Several other customers wandered up and began to form a waiting line. Papa watched as a clerk came out of the bank. He reached into a bag and pulled a black wreath from its depths, removed a hammer and nail, and affixed it to the bank door. He then extracted a sheet of paper upon which could be seen a written announcement. Papa was first in line and led the column of waiting customers as they quickly pressed around the door to read the message.
It simply stated: “With deep regret and loss, the Commercial Bank of Quitman must announce that its President and Chief Officer, the honorable Mr. Jeremy Thornton, died on the night of April 12, 1930, suffering from an unexpected attack of pains in the neck, arm and chest, and thereafter of rigors whilst asleep. Thereupon, before he could be removed from his bed, he did render up his spirit to the Holy Ghost and passed on in death to his honorable reward.”
The announcement continued, “The Commercial Bank of Quitman understands the urgency of the present banking crisis but in respect to the family and many friends and associates of President Thornton, the Board of Directors of the Commercial Bank of Quitman, in an extraordinary meeting has unanimously voted to close the bank for appropriate mourning and to finalize the execution of funeral plans and arrangements.”
Papa Hailes was inundated with disbelief, overwhelming disappointment, anguish, despair and apprehension, and finally, deep sorrow and consummate sadness.
Poor Mr. Thornton! The stress of the previous months had exacted its ultimate toll upon his strength and well-being. He had died in the effort of salvaging his bank and the heavy burden of responsibility that had been required of him.
He had mostly died of a broken heart that cared not only for his obligations, but more for the people that he served, his customers with whom he had been forced to deal so harshly.
Through this sorrowful veil, however, Pppa Hailes reflected on the many qualities of the man and realized that he had literally saved him and the family with the note that he had signed the night before for Tom Hailes. He looked about and saw that he was the only one still standing at the door. He had been holding his hat in his hand. Slowly, he lifted it back upon his head and went back to the tether where Buck patiently waited. He cinched the saddle and mounted, turning back toward Hale and yet another plan. No one appreciated his pain, and no one noticed the tears slowly seeking their paths down his wrinkled face and stubble, weathered cheeks. No one saw them when he got home either.
CHAPTER TEN
THE PLAN
Uncle Glen heard Buck’s approaching canter and walked up the Quitman road to meet Papa as he neared. Glen stood in the middle of the road and stepped in front of the horse. He grasped Buck’s bridle looking up at his father, exploring his face for some sign of what had happened in Quitman.
Papa looked directly back at his son and said flatly without emotion, “Mr. Thornton is dead.”
Glen looked at him and asked, “How did it happen?”
Papa Hailes replied, “He died in his sleep from a heart attack, I believe. I was the last customer that he saw last night. He had agreed to lend us enough money to pay for all our needs at Tom Hailes’ Store for the coming planting season. He was so tired and none of the bank employees were there to prepare the new note. He asked me to come back to the bank for my signature this morning, but he died in the night.”
Glen whispered, “What will we do?”
“First we’re going to pray,” Papa said.
“Then?” Uncle Glen queried half from anxious curiosity and the other half from realistic sarcasm.
Papa replied, “We’re going to make wine!”
“WHAT?” Glen shouted.
Papa Hailes shrugged, “Glen, I’m worn out, and I am not going to talk about it right now, but I know how to get us out of this mess. I’m just too tired to explain it to you.” Glen was aware that when Papa Hailes spoke with such definition and clarity that he did not need to pursue the matter.
Glen acknowledged, “Alright, Papa. You settle in and take a nap. We’ll talk about this after supper.”
“No Glen, in the morning,” Papa replied. Papa walked Buck into the barn, led him to his stall and wearily returned to the house.
Papa was up long before the remainder of the household the next day. He was convinced that his 166 acres of land, almost all of it forest, held a richness of natural rootstock grapevines sufficient surely to harvest enough rich, plump and sweet grapes both of red and white varietals to ferment and to produce enough wine initially to derive an adequate income to support the family and provide enough cash for the coming year. He planned to plant other fruits to create a diversion and to sustain a permanent ongoing cash flow cultivated on his land that would overcome the depressive malady that he had until now been suffering.
