alone with her thoughts, she
bore the whole accumulated weight of time and loss. As she came up,
she would be saying to herself always the same thing: "Oh, my poor boy!
Oh, my poor, poor boy!"
I would hear her muttering still as she went about her room, preparing for bed: "May God have mercy on my poor boy!"
And then it would be dark. And then it would be morning.
10
The time had to come, of course, when what I knew no longer satisfied
me. I had been told almost nothing about the circumstances of Uncle
Andrew's murder, I had asked nothing, and yet I wanted to know. That
death had remained in the forefront of my mind, as I knew it had in my
grandmother's and my father's and Aunt Judith's. I knew too that for
other people it had receded and diminished as it had mingled with other
concerns. I could not have asked those whom my questions would have
pained the most. With others, the subject did not come up. I did not want
my curiosity about it to be known.
But finally when I was maybe in my last year of high school, I became
conscious that there were such things as court records. The county court
clerk at that time was Charlie Hardy, as dear a friend, I suppose, as my
father had; they bird-hunted together. I made up my mind to ask Mr.
Hardy to show me the records of Carp Harmon's trial, expecting to see
transcripts of the lawyers' arguments and the testimony of witnesses; I
imagined that there would be a great pile of papers that I could sit down
somewhere and read, and at last know everything I wanted to know.
I watched for a time when Mr. Hardy was in his office alone. I did not
want anybody but him to hear my request. Above all, I did not want my
father to know what I was doing. What I intended to do was unbandage
a wound. It was in part my own wound, but I felt it was my father's more
than mine, and maybe I had no right to know more than he had told me. Though I was determined to see those papers, I was also more than a
little ashamed.
"Son, I'll show you," Mr. Hardy said when I finally walked in and asked
him. "I'll show you what there is, I'll show you, son, but there ain't much."
Already I was sorry I had come, for I saw that he knew exactly what I
wanted and that he too was thinking of my father. Spitting fragments of
tobacco bitten from the cold stump of his cigar, he climbed a ladder up a
large wall of file boxes ranked on shelves, selected one of the boxes, and
brought it to me.
"See," he said, "there's not a hell of a lot here that would be of interest to you, son." He showed me the warrant for Carp Harmon's arrest,
his indictment, several pleadings, all technical documents no more
informative than they were required to be.
"I thought there would be a record of what was said at the trial."
"Naw, son," he said. "Nawsir, son, no such record was ever made.
What was said at that trial is a long time gone."
He explained that there had been no appeal. There would have been
a transcript only if there had been an appeal. By then I was relieved that
there was no record. Mr. Hardy was putting the papers back into their
box. "Nawsir, son, that record you want to see, it never did exist." He
removed the cigar from his mouth, spat toward the wastebasket, and
then looked at me. "Son," he said, "I'm sorry."
And still we both were embarrassed, for even though the record I
sought did not exist, the fact remained that Charlie Hardy knew what
had happened at that trial. I knew he could imagine my saying, "Well,
Mr. Hardy, why don't you tell me what happened?" And I knew - I know
much more certainly now - that he would have given years off his life to
be spared the question.
"Well, thank you, Mr. Hardy," I said.
'Any time, son," he said. 'Any time." He waved to me with the hand
holding the cigar as if I were already out of the building and across the
street. "By God, son, come back! Any time!"
But as time went on I did learn some things. Things that I did not know
to ask
bore the whole accumulated weight of time and loss. As she came up,
she would be saying to herself always the same thing: "Oh, my poor boy!
Oh, my poor, poor boy!"
I would hear her muttering still as she went about her room, preparing for bed: "May God have mercy on my poor boy!"
And then it would be dark. And then it would be morning.
10
The time had to come, of course, when what I knew no longer satisfied
me. I had been told almost nothing about the circumstances of Uncle
Andrew's murder, I had asked nothing, and yet I wanted to know. That
death had remained in the forefront of my mind, as I knew it had in my
grandmother's and my father's and Aunt Judith's. I knew too that for
other people it had receded and diminished as it had mingled with other
concerns. I could not have asked those whom my questions would have
pained the most. With others, the subject did not come up. I did not want
my curiosity about it to be known.
But finally when I was maybe in my last year of high school, I became
conscious that there were such things as court records. The county court
clerk at that time was Charlie Hardy, as dear a friend, I suppose, as my
father had; they bird-hunted together. I made up my mind to ask Mr.
Hardy to show me the records of Carp Harmon's trial, expecting to see
transcripts of the lawyers' arguments and the testimony of witnesses; I
imagined that there would be a great pile of papers that I could sit down
somewhere and read, and at last know everything I wanted to know.
I watched for a time when Mr. Hardy was in his office alone. I did not
want anybody but him to hear my request. Above all, I did not want my
father to know what I was doing. What I intended to do was unbandage
a wound. It was in part my own wound, but I felt it was my father's more
than mine, and maybe I had no right to know more than he had told me. Though I was determined to see those papers, I was also more than a
little ashamed.
"Son, I'll show you," Mr. Hardy said when I finally walked in and asked
him. "I'll show you what there is, I'll show you, son, but there ain't much."
Already I was sorry I had come, for I saw that he knew exactly what I
wanted and that he too was thinking of my father. Spitting fragments of
tobacco bitten from the cold stump of his cigar, he climbed a ladder up a
large wall of file boxes ranked on shelves, selected one of the boxes, and
brought it to me.
"See," he said, "there's not a hell of a lot here that would be of interest to you, son." He showed me the warrant for Carp Harmon's arrest,
his indictment, several pleadings, all technical documents no more
informative than they were required to be.
"I thought there would be a record of what was said at the trial."
"Naw, son," he said. "Nawsir, son, no such record was ever made.
What was said at that trial is a long time gone."
He explained that there had been no appeal. There would have been
a transcript only if there had been an appeal. By then I was relieved that
there was no record. Mr. Hardy was putting the papers back into their
box. "Nawsir, son, that record you want to see, it never did exist." He
removed the cigar from his mouth, spat toward the wastebasket, and
then looked at me. "Son," he said, "I'm sorry."
And still we both were embarrassed, for even though the record I
sought did not exist, the fact remained that Charlie Hardy knew what
had happened at that trial. I knew he could imagine my saying, "Well,
Mr. Hardy, why don't you tell me what happened?" And I knew - I know
much more certainly now - that he would have given years off his life to
be spared the question.
"Well, thank you, Mr. Hardy," I said.
'Any time, son," he said. 'Any time." He waved to me with the hand
holding the cigar as if I were already out of the building and across the
street. "By God, son, come back! Any time!"
But as time went on I did learn some things. Things that I did not know
to ask
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