Chapter 14

Darlia's catfish was magnificent. Perhaps it was because I knew she'd caught it, but it seemed to be about the best catfish I'd ever eaten, and I've eaten tons. There were also, Vernon told us, perch and crappie and some catfish that he'd caught; I don't know much about fish, but I enjoyed it all.

While we ate we talked. Vernon and Mazie had never traveled far from Red Hawk – never outside Oklahoma – and my accounts of life in Dallas and Albuquerque were as interesting to them now as what I'd said about growing up in California had been years before. And they enjoyed what Cecelia told them about her life – growing up desperately poor in southern Alabama, working to help put her brother and sister through college, going to college herself while still working, moving to Albuquerque, and making a pretty fair pile helping people invest their money while she invested her own. Mazie and Vernon listened with close attention when she described how she'd proposed to me, pointing out that even after she realized that I intended to propose to her she went through with her plan and thus preempted me. I know the story from my side because I was there, but I always enjoy hearing her version; it gives me a thrill to know just how much she loves me.

We were about full, and Mazie was spooning ice cream into bowls, when Vernon asked the question that I knew would come up sooner or later. "What's dis I hear 'bout you bein' a cop again?"

"It's temporary, Vern. Harry thinks maybe there're some dirty cops in town, and he's asked me to look into it."

Vernon looked at me for a moment. "You know, Darvin, from my place it sometimes hard to think any cop's good."

"I suspect that if my dealings with the police had been like yours I might have the same suspicions."

"Perhaps, Darvin," Cecelia cut in, "but remember my dealings – or, at least, my witness to similar dealings." She turned directly to Vernon. "I've told you where I grew up. It was Ku Klux Klan country – night riders, burning crosses, beatings, lynchings. I didn't actually witness much of the violence, but I've seen a cross ablaze, and I've seen the bruises and scabs of people who suffered only because of the color of their skin. I heard the word 'nigger' many times when I was a child – I was frequently the object of the term. I knew of police officers who beat blacks, who falsely arrested blacks, who enforced Jim Crow laws – and treated me as an object because I am black." She took a shaky breath; remembering those times is always hard on her. "And yet I have never viewed all police officers – I have not even viewed all southern white police officers – as racists. And I am married to the best man in the world, a man who quite literally doesn't care what color an individual's skin is ... a man who was a police officer in this very town, and who befriended you when he was.

"Forgive me for lecturing you, Vernon, but when you look at my husband with jaundiced eyes solely because he carries a badge – especially when you knew him before I did – I cannot by silence acquiesce in the calumny."

Vernon shook his head; Cecelia's diction is beyond his education – indeed, it's beyond the education of quite a few college graduates. But he got the point, and he reached out and took her hand from where he sat at the head of the table between her and Mazie. "I'm sorry, Cecelia. You're right – I know better. But sometimes it's hard to forget what I seen an' what happened to me."

"It is hard, Vernon – I have struggled with that myself, and today I probably have forgotten it more thoroughly than I ought to. And I accept your apology; how could I not do so, when it is my friend who is offering it?" And she squeezed his hand in both of hers.

He looked again at me. "An' I gotta apologize to you 'specially, Darvin, 'cause Cecelia right – I know you better than dat." He shook his head. "Sometimes I act so stupid."

"We all do, Vern," I told him. "If I sometimes seem intelligent, it's only 'cause Cecelia gives me good advice, which sometimes I'm smart enough to listen to."

Vernon smiled at me. "I 'member Tina used to tell you what to do too. Us men sometimes need dat strong hand, I guess."

"Maybe so – at least I'd be in sorry shape without Cecelia to keep me straight. But getting back to where we were ... yeah, there may be some dirty cops in Red Hawk. So far I've not come across anything conclusive, but then I've only been at it a week, and there's a lot to look at."

"You askin' ever'body 'bout it?"

"Well, this past week I've been asking business people around town if anyone's been abusing the police discount. So far nothing, at least nothing concrete." Cecelia was listening carefully; this was the first time she'd heard me report in any sort of detail on what I was doing. "I'm starting in now to look at the personnel records to see if anything there strikes me as suspicious."

"I guess dat's a lot o' records."

"Yeah – even a small police department like this one has paper coming out its ears. And computers don't help; they just make it easier to generate more paper."

"I guess I'm glad I'm a cook. Long's I turn out the vittles right, nobody don't make me do nothin' wit' no paper."

I glanced over at Cecelia. She gigs me regularly about my fractured grammar, and I wondered how she'd react to Vernon. I should have known – she made allowance for his lack of education, and didn't say a word. When I say she's wiser than I am, I mean it literally. I turned back to Vernon. "Shoot, Vern, the way you cook anybody messed with you'd be a stone idiot."

"An' if somebody did, Darvin, I just t'row a skillet at they haid." His accent was strong on that one; as with many people, amusement brought it out.

Darlia tapped gently on the table with the handle of her knife to get attention. "If you did that, Vernon," she said, "you might hurt someone."