by Jackie Lynn
Tom finished the sandwich and brushed the crumbs off of his mouth.
“Percy got here after the floods had subsided, but there was nothing to be found. They said the steamboat captain had gone, that there were no survivors left in town. Nobody knew anything about the minister or the money, and finally as the war began and the river traffic was being halted, I guess Percy returned to Cairo and then to Denver.”
“Without his wife?” I asked.
“Without anything,” Tom replied.
I waited out of respect for a dead man’s hardship.
“So, what’s the story now? Why is this such an interesting tale for people in West Memphis?”
Tom took a drink, smiled slightly as if I had discovered his secret.
“Ah, you were paying attention.”
I smiled back.
“Some folks say the gold is here. That the Quaker came across the river from Memphis and hid it over here before he was killed or swept away. There are some people who believe he knew the storm was coming and he put it away for safekeeping.”
I nodded. “So everybody’s looking for this gold?”
“This gold is pretty valuable today. Clark, Gruber, and Company, along with several other minting operations, shut down in a couple of years. In 1863, Clark’s company sold their outfit to the United States government and thereby no longer made these particular coins. So, you can see that these coins are quite rare. There are some of them where only five or ten are known to exist. For anybody to find this bag of gold, fame and fortune would be their reward.”
“This is a good story,” I said, thinking about all the folks who love a good treasure search, love the thought of finding gold, of making history.
Then I thought again about Percy and his family, what the coins meant to him, how much they took from his life. “Whatever happened to Lavender and the children?” I asked.
Tom shook his head. “That part nobody knows,” he answered. “I guess like so many slaves at that time, they were killed. Once Percy returned to Denver the war started and there were no more letters from him found. As far as anybody knows Percy and Lavender never saw each other again.”
We were both silent for a while. I thought about the brokenness of a man and a woman, the plight of aborted love. I stretched my eyes and thoughts across the Mississippi River, the dark body of moving, living water that gave one slave his freedom, only to steal it away in the end.
I thought about the woman, Lavender, the way she must have watched every day for the coming of a stranger who would bring back the night stars that had been hidden from her since Percy was sold, the music at dawn that she lost when he never returned from the cane field, some man who would give to her once again the only thing good about her living.
I thought about how long she must have watched the skies and the winding roads, how long she kept her few things packed, her children ready to go, how desperately she clung to hope. I wondered when she gave up, if she ever did, and what became of a woman with too much grief.
I considered this Quaker, this man who was connected to Percy and who risked his own life to help him escape. I thought about his soul, if he knew he was in great peril and what his final prayer on this earth would have been; I wondered, though he had proven himself in rafting to Cairo with Percy, if he had been smart enough to estimate the damage of an arriving storm and knew a safe place to hide a bag of gold coins. So many questions, I thought, so much life and death and dreams and plans buried in the dark mud of a river.
Then suddenly while I was thinking about the minister’s death, about what might have happened to him, I remembered Lawrence Franklin; I wondered if these two stories were somehow related.
“Was your friend Lawrence interested in the buried treasure?” I asked, watching for his response.
He shook his head and gave a little laugh.
“Nah,” he answered. “He found it to be a nice story, but he had no concern for finding gold. Lawrence was never one very interested in having a lot of money.”
I waited.
“He was only interested in giving rest to lost souls.”
He could see I was not following his explanation.
“Lawrence focused mostly on another story of tragedy. He believed there had been a place somewhere along the banks where folks had been buried and he wanted to buy and dedicate part of this area to be a cemetery for folks who had nowhere else to go, folks who died homeless. He wanted to know who each one was and honor them with markers.”
I nodded.
I knew the deceased had been a funeral director; Ledford had told me. “Were they slaves?” I asked.
Thomas nodded. “Yes, but Lawrence wasn’t particular about whom he served. He just hated the idea of all of the loose spirits floating around the river.”
I considered all of the heartache and sorrow that floated on the surface, all of the longings and losses swirling in the currents below.
“There are lots of stories of afflicted folks who met their deaths here—” He stopped.
I knew he was thinking about Lawrence, his friend, a man who died in the very place he loved, the place so full of memories and trouble.
I paused for a minute, watching a fishing boat move across the river.
“I met a deacon from Mr. Franklin’s church a little while ago in the office,” I reported.
“He didn’t believe your friend had committed suicide. He didn’t think he would do such a thing.”
Tom didn’t reply. I could see that he was thinking about his friend, thinking about what had been said about him.
I was just getting ready to ask Tom about what he thought of the stories that were circulating that Lawrence Franklin had committed suicide when I heard a vehicle pull up behind us.
I turned around in my seat and saw that it was a police car. True to the sheriff’s words, Deputy Fisk had returned.
EIGHT
Mr. Sawyer,” the deputy said as he got out of the car. His uniform was still crisp, his black shoes shined. He placed his hat under his arm as he stepped in our direction, and I noticed that he had just gotten a haircut. It was very short on both the top and the sides. A crew cut; he now looked severe.
