by Ed Helenski
“It was Sullivan who got out the can of kerosene. I remember that clear. Lots of others cheered him on. Could be someone spoke up then. Could be he was shouted down. Could be he shoulda done something. But he didn’t. “ No tears rolled down his cracked and lined face, but I could see them building in his old man’s eyes. “They set fire to that place with them little girls in there. You could hear ‘em screaming, begging to be let out. But no one did. Folks just kinda drifted into the dark. They shoulda stayed. There was oil, and gasoline in that carriage house. Wind kicked up; a thunderstorm was starting to brew. Sparks got things going on the other side of the alley, on French. All them big houses burned that night. Wasn’t no way to stop it. Maybe nobody had the heart to try after that. Mine, too. No one in those houses died though, they all got out easy enough. Was just money lost. Money and four Negroes. Nobody never did nothing about it. It was like they was never here.”
I sat in silence, my notes forgotten. Was this the pus my father had told me filled the town? What else did I not know, did I not even suspect? Reggie, and apparently Elmer before him, thought the town had a predator, a killer. Now Old Man Hurley tells me of this atrocity. I was better off ignorant. Finally he spoke again.
“But I don’t guess that’s the sort of story you was looking for was it? Maybe it’d be better if you just forget about that one. Won’t do no one no good anyways. I’ll tell you about the Blizzard of ’57 instead. Now that was quite the time. Everyone pulled together that winter. I remember seeing sleighs going down the street, and the snow was up to tops of the first floor windows. You had to make a sorta tunnel into your houses…” His voice continued on, and my hand was dutiful in making notes, but my mind was not on the winter of ’57, but rather the summer of ’34.
After he finally wound down he wanted to pose for a photo. He stood stock stiff, cane in hand, back arched and rigid, straighter than he had probably stood in many a year. I took a shot of him, and as the flash went off I saw him through the viewfinder. It reminded me of photos you see, old black and white or sepia ones, of men in high collars with deep-set, burning eyes. Photos I have seen of lynchings, hangings, executions. But I would run the photo, and the story of the blizzard. It was the sort of history the town WANTED, after all.
I had dinner Friday night with Maggie, but even her sweet attention couldn’t take the taste of Hurley’s story out of my mouth, the awful sight of Sioban from my mind. I thought about telling her the whole thing, but decided to wait. Things were piling up; I didn’t want to just bury her in my grief. It didn’t seem like a good way to build a relationship.
Late Saturday Reggie came into the office. He looked…weary. Grim. Haggard. I guess I need to check my thesaurus, there might be a more exact word for what I saw on his face, in his body. He seemed somehow smaller. He plunked himself into the chair opposite me and asked if I had any coffee. I made him a cup.
He sat for a long while, holding the cup. Then he pulled out his pack of smokes and lit one. Finally he spoke. “She wasn’t killed. Least not in any conventional sense”.
For a moment I didn’t know what he was talking about, and then I realized it was Sioban. “What do you mean she wasn’t killed?” I leaned forward onto my desk, trying to catch his eyes but he kept his gaze off into space.
“No signs of any violence. No marks from a struggle, from restraints, nothing. At first they had no real idea what had happened. Wasn’t the sort of thing they were looking for. It was only when they did toxicology that they found it out.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and snubbed it out on the sole of his shoe. He tossed it into the trash can. “She was tooted up big time. Massive amounts of coke. The coroner says it looks like she had been on quite the binge. Strung out for a week or more most likely. No sign it was forced on her neither. Said from her nose looked like she was no stranger to it.”
I was aghast. Was she a simple runaway then? On a drug binge? Where had she gotten it? And where had she been hiding? Before I could ask those questions Reggie went on.
“My first thought was maybe she hadn’t really been missing. Maybe her dad knew something about it. I wondered where does a girl that age get the money for a week long binge of coke? It occurred to me maybe she didn’t get money. Maybe she just got coke. Maybe her dad has a taste for the nose candy. You know how writers are.”
I didn’t respond to that one. Being a writer, it occurred to me, was why Reggie simultaneously thought that I was a good sounding board and also a good suspect. I asked the real question. “Well, what DID kill her, Reggie?”
He looked at me then, and I saw he was having a hard time believing it himself. “Damnedest thing. I mean you hear about these college athletes now and then, but it doesn’t seem like something that would happen to a little girl. She had a heart attack Tom, a big one. All the coke just buzzed her up past where she could survive. Probably died right where we found her. Still got lots of questions, but I guess I was way off base with the stuff I showed you. Thought you ought to know.” He stood then, and dusted the ashes off his pants. “I got lots to do now, but I’ll come by again when I have the rest of the answers. You gonna put this in the paper?”
I thought about it. “I guess I will have to put something in. Should I leave out the part about the coke?”
He pursed his lips, then spoke, “Write what you want. Can’t do any harm now, I suspect, and that’s a fact.” He walked out the door. I sat down to tap out my column for the week. I would keep it short, and give over most of the space to the photo of Hurley. I had no stomach for being all Prairie Home Companion today.
