“Let’s go,” John yelled upstairs as I was pulling up my trousers.
“I’m ready.” I ran down the stairs into the kitchen where my mother and uncle were waiting for me by the door. My mother handed me my wool coat and cap. My dress shoes were waiting for me next to the pulled out kitchen chair.
The rain had dwindled to a few sprinkles, but the sky still held the misery of the day within the layers of grayness. John opened the car door for my mother, and I jumped in the seat behind them. We headed out of Linden, past the post office and the schoolhouse I used to attend, and we headed left around the bend across from Florence Kingsley’s farm. My mother and I waved to Florence as she stepped into her barn carrying a tin pail in her hand. I turned, and I looked out the back window. Junior was carrying a shovel as he walked toward the apple orchard.
“Florence has always been one to keep to herself. I never see much of her unless I’m driving by and see her outside, working,” my mother said casually.
“With neighbors like Helen, it’s probably good that she keeps to herself,” Uncle John said, and then let out a brief chuckle. “She doesn’t give a thought about telling you about someone’s business.”
“No, she doesn’t.” My mother nodded in agreement. “But we all know Helen means well. She calls on everyone in need.”
“Yes, she does, and after she calls on them, she takes an earful with her!” My Uncle eyed my mother for a moment. Then he looked back at the road as he shook his head.
“I’m not going to disagree with you, John, but after knowing her for so many years, I know she sees everyone in the hamlet as her family. I truly believe that she wouldn’t concern herself with anyone’s business if she and Travis had children. And if she did have children, she’d be a busy grandmother by now. She wouldn’t have time to concern herself with everyone else.”
“She doesn’t call on the Chapmans,” I said. “I don’t think Leon’s family likes her too much.”
“I know that Helen can go a little too far at times. So I am careful what I tell her. I’m sure it was something like that with the Chapmans. I’m sure that over time it will all be forgotten.”
I stared off in the distance at patches of woods and the open fields until the cold, brown earth met the dreary sky.
“That reminds me: Mertie stopped by for tea this morning. And she was telling me that Junior received a letter from the bank yesterday. He brought it over to her last night so she could read it to him. I told him a number of times that if he would just come over two or three nights a week after dinner, I would teach him to read.” My mother looked back at me. “Would you please remind him of my offer?”
“I don’t think it’s going to do much good. I’ve told him that before. He always says that he ain’t got any use for reading.”
“Well, if he’s having Mertieread his mail to him, then apparently hedoes have a use for it.” My mother glanced back at me again. I nodded, agreeing with her. “He might end up in a situation with someone who should not be trusted. If you can’t read, then you don’t know what you are signing.”
“Junior has always been a hard one to figure out,” Uncle John said in a puzzled tone. “He’s a nice fella, but he’s an odd one.”
“The Kessler boys were young when they lost their mother, and with Junior being the youngest, life was probably the hardest for him,” my mother said. “I’m sure that’s why he left school at such a young age too. I recall Mertie saying that Junior has been working on farms since he was six or seven years old. She assured me that Valerie—”
“He’s been working on farms for twenty years?” I asked in a slightly high pitched voice.
“That sounds right. He’s almost thirty, so yes, about twenty years,” my mother replied.
“That’s a long time,” I said. “I don’t know if I want to do farm work for the next twenty years.”
Uncle John let out a laugh. “You’re only eleven, so everything is a long time to you. And if you decide that running the farm isn’t what you want to do down the road when I retire, we can sell it. Farming is hard work and long hours.”
My mother nodded. “Itis hard work. And no one said that you have to work on the farm all of your life. That’s why I insist that you get a high school diploma. There are other ways to earn a living.”
“Yeah, I know. But for now, working on the farm is all right.”
John glanced over at my mother. “Weren’t you going to say something about Valerie?”
