Of the thirty-four, twenty-three moved into the Hocutt House for a few days. They drifted in from different parts of the country, mostly up North, coming in shifts at all hours of the day, with each new arrival greeted with great ceremony. When Carlota and her husband and two small children arrived at 3 A.M. from Los Angeles, every light in the house came on and Bobby's wife, Bonnie, began cooking pancakes.
Bonnie took over my kitchen, and three times a day I was sent to the grocery store with a list of things she urgently needed. I bought ice cream by the ton and the kids soon learned I would fetch it for them at any hour of the day.
Since my porches were long and wide and seldom used, the Ruffins gravitated toward them. Sam brought Miss Callie and Esau over late in the afternoons for serious visiting. She was desperate to get out of Low-town. Her warm little house had become a prison.
At various times, I heard her children talk with great concern about their mother. The obvious threat of somehow getting shot was discussed less than her health. Over the years she had managed to lose somewhere around eighty pounds, depending on whose version you heard. Now it was back, and her blood pressure had the doctors concerned. The stress was taking its toll. Esau said she slept fitfully, something she blamed on medications. She was not as spry, didn't smile as much, and had noticeably less energy.
It was all blamed on the "Padgitt mess." As soon as he got caught and the killings stopped, then Miss Callie would bounce back.
That was the optimistic view, the one generally shared by most of her children.
On July 2, a Monday, Bonnie and company prepared a light lunch of salads and pizzas. All available Ruffins were there, and we ate on a side porch under slow-moving and practically useless wicker fans. There was a slight breeze, however, and with the temperature in the nineties we were able to enjoy a long lazy meal.
I had yet to find the right moment to tell Miss Callie that I was leaving the paper. I knew she would be shocked, and very disappointed. But I could think of no reason why we couldn't continue our Thursday lunches. It might even be more fun counting the typos and mistakes made by someone else.
In nine years we had missed only seven, all due to illness or dental work.
The lazy postmeal chatter suddenly came to a halt. There were sirens in the distance, somewhere across town.
* * *
The box was twelve inches square, five inches deep, white in color with red and blue stars and stripes. It was gift package from the Bolan Pecan Farm in Hazelhurst, Mississippi, sent to Mrs. Maxine Root by her sister in Concord, California. An Independence Day gift of real American pecans. It came by mail, delivered by the postman around noon, placed in the mailbox of Maxine Root, then hauled inside, past the lone sentry sitting under a tree in the front yard, and into the kitchen where Maxine first saw it.
It had been almost a month since Sheriff McNatt had quizzed her about her vote on the jury. She had reluctantly admitted that she had not been in favor of the death penalty for Danny Padgitt, and she recalled that the two men who stuck with her were Lenny Fargarson and Mo Teale. Since they were now dead, McNatt had delivered the grave news that she might be the next victim.
For years after the trial, Maxine had wrestled with the verdict. The town was bitter over it and she felt the hostility. Thankfully, the jurors kept their vows of silence, and she and Lenny and Mo avoided any additional abuse. With the soothing passage of time, she had been able to distance herself from the aftermath.
Now the world knew how she'd voted. Now a crazy man was stalking her. She was on leave from her job as a bookkeeper. Her nerves were shot; she couldn't sleep; she was sick of hiding in her own home; sick of a yard full of neighbors gathering every night as if it was time for a social event; sick of ducking under every window. She was taking so many different pills that they were all counteracting each other to the point that nothing worked.
She saw the box of pecans and started crying. Someone out there loved her. Her precious sister Jane was thinking about her. Oh how she'd love to be in California with Jane at that very moment.
Maxine started to open the package, then had a thought. She went to the phone and dialed Jane's number. They had not talked in a week.
Jane was at work, thrilled to hear from her. They chatted about this and that, then about the horrible situation in Clanton. "You're a dear to send the pecans," Maxine said.
"What pecans?" Jane asked.
A pause. "The gift box from Bolan Pecans down in Hazelhurst. A big one, three pounds."
Another pause. "Not me, sis. Must've been someone else."
Maxine hung up moments later and examined the box. A sticker on the front said - A Gift from Jane Parham. Of course she knew of no other Jane Parhams.
Very gently, she picked it up. It seemed a bit heavy for a three-pound tin of pecans.
Travis, the part-time deputy, happened by the house. He was accompanied by one Teddy Ray, a pimple-faced boy with an oversized uniform and a service revolver that he had never fired. Maxine hustled them into the kitchen where the red, white, and blue box sat benignly on the counter. The lone sentry was also tagging along, and for a long minute or so the four of them just stared at the package. Maxine recounted verbatim her conversation with Jane.
With great hesitation, Travis picked up the box and shook it slightly. "Seems a might heavy for pecans," he observed. He looked at Teddy Ray, who'd already gone pale, and at the neighbor with a rifle, who seemed ready to duck at anything.
"You think it's a bomb?" the neighbor asked.
"Oh my God," Maxine mumbled and appeared ready to collapse.
"Could be," Travis said, then gawked down in horror at what he was holding.
"Get it outside," Maxine said.
"Shouldn't we call the Sheriff?" Teddy Ray managed to ask.
"I guess so," Travis said.
"What if it's got a timer or something?" asked the neighbor.
Travis hesitated for a moment, then with the voice of absolutely no experience, said, "I know what to do."
They stepped through the kitchen door onto a narrow porch that ran the length of the rear of the house. Travis carefully placed the box at the very edge, three feet or so above the ground. When he removed his.44 Magnum, Maxine said, "What are you doing?"
"We're gonna see if it's a bomb," Travis said. Teddy Ray and the neighbor scurried off the porch and took up a safe position in the grass about fifty feet away.
"You're gonna shoot my pecans?" Maxine asked.
"You got a better idea?" Travis snapped back.
"I guess not."
With most of his body inside the kitchen, Travis leaned out through the screen door with his thick right arm, and his rather large head, and took aim. Maxine was right behind him, crouching low and peeking around his waist.
The first shot missed the porch entirely, though it took the breath out of Maxine. Teddy Ray shouted, "Nice shot," and he and the neighbor had a quick laugh.
Travis aimed and fired again.
The explosion ripped the porch completely from the house, tore a gaping hole in the back wall behind the kitchen, and sprayed shrapnel for a hundred yards. It shattered windows, peeled up planks, and it wounded the four observers. Teddy Ray and the neighbor both took bits of metal in their chests and legs. Travis's right arm and his firing hand were mangled. Maxine was hit twice in the head - one piece of glass ripped off the lobe of her right ear, and a small nail penetrated her right jaw.
For a moment, they were all unconscious, knocked silly by three pounds of plastic explosives packed with nails, glass, and ball bearings.