Where Dusk and Dark Do Meet

We sat on the curb, Jamie and me, that evening in July of 1953. We had just run our sticks up and down along Mrs. Donovan’s newly painted fence. It was so bright white it nearly glowed in the evening shade. She hired old man Buck Davin to paint it. He was the only negro in the town, but he was a good worker, especially for the money he charged. At least, that’s what my dad always said. Mrs. Donovan’s dog, that nasty toothed Sparky, ran along side on the inside of the fence, yapping his fool head off the whole time. His nose wrinkles up and you can see his gums when he growls at you. I do it right back, as long as he’s on the other side of the fence. Anyway, Mrs. Donovan busted through the front screen door waving a frying pan at us. We weren’t sure what she intended to do with the frying pan, but we were halfway down the block by the time she had reached to top step.

So, we were just sitting there on the curb. On the corner of Gilmore and Perry. I still had my stick in my hand. Jamie chucked his right away. He was always nervous like that, afraid we were going to get caught. Like last week when we lifted two sour balls down a McGintry’s General Store. Mr. McGintry is half blind. It’s never very hard to take anything from his shop. Right out from under his nose. I try not to do it too often, though. Just in case every thing the preacher says on Sunday about going to hell might be true. Besides that, I feel sorry for Mr. McGintry. He lost his son in the war. At least, that’s what my Dad says.

It wasn’t too hot that evening, at least not for the middle of July. The mornings had been real cool and the nights were too. We were trying to decide if we had enough time to go down to the creek, before it got too dark. We sat there not saying a word. Just sitting on that curb below the street sign. I finally told Jamie we better be heading home before long. Darkness seemed to be coming around quick and my Dad says “rules are rules.”  I tapped my stick on the street and skidded a few rocks with the tip of the thing. Jamie smacked at a mosquito on his neck.  And that’s when I noticed him. Buck Davin. There he was, in his car, coming real slow down the street.  He drove a slightly used Chevrolet Bel Air. A convertible. It was a milky cream color and it might have been the prettiest car I’ve ever seen in my whole life. People talked that it wasn’t right that old Buck should have such a nice car. That’s what my Dad told me last week when we were having dinner at Grandma’s house.  But there was Buck that day, driving real slow down Perry Street. He kept going and then parked about a block down, and just around the next corner. Then he came walking back up, his hands in his pockets, whistling some tune and looking around at the sky.

Buck was one of the nicest fella’s I’d ever met. As far as grown ups go. He was always smiling and winking, and whistling. He’d bump you on the arm when he was talking to you, like he was letting you in on the inside joke. But there was never really any joke. He just kind of laughed and nodded when he’d tell you anything. One time, he caught us coming out of McGintry’s. We hadn’t lifted anything that day. In fact, we actually bought a couple of sticks of red licorice. Buck stood there, hands on his hips, and looked at us with a big grin on his face. He said, “I know you boys are behaving today. Am I right?” And then he bumped our shoulders with his great big hands. We nodded and ran off, in no particular direction.

We sat and watched as he stopped mid way up the block and glanced around a little. Then, just like that, he darted through someone’s yard and around the back of a house. He was so fast, and out of sight, that Jamie and I just sat there, blinking at one another.

“C’mon,” I said.

“Come on, where?”

“Let’s go see where he went, that’s where.”

Jamie shook his head and pushed his glasses up on his nose. He put his arms around his knees and leaned forward.
“I’d don’t really care where Big Buck is going.”

“C’mon Jamie, you big chicken. It’ll just take a minute. Let’s go see why he’s in such a big hurry.” I grabbed his elbow and tugged him up to his feet. It wasn’t fair, really. About Jamie. He always did whatever I said, and I’m not sure why. I wasn’t all that much bigger than he was, or anything. But we always did things my way, and I felt sorry for him, in a sense.  Maybe it was because other kids pushed him around at school, and I sort of put up for him. Anyway, all it took that night was a pull on his elbow, and we were running across the street, and through the yard by Tom Finster’s house. Truthfully, I didn’t think this was my greatest idea. Finster was the meanest son of a bitch in town. He played a lot of cards, drank a lot of whiskey, and everybody knew that he carried a gun. He had killed a man in Mississippi once. At least. That’s what my Dad told me, anyway.

We ran through Finster’s yard though, all the way to the back alley. But there was no sign of Buck anywhere. We walked down the alley a ways, and back up again, looking in between the houses, and there was no Buck. Just then, whisper quiet, his car pulled up behind us in the alley. He drove by real slow, me and Jamie standing on either side. He looked me straight in the eye as he went past , nodded his head down, and winked at me. Just like that. I don’t know what it was, but I felt my stomach take a turn, and palms start to sweat. My cheeks even got warm. Buck got to the end of the alley, turned his car real wide and real slow, and drove on, out of our sight.

Jamie stood still.

So did I.

“What do you make of that,” he asked.

“I think it really is getting dark, that’s what I think. We better get out of here.”

Three days later, Mrs. Woolton called Sheriff Perry, and reported Finster’s dog. She said the fool thing had been barking inside his house, and she was tired of hearing all that ruckus. The sheriff went over to see what was wrong, and when he looked in the window, he saw Finster, there, dead as a door nail. Laying right in at the bottom of his living room steps. The dog had shit all over the place inside the house. All I could think was that somebody had to clean that up all that dog crap, and I was just glad it wasn’t me. I didn’t give one thought to Mr. Finster. Not one. I just thought about a dog, having a shit storm inside that house. The sheriff said it looked like Finster fell down and broke his neck, probably drunk as all get out. Been dead for a few days. That’s what the sheriff said.

The morning before, I ran into Buck Davin. Right in town. I was coming out of Dad’s hardware store, and I bumped right into him. Out of the clear blue. He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. Not real hard, but I could tell he wanted my attention. Then he pulled the other hand from out behind his back. In it, was my stick.  He looked down at me, square in the eye, and said, “Son. I think you lost this the other night.”

He pressed that stick into my palm, squeezed my shoulder again, and walked down the street.

And that was the last time I saw Buck Davin.

I hope it’s the last time he sees me.

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By Polly Kronenberger

pollyseven@icloud.com