Now he was rested and most eager to inventory his natural vineyard that was scattered throughout the forest. He had already seen many vines but wanted to know the concentrations of the grape varieties on the place, how many, where they were and how difficult it would be to climb up into the trees, harvest them and bring them back to the house to begin his viticulture and enological enterprise.
He had to know what equipment and supplies were to be required in order to determine the type, number, and size of containers necessary to hold all of the grapes for crushing that he called ‘primary fermentation’. In addition, he knew that the juice would soon be green new wine and would need to be extracted from the “must,” that is, the grape hulls, stems and seeds. The sweet fluid would then require collection for ‘secondary fermentation’ into large, clean bottles that had been washed thoroughly and rinsed with rainwater that had then been boiled and then air dried.
The oxygen within the bottles would be removed with candles and sulfur then sealed with cork stoppers steeped in wax and pierced with glass tubing immersed in water to allow the removal of the expanding carbon dioxide, a final fermentation by-product of the metabolism of the feeding yeast as it performed its miracle in the conversion of the sugars, created and vested by the sun and the rain into alcohol.
This knowledge was a legacy imparted to him by his grandfather, probably learned from his father, about how to make the elixir that a man could savor. It would then warm him upon entry into his stomach and the rest of his alimentary tract, and thereafter upon absorption into his blood, would gratify and elevate him from whatever depths he suffered at the time of its ingestion, yet often exacting the price of its excess the following morning.
It was also against the law of the land and the law of the church. Papa didn’t dwell too long upon that fact, however.
Every day over the next three weeks Papa was at Tom Hailes’ store talking to everyone that had been in Quitman, to hear the news of the Bank’s re-opening. Papa knew that Mr. Thornton’s replacement had already been hired and Papa was trying to get any information that he could obtain about the new President of the Commercial Bank of Quitman. Was he to be Papa’s adversary or his benefactor?
What was his name? Where was he from? What was his prior banking experience and positions? What of his age, height, weight, marital status and children? What did the businessmen and farmers, those who were the breadwinners of the county think of him? He needed to learn everything about this man that he could prior to the day that he took his seat before him, much he felt, like the Christ as he stood before Pontius Pilate and the Elders.
He learned that his name was Jordan Peltier, and that he was from the delta of the Mississippi River southwest of New Orleans, the Bayou Country. It is a paradise of rich alluvial soil that had been eroded, exuded, and collected over eons from the hills and forests of Wisconsin and Minnesota, and every property to the south bordering its tiny tributaries, culminating in a red-brown almost chocolate paste of land and turbid water, which was delivered and deposited as silt according to the meanders of that mighty river’s flow, and it could grow anything.
His family was French, and they were farmers and fishermen. His forebears, Arcadians, had traveled this river highway from
Canada to escape a government that was inconsistent with their sense of independence and freedom. They had not been disappointed with what they had found and the land was enriched by their presence. This almost prehistoric garden was nourished by atmospheric clashes that were created as cold, northerly air moving toward the southeast encountered the warm, moisture laden clouds marching up from the Gulf of Mexico. These contravening forces provided frequent, turbulent storms and quiet gentle rainfall that was a never ceasing source of water to nourish this paradise and its residents. Mississippi was her sister, her poor sister.
Papa Hailes talked with everyone that had met Mr. Peltier and others who were not of his acquaintance, but who knew of him and might have acquired any information that Papa felt might be helpful.
He would need everything he could garner in order to gain sufficient foreknowledge to develop the credibility necessary to obtain the loan that would be his family’s salvation and ultimate success. A composite image began to emerge.
