“Who sent you these documents?” I asked.
“My editor.”
“What does he think?”
“He thinks that the only reason the Justice Department gave us this much is that Dean Reese is dead and there’s nothing else there.”
“If there’s nothing else there, then why’d they leave so much of these blacked out?”
“I’m tired,” Ben said. “We’ll talk later. The Star is going to appeal the case again, just as a matter of course, but that’s to the district court, and appeals there take years.”
“Years? Can’t we make the appeal go faster?”
“No. I’ll tell you why when I come in for breakfast.”
“See you tomorrow,” I said reluctantly. “We’ll talk more then.”
“Your dad?” Eddie asked.
I was surprised to see Eddie standing in the kitchen doorway in his jeans; no shirt, shoes, or socks. He watched me as I hung up the phone.
“Reliving the high points of his speech?” he asked wryly.
I shook my head.
“Your mother?”
“No.”
“Who was it?”
“Ben Gainey.”
He looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. “At eleven at night? You already talked to him most of the evening at the Steak House. What’s so important now?”
“There were some FBI documents in the envelope he gave me. Remember the ones I told you about that I saw right before I went back to work? You want to see them? They’re pretty amazing.” I picked up the envelope and offered it to him.
“Not really.”
“But they’re about the murders of Leon Johnson and Jimmy Turnbow, Eddie.”
“Why do you have them?”
“Ben’s not interested in it, but I am, so he gave them to me.”
“Running a restaurant and raising three children doesn’t keep you busy enough? You just have to stick your nose into everything.”
“That’s not it. I thought you’d be interested too. You always said it was important to bring their killers to justice. The memorial was your idea, as you insisted on reminding me the day of the courthouse dedication.”
“Do you have a date with Ben tomorrow?” Eddie asked matter-of-factly.
“Of course not. Why would you say that?” Estelle’s morning lecture replayed in my mind.
“Because you said ‘see you tomorrow’ to him.”
“Oh, that. He comes by for breakfast most mornings, as do many people. I see him then. I work there, remember?”
“Maybe I should start coming in for breakfast.”
“Fine with me,” I said. “You’ve only eaten there three times since I took over. Be nice to see you for a change.”
He turned and walked away.
I refilled my iced tea, pulled the documents out of the envelope, and reread them until I thought Eddie was probably asleep, then undressed, got in bed, and lay with my back to him. He began to stroke my back. I cringed, my stomach tightened, and I drew myself into a fetal position.
“Night,” I said. “I’m really tired.” I wasn’t the least bit tired, but I was too angry with him to make love.
“How unusual,” he said.
I didn’t say anything when he got up, dressed, and left the house. I must have been asleep when he returned.
CHAPTER TEN
Call her Miss Edwina,” I advised Ben. “Everybody does.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” Ben said.
“And you have to yell,” I said. “She’s pretty deaf. But her mind’s all there. She is truly a grand old lady, with more stories than anyone I know.”
Because Miss Edwina had lived here ninety-three years, Ben hoped she could provide a unique historical perspective on Tallagumsa.
I’d offered to ride out to her farm with him after she’d made it clear that she wouldn’t talk to him without me there and because I enjoyed watching Ben work. In the back seat was a box lunch for her that I’d packed at the Steak House, where Estelle was covering for me until I returned.
It was another sweltering day, but in deference to my aversion to car air conditioners Ben had turned his off and rolled down all the windows. The thick hot air blowing through the car offered little relief from the heat.
“Are you going to go to Mississippi soon?” I asked.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he said. “Why?”
“To check on the Dean Reese connection. The FBI document mentioned a similar Mississippi case. Remember?”
“Forget it.”
“I can’t. Yesterday Jessie and I returned some books she’d checked out to the library, and while we were there I did some quick research on unsolved Mississippi civil rights murders during the spring of 1963. There was Medgar Evers, shot in June, and a drive-by shooting into a black church in May that injured several people. But nothing about Dean Reese in any newspaper. I also tried to call his wife when I got home. She’s in Europe on business. I left my name and number.”
“Why are you so set on solving this case, LuAnn?”
“I don’t know. I guess there are a lot of reasons. It’s hard to be white in the South and not feel guilty for all the horrible things that happened even if you weren’t personally involved. But Daddy was sheriff when Jimmy and Leon were killed, and he was really, really upset over it. And I worked hard raising the money for the memorial, planning for it, and getting it built. Meeting Leon’s and Jimmy’s families and friends was what really hooked me, though. I spent a lot of time with them during the planning stages for the memorial and we became friends. Maybe it’s everything. I just feel somehow personally responsible for helping solve the case and seeing that justice is done. That’s why I bug you and why I’ll continue to bug you, Mr. See No Evil.”
Ben slowed down his BMW and looked at me. “You are one determined woman.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ll get you into this one way or the other. You might as well give up now.”
“We’ll see,” he said, laughing.
I directed him to make a left turn immediately after the turn I took when I came out to ride Glory.
In the distance, down the gravel road lined by weeping willow trees, was Miss Edwina’s house.
