, shoot him in the head?”
“Just his ear,” says the uncle, not displeased.
“What in the hell — check that shotgun, Huval,” he says to the younger, balder deputy.
Huval checks the Purdy. “Two shells, one recently fired.”
“Where else did you shoot him?” asks the sheriff, moving the game table back and stepping past Mrs. Cheney to get a good look at Coach.
“Hi, Cooter,” says Mrs. Cheney, giving him a pat as he passes.
“Did that man shoot you?” he asks Coach.
Coach pooches his lips in and out and says, “Hoo hoo hoo.”
“This sucker has brain damage,” muses the sheriff. “Thanks to you, Hugh.”
Across the table, Mr. Brunette begins to stamp with one foot.
“What in the hell did you do to him, Hugh Bob?”
“I had to shoot him,” says the uncle, beginning to hop again. “He was coming at me and he would have gotten away.”
“What — in — the — hell—” begins the sheriff, turning first to me, then, thinking better of it, beseeches Van Dorn, who is still sitting, rocking to and fro, on the top step.
“Sheriff Sharp,” I say, rising, “I can explain everything. But right now I really think it would be a good idea if you would arrest all these people, examine the evidence, both these photographs and Dr. Lipscomb’s medical evidence of abuse before any more children are harmed, in which case I hold you responsible. In fact, I insist on it.”