Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “No!” Jesse blurted, grabbing the handbill with both hands and crumpling it into a ball. “You can’t do this to her. I won’t let you.”

  Popper scratched his head. “All we’re doing is following the word of God. It’s a free country, Mr. Compton.”

  “Jesse’s right,” Miss Ruth said. “This thing you’re planning ain’t right. It’s real bad for the town.”

  Popper asked Rosen, “Will you help us in case the town tries to rescind the permit?”

  “Does Gideon McCrae know everything you have planned? The posters, the television show?”

  “He knows I’m helping him reach out to others in need. He’s agreed to let me handle the business end. He only has to worry about preaching the true Word.”

  “Those news cameramen suddenly appearing to film Ben Hobbes’s funeral service—that was your idea, wasn’t it? You knew how Simon Hobbes would react to Reverend McCrae taking the pulpit. A cheap way of getting publicity for the church.”

  “Not cheap—free. That’s the best kind. In fact, after lunch, I’m going over to our local paper, the Earlyville Sentinal, demanding they run an editorial about Brother Lemuel’s death. I believe he was killed by somebody who hates our church, just ’cause we worship differently. Maybe now you’ll see us folks just tryin’ to practice our religion.”

  Rosen stared at the other man for a long time, then asked, “Where’d you get the money to finance this?”

  The question came suddenly and seemed to catch Popper by surprise. As angry as Jesse was, he’d never have asked it. It wasn’t a “Southern” question—too direct, but it was exactly what a good lawyer would ask. Just then Emma brought the check.

  “I was able to find some very generous backers.” Popper took the check and, pulling out his money clip, left a tip almost equaling the cost of lunch.

  Miss Ruth asked, “What kind of businessmen would invest in a church?”

  “The kind who want, as their only profit, the spread of God’s Word. There are such men.” Fingering the wad of money, he added, “You haven’t answered me, Mr. Rosen. Can I retain your services?”

  “No.”

  Popper waited for an explanation. When none came, he grinned and walked to the cash register, then out the door.

  Watching him leave, Jesse felt the ball of paper hot in his fist. He looked down and, past his whitened knuckles, imagined the rattlesnake coiled tightly around Bathsheba. He wouldn’t let that happen. Pushing back his chair, he hurried through the restaurant, not caring that others, watching him, clicked their tongues and probably whispered, “That Compton boy—what’s wrong with him?”

  Outside, Jesse looked in both directions, but Popper was gone. Jesse sat on the bench in front of the restaurant, as the pigeons scattered. Moving his hand to wipe his brow, Jesse saw it was still clenched. He relaxed it and unrolled the handbill. Looking into Bathsheba’s eyes, he felt somebody staring through the window of the restaurant. His father’s friends, the old men who came there every day to gossip, because there was no longer anything in their own lives worth discussing.

  Bathsheba was looking at him and smiling, as if to say, “Why do you care what they think or say? When two people are in love, nothing else matters.”

  “That’s right,” Jesse said to himself. “When you’re in love, nothing else matters,” and smoothing the handbill over his knee, he smiled back at her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  saturday evening

  Walking into the popular culture center, Rosen smelled the roasting meat and the spices of the simmering potpourri. He called out, “I’ve got the wine!”

  “In the workroom!” Jesse replied. “Everything’s almost ready! They should be here in twenty minutes!”

  Rosen walked into the workroom and stopped suddenly, blinking hard. He’d been gone most of the day, doing research in the county court building, and wasn’t prepared for the room’s transformation. One of the two worktables was gone; the other, stripped of its piles of papers, proved to be a handsome trestle. It was surrounded by four straight-back chairs carved from the same dark wood as the table. The dishes were fine china, the napkin rings and candlesticks silver. Two serving bowls, cut from blue glass, matched the centerpiece vase, filled with marigolds.

  Jesse was lighting one of the candles. Through the window the sun’s rays flowed obliquely, casting half his body in dark shadow, like a Rembrandt. He seemed to belong to that era, as gentleman and master of the house, instead of to a world that preferred hamburgers to roast duckling.

