The Girl at the Hanging Tree

by Mary Gray

  “See?” Tansy slaps our hands together proudly. “I was paying attention when you were givin’ all those tours in Washington, D.C. Bog bodies! Oh, G, their literal and bona fide existence really is rivetin’.”

  My heart’s become suspended between two impossibly high beams. Without meaning to, I suddenly see what Tansy’s saying—I remember the real and true definition of bog bodies.

  “Really, really old remains,” I tell a group of middle schoolers. Around us stands the stately walls and fine collections of the Museum of Natural History. The tour’s long, but it’s my favorite. So many fascinating artifacts from human history. Pointing to the sleeping, statuesque man who looks like he’s been dipped in a blackish-brown ore, I say, “The first bog bodies were discovered in Ireland, Finland, and Norway. True scientific wonders. The scientific composition of the bogs has a way of preserving the corpses. True, the skin has darkened and the fat and muscle have eroded, but these people are preserved in almost perfect condition. And this”—I smile brightly at the girls and boys—“is why science is so fascinating.”

  My neck spasms. Knees are giving out. I’m not prepared for this. Why is this here? How has Tansy created a bog body?

  Through the punch in my gut, I have to ask, “Is it him? WT?”

  Moisture drips from the shadows. The unholy stench of the bog rushes around the antlers while Tansy gives me the world’s most patronizing sigh. “Gemma Louise Coldiron Hardin. What do you think?”

  When she has us step closer, I survey the leathery, brown skin that’s too shriveled to be recognized. My late husband’s once beautiful auburn hair has taken on a sickly, radish sheen. I’m guessing it’s from the chemicals of the soil. His clothes have somehow melted into his skin, like he was once made of wax. And his face—his once tranquil face—has stretched into a grimace with a twisted mouth and missing nose ... like he’s nothing more than a prop for Halloween.

  The pile around him is a slick, disgusting pile of sludge, and this used to be my husband. The man I actually chose to marry.

  Tansy stretches out her hand to retrieve something small, titanium, and round—

  “No.” I stop her.

  She’s reaching for his wedding ring, and I can’t help it. Unwelcome tears are welling in my eyes. I want it to be somebody else. Anybody else. Or we’re visiting a haunted house or something. But on WT’s wrist is the Rolex he always wore, and I remember giving that to him over breakfast on his birthday. Pancakes, orange juice, sausage links.

  Yes, he was part of a terrible hate group. But did he really deserve to die? I don’t actually remember his involvement, so it’s hard for me not to mourn what I see in my memories. There’s our time together, dancing. Palo Duro. Cirque du Soleil, even our fights. Maybe—and I know I’m being ridiculous for hoping—but maybe he was surrounded by these men, yes, but he didn’t agree with Klan life. Maybe he tried to stop them? Stop them from what they were doing.

  Lifting his ring into the amber light, Tansy has us squint at the band’s laser-thin engraving. A perfect fit, the interior says. I put that engraving there. It described our connection—the unexpected and complete fit of our souls and bodies.

  When I sink to the ground and lift my hands to cover our face, Tansy croons, “Now you shall hear how the grubby brute died.”

  39

  “I thought you said he was still alive!” Sheer, raw terror fills my voice.

  “I know I said that, G, but he can’t hurt us or anyone else anymore!” Tansy makes us stand and pace around her experiment of a bog body. Maggots or some other insect crunch below our boots. “No one can. We just need to stay home, keep up our weekly routine. Everythin’ will be all right!”

  “Everything ... are you insane? Tansy, you turned our husband into a bog body.”

  “Months ago”—Tansy bats my accusation away—“we had quite the quarrel with the love of your life.” She leans forward and traipses our fingers along the silt that’s now become his chest. “Actually, what do you think happened?”

  I try not to tremor. “You killed him.”

  “Gemma, dear Gemma, has it ever occurred to you that I only do that which you need of me?”

  My stomach flips. When I take a few steps back, my shoulders knock into the cool wall of cement, and I fight the urge to quietly slip back into our mind.

  “You’re the one who regularly steps back ..." Tansy prompts, knowingly.

