One-eyed Deacon hauled cottonseed to the oil mill. Between trips, he helped me with my after-school chore — hammering together the metal ties and buckles that were used to bind cotton bales.
I liked the old man, but his glass eye made me uneasy. Cornflower blue, it neither matched the brown one, nor were the two orbs synchronized. The good eye bulged like a bulldog’s, while its store-bought mate floated constantly … up, down, sideways.
One day while Deacon was helping me, I asked how he lost his eye. He told me about a bizarre boyhood mishap involving a frog, claiming it was Beelzebub himself — that had cast a curse upon him, causing the eye to go bad. He was terrified of frogs. Satan didn’t let me forget that.
On a Sunday morning, I was lolling on the porch of Dad’s country store. He was in back, doing paperwork. His truck scales were beside the store, and having nothing better to do, I crawled under them. Quite a few Beelzebubs resided there, and I stuffed a dozen or so in a sack.
As I crawled out, Deacon pulled up to the store in his old Packard. He was headed to church. While pumping gas, he removed his coat, hung it on a nail, and went inside to pay. Why I would ever be unkind to Deacon, I’ll never know. He was always kind to me … but I just couldn’t resist. Satan and I dumped the frogs in his coat pockets.
The old man came out, handed me an RC Cola and a Moon Pie, patted me benevolently on the head, threw on his coat, and fired up the Packard. I felt awful … but it was too late.
A quarter-mile down the road, the Packard careened crazily and lurched to a stop. Out tumbled Deacon, flinging off the coat and fleeing its amphibious occupants. Dad walked out on the porch about the time Deacon limped up.
“What happened?” Dad asked. Both brown and blue eyes glared at me as the old man struggled to catch his breath.
“Don’t know, Boss,” he said. “Sumpin’ come a-loose and the car started switchin’ on me.” Dad chuckled and walked off.
Those who forgive most shall be most forgiven. Deacon forgave me … but not completely. “How much have you got saved up from workin’ for Boss?” he asked.
“Fifty dollars,” I said, shamefully bowing my head. “Well, I ain’t never wearin’ my old coat again, and that’s ’bout enough to buy a new one,” he said.
“I’ll go get the money for you right now, but why didn’t you tell Dad what really happened?” I asked.
With kindness glimmering in both blue and brown eyes, he said, “Enough bad stuff happened today. If I told Boss what you done, they’d uh been a killin’ too.”
As the old man ambled toward his old car, I heard him mumble a verse of scripture: Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
