by Mae Berry
“Ira B., ‘B’ for Bates.” Finn looked over at Sam and nodded for her to continue.
“What can you tell us about Bates, sir?”
Mr. Phelps sat silent for several moments his jaw working. He cleared his throat. “Why, exactly, are you wanting to know, miss? Bates is dead. Best to leave things at that.” His sharp eyes pierced Sam and it surprised her to see sadness in the depths. Profound sadness. She didn’t know what to say. She decided absolute truth was the only recourse.
“They never convinced me he was dead, Mr. Phelps. I believe he disappeared after fooling authorities into thinking he had taken his own life. And now, we have a case of a missing child and enough evidence coupled with conjecture to make us uneasy that the person we’re searching for might be Gittin. Mr. Phelps, you have to understand, the horror of looking into the mutilated faces of his little children in Stanley has haunted my nightmares. If there is even the slightest chance that Ira Bates Gittin is the missing boy’s father and has taken off with him?” She shuddered. “I have no choice but to turn over every shred of information to find them both before…” Sam’s voice cracked.
Finn cleared his throat, his voice thick. “Mr. Phelps, do you have any information that could help us?”
Mr. Phelps’ eyes searched Sam’s face for several minutes. Then he sighed. “I suspect, Miss Lawton, you’re right. I don’t think Bates had it in him to do hisself in.” He ran a hand over his close cropped gray hair and slumped back in his seat. “Hiram’s gran’pappy and mine were best friends. I grew up with Hiram. Wern’t never close friends as boys. Hiram had a mean streak for a few years. He carried on with liquor and what all, till a revival preacher got a hold of him. That were after Bates and Lewis were born. But Bates, well, Bates he had a… a… difficult life, Miss Lawton. He was the oldest of the three. There are several years ‘tween hisself and Lewis. Right from the get go Hiram had it in for Bates. Never a time he weren’t taking a switch to that boy for some reason or another. Bates always helped his pa on the farm. Worked that boy like a slave. Course, Lewis had chores too but twas never like with Bates. Lewis was younger and scrawnier than Bates. He’d been a sickly baby. The missus took up for him. Said she needed his help round the house. Lewis was bookish too. Always had his nose stuck in one. Attended college. His folks were real proud. Nearly killed his ma when Lewis died.” Mr. Phelps grew silent, his gaze beyond the walls of the room.
“You said there were three children?” asked Finn.
Mr. Phelps smiled. “Martha Ann, yes indeed. What a picture of a gal. Sass and curls. Think she had Hiram wrapped around her little finger the day she was born. She married before Hiram died. After he passed, she moved with her husband somewhere east a ways. Illinois? Indiana? Not sure ‘xactly. Miz Gittin moved in with Martha Ann after her second baby come.”
“Mr. Phelps, you filed a report on Bates for stealing your horse. He served time in the penitentiary.” Sam laid a gentle hand on the old farmer’s forearm.
Mr. Phelps sighed. “Worse decision I ever made.” He sighed again then scrubbed his hand over his face and up into his hair where he scratched furiously at his scalp. “Twas Hiram that insisted.” He lowered his gaze to the floor.
“Hiram? You mean Bates’ father? What do you mean insisted? Insisted on what?” Sam’s staccato questions kept the man from answering until Finn laid a hand on her knee.
“I was of a mind to tell folks Bates borrowed the horse. Just let him bring it back soon as we caught up to him. But Hiram insisted I make the report. Said the boy needed to learn a lesson. Needed to learn the consequences for actions in this world. Had to be accountable if there were any hope for his soul. Said the devil had a hold of him and if I didn’t then Bates’d be lost for good. What Hiram said. Course I’ll never forgive myself for paying him heed. Twas my hand that signed the papers.”
“His own father…” Finn stared at Mr. Phelps.
“I signed the papers.” Mr. Phelps repeated, lips in a firm line. He looked Finn square in the eye. He suddenly looked older than his seventy plus years. “Sorry folks, I’m not a youngin’ any more. Need rest.” He rose and hobbled his first few steps. “Abigail. Abigail! Can you show these good folks out?”
