by Ted Minkinow
“You’re the only person in town who knew the man before all of this began. I was wondering what your thoughts might be.”
The grease reached optimal temperature so Hattie stood and immersed the first batch of chicken. She turned to face the Chief.
“The cause of these murders lies elsewhere.”
Warren could have spent the rest of his life guessing what her response might be and not come up with that one.
“Cause of the murders? Do you think the victims brought it on themselves?”
“Certainly not, Chief Anderson. What I am saying is that you are wasting your time by pursuing Marlin.”
“Maybe so, Miss Hattie, but let me tell you something you just might not know about your harmless pal.” He hoped he had not been overly harsh. “The guy was a sniper in Vietnam…killed dozens of people. Now, I’ll grant you they were all enemy soldiers, but still, the man has killed before.”
Hattie looked off balance.
“I said he wouldn’t harm anyone, and that is true enough today and all the way back to the first moment I met him.” She battered the next batch of fried chicken then paused and held Warren’s gaze. “What Marlin was before has little bearing on what is happening today.”
The Chief began to think that maybe coming to see Hattie not such a great idea after all. This whole business of before versus now sounded like coffeehouse philosophy, and bad philosophy at that. As the fragrance rose to the hooded ventilation system, he thought that maybe old Miss Hattie stood a little too close to the skillet once too often.
Hattie returned to fussing with the frying. “Do you have supper plans for this evening?”
Tuesday, July 17, 6:15 pm, Brewton-Brunson Mansion, Vienna, Alabama
1
“Do we have time to hit the Super Shop before we need to leave for Aunt Hattie’s?” Cassandra intended on spending the night in Tom’s house…what she thought of as her bedroom. Before that happened she would acquire sweats to counteract Tom’s crazy air-conditioning system. She hoped they sold them in the summertime.
2
The entity observed their departure.
CHAPTER 65
Monday, July 16, 1928, 4:51 pm, Sally Jackson’s House, Vienna, Alabama
“Didn’t have nothing to do with no killing,” said Julius Washington. “Especially no white woman.”
Hattie wasn’t so sure.
Never done anything close to that before, she thought. And then, But can’t murder be the graduation ceremony for all that that other stuff? Miss Elizabeth…Chief Bennett’s old mama?
That made her shiver almost as much as Leland Graves’s image in her mind…or that bull gator Rufus McCarran with his pawing her arm.
Julius sure looked guilty enough…eyes shifting from the floor to the door and back again, never stopping to meet the gaze of either of the women. Yes, Hattie thought, he does look guilty.
Sally Jackson broke into Hattie’s thoughts. “I believe you, Julius.”
His eyes stopped the pacing and settled on Sally.
“Believe you enough,” she said, “but you best put Vienna behind for a bit.”
“Then everyone going to think I did it,” Julius said, and it came out in the sulky protest of a chronically misbehaving child who’s innocent this time.
“They’ll be looking for you anyway,” said Sally. “And heaven knows what’ll happen without time for things to settle.”
“Not right,” said Julius. “Not right at all.”
“Right or wrong,” said Sally, “someone’s put your name all over it.”
Sally paused, and Hattie thought somehow Nana’s message was directed at her as much as Julius.
“Because,” Sally continued, “folks say they found Miss Elizabeth’s body disheveled.”
The unspoken point hovered in the room like a vulture riding summer drafts. The Chief never arrested Julius all those times he let his instincts—and his hands—command his atrophied sense of judgment because all that happened on their side of town...where whites never visited. But things spilled over the border separating social geographies…so the Chief would consider that a different matter…as would Vienna’s citizenry…those they allowed to vote.
That got Julius moving out the door.
He didn’t get far that night. Neither did his twin brother.
CHAPTER 66
Tuesday, July 17, 6:27 pm, Hattie Jackson’s House, Vienna, Alabama
1
Tom turned down Hattie’s street and saw the police cruiser.
