Sugar in Her Bowl

by India Maslany

  "I-I'm just resting," Velma said. "Is there anything new in the paper?" Her voice was low, as if she were embarrassed or ashamed to ask such a thing. The look on her face concerned Lamont. "You can rest in here. Come sit down before you give me an ulcer!" Lamont took an authoritative tone with her, one that surprised her enough that she did exactly what he said without another word.

  "I th-think I'll make breakfast up here," Velma said. "I feel c-cold, Lamont." Lamont squinted at Velma, noticing the perspiration that glistened on her face.

  Lamont stood. "I'll take care of the food," he said.

  "No," she protested. "I'll do it. Just bring the food up here. Tomorrow morning, Delia can help with things."

  "Here, you come sit in my chair. It's more comfortable than that stiff-backed thing you always sit in," Lamont said gently. "Woman, I do wish you'd rest. You'll be dead before the year is over if you don't take it easy."

  Once more, she obeyed her husband, taking a seat in his comfy chair. He watched her carefully as she rested. She moved the newspaper off of the armrest. Lamont stepped forward and took it from her.

  "The paper says the police has a special detective on the case," Lamont said. "He's looking over all the facts. Apparently, he's helped the FBI solve some cases. Anyway, he came out of retirement to help out. The Hangman's known all across the country now, Velma! I think the Hangman's reign of terror is finally over! You should read it; this special detective will probably get a reward. You can tell he enjoys his work, tracking down bad guys."

  "I don't think there's anything to enjoy about such work," Velma said.

  "I think he'll enjoy it if he catches that Hangman!" Lamont said. "He's already figured out something that was overlooked. The Hangman wears rubber soled shoes. I wonder what Carter will have to say about that."

  "Lamont, would you go get the food, please?" Velma asked, exasperated at her husband's morbid enthusiasm.

  Lamont left the room, troubled over his wife. Something was wrong. She wasn't saying, but Lamont had been married to Velma long enough to know that something wasn't right at all. He didn't mind so much when she spoke harshly to him. He had gotten used to that. But her mood had been up and down constantly. He had no idea where he stood with her minute by minute.

  And the fact that she actually sat in his chair. That was something she had never done before in all the time they were married. Velma had purchased the chair as a birthday present for him early in their marriage and not once had she ever sat in the chair or expressed interest in sitting in it.

  They had been happy again when Mr. Lockhart first came to their house. Maybe the sudden shift from near poverty and anxiety to peaceful quiet and security had been too much for her, he thought. And of course this terrible business with the Hangman. All of Charleston's nerves were on edge, Velma no exception. But the fact that she had gone from having no interest in the Hangman's tale to regularly inquiring about the murderer's latest fiendish acts seemed puzzling to Lamont.

  Lamont always enjoyed the macabre (he loved reading detective tales) and Velma tolerated but never endorsed such interests. The same applied to Lamont's regular conversations with Carter about his detective work. Sometimes, however, she would bark at them, "The way you two talk, you'd think there were no nice, decent people in the world!"

  Velma had changed. Now, she wanted to hear the latest just as much as the next person. Why? Why the change, Lamont wondered.

  As Lamont pondered these things, he began to make an omelet, something a French chef once taught him to do many years ago. He expected Velma to have words about making such a thing, but Lamont noticed that her appetite was poor lately.

  Once he finished preparing the food, he took it up to Velma and to his surprise, she accepted it gratefully. She had been reading the newspaper, something not lost on Lamont. Velma rarely if ever looked at a newspaper. He noticed that she had been scrutinizing the special detective article.

  The paper stated the special detective had discovered clues that had escaped the regular detectives assigned to the case. For example, he had been at the last crime scene within a half hour of it being committed when he found an footprint -- the murderer's left foot, to be exact.

  The paper had a small photo of the footprint. It described the worn rubber sole captured in the image. Of course, the special detective admitted, many Charleston residents wear rubber soled shoes. Velma smiled at this thinly. She felt a small wave of relief wash over her.

  When Lamont had entered with the tray, Velma looked up. "Velma, put down that paper right now," Lamont said. "This omelet will turn into rubber if you don't eat it now."

  Velma complied. When she finished her breakfast (half of the omelet), she picked up the newspaper again. She began delving into the stories about the Hangman and his crimes.

  There was going to be an inquest today: two o'clock in the afternoon. The court and the law enforcement officials (and the special detective, Velma assumed) would be there to go over the facts of the Hangman murders and give statements concerning the Hangman's capture.

  Velma began to think: By two o'clock (or earlier) Mr. Lockhart would have his lunch. She and Lamont could have theirs sooner. Daisy wasn't arriving until late afternoon.

