Big Lies in a Small Town

by Diane Chamberlain

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

  How? she wanted to ask, but the effort it would take to produce that word was more than she could summon.

  She turned her gaze away from Martin. She wouldn’t look at him again. Did she strike him more than once? She thought she had. Once had been enough to kill him. She hit him more than once, though. Once, twice. Maybe three times. She couldn’t remember. She’d used all her might, but it hadn’t felt like enough for her. Was he truly going to kill her? She didn’t know. He’d been turned away from her when she rose in a fury from the cot, grabbed the hammer, and struck him down with all her might. Strength she hadn’t known she had. A side of herself she hadn’t known existed.

  She would tell the police he was going to kill her.

  That was what she’d say.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Jesse said again.

  She looked up at him, vaguely aware that he was the child and she, the adult, and that this was all backwards.

  “I’ll have to use your car.” He picked up her keys from the table where she kept her paints. Then he picked up a pair of those work gloves she’d bought for him that he never used. He studied them for a moment.

  “I’m gonna wreck these.”

  She nodded her consent and he put the gloves on.

  Maybe there will be no police, she thought.

  Jesse opened the warehouse door and she turned away as he dragged Martin’s body outside. Although it was very early morning and few people would be out, she was glad the warehouse was nearly surrounded by trees and at the end of a long road cut off from the rest of the world. Jesse came back inside. He picked up the hammer, walked over to her paint table. He opened a can of paint with the bloody claw of the hammer. Then he walked over to the bloodstained concrete. Anna watched in shock as he poured red paint over the blood. He dropped the can on top of the mess.

  “Anyone ask, you accidentally dropped the paint,” he said, so calmly. “You gonna have to git more.”

  From the front corner of the warehouse, he picked up the huge piece of cheesecloth that had lined the canvas when Anna bought it. “For your car,” he said. He walked to the door. “I’ll shut this after me.” He looked past her toward the wall of the warehouse, staring hard as if he could see through it to the dirt road. “I ain’t never rode one of them motorcycles,” he said, “but when I come back I’ll do my mighty best to git it gone.” He looked at her then, still sitting there cold and dumb as a rock, and told her, “You got to git rid of that book, Anna,” he said pointing to the journal in her hands. “That there diary. You done wrote too much in it.”

  She clutched the journal to her chest. Nodded. But she knew she would never get rid of it, this last gift from her mother. Never.

  Jesse turned people away from the warehouse all that afternoon, while Anna sat numbly in the chair by his easel. He stood at the door. “She ain’t feelin’ well today,” he said to anyone who wanted to come in and watch her paint. She was glad he was there. She was afraid one of the men would come in and she’d be alone with him. The mayor, or Mr. Fiering, or some other man from town. She suddenly feared all of them and how they had the power to hurt her. Or maybe they would realize that the red paint on the floor covered blood. Or maybe the police might come. Maybe they found Martin’s motorcycle? Jesse didn’t tell her what he’d done with it—or with Martin’s body—and she didn’t ask. He told her only that he’d burned the gloves.

  Pauline came to the warehouse sometime that afternoon. Anna wasn’t sure when, exactly. Time was falling apart for her. She was still sitting on Jesse’s chair when Pauline arrived, while Jesse painted some of the border of the mural. He’d asked her if he could, and she’d nodded yes. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to paint any of the mural ever again.

  Jesse quickly walked to the door when Pauline stepped inside.

  “Miss Anna ain’t feelin’ well,” he said, trying to block her entry, but Pauline pushed him aside with a hand on his chest.

  “I’m a nurse,” she said, marching toward Anna across the warehouse. Anna knew she should do all she could to appear like her normal self, but the effort seemed too much for her. She gave in to the catatonia that had taken hold of her, staring into space as Pauline crossed the room.

  “My God!” Pauline stopped suddenly. “What happened here?”

  Anna followed Pauline’s gaze to the spilled paint, the broken cot. For the first time, she noticed the blood in the exact center of the cot’s khaki body. It was her blood there, not Martin’s. She let out a sob before she could stop it.