As Mrs. Hall showed them to the door, Finn stopped at the threshold. “Thank you kindly ma’am for allowing us time with your father.”
“Don’t mention it marshal, we are happy to help. If there is anything else we can do.”
“Actually, there is. Could you tell me where the cemetery is?”
“Are you wanting in town or out?”
“Not sure,” Finn scrunched his face. “Where is your mother buried?”
“Oh… well, she’s out by the home place. Newlee Cemetary, six miles west on the road to Ectonville. It’s where most of the farm folk west of town are laid to rest.”
“Thank you ma’am. That’s just what I need.”
✽✽✽
Low bunches of vivid purple flowers carpeted the new spring grass and softened the hard angles of the scattered gravestones. Newlee cemetery desperately needed attention. At this time of the year, most country folks were busy in their fields. Unnecessary work, like tending to graves, could wait. Sam rolled her shoulders and lifted a hand to hide a face splitting yawn. Staying in hotels had lost its novelty. The women in her room last night snored. When one settled, the other started. She also doubted the bed linens were as fresh as the proprietor maintained. Still, it was nice to travel without worrying about expenses.
At first light Finn had rented a buggy and drove them the six miles west through fields of sprouting corn and winter wheat stubble. Now the old nag was ripping up grass in the shade of an enormous oak. She and Finn stood at the arched river rock gate with two foot high walls encircling the three-acre plot of land.
“Well, lassie, any idears where to start?” She frowned at Finn. He removed his cap and ran his hand through his hair. His eyes darted over the neat rows of monuments. He used his cap to swat at a small stand of winter wheat that had grown in the ditch and ran his other hand through his hair again. Sam turned to face him.
“Are you all right?”
Finn shot her a glance and resettled his weight on his feet. “Aye. Just aren’t fond of…” He waved his hand at the graves.
Sam started, her eyes widened. “Are…? Are you afraid of cemeteries?”
Finn shifted his feet again. “Well now, afeared might be a strong word fer it… it’s more like…” He looked around again. “Ye, see the Irish have strong feelin’s ‘bout the afterlife. Well… disturbin’ a final restin’ place just isn’t…”
Sam turned her laughter into a strangled cough. She shook her head and marched through the gate looking over her shoulder. “Are you coming?” Finn squared his shoulder, firmed his cap on his head and nodded, mouth in a tight line.
“Does your… concern about cemeteries have anything to do with your brother?” Sam shot him a glance.
Finn stilled and stared. “Why ‘ould ye say tat?”
“You said he died. I know sometimes childhood traumatic events are enough to effect a person for the—”
“No,” Finn growled, “I ‘ere fifteen when Killian died. A man growed.” He kicked at a clump of dandelions.
“Hardly, you were little more than—”
“Enough. Killian were in de wrong place at de wrong time.”
Sam stopped and tilted her head. “You can’t talk about it?” she said softly.
Finn removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair, scrubbing at the top of his head. “It be my fault he died.”
Sam’s look held steady.
Finn eyed her. “I had a big fight with me da. He were a mean drunk. I took off. Ma ‘n the littles were ta be at me aunt’s…” Finn swallowed.
Sam moved toward him.
He raised his palms. “He were in de wrong place, wrong time. We need ta be findin’ waat we came fer. ‘Fore the train.”
Sam hesitated then continued to the middle of t
he square. “Logically, the section we need must be between 70 and 90 years old so it most likely will be toward the back.”
Finn looked at her, eyebrows raised. “Waat makes ye say that?”
Sam tapped her foot and frowned. “Weren’t you listening to Mr. Phelps?” Finn nodded. “He said his grandfather and Mr. Hiram’s grandfather were friends. That implies the two families were here for at least four generations. Most towns in this part of the country aren’t much older than four or five generations. Therefore, the Gittins were here long enough to have their own section.”
“Suppose so,” Finn said. He gave a tight smile. “Good deduction. I didn’t even remember him sayin’ that.”
“Yes, well,” Sam cleared her throat and shaded her eyes with her hand. “Let’s try over there.” They made their way to a series of stones clustered around large monuments.
“Vaughn… Endecott… Powell… here! Right here! Gittin.” Finn crouched. “Benjamin Franklin Gittin 1796 to 1877 and Nancy Tapp Gittin 1801 - 1879. Must be the grandparents.”
