Valley So Low

by Patrice Wayne

  Maude knocked on the door and when Granny opened it, trim and neat in a housedress topped with an apron, her throat filled up with tears. “Come in, child, come in,” Granny said. “I figured you’d come. Told Fred he could count on it.”

  “You’ve heard then.”

  “Heard this morning before I had time to finish my first pot of coffee,” Granny said. “It’s a terrible thing, and I know better than to believe my own grandson killed anyone, even worthless Delbert Jones. It’s terrible they’ve got Harry down at the jail.”

  Granny grasped her by the hand and led her into the house. She folded Maude into her arms and hugged her tight. “Sit down and tell me what happened. We don’t know a thing but what we’ve heard from gossip. Fred’s gone down to the jailhouse now to see if they’ll let him talk to Harry.”

  Maude sank into a chair and sketched the morning’s events. All of it seemed surreal now, more like a dream than reality. “And they rode off with Harry in handcuffs,” she told the older woman. All the tears she’d held back erupted and she cried hard, face in her hands as Granny patted her back. “Hush, Maude,” she told her. “We’ll make it through this patch of trouble somehow, always do.”

  “I don’t know how,” Maude wept when she found her voice. “Granny, I don’t.”

  “Neither do I,” the old woman said with a quiet peace Maude lacked. “But we will, honey, I promise you we will.”

  But how, Maude wondered, and failed to see a way. Tired, heartsick, and worried, she folded her hands in her lap and waited for Harry’s uncle to return with word. She stroked her ring and Granny noticed. “Did you two tie the knot?” she asked.

  “I wish we had but not yet,” Maude said. “Harry said it’s like a promise. We were planning to get married after Christmas, when the flu settled down. I’m afraid people will just use it against him, call us sinners, and talk about us. Maybe I ought to take it off.”

  “Pshaw,” Granny said. “Don’t you dare! Back when settlers first come to this country, folks set up housekeeping and lived like they was married until they could get to a preacher or one wandered through. No one thought a bad thing about them and they shouldn’t about you and Harry.”

  They would, though, Maude figured. All her Christmas sparkle faded to darkness as she recalled the pervasive sense of doom she’d felt for weeks. When Fred came home, his downcast expression added to her burdens. By then, Maude sat at the kitchen table watching Granny cook supper. Without turning from the stove, Granny asked, “Did you get to see Harry?”

  “I did,” Fred said with a long sigh. He showed no surprise to see Maude but sat down at the table. “He’s down in the dumps and I can’t say I blame him.”

  “Did you talk to the sheriff?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did, Granny,” Fred replied. “He’s planning on keeping Harry locked up until trial or till he finds out something to let him go. I don’t understand it a bit. Ike McGill’s never been an unreasonable man but he’s being one now.”

  “Did they let you give him the fried chicken and biscuits I sent?”

  Fred nodded. “Yeah, but he didn’t eat much of it. I swear, I’ve never seen the boy in such despair. He can’t give up, though. There’s gotta be somebody who can speak up. Half the town watched the fight and there must be someone who saw Jones afterward.”

  Each word he spoke stabbed into Maude’s heart. She could envision Harry all too well, head down and spirit broken. The accusation would’ve hit hard at any time but after their near-magical night, it hurt even more. “I want to see him,” Maude said. “Would you take me down to the jail, Uncle Fred?”

  She used the courtesy title out of respect, not affection, but the Fred Holloway she saw now bore little resemblance to the man she’d known. Maybe the death of his wife and other relatives humbled him, or perhaps he wasn’t quite the ogre she’d imagined. His concern for Harry rang true and when he shook his head, the sympathy in his face wasn’t faked. “I won’t today, Maude. Visiting time’s long over with and McGill wouldn’t let you in the door. We can try come morning if you want but he may say no. Ladies don’t generally go back to the cells and the sheriff already said he won’t let Harry out for love or money.”

  “Thank you,” Maude said. “I’d like to go up to bed now if you don’t mind. I’m worn out and too worried to be good company.”

  Granny frowned. “Don’t you want to eat a bite? There’s cold chicken left from what I fixed for Harry and I’ve got taters on, biscuits in the oven.”

