“What’s like an ant farm?”
Barley pointed. “Your mother and her friends. Somebody slip you a Mickey?”
“No . . . what?”
“A Mickey Finn.” Barley bent down to pry one of the paint tops with a pocketknife. “It’s when somebody puts knockout drops in your drink. You look like you’ve had a few.”
William pointed across the way. “Somebody’s coming, Dad.”
A green convertible Rolls-Royce approached through the trees, slowing over the barrel run, then picking up speed again as it rounded the bend in the driveway toward the house. A woman with orange-blonde hair, elbow-length gloves, and shaded glasses sat in the passenger’s seat holding a young boy in a floppy herringbone hat. The driver was a mustached man dressed in a white suit. The Rolls skidded to a halt a few yards from the McFees’ Model T, and the man, whose orange hair was parted and combed down toward his ears with so much pomade that the wind didn’t move it, quickly jumped from the car without closing the door.
Barley’s gun belt was on the far side of the porch next to the hanging swing. Before the man took his next step, Barley stopped him with an outstretched hand. “That’s far enough.”
“Is this the McFee Distillery?”
“And what if it is?”
“Then I’ve found myself in the right place. I’m Roddrick Fancannon.” He motioned toward the car behind him. “This is my wife, LuAnne, and my son, Lucas.” He looked to his left as Johnny and Annie approached from the mill, at Annie in particular. “Is that her?”
Johnny protectively put an arm around his little sister. “What do you want?”
“Is that the girl?” asked Fancannon, on the verge of tears as he faced Barley. “I beg you. I’ll pay.”
“We don’t want your money,” said Barley.
“That story got picked up in our Nashville papers. I drove through the night to get here. To Twisted Tree.”
William looked to the man’s wife in the passenger’s seat. “Why? Because of your boy?”
Fancannon nodded. “He’s had a fever for well over a week now. We chill him in baths of ice, and it works, but it spikes again. The doctors are befuddled. We’re desperate, Mr. McFee.”
“I’m no doctor,” said Barley.
“Is that it?” Fancannon gazed toward the potter’s field. “Is that where he’s buried? The man believed to be Christ?”
William said, “You’ve come to visit the grave?”
Fancannon nodded. “And I’ll pay.”
“Cabbage won’t improve your chance of a miracle,” Barley said. “Jesus wasn’t dressed to the nines, if I remember my Bible correctly. Nor did He wear gold around His wrist.”
Fancannon glanced at his fancy watch and looked up. “Please . . . you can have it . . .”
“I don’t want your watch, Mr. Fancannon.”
“Go on.” William nodded toward the potter’s field. “Go ahead and take your boy. Do what you need to do and move along.”
“God bless you,” the wife said from the car. Fancannon hurried around to the other side of his Rolls-Royce and opened the door for her. He took the young boy and the three of them hurried toward the field.
Barley watched them go. Then went back to scraping paint.
The Fancannons prayed at the grave in the sun while deer spied from the whiskey trees. Barley watched them as he scraped and Cat panted beside him. William got to work inside the grain mill with Max and Carly, replacing rotted boards on the bins, which were set high in the barn, accessible from the second-floor balcony so gravity could help the grain into the mill. Every so often he looked out the window to check on Barley. After the Fancannons drove off, Barley went inside to clean up. He returned to the porch thirty minutes later in a white suit and hat that resembled Fancannon’s, then leaned against the Model T, smoking a cigar.
“What’s your father doing?” Samantha asked over William’s shoulder.
William turned. “Looks ready to go somewhere.”
“What did the two of you talk about all night?”
“Grandpa Sam.” William sidestepped his mother to grab a broom. “And the distillery.”
“Oh . . . what did he say?”
“Not much,” said William. Barley had confided in him. “What do you have there, Mother? A sample of the corn?” William inhaled. It smelled sweet. “Do we have enough to be milled?”
“Mr. Browder is checking the grains for quality. Making sure they’re free of mold. Johnny is examining for cracked kernels.” She was upbeat. “You were right. Mr. Browder has also been dabbling with malted barley and rye. We used to buy those from other farms.” She handed William the bucket of corn. “Here, take this to your father. Maybe the smell will bring him to his senses.”
William took the bucket from her. “Thanks, Mother.”
“For what?”
He surveyed the grain mill. “For this.”
She didn’t answer verbally, but the moisture in her eyes showed her thanks to him, for planting that seed, as Mr. Browder would have said it. Samantha never pinpointed her change of heart concerning the distillery, but William felt certain it had everything to do with Annie.
He nosed the bucket of corn on his way out the door.
Barley’s cigar was down to a nub by the time William approached with the bucket. “Go on in and change.” Barley nodded at William’s hands. “What do you have there?”
“Corn. Mom said to give it to you.” He noticed Henry’s shoes draped around his father’s neck. “Where we going?”
“To the city to look for those bums.”
William left the bucket on the gravel and went inside. He put on a clean white shirt and trousers, then replaced his boots with more comfortable brown shoes. He would have liked to have worn a hat like Barley’s; he needed something to make him look like a man, something to match the half-raccoon bruise around his left eye. He settled for a small scoop of pomade from his father’s tin and ran it through his hair. Checking himself in the mirror, he was convinced it made a subtle difference.
