“We’ve got snakes all over at the lake, Harold. Two boxes of number-five shot shells should do the trick,” my father said. “I need a new hunting hat too. Mine’s falling apart.”
“They’re right over there, near where LuAnn’s standing,” Harold said.
Daddy picked out a hat and put it on the counter.
Harold handed my father a bag with the boxes of shells inside and put the camouflaged hunting hat on Daddy’s head.
Daddy paid and we left.
“You look like a goof ball,” I said. “Wearing a hunting hat downtown.” We both laughed.
We walked around the comer to Jerry’s Barber Shop and sat down on the wooden bench to wait while Jerry cut two other customers’ hair.
Finally, since my father obviously wasn’t going to make it any easier, I got up my nerve and asked, “Don’t you want to talk about it, Daddy?”
“No.”
“Come on. You’ll feel better.”
“I don’t feel bad, I told you.” That look again.
“Are you mad at me?” I asked.
“No, LuAnn, I am not mad at you, but I will be if you don’t stop annoying me.”
“Please,” I begged. “I need to know what happened. I know you didn’t do anything wrong. I just want to hear what happened. Why they talked to you of all people, why you’re named in those documents. What does Dean Reese have to do with you?”
He took one of the boxes out of the bag and poured the shells into his new hat. He examined them, ignoring my pleas.
“I don’t think that’s too much to ask of you, Daddy!” I continued. “This is tearing me up, and you can stop it. I can’t stand not knowing. I’m a wreck. Just tell me the truth, please.” Tears I’d fought all afternoon found their release now.
He took on a pained expression, as if I were a dog that had misbehaved. “You remind me of your mother, the way she used to carry on like I don’t know what, bothering me endlessly. For the last time, LuAnn, I’m not going to discuss this with you, or your mother, or Ben, or anybody! It’s not anybody’s business.” He turned slightly toward me.
I fought to suppress a sob.
“I’ll say three things, all true,” he said, counting them off on his fingers. “One, this is all a bunch of old bullshit that somebody was bound to get around to eventually. Two, I had nothing to do with those boys dying. Three, Dean Reese was a mean, vindictive son of a bitch. Take it or leave it.”
I took it.
Jerry, the barber, pointed toward the empty chair.
Daddy unrolled his shirtsleeves and buttoned the cuffs. As he walked toward the barber chair, he turned around to look at me. “At least you don’t look like her, kiddo,” he said. He popped one of his s spenders and grinned.
After his haircut, my father returned to his office. I didn’t know where to turn, who to turn to, or what to do. I couldn’t bear to see anyone, so I walked past the Steak House, got in my oven of a car, and headed east out of Tallagumsa, out Old Highway 49 toward the memorial, the tree.
That July afternoon was no different from every other dog day that month. It was miserably hot. As I drove, the road shimmered in front of me and a thin haze turned the sky bright white. Sweat trickled down my chest, between my breasts.
At the tree, I pulled off the road, parked my car, and got out, kicking two beer cans out of the way. Behind the fence, the field was crowded with cornstalks towering about ten feet high.
I sat down cross-legged on the ground under the pine tree and pulled up a few blades of grass. I was tempted to talk to Leon and Jimmy and try to get their story when I heard a car coming to a stop a few feet away. I raised my head. It was Ben.
“I thought I might find you here,” he said as he climbed out of his car. We had come to visit the tree and the memorial twice since Ben arrived in town.
“Have you been driving by here all day hoping to see me?” I asked.
“No. But I’ve been by your parents’ place, your house, and the Steak House. So I figured you had to be riding your horse or else you were here. I tried here first. May I sit down?”
“It’s not against the law,” I said.
He sat down facing me. “How are you doing?”
“Not so great.”
“You look beautiful,” he said.
“Wonderful.”
“I’ve been trying to reach your dad,” Ben said. “He refuses to return my calls. I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Just don’t act suspicious,” I warned. “He’s a busy man, that’s all.”
