The Apostasy

by Ted Minkinow

  "No, the National Transportation Safety Board will do that.” Warren rubbed his forehead…looked exhausted as he continued. “They may or may not decide to expend resources. I researched it a bit and it seems the big crashes get full attention. I assume a small, home-built airplane piloted by an elderly man," he pressed his lips together, "I don’t know."

  "That's true, Chief," Tom said. "So what’s your interest here?"

  The tone sounded caustic and Warren gave himself a mental thump. Tom and Sam were pals. Even so, his senses indicated something out of plumb in Vienna. He supposed he’d step on a few more feelings before it all ended.

  "A citizen is dead," Warren said. "You say he could not have passed out and flown at the same time. A witness saw the aircraft make a straight path into the building; you say a mechanical failure would not allow it.”

  Tom nodded as Warren spoke.

  “I yield to your experience.” Warren fiddled with his coffee for a second. “Suicide, I agree, is out of the question. I knew Sam too. Where does that leave us?"

  All four people sat silent, though when Warren glanced at Hattie. Looks like she knows something.

  "Murder?" Warren answered his own question with a question. "The front cockpit was empty. And you,” he glanced at Tom, “shoot down all of my hypotheses. What’re we left with?" Warren shook his head. No good working myself up. His voice softened. "Well, I guess that's my problem. I appreciate y’all’s time. Thank you, Aunt Hattie." He stood to leave.

  "How long did Tilbury stay with you today, Aunt Hattie?" Tom asked. Hattie seemed distant but Tom’s question brought her back.

  "About four hours. Hardly said a word, though it looked like a lot sat on the tip of his tongue."

  Warren stopped short of the front door and turned around.

  "Tilbury, where do I know that name?"

  Cassandra said, "He’s a janitor at the hospital."

  "I remember. Drifted into town a couple of years ago, didn't he?”

  Nobody answered.

  “Well, good night all." As he walked to his car, Anderson made a mental note to check out the janitor.

  4

  Cassandra sat at the table with Tom and Aunt Hattie for an hour of strained semi-conversation. Tom walked with her to the car and gave her a hug.

  "Can I call you tomorrow?"

  "You better. I’ll drive you to the airport to get your car. Get a good night's sleep Tom." She was about to leave and then added, “If you need to talk about Sam…”

  Cassandra waved as she backed from the driveway and Tom remained outside in the damp heat and honeysuckle until her taillights disappeared.

  CHAPTER 32

  Monday, July 16, 1928, 4:16 pm, Dirt Road leading to Sally’s House

  Hattie never suspected the encounter planned for her on the downside of the crest; though Leland Graves did dominate her thoughts as she walked the clay road toward home. July weather assailed without mercy; it impeded Hattie’s progress like a hot, damp hand pushing against her chest.

  The popsicle-stick fan did about as much good turning away the heat as a tin thimble would in turning back the blacksmith’s mallet. But she fluttered the fan anyway; more out of habit than hope. And hope of any sort seemed in short ration as far as Hattie could see. So quickly, she thought…and hope did seem to drain away all at once that night Hattie met Leland Graves.

  Life for her took a dive over the past day or two and she did not need to struggle to put a name to it. Leland Graves, her mind shot the accusation for at least the hundredth time on the walk home…a walk that she and Jerome looked forward to taking together each day as they closed the store. But she walked early today…and she walked alone. Leland Graves.

  She blamed Leland Graves for the whole confusing mess, for every bad thought, for all the conflicting emotions bubbling in her mind, and for the first crack in Jerome’s and her foundation. She blamed him for the heat.

  If not for that old bat would she be worrying about the afternoon heat? No, Hattie thought. I’d be spending now under the fan in Jerome’s store…waiting for quitting time…waiting to lock it up with Jerome and walk home after the sun tired a bit. A glance over her shoulder showed the sun still high, still vibrant.

  But Hattie preferred leaving early…preferred walking home alone if need be—Jerome and his precious white customers who couldn’t shop during decent hours—rather than risk meeting up with Leland Graves again with the sun going down.

