But after she had rung up my purchase, her mood changed, as though she were stepping across a line she had drawn between herself and white people.
'The other day when you was here? You gone on to your car, but a man with red hair was watching you. He had a coat on without no shirt,' she said.
'What about him?'
'The look in his face, honey. He started to come in here and I locked the door.' She shook her head, as though she feared her words could make the image a reality.
That evening I drove to Lucas Smothers's house. Vernon was sitting on the steps, a bottle of strawberry soda beside him. His clothes were dirty from his work, his face lined with streaks of dried sweat. A wheelbarrow filled with compost and crisscrossed with rakes and a shovel stood in the front yard. Under Lucas's screen was a bright patch of white paint.
'Is Lucas home?' I asked.
'He took the truck to town.'
'Did the sheriff do anything about those kids who tore up your lawn?'
'That tub of guts is doing good to get himself on and off the toilet seat.'
'Is Lucas at the poolroom?'
'No, they're handing out free beer at the Baptist church tonight.'
'It's always a pleasure, Vernon.'
But Vernon had another side, one that wouldn't allow me the freedom to simply condemn and dismiss him. When I was almost out the drive, he rose from the steps and called my name and walked out to the road. He pulled a cloth cap from his back pocket and popped it open and flicked it against his thigh, as though he could not bring himself to admit the nature of his fear and love and his dependence upon others.
'What kind of chance has he got? Don't lie to me, either,' he said.
'It doesn't look real good right now.'
'It ain't right… I swear, if they send that boy to prison…' He breathed hard through his nose. 'I killed people in Vietnam didn't do nothing to me.'
'I'd get a lot of distance between me and those kinds of thoughts, Vernon.'
'Damn, if you don't always have to get up on the high ground. Excuse me for asking, but who died and made you God?' he said, and went inside the house. You didn't win with Vernon Smothers.
I drove downtown and parked in front of the poolroom, a gaunt, two-story building that was over a hundred years old. It had a wood colonnade and elevated sidewalk inset with iron hitching poles, a stamped tin ceiling, oak floors as thick as railroad ties, a railed bar with spittoons, card and domino tables, a woodburning stove, and a toilet down a back hallway with the water tank high up on the wall.
Down the row of pool tables, I saw Lucas chalking a cue, sipping off of a long-neck beer. He wore a pair of gray slacks and loafers and a starched lavender shirt and he had put gel in his hair.
'Come on outside,' I said.
'Now?' he asked.
'Half the people in here are my clients… I'd like to stay off the clock.'
His face pinched with confusion. 'What?' he asked.
It was cool outside, and down the street the live oaks on the courthouse lawn were gold and purple and freckled with birds in the sun's afterglow.
'You got a date?' I said.
'I'm supposed to talk with this guy about a job,' he said.
'Have a seat in my car. I want to show you something.'
As soon as he opened the passenger door he saw the twelve-string guitar propped up on the seat.
'Man, where'd you get that at?' he said.