= BOOGER
  A Sheriff Wallace Funderburk Story
  By Beverley Brackett


Booger Adkins was dead. Not run-of-the-mill dead, where a hearse comes, carts the body away, and everyone goes to the funeral a few days later.

No, Booger Adkins was spectacularly dead. The kind of dead that gets a corpse talked about for weeks and remembered for years.

Booger had been shot twice at close range with his own over- and-under as he napped on the shabby sofa in his trailer. There was nothing left of his face, so it would definitely be a closed casket funeral.

Not that there would be many mourners. Anyone who did come would probably just be there to make sure Booger was really dead.

And to kick the casket.

Sheriff Henry Wallace Funderburk stared at the corpse and tried not to smile. Booger's death was going to cut the crime rate in Keowee County by at least twenty-five percent. The only thing that kept this from being a red-letter day was the fact that he'd had to arrest a decent, hardworking man for Booger's murder. 

Sighing, Funderburk turned his attention to the cotton-top who'd performed this outstanding public service. Asa Hutchins sat in a ramshackle dinette chair, staring at the floor, his head nodding slightly in a steady, comforting rhythm.

"Asa, you sure you understand the rights the deputy read you?"

The weathered farmer glanced quickly at Funderburk and nodded. "Yeah, I got the right to remain silent and all. But I shot the son-of-a-bitch, an' there ain't a man alive can blame me after what he done to my Nyette. Then he up an' tells me and Rayette we cain't see our own granbabies!"

He leaned over and spat on his dead son-in-law's scuffed linoleum floor. 

Funderburk could understand Hutchins' bitterness. His only child, Nyette, had eloped with Booger when she was eighteen. Twelve years, three children, and countless drug possession and prostitution arrests later, she was cold and in her grave. The coroner had found four healed fractures and more bruises than he could count on Nyette's body, along with a lethal dose of booze and pills. Officially it was a suicide. Public opinion, though, held that Nyette had really died of marriage to Booger.

Funderburk hooked his thumbs in his belt and mulled over his options. He decided to try a harsher way of getting the stoic farmer to request a lawyer. "Asa, you realize if you just confess outright, the Solicitor could seek the death penalty?" 

The old man took a deep breath and nodded weakly, staring at the floor. Silence dominated the room, then he spoke softly, "It don't matter."

Funderburk rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. "You sure you don't want a lawyer?"

Hutchins shook his head. "No, I done it, and I'll take my punishment. I got no fear. I know my Jesus lives."

Funderburk took a seat in another dinette chair; it shuddered under his weight. "Then, wouldja mind tellin' me how you did this?"

Face to face, it dawned on him that Hutchins had lost a lot of weight. He had the look of a man who'd hit the canvas hard and wasn't getting back up. 

Hutchins shrugged and frowned. "There's nothin' to tell. I come by to tell him that me and Rayette didn't think it was right, the way he was treatin' us." 

He gestured briefly at the door. "The door was open, so I come in, and there he was, passed out on the sofa, stinkin' drunk at one in the afternoon. I looked out the winda and seen my granbabies out back, workin' in the garden."

He shook his head, the movement small, a mixture of sorrow and resignation. "An' I jes' got so godammed mad. He's never done a lick of honest work in his life, but he works them kids like mules and they always look half-starved. I grabbed the shotgun leanin' up against the wall, checked to see it was loaded, and walked over to the sofa..." Hutchins' voice trailed off and he turned away from Funderburk's gaze.

"And then?"

Hutchins pointed at the sofa. "I went over to where Booger was sleepin' and fired twice. Then I locked the door. I knew the kids would come arunnin' and I didn't want them in the house." 

"Then what?"

"Then I called y'all."

Funderburk glanced at the deputy standing behind Hutchins, and asked, "Where are the kids?"

The deputy nodded towards the door. "They're outside, sir. DSS is coming for them."

At the mention of the Department of Social Services, Hutchins' head snapped up and he jerked upright in the chair, "Please, Sheriff, I don't want my granbabies in foster care! Call Rayette, to come get 'em, she's a good woman!"