The fourth Saturday following Gerald Thornton’s death, Papa and Uncle Glen took the wagon into Quitman and loitered about the square, rummaging through the small shops and businesses that they had known most of their lives, talking with and listening to the citizens of the town.
They wandered into the Pantaz drugstore. Mr. Lyons, the pharmacist, was in the back among the tall shelves that were sparsely lined with tin boxes and exotic dark brown and green colored bottles, stopped with corks or pledgets of cotton. He appeared to be taking inventory of the stock of these medicines, but he was holding a cup of coffee and did not possess the demeanor of one whose close attention to detail would be necessary to accomplish such a task.
No one had the money to buy even the most basic medical supplies or necessities at that critical economic time and Dr. Watkins, the only physician in Quitman and indeed all of Clarke County, rarely wrote a prescription for filling at the store. The doctor would see a patient almost always on a pressing, urgent or emergent basis, usually for a traumatic injury or an infection. If the former, he would wash and dress the wound. In the latter case, he might lance a boil; apply an unguent, usually black and sulfurous with a concomitant repulsive and surely healing smell. He would open a large medicine cabinet in the treatment room and then extract what he felt would be an effective remedy, usually a few aspirin tablets, but also powerful analgesics such as tiny morphine or dilaudid pills when the occasion demanded. To my knowledge, no one ever robbed nor burglarized his office and not one of those pills was ever lost, reported missing or stolen.
Heaven help the poor soul, however, with an open fracture, severe head, neck or back injury, acute abdominal pain, signifying possible acute appendicitis, or a consumptive cough, a harbinger of pneumonia, or some other respiratory malady such as tuberculosis. Neither Dr. Watkins nor Mr. Lyons could do much to help those situations.
If death were imminent, Dr. Watkins would call an ambulance. Upon its arrival he would accompany the patient in the vehicle to Rush Infirmary in Meridian for further evaluation and hospital admission. Anything less and the victim would return to his house and to his bedroom and lie in wait for the outcome with his anguished family in prayerful attendance. Dr. Watkins would come to the house, examine the patient and provide what medications that he had along with gentle consolation and commiseration. This was his professional art which was often more effective than his science.
Papa Hailes examined the various items along the store shelves and aisles. He appeared to be looking for some particular item and this attracted Mr. Lyon’s attention. He set the coffee cup down on a counter and moved quickly to greet Papa and Uncle Glen. “Morning, Silas,” he greeted. “Are you looking for something in particular?”
“Why, yes I am, David. We are in need of a couple of Coca-Colas.” Papa replied.
With obvious disappointment and resignation Mr. Lyons went to a soft drink box and extracted a Coca-Cola for each of his customers. Papa held up his hand in protest. “We’d like to buy you one too, David.”
Mr. Lyons, pleased, responded, “I don’t care if I do,” then he reached into the box and pulled out another cold, sweating drink, placed the tops of each into the opener attached to the upper back corner of the drink box and popped them off. “What’s the occasion?” He inquired.
“Well, we’re headed down to the bank to see how things are going. We thought we would cool off a little bit and find out if anyone else had met the new president, and try to learn what he’s like.”
Always ready to break the monotony of a slow morning, Mr. Lyons was happy to make a contribution. “Well, don’t expect him to be anything like Jerry Thornton. I know that the new man is a Cajun and is supposed to be a real sharp trader with a glass left eye.”
Intrigued, Papa Hailes inquired, “What does his left eye have to do with his work as a banker?”
Chuckling, Mr. Lyons was delighted to explain, “When Willis Sutton went to the bank the other day to talk to the banker about his note, he spent about thirty minutes explaining his crop, how much cotton he’d harvested, what bills and expenses he had made, and how much his check was for after the cotton was weighed in at the gin. He was just about finished telling his story when he noticed that Mr. Peltier was beginning to snore. Willis couldn’t figure out how he could be sitting there, still looking at him with his eyes open and still snoring. Then he noticed that his right eye was closed and that he was just staring at Willis with the other eye, the left one didn’t blink. Willis got up, turned and walked toward the bank’s front door. He looked back and that staring left eye was still fixed on the chair where he had been and it didn’t follow him on his way out of the bank. Willis walked back and waved his hand in front of Mr. Peltier’s staring eye. It still didn’t blink. Then he reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. Peltier startled, woke up and tried to pick up the conversation where he left off. He was real embarrassed, then he told Willis about this glass eye and that he had been up late the night before.
