Long Man

by Amy Greene

  In Knoxville the morning was fair and bright, the car already heating up. The city had always seemed like a different world to Ellard. Now it had its own weather, not thirty miles north of his drowning town. Earlier when it was still darkish he had come through the fog that blanketed Yuneetah, watching as the clouds massed over the wooded hills receded in his rearview mirror, his tires slinging orange clay as they turned off the dirt byways onto blacktop. The sun had risen higher as Ellard passed under the arched girders of the steel bridge on the way into the city, crossing over a different river than what he knew, this one floating barges and steamboats on to Chattanooga. Leaving behind the pickup trucks and mule-drawn carts of the countryside and joining the faster traffic of the highway, the smells through his open window changing from wet farmland and rich manure to factory smoke and gasoline. Part of Ellard was relieved to be escaping, but he was ill with worry over what was happening in his absence.

  As Ellard sat waiting for Washburn his head swam with all that had passed the night before. He and James had gone first across the road into the Hankins pasture, down to the uneven shoreline of the reservoir. They had split up, James heading left with a group of Whitehall County men toward where the field was bordered by a stand of loblolly pines. Ellard had gone to the opposite end where a dense thicket crowded against the barbwire. Before climbing over the fence he’d held his lantern across and seen light reflected on water. It was hard to say how deep it would be in some places. If Gracie had ventured in too far, the ground might have dropped from beneath her. But he would rather the lake have taken the child than Amos. Ellard had crossed the fence and spent close to an hour crashing through the overgrowth in the dark, burrs catching in his cuffs and shale wedging in his boot treads. He had pushed into the hemlocks as far as the water reached, shining his light into spidery tree holes and beating at drifts of forage with a branch, plunging his fingers into root tangles groping for the touch of hair or flesh or bone. Looking for Amos and Gracie Dodson both, his hand going to his revolver each time the brush crackled.

  When the search in the pasture yielded nothing James had gone with the men from Whitehall County to round up as many as they could from the coves and hollows above the taking line while Ellard stayed at the courthouse on the shortwave, calling for assistance. So far only a handful had showed up from surrounding counties and the state police were dragging their feet. He couldn’t help thinking a missing child from somewhere else might warrant more attention. Yuneetah had never been of much concern to outsiders, even before it was evacuated. Most anything Ellard asked of the higher-ups was years in coming, if it came at all. He had learned to make do with his piddling salary, his rooms at the courthouse and the use of this car, a humped-trunk Ford sedan with a black top and gold stars painted on the doors. But now Ellard cursed his lack of resources. He guessed he should be thankful anybody had come at all. He’d feared the townspeople wouldn’t return if they believed Gracie Dodson was dead, having watched enough of what they loved disappear. He had been relieved to see at least a few of his old neighbors among the other searchers gathered at the courthouse around midnight, standing in the lamplit entrance hall as Ellard gave them instructions. James Dodson had been there looking addled with his eyes roving over the pressed-tin ceiling, the fly-specked plaster walls, the high windows darted and dashed with raindrops. Ellard had told the searchers to sweep in lines through meadows and woods, to enter each vacant building and house. He’d advised them to spread out, to be slow and deliberate.

  Around dawn there had still been no trace of Gracie or Amos found, but there was a commotion on the riverbank. Ellard was organizing a group of fishermen with musseling boats to drag the lake when he heard the shouting. By the time he reached the other men upriver the ruckus had settled down. He came upon them bent over something at the edge of the lapping water, a hilly form lying on its side and drifted around with debris. At first sight he thought of Gracie’s coonhound. It was about the size of a large dog and resembled Rusty from a distance. James had told Ellard last night as they searched along the reservoir that his daughter would have followed that dog anywhere. If this was the hound that had gone missing with the child, she wouldn’t be far behind. But moving closer he saw that it had golden fur and a long tail, outstretched forelegs ending in big paws. It was a panther, with one marble eye shut and one open, its tongue hanging between ivoried teeth. Even in death, it had a sinuous beauty. Ellard toed its haunches. He knelt to look for buckshot, musk rising from its soggy hide into his nose, but the panther was unmarked. He had come across all manner of drowned animal. Moles, possums, groundhogs. But nothing like this. It troubled his mind.

