Sandy
Copyright© 2024 by Alice Caldwell Hegan Rice
Chapter 23: “the Shadow on the Heart”
Just off Main street, under the left wing of the court-house, lay the little county jail. It frowned down from behind its fierce mask of bars and spikes, and boldly tried to make the town forget the number of prisoners that had escaped its walls.
In a small front cell, beside a narrow grated window, Ricks Wilson had sat and successfully planned his way to freedom.
The prisoner who now occupied the cell spent no time on thoughts of escape. He paced restlessly up and down the narrow chamber, or lay on the cot, with his hands under his head, and stared at the grimy ceiling. The one question which he continually put to the jailer was concerning the latest news of Judge Hollis.
Sandy had been given an examining trial on the charge of resisting an officer and assisting a prisoner to escape. Refusing to tell what he knew, and no bail being offered, he was held to answer to the grand jury. For two weeks he had seen the light of day only through the deep, narrow opening of one small window.
At first he had had visitors—indignant, excited visitors who came in hotly to remonstrate, to threaten, to abuse. Dr. Fenton had charged in upon him with a whole battery of reproaches. In stentorian tones he rehearsed the judge’s kindness in befriending him, he pointed out his generosity, and laid stress on Sandy’s heinous ingratitude. Mr. Moseley had arrived with arguments and reasons and platitudes, all expressed in a polysyllabic monotone. Mr. Meech had come many times with prayers and petitions and gentle rebuke.
To them all Sandy gave patient, silent audience, wincing under the blame, but making no effort to defend himself. All he would say was that Ricks Wilson had not done the shooting, and that he could say no more.
A wave of indignation swept the town. Almost the only friend who was not turned foe was Aunt Melvy. Her large philosophy of life held that all human beings were “chillun,” and “chillun was bound to act bad sometimes.” She left others to struggle with Sandy’s moral welfare and devoted herself to his physical comfort.
With a clear conscience she carried to her home flour, sugar, and lard from the Hollises’ store-room, and sat up nights in her little cabin at “Who’d ‘a’ Thought It” to bake dumplings, rolls, and pies for her “po’ white chile.”
Sandy felt some misgivings about the delicacies which she brought, and one day asked her where she made them.
“I makes ‘em out home,” she declared stoutly. “I wouldn’t cook nuffin’ fer you on Miss Sue’s stove while she’s talkin’ ‘bout you lak she is. She ‘lows she don’t never want to set eyes on you ag’in as long as she lives.”
“Has the judge asked for me?” said Sandy.
“Yas, sir; but de doctor he up and lied. He tol’ him you’d went back to de umerversity. De doctor ‘lowed ef he tole him de trufe it might throw him into a political stroke.”
Sandy leaned his head on his hand. “You’re the only one that’s stood by me, Aunt Melvy; the rest of them think me a bad lot.”
“Dat’s right,” assented Aunt Melvy, cheerfully. “You jes orter hear de way dey slanders you! I don’t ‘spec’ you got a friend in town ‘ceptin’ me.” Then, as if reminded of something, she produced a card covered with black dots. “Honey, I’s gittin’ up a little collection fer de church. You gib me a nickel and I punch a pin th’u’ one ob dem dots to sorter certify it.”
“Have you got religion yet?” he asked as he handed her some small change.
Her expression changed, and her eyes fell. “Not yit,” she acknowledged reluctantly; “but I’s countin’ on comin’ th’u’ before long. I’s done j’ined de Juba Choir and de White Doves.”
“The White Doves?” repeated Sandy.
“Yas, sir; de White Doves ob Perfection. We wears purple calicoes and sets up wid de sick.”
“Have you seen Miss Annette?”
“Lor’, honey! ain’t I tol’ you ‘bout dat? De very night de jedge was shot, dat chile wrote her paw de sassiest letter, sayin’ she gwine run off and git married wif dat sick boy, Carter Nelson. De doctor headed ‘em off some ways, and de very nex’ day what you think he done? He put dat gal in a Cafolic nunnery convent! Dey say she cut up scan’lous at fust, den she sorter quiet down, an’ ‘gin to count her necklace, an’ make signs on de waist ob her dress, an’ say she lak it so much she gwine be a Cafolic nunnery sister herself. Now de doctor’s jes tearin’ his shirt to git her out, he’s so skeered she’ll do what she says.”
Sandy laughed in spite of himself, and Aunt Melvy wagged her head knowingly.
“He needn’t pester hisseif ‘bout dat. Now Mr. Carter’s ‘bout to die, an’ you’s shut up in jail, she’s done turnin’ her ‘tention on Mr. Sid Gray. Dey ain’t no blinds in de world big enough to keep dat gal from shinin’ her eyes at de boys!”
“Is Carter about to die?” Sandy had become suddenly grave.
“Yas, sir; so dey say. He’s got somepin’ that sounds lak tuberoses. Him and Mrs. Nelson and Miss Rufe never did git to Californy. Dey stopped off in Mobile or Injiany, I can’t ricollec’ which. He took de fever de day dey lef’, an’ he ain’t knowed nothin’ since.”
After Aunt Melvy left, Sandy went to the window and leaned against the bars. Below him flowed the life of the little town, the men going home from work, the girls chattering and laughing through the dusk on their way from the post-office. Every figure that passed, black or white, was familiar to him. Jimmy Reed’s little Skye terrier dashed down the street, and a whistle sprang to his lips.
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