by Ed Helenski
Sioban lay face up on the frosty ground, not looking particularly different from when she was last alive. The cold weather had kept her refrigerated. She was wearing the same clothes I had seen her in. I didn’t find all that out right away, but it was the case.
Autumn had played hooky from school on Wednesday. So had Nick and Charlie, but their absence was more normal. Autumn had not yet reached the point of skipping as often. With Sarah working days at the Dinor and nights…well, elsewhere, no one is surprised her kids run wild. It was midday when Autumn came upon the body.
Josh Tastler heard her screaming on his way out the door to get some lunch. He ran to the end of Langley and saw her running pell mell up Cleveland, long hair streaming out behind her. He called out to her, but she didn’t even seem to see him at first, and raced right past, continuing up Cleveland. Steve Dobies was walking down from the Post Office and snagged her about midway between Langley and Main Street. By then I had heard the noise and came out of my office as well. Steve was holding Autumn by the shoulders and trying to make some sense of her screams.
I hurried down, followed by several men who came out of Shickley’s to see what was going on. I noticed Tommy Slicdale and Ralph Watts among them. What I heard coming from the girl’s mouth first sounded like “a squirrel, a squirrel”. It was only after a bit that I realized she was saying “a dead girl, a dead girl”. As soon as those words made sense to me I knew what she had seen. Everyone gathered there on the sidewalk did.
Someone had had the sense to go over to the Municipal building on Karthus and get Reggie Pickett. He came up to Autumn and she stopped screaming almost at once. Autumn looked up at Reggie and spoke clearly and quietly. “I found her. That girl, I found her. I was playing hooky and I found her.” Reggie scooped her up as if she were just a toddler.
“Tell me where”
Autumn shook her head. “No, no, no. I don’t wanna go back there.” She began crying again. Reggie spoke to her, quietly, and I was just able to make out what he said.
“You won’t have to go near her honey, just show me about where and I will take care of it.” He turned and looked around at the people gathered. “Rhonda” I was startled as he spoke the name and turned to see Rhonda Fairchild standing behind me. She didn’t look at me. “Would you mind coming with us, till we see what’s up and then you can take her to her momma at the Dinor?” Rhonda nodded and stepped closer to Reggie. He looked over the rest of us and said “I’m gonna have Ralph and Tom here come with me. The rest of you wanna stay right here and not follow. There will be plenty of time for that later, but right now the last thing we want to do is mess up any evidence we might find. After I see what’s what I want to bring the State Troopers in.” There were some grumbles from the rest of the crowd, but when Reggie began walking off they stayed put.
He spoke quietly to Autumn and she whispered into his ear. He strode off down Cleveland and we followed him. I glanced over at Rhonda. She was pointedly not looking at me. She was heavier, and of course older, than my memory, but still a fine looking woman. There was something weary about her eyes though. She glanced over and caught me looking. Her eyes narrowed and she looked away.
Autumn guided Reggie, and we made our way into the woods off Cleveland. As we neared what was apparently the spot where Sioban lay Autumn got more agitated again, and Reggie stopped. He put the girl down and Rhonda took her hand. “You take her on to her momma now, I think we will find what she did without any more help.” Rhonda began walking back towards town, looking happy to be out of our little group. Autumn went with her gladly, looking at her feet as she walked. I felt awful that a child had to find such a thing, maybe I was feeling a little guilty about Sarah, too.
Reggie turned to us. “She says the girl is just a little ways further off” he gestured deeper into the woods. “Let’s spread out just a little, and for God’s sakes watch your feet. Don’t get near the body if you see it, just call out for me.” He looked around and indicated how we were to spread out. It seemed to me like we needed more people to comb the woods, but I suppose Reggie was balancing the benefit of extra eyes against the detriment of extra feet.
I had covered a fair number of searches for the Courant. Never in Hartford, when someone is missing in a city you don’t have a search party. Search parties are a rural thing, a wilderness thing. I had covered them, but never been in one. I hadn’t gone out to search for Sioban with the others before, it had seemed like a poor idea while under suspicion. Even now, knowing we WERE going to find her, the walk through the woods was a fearsome thing.