William returned downstairs, and when he opened the front door, he caught Barley squatting next to the bucket of corn, nosing it heavily. But as soon as he’d been caught, his father walked to the passenger’s side of the car.
“What took you so long?”
William ignored the question. “Doesn’t it smell good?”
“Smells like corn.” Barley closed his door. “What’s with the hair?”
William parked the car in a vacant spot at Fifth and Main, within view of the Ohio River, where most of the homeless seemed to congregate. Louisville had instituted employment programs after the crash, odd jobs and temp work that paid thirty-two cents an hour, but only one thousand spots were available to the eleven thousand showing up with lunch pails every morning, and the crowded river thoroughfare teemed with those turned away.
The riverfront boasted dozens of taverns and can houses full of wayward customers purchasing liquor with sketchy credit and pocket change. A slow-moving coal barge ducked under the new Second Street Bridge, cutting a frothy V through the waves. The riverbank crawled with bicycles, honking cars, and horse-pulled wagons. William noticed how many of the men he passed smoked cigarettes; tobacco was the only industry in the city unharmed by the Depression. Men smoked more when they were tense. They bought simple pleasures when everything else was unaffordable.
William and Barley moved east along the river and found pockets of drifters to question. Many were too smoked on giggle juice or dope to give any pertinent information. Several claimed they’d heard of Asher Keating—“The man who walked on water,” said one; “The preacher,” said another. “Is it true? Did he really heal that little girl’s legs?”
“It’s true,” Barley had mumbled, touching Henry’s shoes periodically, like a rosary.
“I know those.” A wrinkle-faced woman under the awning of a closed dry goods store pointed to the dangling shoes. Her smell was repulsive.
Barley squatted next to
her, but not too close. “Do you know the man who wore these?” He touched Henry’s shoes. “He wore them around his neck, like this.”
The lady nodded, wide eyed, her lips parted. A peaceful smile spread across her face. Barley snapped to get her attention, but she’d drifted back into her own world. Barley snapped again. “Hey, have you seen him? Have you seen the man who wore these shoes?”
William touched Barley’s shoulder, encouraging him to move on. He did after one more snap. They continued east, with no luck after an hour of looking.
A Negro-only breadline stretched around the corner of Third Street—at least three dozen blacks, men and women with empty bags in their hands, hoping to get enough to stretch through the week.
Barley pointed. “Look at the billboard.”
The advertisement above the line showed a picture of a happy white family driving in a car. “Even got a dog in there. Sticking his head right out the window.” Barley removed another Lucky from his jacket, shielded the flame until it lit, and read the billboard’s caption. “World’s Highest Standard of Living.”
William finished it for him. “There’s no way like the American way.”
“Don’t look up,” Barley said, although not loud enough for anyone in line to hear. Then he reached inside his jacket and removed a wad of cash. He walked down the breadline and gave each person a bill. They stared at him, one after the next, stunned. And then he crossed the street toward the river.
William hurried to catch up. “What was that about?”
“Nothing. Close your head.”
William followed Barley in admiration. Down the bank they spotted a man with a young boy who couldn’t be older than ten. They were fishing at the waterline under the bridge with poles rigged from tree branches. The father and son watched with caution as William and Barley navigated the slope of wet rocks. Wind whipped across the water, and Barley had to hold his hat on. By the time he balanced out on level dirt again, he was agitated and spoke tersely.
“Asher Keating. Do you know him?”
The fisherman pulled in his empty line and rested the pole beside him. His brown suit was dirty and faded. His face was stubbly with graying hair matching the tuft atop his head. “Does it look like I should know him?”
“Figured there was a good chance of it, pal.”
“Why, ’cause I live on the streets?” The fisherman stood. He was taller than Barley and William. He eyed the shoes around Barley’s neck. “Where’d you get those?” And then he facetiously added, “Pal.”
“None of your business.”
“Asher used to wear those around his neck,” said the man.
Barley’s tone changed immediately. “These shoes? Are you sure?”
“I don’t know if they were those shoes or President Roosevelt’s. I just know he wore them around his neck like some wise guy.”
The boy hadn’t looked up since they’d arrived. William thought he looked hungry and scared, two feelings a boy should never have.
“What happened to your eye?” the man asked William.
“Got in a fight. So you know Asher Keating?”
“I knew him,” said the fisherman. “Papers say he’s dead. Which is just ripe by me.”
William looked at Barley but spoke to the man. “How so?”
The boy finally spoke. “Because that man killed my mother.”
The fisherman cast his line into the water. “I’m John Swell. This is my boy, Peter. He had a twin, Simon, who passed two years ago.”
Barley now spoke with compassion. “And your wife?”
“She passed ten months ago.” John the fisherman moved his line in the water. “Without a roof over her head. In the middle of a rainstorm. Right here where we stand.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? You didn’t know her.”
“I have a wife of my own.”
“She’s still alive, I presume?”
The edge returned to Barley’s voice. “You presume correctly.”
John Swell looked back to the water. “And I assume this is your son?”