Funderburk nodded in sympathy. "I know she is, Asa. But it's not our decision. DSS makes that choice." 

He stood up, carefully straightening the creases in his trouser legs. "I'm gonna go see how the children are doin'."

Pausing on his way to the front door, he turned to the deputy. "Listen, don't bring Asa out until I give the word. I don't want these children to see their paw-paw bein' taken away in handcuffs."

"Thank you, Sheriff." Hutchins looked up and their eyes met. Funderburk noticed that the old man was blinking, hard and rapid. Blinking back tears.

"It's the least I can do, Asa."

Hutchins looked back down at the floor as Funderburk opened the door and stepped out into the sweltering South Carolina afternoon. The brightness stung his eyes, and he blinked. Hard and rapid.

* * *

The three Adkins children sat in the back of a cruiser, both doors open to catch any passing breeze. The youngest, a girl of about six, slept in the middle, her head on her older brother's shoulder. It was hot and the younger boy had taken off his shirt.

Funderburk noticed it was a worn, long-sleeved flannel shirt, much too hot for late May. Then he noticed the scars that criss-crossed the eight-year-old's arms and chest. In the center of his chest, from sternum to belly button was a fresh, oval-shaped bruise.

The boy watched with apprehension as Funderburk approached, then he quickly put on his shirt and stood up.

Funderburk smiled and gestured towards the seat. "It's okay, son. Go ahead and sit back down."

He bent down to get a better look at the children. From the passenger side of the back seat, the older boy eyed him with suspicion. The girl yawned and opened her eyes.

"I'm Sheriff Funderburk. I've been in the house talking to your paw-paw."

The younger boy eased himself carefully back into the seat. "Is paw-paw okay?"

Funderburk nodded. "He's just fine. He wanted me to come outside and see how y'all were doin'."

"We're doin' fine," the older boy answered tersely.

The ten-year-old's behavior bordered on hostility, but Funderburk kept his own manner friendly and easy-going. 

"You must be Troy, and she must be Katie" he said to the oldest. Then, turning to the younger boy, he tapped him lightly on the chest with his index finger, and said, "And you must be Davey!"

Davey jumped back and winced, and Funderburk knew the bruise was still very fresh. "I'm sorry, son, did that hurt?"

The boy nodded and began buttoning his shirt, trying to hide the bruise. "Yes, sir."

"What happened to you there?"

The youngster shrugged and cast a sidelong glance at his older brother. "I dunno, musta fell down," he whispered.

Funderburk let the half-hearted explanation drift away, watching Davey intently.

The boy retreated into his silence, avoiding eye contact, staring down at his shoes. He scuffed his feet in the dirt, raising small clouds of orange dust. 

"Does it hurt much?" Funderburk asked softly.

The boy nodded.

"Well, when the lady from Social Services gets here, I'll tell her to make sure you see a doctor..." He patted Davey lightly, this time on the shoulder, and the boy flinched as if expecting a blow.

Pretending not to notice, Funderburk glanced casually around the barren front yard. "Kinda hot out here, ain't it?" he commented. "How about I get a deputy to come sit with y'all and run the air-conditioning in that car?"

"Okay!" The children nodded eagerly.

A deputy stood several feet away, watching as Funderburk talked with the children. As Funderburk approached, the young man straightened visibly and stepped forward.

"That your vehicle?" Funderburk asked, jerking his head towards the car behind him.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, go sit in the car with the kids and turn on the air con. See if you can't get them to open up a bit. But don't interrogate them, just talk with them." He glanced at the vehicle and shook his head. "Poor things, they're scared to death."

As the deputy headed across the dirt yard towards the cruiser, Funderburk returned to the battered trailer the children called home and climbed the sagging wooden steps that led to the front door. 

Pausing briefly, he watched as the deputy approached the cruiser and began talking to the children. They seemed to relax in the company of the younger, less intimidating man; even the oldest became more friendly. As snatches of their conversation floated across the yard, it occurred to him that the children had never even asked about their father.

* * *

Wallace Funderburk was working his way through a plate of pecan pancakes at Duke's Diner when a shadow fell across his table. He looked up to see Betsy Tanner, the head of Keowee County's Department of Social Services, looming over him. 