It was Ralph who spotted her. Reggie and I made our way slowly towards him. He had the meaty part of his hand in his mouth and was biting down on it as he stared at the ground. There lay Sioban. She was remarkably alive looking, with none of the sunken flesh or signs of decay we would associate with death. Her skin had a waxy look, but that was it. She was the first dead person I had ever seen outside in the wilderness. It creeped me out. Her eyes were open, but not seeing. There was a trace of white around her nose, but no other marks on her.
Most of the rest of the day is a blur. Reggie sent Ralph back to call the State Police and he and I waited a little ways back from the girl. Neither of us had touched her. We looked around briefly, but there was no evidence other than a single cigarette butt, which we suspected was dropped by Autumn. Eventually the troopers came, cordoned off the area, and began their work. I watched for a long while, then left Reggie and the professionals to their work. I had not yet eaten that day, but I wasn’t hungry. I went back and locked up my office, then went home. I didn’t know what else to do.
Around six Maggie called. “I heard what happened today, Tom. I’m so sorry. It must have been awful.”
I sighed. “Yeah, I guess it is pretty awful. I feel for Autumn Jacobs, too, she must be pretty messed up by it.”
Maggie laughed. “Actually, at the moment she is out in her yard playing ball with the boys.” I had forgotten the Jacobs lived next door to her. “Kids can be pretty remarkable about stuff like that. How about I come over and make you something to eat? I imagine you haven’t had a bite all day.”
Relief flooded me. This woman was amazing; she knew just what I needed. “That would be wonderful Mags” The nickname just came out, I had never called her that before.
“Mags. I like that. I’ll be over in ten minutes” She hung up. I smiled for the first time that day.
On Thursday I had a visitor. Just around one in the afternoon the door to the office opened and a tall, lank figure slowly walked in. Using a cane, he hobbled towards the desk where I sat. It was Eustice Hurley. “Right on time, there, ain’t I?” At first I had no idea what he was talking about. The incidents of the previous morning had pushed everything else from my mind.
“On time?” I asked, looking blankly at the old man.
“To get my pitcher for the paper. You said to come on Thursday.”
It clicked then, and I recalled our appointment for last week. Apparently a century took its toll on a person’s ability to keep their dates strait. Still, he had made it over here under his own power, I could only hope to do so myself when I was his age.
“Yes, of course. Let’s do the interview first. Please, have a seat” I indicated the chair opposite the desk. I opened my desk drawer, then recalled Meg still had my tape machine and I hadn’t gotten another yet. Taking out a tablet and pen, I settled in. I would have to rely on the old fashioned technique of notetaking.
Eustice sat slowly, the distance from standing to sitting increases with each year after forty and he had seen a good many years since then. Before I could ask him anything he began to speak. “I was born on October 22, 1898 in Coudersport, Pennsylvania.” He had the formal tones of a public speaker from a bygone era. It was clear he had a prepared speech he used when asked about himself. I started taking notes.
“My father was Jacob Hurley, and he had a sawmill just outside of town on the river. I took over the mill and when my father pas
sed I sold it and invested the cash in land all around this region. I settled in The Corners in 1927. I learned to read and write and do sums, but never had no education past the sixth grade. I am a self-made man. I married Phrebene Tario in 1929 and that was the happiest day of my life. My children and grandchildren are all over this state, and even the country. I survived Roosevelt, and Kennedy, and even Jimmy Carter. I don’t owe no one nothing, and I have always paid my bills on time.” He seemed to wind down with the last sentence and just sat, breathing a bit hard. Even talking must be a real workout at that age.
I debated asking him about what happened with his son, but chose not to. It would be a good story, but I doubted he would be willing to talk to me about it. “What are some of the things you remember best from the town’s history?” I figured that would stay on safe ground.
“Well sir, I recall the flu epidemic in Coudersport. I was just nineteen when it hit. People said some of the boys home from the war brought it, but I never paid that kind of talk no mind. It took my momma, God rest her soul, and did for a lot of the old folks. A lot of the kids, too. You go look at the cemetery, you’ll see a lot more stones from that winter than from any other year around.”
