A.C.Franklin Fiction

Sitting on the porch swing, Delilah squinted through the liquid heat shimmers over the fields and adjusted her grip on her shotgun. The grain was growing well, looking nice and golden as it bobbed gently. The gunmetal was hot in the afternoon sun. She really ought to put it away, but she didn’t trust that Sammy would come unarmed as she’d asked him to. Always had to ride herd on Sam. He was liable to go off on some rampage or another at the drop of a hat.

Based on the sun’s creep towards the horizon and the sunbeams spilling under the awning little by little, her son was late again, by hours. It couldn’t be that hard to rob a bank and get back in time for lunch, could it? She didn’t know what was wrong with that boy. Too much of his father in him, she supposed. It’s why she always had to remind him not to bring that pistol home after he went out to get their bread and butter—and money. Couldn’t forget the money. Though once or twice he had forgotten that. She shook her head. What a foolish boy he was.

Delilah could hear the sound of a vehicle in the distance, drawing nearer, but it didn’t sound like Sammy’s truck. She set aside the gun, getting to her feet and peering at the road. The image wavered through the heat mirage; a car.

A car with lights on top.

Thankfully, they weren’t flashing, though they glinted in the summer sun. Delilah slid the gun beneath the porch swing’s cushion and started walking towards the road, still shielding her eyes from the sun. When the sheriff got close enough, she waved and smiled. “Sheriff Dawson! Ain’t this a surprise?”

“Ms. Ferrier—”

“I know I’ve told you to call me Delilah, Jeff. We know each other well enough for that.”

“We know each other a little too well for that, if you take my meaning.”

She tipped her head and waited.

“Delilah, then.” He cleared his throat. “I—”

“Hot day out. Would you like some lemonade? It’s just that cheap store-bought stuff, but it does the job well enough.”

He took off his hat, rubbing at his twice-broken nose as he did. “That would be…that’d be kind of you, thank you. Ms. Delilah—”

“Here, have a seat,” she encouraged. “Though not on the porch swing. It’s getting rickety. Sammy’s going to fix it this weekend.”

“That’s what I’m here about, Ms. Delilah.”

“There’s no need to keep ma’aming me, Sheriff,” she said with a laugh. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get you that lemonade. Just sit right there.”

She went into the kitchen, opening the fridge. It was one of those pretty new ones. Sammy had had to drive to a genuine appliance store to get it for her, but it was worth its weight in gold in these hot summers. She glanced at the floor and sighed as she poured the lemonade. She ought to sweep in here. Sammy had tracked in so much dirt that she’d never be able to have company again if she didn’t sweep. She really didn’t know what to do with Sammy sometimes.

She came back out front, giving the man his lemonade. The sheriff took it, clearing his throat again. “Delilah, I’m here about your boy,” he said quietly.

She sighed. “What stupid thing has he done now? I swear, every time he goes off on his own—”

“He’s dead.”

She paused for a moment. Looked across the idyllic fields, empty but for the grain. Glittering condensation from the glass of lemonade dripped from the glass, hanging like diamond droplets for but a moment before landing on the porch, darkening the wood. She looked the sheriff dead in the eye. “How’d he die?”

“I know it does you no good to hear it, but he was robbing folks. He was all masked up—”

“I didn’t ask what he done,” she interrupted. “I asked how he died.”

“Ms. Ferrier—”

“Delilah, I said. I don’t want anyone calling me by that deadbeat’s name.”

He ran a hand down his face. “You don’t want to know these things, Delilah. They’ll only hurt you.”

“So you want to wait until I come into town and listen to the whispers?” She folded her arms, still staring straight at him. “How did he die, sheriff?”

He bristled. “Damn fool got himself shot. He was taking hostages—”

“Who shot him?”

He set the lemonade down on the railing. “He was a criminal, Delilah, just like his daddy. He’s been stealing for years, now. He was taking advantage of you, staying here. He was a no good punk.”

“All that, and a fool besides.” She didn’t raise her voice. “Who shot my boy, sheriff?”

“I did!”

The shout echoed. Jeff sagged against the railing, burying his face in his hands. “He didn’t leave me any choice, Del,” he said, weary. “Didn’t listen. Didn’t give me a chance to do anything else. I never wanted to hurt you this way. I swear I didn’t. But he was going to start killing folks.”

Delilah sighed. “I’m sorry to hear that, Sheriff. I truly am. I always liked you, you know.”

He looked up, and drew back uncertainly. “Delilah?”

She smiled at him sadly. “Nobody hurts my boy, Jeff. Not even you.”

She pulled the shotgun out from under the cushions and pulled the trigger. The glass of lemonade shattered into sparkling glass shards, the lemonade itself dripping down and making the porch dark, dark, dark. “Sammy, you fool,” she sighed, dropping the scalding hot gun back onto swing, stepping over Jeff’s arm and heading for the tool shed. “Look what you made your momma do.” She sniffed, rubbing her eyes. “I keep having t-to clean up your mess.”

The grain heads bobbed in the golden afternoon as Delilah fell to the ground and wept.