She leans in the doorway. “Atheist or agnostic?”
“The latter.”
“Me too.”
“I think that no matter what unfolds we can unearth much more about your father’s life. The chapter you found gives us tremendous insight, but I want us to move forward on our quest, knowing that we may never know exactly what happened on that particular, tragic night.”
“Right,” says Billie, not looking at him. “So let’s go now.”
“Where?”
“To find out if Roberts is really dead. Come on, it’s the South, everything closes round here by like three P.M. You drive, I’m drunk.”
IN TOWN, THEY STOP AT A LOCAL GAS STATION, AN UTTERLY STORIED space with a surfeit of characters. Billie is fascinated by a cruelly tanned woman wearing a rhinestone belt sitting in her truck with the door swung open, scratching at lottery tickets.
“What do you think she’d do with the money?” Billie says.
The woman takes off her sunglasses, putting them atop her two-toned hair.
“Perhaps a cruise?”
“But what if she won like millions. Do you think she’d stay in Mississippi?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t a clue.”
“I think she would. She’d move into a huge brand-new house in the white suburb of Greendale and get a beach house somewhere on the Gulf.”
After filling the tank, he waits in line holding five different flavors of gum behind a man in duck boots with a limp.
At the local library, they sit at a sanitized table under dark green lamps. Most of the patrons are crowded into the Children’s section. They find a mention of Cliff in a condensed reprint of an obituary in the Greendale Ledger first published in the Philadelphia Inquirer. Billie says it was written by Pia. Curiously it makes no reference to the circumstances of Cliff’s death. Only that they had “lost” and he had “passed,” that he had written and had more to write.
He finds mention of the three deputies in wedding announcements, civic awards, as well as a few articles on the sheriff’s election, but there is only one obituary for Oakes and nothing for Curtis Roberts, which has them posing the question of the day: Could Curtis Roberts still be alive? It’s possible that Mr. McGee merely assumes Roberts is dead and has taken it for granted for so long that he believes it to be fact. On the other hand, there have been cases where a person with dubious dealings wants to be perceived as dead by anyone investigating said dealings.
On the drive to the county courthouse, old houses devoured by vines intersperse with flat fields dappled in sunlight. Billie points out her favorite trailer, a battered powder pink. Upon their arrival, Melvin requests Curtis Roberts’s death record from the clerk who wears her glasses low on her nose, but here they discover that not only can they not access it as nonrelatives in the state of Mississippi, but that it doesn’t seem to exist.
Back at the house, Billie drinks the last of the whiskey. Melvin drinks coffee and does not allow her to add even a drop because then he would want a cigarette.
“Mr. McGee specifically said it was cancer.” She scratches her hair up into a bun. “Doesn’t that mean he’s lying?”
“He could be. Or it was what he’d been told. It’s possible Roberts died in another state.”
“We have to go see Mr. McGee again.” She gets up. “It’s not a bad walk.”
“Why don’t we call first? I find these things go better that way.”
She sits back down, chewing her bottom lip. “But he’s right there.”
Melvin bends to place a light hand on her shoulder. “I realize that this kind of discovery makes it increasingly hard to be patient, but ideally we want him to feel that he can confide in us.”
He never thought that he would find himself in the role of investigative journalist. Thus far in his career, dead men have always been dead. How to view the possible resurrection of Curtis Roberts? Does Curtis Roberts not want to be found, or does Mr. McGee not want Billie to find him?
He looks at Billie. “You know I’ve been thinking about the approach toward garnering excitement about the book.”
“Do you think the rest of my father’s memoir could be hidden somewhere in the house? Like under these floorboards? Some of them are already loose.” Billie shows him a gap.
“Let’s not rip the floor up just yet.”