  He stepped from the shadows. His light gray suit, a European cut, made his movements appear even more graceful. He could’ve been Fred Astaire.

  “What kind of wine did you get?”

  “I told the clerk . . .”

  “Charles prefers to be called a wine merchant.”

  “Then he should wear a tuxedo instead of an apron. I told him what you wanted. He said they were temporarily out of stock.” Rosen handed Jesse the bottle. “He thought this might do as well.”

  “Hmm, I did want something robust, but this may be a bit too bold for the ladies.”

  “Oh, let’s be bold. Besides, it looks all right.”

  “And how would you know?”

  “It doesn’t unscrew. What a beautiful table. You’d make somebody a great wife.”

  Jesse smiled. “It is nice having company. I don’t entertain much. I’ve grown apart from my mother and sister and, consequently, the family friends. I put in an occasional appearance at the club, but those men might just as well be strangers.” He cradled the wine gently. “I’ve been thinking about her, Nate.”

  “Bathsheba?”

  “I’ve been thinking of asking her to marry me. If I did and she said yes, we’d have to move. Do you think she’d understand? It would take a miracle for the people of this town to leave us alone. Those kinds of miracles just don’t happen.”

  “Couldn’t you say the hell with them?”

  “If I had your courage. I know you did that to your father.” He paused. “And I think I know what it cost.”

  Rosen started to turn away.

  “Sorry, Nate, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just . . . I can’t imagine living without her.”

  “Suppose she won’t leave her church? Don’t these Fundamentalists lead a pretty strict life?”

  Jesse thought about their time together in the field and suppressed a smile. “I don’t believe she’s entirely orthodox. Besides . . . there’s something about her church I find appealing.”

  “Sure, its long legs.”

  “I’m serious. I took down my Bible today and read through it. Thinking about Reverend McCrae’s church, the earnestness of his congregation’s song and prayer, made the words come alive for the first time.”

  “What about the snake handling?”

  “At least those people felt something inside. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve felt anything real?”

  “You sound a little lovesick.”

  Jesse’s hands gripped the wine. “Yes, Bathsheba’s part of it, but only part. I thought, of all people, you’d understand.”

  Rosen shrugged. “I’m sorry. Guess you touched a nerve when you mentioned my father. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “No, I’m the one who should apologize. I shouldn’t have brought all this up. We’re supposed to be carving a delicious dinner tonight, not our souls.”

  “Forget it. Look, I’m going upstairs to change. I’ll even put on my good suit.”

  Jesse shook his head. “And I said I didn’t believe in miracles.”

  Twenty minutes later, Rosen walked downstairs just as the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it!” He opened the door and saw yet another Claire Hobbes.

  She wore a black silk blouse with pleated skirt and black stockings. The string of pearls and matching earrings looked real. Her makeup, artfully applied, highlighted her eyes and made her lips fuller. She really was an attractive woman, yet still had that childlike vulnerability. As in
the way she clutched her purse with both hands. No wonder Ben Hobbes had been so taken with her; she was that irresistible combination of a woman to love and a girl to protect.

  “Hello, Nate. Thanks so much for inviting me. Such a nice thought.” Her voice lilted.

  “It was Jesse’s idea, really. He’s needed a reason to show off his cooking since I arrived. By the way, I tried to reach you at home yesterday evening.”

  “Yesterday . . . oh, I was in church. Our Friday evening service. Don’t worry, there weren’t any snakes.”

  A second car rolled up the drive—a black Lincoln Continental.

  Rosen continued, “I wanted to tell you that I met a few of your friends Thursday.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, from Nashville.”

  The smile froze on her face.

  “They had some very interesting things to say about you.”

  As if she hadn’t heard, Claire said, “Why, Ruth, how pretty you look!”

