Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction

by Russell, Vanessa

  Mama Mia’s had lost her warmth by the time I came to a stop in front. Closed down and covered in a dark shroud, her embellished verandah and embroidered furnishings were hidden and only straight cold lines and columns showed. It seemed days ago we were enjoying her warm food and southern hospitality, enjoying her drawled conversation.

  The drive back had taken longer with wrong turns but I was grateful that the narrow streets were empty, save for my stodgy beast blocking lanes. I sat in the deafening quiet, feeling terribly alone and unsure. I could only guess that the time was around midnight. Questions raced through my mind but one thing became certain: something had gone wrong and I had been given warning to get out. Thank goodness Joe’s automobile was there to bring them back.

  A stretch of time passed. I shivered in the cold, only dressed for the warm day’s driving lesson. I found the flask and brought it to my lips but then thought better of it; I would need all my faculties to stay focused. Instead I gave its small opening a sentimental peck, as only hours before Thomas’s lips had been there. I wanted him there, in the flesh.

  I banged my fist on the steering wheel. Where the hell was he? Damn you, Thomas, why did you get involved in this? Brother or not, Joe would have found another way. He was a tough old survivor but Thomas was not geared for the criminal mind. He only observed from a distance and wrote about them. Could discuss crime in theory but like the science teacher, putting his findings into practice took a different sort. Thomas skimmed the surface, scooping up details as they floated to the top. He would link them together to become a whole story, and then drop them back in and move on. There’s always another story, he said. All you had to do was keep your chin up and look ahead, never look down or behind you or you’ll miss what’s out there. That was the Thomas I knew. Now he was looking down at his little brother with a helping hand, and fulfilling obligations of his past. Why had he gone in reverse?

  I flinched when a branch of a magnolia tree landed on the hood. It brought me out of my trance into the dark space ahead, that sensation of suspension with no means to grab hold. My heart jolted and suddenly I was grounded again. I looked about the gloomy street and homes. I had to find help. They should have been here by now. I would go back and see what the trouble is. I clutched the steering wheel but then let my hands fall to my lap. Driving back there was tempting but too risky. Doing so could put them in further danger; two motors were conspicuous Thomas said. I might also miss their return.

  It was then I remembered that Thomas referred to a speakeasy behind the restaurant. Perhaps someone from there would know what to do. I stepped out, stiff from sitting, and followed a brick path leading to the back of the restaurant, stumbling here and there over patches of grass growing between the bricks. My eyes finally focused on a back door facing the alley way but no lights came from its window. The door was locked and when I peered through it, saw a staircase leading to the basement, dimly lit from below. All was quiet though; no music or people milling about, no shadows of vehicles in the alley. Closed for certain.

  As I approached the Duesenberg, headlights came my way and my heart soared at the sight of the Pierce-Arrow. Kissing and cursing them both came to mind but I merely waved and smiled. The motor car came to a stop beside mine and the window came down. Only Joe was to be seen and he simply said, “Follow me,” and drove away. My hand and my smile dropped away. Follow me? To where, for God’s sake? And where the hell was Thomas?

  I was not to know for some time. Once again I traveled in question, just as I had with Thomas coming in. Through Savannah to Pickerville, through Pickerville and out the country road to the plantation I followed his tail lights. In doing so, it dawned on me that his number plate was not there to identify his vehicle. More than an hour’s drive with Thomas not by my side as planned. I kept close to Joe, not wanting to lose my only way to Thomas. If he’d stopped suddenly for any creature crossing, I would have easily collided but I cared not. Joe was my lantern and I didn’t want to remain in the dark any longer.

  I pulled in beside him in the front yard and watched with rising frustration as he loped into the house. A lamp came on in the parlor as I entered.

  “Sit on the divan, Bess.”

  Joe was pacing, running his fingers through his hair, his shirt tail out, one suspender hanging limp by his trousers. I grudgingly sat but needed to, my heart was racing so. I dared not question; something inside me didn’t want to know. He turned to me then with a tear-smeared face and a blood-smeared shirt and I screamed.