Rufus whines and Billie opens the door, following the dog out. In the silence left by their departure, Melvin rereads the chapter. He has always had the sense that Cliff was working on something before he died, that there was a book’s worth of poems stashed somewhere, a draft away from perfection. But even when he and Dee were still on good terms, Dee had told him that there was nothing. And yet how was it that his ex-wife ended up with the chapter? Could Miss Ruby have sent it to Pia? It’s possible that Pia had begun acting as a reader for him again. When they were together, she had been his first reader. She might only have had Chapter 2 if perhaps she’d already given notes on Chapter 1. But why hide it away, damning it to obscurity?
When Billie doesn’t return, Melvin goes outside, finding her in the long grass just before the creek. Thank god he wore these old boat shoes and not his leather loafers. His shoes are already soaked in dew. He needs to just do it. Such things usually go over better than expected. She’ll understand the way in which promotion works, the compromises, and besides it was his editor’s idea.
She glances at him, almost expectantly, but then says, “Keep an eye out for snakes.” She turns back to the water. “To be honest, I’m not really cut out for this place.” The tip of her shoe pushes into the muddy bank. “I’m afraid of bugs.”
“It’s rather prehistoric out here.” He steps over a suspicious-looking stick.
“It’s getting to me.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Not the bugs. Everything else. It’s mine to know, doesn’t anybody get that?”
He stands abreast of her, trying to catch her eye, but she is gloomily pondering the swirl of ocher water.
“There’s a blues song called ‘Tallahatchie River Blues,’ a lament about the river flooding. There’s this wonderful line that the woman—her name escapes me at the moment—sings about not being able to swim.”
“Cheerful. Can you swim?”
“Yes, but not very well. I learned rather late. Though I do love the feeling of floating, being suspended.” A mosquito whines near his ear.
“I learned in Canada.” She picks up a long stick and pokes at the footprint she left on the bank. “My mom’s friends owned a cabin up there and we drove up from New York and stayed with them one summer.”
“Mattie Delaney, that’s the singer’s name.”
“The water was cold, no waves, being a lake. It was nice. My job called today, wanting to talk about a meeting next week.” She stabs the stick into the earth so that it stands upright. “I do have a life elsewhere that keeps me afloat. I’m using up all my sick days. I don’t have forever to be out here.”
“You told me that you write grants, correct?”
“Yeah.” She looks around. “Do you see the dog? My parents would be disappointed. Rufus! They must have thought I’d have been something much more exciting coming from them.” Rufus appears in between the trees. “But the kids almost never do, you know? They usually fizzle out.”
Indeed, who could breathe under the weight of a genius father who was supremely brilliant and made a mysterious tragic exit?
“Maybe it’s time for me to try something else, be a little less superstitious.” Billie snaps her fingers for the dog. “I mean, I still don’t like to step on cracks in the sidewalk.”
Out with it. “I should tell you that I’ve published a short article on your father.”
She traces a pattern with the stick across the ground. “Recently?”
“It comes out tomorrow actually.”
The stick stops. “What’s it about?”
“In a sense, it alludes to recent discoveries of Cliff’s work. My editor thought that
it would attract more support for the book, some of the requisite fanfare to make the splash we desire.”
“But I thought you didn’t want anyone to know about the chapter?”
“It doesn’t say what the manuscript is about.”
“Does it mention me?” She looks up.
Melvin nods. “Initially, it was going to run on an Africana studies website, but perhaps because of the enigmatic circumstances of your father’s death, it was picked up by a few news outlets.”
Her eyes bore a hole into him. “I haven’t even told my uncle that we found the chapter yet.”
“I should have come to you first, of course. I’m sorry. Things moved so quickly. It was a whirlwind. The Greendale Ledger is going to publish an excerpt today. Or, actually it must already be out.”
“What? That’s the local paper! I don’t want everyone and their mother knowing I’m out here looking into his death.”
“It strikes me—you don’t feel that I’ve put you in any danger?”
Billie sighs, tipping her head back. “No. I don’t know. I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“I’ll make us a new appointment with Jim McGee.”
She tosses the stick in the water. “I think I want to be alone right now.”
“If you don’t feel safe, I should stay.”
She rolls her eyes. “It would seem that I’m safer without you.”