  Ruth Hobbes walked up the steps as the Lincoln began a wide circle, then paused. Ruth’s son, who was driving, glanced from his mother to Rosen; then his gaze rested on Claire. She shifted slightly, as if a spider had crawled upon her, and stepped into the hallway. Danny suddenly accelerated, screeching tires kicking up dust as the car sped away.

  “Be careful!” Ruth called after him, then shook her head. “Guess boys will be boys. Evenin’, everyone.”

  She wore a long dress, the color of pewter, and silver earrings. A silver comb flashed in her thick black hair, which fell straight back almost to her waist.

  Claire said, “I could’ve driven you, Ruth.”

  “That’s all right. Danny had some things to do in town. He’ll pick me up later. I don’t drive so good at night, especially after a few glasses of wine. Well, here’s our host now.”

  Jesse stepped into the hallway holding a tray of hot hors d’oeuvres—stuffed mushrooms, bacon wrapped around water chestnuts, and various cheeses bubbling over crackers.

  “Oh, this is elegant,” Ruth said. “Thank you so much for the invitation.”

  “Yes, Jesse,” Claire added, “this is so nice.”

  “It’s my pleasure. With all the pain Claire’s been going through, I thought she could use a bit of cheering up. Now, why don’t we all sit down and relax. The wine’s already decanted. Dinner should be ready in a few minutes.”

  They walked into a small room on the other side of the hall. It had probably once been a bedroom but was converted into a comfortable drawing room. It had the same handsome wooden furniture as upstairs—rocking chairs, couch with a blue Williamsburg print, coffee table, and built-in bookshelves. The authors ranged from the classics to the great Southern writers, like Faulkner and Flannery O’Connor. Another dozen of Jesse’s dour ancestors, in framed photographs, stared down from the wall. Looking into their eyes, Rosen understood why Jesse’s family would never understand a marriage to Bathsheba.

  The two ladies sat on the couch, while Jesse poured the wine, then took a chair beside Rosen. “I hope you enjoy this. It should prepare us nicely for the more full-bodied dinner wine.”

  “This is wonderful,” Ruth said, “but I’m afraid it’s spoiled on the likes of me. When we was raised up back in Kentucky, all we had was my Uncle Alvin’s moonshine.”

  “That had an art all to itself, the same as fine wine.”

  “You’re right as rain. I remember Uncle Alvin getting into a fight with a customer who accused him of rigging up some tubing made outta tin. Old Uncle Alvin swore he’d only use copper tubing. Said any man who didn’t use copper oughta be hung. Funny, ain’t it, how my uncle never minded breaking the law by running a still, yet had his own laws about making ’shine that he’d die before breaking?”

  Jesse shrugged. “That’s not so strange. History shows us a number of people who followed their own law, even when it went against the government. Some of them most folks admire, like Thoreau and Gandhi and Dr. King.”

  Rosen said, “Then there’re those like Son of Sam and Ted Bundy, whose law told them to murder as many people as they could get their hands on.”

  Ruth took a long sip of wine. “That’s sure a lawyer’s answer, sticking up for the law. But people make the law. Don’t you guess that sometimes they make mistakes that others see, like Dr. King?”

  Rosen rubbed his eyes. “Sure. There is one immutable law, the law of God. That’s what Dr. King was following.”

  “But even God’s law could be some pretty rough justice.”

  “You mean like stoning adulteresses?” He glanced at Claire, who turned away to look into her wine. “Perhaps, but what happens when you ignore God’s law? Are you willing to risk being swallowed by a whale or drowned in the Great Deluge?”

  “I won’t argue with you, Nate. You sure do sound like a preacher.”

  Jesse said, “He studied to be a rabbi.”

  “Is that right? You woulda been a good one. What happened?”

  “My father and I had a disagreement. Like you, Ruth, I questioned the severity of God’s laws. My footsteps didn’t quite fit into the ones my father had laid before me. We had a parting of the ways. To this day, he hasn’t forgiven me.”

  Jesse muttered, “‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth,’” then caught himself. “I’m sorry. Just something my mother says about me came to mind.”