  Pauline squatted in front of her, the skirt of her white nurse’s uniform fanning out around her. She rested her hands on Anna’s knees. “What happened, Anna?” she asked, her voice gentle but firm. Then more softly in a whisper. “Did the boy … Jesse … did he … hurt you?”

  Across the warehouse from them, Jesse stood against the wall by the door. Anna felt his fear from where she sat.

  “No.” It was the first word she’d spoken aloud since Pauline’s arrival and it came out as a croak, but she couldn’t allow Jesse to be blamed for any of what happened. “Jesse,” she said to him. “Go. Go home.”

  “No, Miss An—”

  “Yes,” she said with as much authority as she could muster. Jesse was keeping her safe. She needed to do the same for him.

  He hesitated, then finally picked up his sketch pad and left the warehouse. Pauline watched him go, then turned back to Anna.

  “What did he do to you?” she asked her.

  “Pauline!” She tried to put a playful note in her voice. She was certain she failed. “You’re jumping to silly conclusions,” she said. “I’m sorry about your cot. I got my period earlier than I expected and—” She glanced at the bloodstain and nearly gagged. It took every bit of strength she had in her body and mind to speak to Pauline normally. “When I realized I had my monthly, I got up so quickly that I must have … somehow the legs broke. I’ll replace it for you.”

  Pauline stared at her and Anna knew she didn’t believe her. She could feel her words twisting in her mouth. In her head.

  “I’m taking you to the hospital,” Pauline said, reaching for her hand, but Anna pushed her hand away.

  “I’m all right,” she insisted. “I don’t need the hospital.”

  Pauline got to her feet and looked down at her. Anna could tell she was trying to figure out what to do. She knew she should get up. Go to her paints. Act as if nothing at all was wrong. She thought of Jesse, riding home on his bike, and how frightened he must be. She looked at her friend and could see the wheels turning in Pauline’s head, jumping to the wrong conclusion. What if she shared her suspicions with Karl?

  “Jesse and I are not lovers,” she said firmly. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

  Pauline glanced at the blood on the cot again, as if she could assess whether it was menstrual blood or not.

  “I’m worried about you,” she said. “I think you’re playing with fire and are too naïve to know it.”

  “Nonsense.” Anna forced herself to stand up and walk toward the mural. Her knees were rubber. “I really need to get back to work,” she said, a tremulous hand reaching for her palette.

  Pauline stood there another moment or two. Then she said something kind or worried or … Anna wasn’t sure what words came out of her friend’s mouth. She was thinking of how Pauline said she was playing with fire. Pauline had no idea the magnitude of the fire Anna was playing with.

  “I’m glad you’re staying home tonight,” Miss Myrtle said when Anna returned to the house that evening. The landlady sat at her drop-down desk in the living room, writing something. A letter. Something. Anna didn’t know or care. “You spend far too much time in that horrid warehouse,” Miss Myrtle continued. “I was mortified to discover you weren’t in your bed last night. I hope no one knows you were there all night. I don’t ever want you to stay out like that again. Do you hear me?”

  “Uh-huh.” I kille
d someone, Anna thought. Not even twenty-four hours ago, I took a life. She remembered Martin’s fatherless daughters. She rested her fingertips on the back of an upholstered chair to keep herself upright.

  Miss Myrtle frowned. “Are you ill?” she asked.

  “I’m all right.” Anna’s voice sounded husky. She’d used it very little that day.

  “Are you sure?” Miss Myrtle stood up and came forward to rest the back of her cool fingers on Anna’s forehead. “You’re not warm, but you look … quite pale.” She seemed concerned now rather than angry. “Can I make you some tea?”

  Anna shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said. She needed to get away from Miss Myrtle’s scrutiny. She couldn’t carry on a normal conversation for one more minute. “Just tired.” If Miss Myrtle studied her face any longer, Anna was certain she’d know what she’d done. She turned toward the stairs. “I’m going to bed,” she said.