Tom nodded and I wondered how the two men knew each other, if they were friends or if it had more to do with the deputy’s earlier statement about the “history” at Shady Grove.
The officer walked over to me since I was closest to the car.
“Ms. Franklin,” he said, surprising me that he remembered my name.
“Deputy,” I said in response.
“Going to be warm today,” he said to both of us as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand and then placed his hat squarely on his head. He was staring out toward the pond behind Tom, seemed to be taking inventory of the things he might not have seen earlier in the day.
“It’ll rain this evening,” Tom answered, without standing up. There was no respect given to the young officer.
I remained in my seat as well. Deputy Fisk seemed uncomfortable standing over us and he shifted his weight from side to side.
“Nice storm last night,” he said as a means to keep up a conversation. He had his sunglasses on and they added to his authority.
Tom nodded.
“River’s still high,” he said, a continued effort in making small talk.
“Yep,” Tom responded. Then it went quiet for a while.
“You here about Mr. Franklin again,” I said this to let him know that it was fine to go ahead and conduct his business. Having just discovered each other and the genuine possibility of love, neither Tom nor myself seemed very interested in carrying on a polite discourse with the man.
He made a deep exhaling noise, a snort, as if it humored him that I was naming his affairs.
“Yes, the sheriff has a few more questions.” Then he sighed as if maybe he shouldn’t say anything else, but then he thought better of it.
“Frankly, it seems like a waste of my time, but I’m just doing wha
t I’m told.”
Tom didn’t say a word. He dropped his chin in his hand, paying close attention to the uniformed officer.
“So, who are the questions for?” I asked.
“Just the folks who were here last weekend.”
I nodded and faced Tom. He was watching me. I liked the feel of his eyes on me.
“Well, that doesn’t include myself, so I guess I’m excused from the midday interrogation.”
I put down the can of soda next to the chair. I had drunk all of what was there and was feeling a little thirsty. I remembered that I had a big pitcher of tea in my camper and I started thinking how good that would taste.
The policeman laughed quietly to himself. Then he rested his hands on the items attached to his belt, his gun and nightstick. He spread his legs a bit, held out his chest. He was like a bird showing off new feathers.
“What about you, Mr. Sawyer?” he asked, acting more informal, but still calling Tom Mr. Sawyer.
“You and the victim were known to be good friends, what do you think about this suicide?”
I waited to see how Tom would respond, if he received the invitation to deliver an opinion as a friendly one or if he looked at it as I had, as a manner of tactical maneuvering.
He didn’t say anything at first. Then he took a deep breath, staring out over the river behind the policeman, behind me. I could see how he measured the words. I could see how the question bothered him.
“What do I think?” He paused, giving the question deep consideration.
A breeze lifted our moods just for a moment.
“I think the sheriff seems awfully interested in the death of a black man.”
His honesty and candor surprised me. I smiled. I liked it. And the simplicity of it, the tidiness did ring true.
The young policeman didn’t change positions. It was clear he was listening.
Tom continued, “Seems like he’s more interested in Lawrence that he was in Mabel Kennedy’s daughter when she left home to go to work on a Tuesday morning and then went missing a couple of years ago.”
He stared at the deputy. “You-all ever figure out what happened to her?”
The deputy didn’t respond.
“He seems more interested in Lawrence’s death than he was when Jack Valentine’s body washed up summer before last—” He stopped.
“How about that one? You find out what happened in that case?”
The deputy just turned and looked away.
“Nah, I didn’t think so. See, both of those victims were people of color and both received a less-than-adequate investigation, if you ask me.”
The deputy folded his arms across his chest.
“So, here’s what I think,” and I could tell he was using more words with this young officer than he usually did with the law, demonstrating a bit of generosity.
“Sheriff Montgomery must have an insurance policy on Lawrence Franklin, otherwise he wouldn’t be sending you down here twice in one day, searching for clues about a black man who everybody thinks killed himself.”
Then he waited again. “That’s what I think.”
Deputy Fisk was red-faced now, but I don’t think it was anger or embarrassment for what Tom said. I just think he was real hot. He was wearing a lot of clothes and the temperature had risen since the late morning had now become early afternoon.
He relaxed a bit, dropped his hands to his sides. “You two were working together on something out here, weren’t you?”
The deputy apparently wasn’t going to let Tom’s speech on injustice stop his questioning.
Tom shook his head as if he couldn’t believe the deputy was asking him the question.
“The sheriff knew what Lawrence was doing out here. Montgomery knew he was looking for the burial site of those dead people off that slave boat. Lawrence was trying to get everybody he knew to help him locate those bodies. So, yeah, like a lot of folks, I was helping him.” He blew out a breath.
“So, to answer your question, yes, Lawrence and I were working together, trying to find out where the old burial ground was and trying to figure out how we could bury the dead properly—” He stopped.
“There a crime in that?” he asked.
