Big Lies in a Small Town

by Diane Chamberlain

  “Have a good visit,” she said. “You holler if you need anything.”

  “Mama Nelle,” I began once she and I were alone, “when I was here the other day, we talked about an artist you remembered from when you were a little girl. Anna Dale. Do you remember talking with me about her?”

  “Miss Anna.” The old woman lifted a finger to her wrinkled lips. “Sh. Have to be quiet about her,” she said.

  “Why is that?” I asked, softening my voice. “Why do we have to whisper about her?”

  “Everybody’d get hurt. Even me.”

  “Even you?” I frowned. She was losing me. Or maybe I was losing her.

  She nodded.

  “How will you get hurt if we don’t whisper?” I wondered if there was something she didn’t want Saundra to hear.

  “The po-lice might come,” she said.

  “Oh.” I sat back. Lisa had been right. I was wasting my time.

  I’d brought two pictures with me in a manila folder, and with a less than hopeful sigh, I took them out now. Leaning forward, I handed the old woman the first picture, and adjusted the lamp on the nearby table so that the light fell in a circle on the grainy image from the newspaper.

  “Can you see this picture?” I asked. “Do you recognize—”

  “Jesse!” she said, her gnarled finger touching the image of the black man.

  “I don’t think so, dear,” I said, shocking myself when the word “dear” came out of my mouth. I’d never used it before in my life. “Jesse would only have been a boy back then. This is from 1940.”

  “It’s Jesse,” she said stubbornly. “Seventeen. Eighteen. My big brother.”

  I took the picture back from her and looked hard at it. Could she be right? The black man could possibly have been a teenager. The thought excited me. That might explain how the mural came to be in Jesse’s possession. He was somehow connected to it. Somehow involved in its creation. I set the photograph on her lap again. “Do you know who the white boy is?” I asked, wondering if by some miracle that boy was still alive and clearheaded.

  She looked at the photograph again, but her focus was on Anna. “She so pretty,” she said, then pressed her finger to her lips again as if to shut herself up. “That white boy,” she said suddenly. “He had somethin’ to do with the po-lice. But later. Not…” She tapped the print. “Not back then.” She was losing me again.

  “I have another picture,” I said, pulling the large print I’d made of the half-cleaned mural from the manila folder. “I’m restoring Anna Dale’s mural,” I said, “and I know a lot of it still needs cleaning and inpainting … the paint restored … but is this familiar?”

  She was already grinning as I set the photograph in her lap. “Ain’t seen this thing in forever,” she said. “Where’s the black lady? She was my fav’rite.”

  I smiled, excited that she recognized the mural. “She’s up here in the corner,” I said, pointing to the upper right-hand corner of the print. “I haven’t cleaned her off yet, so she’s hard to see.”

  Mama Nelle squinted behind her glasses. “What you done to her mouth?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure what’s going on with her mouth,” I admitted. “It looks like she has something in it, or she’s biting a stick or something. I’ll know once I clean that part off.”

  Mama Nelle frowned at the picture. I could see her gaze shifting from one bit of the painting to another.

  “There are some odd things here,” I said, pointing. “Do you see the ax? Those little red spots are blood drops coming off it. I don’t know what that—”

  “Weren’t no ax.” Mama Nelle shook her head. “’Twas a hammer.”

  It was my turn to frown. “What do you mean, ‘a hammer’?”

  She quickly turned her face away from me, tightening her lips as if she’d said too much.

  “Can you tell me what you mean by a hammer?” I tried again.

  She looked back at the photograph and another smile came to her face. She laughed, tapping a long finger on the motorcycle, which was still grimy but identifiable. “I ’member that!” she said. “Jesse done cover it over. Miss Anna, she paint it again. Jesse cover it again.”

  I was lost. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She lifted her watery gaze to my face. “You know you got to be quiet about her, right?” she asked me in a hushed voice.

  “Why?” I asked, wishing I had the key to unlock this old woman’s skittering brain. “Why do I need to be quiet about her?”

  She only pressed a finger to her lips again, and I sighed.