“Yes, I was about to, but somehow we started talking about the farm. What I was going to say is that when Mertieand Senior were married, the boys were all grown and had just started living on their own. She did tell me that Valerieis going to finish high school. Of course, they could use the extra money if she was hired as a house girl when she turns thirteen or fourteen. But they would rather see her graduate and work as a secretary.” My mother glanced over her shoulder at me. “By the way, have you seen Valerie lately?”
“No, not lately,” I replied casually, hoping that my tone conveyed a lack of interest to hide how lovely I thought she was. She looked so beautiful when she wore her long blonde hair back in a blue bow that matched her eyes. Every time I would look over at her sitting at her desk at school and she’d smile at me, my heart would beat a little harder.
“Since you don’t see her at school anymore, you should visit her sometime. I’m sure she’d like to see you.”
I nodded and then turned to look out the side window at the buildings that lined the city of Batavia. “Yeah, maybe I’ll stop and see her sometime,” I mumbled.
Talking about Valerie almost made me forget where we were going. Uncle John pulled up in front of what looked like a huge white house with a large porch. My palms and forehead moistened, and I could hear my heart pounding against my ribcage. I began to sweat as I stepped out of the car. I walked ahead of my mother and John. When I reached the top of the steps, I wiped my hands on my trousers, removed my cap, and then entered through the parlor door. The parlor was quiet and bright. There were no candles on the walls dripping wax onto the floor. And there was no woman crying.
A tall man with reddish-blond hair and a mustache, wearing a black three-piece suit, stood guard in front of the double glass-paned doors. “Is that your mother and father, young man?” he asked, gesturing behind me as my mother and Uncle John entered the foyer.
“It’s my m-m-mother and, and my Uncle John.” I stuttered my words.
“Please wait for them; we don’t allow children in without a parent,” he said in a soft, smooth voice.
I glanced over my shoulder, and I stood still, waiting for them to catch up to me. My mother came over to me and grabbed my hand like I was five years old. “Are you sure you want to go in there?”
I hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, and nodded, hoping she wouldn’t feel my hand shaking. “I may have seen her get off the train,” I said quietly, and then used the back of my other hand to wipe my forehead.
My mother turned, and she nodded at the man. He pushed the door open.
There was an old woman in a dark green dress wearing a matching hat with a black feather sticking up and two men in dark suits, all of whom were standing near the open casket. The old woman turned around and looked at us. The two men stepped aside as the woman shook her head. Her eyes narrowed. My mother gave her a brief smile appropriate for a room with a dead body lying in a casket.
I heard my Uncle John’s voice behind me talking to the man guarding the door. My mother and I slowly stepped toward the casket. I could feel the walls of my stomach clench and twist. I could feel the wetness in the palm of my hand. My mother’s grip was firm. I let go of her hand so I could wipe my sweaty palm on my trousers again. Then she reached for my hand again. I began to think thatshewas the one who needed to holdmy hand.
As we approached the casket, I looked directly at the lady’s new face. I stared at the molded plaster, which looked like bread dough with too much water. The eyes were paint
ed on its milky white surface. They were out of place.
My eyes moved over the body of the lady. I remembered her dark blue skirt, her purple velvet hat that was tilted to the side as she walked through the trees on that sunny day. However, I didn’t remember her small leather handbag that rested on the back of the casket, or the small cameo, or the hair pins sitting next to it, all lined up for someone to recognize.
My mother shook her head. “There isn’t any way that anyone could know who she was from this face.” My mother let go of my hand and placed her arm around my shoulder. “I could be staring at my own mother and not know it,” she whispered.
I shook my head. “It doesn’t look like her,” I said under my breath.
My mother turned, and she stared down into my eyes. “What do you mean, it doesn’t look like her?” she asked in a deep whisper that demanded an answer. “It doesn’t look likewho?”
I could feel the heat rush over my face as coldness clutched my stomach. “A lady that I saw at the train depot,” I replied in a shaky tone. “I saw her a couple of times when I was going to the store.”