Around the Corner Wednesday November 8
It has truly been a week of contrasts here for me, and probably for all of us. Thanksgiving approaches, and we look around and take stock of what it is we have to be thankful for. As an individual I can make quite a list. I have my health, I am my own boss (and as a result have no one to ask for a raise!), and I have a roof over my head and food on the table. I have my dad, and get to see him far more often these days, for which I am thankful. I have gotten to know the town again, and that is a good thing. And I am very grateful for having met Maggie Cowell; she is all the bounty any man could hope for. (Hope I am not embarrassing you!)
As the editor of this paper, and therefore as one of the voices of the town, I have a less easy time making a list. Of course we all have each other, and the things we are always grateful for. Things like the hard work of Charlie Vickers, Reggie Pickett, Cindy Borougham, and everyone else working for the town to keep things going. Reverend Doland as our spiritual advisor. The volunteers that make so many things happen, Bobby Schwartz and the firemen, Barbara Barker and the people involved with the PTA, Maggie and her library drive, the list goes on and on.
The town has a rich and bountiful history. A little bit of it is included in this week’s paper, with the story about Eustice Hurley; our town’s oldest resident. I have given over some of this column’s space to include a photo.
There have been some losses, too. Most recent is, of course, young Sioban Mistick. Her tragic death has touched us all. The town bound together to hunt for her when she disappeared, and we come together again to grieve her loss. In the cities, young people are lost every day to drugs, but here in The Corners, we feel that loss more acutely, more personally. Our hearts go out to Michael in his time of need, and we shall keep him in our prayers.
And so the town will go on. We will have our Thanksgiving turkeys, and watch football and so forth. But we will remember. Eustice Hurley made me realize that. The town may appear untouched. Wounds may appear to heal over and be gone. But the town will remember.
Tom Tharon
Chapter 11
There were services for Sioban on Tuesday. Most of the town came out. There was a service at the graveside, nothing at the church. Mike Mistick was not a church going man. So everyone made their way out toward Blanchard, to Chessick Hills Cemetery, where folks have been buried here for a very long time. It was originally the churchya
rd of a long gone Chapel. The congregation died out, the graveyard lives on. Mike said nothing, and looked like a man who had lost everything. I wondered about her mother, and what had become of her. The grapevine said that she was dead. Or that she was a tramp and had run off never to be heard of again. Or that she was in a sanitarium for drug abuse. No one really knew, I suspect. When rumor mills have no truth to grind they turn quickly to fiction.
Maggie took the day off and came with me. I hate to admit it, but during the entire event I was doing more thinking about how hot she looked in the simple black dress than about Sioban. I wanted her. Very much. We had still not progressed passed kissing and touching, and I was starting to feel like a high school boy with a case of blue balls. Not very charitable things to be thinking at a funeral, but that is where my mind was. Each of us responded to death in our own way.
Of all people, Mike had Josh Tastler say a few words in lieu of a service. I didn’t really grasp this. He had hardly known the girl, and he and Mike couldn’t have been friends long, if indeed they were at all. It seemed an odd choice. Maybe he thought of Tastler as educated and rational, like himself. I couldn’t figure it. Tastler’s words were nervous and not very well scripted.
“All of us, all of you, are suffering from this loss. We… we miss Sioban, her friends, her teachers, her father, all of us miss her. She is… we must comfort ourselves knowing that, that she, that her suffering is over now. And we must let her provide us with a lesson, let her show our other youngsters the dangers in this world. Our help, our hearts go to Michael in his time of loss, that he can find the courage and the strength to go on. Let you keep the memory of this girl alive in the town.” That was it. It almost seemed extempore, although he was reading from a flapping sheet of paper in the November wind. Then we all left. They no longer keep people around when they bury the dead, it seems. They wait discreetly until everyone is gone, and then they put them in the ground. I find that disconcerting, a lack of closure. I hear in some places, places like LA, the body isn’t even at the services. We had lost touch with the reason for funerals.
Maggie and I went to her house, where she made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. I hadn’t had that particular combination since I was a wee lad, it wasn’t the sort of thing you got for lunch at a trendy downtown restaurant. What it was, though, was delicious. Another of those simple things that had been left behind and forgotten. I was beginning to realize that perhaps what I had come back here to find wasn’t the town itself, but rather some part of myself I had shed when I left.
I told Maggie that. Her response was simple. “You are a pretty smart guy Tom, but when it comes to your own feelings I think there is a little bit of your dad in you. Of course what you came back to find was something from inside you. What else could it be? Let me put it this way. Small towns, especially rural ones, are like islands. They are insular, cut off, self-contained. Wait, let me change that. ALL towns are. Cities too, if you think about it. They are a place. People run off to the city all the time looking for something, something they lack. Excitement, or romance, or something. And sometimes people come to small towns looking for something. Simplicity. Happiness. And these places, they are all like islands. If you didn’t bring it with you, it isn’t there.”
If you didn’t bring it with you, it isn’t there. Makes so much sense. “You have a way with words, Mags. You ought to write”
She leaned over and kissed me. “I will let you be the writer, Tom. I’ll be your inspiration, how does that sound? Besides, I just taught you something. That’s my talent. Teaching.”
“Well, you are talented indeed,” I told her wrapping my arms around her and starting to kiss her with more vigor.
