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One by one, they took the stand and testified solidly, remembering in great detail the river revival that December, back in 1930. And last, but not least, came Sister Eva Bates, wearing a flowered hat and carrying a purse. She took the stand and almost broke the jury's heart as she recalled how Sister Threadgoode had leaned over to her during the first night of the revival meeting and had remarked how God had touched her heart that night, due to Reverend Scroggins's inspired preaching on the evils of whiskey and the lusts of the flesh.
The ski
He banged his gavel once more, saying, "Case dismissed."
Sipsey did a dance in the balcony, Grady let out a sigh of relief.
The judge, the Honorable Curtis Smoote, knew damn well that there had not been any three-day tent revival in the middle of December. And from where he was sitting, he had also seen that the preacher did not have a Bible between the covers of the book he had sworn on. He had seldom seen such a scrubbed-up lot of down and dirty characters. And besides, the judge's daughter had just died a couple of weeks ago, old before her time and living a dog's life on the outskirts of town, because of Frank Be
After it was all over, Reverend Scroggins came over and shook Idgie's hand. "I'll see you in church Sunday, Sister Threadgoode." He winked at her and left.
His son, Bobby, had heard about the trial and had called and told him about that time Idgie had gotten him out of jail. So Scroggins, the one she had bedeviled all these years, had come through for her.
Idgie was floored by the whole thing for quite a time. But, driving home, she did manage to say, "You know, I've been thinking. I don't know what's worse—going to jail or having to be nice to the preacher for the rest of my life."
OCTOBER 9, 1986
Evelyn had been in a hurry to get to the nursing home today. She had badgered Ed to drive faster all the way there. She stopped, as she always did, in Big Momma's room and offered her a honey-bun, but as usual, Big Momma declined, saying, "If I ate that I'd be sick as a dog. How you can eat that sticky, gooey stuff is beyond me."
Evelyn excused herself and rushed down the hall to the visitors' lounge.
Mrs. Threadgoode, who had on her bright green flowered dress today, greeted Evelyn with a cheery "Happy New Year!"
Evelyn sat down, concerned. "Honey, that's not till three months from now. We haven't had Christmas yet."
Mrs. Threadgoode laughed. "I know that, I just thought I'd move it up a bit. Have some fun. All these old people out here are so gloomy, moping around the place something awful."
Evelyn handed Mrs. Threadgoode her treat.
"Oh Evelyn, are these honey-buns?"
'They sure are. Remember I told you about them?"
"Well, don't they look good?" She held one up. "Why, they're just like a Dixie Cream Donut. Thank you, honey . . . have you ever had a Dixie Cream Donut? They're as light as a feather. I used to say to Cleo, I'd say, "Cleo, if you're going anywhere near the Dixie Cream Donut place, bring me and Albert home a dozen. Bring me six glazed and six jelly ones.' I like the ones that are twisted, too. You know, like a French braid. I forget what they're called . . ." Evelyn couldn't wait any longer.
"Mrs. Threadgoode, tell me what happened at the trial."
"You mean Idgie and Big George's trial?"
"That's right"
"Well, that was something, all right. We were all worried to death. We thought they never were coming home, but they finally got a not-guilty verdict. Cleo said that they proved beyond the shadow of a doubt where they had been at the time the murder was to have taken place, so they couldn't possibly have done it. He said the only reason that Idgie would have stood trial like that was to protect someone else."
Evelyn thought for a minute. "Who else would want to kill him?"
"Well, honey, it isn't a matter of who wanted to, but who would have. That's the question. Some say it could have been Smokey Lonesome. Some say it could have been Eva Bates and that gang out at the river—Lord knows it was a rough enough bunch, and those folks in the Dill Pickle Club stuck together . . . it's hard to say. And then, of course"—Mrs. Threadgoode paused—"there's Ruth, herself."
Evelyn was surprised. "Ruth? But where was Ruth the night of the murder? Surely someone knows."
Mrs. Threadgoode shook her head. "That's just it, honey. Nobody knows for sure. Idgie says that she and Ruth were over at the big house visiting Momma Threadgoode, who had been sick. And I believe her. But there are some who wonder. All I know is that Idgie would go to her grave willingly before she would let Ruth's name be involved with murder."
"Did they ever find out who did it?"
"No, they never did."
"Well, if Idgie and Big George didn't kill him, who do you think did it?"
"Well, that's the sixty-four-dollar question, isn't it?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
"Well sure I would, who wouldn't? It's one of the great mysteries of the world. But, honey, nobody's ever go
JANUARY 23, 1969
Smokey Lonesome sat on the side of his iron bed at the mission, coughing through the first cigarette of the day. After the café closed, Smokey had wandered around the country for a while. Then he got a job as a short-order cook at the Streetcar Diner No, 1, in Birmingham, but his drinking got the best of him and he was fired.
Two weeks later, Brother Jimmy found him, passed out cold under the viaduct on 16th Street, and brought him over to the mission. He was too old to tramp anymore, his health was bad, and his teeth were almost all gone. But Brother Jimmy and his wife cleaned him up and fed him and the Downtown Mission had been his home now, more or less, for the past fifteen years.
Brother Jimmy was a good man, having been drunk himself, once, but as he told it, he had made the long trip “from Jack Daniel’s to Jesus” and was determined to devote his life to helping other unfortunates.
He put Smokey in charge of the kitchen. The food was mostly leftover frozen stuff that had been donated; fish sticks and mashed potatoes out of a box were the staple. But there were no complaints.
When he wasn’t in the kitchen or drunk, Smokey would spend his day upstairs, drinking coffee and playing cards with the other men. He had seen a lot happen at the mission. . . seen a man with one thumb meet up with his boy there, who he hadn’t seen since the day he was born. Father and son both down on their luck, winding up in the same place at the same time. He had seen men come through that had been rich doctors and lawyers and one man who had been a state senator for Maryland.
Smokey asked Jimmy what caused men like that to sink so low. “I’d have to say that the main reason is that most of them have been disappointed in some way,” Jimmy said, “usually over a woman. They had one and lost her, or never had the one they wanted . . . and so they get lost and wander around. And, of course, old man whiskey plays a role. But in all the years I’ve been seeing men come in and out, I’d say disappointment is number one on the list.”