"Hey, Betsy! How you doin? Wanna sit down and have a cup of coffee?" He gestured with his knife in the direction of the seat across from him.

She sighed and nodded, an uncharacteristically quiet response for her. As she slid into the booth, Funderburk motioned for the waitress, who came over with a full pot and an empty cup and saucer.

"Did you want to order breakfast this mornin'?" she asked Betsy.

Betsy shook her head. "No, thanks, just coffee, please..."

As the waitress returned to her place at the cash register, Funderburk raised an eyebrow and gazed across the table at Betsy, who shrugged and reached for her coffee.

"So how did you track me down?" Funderburk asked.

"I called your office and demanded to know where you were," she answered, a slightly amused smile playing around the corners of her mouth. "Naturally, they told me what I wanted to know without a lot of fuss."	

Betsy Tanner was a formidable woman; when people addressed her as "Ma'am" it wasn't just courtesy. They meant it. She spoke her mind without censor and smoked like a pile of burning tires. In her younger days she'd run a honky tonk on Ram Cat Alley, serving up drinks and bouncing the heads of rowdy customers off the pavement. She was rumored to have tattoos.

She also had a Master's in Child Development and the work ethic of a beaver on speed. 

 "I'm glad you didn't have to hurt anyone," Funderburk answered. "Something on your mind?"

"Remember how you wanted me to get the Adkins kids to a doctor?"

"Uh hunh..."

She looked around carefully, making sure no one was close enough to hear them, then leaned across the table and whispered, "Well, in addition to the malnutrition, poorly healed broken bones, bruises, and scars that all three of them have, Doctor Morrow says the little girl has chlamydia."

Funderburk was silent, searching his memory for the word, wondering what it meant. He came up empty. "You're gonna hafta help me out here, Betsy. I've never heard of that one."

"Well, let's start with this: it's a sexually transmitted disease..."

Funderburk stared down at the pecan pancakes that he wouldn't be finishing. "Oh, Lord! No wonder Asa shot the bastard. Hell, I'da shot him, too, and I'm not even her paw-paw."

She grinned slightly and nodded. "Funny, Doctor Morrow said the exact same thing."

He slid out of the booth and stood up, pulling a few ones from his pocket and placing them next to his empty coffee cup. 

"You'll forgive me for runnin' off, but I need to tend to this right away." 

Betsy picked up her coffee cup and raised it in a mock toast, "Here's to Asa..."

* * *

Asa Hutchins lay on the bunk in his jail cell, his face turned to the wall. He seemed uninterested in his surroundings, paying no attention to the sound of Funderburk's footsteps, even when they stopped at the door to his cell.

"Asa?"

The figure on the thin mattress sighed and cleared his throat, but kept his face to the wall. "Could you just leave it in the slot? I'm not really hungry..."

"Asa, it's Sheriff Funderburk. I don't have your food, I came by to talk to you 'bout something."

Funderburk reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring heavy with keys. After a brief search, he located the one he needed and opened the cell door. 

Hutchins rolled over and sat up, bracing himself into an upright position by pushing his hands against the edge of the bunk's metal frame. Funderburk was shocked at the sight of him. 

In the few days he'd been in jail, the lines in his weathered face had deepened, and his facial muscles had gone slack. His eyes were red-rimmed and sunken. And as he sat on the edge of the bunk, swaying slightly, he seemed to be in pain.

Even for a prisoner, his health had deteriorated dramatically. 

"Asa, you feeling okay? I know this is a difficult time for you..."

The farmer threw his head back to get a better look at Funderburk. Squinting in the bright light, he smiled wanly. "I'm okay, don't you worry 'bout me. How are my granbabies?"

Funderburk picked up a metal chair from a corner of the cell and moved it closer to the bunk. When he sat down, the two men were almost knee to knee. 

"They're just fine, Asa. Rayette's taking real good care of them. You're the one I'm worried about. You don't look so good. Let me call you a doctor."

