THE PALE LIGHT OF SUNSET: SCATTERSHOTS AND HALLUCINATIONS IN AN IMAGINED LIFE

The Constable - 1950

50 1950 The Constable They send me to the upriver end of Crum, to Benny’s house, to get a chicken for Sunday dinner. Benny lives on the high riverbank next to a cornfield and his mother keeps the largest chicken coop on the river. I don’t like to go there and get chickens. I don’t like to get chickens anywhere, don’t like watching them hunt and peck their way across the bare dirt yards in front of the tiny houses, don’t like the chicken shit that ends up on my shoes, don’t like the sight and smell of them crammed together in a coop, rushing in a hysterical pack at some sick and fallen bug that pings through the wire and plunks onto the hard-pack. The only way I like chickens is dead, blood-squeezed, dipped, fried hard and dry and piled on a plate beside a football-sized glob of mashed potatoes. But getting the chicken for Sunday dinner is my job and I go down early to Benny’s house to get it over with. It’s hardly light enough to see. The chicken coop is right next to Benny ’s house and the damned chickens have just started coming out, their The Pale Light of Sunset 51 little flat heads bobbing and turning as though they are surprised at living another day. If I have my way, one of them won’t. Constable Clyde Prince comes out on the porch and leans against the railing, a cup and saucer in his hand, the coffee steaming above the rim. Constable Clyde Prince. The law of the town, such as it is. Such as Clyde is. He is a man who was born with a pissed-off attitude and when he grew up someone gave him a gun and made him a lawman and said, “Clyde, boy, don’t you ever lose that attitude.” And he never did. And the son of a bitch hates me. I have never seen him at Benny’s house before. He isn’t Benny’s father, and it is too early for him to go a-visitin’ on Sunday morning. I wonder where Benny is, then remember that he usually sleeps in the barn out behind the house. Now I know why. Clyde stares silently at me, his eyes like little chunks of coal stuck into a hard, pasty face. He raises the cup, tips it, and lets the searing black coffee run down the side and into the saucer. He blows gently across the saucer then sips from its edge, slurping the coffee in shallow draughts. He never takes his eyes from me, squinting in the early light. I decide to ignore Clyde. I’ll just go into the coop and get the goddamn chicken. The chickens move warily as I ease inside the coop. I always want it to be easier, but it never is. Selecting the target, edging up cautiously, and then the final lunge, trying to trap the chicken between me and the fence. Always takes two or three tries to make it work. Always get covered with chicken shit. Always feel like a goddamn fool. But, finally, I catch one. 52 I stand outside the coop, holding the chicken in both hands. Clyde is standing there when I turn around, right in front of me, no coffee cup, his arms hanging loosely, his face a flat mask of mean. “Goin’ to wring hits neck, boy?” “No, sir, constable. Guess I’ll just take it back to Mattie and let her do with it. She likes to tend to all that stuff herself.” I hate wringing the necks of chickens, even more than I hate chickens. And Clyde knows that. “Well, boy, I think you ought to wring out that chicken. Mattie would probably ’preciate the help.” I ease to the side, still holding tightly to the chicken. There is no way I am going to wring that damned chicken’s neck, not now, not ever. I am getting ready to run. “Wait a minute there, boy.” His voice drops a notch, down to some level of evil I haven’t heard before. “How I know you ain’t jist stole that chicken?” “Wha . . .” “That’s right. Stole. That chicken, there. I jist come out on the porch to sip my coffee, and there’s you, a-sneakin’ into the...