  “Forget the blackberries,” she said to nobody. And she would, even though she spied more than one bush ripe for picking. “You’re not eating pie tonight,” she said, “and you surely don’t deserve it.” This time she spoke to Jerome, but he couldn’t hear because he decided it better to send Hattie on home alone. Her mind saw him smiling behind the counter…gripping and grinning with people who no longer let her attend the church her Nana Sally grew up in.

  “You go on home now.” That’s what he said. She begged him to leave with her, and saw that confusion on his face. Thought I was asking him to get from town again. Hattie would have laughed out loud that second except she knew it would all end with her a sobbing mess.

  Ask him to leave town again? Ask him to give up the store, his foothold into the new world where their people might walk as equals on the same streets as the white folk? Heavens, she gave up on the possibility even as the words left her mouth that night.

  “You go home now,” Jerome had said.

  “One foot in front of the other,” she said as if she couldn’t even trust her feet to do the right thing. But what could she trust? Her intuition? Hattie snorted something that sounded halfway like a laugh and the rest like the popping of the plug that held back her tears. “We wouldn’t have to go for good.” That’s what she said to Jerome when she could say anything at all. “Just for a few weeks…till things move on around here.” Both had relatives in Georgia if questions of propriety held him back.

  Jerome’s thoughts did not extend beyond the practical…did not get far enough down the river to consider chaperons or pre-marital reputations. A few of the big buck rednecks already tried intimidation. That didn’t slow his sales one bit because hadn’t Miss Elizabeth Bennett, the Sheriff’s own mother, been Jerome’s customer and gotten her son to intervene? “You go on home now.” That’s what her Jerome said not more than thirty minutes prior. And Hattie continued her plod on home.

  My beautiful Jerome. It always came to that with Hattie. Her beautiful Jerome. Halfway through her teen years and she didn’t know much about the world…didn’t want to know any more once she met Jerome…or rather, once Jerome realized Hattie Jackson budded into a young woman. And now she belonged to him…would belong to him, that is, once the preacher said so. Nana Sally said that part couldn’t happen till after Hattie’s sixteenth birthday…not until other girls her age had already been married for two years.

  Away with that, Hattie thought. She shooed thoughts of birthdays and marriage. Something new—more than just months on a calendar—stood in front of that dream just as surely as work on the new poles to carry electricity stood in the way of anyone driving a wagon down Main Street. She whispered the name. “Leland Graves.” Hattie winced as if surprised by the sound of her own voice. Nana Sally said never to speak the name of a demon out loud.

  Honeysuckle growing wild along the ditch below the road called with a sweet aroma that did nothing to brighten Hattie’s mood. She knew the scent masked the doings down the other side…down in Copper Gulch where decent folks never went. “Superstition,” she said out loud, and liked the brave tone even if it went nowhere to stem the growing doubt in her mind. “Superstition,” she said again as if repetition could admonish a rebellious child living somewhere inside her brain. Far from calming her mind, she stopped herself short with that last word. Pulled up short and stood there as if an invisible wall dropped from the sky to bar her way.

  “Has to be it,” she said aloud to the gnats buzzing around her face in a disorganized squadron of to
rment. “Down in Copper Gulch.” This time her brain agreed and Hattie knew it had to be…the first thing in the last couple of days that made any sense. Somehow this Leland Graves fellow came out of Copper Gulch…down there with the rattlesnakes and water moccasins and such, she thought. Down there in Splitfoot’s nursery.

  And that did for Hattie what the heat, the thinking, the disappointment and all that went along with those things stopped her from doing for the past couple of minutes. Thoughts of what might be going on just down the bank from her got her moving.

  The noise…that’s what made Hattie pause just a few steps later. A faint sound of ripping fabric—wafting from the Copper Gulch side—came to her on the wings of a light breeze. What breeze, thought Hattie. The air stood dead calm thus far, and if not for the fan with its constant whirring chatter in Jerome’s grocery today, she was certain she felt nothing more on her face the entire day than the constant humidity that hung in the air like a damp version of the voile sheers hanging across the windows in Nana Sally’s sitting room.