  He came to me with outstretched palms. “Bess, Bess, I got him to the hospital as fast as I could, but—”

  “No, no, no!” I cried, clinging to his shirt sleeve, pleading into his eyes to tell me something different. “I want Thomas!”

  “But then - but then, well, he got the bullet in the arm, didn’t seem so bad—”

  “He was shot, Joe, is that what you’re telling me? Then we can go to the hospital, Joe!” I stood and pulled his arm. “We’ve got to go right now! Why did we come here, Joe?”

  His body remained rigid as a tree trunk, his arm only a branch that swayed with me as I pulled. “Because Tom died of a heart attack.”

  His lips quivered as he said it and at first that is all that registered. A second later and I collapsed onto the floor, rocking, clutching my stomach, wanting to die with Thomas, my heart seized as if Thomas’s bullet had found its way there. “No, no, no,” I whispered. “No, no, no.”

  Joe’s shoes were there, stepping toward me and then backing up as slippered feet came into view. I heard a woman crying, vaguely aware it was Harriet, her tears mingling with mine as she squatted and hugged my cheek to hers. Then she was gone and a blanket came around my shoulders with appeasing masculine and feminine voices, footsteps, creaking wood planks. They became sounds of the storm and wind blowing around and around me, but I was in my own little spot in the eye of the hurricane.

  I came tumbling to the ground as the storm ceased and quiet returned, when they lowered the coffin into the grave. A grief came over me too deep for tears. I couldn’t move; my expression wouldn’t change. I was gripped by this finality. I had become like Thomas was in his last days, only to look down and back. There was no future for me without him. I moved my body when someone told me to. Stand up, honey, throw the rose into the grave, honey, time to walk back to the hearse, honey, eat something you’ll feel better, honey, why don’t you lie down, honey?

  I found myself facing our bed, crawling in, shoes and all and hugging his pillow, moving my knees up into a fetal position, staring at the bathing tub. I watched the shadows creep around the walls and deepen; darkening the room to black. The katydids returned as they had done every night, telling me over and over that life goes on. But I found my way to the window and shut it firmly. I wanted no part of the katydid’s optimism.

  Against my wishes the shadows lightened and brightened the walls. If I had slept, I wasn’t aware, my eyes opening and closing at random. A newspaper came into view, slid under the door. Without hesitation, I was drawn to it like scripture to the starving soul. The newspaper was dated the day after Thomas’ death. Circled was an article and photograph of a much younger Thomas, one I’d seen framed on their entranceway table, with Cady by his side. Here they had cut her away, displaying only his head and shoulders. We have both loved and lost, his youthful eyes seemed to say to me. But I had no sympathy for him; only this sense of betrayal in him leaving me. Now I bitterly supposed he was in heaven with his first wife smiling again that happy grin and I blocked his gaze with my hand as I read the article.

  Pickering is Shot; Heart Finishes Him Off: Grandson of the founder of Pickerville News, Mr. Thomas Pickering, died in the hospital last night. According to Dr. Mooreland of the Civic Hospital Emergency Ward, Pickering was brought in by his brother, Joseph Pickering of Pick Plantation, with a gunshot wound to his arm. The doctor states that Pickering had lost a good deal of blood but his wound was not life threatening. Trauma and blood loss combined wit
h an already failing heart caused the heart attack and Pickering was pronounced dead an hour after arrival.

  Why he was shot is still under investigation. His brother, Joseph Pickering, made a statement to the paper that he and Thomas were strolling along the pier late that evening when they were attacked by two masked thugs demanding money. Thomas resisted and one of the attackers fired a .22 caliber pistol. The attackers panicked when Thomas fell to the ground and ran away without achieving their purpose. Joseph did not get a description of the two, nor could he give chase, he stated, with a wounded brother to attend to. Police report will not be released until the investigation is closed.