  “But I would never be okay with murder.” I don’t like the uncertainty in my voice.

  “I suppose you could say that we both loved WT.” Tansy runs our hands down the side of what used to be WT’s face, but it’s now sticky and gooey. “But at the time, you and I were still not fully divided. And I still had my eye on Dwayne.”

  “Tell me what happened, Tansy.”

  “Are you sure you can handle it? If you’re feelin’ unstable, you n’ I both know how the aval—”

  “JUST TELL ME!”

  Rocking back on our heels, Tansy smiles like the cat that ate the canary. “You want me to trigger your memory? Well, if you’re sure ..." In half a flash, she has us spinning around and flying through the basement, arms extended, past the deer heads, past the cinnamon-furred beaver family.

  Unable to contain her excitement, she has us hobble up the basement stairs two at a time. Before I know it, we’re in the main hall, catching our breath at the raccoon painting. She smears the gritty “ketchup” to cover more of the fur on the canvas before lurching deeper into the hallway. Holding fast to the banister, we scramble up the next staircase. Up, up, to the third floor we go, as if a cast’s being closed over our entire body.

  From the moment we reach the top, I think maybe Tansy’s going to let us rest, but she has us round the corner so that we’re facing another door with long, rectangular panels and a doorknob that’s been smashed to the side.

  Reaching out, Tansy twists the knob. Hinges groan, and the door squeaks open to yet another stairway.

  This one’s about half the width of the stairs that led to the basement, a third of the size of the one that led to the second story. The cramped quarters magnify the dust, and the walls close in around us like we’re in a coffin, being buried alive.

  We climb—our breath and boots the only sound, smacking the wooden stairs like timpani.

  Stair after stair. Shins on fire, burning.

  Oh, we’re headed for the cupola—the high tower of the house all the tourists drool over.

  When Tansy and I reach the top, rubber comprises both our legs. The walls are as cold as air conditioning. Little white clouds puff from our breath, and the banister embeds little splinters into my fingers, though they’re too cold and numb to feel anything.

  Raising our hand, Tansy shoves open the cupola—a stained glass window large enough for us to crawl through to get outside. I can’t believe this. She really wants us to go out there.

  “Tansy ..."

  But she’s too busy smooshing our bustle through the narrow opening.

  Before I know it, we’re shimmying along the edge of the roof, sweat covering our palms as we grip the decorative wrought-iron railing. A tinge of mist swirls through the air, and everything smells like rust. Mold seems to coat my skin and teeth.

  Shortly out of breath, Tansy says, “Beautiful, aren’t they?” She’s addressing the trio of turkey vultures that are swooping low from the sky. We shimmy farther, farther—along the perimeter of the roof to the south corner toward town. This is madness. How did I ever let her take me up here? We’re going to slip and fall, break our necks surely.

  “Tansy ..." I swallow down the fear with my final warning.

  While the wind blows straight through our dress, she cries, “I needed to see if you could remember where it happened. Our crime.”

  My arms and legs freeze.

  “You’re so convinced that you are the honorable one.” Tansy tsks her tongue. “But what the blazes do you think I’ve been doin’ all this time? I took what Edgar did so you didn’t have
to bear the memory. Do you remember when WT followed us out here? When he wanted to know what we were doin’?”

  I shake my head just as a hot vision flashes into my mind. WT, in his salmon blazar, slips one leg after the other through the cupola to reach me. The wind rustles his slicked-back hair, and he settles on the ledge on the roof just to our right.

  We’ve just finished breakfast. We saw ... something. Something I can’t remember. Something WT swore he would explain.

  Staring into the distance, Tansy has us hold ourselves in her Tansy way. Spine bent, shoulders hunched—like she doesn’t know whether she’s going to recite a poem or bite the head off something.

  “Gemma, what are you doi—” WT takes a step back and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Tansy.”

  “Hello, sweet cheeks. Just takin’ in the view. So glad you came.”

  Not letting her out of his sight, WT takes a few steps closer while still maintaining a safe distance. “What are you doing up here?”