  The thought of food turned her stomach and she shook her head. “I don’t have any appetite at all but thanks. Tell me where you want me to lay my head and I’ll get out of the way.”

  “You’re never in the way,” Granny fussed. “Come on, though, I’ll take you upstairs.”

  Maude settled her few things into the smallest room at the rear of the house. Alone, she sat down on the bed and stared across the roofs of town and then, shoes off and face muffled into the feather pillow, she cried.

  Chapter Ten

  Dressed in the best dress she’d brought, along with a large hat heavy with trimming pinned in place on her head, Maude arrived at the jail with Fred. The large house offered two purposes. It housed the sheriff’s large family and held the county jail. To enter the cell block area, visitors could either go through the kitchen and into the small, disorganized sheriff’s office or enter through an outside door. She wasn’t sure what to do so she knocked at the front door as if paying a social call. Alameda McGill, the sheriff’s second wife, peered through the lace curtains before she opened the door. “Yes?” she said in a tone about as friendly as a cornered possum.

  “Mrs. McGill,” Maude said. “I’d like to see Harry Whitney, please.”

  Alameda’s eyes narrowed. Maude remembered her when she’d been Alameda Swann, wife of a local teamster. The Swanns lived a few blocks above Maude and her mama. After Mr. Swann died of typhoid one fall, Alameda and her brood almost ended up out on the county poor farm. If she hadn’t married the sheriff, they would’ve, but Alameda became downright uppity as the lawman’s bride. “He’s in the jailhouse and he’s not fit to bring out for company,” Alameda said with a sniff. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to go back in there either, so I’m sorry.”

  She started to close the door but Maude inserted her hand and stayed it. “I’ll go wherever I must to see Harry,” she told her. “I’m not leavin’ or going anywhere till I do.”

  “Well, I never!” Alameda said. “I’ll have to ask the sheriff. Wait here.”

  Maude walked onto into the entry hall. “It’s cold outside,” she said. “I’ll wait here, thanks.”

  Until now, she’d never set foot inside the sheriff’s home, and she gawked. A formal parlor opened to her right, a room stuffed full with plush furniture, marble-topped tables, and more bric-a-brac than Maude had ever seen anywhere but the five-and-dime store. Two Boston ferns dropped brown fronds onto the Turkish carpet. On the other side of the hallway, a simple dining room held a large table and chairs. Some of the breakfast dishes remained. Whatever else Alameda McGill might be, Maude mused, she wasn’t a good housekeeper. A carved staircase climbed ahead of Maude. High voices of young girls echoed downward and somewhere a baby cried. A deeper voice rumbled from farther within the house, and in a few moments the Sheriff appeared in the hallway.

  “Morning, Miz Whitney,” he said. “I’m sure you’d like to see your, uh, well, Harry, but I don’t think it’s a good idea at all. The jailhouse is full of ruffians and it’s no place for a lady like you.”

  “I don’t agree,” Maude said. “If Harry’s there, it’s where I need to be.”

  Sheriff McGill, who appeared smaller and far less forbidding in his home, scratched his head. “I don’t know. I don’t like it much but if you’re willing, I guess I’ll let you go back. But you can’t stay long and I won’t hold with any fits.”

  Head held high, Maude stared him in the eyes and said, “I don’t intend to throw any.”


  Ike tossed his hands in the air and said, “All right, then. I’ll take you back but if you don’t like it, don’t gripe to me.” Alameda, hovering in the dining room, snorted her disapproval, but Sheriff McGill beckoned Maude to follow him so she did. Fred trailed behind in silent support.