  Then Annie Clyde Dodson came stumbling along the river as he was rolling the panther in a tarp. Ellard froze, watching as she ran down the slick bank. It was only when she fell that he and the other men rushed to her side. They tried to help her up but she shook them off, her dress front heavy with mud. She went to the tarp and dropped on her knees, pulling a flap back. She stared down for a long time. When one of the men made as if to cover the stinking corpse Ellard stopped him. They allowed Annie Clyde to look until she was satisfied, the babbling river filling their silence. When she stirred at last they all scrambled again to help her to her feet. Ellard asked if he could take her home but she turned and went off on unsteady legs into the trees without him. He started after her but didn’t know in the end what she might do if he interfered. He’d told the constable before heading for Knoxville to keep an eye on her.

  Now he felt like he had been away from Yuneetah too long. He began to regret his decision to come this far from home. He pulled out his pocket watch and shoved it back in his coat. He was considering going inside without Washburn when he heard the rap of knuckles against the glass at his ear. He dropped the stub of his cigarette into his lap and then flicked it out the window crack. Washburn stood back waiting as Ellard brushed the ash from his trousers and opened the door to get out. He was a handsome but solemn young man with startling blue eyes and dark blond hair slicked under a fedora. Their paths had crossed more than once in their effort to relocate the people of Yuneetah. In two years, Ellard hadn’t seen Washburn’s tie crooked or his shoes unpolished. He always smelled of pomade and aftershave, though he didn’t look old enough to grow whiskers. When Washburn offered his hand, their last meeting came back to Ellard. A month ago they had spoken in Ellard’s office about Annie Clyde Dodson. Ellard supposed they had known then it could come to something like this.

  “Are you ready to go in?” Washburn asked.

  “As I’ll ever be,” Ellard said.

  He followed Washburn up the steps under the columned portico and into the lobby, their heels ringing as they passed a crowd of potential hires waiting outside the employment office. They rode up in the elevator to the third floor and went down a hallway, clacking typewriters behind the closed doors. At the end of the hall they were ushered by a secretary into the office of a man named Clarence Harville. The room had a low ceiling and one window with a half-pulled shade, showing a glimpse of the Tennessee Theatre sign across the street. Under the window there was an oak desk and beside it a row of filing cabinets. Against another wall were shelves stacked with ledgers and boxes of supplies. Ellard’s eyes moved over these things without seeing them. He and Washburn sat in silence as Harville spoke to someone outside the office door, wavy shapes behind patterned glass. When he came in at last, a dour old man in a tailored suit and round spectacles, Washburn and Ellard stood. “I’ve already kept you gentlemen too long,” Harville said, taking a seat behind his desk. “So I’ll get to the point. You both know as well as I do this could have been prevented.”

  Ellard held his hat in his lap. “I don’t see that it matters now. There’s a child missing.”

  Harville nodded. “I’m sorry to hear it. I’ve been concerned something like this would happen.” He looked at Washburn. “I want you to work with Sheriff Moody however you can.”

  “Of course,” Washburn said. �
��I’ve made some calls about getting dogs out there—”

  “Let’s leave that to state law enforcement,” Harville interrupted.

  Washburn shrugged in his stiff-looking suit coat. “So far the state police have been slow to get involved. They might be more inclined to act if we put some pressure on them.”

  “I’d rather not step on any toes, if we can avoid it,” Harville said.

  “With respect, sir,” Washburn said. “We can’t worry about that.”

  “I want to hear from the sheriff. What’s the quickest way to solve this?”

  Ellard stared at the desktop, sun from the window lighting the objects there, a wire basket, an ashtray, a stamper, a mercury glass paperweight shaped like a globe. Anything to keep from looking at Harville’s smug face. “If the water was drained, we could cover more ground.”

  Harville regarded Ellard overtop his spectacles. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

  “We’re going to need a drawdown. That’s all there is to it.”

  Harville’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “A drawdown? We can’t do that.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “It would take a week to drain the lake. They’ve got to be out in two days.”