Sam moved down the line. “Hiram L. Gittin born April 10, 1829; died May 23, 1879. He was only fifty years old. Bates would have been… thirty.” She looked up at Finn but he wasn’t paying attention. He was standing over a grave near Hiram’s. He scrubbed at his jaw, his eyebrows pulled into a frown.
“I found his brother Lewis.”
“Oh?” Sam joined him.
“Yes, lived from May 21, 1854 to January 4, 1882. Poor bloke. Why he was only…” Finn trailed off as he glanced at Sam. She stood with her head tilted and lips scrunched.
“He died of… malaria,” she said.
Finn studied her face. “He did?”
“Yes, I… wait… when did you say he died?” Sam straightened as her gaze snapped to him.
“It says here, January 4th. However, it says nothing about cause of death. How did you—”
“Finn,” Sam interrupted, “He died in January. In the dead of winter.”
“Aye?”
“Of malaria…” She met Finn’s gaze and noted the moment he caught her meaning. Malaria in the dead of winter, not impossible, but very, very improbable.
Finn rubbed the back of his neck. It was itching.
Chapter 19
Bates
February 03, 1879
Kearney, MO
"Alley rat…, Nuck…, Jailbird.” My neck goes red as a flush creeps up my face. I keep my back to my tormentors hopin’ they’ll tire if I don’t pay them no mind. Tormentors, one of my new words. Here, it’s a good one.
“Boy,” says my father from the opposite direction. Just “boy”. He ain’t called me by name since I got out of the pen and “boy” only if he can’t get my attention. I clench and unclench my fists. The snickering behind me gets louder as I keep loading feed onto the wagon. “Finish up,” he says and climbs the boardwalk to settle accounts. I keep loading bags. A hand comes from behind and slaps the one I’m holding. The bag hits the ground and explodes, feed flying in all directions on the muddy road. I turn and stare up into the face of Emmet Moore.
“Seems to me,” he says with a smirk, “someone in your sit-ee-ation should be more careful.” I stare at him, sure my face is bright red. My fists clench up on their own. “Seems to me,” he pushes another bag out of the back of the wagon, “I’d be afeared of my pappy decidin’ I’d shamed the family so much that he’d send me on my way.” I stare at the second bag of spilled feed.
“Seems to me,” I say in a deadly quiet voice, “I’d be afeared of riling the man that learned seventeen different ways to kill a man and make it look like an accident.” I cock my head to the side and gaze at him lettin’ a bit a crazy show in my eyes. The grin disappears off his face as his eyes flicker with fear. Just a flash, but he knows I saw it.
“Yer crazy, Bates. Plain crazy.” He backs away and tries to act unconcerned as he gathers his cronies. As they walk away he needs to get in the last shot. He calls back over his shoulder, “Jist make sure you keep yer nose clean. Plenty o’ folks don’t cotton to havin’ a con livin’ here.”
I sigh and rub the scar on my face. I go back to lifting bags. A sharp cry freezes me. I spin around and there’s a girl sitting beside the road rocking back and forth, holding her ankle. I never seen her before and frown. Unusual for a town the size of Kearney. I start toward her but an older man reaches her first.
“You worthless gal. You done dropt the eggs! What we supposed to trade with? Kain’t you do nothin’ right?” He raises his hand to her and smacks her shoulder as she cringes on the ground.
“Pa, I’m sorry, I missed the step,” she says. She scrambles around picking up the eggs. “Wait,” she holds a couple up, “only broke two, pa. Only two. Please!” she cringes and starts to sobbing.
He grabs the basket with a grunt. Three more eggs go flying and crunch to the ground. His eyes blaze at her, and he raises his hand again.
“I’ll help her, sir.” I say and move to her side. He opens his mouth as if to say more but changes his mind. His eyes rake over me. The prison work teams put more muscle on me than I ever had. He shrugs, steps to the boardwalk and on to the general store. I squat next to the girl and hold out a hand.