  “No wind now,” she said out loud. None before, her mind added and Hattie could feel the hairs on her arm standing straight as rows of cotton reaching for the last drips of a cool morning sprinkle. She concentrated on what she heard; replayed it in her mind. Something hot and tacky brought the noise…Didn’t my hair rustle…just for a second?

  The sun continued to probe, sweat trickled down her neck to pool at her bosom, and an absurd proposition came to Hattie. Her intuition responded with a certainty that made the question all but rhetorical…had Copper Gulch just belched?

  CHAPTER 33

  Sunday, July 16, 4:15 pm, Marlin Tilbury’s Apartment, Vienna, Alabama

  Marlin Tilbury hunkered on the edge of his bed, eyes glued to the naked wall two feet in front. In his left hand he held a half-empty bottle of scotch. The right hand clasped his lone reminder of Army service--if one considered the physical rather than the psychological. That hand gripped old Samuel and Company’s ultimate triumph, the Colt forty-five caliber automatic pistol, a weapon that served Marlin decades prior.

  Marching his way to the midpoint of the whiskey bottle consumed all of the morning and most of the afternoon. His head floated but his consciousness remained too close to shore to get swept to sea. Kind of OK because an important question required an answer.

  Suicide or go to work?

  His pickled brain understood the two options as not evenly yoked. More schotch or a bullet? Even his mind slurred.

  The dream did not need to return; Marlin understood and internalized the lesson: the North Vietnamese officer existed in or out of a dream world. It all boiled down to a yes or no, on or off, plus or minus…a binary situation.

  Suicide or work. His shift started thirty minutes earlier, not that it mattered. As far as he reckoned, nothing would matter again.

  How many more would suffer? That’s what the tiny part of the old Marlin Tilbury—the sole outpost still free of paranoia—wanted to know.

  “How many more?” his mind asked again, and the answer frightened him though he knew it should have been shame he felt.

  Aunt Hattie? He wondered about it for only a moment because Marlin understood the uncertainty was a lie. The Man would consume Hattie Jackson…and with my help.

  Suicide or work. The first option represented the courage of a soldier willing to jump on a grenade to shield his buddies…Medal of Honor stuff. Marlin snorted at that irony and took a gulp of fire from the bottle. The second option—work—stood for cowardice. The worst part of this whole mess, the one forcing him to inebriation, was that The Man wanted Hattie Jackson.

  Something else edged his mind toward the cliff where insanity lies as rocks below—a truth Marlin thought only the alcohol could numb. Don’t want to live…too scared to die. If courage was the sole ordnance to check The Man, Marlin’s ammunition was depleted. Join The Man or else.

  Or else The Man would do what? Kill Marlin now? Dream or not, Marlin knew The Man wielded that capability. Physical evidence lay in punctured pieces on the steel slab back at Grimes.

  That being the case, all paths led back to the decision at hand. Suicide…or go to work? Another swig neither dulled the situation nor provided additional clarity.

  Marlin broke his wall-centered focus and glanced down to his right hand, the one holding the pistol. He witnessed his hand point the barrel towards his face…the gun rising for his head.

  Marlin opened his mouth, slid the cold metal between his teeth, and pushed the pistol in until it stopped against the roof of his mouth. He tightened the important finger.

  Marlin dug his teeth into the barrel. I'm dead anyway. Oil burned soft tissue. It made his tongue swell. He gagged and fought the impulse to vomit.

  "So, Corporal Tilbury,” The Man promoted Marlin to the rank attained by discharge from the Army, “you now worry more about yourself than your comrades. Thinking of one's self is a wise course of action." The North Vietnamese officer’s voice filled his ears…it came from behind. Marlin did not need to turn his head to know he would see only an empty room.

  "Pull the trigger, my friend. Your troubles are over. You could cooperate with me, though. Cooperate and live." The voice grew louder. It banged around between his ears like empty trash cans clanging down the alleyway where he grew up…back in Chicago.

  One moment he held the gun in his mouth, the next he caught a glimpse of it on the floor and he retched his meager breakfast across the bed. That task complete, Marlin took another chug and swished to dilute the lingering taste of bile and oil.