She responded briefly then backed off and smiled. “Let’s go for a walk buster, and work off that cheese”
I allowed myself to be led out. I would have rather been inside where it was warm; kissing Maggie, but once out and moving I had to agree the walk was a good idea. We ended up walking out Cleveland in the direction of where Sioban had been found. Maggie asked me where it was, and I pointed to the general area of Autumn’s discovery.
“Do the police have any suspects yet?” Maggie asked me as we passed the spot and continued out into the country. It was cold out, but there was some sunshine, which made it seem a little better. I really needed a proper coat though, what I had was fine for a dash from office to cab, but was not of much value out here. And some gloves, in order to have my arm around Maggie I had to keep my hand out of my pocket, and it was freezing.
“Suspects for what?” I asked her, for a moment thinking she was talking about the situation Meg had uncovered. God, I had nearly forgotten that.
“In the whole business with Sioban. Do they know where she was? Was she there against her will?”
“Against her will? I don’t think so. You know it was drugs, don’t you?”
She leaned close to me, which made me a little warmer. “I know that, Tom. But surely they don’t think that means she wasn’t taken by someone. Think about it, a girl like her, wouldn’t drugs make her a lot easier to handle? I know she had lots of cocaine in her. Was there anything else?”
I looked at her in surprise. “You know, I never even asked. You are not just a writer, you are a reporter too, huh?”
She smiled. “Not a reporter, but I do read a lot of mysteries.”
I thought about it. It was the sort of question I would have asked without hesitation when I had been in Hartford. “You know, you are right. I haven’t been treating this like a story. I,…it’s as if things that happen here aren’t the same for me. I acted like it had to be something tragic, but not …not …”
“Evil?” she asked me.
“That wasn’t the word I was looking for, but ok, evil if you will. I guess I had better ask Reggie a few more questions.”
She stopped to look me in the face. “I don’t mean to tell you your job but, if this was Hartford, would you get all your info from the investigating officer and take it without question? Or would you get reports, ask the other people involved, things like that? It’s not that I think you shouldn’t trust Reggie, but should you rely on him to know the whole story?”
Again I was chagrined. She shouldn’t have to be telling me these things. It was like I had been sedated by the town, been lulled into a false sense of security, or trust or something. “You are right. How did you get so smart?”
She giggled and lay her head against my chest. It felt wonderful there. “I watch all the right movies” she said, and held me for a moment longer. Then she kissed me quickly and dashed off. “Race ya!” she cried and put on speed. I hurried to try and catch her but it was hopeless. I finally caught up just past the old Tario farmhouse. It sat empty and neglected. I thought about Eustice, and the way his voice sounded when he talked about his beloved Phrebene. We walked along laughing and touching until we got to the end of the paved road, next to Bertram and Barbara Barker’s house. Two faded ruts led off into the meadow beyond.
“In the spring this is a nice place for a picnic” Maggie said, leaning against me once more. I was grateful for the warmth, but even more grateful for the delicious feel of her breasts pressing against my chest, her hands around me.
“Is that a hint?” I asked her.
“See?” she said, “You are not as slow on the uptake as you seem”. She leaned into me and we stood for some time kissing, lost in each other. In the short time I had known Maggie I had trebled my total kissing time. I had kissed more in the last week than in the decade I lived in Hartford. It was great.
The day was growing darker as we headed back into town. I invited Maggie into my house, but she said she had some things to get done at home. I walked her down to her place, and then came home. No circles of salt or bags of burning shit awaited me. When I got in the door I saw the message light was flashing on my answering machine.
I pushed the play button, intending to hear this message and then give Reggie a call and ask if I could s
ee the autopsy report. What I heard on the machine drove out all thoughts of Reggie, or Sioban, even of Maggie. I heard Cora Gorely’s voice. She said “Tom, oh Tom, I had hoped you were home.” Her voice was thin and reedy, not at all the elderly but vital voice I had heard when she was telling me about the Hurleys. “It’s Clarence.” It took me a second to register this. Everyone has called Dad Burley for so long I had nearly forgotten his given name. “They’ve taken him to the Hospital in Clearfield. It’s, they think it’s a stroke.” She paused, as if confused or unsure about continuing. “He had a little one before. He, well, he knew this would happen sooner or later. It doesn’t look good, Tom. I’m getting Reverend Doland to drive me over there now. You should come, Tom. Soon as you can. Come.”
There was a beep and then the machine shut down. I hadn’t even taken off my coat so I was ready to leave right away. I didn’t think to call my brother, if I could even dig up his number, nor any of my other relatives. I didn’t even call Mags, who would no doubt have come with me. I just went out, forgetting to thumb the catch on the door, got in my car, and left.
I don’t remember much of the drive to Clearfield. It didn’t take a real long time, that much I can tell you. The Mercedes whipped down the highway and I was lucky I didn’t get a speeding ticket. Once I got to Clearfield it occurred to me I didn’t know which hospital to go to, the Catholic one or Clearfield General. I opted for the larger General Hospital and I guessed right. Visiting hours were long over, but since he was in intensive care they allowed me to go on up to the nurses station there.