Well, the flu was interesting, but it wasn’t about The Corners. “What about since you came here to live?”
He seemed to ponder that a moment. “Been a lot of things happened here since I come. Some of them are interestin’, but I don’t know as they should be in the paper. Lots of things go on in a town over the years, things the town ain’t necessarily proud of, if you get my meaning.”
I did, but now he had me curious. “I’m not sure I do. You mean things people might want swept under the rug? Scandals?”
He eyed me for a moment, and his throat worked. I got the idea, and in fact had prepared for it. I opened my desk drawer and got out a pint of Old Granddad’s I had put in there for this purpose. Taking one of the Styrofoam cups from the coffee tray, I poured him a slug. He took it, knocked it back, and made a smacking sound with his lips. I could see a scattering of teeth in his shriveled gums, and then he thankfully closed his mouth.
“I could tell you some things. Could tell you about how Karthus Street got its name. Or about the time those six boys took a toboggan down the big hill out behind Burdock and hit that old oak. Six heads cracking together like eggs in a crate” He paused to lick his lips, then went on “Ever hear of William Jones?” I shook my head. The name meant nothing. “He moved here in 1934. Him and his family. They took a house out on what they call Vine now. Back then it didn’t have a name; it was just the path out to where the shanties were. Loggers and such rough trade mostly. A lot of folks didn’t cotton to him moving his family in. They was Negroes, and there were only a few in these parts back then. Same as now, I guess. He aimed to open a gay-rodge, to fix cars you know. Fancied himself a mechanic. Negroes around here were kinda overlooked long as they was for housecleaning or farm work. They kept to themselves. This Jones was different though. He come here from Boston and had the notion he was as good as the white folks.” He paused and held his cup out. I refilled it.
He continued, “He opened up a shop in an old carriage house that was on the alley. Back then it was the alley, ran behind some of the nicest houses on French. They are all gone now, fire took em out. But I am getting ahead of myself. Nowadays the alley is Karthus road, but back then it was just the alley. Did I tell you how it got its name? Now that is a story. Anyways. Folks were none too happy that Rufus Taylor was renting out his old carriage house to that Negro, but Rufus was never one to let anything stand in the way of getting a dollar.” He took a swig. Smacked his lips. I concentrated on making notes so I wouldn’t see inside his mouth again.
“Rufus is Mac the Knife’s granddad. Or was, he passed more than forty years ago. Anyways, Jones set up his shop there, and his family lived out in one of the shanties, and he tried to make a go of it here in The Corners. Now there were lots of folks here who didn’t mind the Negroes being here at all. But there were others, folks that lived on Langley and on French, well; they didn’t cotton to it at all. Uppity nigger puttin’ on airs was how it was termed. Our house was out on French then, too, and I admit I was one of them not too happy about Rufus and his Negro renter.”
The whiskey was having no visible effect on him, and he held out his cup again. I poured a generous dollop and looked away as he drank. I didn’t much like where this story was heading.
“There were some folks needed their automobiles worked on and didn’t fancy going to Siegly or trusting to themselves. Wyscome wasn’t ‘round yet. So some folks took their cars to him. He fixed ‘em good, and cheap too, there’s no denying that. Maybe that was the problem. If he had failed he mighta just packed up and moved on. But he was making money, and at a time when lots of white folks was going without. Anyways, after a while it seemed he was here to stay, ‘less the folks with the say so figured out some way to make him move on. Now back then a lot of the people on French and Langley, like myself, was renting plots out of town to dirt farmers. Those little old farms out past my Phrebene’s home. These boys were cash poor, but managing to eat. They sold what truck they could to pay the rents, but most of them was behind by then. And so they was beholden to the landlords, if you see my meaning. “
This time when he held out the cup, I hesitated. After all, he was ancient, and had put away almost half a pint of whiskey already. “How about some water to chase that with?” I asked and took the cup. I got out a bottle of water and filled it up. He looked at it with distaste and took a sip.