The house, partially hidden by several large magnolias, was a one-story clapboard farmhouse onto which the family had added a bedroom here and a den there over the years. It was in pristine shape, maintained by her four living children, twelve grandchildren, and multitudes of great-grandchildren. Two of the grown grandchildren lived with her in the house. Others had built homes nearby.
The gravel driveway wound past the rose gardens and bird feeders and ended in a circular drive in front of the house.
Edwina hobbled to the front door to greet us. She was a large old woman. With each step she leaned to one side, took a shallow breath, then lifted the other foot, and with great effort moved forward. Her breasts formed the beginning of a large mound that continued uninterrupted down to her waist. Her hairline and hands were splattered with liver spots. She wore tennis shoes, carefully pressed blue jeans, and a sweat shirt. Her long gray hair was braided, and the braid was twisted neatly around the top of her head like a halo.
I presented the box lunch, hugged her, and introduced Ben.
“You look adorable,” I said.
“Shoot,” Edwina said, waving her hand as though swatting at a fly. “I look silly! My great-grandchildren want me to be ‘in,’ they said. ‘In’ what? I asked, but these clothes are comfortable. There’s no denying that. I told them, ‘At least you didn’t give me hot pants!’ “ She laughed and turned toward Ben. “You didn’t tell me he was such a handsome young man, LuAnn.”
“Why Miss Edwina!”
“I may be old,” Edwina responded, “but I’m not dead!”
All three of us laughed.
“Go get the iced tea, dear,” she said to me. “Everything’s all set out in the kitchen.”
A few moments later, Ben and I were seated on the cou
ch, Edwina on the matching love seat, each of us with an iced tea.
Ben explained to Edwina about the book he was writing and asked her to talk about what life was like here, anything she remembered, anything that stood out.
The tape recorder whirred and Ben jotted down some notes in his steno pad as Edwina spoke about the year electric lights came to town, the toilet her family had on the back porch, the Sears & Roebuck catalog pages that papered the inside walls of the house, and the red brick streets in town, torn up and paved in the late thirties. She related her baptism in a creek that was long gone and how their church met in a barn. She said she had every one of her babies without a doctor (an old black midwife named Early had helped), the first baby born when she was barely fifteen.
Ben was content for the most part to let her speak, asking a question occasionally when Edwina temporarily lost the flow of her story.
“How do you like these dog days?” Edwina asked Ben out of the blue.
“The heat, you mean?” he asked.
“Not just the heat. During the dog days mockingbirds don’t sing, rattlesnakes strike anything that moves within their reach, cuts don’t heal, and dogs go mad.”
“Sounds serious,” Ben said.
“We used to warn our children to stay away from strange dogs, in case they might be mad, and we locked up pets and hunting dogs so they wouldn’t get in fights with rabid dogs. If you heard that there was a mad dog in town during the dog days, why that’d scare the living daylights out of everybody.”
After a few hours Edwina began to wind down and Ben moved her gently into the present, asking whom she planned to vote for in the gubernatorial election. Edwina confided that she’d vote for my father. I could see that the interview was coming to an end. Edwina’s eyelids were fluttering slightly and Ben was leafing through his notes. On a hunch, I asked her if she knew anything about the murders. I knew Ben wouldn’t even mention it, and when I did he looked at me and rolled his eyes.
“Why would I know anything about that?” Edwina asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ben said quickly. “Of course you wouldn’t.”
“Well, son, I do know one thing about it, as a matter of fact,” she said. She smiled at the surprised looks on our faces. “I don’t guess it’ll do any harm to tell you now, since he’s dead. I think ... he’s dead, anyway.”
Was she talking about Dean Reese? I wondered.
She stopped for a moment to think. “I’m sure he is. Well, I’ll tell you what it was. I heard that the FBI paid a visit on Floyd Waddy in Cullman and asked him some questions about it.”
Floyd Waddy! “He’s definitely dead,” I said. He had been a good friend of my father’s.
“I wasn’t real sure because I didn’t even know Floyd, but his wife’s mother was best friends with my sister Haddie, bless her heart. That’s how I came to hear of the FBI,” Edwina explained. “Get me some more iced tea, LuAnn, hon.”
As I stood up, I tried to suppress a grin. This was a real lead Ben couldn’t possibly ignore. “I’ll set out your lunch for you too,” I said.
“I don’t believe those nigger boys deserved what they got,” Edwina was saying when I returned, “but they should have known something like that probably would happen.”
“Why do you say that?” Ben asked.
“Well, they were trying to mix,” Edwina explained. “It probably was one of those Yankee lawyers who got the niggers to sue, who got them thinking crazy. You know, they didn’t need our university. They had their own schools. In my day they weren’t allowed to drive or to try on clothes at our stores. We were all happier then. Them and us. Nobody says that anymore, but it’s true. The Lord made us different, and we should keep ourselves separate. I’ve heard some even date whites now. The Devil’s hand is in that sure as can be.” Nothing in Edwina’s countenance had changed. Her tone was as sweet as ever. She could have been discussing her great-grandchildren.
“Why don’t you come get your lunch?” I suggested. “We’ll talk more another day if you feel like it.”
“Y’all stop and visit my parakeets on the way out, and the dogs too,” Edwina said. She eased herself down into her kitchen chair for lunch.
