“Wouldn’t miss that for the world,” I said.
Rosey made it to Norfolk mid-afternoon on Saturday. We laid around until suppertime, reading, talking about dogs, the weather, and children who have shortened lives. To repay Rosey for his help on this North Carolina adventure, I took him to Max & Erma’s restaurant on Virginia Beach Boulevard. I was trying to prepare for the feast waiting on us down south tomorrow by limiting my intake to their signature salad called Third Street. Rosey had no pretense at limiting anything, so he was indulging in their Stacked-to-the-Max Club sandwich. We toasted the life of Rosemary Jenkins.
“She was quite a lady,” I said as I sipped my sweet tea.
“A long and full life,” he said as he raised his imported beer mug to my glass of Southern sweet tea.
“Wonder what she really thought of the people for whom she worked?” I said.
“We’ll never know. Likely she had mixed feelings. Don’t you have mixed feelings about the people you work for?”
“I do,” I said. “Good analogy.”
“So, in a sense, it has nothing to do with the issues of race. It’s about people in the end,” Rosey said.
Sunday morning brought sunshine and warm breezes to Norfolk. Sunshine made the day for travel more pleasing and our trip to Carolina was faster than usual. Sam stayed home in Norfolk with Rogers. We knew this to be a fast turnaround journey, so we decided to allow him more R&R despite B.C.’s kind invitation for him to join the gatherings. I didn’t bother to tell him what he would miss. Depriving my large canine of a food source would be too much for him to bear.
We arrived at the funeral home close to 1:30 p.m. The parking lot was full of vehicles; most of them were in the lines formed for the funeral procession to the grave site just outside of Riley Corners. The little chapel was bulging with a mixture of black and white. As one might imagine, the crowd was mostly African-American, but there was a goodly number of white folks who came to pay their respects. The black community was dressed to the nines while the white fringe was more subdued in their dress code. I don’t think I saw any African American woman without a hat. The clothing was a dominate black for the mourning, but the headwear offered a color scheme that would have made the rainbow pale by comparison. Feathers, veils, and sashes ushered down from the head of every African American lady in attendance. From our seats in the back, the view was a sea of color overlaying a black undertone that celebrated Rosemary Jenkins’ life and character.
Sheriff Tanner was sitting next to a woman whom I assumed to be his wife. Cynthia Tanner was seated next to him on the other side. On the far end of the same row sat Maxine Shelton. Mary Elizabeth Johnson was on the same row in all her finery. The last of the Southern belles, perhaps. She was sitting next to Cynthia. There were some other Caucasians whom I did not know, but had seen around town from time to time.
Maybelline was even there dressed in a short black dress, every woman’s friend, with some stylish, bright red stiletto heels. I doubted my ability to stand in those pumps to say nothing of walking. Some people just have style and can get away with their own dress code. I was wearing a black pants suit with a white blouse. My feet were adorned with black flats. Despite the warm day, I was wearing a light weight jacket so I could carry my firearm concealed in the small of my back. Ever vigilant, even at funerals. Rosey was wearing a gray sport coat, black turtleneck with black slacks. Most of the men there were wearing dark suits and colorful ties of various persuasions. A few of the black men had hats, but it was the ties they wore that offered an answer to the vibrant headgear worn by their ladies.
One other noticeable thing was that when we entered the chapel, it was rocking with the festive music of the black tradition. They were celebrating the home-going of Rosemary Jenkins, two months shy of her one hundredth birthday. It was one more celebration. Thirty minutes of this kind of music and I had the strong belief that the walls were swaying all around us.
The white people were noticeably uncomfortable. They didn’t know many of the songs, and even the ones that they did know, they sang with less manifested gusto than their colorful neighbors. They seemed to lack the ability to express the joy of a good life lived long and well. This part of the service lasted for nearly an hour, but the time passed quickly. Rosey and I enjoyed the music. He sang most of the songs, I was only able to sing a few, but I swayed in rhythm along with the black crowd as did Rosey. I don’t mean for this to sound racist, but he swayed better than I. The whole musical prelude was intoxicating for me. I think it touched some long ago memory that I had experienced as a child in Clancyville, Virginia. It felt familiar and comforting. It felt like home.
Finally, one of the two ministers stood and began to read the obituary. That took longer than normal because of her ninety-nine years and the multitude of things the lady had done in the church, in the community, and even some things done on the state level. It also took longer than most obituary readings because of the elaborate reading style of the minister. He was gifted with embellishment even in his tone of voice when he made her role as Sunday school teacher for forty years become a majestic and queenly accomplishment. He did this over and over with each task she had fulfilled. I should not have been surprised, but I was. Rosemary Jenkins was as close to royalty as I had encountered in most of my life. The first minister read some psalms from the Bible, prayed too long to suit me, and then said a few words for about half an hour.