“I am.” William offered his hand for a shake. The fisherman shook it, but the grip was untrusting. “Might I ask why your son believes Asher killed his mother?”
“He came too late.” John propped the pole between two logs and sat down heavily on the embankment. “Not that it would have mattered. Whole thing was cruel. A farce. My dear wife got caught up in it.”
“You are not a believer?” William asked.
John huffed. “What God would allow a world to dwindle to this? I’m not a believer in God. And I’m certainly not a believer in Asher Keating.”
William said, “We’ve heard stories of healing—”
“He was a magician,” John Swell said. “An illusionist, with fans.”
Barley sat on a slanted rock. “Tell us about your wife, Mr. Swell.”
“Her name was Amanda.” John catered to his fishing line for half a minute. “Answered phones at the National Bank. Lost her job when it closed and I had all our money tied up in stocks. Lost everything in the crash. We lasted for months, scraping by doing odd jobs, but those ran dry and we had to move from our home. Amanda never got over Simon’s death.”
John looked at the shoes around Barley’s neck.
“She was depressed. Started getting the cough. Neither of us spoke about it, but we knew. Sounded like Simon’s cough. She liked the river. We heard that wind was good for the lungs, and there’s a lot of it here. We were walking the riverbank one morning and saw a crowd. Asher stood ankle-deep in the water, with another man in his arms, lowering him into the river. It was a baptism. Asher preached about God’s forgiveness. Talked about right and wrong. Told the newly baptized to be good and kind and honest. Amanda was a very religious woman. She was enthralled. It was the first time in months I’d seen her smile.”
John Swell wiped his eyes. “She walked toward the crowd, and it parted for her.” His hands shook. “Asher called her by name even though he didn’t know her. ‘Amanda Swell,’ he said. ‘Child of Christ. Be cleansed in the water and seek God’s forgiveness.’ I’ve seen magicians do such things. Surprise people by calling their names. I’m certain one of the people on the riverbank whispered it.”
“And she did?” William asked. “She went into the water?”
John nodded, watched his boy pluck a worm from the mud. “She was different after that. Her cough worsened and she lost weight, but the depression was gone. She became one of his loyal followers. I tried to talk her out of it. And she dwindled away.”
John pointed to Peter. “He witnessed Asher putting his hands on a woman who claimed to have lost her sight. Asher touched her eyes and the next day she could supposedly see. Another trick of the mind, but Peter begged Asher to put his hands on his mother. Begged him to fix her.” John stood from the embankment, pulled his line from the water. “Asher told us that God had His own plan for Amanda, and that her future was not in his hands, but in God the Father’s. Which was fine by me. I didn’t want that man’s hands on my wife.”
A fish had stolen his worm. John put the pole down, dejected. “The day she died, Peter sent for Asher. He didn’t make it in time. Peter blames him. I don’t. I allowed Asher to say a prayer when he arrived. He told us that Amanda had returned to God.”
To be with Simon, thought William.
“Me and Peter never saw Asher Keating again.”
“Why did he wear the shoes around his neck?” William asked.
John Swell looked at Barley. “Why do you wear those?”
“They’re my son’s.”
John hooked another worm on his line. “Don’t know why. Heard some say it started in the war, though. Do you know how he died?”
“We don’t.”
“I don’t either.” John tried his line in the water again. “Some say he was insane. Part of me wonders . . .”
“Wonders what, Mr. Swell?”
“Amanda spent more time with him than I did
. She said he healed a boy of polio and afterward forgot how to walk. Saved a woman from consumption and took on her cough. The lady he healed from blindness: supposedly he couldn’t see for hours.” John chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Maybe he just took too much of the bad stuff in.”
Barley stood with a grunt; Henry’s words came back to William in a flash. He asked, “Do you remember a young red-haired woman who followed Asher named Pauline? Polly, to some.”
“She lives at the old coke ovens and coal yards. Why do you want to know?”
“Because we’d like to find her.”
“Are you reporters? Was it you who wrote the article? The one in the paper?”
William nodded proudly. “But we’re not here as reporters, Mr. Swell. We’re just chinning here—”
“Should have told me your true business before taking my time.”
Barley gripped William’s arm. “Come on. Leave them be.”
“We need answers too,” William said. “You’re not the only ones suffering loss.”
Barley held out a bill to John. “Get you and your boy some food. Please.”
“I don’t take handouts.”
Barley slipped the end of the bill beneath a rock.
“Leave it there and it’ll end up in the river.”
Barley left the bill anyway. “Good day, Mr. Swell.”
The fisherman watched them for a moment. “Find a man named Solomon Kane. Asher saw him often.”
“Is he one of the Twelve?” asked William.
“No.” The fisherman jerked his line from the water: he’d caught a glass bottle filled with slime. “He’s who Asher got his dope from.”
THIRTEEN
William felt oddly betrayed by the news that Asher Keating was an opium addict. But he couldn’t condemn the man. If nothing else, it humanized him—a reminder that Asher, a war veteran, a man like any other, was not immune to the temptations of vice. Let he who has not sinned cast that first stone.
“I want to see our old house,” said William, making a turn.
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