The Rivers Webb

by Jeremy Tyler

  It was a far cry from the cozy brick cottage that his uncle enjoyed while he lived. It was painfully obvious that this particular building was constructed with faith—and not much else. And yet, there was something comfortable and reassuring about the little cabin. John couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he was drawn to it in a strange way. He was still trying to wrap his brain around it, standing at the foot of the small porch, when the door opened.

  “Well, hi there,” the woman said. If she was concerned that a stranger was standing at her door with a stupefied expression on his face, she hid it incredibly well.

  “I’m sorry,” John said, “I was hoping to speak with the pastor…”

  “Of course, of course. He’s right in the livin’ room. C’mon inside, Mr. Webb.”

  Once again, somebody automatically knew who he was. It was creepy, and it didn’t matter one little bit that he was the only visitor in a town that knew itself in and out.

  “I’m just not going to get used to that.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “The way everyone around here knows everybody else. It’s like there are no secrets. I’ve lived in the same apartment in New York for six years, and I still don’t know any of my neighbors.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow in mock astonishment.

  “Then, however do you borrow sugar?”

  John couldn’t help but laugh. And, at that, the pastor’s wife smiled, knowing that she had broken through. She was a kind-looking woman and, while the lines on her face betrayed that more years lay behind her then before, she had a vaguely ageless quality.

  “You’re wrong about one thing, though…” she confided, “People around here gots plenty o’ secrets.”

  John followed her inside, and was somewhat surprised to find a neat, tidy, and very welcoming little home inside the unhandsome little shack.

  “Albert, we’ve got us some comp’ny.”

  “Good,” remarked the pastor from a wood rocker, “I been waitin’ all day for a decent conversation.” The smile and quick wink were enough to earn him a playful swat from his wife as she passed into the kitchen. “Beatrice, be a dear and fix us some iced tea, please?”

  The Baptist minister was a big man, and it was plain that he enjoyed a good sense of humor and a wellspring of kindness in equal measure. John wasn’t quite certain what specifically it was about the man that assured him of this, but it was somehow obvious, nevertheless.

  “I don’t want to be a bother…” John said.

  “Nonsense!” Beatrice replied from the kitchen, as she poured out three glasses. “We enjoy havin’ people stop by.”

  “Mr. Webb, if ya’ don’t mind my askin’, how is your family doin’?” the reverend asked.

  “About as well as…well, to tell you truth, Reverend, I couldn’t tell you. I haven’t really talked to them very much since I’ve arrived.”

  “Doesn’t sound like an effective way to handle a family reunion,” Beatrice quipped.

  “Or a murder investigation,” the good reverend finished.

  John tried to think of something to say in response…and came up with nothing.

  “Oh, don’t pay us any mind, John. Us old folks just gotta be nosin’ into everything, whether we got a right to, or not,” the kind old pastor assured.

  “Besides, from what Gerald’s told me, you’re doin’ a fine job.”

  That got John’s attention.

  “Gerald? Gerald Peachtree?”

  Reverend Albert Edwards smiled broadly.

  “Gerald and I had a good talk last night. He comes by now and again to make sure we got everythin’ we need.”

  “I didn’t know that Gerald attended your church,” John said, as Beatrice handed him the tall glass of iced tea.

  “Well, he doesn’t. That is, he doesn’t attend this church, here. He’s a member up there at Ebenezer Baptist—the colored church. They don’t have enough to hire on a permanent pastor, so once a month, I head up there after services on Sunday and preach for ’em. There’s three other pastors from other counties that do the same, so they always get a sermon.”

  “That’s very kind of you to do that.”

  “Well, a preacher preaches. I suppose that, as long as God sees fit to put people in pews, I can see fit to preach His word to ’em.”

  “To tell ya’ the truth, Mr. Webb,” Beatrice added, “If it weren’t for dear old Gerald, Albert would’a had to give up preachin’ up there a long time ago. We just don’t have the gumption to travel like that anymore. But Gerald comes, just as faithful as God’s own angels, to pick us up in that nice car the Wilhelmina let him use.”