  I read it again, having much to absorb. What stood out was his failing heart. Why hadn’t he told me? How typical of Thomas to relay his story through the newspaper. One that only told half-truths. I jumped up and ran my bath. It was time to reenter the world and get some questions answered.

  “Because he said he had convinced you he wasn’t an old man, but an ailing heart would confirm you had married one older than dirt,” said Joe. He took a sip of his coffee. “He had too much pride, that boy.” He scooped more wet eggs into his mouth, churning my stomach.

  I drummed my fingers on the newspaper article lying there between us on the table, evidence of lies and deception. And waited once again for truth. He gulped down his remaining coffee and continued. “He found out on his last trip here. Chest pains, being tired all the time. I didn’t want a Yankee doctor, so I called Doc Williams, the same one that brought him and I into the world. Doc Williams came out and examined him and said his heart was weakening. He was directed to take life easy.”

  “And bootlegging with you was going to give him the easy life, Joe?”

  His fork clattered to the plate and Harriet’s cup clinked loudly with her saucer.

  “How dare you insinuate that my husband—”

  “Harriet, hush your mouth,” he said and patted her arm. He rubbed his face hard, bringing my attention to the heavy bags under his eyes. “Bess, I take all the blame for this, I really do. I’m feeling as low as a toad in a dry well. I keep thinking I shouldn’t have told him, but Tom is the only close blood family I got, and I tell him everything – well, told him everything. He knew things here on the plantation weren’t going so good and he knew I owed money to our uncle. And when I went out on my runs, he said he’d come with me. He said he wanted to see what I got myself into. He wouldn’t have taken no for an answer, he’s my big brother.

  “And, well, I don’t mean to switch horses in midstream but there’s another reason too. Tom owed me.” He ate a biscuit while I watched him and wondered why Thomas’s life was unfolding for me after it ended for him.

  “You see, neither one of us wanted to grow cotton. Tom being the oldest was willed the plantation, Pa not taking no for an answer. He made us promise that we’d never sell the land. He was the second generation to own Pick Plantation, Grandpappy being the first. But that was before the Civil War and the slaves just about run the place. Grandpappy could manage this and the newspaper at the same time. But after the Yankees pillaged and burned, destroyed our crop and seeds, burned down the barns and sheds, and part of this house, Grandpappy and Pa had to start all over. Slaves were gone and that meant they’d have to work Tom and I to death.

  Tom and I changed in different ways. While I grew to resent the Yankees for taking our slaves, Tom gained more sympathy for what the slaves had to do while they were working here. He grew to hate the plantation. We both know Tom’s not the type to stay put in one place and do hard labor. He was a thinker and a writer, a reporter with wanderlust. He wanted out and he wanted to make a deal. He said if I took over, he’d see to it that little brother was looked after. So Tom got hired at the newspaper and saw to it that whatever we were selling got the biggest share of advertisement, and if I got into trouble he was there to bail me out, or lend a financial hand. But then while at college, he met Cady and that was all she wrote. They took off to New York and Harriet and I have been struggling to keep this place going ever since.”

  I wondered how one decision could linger for so many years without changing form, only to affect new decisions. Joe used Thomas as a freed slave, held by obligation.

  “I understand,” I said. “That brings us back to today and now that Thomas has …” Here I struggled to say the word but couldn’t.

  “Yes, passed away,” Joe said, his chin on his chest.

  “This has raised suspicion about your – your other means of income, so what now? Aren’t you worried that an investigation could find you guilty, and, oh my God, Joe – I might be arrested as some sort of accomplice!” This had not occurred to me since his death. My world had stopped.

  “No, I’m doing what I can to protect you, don’t you see? That’s what Tom would have wanted. No one knows you were there. I had taken the number plates off both automobiles. I’ve got connections at the newspaper – couple of cousins work there that have some control over what goes into it. I didn’t mention you being with us and I already talked to the owner of Mama Mia’s – he runs The Blind Pig too so he and I get along just fine. You weren’t there as far as they’re concerned. When Tom saw the gun, he wanted you out of there. He closed your trunk lid and gave you the signal to go. His movements scared – well, the gun went off and Tom fell to the ground. When your automobile didn’t move, he wouldn’t give up. He reached up as far as he could reach and continued to knock until you drove away. Thank the Lord you didn’t find reverse.”