  As the Sheriff jangled a collection of keys and opened the heavy iron door, Maude’s insides tightened. Cooler air wafted from the cell area and a chorus of oaths, shouts, and grumbles erupted as McGill entered. Maude stared at all six cells, three on either side of the narrow corridor. All were barren and barred. A stench filled her nose, a loathsome smell of unwashed bodies, of urine and feces, and desperation. Her stomach rolled and she tried not to gag. Unshaven men sat on stark cots and stared at her. Some called out to her, insults and harsh words, but she ignored them. In the farthest cell on the right, Harry lay on his bunk with his back to the corridor. Unlike most of the rest, he had no cell mate. The way he’d curled into a ball indicated he must be cold, and Maude resolved to bring him a blanket if the sheriff allowed it. Although Harry must hear the commotion, he paid it no mind until McGill raked his billy club across the bars with a horrible clatter. “Get up, Whitney,” he barked. “You’ve got visitors.”

  Harry didn’t move until Maude stepped up to the bars. “Harry,” she said. “It’s me.”

  At the sound of her voice, he reacted. Harry bolted off the narrow cot and came toward her. His red eyes alarmed her and his frown cut deep lines into his face. He appeared ten years older than he had when they took him into custody. He wrapped his fingers around one of the bars and she touched his hand. “Oh, Harry,” she said.

  “Maudie, you oughtn’t be here,” Harry said in a hoarse voice. “It ain’t no place for you, but I’m glad you came.”

  “I had to,” she told him. “Harry, I’m staying with Granny until this mess gets fixed. If you need anything, I’ll fetch it to you. You need a blanket and I’ll bring it back today.”

  He shook his head. “Honey, all I need is out of this hell hole. I don’t know if the sheriff will let me have a blanket or not but I could use one. Where’s George?”

  “He’s still with Aunt Mary,” she told him. “And Uncle Tommy said he’d tend the stock.”

  “That’s good of him,” Harry said. “The little fella will miss you, Maudie. Maybe you should go home and wait. Looks like it’s gonna be awhile, I don’t know. Unless somebody comes forward with the truth, it feels like the sheriff wants to hang this on me and I don’t know why.”

  “I won’t go home until you’re coming with me,” Maude vowed. “They can’t do this to an innocent man, Harry.”

  His lips curved into a faint smile, bitter as a persimmon. “Looks like they’re managing it so far, Maude.”

  “We’ll put an end to it,” she told him. “I promise.” Harry unwound his fingers from the iron and grasped her hand. “I believe you,” he said, although she wasn’t sure he did. The look in his eyes would haunt her long after she left this place. Moments later, the sheriff sent her away, voice gruff. He hurried her away but she turned back in time to see Harry lie back down, his attitude one of defeat. I have to get him out of here, somehow, some way, but for sure and soon.

  After dinner at noon, Maude walked the blocks alone from the Holloways to the jail, a blanket folded into a basket. Beneath it were the muffins she’d made but when she rapped at the front door, Alameda McGill refused to let her come inside. “Rules are no more than a visit a day,” she said. “Sheriff’s orders.”

  “Would you give Harry Whitney the blanket and muffins?” Maude asked.

  “I might,” the woman said, expression blank. Maude wondered what might persuade her and realized she wanted money. She had none so all she could do was hope the items reached Harry. “I’ll be back in the morning,” Maude said. “I’d best see the blanket in Harry’s cell or I’ll want to know why.”

  Without a word, Mrs. McGill shut the door and left Maude standing on the porch. A frigid wind whipped around her so she turned, weary, and trudged back to the house. No matter how hard Granny coaxed her, Maude couldn’t summon up much appetite for supper and she retired early. She remained wakeful most of the night, huddled under a quilt thinking of Harry. She hoped he slept warmer than she did.

  Each morning for the next week, including New Year’s Day, Maude rose early. She dressed with stiff fingers in the cold upstairs bedroom, hoped her son hadn’t forgotten her or pined away in her absence. She hated missing George’s birthday most of all, but Maude figured he didn’t know the day and planned to celebrate when Harry was free. Maude drank the powerful black coffee Granny brewed, choked down a biscuit, and sometimes managed a bit of bacon or piece of salt pork before she headed to the jail. Fred no longer escorted her. She didn’t need him. On good days, Alameda let her in to wait in the hallway. But there were times when Maude waited on the porch and others when the sheriff didn’t show up for more than an hour. Although she bit her tongue, Maude’s resentment simmered, but none of their antics could keep her from a daily visit with Harry.

