A Land More Kind Than Home by Wiley Cash Page B

and there was just enough light for me to do a little drawing. I picked up the folder off the dash and opened it and looked at the sheets of blank typing paper, but then I closed it and sat it back up on the dash because I knew I didn’t feel one bit like drawing. I got as comfortable as I could, and I laid my head back against the seat and closed my eyes and listened for the river across the street, but all I could hear was the music striking up inside the church: the guitar first and then the drums, then the sound of people singing. It reminded me of what all had happened and what all I’d seen. I felt myself starting to drift off to sleep, and I imagined getting out of the truck and sneaking back behind the building and getting up on my tiptoes and propping my elbows on the ledge and looking through the air conditioner into the church.
    That was the last clear thought I had because I knew there wasn’t no way I was going to do it. Even in my dreaming I knew I’d already seen more than I ever wanted to.
    I HEARD VOICES SOMEWHERE OUT THERE IN THE DARK, AND THEN the driver’s-side door opened and I felt somebody climb up into the truck. I opened my eyes all the way and looked around, but it’d gotten to be nighttime and I couldn’t hardly see a thing. I sat up in the seat and expected to feel Stump in there beside me, but I didn’t. I knew for sure there was somebody sitting behind the steering wheel because they’d slammed the door shut and I heard them with their hand in their pocket like they were trying to get something out. They struck a lighter, and I saw it was Mr. Stuckey, and he held Mama’s keys over the flame like he was trying to get a good look at them. He was about as old as Daddy, and he wore a button-down shirt and he had his hair slicked back with Brylcreem. He found the right key and let the flame die. I heard him put the lighter back in his pocket, and then he cranked the truck.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I asked him. “Where’s my mom?”
    â€œShe’s going to meet us over at Miss Lyle’s house,” he said. He put his arm across the seat and turned his head and looked out the back window and backed out of the parking space and pulled around in front of the church. The door to the church was open, and the light from inside shone out into the parking lot. There were all kinds of people standing out there, and some of them had their hands over their faces like they were crying.
    â€œWhat happened?” I said.
    â€œWe’re going to be there in just a second,” Mr. Stuckey said. “Your mama’s going to be there waiting on you.”
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked again.
    He kept going and pulled right through the parking lot and drove out onto the road away from the highway and put his foot hard on the gas pedal. I turned around in my seat and got on my knees and looked out the back. I could still see the light from inside the church shining out into the darkness, and the people looked like shadows moving around in the parking lot. Two men were carrying somebody out the front door of the church to where a car was waiting. They put whoever it was inside the car and shut the door, and then they went up to the front seat and got in. The last thing I could see was their headlights turning on.
    â€œWho’s that?” I asked. “Where’s Stump?”
    â€œTurn around here,” Mr. Stuckey said. I felt his hand on my back.
    â€œWhere’s my mom?” I asked again.
    â€œTurn around here and sit down,” he said. “We’ll be there in just a second. She’ll be waiting on you.”

Clem Barefield

F OUR
    I ’ VE BEEN SHERIFF OF M ADISON C OUNTY SINCE 1961; IT ’ LL BE twenty-five years next month. My granddaddy was a sheriff too. He worked out of Hendersonville, North Carolina, about an hour and a half south of here on the other side of Asheville. But places like those might as