"No, I'll be alright," he said with a shake of his head. "Ain't a damn thing a doctor can do for me..."

Funderburk took a deep breath and bit his tongue, deciding to drop the subject and get down to the reason for his visit. 

"Asa, I know what really happened. With the kids..." Funderburk paused, searching for gentle words.

The old farmer looked up, stricken. "Oh, no, please Lord, no..."

"I'm not judging you, I understand why you did what you did. If I'd been in your shoes, I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing...but that don't make it right."

Hutchins clasped his hands and held them between his knees, pressing one against the other with such force that his arms shook. "Then you'll understand when I ask you not to arrest the boys. Please, just let everyone think I did it and send me to prison. Troy and Davey are good boys, but he was beatin' on 'em almost every day, they never got enough to eat, and they just couldn't see any other way out...he used to tell 'em he'd kill 'em if they talked to anyone..." 

Funderburk's stomach turned to ice as Asa continued. "When they called and tol' me what they'd done, I decided to take the blame. I've lived my life, and there ain't much left. A few months at most."

"A few months?" Funderburk's voice was hoarse with shock. "What do you mean?"

"Them doctors at Keowee Memorial say I've got cancer all up in my liver." He shrugged. "Hospital or prison, it's all the same to me. But them boys finally have a chance...Please, Sheriff..."

Funderburk shook his head. "Asa, I'm not sure I can do what you're asking. It's my duty to enforce the law..."

The sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor brought the conversation to a sudden halt. Funderburk twisted around in his seat as Deputy Sheriff Bill Carson appeared at the cell door.

"Uh, Wallace, Rayette Hutchins is here..."

The old farmer brightened at the mention of his wife's name. 

Carson shrugged his shoulders and winced slightly. "I'm sorry, Asa, but she's asked to see the Sheriff."

As he stood up to leave, Funderburk reached out and patted the older man on the shoulder. "Don't you worry, Asa, I'm sure Rayette wants to see you, too. She probably just asked to see me first."

* * *

Rayette Hutchins, a tiny, red-faced dumpling of a woman, sat in a plastic chair outside Funderburk's office, twisting a ragged tissue in her hands. Seated next to her were Troy, Katie, and Davey. As soon as Funderburk appeared in the hall, she burst into tears and jumped up, rushing over to meet him, her worries tumbling from her mouth.

"Sheriff, did you talk to the lady from the DSS about my granbabies? She says my poor Katie...my poor Katie..."

Overcome with emotion, she covered her face with her hands and burst into hiccuping sobs.

Funderburk put his finger to his lips, which quieted her long enough for him to usher her into his office and shut the door.

"Rayette, I know all about Katie, and I want you to know how sorry I am."

She nodded at his words, still hiccuping slightly, and twisting the tissue until it came apart in her hands. Funderburk guided her to a chair and handed her several fresh tissues, then he took a seat on the edge of his desk. 

As Rayette dabbed her eyes, the words gushed from her in a torrent. "At first, I was angry, I thought, how could Asa do such a thing, he's so sick hisself, he cain't be spending the rest of his days in jail, but I tell you when that Mrs. Tanner tol' me what Katie had, and how she musta got it, well, Sheriff, I just cain't tell you what I thought, the words ain't fit for a gentleman to hear, but I could understand why he killed Booger..."

She paused, took a deep breath, and shook her head, "Lord knows, I cain't blame him no more."

Funderburk's head was pounding. He reached across his desk for a packet of Goody's powder, tore it open and poured it into his mouth. He washed it down with a swallow from the cold coffee in his mug, grimacing at the bitter taste. 

Placing the mug back on the desk, he turned to Rayette.

"Why is it you wanted to see me, Rayette?"

The farmer's wife shifted uncomfortably and glanced at the floor. "I couldn't understand why Asa didn't want a lawyer, why he just wanted to go to jail, but now, I can see..."

"Uh huh..." Funderburk was still not clear where this conversation was going.

She looked up, staring intently into his eyes. "He doesn't want people to know what happened to Katie. This is a small county, Wallace Funderburk. Everybody knows everybody else's business and it can be mighty hard to live down your past. Even if it ain't your fault. You know how it is..."