The second minister combined eulogy, sermon, and music in one meaningful time that lasted a mere forty-five minutes, but no one, including me, was watching the clock. It was magic. I couldn’t remember ever having that kind of experience in church before, and it certainly never occurred in my life at a funeral. I left that chapel believing that I had actually encountered someone significant.
We gathered at the home of Bergamot Jenkins’ great aunt in rural Riley Corners. We followed B.C. and Azalea to the house and parked Rosey’s Jaguar amid the fifty or so other cars parked on the grass. Others were situated along the road and in the vacant field next door. People were stationed all over that house, some at the main dining table, some in the living room, a few in the bedrooms, and some on the front porch. We were all sitting and eating and talking about Rosemary, the legend. I supposed when you live ninety-nine years, you have a lot for people to talk about when you vacate the premises.
Rosey and I sat in lawn chairs in the yard along with an assortment of wonderfully diverse African-Americans who either knew Rosemary or were kin to her. Azalea and B.C. were kind enough to join us in the yard, no doubt since we were strangers and I was the only white person invited to this affair. We felt honored, or so we said to each other on the way home.
On the way to the Jag to depart the memorable occasion, Azalea came running after us.
“Granny wanted you to have this,” she said as she handed me an envelope. “She made me promise that I would give this to you after she died. I think she wrote it the week after you left. She said that you would know of its potential importance, and what to do with it.”
Azalea smiled and I could see the family resemblance. She reflected enough of Rosemary and Bergamot so that no one with an eye for that kind of thing could miss it. She was a beautiful young woman. I only hoped that one day she would develop into the pedigree that her granny wished and hoped for her. I would bet my life on the fact that Bergamot wished and hoped for the same thing.
As I strolled toward the Jag, Rosey stayed for a moment or so reminding Azalea of his invitation for her to come to D.C. to check out his job offer.
Rosey and I talked about the funeral for a good hour or so after we left Riley Corners. In fact, it’s the only time I can recall him singing in the car as we drove along. He wasn’t that kind of person usually. Something caught him that day, or he caught something.
“What’s in the envelope?” he said after there was silence for a few miles when his singing finally subsided.
“Oh, yeah, I forgot.”
I took out t
he letter and opened it. It was a short two paragraphs. She expressed joy at meeting Rosey and me, and then she expressed regret that she had not told me the complete truth, her phrase. I finished reading it and then stared out the windshield.
“Anything important?” Rosey said.
“Yes, in a manner of speaking. And, no, when viewed from another perspective.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What did she write, or is it too private for you to tell me?”
“Nothing like that. I can tell you, but that’s about it,” I said emphasizing the you.
“You can’t even tell Rogers?”
“You can help me decide that.”
“So what gives?”
“As I said, she was delighted to have met us and enjoyed our times talking and sharing in their home.”
“That’s nice,” Rosey said. “And?”
“And, she apologized for not telling us the whole truth, or in her words, the complete truth.”
“Does she tell you the complete truth in her note?”
“Hard to answer that one.”
“You want me to beg?”
“She says that she was working the day that Robby died. She said it was exactly like what happened with Beth Anne and Colby. She said that she came into the room and found Mary leaning over the crib pushing a pillow on the face of the infant. Just like years before, she said she tried to stop her but Mary’s strength was too great and she could not. By the time the doctor arrived, Robby was dead and Mary Elizabeth remembered nothing of what she had done. She grieved like any mother would grieve, and Rosemary kept that horrible secret for the rest of her life. She ended her note by saying she hoped that we would not hold it against her for not telling us the truth and never coming forward with the whole story for the police.”
“Is that all she said?” Rosey asked.
“That’s all.”
“Think she was absolving her conscience?”
“That’d be my guess. I suppose she had to tell someone the truth. I doubt if she ever told her daughter or granddaughter.”
“Good thing you came along when you did,” Rosey said.
“Why is that?”
“She needed a priest.”
“I’m no priest,” I said with great assurance.
“Well, in some circles, some Christian expressions mind you, you and I are both considered priests. Not ordained to the priesthood, of course, but fellow practitioners who have the responsibility to listen to other pilgrims and to pray for those who come along and cross paths with us.”
“I don’t think I’ll let you go to anymore funerals. You absorbed too much religion today.”
I could feel his quick look in my direction. He wanted to see if I would smile. I looked at the road in front of us without smiling. He turned back to face the highway. There was silence.
I smiled when I thought he was not looking.
50
The summer was hotter than usual and that’s saying a lot about Norfolk. I was forced to run the air conditioner or melt. Sam lived under my window unit so the cool air would blow directly upon him. Even at night he would maintain his vigil in that same cool and comfortable spot.
Sometime in late July I received a call from someone named Aleshia Simmons at the Justice Department.
“Are you Clancy Evans?” she began the conversation.
“All my life,” I said.
“This is serious, Miss Evans. I need verification of your identity.”
“You want me to fax my birth certificate?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
I could tell that she had worked for Justice too long and had completely lost whatever sense of humor she might have been born with. It was possible that they hired her because she had no humor. Could be a requisite on the job application for her line of work.