“Saw who, what lady?” My mother’s eyes held on for a confession.
“A lady… But she was taller, much taller.”
“Someone you know?”
I shook my head no as guilt crawled all over me. But the lie needed to be told.
“Why didn’t you tell me what you were thinking, and that it might have been someone that youspecifically remember seeing in the hamlet?”
I shrugged my shoulders with my mother’s eyes fixed on me. “I did say that. I told you that I might have seen her get off the train. Then I kept seeing this lady in my head. So I kept thinking it might be her.” My guilt had slid down my throat and wrapped itself around each word that fell out of my mouth.
My mother’s face softened, and her eyes dropped to the floor for a moment before resting back on mine. “All right, I understand what you are trying to tell me.” My mother gently grasped my hand again, and we turned to leave. “At least you can put your thoughts to rest.” My mother gave me a solemn grin. “And now, I know I finally understand why you insisted on coming here.”
I nodded before we walked through the foyer and left the funeral parlor. My guilt began to feel like a disease, sickening my every thought. All of a sudden, the man in the road staring back at me flashed in my head. He was reading my face like the front page headline.
Seven
1922
I opened my eyes and saw that the bright sunshine had filled my room. I lay there, tired and worn out from the six-day work week at the farm. I was too tired to do anything. I thought back to the days when I’d wake up at the first peek of the sun, excited to go hunting and trapping. But after that day in Harlow’s woods, something changed. Killing an animal—even though it was for a good reason—over time, lost its appeal. Leon would always ask me, but I’d make up an excuse that I was too busy working. He understood because he was busy working on his family farm too. Maybe it was the blood and guts that reminded me of the lady who died in Harlow’s woods. Or maybe it was because I felt like the animal being hunted that day I witnessed the lady’s murder. The thought reminded me: I still needed to go back and find my trap. But every time I thought about going back there to look for it, I couldn’t bring myself to go back into those woods and have to remember.
That day in Harlow’s woods—already five years in the past—found a place in an old trunk in the attic of my mind. The trunk’s latch was broken, allowing the memory of that day when I hid behind the large rock to crawl out and disturb me from time to time.
As for the lady with the plaster face, she was buried in the Batavia Cemetery with the word Unknown on her headstone. The Presbyterian Church donated the money for her burial. Sadly, her family never learned of her life’s tragic end, and probably never would.
Around Linden, the unknown lady’s murder also found its place in the past. And the fear that kept everyone’s doors locked had turned to dust, and the murder settled on the shelves in their minds alongside the rest of their faded memories.
Everyone moved on, including my mother. Last year, my mom brought Uncle John to see his doctor, Dr. O’ Hara. She ended up meeting his son, Joseph O’Hara, who happened to be in his father’s office that day. He had recently graduated from the University at Buffalo’s Law School and had just been hired by the Genesee County District Attorney’s office.
At first, it was difficult for me when Joseph started calling on my mom. Even though Joseph seemed like a good man, it was uncomfortable to see my mother spending time with a man other than my father. But it was clear how content she was with him. Not only was shecontent, she wasreally smitten with Joseph. He would always take her to the finest places including the fancy Richmond Hotel in Batavia for dining and dancing. As the months passed, and mom’s joy continued, I realized that I had to set my feelings aside because it wasn’t fair to her. She was a widow. My dad was gone. And my mother deserved to be happy again.
One night after supper, my mother and Joseph were talking about the unknown lady. He was telling us that he wrote about the unsolved case in college, and how he had spent a lot of time reading all of the news articles that were stored at the Richmond Library.
I realized that, although I knew more than anyone else about what actually happened that day in Harlow’s woods, I didn’t know anything about the investigation. So that next day, I drove to the library, and I read all about it, hoping that maybe I could finally close that trunk that sat in the back of my mind and lock it for good.