“I’d really like to talk with him. I need to talk to him. I can’t help but think he’s avoiding me.”
“He barely talked to me about this whole mess, so don’t feel left out.”
“He talked to you?”
“Yeah, sort of. He said he had nothing to do with the murders, and that Dean Reese was a son of a bitch.”
“So why did Dean Reese say-”
I interrupted him. “I don’t know why! Goddamnit! I don’t know! You find out, Ben. You’re the reporter.” I threw the blades of grass onto the ground and wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.
“You’re still mad at me, I guess.”
“I’m mad that this has happened. I’m mad that we can’t see each other.”
“But we could see each other, LuAnn. We should. You and I just started something. We shouldn’t throw it away before we know what we’ve got. I need you, LuAnn.”
“That’s easy to say.”
“It’s true. I’ll be miserable without you.”
“Then stop this before it’s too late.”
Ben grimaced. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? It’s already too late.”
“I don’t want to believe that.”
“You have to,” he insisted. “Can I still call you?” he asked in a gentler tone.
“I guess so.”
“But we can’t see each other? That’s crazy.”
“No, we can’t! I can’t go to bed with someone who thinks my father may have killed someone. I should hate you. I’m surprised I don’t.”
“You shouldn’t hate me.”
“What would my daddy think if he saw me hanging out with you now, if he even saw us talking? I wish I didn’t care, but I do. This isn’t New York City, after all. I have to live here with all these people for the rest of my life.”
We sat quietly for a few minutes.
Ben sighed. “I wanted to tell you: A retired FBI agent in Baltimore who worked on the case has agreed to an interview with one of our reporters. That’s all my news. I’ll let you know when I know anything else. Mostly people are avoiding me and refusing to talk.”
“I told you that would happen,” I said. “Nobody will help you. They love my father too much.”
“I don’t care about them. I just wish you would come with me right now,” Ben said. He touched my knee.
I looked at his hand there, and for a second I wished that I could do just that.
“Please,” he said.
But I shook my head, got up, and drove away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I spent the following days in a numb and teary haze, going through the motions of my life: work, the children, sleeping, eating, and more work. Buck and my father thought I was overreacting. After all, the FBI had investigated the matter once fifteen years ago and nothing had come of it. They therefore saw no reason to postpone or cancel the upcoming major fundraising event planned at the farm of Birmingham millionaire M. Aaron Bullock.
Anxious for any distraction, I volunteered to oversee the set-up of the party at the Bullock farm. Buck was shocked and elated that I was finally getting on board the election bandwagon. He didn’t realize that I would have accepted almost any offer to escape from the Steak House where so many people were talking about the documents, Ben, and my father-mostly negative talk about “the Yankee traitor.” Within days of Ben’s receiving the documents, it was hard to find anyone in Tallagurnsa who had
n’t heard about Dean Reese’s accusations against my father. The farther away from town I could get, the better.
Buck loved M. Aaron Bullock because Mr. Bullock had been an early supporter of my father’s bid for governor, because (Buck claimed) he was the spitting image of Lyndon Johnson, and because he was famous all over the Southeast for his Christmas decorations.
Every Christmas, Bullock had his farm-including the seven barns, the mansion, the greenhouse, the tennis and pool fences, the pool house, and hundreds of the larger trees-hung with miles and miles of green, blue, orange, yellow, and red Christmas lights. Each year he invited the world to take a look, and the world came. Voters and the children of voters cherished Bullock’s Christmas extravaganza, and they’d love my father too, according to Buck, once they knew Newell Hagerdorn and M. Aaron Bullock were buddies.
After working at the Bullock farm the morning of the fundraiser, I returned home to rest and to get Jessie, Will, and Hank. Roland, worried about my mental health, drove back down with me and the kids. By this time every summer, Roland’s hair was streaked with varying shades of red, and his freckles were so dense that his skin took on their red-orange coloring.
