When is that?
The squire looked up at him. About three weeks, he said. If they don’t postpone ye. If you get postponed it’ll be another six weeks after that. And if you get …
I’ll take the guilty, Holme said.
The squire leaned forward and pushed away the plate. Right, he said. Guilty. He took up a piece of cornbread from a bowl of it in the center of the table and fell to buttering it. Ethel, he said. Hey, woman.
She came in with a small oak box and set it on the table.
Guilty of trespass, the squire said.
She was fumbling among keys that hung to her by a string. When she got the box open she took out some forms and a quill and inkstand. What’s his name? she said.
Give her your name, the squire said.
Culla Holme.
What?
Culla Holme.
How do you spell it? She was sitting at the end of the table with the quill poised above a document.
I don’t know, he said.
He don’t know how to spell it, she said.
The squire looked at her and then he looked at Holme. His mouth was full of cornbread. Put somethin down, he said. You can guess at it, cain’t ye?
No sir. I ain’t never …
Not you.
Yessir.
Say it once more slow, she said.
He said it.
She wrote something. What was it now, she said, turning to the squire.
You got his name?
Yes. What was it now?
Housebreak … No. What was it? Trespass? Trespass. He kicked a chair. Here John, set down. You makin the place look untidy.
John sat. There was no sound in the room save the scratch of the pen. Holme stood before them shifting from one foot to the other.
All right, she said.
You ain’t forgot the date have ye? Like you done on some of them last’ns.
No, she said.
All right.
She turned the paper around and made a little X at the bottom and held the quill toward Holme. He took it and bent above the paper and made an X beside the X and handed back the quill. She signed it and wafted it in the air for a moment and handed it to the squire. He waved it away with a languorous hand and looked at Holme.
I fine ye five dollars, he said.
I ain’t got no five dollars.
The squire blew his nose into a stained rag and put the rag back in his hip pocket. Ten days then, he said. You can work it out.
All right.
Set down. He turned to the woman. Put that up now and get him some breakfast. You had breakfast? No. Get him some breakfast. Cain’t work prisoners on a empty stomach. All right John, was that all it was you wanted?
John was sitting forward in his chair waving one hand about. Just a danged minute, he said.
What is it?
Well dang it, how many of them ten days does he work on my place?
The squire had paused with his hand outstretched, scratching at something in his armpit. Your place? he said.
My place.
Why would he be comin down to work on your place?
Well dang it I brought him in. He was breakin in my daddy’s house …
I cain’t be comin down to your place with him ever day just because he happened to pick your daddy’s old house to break into.
Well if I hadn’t of arrested him he’d not be here a-tall …
I appreciate you bringin him in and all, John, but they ain’t no reward out for him nor nothin. Is they now? I don’t make the law, I just carry it out.
Well I don’t see why you ort to benefit from what I done. Or from what he ain’t able to pay. I guess you goin to pay back the county his wages, or fine, or whatever …
The squire had stopped scratching. Well now John, he said, you know my books is open to anybody. Ain’t that right, woman.
That’s right, the woman said. Holme was watching her. She wasn’t listening to any of it.
It wouldn’t hurt you none to let me have him a few days out of them ten.
The squire shook his head wearily. John, he said, you and me has always been good neighbors. Ain’t we.
I reckon, John said.
Have I ever turned ye down for a favor?
I ain’t never ast ye none.
Well you always knowed all you had to do was ast. Ain’t that right?
That’s right, the woman said. The squire threw her a sharp look.
I don’t know, John said. Ain’t this a favor?
No.
No. It’s just what’s fair.
Don’t make no difference about fair or not fair, it’s against the law. You ain’t authorized to work no prisoners.
I ort to of just shot him and let it go.
No, you done right bringin him in like ye done. But you cain’t ast me to break the law and turn him back over to ye. Can ye now?
Shit. Scuse me mam.
I wouldn’t ast you to break the law. Would I now. John?
John had risen from the chair. He didn’t look back. He went out through the house with the shotgun hanging in one hand and his boots exploding over the bare boards through the rooms and they could hear the doorlatch and then the loud and final closing of the door and silence again for a moment and then a riotous squabble of chickens and then nothing.