  In her room, she shut the door, then leaned her back against it.

  You took a life, a voice accused her.

  He was a beast, another voice answered.

  “Stop!” she pleaded out loud, then whispered, “Please stop. Please please please. He was going to kill me!”

  She crawled into her bed, still fully clothed, face unwashed, teeth unbrushed. She hugged her arms around her body. She ached all over. She had bruises on her arms, her shoulders, her throat. The inside of her thighs were turning black with them. She was so sore between her legs. Torn up. She knew her body would heal. Her mind, her heart, her soul, though—she wasn’t so sure.

  Chapter 49

  MORGAN

  July 20, 2018

  Oliver pointed to the wall adjacent to the mural. “I think we should hang Anna’s original sketch there,” he said. “That’s where I envision the wall text for the mural, so the sketch will be a cool addition. What do you think?”

  I liked knowing that Oliver valued my opinion. “I think that’s perfect,” I said. “What are you going to say in the wall text?

  He shrugged. “I think we admit that we don’t understand why Anna Dale added the objects and—as Lisa suggested—we invite the viewer to examine both the sketch and the mural and draw his or her own conclusions,” he said. “Then a biographical text will tell what we know—or rather, what we don’t know—about the reclusive artist.”

  “‘Reclusive’ isn’t really the right word, though, is it?” I asked. “I mean, we don’t know if she was a recluse. We don’t even know if she was crazy. We only know that she did some things we don’t understand. Maybe ‘mysterious’ is a better word.” I looked at Oliver to see an amused expression on his face.

  “You trying to take over my job?” he teased.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I have enough on my plate already. And I need to get back to work.”

  “Me, too,” he said. “But first”—he pulled his phone from his pocket and held it out to me—“let’s exchange music for half an hour.”

  I looked at his phone as if he’d lost his mind.

  “C’mon,” he said. “You said I need to listen to Nathan’s music. Just thirty minutes. It’s an experiment.”

  I smiled, then pulled my phone from my pocket and handed it over. I attached my earbuds to his phone as he did the same with mine. I slipped the earbuds into my ears. A guy was singing something mellow. Very mellow.

  “This might put me to sleep,” I said. I watched Oliver wince at whatever it was he heard on my Spotify playlist. I laughed.

  “Good luck,” I said.

  “Same to you.”

  He walked back to his table and I returned my attention to the mural and the delicate, half-missing eyelashes of one of the Tea Party ladies. Some of Oliver’s music was pretty, actually. I had to admit it. But it would never keep me awake for long.

  When twenty-five minutes had passed, I turned to look at Oliver. He appeared to be deep in concentration, studying something on his computer, but his head was gently bopping to a beat I couldn’t hear. I laughed.

  “Rock it, homeboy!” I called across the room, loud enough for him to hear.

  He looked up and gave me a sheepish smile that made him look boyishly handsome. Pulling my phone from his pocket, he stood up and walked across the foyer to me and we exchanged phones again.

  “Pretty music,” I said, “but a little too tame for my taste.” I nodded toward my phone. “And what did you think?”

  “I get the attraction,” he said. “The beat. The rhythm. The … um … power in it. And some of the women—their lyrics are moving. But I couldn’t take a steady diet of it the way you and Nathan can.”

  “We’ll have to toughen you up,” I teased.

  Lisa suddenly walked into the room from the hall. “What are you two doing, just standing here shooting the breeze?” She gestured toward the mural. She sounded more tired than angry. “C’mon, Morgan,” she said. “Start slapping some paint on those bare spots.”

  “We were just discussing the wall text,” Oliver said smoothly.

  “Crazy white woman painted ridiculous mural,” Lisa said. “What more do you need?”

  Oliver laughed, but I could tell something was going on with Lisa. Her eyes were red, the way they’d been the day I caught her crying in the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  She sighed. Folded her arms across her chest, tightly, as if she were hugging herself. “Mama Nelle died during the night,” she said.