  Velma rose from her husband's chair. "You're right, Lamont," she said. "I need to see a doctor. I think I'll go this afternoon."

  A crisis is less frightening and much easier to handle courageously when it happens again and again, as opposed to a milder experience that happens without warning.

  Velma had gone to an inquest once before in her life, as a character witness. It was something she never forgot, despite the fact many years had passed since that event.

  The tragic event that led to Velma appearing at the inquest happened at a house where a very young Velma had worked for her elderly employer. A young housemaid, someone Velma knew only briefly, as she tended to areas of the house Velma rarely entered, had killed herself over a footman who had spurned her affection for another. To make matters far more heartbreaking, the maid was pregnant with the footman's child, although he denied such a notion vehemently.

  Prior to her suicide, the poor girl had spoken to Velma, seeking solace from someone -- anyone -- who would listen. It was, in a sense, a cry for help. She expressed to Velma that she felt heartbroken over the footman's words and deeds and that she'd be better off dead.

  Velma had tried to comfort the young girl, but she became despondent, left the house and walked into a nearby pond, never to return until the sheriff and his deputies fished her out of the pond when she'd gone missing for a day.

  It was scandalous, to say the least, shattering the otherwise serene decorum of the household.

  As Velma dressed for her fictional visit to the doctor, she remembered so many details from that tragic event and how she fit into the story.

  The inquest was held at a nearby country inn. The butler escorted Velma to the inn, for he was also required to give evidence. The inn was bustling with activity. This scandalous story had brought people from all over the county.

  What was also rumored was the footman's other romance was not that of a woman, but rather another footman who lived at a nearby estate.

  Velma was surprised at how well she was received. The law enforcement and inn staff were polite to her, allowing her and the butler to wait in an upstairs room, where comfortable chairs and food and drink had been provided. The butler scowled at Velma entertaining any notion of partaking. He was a butler who had served Velma's employer for many years. Being a butler was all he knew.

  She remembered she hated being a witness. She wanted to run away, as if she committed a crime herself. She dreaded the thought of getting in front of the officials to tell her account of this sad tale.

  It turned out to be far less ominous than she feared. The district attorney was a kind, warm man. He even complimented Velma for her ability to give her testimony clearly and fully about the sad housemaid and her unrequited love for the footman, without too much
prompting or follow-up questions from the officials.

  Only one official proved to be slightly difficult. He asked Velma, "Shouldn't you have told someone, your employer or the house butler, what this young woman said to you? Maybe she would have been unable to take her own life then?" The district attorney spoke up and countered the question, saving Velma from having to answer such a question. Had she been pressed, her response would have been that she didn't take the girl serious, for young girls were foolish and prone to saying the most extreme of things when it came to love. Besides, what kind of woman would be so silly and stupid to drown herself for the love of a man?

  Velma wondered if the afternoon inquest concerning the Hangman would be similar to what she personally experienced so many years ago.

  It hadn't been a simple inquiry. She remembered how the district attorney, bit by bit, ferreted the truth from the footman, the devil who had broken the housemaid's heart. Velma had despised the man the first time she'd laid eyes on him. The district attorney attacked the footman's character, accusing him of not only deceiving the young maid but how he was a moral degenerate and a sodomite.

  The attorney read from the dead girl's diary. A few of the women who sat at the inquiry dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs at the sad tale the dead girl told in her own words.

  The officials, each and every one of them, glared at the footman until Velma thought he would burst into hellfire and be utterly consumed right there on the spot.

  Once all was said and done, two of the sheriff's deputies escorted the footman out of the room as some jeered and taunted the man. Velma never saw the footman again. By the time she returned to her employer's estate, he was long gone, everything that was evidence of him ever having worked there removed forever.

  She wondered if Lamont ever attended an inquest. She thought of asking him, but quickly dismissed the idea. If she asked him, he might suspect she was thinking of attending the Hangman inquest.

  But then again, would he really? Would he suspect her of telling a lie?

  Wait -- had she told a lie? She intended to see the doctor after the inquest ended. If there was any time left. How long would the inquiry take? There was so little known. Surely it would be a short session?

  There was one point of discussion she wanted to hear: the testimony and evidence of those who believed they witnessed the Hangman leaving the scene of the crime.

  She was painfully and morbidly eager to hear the people describe the Hangman's appearance.

  Velma returned to the sitting room. Her paleness caught Lamont's attention.

  "Velma," he said. "You need to head on to the doctor. You look like you're about to go to a funeral. I'll walk you to the bus stop."