  I shuttered and pushed away my toast. “Why was he shot, Joe?”

  “A rival came in. Wanted a piece of the action, he said, or he’d rat on us. We told him to go to hell, pardon my expression. He pulled out a gun and waved it around, it went off - meaning to scare us more I think - Tom fell, the man took off running. My business partner reloaded the crates back on the boat and cruised on down the shoreline, while I got Tom into my automobile and to the hospital. No traces. The investigation will find nothing. We look out for each other down here; everybody knows everybody, nobody knows nothing.”

  “Then you must know who shot Thomas.”

  His eyes darted to Harriet and then back down to his plate. He loosened his tie which had suddenly become a nuisance to him. “Yes ma’am, but we take care of our own. Don’t you worry your little head about that.”

  “Do I know him, Joe?” Harriet asked, watching him closely. She, too, saw the signs.

  He crossed his arms on the table and stared down at his half-eaten biscuit. “Oh, yeah, you know him,” he said to the biscuit.

  “I swan, it’s my cousin, Louie, isn’t it?”

  “He’s a bad egg, Harriet.”

  “Good Lord, Joe, he was probably drunker than Cooter Brown!”

  Joe raised his right hand as if to swear. “I’m not going to hurt him, Harriet, no permanent damage. Just teach him a lesson he won’t forget.”

  I hadn’t driven to Georgia; I had driven to another world, one with twisted thorny vines so thickly intermingled, I couldn’t see my way through them.

  I tried to raise my head above it all. I took a deep breath. “So let me get this straight. You know who shot Thomas, but you’re not going to report him to the police?”

  He squinted his eyes at me as if I had shone a flashlight on him. The rueful blue eyes turned distant. “No, and no one else is going to either. I’ve already given my report to the police. You want me to go back and tell them, ‘oh by the way, it was family that shot my brother’? And then tell them why? Do you want to go to jail? I know I don’t.” He scooted his chair from the table, threw his napkin down and slammed the kitchen door behind him as he left.

  Harriet jumped up and stacked plates. “You’ve done it now.”

  I stopped her with my hand and looked up at her pleadingly. “I haven’t done anything except I tried to please my husband. I’m no different in that regard than you are.”

  She studied my face and then nodded.

  “Now can you and I w
ork together on this to clear our husbands’ names and keep us all out of trouble? We need a clear alibi for when the policemen come around asking questions.”

  Caught in their thorns and scratched badly, I knew without any doubt I did not want to root here. I wanted to go home.

  But home was not to be until the investigation was complete. Joe said it would look suspicious so I was to stay right there until he said I could go.

  Rightly so, I sensed danger in Joe - the angry bear who would fiercely protect his own, including his own skin. I barely qualified as his own, hence I behaved myself and caused no more reason for suspected treason. Reluctantly I admitted to myself I needed his protection. Ironic, when it was he who put me in danger in the first place. He played savior and Satan and Harriet walked through fire for him and raised her eyes to him like he was God Almighty. So he saw nothing wrong with his logic. He could justify it all, including Thomas’s death.

  I bided my time.

  Harriet and I made a truce. We agreed to tell the police that we were baking bread that day. Easy to believe because Harriet sold her bread to the local market. Everyone knew that, of course. But then I remembered that their nosy neighbor, Ethel Warner, might have seen Thomas, Joe and me during my driving lesson. If she had been watching her lane way, she would have seen me going from the Pierce-Arrow to the Duesenberg and heading toward Pickerville. Thus a driving lesson and a quick tour of Pickerville was added to the story and then we would say that I was dropped off by Thomas to assist Harriet, and afterwards he’d joined Joe in Savannah.