  “I didn’t know that,” John said, “As it happens, Aunt Wilhelmina has leant that car to me while I’m down, so I’ll be sure to make it available to Mr. Peachtree on Sunday, so you won’t be late for services.”

  The good reverend smiled in appreciation.

  “Actually, it is about one of your parishioners that brings me by today, though.”

  “Oh? You’ve already got a murder suspect, then,” the pastor said guardedly. He clearly did not care for the thought that one of his flock might be a murder suspect.

  “No, not really. It’s actually more of a side investigation. Something that may well have nothing to do with the murders…but I’m not taking any chances.”

  “Well, that’s smart,” Beatrice chimed in.

  “It’s a young lady…she was a member of the Baptist church many years ago.”

  “Was? I take it she’s moved on, then?”

  “Permanently. She died before I was born. Her name was Emma Lou Posey.”

  The pastor took a reflective sip on his iced tea.

  “Well, there’s a name I haven’t heard in many years. But yeah, I remember Emma Lou.”

  The sad look on the old preacher’s face was almost enough to make John change the subject—tell the man to ‘Never mind, forget about it.’ But there were too many unanswered questions for John to turn back now.

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  Pastor Albert Edwards stared back at John, as if to gauge the level of importance of the question.

  “Emma Lou is probably the saddest story I know. She was a real sweetheart of a girl, and the pride of Jim Posey’s life. If there were ever a more proud father, I haven’t seen ’im. But sweet as she was, she wern’t perfect. When a young, brash young man named Roy Rivers showed more than a passin’ interest, Emma Lou was swept clean off ’er feet. All o’ sixteen years old, Emma Lou didn’t know half what she ought to about the ways o’ men. Before too long, Emma Lou was pregnant.”

  “I imagine that didn’t go over very well,” John commented.

  The pastor chuckled. “No. It did not. Nach’rly, Jim Posey insisted that Roy do the right thing and marry Emma Lou. O’ course, the Rivers family weren’t at all happy about that. They kept on tellin’ Roy that he didn’t need some poor farmer’s daughter holdin’ him back, and he should just deny that anythin’ happened between them. But Jim Posey had two very important and compellin’ arguments to that suggestion: his shotgun, and his determination to use it.”

  “So, Emma Lou was my father’s first wife.”

  “You should know somethin’, John. Roy Rivers was just a boy back then, with nothin’ but privilege and spoilin’ for an education. What happened with Emma Lou changed him, made him see the world like it really was, and he became the good man he is today because of it. Truth be known, I believe that he would’a married Emma Lou, anyway.”

  “I appreciate that, Reverend. But I need to know…what happened to Emma Lou? How did she die, and why was she buried under the name Posey?”

  The pastor took another swig on his iced tea.

  “When I said that the Rivers didn’t like the idea of Roy marryin’ Emma Lou…well, they liked the reality of it even less! Your Aunt Wilhelmina most of all. She and Opal were so cruel. Not a day went by that they didn’t torment Emma Lou. I remember because she would come by at least once a
week, not to talk to me so much as Beatrice.”

  “Now, Albert, let’s at least be honest, if we’re not goin’ ta’ be kind!” Beatrice scolded.

  John gave a quizzical look, which the pastor just waved aside.

  “Beatrice is just remindin’ me that I tend to lump Opal in with Wilhelmina, whether she truly deserves it or not. And I guess she’s right. It is true enough that Wilhelmina Rivers treated Emma Lou pretty awful, and Opal was always two steps behind ’er. But Opal, she was never vicious or truly cruel. She just never had it in ’er to stand up to her big sister.”

  John thought back to the near frightened look on Opal’s face just last night. He had wondered about that at the time. It started to make sense now.

  “So Wilhelmina made it pretty bad for Emma Lou,” John reiterated.

  “That poor girl had nothin’ but misery in the Rivers home. I felt so bad for her,” Beatrice said.