She paused, and her face grew stony. "I don't want Katie to have to grow up that way. When you were coming up, people said awful things about your mother. I know because I used to hear them talking."

Funderburk's mother, who was deemed the town trollop, and disappeared when he was six in any case, was not a subject he liked to discuss. He nodded and changed the subject. "Asa tells me he has liver cancer."

Rayette twisted the shreds of tissue in her hands until small pieces broke off and floated down to the floor. "Yes, the doctors at Keowee Memorial told him about it two weeks ago. They say it's pretty far along, he could try that chemo, but they don't think it would do much for him."

Her voice softened and quavered. "He tol' them he didn't want nothin' to do with it."

Funderburk shifted on the desk, leaning in towards Rayette, and cleared his throat. "There's something you need to know, Rayette. Before you got here, I was back there talking with Asa. And he doesn't know anything about this business with Katie."

Rayette gasped, and swayed in the chair. The tissues fell from her hands, landing in her ample lap and cascading to the floor.

"Are you sure?"

Funderburk nodded. "I'm certain. And Rayette, I don't think you should tell him. It would break his heart..."

Having lost the tissues, Rayette was wringing her hands with finger-breaking ferocity. Funderburk reached over for the tissue box and handed it to her. She sat in her chair, squeezing the box, and staring distractedly at his nameplate on the desk.

"It would break his heart," Funderburk repeated softly. "To know what happened to Katie, and him not able to protect her. And it might make his health much worse. He deserves at least some peace of mind in his last days, don't you think?"

Rayette nodded, and pulled a tissue from the now crumpled box. Dabbing her tear-filled eyes, she whispered, "Yes. I don't ever want this to get out. For Katie's sake, and now for Asa's too."

"Would you like to go back there and visit with him? I can get Bill to take you back." 

Funderburk walked over to the door. Opening it just wide enough to be able to see out, he beckoned for Bill Carson.

Rayette Hutchins stood up and placed the mangled tissue box on the desk. As she approached the door, she patted Funderburk lightly on his arm. "Thank you, Sheriff."

"I'm glad to be able to help out, Rayette. We don't allow children back in the jail, but don't you worry, they'll be okay out here."

Funderburk watched momentarily as she made her way down the corridor, then he turned to go back into his office. The children still sat in their chairs, unnaturally quiet, watching his every move. He smiled at them and got no response.

As he shut the door and turned to his desk, his eye fell on the three shotguns he kept in an antique glass case that once belonged to Horace Funderburk, his adoptive father.

And as he stared at the guns, he had a revelation.

Returning to the door, he opened it and stuck his head out in the hall.

"Davey, son, would you come in here?"

Reluctantly, Davey stood up, crossed the hall, and stepped into the office.

Funderburk shut the door and smiled down at the boy. "How's that bruise on your chest doing?"

"Fine." He stared down at his feet, rubbing the toe of his sneaker against the carpet.

"Really? Mind if I take a look?"

As Davey unbuttoned his shirt, Funderburk took a shotgun from the case. 

The bruise was still there, a deep blue and purple oval etched into the boy's thin chest. As Funderburk brought the butt end of the shotgun up to the bruise, the youngster pulled away and began to rebutton his shirt.

He was too late. Even at a distance, Funderburk could see that the two matched perfectly.

A noise to the right drew Funderburk's attention. It was Troy, standing in the doorway, his face pale and sweaty.

Davey burst into tears. "I didn't tell him nothin', Troy. Honest to God, I didn't."

"You boys shot your father?" Funderburk asked gently.

The older boy nodded. His hand gripped the doorknob tightly, and his breathing was shallow and rapid. "I'da done it by myself, but I couldn't hold the shotgun steady and reach the trigger. So Davey held it. And I pulled the trigger."

"Why?"

"Mama made us promise, before she died," Troy answered. He took a deep breath, and released the doorknob to wipe his hand on his pants' leg. A light sheen of sweat glistened on the brass.

"She made you promise?" Funderburk prompted.

The boy nodded. "That we'd always look after Katie. Not let nothin' bad happen to her..."