“Looks like we aren’t the only ones invited for dinner,” said Jeremiah as Tom parked behind the squad car.
Cassandra said, “Let’s hope that’s the case.”
“Amen,” said Tom, and in keeping with that motif he uttered a silent prayer for Aunt Hattie’s sake. Everything seemed normal. But he ran to the front door anyway.
“That you, Tommy?”
Tom heard Cassandra exhale in relief.
“Yes, Aunt Hattie, we’re here.” Tom caught his breath and grabbed Cassandra’s hand as he led the group to the kitchen.
Warren Anderson said, “Hello Tom, Dr. Walters.” He stood and extended his hand to Jeremiah, “I’m Warren Anderson.”
“Mike Johnson. Everyone calls me Jeremiah.” The two men shook.
“Just so everyone knows,” said Tom, “Warren Anderson is our Chief of Police, and Jeremiah is a Major, soon to be Lieutenant Colonel in the U.S. Air Force.”
“The pleasure’s mine, Colonel,” said Warren.
Jeremiah smiled and tipped a nod. “Honored, Chief.”
Cassandra interrupted the greeting ritual with, “Seems like we’re running into you a lot lately, Chief Anderson.” When Anderson didn’t respond she said, “It’s always nice to see you.”
“Please, Dr. Walters, call me Warren.” He looked over at Jeremiah. “You too, Colonel…Jeremiah.”
Warren spoke as Hattie hugged both Tom and Cassandra in a single embrace of gaunt but firm arms. She released the two and looked over to Jeremiah.
“I’m Hattie Jackson.” He took her hand and bowed.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Aunt Hattie,” he said, and Tom thought he used the endearment to great effect because Aunt Hattie beamed.
Gallant or not, Tom thought, she does enjoy the fuss.
“And you are the man who saved my Tommy’s life in the desert, aren’t you.”
Both Warren and Cassandra looked to Tom who said, “Yes he is Aunt Hattie.”
Everyone in town called themselves friends of Hattie Jackson; that much Tom knew. But the last few days piled one odd event upon the other, and Tom just did not hope to see the Chief of Police sitting in Hattie’s kitchen.
“Chief Anderson has accepted my invitation to supper,” Hattie said while she began setting the table and putting out the food.
Cassandra stood and helped in the fashion taught by her mother. Jeremiah followed her lead.
Tom forced a smile at Warren and said, “Great!” Not so great. Tom wanted to get a few things cleared up about the letter and the strange happenings at his house and was not keen to spill the crazy story in front of the town’s Police Chief. He glanced over at Jeremiah who raised his eyebrows and returned a half grin.
2
If Warren noticed Tom’s hesitancy, he did not show it. The Chief’s mind swam like a lethargic catfish in a muddy stream. Over the past days he contended with two murders and an airplane accident that did not appear so much of an accident. He came to Hattie Jackson’s house to clear the waters, not to kick up more sludge.
He should have declined the supper offer and headed home once he got the doubletalk regarding Tilbury. That’s what the greater part of his common sense wanted to do. But the squeakiest portion of his mind advised him to stay right there and play the night out. At worst he would leave knowing what he did when he arrived.
“Would you like some more tea, Chief?” Cassandra interrupted his thoughts.
He nodded.
&nbs
p; The meal—fried chicken, potato salad, butterbeans with ham hocks—was delightful. Jeremiah kept them laughing with comical renderings of his time crewed with Tom in the Air Force. Hattie kept the food coming.
More than one chair shifted from back legs to front when Cassandra asked Jeremiah about the final mission. He stopped chewing and stole a quick glance at Tom.
Jeremiah’s look said, “You sure you want to do this again, Torch?”
Tom’s nod said, “Got to tell her sometime.”
So Jeremiah told the whole story, allowing Tom to fill in the blanks every now and then. He described the missile and their attempt at defeating it, and how the thing exploded right underneath their aircraft. Everyone asked questions.
