Aurora 2022-Final

Addison Hughes

Addison Hughes

“So what if the good Reverend liked a glass a’whiskey once or twice a month? We all have our demons, and we all have our escapes. Maybe me and the good Reverend were each others’ escapes. He still led you, was still a man a’God, wasn’t he?” Pettin didn’t respond; he could still feel some of the soberest eyes trained on them. “He was,” continued Cohen. “No one is perfect, but the good Reverend tried; he was a preacher, and a smart man. More than it all, he was a good man, and he was my friend. Sometimes, a crook ain’t a crook, and a Reverend ain’t a Reverend. Sometimes, people’s just people, and it feels good to get away from the expectations folks like you push on us.” At this point, Cohen had his finger buried deep into Pettin’s chest, and the two men stared hatefully into each other’s eyes. After a moment, Cohen glanced down at Pettin’s hand, presently hovering over his pistol. “Calm down, cowboy.” Cohen held his hands in front of his chest—not exactly a surrender, but a sign of nonaggression. “I don’t know why he did, but the good Reverend talked high of you. He liked you, and he liked me too. We oughtta leave things where they’re at, just for tonight. For his sake.” Pettin thought for a moment, then grunted in assent as he lowered his hand. “Get out of my town.” Pettin’s voice trembled more than he’d wanted it to, and his vision was wet and blurry. “I’m going. But think about this: people’s more than just what you see. Maybe you should think about that, John Pettin.” With that, Billy Cohen hauled himself up, and walked away from the sheriff, who slowly shrank into his seat. The sun had finished setting, and it was now dark. Many of the drunks had gone home, or else passed out in their chairs. The wives had long left for home to tuck their children in. Those that remained talked quietly among themselves. One man, deep in thought for an hour at least, finally jerked up out of his chair. That motion, and the slow lumbering of his legs towards the food table, felt totally foreign to him. He strode past the near-empty pots of tasteless stew, and finished his journey at the bartender’s table. Sheriff John Pettin smiled tearfully and said, “I suppose I ought to have a glass of Old Crow, in honor of the good Reverend.”

“He talk to you about God?” “Not usually. Sometimes he would, and I’d ask ‘I’m if he was lookin’ to Pettin could feel something growing within him. Not anger exactly, but it was familiar like that—he regarded it as one would an acquaintance. He had felt it once before, on the eve of Rachel’s service. Then, the Reverend had been there, perfect, to break him away. Now, the Reverend was dead, and here was Billy Cohen, claiming that they’d been drinking buddies. It wouldn’t do. “If I’m to believe this yarn you’re spinnin’, I’ll require some form of evidence to the matter,” seethed the sheriff. Cohen grinned, as though he were about to humor a toddler’s fancy. “Sure, sure, you’ll require some evidence. Fair ‘nuff.” The Sheriff loathed Cohen as he lazily dangled a finger towards the food table. “Old Crow,” he declared, “was the good Reverend’s favorite spirit. Why d’ya think Steven brought that one, in particular?” Pettin glared down the end of Cohen’s finger toward the bartender, who smiled reluctantly, like a dog caught with the master’s dinner in his mouth. The sheriff looked at Steven, at Cohen, at the drunks playing horseshoe on the graveyard—and he saw a world demolished. Before he knew what was happening, Pettin was on his feet, shouting at Cohen. “Listen here, Cohen. I ain’t gon’ believe—I simply refuse—that Reverend Thomason woulda wanted a thing to do with you. After all, he was a man of God, and you—you’re just a sorry excuse for a respectable citizen. I’m sheriff, and I think I’d know if the Reverend of all people was ridin’ off to your hovel to play cards. And if you think I’m gonna fall for whatever kinda game you’re playin’ at, then you’ve severely underestimated my intelligence!” For a moment, the revelry died, and all attention was on the pair. Cohen stood, all warmth gone from his eyes—Pettin finally realized the redness was caused by tears. “A sorry excuse—do you hear yourself? I just came to talk, to break bread, to honor the memory of a good friend. I didn’t come to kill, or steal, or cause trouble. Certainly didn’t come to be attacked by some two-bit lawman. “Y’see, the world ain’t as black-and-white as you make it out to be, sheriff. Sometimes, when a man gets rejected by the so-called ‘polite society’ on account of he ain’t white, and he gets rejected by his own folk ‘cause he ain’t really Black neither, it feels good to get treated like a human being. And sometimes, when a man is always expected to be some perfect leader—a representation a’God, without any kind of flaws at all—it feels good to spend time with someone who ain’t gon’ judge you for what you drink, or how much you gamble. join the gang. Usually, we’d leave it there.”

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