  "What about Mr. Lockhart? You said you'd stay here in case he needs something." Velma would have normally snapped at him, but she sounded just as tired as she looked.

  "Why not wait until tomorrow, when Delia returns? That way she can go with you, in case you need help."

  "No, I'll take care of this myself. I'll be all right, you silly old man. Don't worry about me so much."

  "Well, I do. Because I'm your husband and I love you."

  Velma put on her heavy coat, fastening it tight around her. She despised herself, deceiving Lamont as she had ever since the tenant arrived. Maybe she deceived him even before then, treating him with contempt and blaming him for their impoverished state before Mr. Lockhart arrived.

  But how could she tell him everything? Surely he would banish her from the house and then where would she go? It would break his heart if she told him the truth. No matter how she felt she might break into not telling everything what she felt deep in her heart what was true. About everything.

  Fortunately, the fresh air, still thick with fog, revived her from her dark mood. She had been afraid to leave the house, afraid for Lamont to come into close contact with Mr. Lockhart, afraid about everything, but the air helped clear her head.

  As she approached the bus stop, she saw a few scraps of newspaper lying discarded on the sidewalk. Two words, black and bold, loomed at her from her feet: THE HANGMAN.

  Velma pulled her coat collar tightly around her neck. The bus soon arrived and she climbed aboard, dropping her coins in the slot and taking a seat at the back of the bus.

  The bus was mostly empty, the entire back of the bus deserted, except for a uniformed police officer, no doubt serving as an on-board monitor. Once the bus was underway, Velma summoned the resolve to address the officer.

  "Officer," she began. He turned and looked at her with a scowl. "Would you know where the inquest for the murders are being held downtown?"

  The police officer studied her for a moment, inspecting her from head to toe. His scowl turned to a look of appraisal. Velma felt as if she were naked under his gaze.

  "The police station," he said with a yellowed smile. "I'll escort you. Interesting in seeing what's going on with the Hangman, eh? I'm sure there'll be lots of folks there. You can sit with me, if you like."

  Something about the officer made her uncomfortable. She had heard rumors in the past of white police officers using their authority to force themselves on young black women.

  "I was just curious about where they were being held is all," Velma said. "It seems to be all anyone is talking about." She could barely speak the words.

  "Oh, no?" the police said before sliding into the seat next to her. The bus driver, a corpulent white man, looked in his rear view mirror at them before turning his attention back to the road. He never looked at them again.

  Velma slid against the glass window, pressing herself as flat as possible. The officer kept his distance, for now.

  "I would have thought you were connected to one of the victims' husbands, or maybe you were a sister? Some of the victims were black, after all." The cop placed his hand on Velma's knee, feigning a sympathetic touch.

  "Sir, I'm a married woman," Velma hissed.

  "Where's your husband?"

  "At home, tending to our tenant."

  "You have a tenant?"

  Velma didn't like where this line of questioning was going. "I am supposed to meet my nephew downtown, near the police station. He's a detective."

  The police officer relented, puzzled at this piece of information. "Oh, really?"

  "Carter Hawkes," Velma said. "Junior Detective Carter Hawkes."

  "Yeah, I know of him. I didn't know he had relatives here in Charleston."

  "Oh, yes. We see Carter almost every day."

  The police officer slid from his seat back to the seat in front of Velma. Velma would have sighed with relief but she was still frightened at what this man could do if he felt so inclined.

  "Will he be at the inquest?" the officer asked.

  "I expect so. I needed to meet with him just before," Velma said.

  "It's going to be quite the circus. The testimonies are some kind of awful. One man, the husband of one of the victims, I feel sorry for that poor son of a bitch. She'd been a good wife and mother, but then she took to the bottle and the opium. Became a whore."

  "That's what happens with those terrible things," Velma said. She was trying in some way to keep the officer at bay, distracted or focused on anything other than molesting her in some way.

  They rode in silence for the next few minutes, until they arrived at their destination: downtown Charleston.

  Velma rose to exit the bus as quickly as possible. As she went past the police officer, he held his arm out, blocking her exit. She looked at him, holding her breath.

  "I'll walk with you. The entrance is another block or so," he said.

  Velma managed a smile. "That's so kind of you, officer, but I'll be fine."

  "Oh, I insist. Besides, with that Hangman lurking about, and his apparent taste for fine black women," he said as his hand went around behind her and brushed against her buttocks before giving a resting pat. "I wouldn't be a good policeman if I didn't ensure our good citizens are kept as safe as possible." As he rose, he squeezed
her left buttock.

  Any other man would have gotten a slap, but Velma knew that if she slapped this particular man, she'd likely be arrested for assault and she'd still probably wind up getting felt up more. Or worse.