  “After a few months, Emma Lou was so desp’rit to please those two that she would’a done anythin’. I mean really, anythin’. That’s when it happened.” He took a moment to collect his thoughts. The pause seemed to take forever, but John didn’t dare break the silence. He could see how difficult it was to relive these events. “It was a Tuesday mornin’ when Roy woke to find his young wife as sick as anyone can get. She was so pale and her skin was so cold, Roy thought she was dead right there. But she didn’t have such good luck. He managed to wake her, but she was so confused that she just kept goin’ on about how she had fixed evr’ythin’ and how he didn’t have to worry no more. He called for the doctor, he got her water…he did ev’ry blessed thing he could think of, but it was too late. About an hour after she woke, the pain started. Her poor little body was gettin’ tore up on the inside, and all Roy could do was watch and cry for ’er. Shortly after sundown, she died. Wilhelmina was quick to tell ever’body that Emma Lou died ‘cause o’ the baby.’ But the doctor said that weren’t so. He told Roy and the rest o’ the family that he’d seen someone die like that before. He said that a local drunkard had too much of the drink for good sense, but not enough to make him forget evr’ything he wanted to, so when he ran out o’ liquor and moonshine, decided to follow it up with turpentine. Roy looked in the cupboard, and sure enough, the whole bottle they kept for cleanin’ was empty.”

  “She killed herself?” John asked.

  “There’s just a few folks who know about all this, mind you. Most ev’rybody round here has been told she died ‘cause o’ complications in childbirth,’ and they’re just fine acceptin’ it. For the rest of us, there’s a lot o’ questions left, but the only person that could’a answered ’em…well, she’s buried about a hundred feet behind me.”

  “Under the name Posey,” John said, reminding the man that he still had one question left unanswered.

  “Yes, that. Jim Posey never forgave Roy. He considered it to be Roy’s fault that she died, and that whatever had happened to her, it would never have happened if not for the Rivers. He insisted on buryin’ her under her maiden name, so that the record of her death would show the family that loved her, and not the one that killed her. As the oldest and most domineerin’, Wilhelmina was quick to agree, eager to have the whole incident wiped away.”

  John was starting to feel tired. Not the kind of weariness that comes from lack of sleep or overexertion, but the vexing exhaustion of sharing a terrible secret. It followed him as he made his farewells to the elderly couple, stayed with him as he searched out among the gravestones to see Emma Lou’s grave for himself, and it refused to relinquish its hold as he drove down the dusty road, suddenly at a loss for where to go next.

  * * *

  At the Rivers home, Wilhelmina was busy fussing over the table setting. It was clearly busy work, but it kept her mind distracted, and she was glad to have it.

  “Opal, when was the last time this silver was polished? I swear you just can’t seem to understand the importance of keepin’ a good home. What if someone was to stop over unannounced? There I’d be servin’ fine marmalade and Darjeeling tea on tarnished silver. I’d be a laughin’ stock as soon as the ladies at the civic center heard—and don’t you doubt for one second that they would hear… Opal, for lands sakes, can you hear me?!”

  “Dear God, Sister, the way you’re catterwaulin’ there are folks as far as Charleston who can hear ya’!” came a voice from another room. It was familiar, masculine voice. And certainly not Opal.

  “Arnold, what are you doin’ here? And where is Opal?”

  “I sent her out for a few essentials. As for my bein’ here, I cancelled my meetin’ up in Atlanta. Family first, and all that.” He sauntered into the dining room, an open beer in hand.

  “Is that,” Wilhelmina responded, pointing to the bottle, “the essential you sent her for?”

  “Man cannot live on bread alone,” he said, and then took a swig to demonstrate.

  “Your considerable supply of fine consumables in the parlor contain a large variety of whiskeys and liquors, but your selection of beer leaves considerable room for improvement,” he informed her.

  “You know full well that I don’t approve of such common drink. It encourages decent men to overindulge,” she said, looking over the table setting once again.