“Doesn’t help the story along like the whiskey does.” He took another swallow and then held out the cup. I added some whiskey and he seemed satisfied. “Anyways, where was I? Some of the folks were real satisfied with Jones’ work. Said he had the touch. Course this was back when a car was something a person could understand.” I hoped he wasn’t going to go off on a tangent. Still I shouldn’t complain, he was telling a pretty direct narrative, especially for an old timer. “Not like them new ones with them computers and about a million electric gadgets in them. You got a can here?” It took me a second to understand his meaning. I directed him to the bathroom. When he settled back down he resumed his tale.
“ There were some others that weren’t so happy. Folks that weren’t gonna be happy long as a Negro was working in the town like that. One fella in particular sparked the end to it all. The end of an era really. Name of Sullivan. He was one a them trash farmers out there past Terio’s. That road don’t go nowhere no more, but once upon a time there was a couple ruts went on for a few miles. All growed over now, I expect.”
“This Sullivan fella wasn’t much good as a farmer, or nothing else for that matter. He took a dislike to Jones right away. His family, too. The boys was always picking at Jones’ little girls, he had two little pickaninnies, I disremember their names. And Sullivan would like as spit on Miz Jones when he saw her on the street. Course, they kept to themselves mostly, didn’t see her coming into Pickeral’s. I suspect she did her shoppin’ in Siegly when she had to. And the girls weren’t allowed in school, neither. That was the old school, used to be across from where Reggie Pickett lives now. Your dad, too.”
“Anyways, this Sullivan had an old Ford Model A truck. Running rust is what it was, didn’t hardly ever use it, but he couldn’t bear to part with it, neither. Damn thing didn’t have a space on it wasn’t busted and patched. It was running real bad that summer, backfiring and such. He took it to Jones to fix it, said he wanted a ring and valve job. Jones told him it would be expensive, did he have the cash for the parts? He didn’t of course, but he had found an old wreck and took the head from it. Said Jones could use those parts. Jones told him it wouldn’t be too good, they wasn’t much better than what was on there, but Sullivan said he would give him five dollars to do it with those parts.”
“Now that wasn’t exactly a fair price for that much work, but Jones was trying to keep out of trouble. He knew the score or thought
he did. He said he would do it. And he did a good job, considering. That truck ran again, anyways. But Sullivan wasn’t happy. He was down to Hanson’s at night saying that nigger didn’t know nothing about cars and he wanted his money back. Went to Jones and asked for it, he did. Jones told him he did a good job, sure worth five dollars. They had an argument and Sullivan went off mad. He was down at Hanson’s that night saying he would get that nigger. I was there and heard it myself.”
He paused to finish what was in his cup. I didn’t want to interrupt, but he saw the question on my face. “Hanson’s was there before Shickley bought the place. The local saloon then. Speakin of which…” He held out his cup and I filled it once more.
“Must a been ‘round one that morning. All of us on French heard the commotion. Could be we knew it was coming. Could be Sullivan’s landlord, my neighbor, kinda put the idea in his head. Ain’t saying one way or the other. But we heard ‘em come by. There were a whole bunch of them. Farmers and well, let’s just say the rough folks from out of town. And maybe a few from in town. I recollect some young men in that group that are still around. Maybe I followed ‘em that night. Anyways, I know what happened.”
He took a gulp of the whiskey and his voice got softer. His face showed some pain. I couldn’t tell if it was in his joints or in his heart. “They went on up to the place the Joneses was living. The lot of them had axe handles and pipes and such. I think there was a gun or two in the bunch. Jones didn’t have no gun though, and they knew it. He had turned down a chance to go hunting a couple times, from some of the kinder locals, said he didn’t take to guns. So they gathered there and they called him out. And when he come they beat him. Bad. Till he wasn’t conscious no more. Then they dragged him down to the place he worked. That carriage house of Rufus’. They took turns whomping him there for a while.”
His face had a haunted look. I have a feeling he wasn’t just an observer to these proceedings. His voice grew even more still as he continued. “After a while his Mizzus came down, dragging those two little girls. She had some of the men from up in the shanties. They was beggin us…beggin the men to stop beating him. Well finally they did, and the woman dragged him into the carriage house. The whole family was in there. That’s when someone took the bar and closed the doors. Those houses had two swinging doors and a bar you put across to hold em shut when you was out. They shut those folks in there.”