I hugged her, but it didn’t feel right after what I’d heard her say. When I turned to wave good-bye from the front door, her eyes were closed and her head was dropped in prayer.
I took off my sandals and carried them in my hand. Ben and I walked across the patio, toward the barns. Browning magnolia blossoms littered the yard.
I started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“How could that sweet old lady say those horrible things?” I asked.
“Don’t you ever hear people talk like that?” he asked. “Because that’s sure not the first person I’ve heard say those things. You’re in Alabama, LuAnn.”
“I know where I am, thank you very much. I never heard her talk like that, that’s all, and we’ve spent so much time together. My horses have been in her barn since I was little. Maybe her mind is going after all these years.” I pulled open the door of the older of the two barns. Its wood was weathered a gray-blue shade. “You’re not going to believe this, Ben.” I laughed and held out my right arm as if making a presentation.
Inside the barn were hundreds of parakeets-at least three hundred yellow, blue, green, white, and lavender birds, imprisoned by the wire mesh that hung across each opening, a second skin inside the walls of wood, its openings too small for even a parakeet to slip through. The birds flew back and forth from one wire-mesh perch to another, congregating mainly at the windows and doors where light poured through. Fruit and seeds were scattered across the dirt floor, as were a few old hollow tree trunks.
“She sells them, most of them at Easter,” I said.
“Only in the South,” Ben said. He shook his head slowly back and forth. Then he pulled the lens cap off his camera and tried to capture the bizarre scene while I sat, thinking, on the seat of an orange tractor nearby.
“Why don’t we try to talk to Floyd Waddy’s widow, Berta, today?” I suggested as we drove out of Edwina’s driveway.
“Where does she live?”
“Cullman, less than an hour away. Let’s stop and I’ll call her. We’re not too far from my parents’. We could call from there.”
“Do your parents know you’re so into this?”
“Not yet. My mother would say it was silly. She’s not particularly interested in controversy. And Daddy is so busy with the governor’s race that I thought I should wait to tell him if and when I got more facts. I told you he was devastated when it happened. I know he’d be thrilled to have this solved while he’s mayor. Of course, Buck would be happy with the good publicity.”
“Is it okay if we call from my place?” Ben asked. “I need to pick up more tapes if we see Berta Waddy, and I could fix us a couple of sandwiches.”
“I told you I’d get you to work on this,” I said, grinning.
“I’ll talk to her. That’s all, though,” he said.
At Ben’s, he made the sandwiches while I called Berta Waddy from the kitchen phone. Making an effort to restrain myself, I avoided mentioning the real reason for my call. I explained that I was helping Ben locate people to interview for his book. He would like to see Berta, I said, because of her knowledge of fish farms, a booming business in the New South. Berta said she’d love to talk to Ben, but that it would have to wait until next week, when she returned from a church retreat for which she was about to leave.
I hung up and stood in front of the sink, looking out one of the windows at Mother’s chapel. Ben walked up behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders. I turned around and saw in his eyes that he didn’t want to talk about Berta Waddy.
For a while we just stood there, kissing and looking at each other. “Did you know you have golden flecks in your eyes?” I asked him.
He just smiled, took my hand, and led me slowly down the hall into the bedroom.
Only then did I admit to myself that this was exactly what I’d wanted for some time.
Hours later, we were still in bed. I’d called the restaurant to make sure everything was okay. I propped myself up on my right elbow and looked down at Ben. His eyes were just about half open. The thought of returning to work or going home was suddenly unbearable. I didn’t want the afternoon to end. I didn’t want the magic spell we were under to be broken.
“I know!” I said. ’Til take you to the Cow Palace. No book on the South would be complete without a paragraph on that famous landmark.”
Ben pulled my hair back into a ponytail in his hand, drew me down toward him, and kissed me.
A little while later, in the shower, I thought briefly and guiltily about Eddie. It wasn’t his fault that we rarely saw each other, that we were both too busy with work and the children to ever spend time alone. As I faced the falling water, Ben slipped into the shower and began to soap my back, massaging my shoulders, and then working his way down to the small of my back, where he lingered, his hands on my waist and his thumbs rubbing lightly. I arched my back with pleasure. My thoughts of Eddie vanished.
The sun had begun its descent in the afternoon sky when Ben and I left his house. He drove northwest from Clark Lake away from Tallagumsa. Within a few miles of the restaurant, we passed several Cow Palace billboards featuring huge cartoonish black and white cows.
“All these cows,” I said, laughing. “And the best is yet to come. Slow down. There she is. Pull in here.” I pointed to the giant plaster cow statue that dwarfed both the rectangular brick building-the Palace--and the nearby trailer, where the owners lived.
We went inside and ate barbecue sandwiches and coleslaw. Both of us were starving.
It was after seven by the time Ben dropped me off at the Steak House to get my car. I drove straight home.
The house was unusually quiet: no music, TV, or children talking and laughing. Eddie was sitting in a living-room chair. He wore a tan summer suit, a white shirt, and a burgundy and blue striped tie. I hadn’t even known he’d bought a suit.
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