  “Two days?” Washburn broke in. “You still mean to enforce the deadline?”

  “I hope it won’t take a week to find her,” Ellard said. “But I have to plan on it.”

  “I don’t have the authority to order a drawdown anyway,” Harville told him.

  Ellard put on his hat. “Well then, I need to see somebody that does.”

  “Wait a minute,” Washburn said. “Let’s talk about what we can do, not what we can’t.”

  Harville turned from Ellard to Washburn. “You can go down and be with the family.”

  Washburn shifted in his chair. “I’m heading out to Yuneetah as soon as we’re finished here. I’ll talk to the public relations staff first. We should get the child’s picture in the Sentinel—”

  “Public relations is not your area either,” Harville spoke up, cutting the boy off again.

  “Public relations,” Ellard said, his blood heating and his voice rising. “What in the hell are we talking about?” He rounded on Washburn. “What’s wrong with you, son? I might as well have come here by myself. You’re supposed to be an advocate for these people. You know them. This man don’t. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, letting him run over you this way.”

  “There’s no reason to get loud,” Harville said. “We’re all on the same page.”

  “But not on the newspaper page,” Ellard said. “Ain’t that right?”

  Harville pursed his lips. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what I can do for you?”

  “I done told you,” Ellard said. “I need a drawdown. I need the state police. I need the word out in the newspapers. I need bloodhounds. And I need you to put yourself in James Dodson’s shoes. He’s looking for his daughter while we’re sitting here talking about what all you can’t do. Washburn don’t have any children, but I’d say you’ve got some. Grandchildren, too.”

  Harville slouched behind the desk, as if wearied by the turn things had taken. “Yes.”

  “Then you ought to understand. Unless you think your babies are worth more than ours.”

  Harville flushed. “I won’t sit here and listen to this.”

  Ellard got up with balled fists. “You ain’t hearing me noway,” he said. Washburn sat forward, knees knocking against the desk. Ellard made himself pause. He lowered his voice. “That’s all right, Harville. I see how it is. It’s my problem and you people don’t give a damn.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can to help you,” Harville said. “But there won’t be any drawdown.”

  Ellard went to the door and turned back. He drew breath to speak but couldn’t think what he wanted to say. Finally he opened the door and shut it behind him. By the time he got to the elevator he’d run out of steam. He walked out of the building into the street with his head down.

  When Washburn called Ellard’s name he didn’t turn around. “Sheriff!” he called again. Ellard stopped at the car and saw Washburn coming down the wide steps toward him, past others on their way inside. “You can’t just leave,” the boy said, out of breath as he reached the curb.

  Standing between the bleak buildings, the sun glaring off the vehicles motoring by, Ellard felt cornered. He had to look way up to see the sky. “No use wasting more time going over it.”

  “Clarence Harville’s a decent person,” Washburn said, not sounding convinced himself.

  “Right now I ain’t too worried about Clarence Harville one way or the other.”

  “Will you come back in with me?”

  “I told you, I’m done wasting time. He don’t care if that child’s alive or dead.”

  “Well, I care,” Washburn said. “I mean to help you find her.”

  Ellard looked Washburn in the face. “What if we don’t find her? Are you going to help me cuff Annie Clyde Dodson and drag her off of her farm? Like that man in there wants?”

  Washburn averted his eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s right. You don’t know nothing. What do you think will happen down yonder?”

  “I think we’re going to find the child and give her back to her mother.”

  “Maybe. But she might be tied up dead in a barbwire fence. Or tangled up in a brush pile.”

  Washburn paled but he didn’t respond.

  “I’ve found them with their eyes eat out by the catfish, and I’ve found them without a mark on them, like they’re just asleep. That might be the worst. Are you ready to see that?”

  “No,” Washburn said softly. “But I’ve seen a lot of good things done in Yuneetah over these last two years. If you’ll work with me, we might get one more good thing done.”

  The boy sounded so young and chastened then that Ellard felt sorry for him. “I don’t want to argue with you, son,” he said. “We ought to get along if we mean to help the Dodsons.”