Billie
IN THE LIBRARY WITH DR. HURLEY, SHE CAME ACROSS AN ARTICLE from a few years back about the passing of a former Mississippi sheriff whom the FBI had named a Klansman. Of course, the article did not mention the Klan. Dr. Hurley found that by doing a search of the name. The article listed all of the notable positions that the former sheriff went on to hold in the county and affirmations of his excellent service and courtesy. A good man, his son is quoted as saying.
There are so many Robertses in the state that Billie feels surrounded. Luckily there are only two in Greendale. Neither answered when she called from a sticky pay phone downtown. So she is taking the debatably logical next step.
It is a woman’s name. Mabel. An old-fashioned one at that. On the drive over, swerving past roadkill, she keeps a Coke between her legs and finishes it while staking out the woman’s house. It tastes like cops and robbers and Monopoly. There’s a car in the driveway of the modest bungalow. A few trees have started to bloom in the yard, but the grass is patchy. The pollen-coated porch swing looks like it’s been a while since someone last swung. In the rearview mirror, Billie wipes off the mascara scattered under her eyes. No need to look demented. She’s dressed with more care than usual: a relatively unwrinkled white button-down and jeans, her straightened hair slicked back in a bun. Vaguely professional except for the flip-flops and chipped toenail polish.
A woman answers after the second knock, filling the doorway with her bony but large frame lit by the TV screen.
“Are you Mabel Roberts?” The line is too practiced.
The woman scratches the back of her short gray hair. “Not if you’re selling anything, honey.”
“I’m not.”
“And if this is about Jesus Christ, I’ve already found him.”
“No, it’s not that.” Billie waves a persistent gnat from her face. “It’s a little more unusual. I’m writing a book about my family and I think you might be able to help me. I think my family knew yours.”
“Well, that sounds interesting. C’mon in, baby.” Mabel slides on a pair of faded slippers by the door. “Want something to drink?”
“No thank you.” Billie closes the door behind her.
“I just made sweet tea.” Mabel sits down on a worn armchair and swirls her glass, making the ice clink. “Mine’s got bourbon in it. The cheap kind but does the trick. Now what all about your family?” The news comes on. “Who’s your people?”
Billie stands in the middle of the room as if giving a book report. “The Jameses. I’m Billie James. They used to work for the McGees. I’m trying to find a man named Curtis Roberts who once lived in Greendale. I think he could be a relative of yours? He knew my father and I’d love to talk to him but I’m having trouble finding him.”
Mabel sets her glass down. “Curtis? Oh honey, he’s dead, God save him. Curtis was my older brother.”
“But there’s no record of his death.”
“I got no idea what there is or isn’t but he’s dead.”
“I know this is weird to say, but are you sure?”
The electric colors of the TV spill and twist over Mabel’s face. “I think I’d know, wouldn’t I?”
“Then maybe you could answer something else for me? Is it possible that your brother was involved with the Klan?”
“I don’t think he was ever involved in all that crap.” Mabel turns on a lamp.
Billie looks at the pictures framed on the wall. It’s hard to make out their faces but there’s none of an older man. “Can I ask if Curtis was married?”
“Yep, and divorced twice by the same woman, Sandy. Our daddy was the same. Curtis had just the one boy, that I know of, and he lives in Brookhaven.” Mabel turns the volume down on the TV. “And you’re saying Curtis was friends with your daddy?”
“I don’t know what they were exactly. But your brother was one of the officers who investigated my father’s death.”
“Maybe I’m the one knew your family.”
“Did you know a Cliff James?”
“Was he a black or white?”
“Black.”
“Nope, don’t remember him. You could try talking with the sheriff. When did he die?”
“Nineteen seventy-two.”
Mabel sips her drink. “Oh, Curtis wouldn’t have remembered nothing that far back. Nineteen seventy-two? Oh, you gotta let sleeping dogs lie, honey. No, my brother is dead.”