How did Tom get out? Jeremiah bailed them both out through use of the dual sequenced ejection T-handle; about a second after Jeremiah went up the rails in his seat, Tom followed.
A few of Tom’s memories were at odds with Jeremiah’s version. He replayed the missile’s endgame at least a thousand times since the event…man on the missile. He thought of the dream…the ledger…the name: Hattie Jackson.
Was it hard to find Tom in the desert? No, Jeremiah monitored Tom’s progress all the way down and steered his parachute to land nearby.
And on the story went until they both were safe in the rescue helicopter.
“I bet you were scared to death,” said Cassandra after Jeremiah finished.
“Mostly busy,” he said, and then paused for a moment. “The scared part came later, you know, after I knew Torch would make it.” He grinned. “I was too young to be scared…the invincibility of youth and all that. Now? Well my hands start shaking and my underwear feels threatened if I think about it.”
They all laughed and Hattie stood to clear the dishes. Jeremiah motioned for her to sit.
“In honor of this most auspicious meal, Torch and I will clear the table. Chief, you and the ladies relax.”
Hattie asked Tom to turn on the coffee maker. The men made quick work of gathering and rinsing the dishes, and then stacking them in the dishwasher.
“OK Aunt Hattie,” Tom said when all evidence of the meal was removed, “where is it?”
She smiled. “If you mean the blackberry pie, it’s in the lower oven.”
She pointed and Tom cracked the door. He exhumed the pie with the reverence of a surgeon harvesting a donor heart. Next, he raided the freezer for the ice cream.
“I really don’t want to mess this one up, Cassie. Would you mind?”
Cassandra found a sharp knife in the block by the stove. She trimmed five identical slices from the pan and placed each in a desert dish. Tom added the ice cream and delivered.
“Anyone not want coffee?” Nobody spoke up so he poured five cups and refilled the pot.
The chatter died once everyone tasted Hattie’s pie and didn’t resume until all plates were either empty or mostly there. Warren emptied his coffee and made a movement to stand.
“Please stay with us for a few more minutes, Warren.”
He wavered for a moment, checked his watch, and remained seated. “Yes ma’am, Miss Hattie.”
“Tommy, could you please pour Chief Anderson another cup.”
That completed, Hattie looked around the table, catching and holding the eye of each of her guests in turn.
“I need to tell you a story.”
Date: Undefined, Time: Undefined, Copper Gulch
A few hundred yards as the crow flies from Hattie’s house, and in the heart of Copper Gulch, Leland Graves walked among them clad in the uniform of a Yankee colonel. This inconsistency in dress did not bother Marlin, though he sensed that it should.
They congregated in the sharecropper’s hut, but possessed less cohesiveness than a T-Ball team. Marlin could sense deep hatred buzzing between the burly pig and the thin black man. The Man displayed zero concern.
Smart, thought Marlin. Live and let live kind of officers might have gotten more of their men killed but were seldom fragged by their own troops. The Man wore the look of a survivor.
“Tonight you will participate in your initial mission.” The Man smiled with his lips as he spoke but his eyes bored like diamond-tipped drill bits. “And failure is no option.”
Marlin’s brain said, “The Man can sense fear like a shark smells blood.” As he stared into the face of his eternal pursuer, Marlin understood that The Man thrived on fear…And likely every other discordant emotion.
The Corporal Tilbury inside him took control. “Don’t you worry about me, Colonel, I’ll be there.”
The Man’s grin broadened and Marlin noticed something odd. The little shack’s walls pulsed…first solid and then transparent.
CHAPTER 67
Tuesday, July 17, 7:47 pm, Hattie Jackson’s House, Vienna, Alabama
1
Dessert forks fell silent and those who wanted a refill sat back down at the table.
“When I was a girl,” Hattie said, meeting each glance with her own, “I fell in love.” Tom reached under the table for Cassandra’s hand.