  “Oh, no!” I filled with sudden guilt, wondering if bringing Mama Nelle to the gallery, taxing her and her fading memory with my questions … I wondered if it had all been too much for the old woman.

  “I’m sorry, Lisa,” Oliver said.

  “Me, too,” I said. “I really liked her. And she seemed to know Anna well. She was probably the last person who did.” I looked at the mural without really seeing it. “I felt like we really connected,” I said.

  Lisa studied me curiously. Lowered her arms from across her chest. “The funeral’s Monday,” she said, turning toward the hallway again. “Make some good progress here and you can go with me to pay your respects.”

  Chapter 50

  ANNA

  March 28–29, 1940

  That morning’s Chowan Herald reported that Martin Drapple had gone missing, although there’d been plenty of gossip of his disappearance for nearly a week now. The rumors were that he had marital troubles and money troubles and was deeply depressed over not winning the mural contest. A woman—a friend of his wife’s, perhaps—had come to the warehouse to tell Anna that his depression was her fault.

  “Martin’s a local artist who knows this town like the back of his hand, dear,” the woman said, in that kindly Southern voice that could mask daggers. “As soon as you learned that he’d also entered the contest, perhaps you should have gracefully withdrawn and turned the painting of the mural over to him.”

  Anna wished she had done exactly that. She wished she’d never set foot in Edenton.

  Maybe Martin killed himself, people speculated. Or maybe he ran off with another woman. Most likely, the majority seemed to think, he was simply taking some time alone to nurse his emotional wounds. Sometimes, Anna thought that, too. Oh, Martin Drapple is simply away on a trip, she fantasized. She frightened herself when she imagined such things. Was she losing her mind? She’d see the red stain on the floor of the warehouse and think, Oh, I remember the day I dropped the can of paint. How clumsy of me!

  “You gonna need to buck up, Anna,” Jesse told her later that morning as she stood helplessly in front of the mural, useless brush in her hand. He’d been doing some of the painting for her this week, always the background, leaving the more intricate work for her. But most days, she’d simply sit on one of the chairs and turn her head away from the mural.

  “It makes me sick to look at,” she told him.

  The cot and its telltale stain were gone. Jesse had gotten rid of them and Anna didn’t ask what he’d done with them. She didn’t care. All that remained of that n
ight in the warehouse was the revolting splash of red paint on the floor. Bile rose in her throat every time she saw it. Guilt and anger took turns toying with her and there was rarely a moment that she wasn’t suffering from one or the other. She barely slept, and when she did, she had frightening nightmares that left her confused about what was real and what was not. When she remembered what was real, she would break down sobbing whether she was alone in her room at Miss Myrtle’s or in an aisle of the pharmacy or sitting numbly in the warehouse.

  Once, during the week after it happened, Pauline stopped by the warehouse to ask her to go to lunch. At the sound of Pauline’s car outside the warehouse, Jesse put the brush and palette in Anna’s hands and pulled her to her feet, his hand on her elbow.

  “’Least pretend like you workin’,” he whispered.

  Anna turned down Pauline’s invitation, too afraid of what she might say if she spent more than a few minutes with her friend. She didn’t want to hear any more of Pauline’s questions and suspicions. She was afraid of saying the wrong thing. Giving herself—and Jesse—away. Anna could no longer trust her mind or her tongue. Her brain felt soft, her thoughts jumbled.

  If Miss Myrtle wondered why Anna was so quiet at breakfasttime, and why she was now home for supper each evening instead of working late into the night, she didn’t say, but the landlady was clearly worried about her.

  “You should see a doctor,” she told her Thursday morning. “You’re usually so happy-go-lucky. Most likely, you just need some iron.”

  It took Anna a moment to smile in response, as though Miss Myrtle’s words had to fight their way into her brain. If only the cure for what ailed her could be so simple, she thought. But iron wouldn’t help her. There was nothing that would ease her guilt and fear.