I learned that the investigators knew that the couple exited the train at the Lehigh-Valley Railroad Station on Ellicott Street at approximately 11:00 that morning. The man was seen again entering New York’s Central Station forty-five minutes later. The investigators believed that the man had enough time to commit the murder. I could, of course, verify that he had. I also read that they believed that he must have visited Harlow’s woods at least one other time before the murder in order to dig the shallow grave. No one claimed to know who they were or recognized them in a town where everyone seems to know each other. I thought that explained the lingering belief that the man and the woman were not from the area.
After reading through the articles, I gathered that even if I met with the sheriff and investigators and told them that I was there in the woods that day, I could not have described his face. I don’t remember looking back at him as he chased me. But I assumed he had seen my face well enough. At least it was a lot safer to assume he did, which had left me with no choice but to spew out lies to protect myself from the man who would see my name in bold print on the front page of theBatavia Daily News.
I lay there staring at the ceiling for a while, trying to fall back asleep.So much had changed over the past five years.
“Fritz, are you awake?” mom called up the stairs.
“Yeah, why?” I replied in a voice that was barely intelligible.
“Valerie’s here: she wants to know if you would like to go to church with us. Martha is singing today.”
Since Valerie Kessler and I graduated high school at the end of May, I’d called on her a couple of times because she was the prettiest girl I knew, but there was more. We were good friends, and I enjoyed spending time with her. But we never admitted that weliked each other, even though I think we both did.
Church?I put the pillow over my head for a moment and then turned my head toward my bedroom door. “Yeah, I guess. Give me about fifteen minutes.”Who came up with this idea?Martha sang at church every Sunday! So Valerie just happened to come over without her parents to ask me and my mother to go to church with her?Leave it to two women, to come up with a plan.
After I washed up, I found my dark brown trousers and cream-colored shirt and threw them on. I poured a little Brilliantine hair oil into my hand, rubbed my palms together, and smoothed the oil into my hair. I parted it to the side, and I slicked it back with my comb, then headed down stairs. Valerie and
my mother were sitting at the kitchen table, sipping tea.
“Hallo.” I smiled as I walked into the kitchen, catching a whiff of cinnamon and apples.
“Good morning, honey. Did you sleep well?” my mother asked. She seemed to have an extra cheery smile spread across her face.
“Yeah, but my plan was to sleep another two or three more hours,” I said and let out a chuckle. “But a couple of scheming ladies had other ideas.” I set my tired eyes on Valerie’s lovely face.
Valerie smiled at me. “I’m so glad you’re coming with us,” Valerie said with sparkling blue, delighted eyes. Strands of her golden blonde hair had fallen out of the loose pile on her head.What a doll! I guess she is worth losing a couple hours of sleep.She looked prettier than ever.
“Well, I didn’t have much to do this morning other than sleep, so why not take a lovely lady to church.” I rested my eyes on Valerie.
My mother placed her hand on her chest. “Am I suddenly being excluded?”
“Oh, you too, Mom. I meant to say ladies!” I leaned over and gave my mother an apologetic kiss on the cheek. “Mmmm, Ma: you made apple pie this morning?” I asked, noticing the two pies sitting on top of the woodstove.
“No, I brought them over. Last night, I helped Helen bake pies for the church bake sale today,” Valerie said. “So I brought a couple over for you and your mom.”
“Well, thank you for thinking of us.” I strolled over to the stove, broke off a piece of glazed crust, and bit into the cinnamon-flavored pie shell. “So where’re your mom and dad? Did they already leave for church?”
“My dad isn’t feeling too well this morning, so my mother decided to stay home with him,” Valerie replied, a touch of aggravation rattling through her voice.
“What, too much cider last night?” I asked and chuckled.
She nodded. “Well, yeah.” Valerie’s reply held a trace of embarrassment. “They’ve been arguing all morning, and my mom is just too angry at him to worship. Even though I told her she needs to go pray for him today.”
Shadow by the Bridge Page 5