"And your father did something bad to Katie?"

The boy's face hardened, his eyes narrowing to angry slits. "You know he did! I heard maw-maw talking to the Social Services lady yesterday. And she come here today to talk to you about it, didn't she?"

"But how did you find out?" Funderburk asked, ignoring the boy's accusatory question.

Troy bit his lower lip and looked at Davey, who stood by silently, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"I saw him with her," the younger boy whispered. "And he tol' me that it was a special thing that only him and Katie did. He said she was the lady of the house, now that mama was gone."

Funderburk sat on the edge of his desk and rubbed his temples. "Why didn't you tell somebody? A teacher? The police?"

The answer, certain and matter-of-fact, came from Troy. "He'd have killed us. Sure as shit."

Davey looked up at Funderburk, his face ashen, and asked, "Are you gonna 'rrest us? Put us in the 'lectric chair?"

Funderburk pulled a tissue from the twisted box that Rayette Hutchins had left on his desk and wiped the tears from Davey's face. "Go on out in the hall and sit with your sister."

* * *

Asa Hutchins went to his eternal reward in late July, and was laid to rest in a quiet church graveyard. His funeral, unlike Booger's, was well attended.

Sheltered from the sun by the funeral home's green canopy, Rayette stared down at the mound of dirt that covered her husband's grave and spoke softly, "You know, a coupla months ago, I would lie awake at night wondering how I could ever hold my head up in this town again, knowing that people would talk about my family behind my back. But now, it don't matter none. I'm proud of what Asa did, even if they'll never know why, and that's enough for me. They can talk, but I'm gonna hold my head up high and raise my granbabies."

Wallace Funderburk nodded and smiled gently. "Rayette, you're not gonna have time to pay any mind to gossip. You got your work cut out for you with those granchildren..."

He nodded in the direction of Troy and Davey, twenty yards away, racing among the tombstones.

Rayette gasped. "Lord! Those boys have no manners! Katie, go over there and tell them boys to get back here right now!"

Wallace shook his head. "You stay with your maw-maw, Katie. I'll see to them."

He set off across the green turf, picking his way through the tombstones, careful not to step on anyone's grave. As he approached, the two boys stopped their game and turned to face him.

"Fellas, that's not the way we behave in a cemetery. It's disrespectful to the dead."

"Yes, sir." They spoke simultaneously and looked up at Funderburk. The bright sunlight made them squint, and Davey shielded his eyes with his hand.

"I want to have a word with y'all." Funderburk clasped his hands behind his back and gazed down at Troy and Davey.

They watched him carefully, aware of the seriousness in Funderburk's voice and on his face.

"Yes, sir?" Davey asked softly.

"Your paw-paw has given you a tremendous gift. He went to jail and spent the last weeks of his life in a cell, away from the ones he loved, dying of a painful disease, so you boys could have a second chance."

Davey's lower lip quivered. Troy looked down at the grass and swiped casually at his eyes.

"And he's watching over y'all right now. Watching to see what kind of men the two of you grow up to be. Y'all owe it to him to grow up to be good men. So mind your maw-maw and do as she says, understand?"

They nodded.

"Now go on over to your maw-maw..."

As they scuttled away, he called to them again, "Just one more thing, boys."

"Yes, sir." They turned back to face him, keeping their eyes on the lush grass of the cemetery.

"I have kinfolk buried not far from here and I come to pay my respects regularly. And when I do, I'll be stopping by to visit your paw-paw's grave, too." He paused for emphasis. "Now, look me in the eyes, 'cause I want to be sure y'all understand me..."

They lifted their heads and he could see that the younger one was crying.

"When I do come visit, I want to see that your paw-paw's marker has been kept clean. And I don't ever want to see any weeds on his grave..."


Author's Note: "Booger" is a rather old-fashioned word still used occasionally in the South. It means "Monster."

BEVERLEY BRACKETT lives in South Carolina with her cat, Tibbles, who is well ahead of all the other cats in her age group. Beverley can be reached at compactz@aol.com.

Copyright (c) 2000 Beverley Brackett