Willis suddenly got an idea. He said, ‘Well, Mr. Peltier, I can certainly understand how you must feel about all of this. Anyway, I am sure grateful that you could renew my note despite all the trouble that I told you we’ve been having.”
Fascinated, Uncle Glen quickly asked, “What did the banker say?”
“Well, it didn’t work,” David Lyons crowed.
“Mr. Peltier thanked him, then he said he would review the loan, and was sure everything would be fine since Willis had put his signature on the new note and was glad that Willis had understood about his having had to increase the loan interest from three to four and a half percent. Willis said he’d come back in the next day and that was the end of it, except Willis still hadn’t gotten an extension on what he owed.”
From this encounter Papa Hailes had learned two things about Mr. Peltier that he hadn’t known before; he had a quick mind in trying situations, and could recover from tight spots. He also did not share the depth of feeling and concern for his customers that had been possessed by Mr. Thornton, his immediate predecessor. Though this was not a virtue, it would probably spare him from Mr. Thornton’s fate. Of course, Mr. Lyons could have been lying about the glass eye in the first place.
“What else do you know about him?” Papa inquired. Mr. Lyons responded, “Well, I know he’s single and quite the ladies’ man. They say where he worked in the bank down in New Iberia he was very considerate of the widows, unwed mothers and working girls, and would often give them extensions on their loans. I understand also that it wasn’t the only extension he gave them, either.”
Glen broke out into a peal of laughter. Papa laughed too, but he also smiled to himself as he thought, “Too bad Glen wasn’t born a girl,” but of course he never said it nor thought of it again, at least that day. Glen stood by oblivious to his father’s thoughts of dark humor and never knew of any of it.
“How old is he? Has he gone to church since he’s been in town?” Papa asked.
“I’d say he’s about thirty-five to forty
. I don’t know if he’s a churchgoer or not. I do know he graduated from LSU pretty high in his class and that he was quite a football player while he was down there in school,” Mr. Lyons confided.
Papa Hailes made a slight motion with his head toward the door indicating to Uncle Glen that the interview was ended and to finish his drink. Glen set the empty bottle down at the cash register on the counter and pulled a quarter from his pocket. Mr. Lyons took the quarter, rang it up and handed Uncle Glen a dime back in change, as payment for the three drinks.
“One last question,” Papa asked of Mr. Lyons before departing.
“And what is that, Silas?”
“What do the other business people in town think of him so far?” Papa requested. “We’ll just have to wait and find out who and what he really is and that will probably take a while.” Mr. Lyons summarized.
“I’m sure you’re right, David.” Then Papa and Glen walked out through the door, and emerged onto Boykin Street exiting from the rear of the drug store. “I guess we’re going to have to talk to some more people,” Papa said.
Glen suggested, “Let’s go over and try the Square Cafe. They make it their business to keep up with all the gossip. They take a few general facts and lots of hearsay then stretch it some more. They’ll tell anything bad that they find out, particularly if he’s new in town.”
Papa frowned at Glen impatiently, “If there’s anything we don’t need it’s a lot of half-truths told by some waitress to make herself look good and get better tips. I need good solid and dependable information about this man.”
Glen was hungry so he tried again. “Let’s go get some dinner over there anyway, and then we can make up our own minds. That Coke has got my appetite stirred up so the Cafe trip won’t be a total loss in either event.”
Papa thought it might be a good idea to sit down to rest, to eat something and to think about the morning’s fishing expedition.
Asylum Heights Page 3