  “All right, yes, I’ll be very quiet about her.” I looked at the grainy newspaper photograph, which now rested on my knees, and ventured the question that disturbed me the most. “Mama Nelle,” I said. “Do you know if Miss Anna killed herself?”

  Behind her glasses, Mama Nelle’s dark eyes widened in surprise. “Oh no, child!” she said. “Why, that girl? She couldn’t even kill a chicken.”

  Chapter 28

  ANNA

  January 12–15, 1940

  The morning started out very well, the day full of promise. Miss Myrtle, Ellen Harper—the salesgirl from the Patsy Department Store—Freda, and Mayor Syke’s wife, Madge, all came to the warehouse to pose for the cartoon. Anna had borrowed dresses for Miss Myrtle, Ellen, and Miss Madge from a local historian Mr. Arndt had put her in touch with. The women changed their clothes one by one in the revolting warehouse bathroom, laughing over too tight bodices and scratchy petticoats. Then Anna sat the three Tea Party ladies around a crate they pretended was a table. The ladies giggled too much for grown women, but all in all, Anna was happy with the way her drawing turned out on the cartoon paper.

  Freda was the real star in the modeling department, though. Because she never spoke, Anna had never really seen her teeth. When Freda smiled, as Anna asked her to do for the portrait, the woman displayed beautiful white teeth and a fetching smile. Anna’s plan was for Freda to hold out her apron full of peanuts. Anna had the apron, but no peanuts, so she would have to add them to the drawing later.

  Jesse arrived before Anna was even finished sketching the women. She wasn’t surprised by his early, enthusiastic arrival, and without a word, he began cutting wood for the braces on the stretcher as she continued working with the women.

  She was both exhausted and elated by the time the models left. Then Theresa and Peter arrived. Peter joined Jesse at work on the stretcher, but Theresa took Anna aside.

  “My daddy won’t let me work here if he’s here,” she whispered, nodding in Jesse’s direction.

  Anna was momentarily confused. “Why not?” she asked. “Do you know something about him I should know?” She recalled asking Martin the same question.

  Theresa shook her head. “I ain’t never even seen him before yesterday,” she said, “but I can’t work with no colored boy.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” Anna said. “He hopes to be an artist, just like you. The three of you are here to learn.”

  “My daddy—”

  “Why did your daddy even need to know?” Anna said, aware she was crossing a line. Theresa stared at her with disbelief that Anna would suggest she withhold such significant—to her—news from her father. Across the warehouse, Anna heard a burst of laughter from the boys. It warmed her. At least the two of them were getting along well.

  “You don’t understand,” Theresa said.

  “No, I guess I don’t,” Anna said wearily. “It’s up to you, Theresa. Jesse is working here. I’d like you to also work here. The choice is yours.”

  “It ain’t right, what you’re asking.” She looked away from Anna, her coral-colored mouth set. “I got to leave.” And with that she stomped across the concrete floor, grabbed her coat from a hook on the wall, and headed out the door.

  The boys looked up from their work.

  “Theresa’s decided she doesn’t want to work here,” Anna said simply.

  “What the—” Peter said, wrinkling his brow in confusi
on, but Anna watched Jesse go right back to work, measuring and hammering. He knew. She had the feeling that beneath his dark skin, his cheeks were burning.

  Anna found Pauline to be a delightful traveling companion on their drive north to Norfolk, at least for the most part. They talked about what it was like growing up in Edenton and how Karl proposed to her (on a small boat while paddling through one of the many creeks in the area) and then Pauline shared all the gossip she could possibly remember about people in town. There was certainly plenty of it. She didn’t ask Anna much about herself, and that was fine. Anna still didn’t feel ready to talk about her mother with anyone.

  “How many teenagers are working with you?” Pauline asked when she’d exhausted every salacious story she could think of about her fellow Edentonians.

  “Just two,” Anna said. “Two boys. The girl quit because one of the boys is colored. She said her father wouldn’t approve.”

  Pauline laughed. “I’m sure she’s right,” she said. “Who’s her father?”