Will and Hank, almost five months old now, were dressed in matching green and white seersucker short overalls and white shirts, compliments of Jane and Buck. During the air-conditioned car ride, the boys were all sweet smiles and “aahs,” “oohs,” and “baahs,” but the day was another hot, still, gnatty dog day, and within minutes of leaving the car, their golden hair was matted to their heads with sweat and an ugly red heat rash appeared on their necks. They were miserable. Will threw his red and blue plastic ring toy on the ground every few minutes, then howled in misery until it was retrieved. Hank fidgeted, his face puckered in discomfort.
Jessie wasn’t too happy either, but not because of the weather. Her father had been gone three weeks, and his absence was wearing on her. Although he came by the house each day while I was at the Steak House, she needed him home all the time. On the drive down to the Bullock farm I could hear her playing with her Barbies, convincing them and herself that Eddie would be at the party, even though I told her that wasn’t likely. Once the festivities began, Jessie walked from one group to the next, searching for her father.
We and the other early arrivals at the Bullock farm sought relief from the overpowering sun under the large yellow and white striped tent that covered the tables of food and drinks. At Buck’s behest, Bullock had strung Christmas lights from every available strut and pole. The lights would be turned on at sunset following Daddy’s speech.
Around seven o’clock, just as dusk and a hint of a breeze brought some relief, one of the waiters found me and told me I had a phone call. I followed him into the house and picked up the kitchen phone. It was Ben.
“How did you find me here?” I asked.
“Your father’s campaign schedule isn’t a state secret,” he said. “Buck gives any reporter who asks a detailed daily schedule. Hopes we’ll write something.”
“I’d hoped you wouldn’t be writing about Daddy ever again,” I said.
“I’m afraid I am. The Star is breaking the story this afternoon,” he said.
“What?” I asked, shocked. “But it’s too soon, Ben.”
“I can’t put it off. I wish I could,” he said. “I’ve postponed it as long as possible.”
“But maybe Daddy would cooperate more now,” I said. “If he knew the story was coming out.”
“I’ve tried to talk to him every day for a week, including today, LuAnn, and you know as well as I do he won’t budge. He told me so. No question about where your stubborn streak comes from.”
“What’s the story going to say?”
“That Dean Reese, an FBI informant, told the FBI that your father and Mr. Waddy were with him in the car and that your father killed Turnbow and Johnson. It’ll say the FBI covered it up because of its own problems with Dean Reese-to save their own asses, in other words. So your father won’t look like the only bad guy.”
“That really makes me feel a lot better,” I said. An ugly image formed in my mind of my father, Floyd Waddy, and Dean Reese together in a car out Old Highway 49 near the tree. I couldn’t bear the thought of that image being conveyed to the world outside Tallagumsa.
“A little something for everyone: murder, politics, coverup. You can’t help but have a hit, Ben.” Waiters from a Birmingham restaurant bustled past me, leaving the kitchen with trays of food, returning with empty trays. None of them noticed my distress.
“That’s not my goal, LuAnn,” Ben said.
“When will it be in the news here?”
“Probably tonight on television, tomorrow in the papers.”
“Everywhere else?”
“The same.”
“Who wrote the story?” I asked.
“Me,” Ben said.
“Your wife must be very proud.”
“She doesn’t know yet, LuAnn. Jesus Christ, don’t you think you’d be the first to know?”
I didn’t respond.
“Do you want to know anything else about it?” he asked.
“What else should I know?” I asked.
“Just that reporters will be desperate to interview you, and photographers will be after you for your picture. Maybe even your kids. You need to talk to Jessie and explain it to her.”
“You’re so full of cheery news, Ben.”
“I’m not happy about this either,” he said. “I’m lonely without you. Can I come by later, keep you company?”
“No, but thanks for calling. I mean it. Bye.”
