The Ridge: The Whisper of the Leaves - Chap. 13

Funerals during the depression weren’t the elaborate affairs that they were before or after the 1930’s. At least not among the masses. There was little enough money to take care of the living much less the dead. So services were usually kept simple and even Spartan in most cases.

The aunts, uncles, and cousins of James Bentwood, though, of which there were many in the area, couldn’t stand to see one of their favorite relatives slighted in his last moments above earth.

“Carl,” Uncle Billy Pyle said as they sat down on the front porch on Wednesday morning. “The rest of the family wanted to do something, so we took up a collection.”

“No, Billy......” Carl began to protest, but Billy cut him off.

“Carl, it’s settled. You’ve got family that wants ta help ya so let us. We loved that boy, too.”

Tears of gratitude welled up in Carl’s eyes. He was a proud man but knew sometimes pride could get in the way of people showing their love. So, he just nodded and took the envelope Billy held out to him.

“That’s the money that was left over,” He explained. “Nearly $75.00 there. We’ve already covered the rest. Paid the funeral home, the cemetery and Brother Ray. Plus, we bought the prettiest casket spray ya ever seen.”

“Thank ya, Billy,” Carl said. “Tell everyone how much we appreciate it.”

“I will Carl, but they know. We all know. Like I said we all loved that boy. Ya know I had ‘im in my Sunday School class.”

Carl smiled and nodded suddenly thinking of the times James had asked him to go to church with the rest of the family. Of course, he never went.

“Ya know, Billy,” Carl cleared his throat and choked back a sob. “A parent should never hafta bury a child.”

“I know, Carl,” Billy stood and put his hand on Carl’s back. “It’s gotta be the hardest thing a man ever hasta do. But you’re strong and God’ll help you get through it.”

Carl nodded and remembered he had promised the preacher he would talk to him after all this was over. Many people ran from God in this situation or hated God, but Carl didn’t. He just wanted some answers.

Of all his kids, why James? He had almost expected to have the police come some day and tell him Marshall had been shot or stabbed or beaten to death, but not James. Not James.

“How’s Edna and the rest of the kids holdin’ up?” Billy broke his train of thought.

“Oh,” Carl took a deep breath. “‘bout like you’d expect, I guess. Edna’s doin’ pretty good and the rest of the kids are gonna be all right. They’ll miss James just like his momma and me will, but they’ll bounce back ok.”

Except for Marshall, Carl thought, I’m not sure about Marshall.

The services were held on Wednesday morning at Kennedy Funeral Home in Wynne. As someone would always say if it wasn’t raining or snowing, it was “a beautiful day for a funeral.” Reverend Ray was in top form for the large attendance of some 150 people.

He reminded the congregation that James had “made his life right with the Lord when he was just ten years old, and that God can and will call you home at any time no matter what your age is.” He told of how James had been saved when Fortner Crossing held a tent revival and that this horrible act could bring about a revival, in “this city and state and community if we’d just let it.”

The Reverend didn’t slap the podium or stomp as he did in church, but the message was much the same and almost as loud. He knew there were lost people in the congregation. He also knew many of those lost never passed through the doors of any church. So, what he did was to preach a sermon. A hellfire and brimstone sermon. An “amen” producing sermon.

“Brothers and sisters,” He preached. “There is evil in this world. Evil in so many forms we can’t even imagine. And that evil is not just over in Europe. It is not just up north. It is not just in the big cities. People that evil is right here in our communities. It is that evil that took James Bentwood away from his family long before his family was ready......long before he was ready.”

“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’” The Reverend pointed skyward. “And final vengeance is the Lord’s, but people let me tell ya, we must stamp out this evil or it will take more of our fine children. We must rid our community, our state and our world of this evil or preachers like me will be doin’ a lot of funerals like this.”

Brother Ray looked directly at Marshall, searching for some reaction when he said these last few words, but there was none. The words were intended to stir the emotions of the congregation, which it did, except for Marshall. He needed no stirring.

Gerald was waiting at the cemetery when the funeral procession arrived. He hadn’t talked to Marshall since the night of the incident at Sully’s. After all that had happened since that time, he was afraid to confront his friend not knowing how he might react. And while he did want to pay his respects to Marshall and his family, he wouldn’t have been there then if it hadn’t been for the letter he received.

There was no proof that the murder had been committed by Prichard or Al Lawrence, the man who had hit him with the pool cue last week. No proof, that is, except for the coal poker. The cops would probably never figure it out, because no one from Sulley’s was talking. But he and Marshall knew.

And any doubt Gerald might have had about the killer’s identities was eliminated when he got the note in the mail. It came Tuesday morning and had no return address. He opened it right where he stood at the mail box. There was one sheet of paper inside and on it, penciled in large letters were the words:

Get me the money or you’re next. Three days!