When she gets back in the car, two men are parked next to her, tinkering with a motorcycle. If only she’d come back a few years ago, Curtis would have been alive. When she looks back at the house, Mabel is watching her from the living room window. But so what if Curtis is dead, that woman knows something. It would’ve been smart to have kept her drinking.
Billie pulls into a gas station and calls Jude to let her know she’s alive. A woman in a tank top sits on the curb next to the pay phone, her face sore from crying. There’s a can of soda between her bare legs and men’s wraparound sunglasses propped on her head. The woman looks up as Billie passes.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. Do you have any quarters?” The woman looks at the road as she says this.
Billie takes out her wallet and goes to give the usual dollar, but then gives her five. Why not? What is it to her to be out five dollars?
“Thank you. I really appreciate it. I don’t do this all the time. But my car’s broke down and I have no money. Nothing to buy groceries for the kids.”
“I believe you,” Billie says and she almost sits down on the sidewalk next to the woman and cries.
Jim McGee
IT TAKES THE TWO OF THEM SOME TIME TO GET THEMSELVES UP THE driveway. They certainly are an odd pair: a short middle-aged black fella in a bow tie and a long-legged girl with her jean shorts sagging off her waist. Young woman he should say. Maybe she’s not even that young anymore. They keep stopping to argue. Her hair is loose and falls straight down her back. Not curly like it was when she was a little girl. But he would know Billie if she was eighty.
When Jim answers the door, Dr. Hurley introduces himself and they both follow Jim into the living room and choose opposite sides of the couch, Billie practically sitting on the armrest.
“What can I do for you?” Jim asks.
Dr. Hurley glances at Billie but she says nothing, loud in her silence. Clearly stewing on something.
The doctor holds up a tape recorder. “Do you mind?”
Jim hesitates. “As a matter of fact, I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
“Of course. May I take a few notes?”
“Sure.” J
im sits down in the armchair like he’s taking the stand.
“Thank you for meeting with us, Mr. McGee. In our efforts to confirm Curtis Roberts’s death, we’ve discovered that actually no records exist. I wanted to ask you if you thought it possible that he could be still alive?”
“First I’ve heard of it,” Jim says. “I was told he had died a few years back.”
The second day she was there, Billie came marching into the den singing “Frère Jacques” at the top of her lungs. She was trying to help him take a nap. She climbed up on the couch and had her elbow digging in his side by the time Marlene came running in.
“Who told you he died?” says Dr. Hurley.
“I was at a restaurant having lunch. I can’t recall who exactly. More than one person.”
“If he were to still be alive do you have any idea where we might find him?” asks Dr. Hurley.
“Buddy, I really couldn’t tell you. I haven’t spoken to him in years.”
He and the doctor talk for a while about when he first met Curtis. Back when Curtis wore his hair short. They all did. White around the ears. Then there is no sound in the room but the grandfather clock, an old family heirloom, and the doctor scratching out his notes.
Billie rubs her knuckles against her closed mouth. Finally her hand drops. “When my father died and you found me, where was I?”
“On the porch.” She was crying in the living room when he scooped her up.
“How long did it take to find me?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t the one looking.” This is true in a manner of speaking.
“Do you remember my grandmother putting a photograph of me up on the news, saying I was missing?”
The wind waves the branches and sun flickers across the coffee table as if the light itself is nervous. “With everything that was going on I think there was some misunderstandings.”
“Did you see Billie’s mother at this time?” asks Dr. Hurley.
“No, she wasn’t at the funeral. It was Miss Ruby that identified the body. We called Cliff’s daddy but he lived in Hinds County at that time. He did come, but he couldn’t get here right away. Miss Ruby wanted to be the one.” She asked him and his father to come with her and her brothers. He wasn’t sure which broke his heart more, that moment or the one that would follow. As they escorted her down to the morgue, none of the other officers would speak to him. They wouldn’t do much more than grunt and nod till he quit. It bothered him on the way in but holding Miss Ruby’s arm on the way out nothing mattered. He swore the first mother couldn’t have sounded worse, the first mother to ever lose a child.
The Gone Dead Page 14