“About ten years after the war,” she paused and decided to clarify. “I’m talking about the First World War, here.”
Jeremiah smiled, but remained silent.
“I was 16 years old and, back then, old enough for marriage. Women of color typically married between the ages of 14 and 18.” She pursed her lips in thought. “Really, though, there wasn’t much difference in how the white girls did things.” She focused on Cassandra for an instant and then continued.
“But the world of the white people and our world…it was more like we shared the same solar system rather than a common planet.”
Tom saw Cassandra nipping her lower lip as she listened.
“We were only one generation removed from the Civil War and many of our grandparents recalled that war as children. Veterans and freed slaves were still around.”
She looked at Jeremiah.
“Now there’s much to tell about that war and the devastation it brought the South during Reconstruction…I’ll save all that for later…If later comes. This is a different story”—A story about Leland Graves, her mind said—“and all we need to discuss now is an African-American Carpetbagger known as Papa Washington.”
Hattie paused though she didn’t need to…they were all paying attention.
“And his twin boys, Jerome and Julius.”
“Papa Washington arrived in Vienna with the final occupation, just before Lee’s surrender. He served in the Reconstruction government as a low-level county official…accepted bribe money for almost a quarter century.”
“He figured the Yankees would eventually leave the South to itself, so Old Papa was careful in his corruption. This part is funny,” she said. “People actually did not mind working with Papa since he was consistent. Around 1895 he retired and took a young wife, the daughter of a freed slave. She became pregnant right away and twin boys were born the next fall.”
“I have only bits and pieces regarding the early boyhood years of Jerome and Julius Washington. One thing I know to be true because I saw it with my own eyes is that appearance could not distinguish the two. They were mirror twins in every way save one.”
Tuesday, July 17, 7:51 pm, Brewton-Brunson Mansion, Vienna, Alabama
In the first year and a half of the war Colonel Brewton stood a crisp figure in his gray uniform. But time and fighting marred his dress in the same manner it did the glorious Confederate victories of 1861 and 1862. The entity understood all this…along with his old identity and new purpose.
The coming darkness would prove different from his wartime experiences. Experiences, he understood, that ended on the point of a blade in Copper Gulch.
As he glided through the home his father constructed, a glance in one direction or the other altered strange new into comfortable old. Contraptions disappeared, replaced by the elegant, comfortable trappings of an antebellum mansion. Almost. Outlines of the odd future remained discernable behind the familiar, like p
ortents of an age both arrived and at the same time yet to come.
Brewton found his way to the dressing room. His gray uniform—laundered and pressed—waited atop the bed…epaulets and buttons glistening in the oil light. With reverence, he donned his battle dress for what he prayed would be the final time.
Date: Undefined, Time: Undefined, Copper Gulch
After a while The Man stopped pacing and Tilbury saw the far side of the shack vanish, as did all terrain behind that part of the building. A visual corridor opened, vacuous and of perfect geometric dimensions. Wisps of smoke hazed through the tunnel like the byproduct of creation itself until the obscuration melted to reveal Aunt Hattie Jackson’s clean little house situated several hundred yards above.
CHAPTER 68
Tuesday, July 17, 7:53 pm, Hattie Jackson’s House, Vienna, Alabama
“I can’t say that I ever saw Julius smile with his whole face and eyes,” Hattie continued her story. “But that was a symptom of differences between the two.”
“Jerome was as honest as he was handsome, Julius, not at all...though I suppose nobody is completely good or bad. But not everyone in town cared to take time to recognize the difference. To them, colored was colored.”
Warren Anderson scowled the expression of a public servant caught in gross breeches of political correctness.
“So here’s the million dollar question,” Tom said, “which one of these strapping young lads captured your heart?”
“The sweet one, of course,” she replied. But that’s not to say that our relationship didn’t sport a bit of evil,” she grinned. “Jerome built his little grocery on a plot of land given to him by old Papa Washington.”