SWEETWATER BLUES
A NOVEL BY RAYMOND L. ATKINS BOOK EXCERPT
Flying the Red-eye Prison time is comprised of equal parts
mindless activity, enforced idleness, and utter boredom, but it does have the advantage of offering a young man plenty of opportunity to consider his shortcomings and reflect upon his transgressions. Anyway, that was Palmer Cray’s experience. He had given his measure of sin its full share of contemplation during the long days and longer nights of his incar- ceration, and the deliberate passage of each slow moment had led him to the conclusion that the biggest problem with killing his best friend was that the one person he really needed to talk to about the whole sad busi- ness was dead and planted, so he couldn’t strike up a conversation with him, or at least not one that went both ways. Dead men told no tales, according to the generally held view. This gradual epiphany was completely de- tached from the physical reality of being im- prisoned, which was definitely a problem in its own right and every bit as bad as its repu- tation implied. And then to be considered was the whole question of maybe going to hell as final penance for his crimes. This was the out- come his mother thought most likely. It was the reason she spent large portions of her days down on her arthritic knees, petitioning the Almighty for mercy and trying to out-pray the inevitable as she sought to strike a deal on her son’s behalf. Palmer didn’t believe in a lit- eral damnation to an underground destina- tion that included fire, brimstone, and male-volent red demons with affinities for pitchforks and roasted sinners, although he
seemed to be in the minority on that particu- lar point among the people in his neck of the woods. Out of respect for his mother’s fervor, however, he had to concede that there was at least a fifty-percent chance that he was wrong, and if that should prove to be the case and a postmortem journey to the Baptist hell came to pass, it would no doubt be quite un- pleasant, an experience literally never to be forgotten. Rodney Earwood had been Palmer’s best
friend for as long as either could remember. They were both the only children their par- ents had ever produced, and they had grown up together in and around Sweetwater, Geor- gia. They had attended the same small school, four block buildings and a ramshackle gym
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