  Washburn nodded. “If Harville won’t see reason, I’ll go over his head.”

  Ellard opened the car door. “I got to get on back.”

  “I’m behind you,” Washburn said.

  Ellard didn’t know if the boy meant on the way to Yuneetah or something else. He felt alone either way as he got into his car. He dreaded the long trip back home. He had too much time to wonder what was waiting for him. Too much time to think about his exchange with Washburn. He already regretted what he’d said about Gracie. He didn’t know what had come over him. Ellard supposed he wanted to knock the boy down a peg, standing there on the curb in his polished shoes, looking so hopeful and sure of himself. Washburn was an idealist. He believed progress was the answer to everything. Ellard wished he saw it like Washburn did, but in his experience the state was motivated less by altruism and more by their own selfish pursuit of power. The boy needed to believe that Harville was a decent man, that the Tennessee Valley Authority was trying to save the people of Yuneetah. But Ellard had come to the conclusion after twenty years that there was no saving his people. Sometimes he thought they didn’t want to be saved. He’d had many rows with his neighbors on the porch of Joe Dixon’s. For all their common sense they’d rather starve than take what they called handouts. They voted Republican or Democrat according to what side their grandfathers had picked before they were born. They said there had always been a Depression going on around here. It was hard to get much poorer than they had been. But to Ellard it seemed foolish for any but the wealthy to back a man like Herbert Hoover, giving aid to banks and railroads and corporations instead of workingmen with families.

  Regardless of what Washburn wanted Ellard to believe, Harville was no better than the politicians in Washington claiming it wasn’t their place to provide relief, passing the responsibility off to charities and churches. Ellard thought the government that got them into this mess ought to get them out of it. But he’d do what he could for the Dodsons, as he had don
e what he could for his own kin when the banks began to take their farms. His mother was from a place called Caney Fork, right outside of Whitehall County, and he had a first cousin there named Bill Harrell. A few years ago he’d stopped to see Bill on his way back from Clinchfield and found an auction sign at the end of the road up to his place. Before supper was over Ellard had decided to stay and see what he could do to help Bill keep his fifteen acres. They’d gone to the neighboring farmers, worried they might lose their own property. It wasn’t hard to talk them into organizing. Come the day of the auction men from all over Caney Fork converged on Bill’s land. Ellard watched from the chaff-floating shade of the barn with his revolver showing on his hip and a noose hanging from a nail over his head, letting strangers know they were unwelcome. The auctioneer stood on a wagon bed pouring sweat under the morning sun. But when he called for bids and the other Caney Fork farmers piped up with their offers, his face flamed from more than the heat. Every starting bid was a penny, for tracts of hardwood timber and tools alike. The bidding commenced at one cent for the house and closed at a quarter. Bill’s neighbors refused to bid over a nickel for anything, until the auctioneer gave up in disgust. By the end of the day Bill had bought back all that he owned for five dollars. Ellard knew a child was not a farm but the principle was the same. The ones that loved her would have to be the ones to try and save her.

  Ellard had vowed long ago to treat the people of Yuneetah the same as he would his first cousin. They all felt like kin to him, especially Annie Clyde Dodson, since he’d grown up with her mother and her aunt. Now driving farther into the foothills he hoped he hadn’t made things worse for her by turning Clarence Harville against him. Once he was across the steel bridge the first splatters of rain hit Ellard’s windshield. By the time he reached Yuneetah it was falling in curtains across the hood. His tires spun on the way down the slope into town, churning in the ruts made by other vehicles passing or getting stuck that way while he was gone. As he drove through the square he saw two uniformed men standing on the courthouse steps, one lighting a cigarette behind his cupped palm. Deputies from Sevier County, not state police. He nodded to them but didn’t slow down. He meant to put off dealing with any more outsiders as long as he could. Aside from them the town square was empty of lawmen and searchers. They were likely using the Walker farm as their base of operations. Ellard headed that way, listening to the distant cries of the men and women spread out through the pines bordering the fields along the road before cranking up his window against the weather. He would see about the Dodsons, but Amos was his priority. He didn’t need the state police. Ellard knew the drifter and his habits better than they did anyway.