  Anna shrugged. “I haven’t met him. Her name is Theresa Wayman.”

  “Oh, good heavens,” Pauline said. “Do you know who her father is?”

  “I have no idea,” Anna said.

  “Riley Wayman is president of the bank. A real bigwig in town.”

  His name suddenly sounded familiar. Someone at that first meeting she’d had with the “movers and shakers” must have mentioned him.

  “Well, is he that much of a jackass that he’d make his daughter quit working with me because of Jesse?”

  “That and more,” Pauline said.

  “I haven’t heard a peep out of her father, so I think everything is all right,” Anna said. “Of course Theresa only walked out on me Friday, so who knows, but I’m not worried about it.”

  Pauline didn’t respond for a moment. From the corner of Anna’s eye, she saw her staring straight ahead through the window, blue eyes catching the sunlight. Finally, she took in a breath and turned to Anna. “I guess you have to ask yourself if having this Jesse helping you is going to create more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “Of the three of them he’s by far the most talented,” Anna said. “And he’s passionate about art. He really needs more exposure to it, though. He needs the chance to visit museums. To get to study other artists. I wish I had my art books here to share with him.” She heard the rise in her voice. The enthusiasm. And she felt Pauline’s eyes on her.

  “Are you … Do you have inappropriate feelings for this boy?” Pauline asked, ever so delicately. “You sound rather smitten with him.”

  Anna laughed. “No!” she reassured her. “Not at all. Not the way you mean, anyhow. What I do have is a fear that his talent will go to waste. That he’ll end up working on his family’s farm instead of doing what he’s meant to be doing.”

  “You can’t save him, you know,” Pauline said. “We’re all born with limitations of one sort or another. A family that needs us or a bum leg or the wrong skin color. We just have to make do.”

  Anna didn’t answer. She didn’t want to save him. She just wanted him to have the same chance as everyone else.

  “What about the other boy?” Pauline asked. “The white boy?”

  “Very nice young man,” Anna said. “He could be an architect, his sketches are so technically perfect. He wants to be an artist, but his drawings have no passion in them.”

  “Like Jesse’s,” Pauline said.

  Anna nodded. “Like Jesse’s.”

  They found the shop without too much trouble and they were both astonished by the enormous roll of canvas. Fortunately Karl had thought to give them a good length of rope before they left his and Paula’s house, so with the help of the salesman in the shop, they were able to tie the roll securely to the roof of Anna’s Ford. She picked up the paints she’d ordered as well as some brushes and charcoal and other supplies. She felt that thrill of excitement she always got when she had new tools in her possession. On a whim, she also bought two stretched canvases as gifts for Peter and Jesse.

  She drove well under the speed limit back to Edenton, and Pauline helped her carry the roll of canvas into the warehouse, where they set it down by one of the garage doors. A little breathless, Pauline stood with her hands on her hips and looked around at Anna’s vast working space, with its beamed ceiling, dusty skylights, and dark corners. “This is a … I don’t know … a bit of a strange place to work,” she said.

  Anna laughed. “You should have seen it before it was cleaned out,” she said. “I hated it. But now it feels like home. Almost.”

  “Oh my, look at this!” Pauline exclaimed, walking toward the cartoon paper where Anna had drawn her three Tea Party ladies plus Freda. “I recognize each one of them.” She turned to Anna. “You really are very good,” she said.

  “Thank you.” Anna carried the sketch across the room to show her how the drawing would look in color.

  “I wish I had some artistic talent,” Pauline said.

  “Well, I don’t know the first thing about nursing, so we’re even,” Anna countered.

  Pauline stayed a while longer, but Anna was glad when she left. Pauline was becoming a good friend, but Anna’s work felt like a greater calling at that moment than friendship. Was that a terrible thing? It was the truth, and once Pauline left, Anna happily organized her new paints and brushes and palette, feeling the thrill of excitement at the thought that she would soon be using all of them.

  Chapter 29

  MORGAN

  July 7, 2018

  The mural was entirely clean. Abraded, scratched, and worn, but clean.