  Behind her mass of skirts, Tansy hides a rope—a hefty one, all wound up, and plenty strong enough to hold just about anything. “I have somethin’ to tell you. Wanted to do it up here to avoid pryin’ eyes.”

  WT’s face goes wan; he becomes silent as the grave.

  “I suppose you’re not goin’ to say you’re sorry,” Tansy says, fingers tightening around the rope.

  “If you will let me speak to Gemma, I will say to her whatever it is I have to say.”

  “I mean, your little club may be secretive, but I had no idea that you still killed people. Tell me, William, how do you sleep at night?”

  “Tansy, that’s not ..."

  She tightens her grip on the rope at her back. “As the wife of a ‘True Knight,’ I do have to say that I’m intrigued with the artistry of which you’ve played your double life.”

  WT staggers, clutching the rail as his face pales and his eyes bulge wide.

  “The effects of the foxglove are starting to take effect, sweetling.” When Tansy smiles, she flashes way too much teeth.

  Fear splits like an open wound in WT’s eyes while Tansy strides forward and loops the rope over his neck. “The foxglove your mother planted is gorgeous, really. Much prettier than all those animals your father slice n’ diced. When G didn’t know how to handle your indiscretions, I told her I would take care of it, easy peasy.”

  “Gemm—” WT gags, clutching his neck. “Come—back—to m—”

  “The thing is” —Tansy tightens the noose around his neck—“your wife is incapable of havin’ a relationship with a man who lies.”

  “Gem—ma!” Frantic, WT pulls on the rope, but his eyes are bloodshot, and his skin’s covered in a sweaty sheen. He tries to tug the rope down. Tansy blocks his movements with our hand. “She’ll” —his face is turning purple—“be furious—when—she sees—”

  Tansy leads him toward the edge of the roof, rope clinched in her hand tight. “I find it poetic how there are two of you and two of me. The town prince, so generous and charming, and the racist who would rather kill people than change his family’s legacy.”

  He’s foaming at the mouth, spasming.

  “So, too, there’s the adventurous, law-abiding Gemma, who would never hurt a soul.” She holds up her hand and slips off a diamond wedding ring. “Then there’s the reclusive, law-breakin’ Tansy.” She tosses the ring at WT, and it bounces off him, rolling across the roof and dropping over the side. “I never wanted to kill you, darling, but who’s goin’ to protect G, if not me?” Tugging him toward the edge, she adds, “I’m willin’ to take the law into my hands when ‘the law’ in this town means nothin’.”

  While WT stares into oblivion at the now fallen ring, Tansy slowly loops the rope around the decorative holes of the wrought-iron rails. He slips and staggers as he struggles to crawl to get away.

  His foot slips on the rail. Tansy catches his leg, but his shoe snags on the arrow tips and plummets after the ring—eighty or so feet.

  I don’t know if I can watch.

  I don’t even know what outcome I want, if he lives or dies.

  Taking a good, long look at my husband, Tansy slowly pats him on the shoulder. “I’m doin’ this for the both of us. Now I’ll never need to leave your gorgeous estate, and you’ll never have to tell G about your family history.”

  In a swift move, Tansy reaches out, shoves him off the roof. And the rope zips down, dragging WT out of sight.

  40

  “You poisoned him ... and pushed him off ..." I rub my thumb over my ring finger where I once wore my wedding ring. “How could you ever do that, Tansy?”

  “Well, doll, you asked me to.”

  “No ..." I’m putting two and two together as an angry raven swoops low from the sky. “I never would have asked that. Yes, you decided to kill him, but what gave you the right?”

  “THIS ISN’T ABOUT RIGHTS!” Tansy licks our lips, trying to regain her composure. “You saw what he was. He killed people. Remember Edgar? He was exactly like that. He deserved to die.”

  As the crisp wind whips our hair, for the first time in a great, long while, I feel like I can truly think. “I’m not okay with WT being part of the Klan, and for that, yes, he should have paid. But, Tansy, it wasn’t up to us. We should have taken him to the poli—"

  She holds up a hand, about to complain.