I hung up the phone and stood stock still until I realized that I was holding my breath. Lightheaded, I grabbed the edge of the kitchen counter for support and tried to breathe. Then I walked slowly down the hall to the guest bathroom, locked the door, shut the toilet cover, and sat down. I took one deep breath, then another. As I threw my head back, for one last deep breath, I noticed the wallpaper: little covered wagons, each pulled by two horses, guided by a pioneer man with a pioneer woman at his side. I imagined the man taking care of the woman through Indian attacks, tornadoes, floods, childbirth, and the other traumas of pioneer life. Who could help me through this? Who could make everything better, as my father had always assured me he could when I was a child?
I came outside at the far end of the mansion and looked around. The rolling farmland was dotted with cows and horses. The party was behind me. Halfway up the driveway to the house, close to the barns, four Hereford cows blocked the way of an approaching car. The driver flashed his headlights on and off twice, and the cow facing the car moved on across the road. The others followed. I thought of the Cow Palace Restaurant and tried to recall the fun Ben and I had had that day, but I couldn’t find even the memory of those feelings.
Should I divulge the news now or wait until the fundraiser was over? I decided to wait and let Daddy have at least these few hours.
My sense of isolation and anxiety grew as I stood with most of my family and fifty or so guests under the party tent. Jessie had given up trying to find Eddie. Instead she was hitting everyone she knew, a little too hard to be cute. I’d never seen her act so wild. During a break from the hitting, I heard her sternly lecturing Will and Hank.
I walked to within earshot.
“If you hadn’t been born,” Jessie said, “I would still have a daddy.”
I didn’t have the energy to try to explain to Jessie that Eddie’s leaving had nothing to do with the twins. Obviously, although I’d tried, I hadn’t done a very good job of protecting her from the effects of the events of the last three weeks: my affair with Ben, Eddie leaving, the FBI documents. All were taking a terrible toll on my family.
My appetite was gone, but I tried a few bites of food in hopes that my misery would go unnoticed. It was useless. The very thought of food was nauseating.
“Don’t you feel well?” my mother asked as I picked at my food. “You’re eating like a bird.” Mother’s cu
rls were drooping in the heat, but otherwise she looked collected and comfortable in a lightweight white percale suit. Her American flag pin was on the right lapel.
“I’m okay, Mother,” I said, more sharply than I’d intended. I put down my plate and hid my shaking hands in the pockets of my sleeveless cotton dress.
“I saw something interesting the other day while I was eating at the Holiday Inn,” Buck said.
“Traitor,” Roland said. “Their food’s horrible.”
“It’s not as good as yours, Roland, but I was nearby and I was hungry. Anyway, I was looking out the window at nothing in particular when a bus pulled up. The destination on the bus was ‘HEAVEN.’ It was from the New Hope Baptist Church.”
Roland laughed. “Where can I catch that bus? Because I’m going to need it one day if I’m going to get there.”
Buck and Jane joined the laughter. Then, looking toward the podium, Buck exclaimed, “Newell’s about ready to give his speech. Everybody up there with him,” he suggested.
Mother, Buck, and Jane walked toward Daddy.
Suddenly I couldn’t stand another second of this. “Jessie, I’ll be right back,” I said. “Roland, will you keep an eye on the kids for a minute?” I walked away from the speech and past the house toward one of the more isolated fields. Two of Bullock’s huge black and tan German shepherds appeared at my side and licked my hands.
“Let’s go for a walk,” I said, happy to have them for company. I clucked my tongue and started down the steep hill.
The dogs and I walked across the field for a few minutes, stopping at a new barn I hadn’t noticed during the two days I’d spent here preparing for the event. Inside it smelled like pine and looked like a carnival. Strings of Christmas lights hung from the rafters straight down to the ground and formed a canopy across the ceiling. I flipped a light switch. All the hanging lights came on. I smiled despite myself I ran to the other end of the barn and flipped another switch. The ceiling was awash with red, yellow, blue, orange, and green.
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