  He’s always owned me.

  Marlin forced himself to unsteady feet. With one hand balanced against the wall, he staggered through the apartment and out the door.

  CHAPTER 34

  Sunday, July 15, 7:08 pm, On the Road Beside Copper Gulch

  Patrolman John “Jolly” Rogers sat sideways in the squad car, his legs extending past the open door and resting on the ground below. He reviewed the handwritten names scrawled on the top page of his clipboard and crossed a line through the last one.

  “Sorry waste of time,” he said to the dashboard. He thought for a second, nodded as if pronouncement made it so, and repeated the epitaph carved on the tombstone that represented his ruined Sunday: “Sorry waste of time.”

  Jolly thought it more likely he’d win the Georgia lottery without a ticket than gain useful information from folk living around the Gulch. Six hours of plodding from house to house in the ninety plus degree weather. Nothing. Everyone wanted the story and nobody reciprocated.

  He repeated the same line over and over again until the thought of it made his head threaten to explode, implode, or cease to exist in some other ghastly manner.

  "Sorry, Ma'am, Sir, Rover, whoever, can't disclose information about a case under investigation." Jolly hated the respectful public servant role…obligatory pleasantries tasted like cold grits in his mouth.

  Today he turned up a complete blank. Nobody saw or heard anything. Big zilch, Jolly thought as he checked under his arms to inspect the full extent of his pit-stains. He knew he needed to worry less about image and more about what the Chief would think. Anderson warned Jolly about coming back with excuses.

  “Can't squeeze blood out of a turnip.” That’s the line Jolly rehearsed in the empty car. He repeated the cliché a few more times because he needed to get the tone just right…an accusation—better make it a respectful accusation—more than an apology. Likely as not the perp was probably in Atlanta, Birmingham, or maybe New York City. Jolly sat for a couple more moments, looked at his watch, and swung his legs into the cruiser.

  Ten after seven. The fool’s errand battered the day away, but enough Sunday remained, if he hurried, to shower before joining the wife at the bowling league. Jolly slammed the door, started the squad car, and put it into gear. He took a quick glance down the hill behind him. Getting hit pulling into traffic would top off the day. At the bottom of the road, and barely perceptible in the twilight…Is th
at a man darting across the street and into the woods?

  As quickly as the person appeared, he disappeared down the trail leading to the marshy Gulch. Jolly’s mind froze the image. About six feet…thin…African American…never seen him.

  Another glance at his wrist…twelve minutes after seven now. He hesitated for a moment, debating on whether he should bring it on home or chase this last person down for what would probably turn out a fruitless interview.

  He decided to just change clothes and skip the bath.

  Jolly shifted into reverse and eased his cruiser down the hill. He parked where he saw the man disappear into the woods, stepped out, and followed the stranger into Copper Gulch.

  The man can’t be much further ahead, he thought. Not much more than thirty seconds…a minute at most. Jolly’s eyes adjusted to the shade. The trail curved right about two hundred yards into the Gulch and then descended. He caught sight of the man up ahead…for only a few seconds but he did get a decent look.

  The man wore blue jeans—maybe overalls—and a white long sleeve shirt that did not appear buttoned. Jolly quickened his pace and called out. The man disappeared deeper into Copper Gulch.

  Mosquitoes swarmed through shredded nets of hot, damp air like squadrons of brainless demons as decay in Copper Gulch corrupted the sweet aroma of honeysuckle above. The ground leveled at the mouth of a small clearing where bordering pines fought against waning sunlight to cast the area in stripes of darkness. Two objects—one rather surprising to Jolly—stood in the clearing’s center. He expected to see the man, and he did. The other object, a small weather-worn shanty, stopped Jolly in his tracks.

  Fabricated of sun-bleached and rotted scrap wood spaced at irregular intervals, the hut had never felt the tickle of a paintbrush. The black man paused for a moment at the door. Jolly could do little more than gape as the thin man turned his head toward Jolly. An instant before their eyes met, the man returned his focus forward and brushed through the shack's door.