“Are you familiar with the case against John Boxley?”
“I’m familiar with John Boxley and some of his work,” I said.
“Well, we’re proceeding to trial and we need you to come to Washington, D.C. You will be subpoenaed and forced to appear for his trial. We require your testimony. We hope you will comply so that measures will not be taken against you.”
“Nothing like the government enticing me with threats.”
“This is no threat. I am serious.”
“Unfortunately, I realize that. Okay, when and where?”
“The subpoena contains all that information; you simply read it and comply. Is that clear?”
“Crystal. You ever do standup?”
She hung up on me. My best line in the whole conversation, and she hung up on me. Meeting her in person was going to be sheer delight.
Rosey called me a few days later from somewhere in Europe. He was vague. I told him that Boxley was going to trial and that I was a star witness.
“Is that what they called you?”
“Self-proclaimed.”
“I expect you are one of many, so don’t get too excited if you get lost in the shuffle. If they prove their case without calling you, then they won’t need you.”
“And I get a free trip to D.C.?”
“All expenses paid.”
“Whoopee.”
“I fear you exaggerate. Call me when you get to town, just in case I’m around. We can do lunch or some other meal, maybe two or three. Depends on how long you stay.”
“I’m waiting on the subpoena to give me the details.”
“I’ve been wondering about that other thing?”
“The other thing?” I said.
“That posthumous note you received from Rosemary. Did you decide to tell Rogers?”
“I’ve been waiting on your viewpoint.”
“Tell me exactly, truthfully, what you think and I will be disgustingly honest with you. Fair enough?”
“I burned the note and left Rogers in the dark. I believe the complete truth should die with the likes of you and me. Rosemary kept it to herself for what, fifty some odd years. Besides, they would never convict her on hearsay. Doubt if the courts would consider Rosemary’s statement as a dying declaration.”
“And you burned it.”
“Consuming fire.”
“I concur. What do you think Rosemary would want us to do with her truthfulness?” Rosey asked.
“Exactly what we are doing.”
“So, is the case closed?”
“I’m still struggling with the motive,” I said.
“Which means, I think, that you are trying to get inside someone’s head to decide what kind of mercy is the motive,” Rosey said.
“Yeah. Sounds fruitless when you put it that way.”
“Worse than that. The chief suspect in one death is dead. You’re trying to get inside the mind of a dead person. I think that’s questionable on so many different levels that it actually borders on the insane.”
“No argument on that one; but, there is the other one. That suspect is still alive.”
“And you have some inside track into her brain?”
“I don’t like it when you hammer away at me with such frankness.”
“You have to let this one go.”
“No resolution.”
“Au contraire. You helped to shed some light on a very dark memory for a family and a portion of the community.”
“You believe some resolution is forthcoming?”
“Can’t say, but I can say that our work is done. Let it go.”
“Not so easy for me to let it go.”
“I know. Here’s the thing – if mercy is indeed the motive, then does it matter upon whom the mercy lands or whether the mercy killing was justified?”
“Is a mercy killing ever justified?”
“More than one right answer for that one,” Rosey said.
“That child had a right to see if he could have made it,” I said.
“Which child, Colby or Robby?”
“Both...still, I was thinking of Colby.”
“We know nothing of the circumst
ances surrounding the death of Billy Bob except for what Rosemary wrote to you before she died. So I assume that you are bothered by the fact that you believe Mary Carpenter murdered her son on the basis of Rosemary’s letter to you, and you do not like the idea that she is getting away with it.”
“Something like that.”
“If she did kill him, she isn’t the first nor will she be the last to get away with it.”
“No justice.”
“Sometimes there is no justice. It just is. You know that. You did the best you could.”
“I’m not convinced of that.”
“Let it go, Clancy. Go read a book. Think about something else.”
“If only I could. Stay safe, friend. See you in D.C.”
51
My subpoena arrived one week after my phone conversation with Rosey. It told me date, time, and location for my appearance in Washington, D.C. for the trial against John Boxley. I had another month before I was scheduled to appear. Since I was still mulling around my apartment in some kind of funk, I was glad that I had some time before traveling to the nation’s capital and telling what I had learned about John Boxley.
In the meantime, a package arrived from Emily Green. The name sounded familiar, but for the life of me I couldn’t recall where I had heard that name and what circumstances surrounded my knowledge of this person.
“You know anybody named Emily Green?” I said to Rogers.
“Yes.”
“Well, are you going to help me out here? I can’t put a face with the name.”
“There’s a reason for that.”
“I’m sure there is. How about the fact that I don’t know anyone named Emily Green.”
“Actually, you know of her only through information that I gave you.”
“Aha, that explains my memory problem.”
“Partially. She is the granddaughter of the young newspaper reporter who traveled to Riley Corners to check out the death of Colby Johnson. She wrote a novel based upon her grandfather’s notes.”
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