  She needed their meetings the way a plant requires water and sunlight, but Harry troubled her more each day. Dark smudges beneath his eyes gave him a gaunt, unhealthy look. He seldom smiled and he stared at her with dull eyes. Maude prattled to him what town news she gleaned, told him things Granny did or said, all with an enthusiasm and cheer she lacked. Harry had little to say but she understood his days marched onward with slow precision, the next a copy of the one before—nothing happened. They held hands through the bars and tried to kiss without success.

  Maude could occasionally coax him to eat some little treat she baked or Granny sent, but Harry admitted he ate next to nothing. “I can’t eat this slop,” he told her, voice low so the sheriff wouldn’t overhear. “They give us some kind of oatmeal or gruel, thin and watery. Half the time it’s got weevils in it. I’ve picked them out, legs and all. Puts a fella off his feed, you know. At noon, they give us a hunk of bread so hard and stale I ‘bout break my teeth trying to eat it. Supper’s worse—beans cooked with rancid bacon grease or turnips or potato soup or cabbage. I ate the cabbage first time they served it and got wind so bad I thought I’d die. Now I don’t eat much of anything but what you bring me, honey.”

  “You need to keep your strength up,” Maude told him. She touched his grimy fingers through the bars. “I’d come back with supper but they said I can’t come more than once a day.”

  “Aw, Maudie, I know you would,” Harry replied. “I’d freeze without the blanket you brung to me.”

  “Tell me what you’d like and I’ll bring it tomorrow,” she told him. “I’ll bake molasses cookies, make chicken and dumplings, Hamburg steak, anything you want.”

  For the first time in several days, Harry’s lips lifted into a true smile. “Molasses cookies put me in mind of little George,” he said. “I miss the little fella and that’s a fact.”

  Pain cut deep into Maude’s heart. “I miss him too,” she said. She remembered the day of George’s birth and ached she’d missed marking the celebration. As if he read her mind, Harry’s expression changed. “What’s today?” he asked. “Third of January,” she said. “It’s Friday.”

  “We missed the kid’s birthday,” Harry said in a toneless voice. “I hate it, Maude. It’s not fair to George.”

  “We’ll make it up to him,” she promised. “It’s not like he’ll know the difference at this age, Harry.”

  “I’m sorry, Maudie,” he said. He sounded so morose Maude stuck her hand into the cell so she could touch his cheek. “It’s not your fault, Harry,” she told him. “And right now it can’t be helped.” He covered her hand with his. “Aw, it makes me feel bad, that’s all,” he said. “I wish I was home with you and the boy on the farm.”

  “You will be soon.” Harry sighed and said nothing. “Harry?” she asked.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything yet but they set trial for January twentieth,” he told her, eyes staring at the floor. “Judge Reiner’
s supposed to serve and they’re calling in a jury.”

  Maude counted the days. “That’s more than two weeks away,” she cried. Anger fired and spread through her body faster than a brush fire during a drought. “They can’t keep you here all that time, can they?”

  Harry hung his head. “They plan to, Maudie, and I reckon they will unless someone comes forward to clear my name or confess to killing Delbert Jones. If I go to trial, ain’t no telling how it’ll go. If they get a bunch of bankers, lawyers, businessmen and such as jury, they might well hang me. You know how this town is—town against the country folk, rich against the poor and middlin’. I don’t have much chance out of this, honey, and that’s the truth.”

  “Don’t say it! It’s not true, it’s not,” Maude cried. His quiet desperation worried her more than wild denial would. “You can’t talk like there’s no hope, Harry.”

  Her voice echoed loud in the cell block and other prisoners stared. The jangle of many keys heralded the sheriff’s approach and Harry released her hand. “Hush, honey,” he said. “Don’t make a fuss or he won’t let you come back. I don’t know if I could bear it. You coming every day’s all I’ve got to look forward to.”

  She willed herself calm and managed a blank expression. Sheriff McGill entered the cell area and glared at her but Maude summoned up a small smile. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird but she kept quiet. “I thought I heard some kind of noise in here,” McGill said. “Was it you, Miz Whitney?”