“I’ll help ya up, miss.” She is a pretty enough girl. Up close I can see she has soft brown eyes and honey colored hair piled up and hidden under her hat. I can’t tell how long it is. But I imagine it flowing down her back. Her shoulders are thin but she has a nice bosom and curves a man can appreciate. I help her gently to her feet. Her eyes are staring big and round at me. Remind me of a doe. Soft and gentle.
“Opal. Opal Hunter,” she whispers, lowering her eyes, “name’s, Opal Hunter.”
I swallow. “Bates,” I say and a crack comes into my voice. I wait, not breathing to see if she’s heard stories about me. But she don’t back away, just looks at me and smiles. It lights up her whole face making her look… beautiful.
“Just Bates?” She looks at the ground, but peeks at me through her lashes. I can’t pull my gaze away.
“Boy! Git yerself on back here. Now!” I cringe. I’m sure my father’s voice carries into the next county.
“You be all right?” I say. She nods. I hurry off back to the wagon ignoring the profanities coming from my father’s mouth. I can sense her big doe eyes on my back the whole way. I steal another glance back at her as my father cuffs at my head. She’s still smiling. I smile back.
Bates
May 8, 1879
Kearney, MO
I raise the flat side on the fence pliers to pound the staple over the barbed wire and into the hedgeapple post. Zing! The wire snaps, whipping back and catching me on the glove ripping it from my hand and slicing into my wrist. I let loose with a few choice words.
“What in tarnation you up to boy?” My father yells as the wire whips around his work boots. “You tryin’ to kill me?”
“Wire snapped,” I yell back, “cheap stuff is too flimsy to hold.”
“You criticizing me, boy? You adding one penny to this farm? You or that flighty little piece you call wife?” My father is using his dangerous tone, but I am hot and tired. I don’t rightly care.
“We work, old man,” my lips curl back, “you’d be out plenty if you had to pay someone to do what we does.”
“Truly,” he drags out the word, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. His tone grates on my ears, a contrast to the chirping birds and peaceful spring day. “Who’d take you on? A jailbird with a halfwit wife?”
“There ain’t nothin’ wrong with Opal.” My fists clench and unclench at my side. “And my prospects would’ve been a sight better if you’d sent me off to college like Lewis. I could be an educator or a doctor or anything other than your slave. But no, you always favor Lewis. He is the golden son. The one that does nothing wrong. So sorry, old man, your golden son ran off and got hisself a real job. Left you stuck with the convict to keep this place runnin’.”
“Don’t raise your voice you ungrateful little�
�� Do you think you could of handled college? Made something of yourself? It’d been wasted money.” His eyes bug out and his face turns the color of a dead ripe tomato. I shove him hard into the fence and stomp off toward the house.
“You dare raise yer hand boy! Bates! Bates! You git yourself back here, now. Don’t you dare walk away from me!”
“Finally remembered my name, old man,” I mutter. The trek through the pasture is soothing. Everything is coming back to life. Winter was slow to let go with a snow in late March and unseasonable weather most of April. I kick at a clump of chickweed and try to take deep breaths. The henbit is blooming in the next field over and the purple buds carpet the ground. The cool spring breeze sends skitters over my back chilling the sweat on my shirt. As I gaze out over the surrounding lands, a meadowlark trills in the distance.
Trill, my new word for this week. New words give me so many more ways to express myself. I’ve been working so hard, reading everything I can. Going through the dictionary makes me… gratified, yes that is the word. Gratified at how I been betterin’ myself. Trying to talk better too. Sure that is sticking in my father’s craw. I laugh to myself feeling very… smug.
I gaze over the land. I love farming, I do, but I can’t stomach my father any longer. He hates me with a passion that kicks me in the gut every time he lets loose. I keep hanging on hoping he’ll just retire and leave the farm. He is fifty, he deserves a rest. Things are getting to him. He and ma bought a house in town a few years back. Martha Ann and her husband live there now, rent free. They could move to their own place and leave the house to the folks.
I go through the pasture gate and enter the struggling grass of the barnyard. I pull off my shirt and stick my head over the water trough trying to spend my energy on pumping. The water rushes over me cool and sweet. I sputter then wipe my face with my damp shirt. The screen door on the house slams and Opal comes rushing, tears in her beautiful brown eyes.