  “Oh, that’s right. Whiskey, sipped over a fine meal, or in accompaniment with a cigar, is always sufficient to sate a man’s appetite, but somethin’ so low-brow as beer, well it’s only good enough for tyin’ one on. Thank you, dear Sister, for remindin’ me how dangerous this evil drink can be.” He turned to leave, but Wilhelmina was not finished with this conversation.

  “Arnold?” she asked. He turned his head to face her. “Arnold, is there anything you want to tell me about…about all this unpleasantness?”

  That got Arnold Rivers’ attention. He walked fully into the room and sat down.

  “Just what are you askin’ me, Wilhelmina?”

  She was staring into the reflection of her face, held in the gleaming surface of a silver serving spoon.

  “There have been rumors, Arnold. Whispers uttered quietly when no one believed I could hear. But I hear more than what people know, you can be sure o’ that. It has been suggested that some of your ‘new business ventures’ may not be the sort of arrangement our father would have approved of.”

  “Wilhelmina, I…”

  “I’ve always ignored them, of course. Left them off as no more than the jealous ramblin’s of the less fortunate. But with all o’ this happenin’, I can’t help but wonder.”

  Arnold suddenly felt much more tired than he had a few moments ago. He allowed the bottle in his hand to slip down to a nearby tabletop with a slight clink.

  “Since taking over the business interests of this family, I have worked very hard to expand the scope of our fortune. There was a time when the export of sorghum and cotton would have been sufficient to maintain our decidedly comfortable lifestyle. No more. Competition from coop organizations and corporate farms have driven the prices down to almost nothin’. I realized some time ago that we must either seek other means of income, or be reduced to…well, certainly not poverty, but sacrifices would have to be made in our day-to-day lifetsyle.”

  “What are you sayin’, Arnold?”

  “I sought out new investments. With our considerable assets, it wasn’t hard to find companies and individuals with promisin’ ideas. We have successfully invested in building projects in Atlanta, Birmingham, Charleston, even down in Florida. We have also reaped the benefit of successful partnerships in oil and steel concerns.”

  “Arnold, I know all this. Do you think I don’t pay no attention at all?”

  “What you don’t know is that a few o’ those concerns are owned by people that have, shall we say, a ‘colorful history.’ The sort o’ history that can sometimes get people to talkin’.”

  “The kinda’ talk that people say when they think I can’t hear, for example.”

  “The very kind. But I promise you, its just talk. There is absol
utely no connection between those business dealin’s and what has been happenin’ here. If I even suspected that possibility, you can be assured, I would do somethin’ about it.”

  Wilhelmina didn’t respond directly. She only turned her attention back to the silver. Arnold recognized that the conversation was at an end, and got up to leave.

  “My boy’s dead, Arnold.”

  She said it with such numb detachment that Arnold might have convinced himself that he had misheard her. But Arnold knew his sister well enough to understand that this was as close to an impassioned plea as she was capable of giving.

  “I know. We all loved George. I hope that…”

  “When Opal gets back, be sure she goes through all the silver and sees to it that it shines,” she said with an air of finality. Arnold took his cue and left.

  * * *

  Opal Rivers was not exactly what you would call a social butterfly. Don’t misunderstand, she was in attendance and heavily involved in every social event that was worth having, but when it came to recognition—that big moment when someone stands up in front of everybody and announces, “We’d like to thank (insert name here) for making all this possible…”

  Well, it was never Opal’s name that they mentioned. That was usually when Wilhelmina stepped up. Wilhelmina was the face and the name that made everything turn around in Coweta County. Opal was the hands, feet, and hard labor. Important, certainly. But in society, hardly worthy of recognition.

  Most people would have a problem with this. Opal Rivers was a woman of wealth and means. She was born to a position of respect in society. It was her right to be recognized by her peers. And perhaps, had she not been placed directly into Wilhelmina’s shadow all of her life, she might have grown to want all those things. But Opal lacked Wilhelmina’s drive and determination, as well as her desire to control everything and everyone around her. Instead, Opal always demonstrated the capacity to accept the situations fate had lain before her.

  So it never bothered her when her sister, or one of her brothers, sent her off on some menial errand, simply because they didn’t want to be bothered with it.