  “I know about Jesse, but he’s not the only police. There are plenty of other cops in the world. Feds—” I think of the agent who came to town, and wishing I’d talked to him. Then Francesca could still be alive. “State Troopers, even. But you took matters into your own hands. We ..." I grip the wrought-iron rail, head swimming. “We could go to prison. It’s only a matter of time before Calhoun or Jesse Beauchamp find his body.”

  “We can move it!”

  “Tansy, you killed him, and then you kept it from me.” Through another gale of wind, I scoot us toward the cupola to go back inside. “I have to go.”

  Tansy suddenly seizes control of our limbs and tries to pull us back. “No, you have to understand. You asked me to take care of what we saw, and I did. You should be thankin’ me!”

  A ripple of anger shoots through me. “I don’t know what we saw or if WT was as evil as Edgar—but I never would have asked you to ‘take care of it’ that way.”

  Tansy opens our mouth to argue, but I clamp it shut. “We aren’t murderers, Tansy.”

  I’ve scooted a lot faster than I thought I could, but, against all odds, I’m already in front of the stained glass of the cupola. Lifting our legs, I start to climb back inside.

  “We beat him!” Tansy bends us backward, throwing us precariously off balance. We’re going to fall to our deaths if she doesn’t work with me. I grapple for the cool wooden side of the window. “I know I originally said that WT was still alive,” Tansy begs, “but he’s gone, G. Think of Francesca! We just need to lie low. Stay home. Keep up with our weekly routine.”

  How dare she throw Francesca’s death in my face? “I want justice just as much as you, but I never would have asked you to kill him.” Another fit of anger surges through my chest. “I need to get out ..."

  I know it makes sense that she did it because of his involvement with the Klan, but I can only think about how she used our hands—my hands—to kill a husband for which I only have fond memories. I hate it, but it’s true. I loved him, and I can’t recall ever seeing him hurt anybody.

  I don’t even remember leaving the roof; my shins won’t stop throbbing. I flee down the two sets of stairs, hand squeaking against the handrail the entire way.

  Once outside, I wander for hours. Past The Hair Lounge. The courthouse. Hey, Sugar. Construction of the new taco place.

  Suppose WT was a murderer and led a dual life. When you find yourself living in a corrupt town, could there be something to be said for being a vigilante? Tansy did a service. Right? His death could almost be considered merciful, considering what the families of his victims would like to do in payback, assuming he
did horrific things.

  When I make it to the post office, I don’t even know how I got from point A to point B. The only thing I can think to do is run—but of course I’m not in my running clothes or shoes. Stupid corset, bustle, and jewelry.

  Kicking off Tansy’s antique boots, I fling off her necklaces and bracelets. And run. I run so hard, I almost forget what Tansy just showed me. Cool sweat washes over my face. I push harder, faster, Tansy’s canary yellow dress billowing out like wings around me.

  How can evil like this still exist? Here, in the town where I grew up and got married.

  I need to vomit. Disappear for a while. See Grammy.

  Truthfully, I should have run to her as soon as I saw the bridge memory. She told Tansy that she had successfully stopped Jesse from bullying me, but what exactly did she do? Like Tansy said, Grammy’s an outsider. She can’t have power over him or authority.

  Picking up speed, I tear past an auto glass repair shop and a gas station with a dime-sized eatery. The scent of freshly crisped corn dogs wafts through the warming air, and I turn to go in to pilfer some food—no pockets in this dress, no money. Guess I could have bartered with the jewelry I just threw away.

  For all I know, everybody in this town is part of the Klan. The man in the tan coveralls pumping his gas. The gas station owner. What’s to stop them all from taking out someone else? From killing any person of another ethnicity?

  I don’t know why I was so resistant to seeing the evil in WT’s face. Tansy showed me the kinds of things Klansmen do, specifically what Edgar did to that guy who accidentally killed my parents. No one deserves to die that way.

  As I pause in the gas station parking lot, the sun stretches its arms in meaty fists of pink. I’ve enjoyed the sunset for all of three seconds when a throng of people at the end of the road has my heart jumping. I squint to see who they are when a semi-truck rumbles past, blocking my line of sight. I duck into the convenience store. At least I have the option of hiding in plain sight.