  And extraordinarily, nightmare-inducingly weird.

  That stick in the black woman’s mouth? Once clean, it became a knife. But the weirdest discovery of all—the discovery that made me gasp out loud and had me running to Oliver’s office to drag him back to the foyer—was that one of the Tea Party ladies dangled a hammer from her hand. Like the ax, the hammer dripped blood, which stained the hem of the woman’s dress and pooled on the floor near the ladies’ feet. Anna Dale might have been crazy, I thought, but Mama Nelle appeared to have most of her marbles still intact.

  Once I’d finished cleaning the lower right-hand corner of the mural where Anna had placed her rounded-and oddly distorted-looking-signature, I called everyone into the foyer for a viewing. I moved the ladder and my supplies table out of the way and all of us stood in the middle of the room. Lisa, Adam, and Wyatt on my left. Oliver and his visiting twelve-year-old son Nathan on my right. All I could see was the work that was still waiting for me to do, but everyone else seemed impressed.

  “Awesome colors,” Adam said. He lightly punched my bare arm. “Nice work, Christopher.”

  “Thank you.” I had done nice work. The colors popped. Not the way they would have with a coat of varnish, but still. Compared to the way the mural had looked when we’d first stretched it? A completely different animal.

  “It looks pretty messed up to me,” Nathan said, and everyone laughed. I’d met Oliver’s cute son only a couple of hours earlier—he was spending a few days with his dad—but already I’d learned that this was a boy unafraid to speak his mind. I liked that about him.

  “It has a way to go,” Oliver agreed with his son.

  I looked at Nathan. “If you’d seen it before I started cleaning it,” I said, “you’d realize how much better it looks now. I’ll show you a ‘before’ picture later.”

  “I like all the blood,” Nathan said. “It’s so sick.”

  Everyone except Lisa laughed.

  “If you say so, Nathan,” Lisa said, then let out a sigh. “Well”—she peeked at the phone in her hand—“I’m not happy it took two weeks just to clean this thing, but it obviously needed it. Quite a difference. And I have to say I have no idea what to make of it.”

  “That Indian.” Adam shook his head. “So crazy.”

  “What Indian?” Nathan asked, most likely scanning the mural for a warrior in headdress.

 
; “He means the brand of the motorcycle,” I explained. “See the motorcycle tire and red fender poking out from between the women’s dresses?”

  “Why is it there?” Nathan asked.

  “Wish we knew the answer to that,” Oliver said.

  As soon as I’d started working on the motorcycle, I’d understood what Mama Nelle had meant about Jesse covering it over. Anna had painted the mural thinly, but in the area of the motorcycle, the paint was extremely thick as though the cycle had been painted over and then repainted, maybe more than once. Maybe even more than twice. I couldn’t explain why, but Anna and Jesse seemed to have some sort of duel going on there.

  “We should make a list of all the strange things the artist put into the mural, so we can add them to your wall text about it, Oliver,” Lisa said. “Make it sound mysterious. Make gallery visitors try to guess what message the artist was trying to convey.”

  “If they figure it out, I hope they’ll tell me,” I said, shaking my head. I looked at Nathan. “Want to see what else we uncovered?” I asked him as I walked toward the painting. “You have to come closer to see.” I had a funny feeling as I moved toward the mural with the boy at my side. A sense of intimacy and ownership of the painting. It was more mine than anyone else’s in this room. “There’s also this little skull peeking out of a window.” I pointed to one of the little Mill Village houses where Anna had painted a small, hollow-eyed skull in one of the windows. “And there’s a little man in the reflection of that mirror the woman’s holding, right where you’d expect to see a reflection of her face. And there are not only drops of tea coming from the shattered teapot but drops of—”

  “Is that blood, too?” Lisa moved near us, hand on her chest. “Oh my God. I wonder if my father remembered how disturbing this thing is when he thought of hanging it in the foyer?”

  “There is a lot of blood,” I said, almost apologetically.

  “She was, like, possessed.” Nathan sounded frankly delighted. “The artist.”

  “She may have been,” Oliver said.