When Gerald read the last word, his legs suddenly buckled and he dropped to his knees beside the mailbox. His head was swimming as he leaned it against the mailbox post. He didn’t realize he was sobbing until he saw tears dropping on the powdery ground beside him.

Marshall needed to see the note and he felt like running right then to show it to him, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not yet. Not until after the funeral. That would be better. So he waited.

“Friends.....”Brother Adams started his final words, but Gerald was paying no attention. He was looking at Marshall who was standing in the back of the family tent, facing forward, dry eyed, emotionless. He hadn’t noticed Gerald yet or if he had he hadn’t acknowledged him.

And neither Gerald nor Marshall noticed Ralph Barnes standing at the edge of the crowd watching both of them.

Brother Adams said his final prayer then went one-by-one and took each family member’s hand in both of his saying a few comforting words at each stop. When he came to Marshall, it seemed like he stayed an especially long time and whispered so that no one else heard. Then it was over.

“Marsh.”

Marshall was walking back to the row of cars when he heard his name called. He turned around at the sound of the familiar voice.

“Gerald.” He nodded slightly, his voice quieter than usual.

The fact that his friend had been scarce since that Friday hadn't really surprise him. Marshall knew Gerald was never good in a crisis.

“I’m so sorry, Marsh,” Gerald said, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Yea, I know.” Marshall said then sighed. “I’m sure you’re sorry about a lota things, Buddy.”

Gerald teared up even more when the word “Buddy” came out. He knew that the whole situation had come about because of him. If he hadn’t gotten mixed up with Prichard and Lawrence James would probably still be alive.

Marshall had every right to hate him.....to want to kill him, even. But while Gerald knew he had been the instigator of the situation, he wasn’t the one who had put the hole in James Bentwood’s head. Gerald knew Marshall well enough to know that his friend was directing all his rage toward the two bootleggers.

“I got somethin’ I need to show ya, Marsh,” Gerald reached in his pocket and pulled out the note. “I got it yesterday mornin’.”

Marshall read it for what seemed to be an eternity, but he knew his friend was “figurin’” as he put it. He was studying the note and what it said as well as what was not said. Marshall raised his head slowly.

“You got it yesterday?”

“Yea. Yesterday mornin’ in the mail.”

Marshall reached into his overalls pocket and pulled out a similar envelope.

“I got this today.”

He said handed it to Gerald, who opened it and saw the same large, pencil handwriting.

Barrel meant for you. Get the money, we’ll call it even. Don’t mess up. Just do what you’re told and let it be

“You done anything about their money.”

“Not yet,” Gerald answered Marshall’s penetrating stare. “I don’t know what to do. It’s gone.”

“Good,” Marshall said as he continued walking toward the parking area. “I’ll take care of it”

“What daya mean?” Gerald looked around quickly to see if anyone was eavesdropping. “What are ya gonna do?”

“Don’t worry about it, Gerald.” He stopped and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I said that I’d handle it. Just go home.”

Marshall then turned and got into Thomas’ car for the ride back to the church. Milly slid over next to her husband. Marshall jumped in and slammed the door all in one motion.

“Borden goin’?” Thomas asked.

“No.”

Thomas nodded and pulled away from the cemetery.

“Bad thing wasn’t it, Borden?” Ralph Barnes startled Gerald when he came up behind him. He had watched the exchange of words and, what seemed to be, pieces of paper between the two youths from across the cemetery.

“Uh, yessir,” Gerald answered, trying his best to act composed. “James was a good fella.”

“That’s what I heard,” Barnes said. “I didn’t know him as well as that brother of his. The one you’s just talkin’ to.”

“Oh, ya mean Marsh?”

“Yea, that’s the one.” Barnes said and watched Gerald for a moment then shot out. “Borden, do you know anything about this killin’?”

Gerald’s eyes widened at the question and he all but screamed a response. “No! I do not know anything about it. Why you askin’ me?”

To Barnes, Gerald looked like the fox caught in the hen house. His words could not deny the truth that his face revealed, though. And Barnes was not ready to let the matter go yet.

“I’m askin’ because you’re a friend of James’ brother,” Barnes said as calmly as he could. “And because I thought ya might know or have heard something. I mean ya want ta find the killer don’t’cha?”

“Well, yea,” Gerald voice returned almost to normal. “Sure I wanna find the killers.”

“Good!” Barnes said nodding his head and smiling. “So if ya hear anything, I can count on ya gettin’ word to me about it, right?”

“Yessir, yessir, you sure can. Can I go now?”

“Yea, go ahead.” Barnes said. “But remember what I told ya. Get ahold of me if ya hear anything.”

“Yessir,” Gerald repeated then whirled around and almost ran to his father’s Studebaker.

Barnes watched as Gerald sped away then walked to his own car. He put his hand on the door handle but hesitated as he thought back on something that Gerald had said.

“Killers? Why did you say ‘killers’?”

To Be Continued........