  Claire looked up. “That’s Shakespeare—King Lear.”

  “Do you like Shakespeare?”

  “Uh-huh, especially his sonnets.” She walked to the bookshelf and took down The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Flipping through the pages, she read:

  “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

  Thou art more lovely and more temperate;

  Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

  And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.”

  She closed the book. “Sure is pretty.”

  “Yes,” Rosen said. “I’ve often found that people who enjoy reading poetry also write it. Do you write any poetry?”

  She blushed, looking even more fragile and endearing. “It’s not very good.”

  “Would you recite some for us?”

  “Oh, yes, please,” Ruth said.

  “No, I can’t. I’d be too embarrassed, especially after reading Shakespeare.”

  Rosen asked, “You write sonnets?”

  She nodded.

  “Then they must be love poems. Were they to your husband?”

  Her cheeks darkened even more, and for a moment, her jaw set tight. Finally she said, “Like I told you before, I’m a little embarrassed. Rather not talk about it.”

  “Maybe you wrote them to Hec Perry.”

  The book almost fell from her hands.

  He continued, “As I was telling you before, I met some of your friends in Nashville Thursday. Hec Perry wanted me to say hello, but then, you still see him from time to time.”

  Returning the book—at the same time hiding her face—she replied, “We’re old friends, that’s all.”

  “What about one of your new friends, a man named Aadams?”

  “Who?”

  “Aadams with a double a. He’s the kind of guy mothers point at to scare their kids into behaving.”

  “I don’t know who—”

  “He’s a private detective who says you’re his client.”

  “Oh, that man. Yes, well, he offered to investigate Ben’s death. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to have someone else helping you and Jesse on the case. He showed me good credentials.”

  “The kind of people writing him a recommendation think a ‘pen’ is a prison. What’s the real reason?”

  “I don’t think I like the way this conversation is turning.”

  “Then why don’t—”

  “I believe that dinner is ready,” Jesse blurted. “Claire, if I may have the honor.” Taking her arm, he led her from the room.

  Ruth said to Rosen, “I guess that means you’re escorting me, unless, with the mood yo
u’re in, you’d rather go a few rounds.”

  He pursed his lips, about to tell her his suspicions, then shook his head. “I’d never stand a chance. If I may have the honor.”

  He sat across from Ruth at the dining room table, with Jesse and Claire on either side. They ate their salads quietly.

  Feeling guilty for causing the change in mood, he cleared his throat. “I can’t wait to see what Jesse’s prepared. He wouldn’t let me into the kitchen.”

  Jesse poured the wine. “Well, after hearing you cast aspersions on our Southern cusine . . .”

  “Me? Never.”

  “I think Jesse’s right,” Ruth said, smiling. “I still haven’t seen you eat any of our good cracklin’ bread.”

  “You mean that pig grease?”

  Jesse stood. “I believe it’s time.”

  He walked into the kitchen and, returning a moment later set on the table a deep serving tray.

  “Smells great,” Rosen said. “What Southern delicacy is it?”

  “Yankee pot roast.”

  They looked at one another, then burst out laughing. Jesse brought out a casserole and bread.

  “Miss Ruth, would you do the honor of saying grace?”

  “Of course.”

  As she prayed, Rosen fought back the memories of blessing the wine and bread. His father’s soft words when speaking to the Lord, the aroma of his mother’s freshly baked challah, his older brothers jostling one another under the table. He’d never felt as warm or as safe. He’d never feel that way again.

  Music was playing; the tape machine was on. He recognized the instrument, a dulcimer as sweet as Hec Perry had played.

  Ruth clapped her hands. “Why, that’s Will Stevens. I ain’t heard him since I was a little girl. He’s from my grandfolks’ time. Come outta the same hills as us and worked the coal mines, too. All that black dust finally killed him. Jesse, you knew he was from the same parts as me. That was right nice a’ you.”

  “I’m glad you like it. Our center found a few of his old records in somebody’s attic. I made this tape for you to take along home.”