The deputy shook his head. “Nope, never meant to say there was,” he answered. “I’m just doing my job,” he added.
“You know if he ever found it?” he asked, watching Tom closely.
Tom just shrugged his shoulders. It was easy to see that he was through answering the policeman’s questions.
Then Deputy Fisk turned to me. I felt him waiting for something.
“You got any new ideas?”
“Me?” I was surprised by his question. I knew I didn’t have stories from West Memphis. Nobody knew who I was. And even if I had formed an opinion about the death of Mr. Franklin in the few hours since I last saw the policeman, I certainly didn’t expect him to ask me about it.
“Why would I have any thoughts about this?” I asked, twisting myself in the chair so that I was staring into the young man’s face, trying to see if I recognized him from the time I was down on the banks when they brought the body in. I studied him, but I just couldn’t recall seeing him before he came to my door earlier that day.
“Sheriff said that you told him that you may in fact be related to Mr. Franklin. He seems to think maybe your showing up in West Memphis on the day we found the dead man’s body might be more than a coincidence.”
I could feel him watching me, the same way my father would study me when he thought I was lying about something, when he assumed he had caught me in deceit. And suddenly, my mind was made up. I didn’t like the young man. I didn’t like his shiny black shoes or his freshly starched uniform. I didn’t like his short haircut or his police-issued dark sunglasses.
I didn’t like his disrupting my falling in love or the way he was following orders from a man who obviously had some personal agenda with Mr. Lawrence Franklin. And I especially didn’t like the permission he gave himself to ask strangers, ask me, for personal information. I was no longer comfortable with him standing over me, judging me.
“Well,” I answered, “whether or not it is only coincidence that I’m in West Memphis at this particular time is a larger issue than I’m prepared to discuss. I believe that life is full of events that bear meaning and consequence that we don’t ever fully comprehend.” It must have been the new love lending me the confidence to talk like I was talking.
“I can tell you that I was driving on Interstate Forty, westbound. My car broke down. It’s at Jimmy Novack’s. I’m staying at Shady Grove because this is where Ledford Pickering dropped me off yesterday afternoon.”
Each of my words was clearly enunciated. It was the way I learned to address my father’s questions, the way I learned how to respond to perceived hostile inquiries.
“And all of these facts can be substantiated by the mechanic, the trucker, and the office personnel.” I ended my answer with a forceful nod of my head. A period. An exclamation point. I was finished. I had said everything I was going to say.
The change in my voice, its slightly raised tone, the defensive quality, were immediately registered by both Tom and the deputy; they appeared somewhat startled at my response.
And after I said it, as good as it felt in the delivery, I was embarrassed of my sensitivities, left more vulnerable by my reaction than I would have been if I had just answered the man’s question.
It’s true what the psychology experts say. Years into adulthood, the unhealed scars of a child still pucker and bleed with the slightest touch. I still surprise myself with how quickly I draw blood.
Tom raised an eyebrow, leaned back a little on his arms.
“Coincidence.” The deputy nodded when he said it, making it clear that I knew he had heard me. “This has been noted.”
I turned back around in the chair, facing Tom. He winked at me and it settled me, grounded me, covered over my displeasure, and I gave deep consideration to the possibility
that nothing about this visit or place or relationship had anything to do with coincidence.
Deputy Fisk noticed the exchange, nodded his head again, and folded his arms across his chest.
“Okay,” he said. It was his way of taking leave.
“I’m going to go around and talk to the guy in the cabin, the young couple on the other end of the row, and that family from Kentucky. They’re the only folks who were camped by the river who are still here.”
After having just unloaded on him like I did, I had not expected that he would be telling us his plans, but I guess he was just reciting it for himself, a way of naming his tasks. I recognized the behavior because I had done the same thing when I had a full day at the hospital.
And, of course, I knew that the family from Kentucky was Clara and her sister and parents; I considered informing him that they were at the hospital and weren’t in their camper. But I just decided that I had said enough and to let him discover their departure on his own.
He cleared his throat, acting as if he wasn’t sure how to exit our company. “Thank you for your help,” he finally said to both of us. “Ya’ll enjoy the afternoon.”
“Anytime,” Tom answered. Though I doubt that he really meant that.
I just smiled and said nothing. The policeman got into his car and drove to the sites behind me. I heard his car pull out of the gravel onto the dirt road.
Tom waited before saying anything about my conversation with the policeman. I glanced away from him and was trying to think of how I should explain my relationship with my father, how to say what I felt about police officers, my history, my opinions; I searched the river for clues.
After a few minutes of silence, I turned back and saw that look of pure sweetness on his face, and I realized he wasn’t going to ask me a thing.
He was just going to let what I said rise up on the wind and disappear. And I realized that part of why I was being drawn to Shady Grove Campground was not just the easy breeze on the river or the slow way the day unfolds, I was also finding myself attached to this spot on the Mississippi because I was learning that like the prayers of Lucas, Rhonda, and Mary, not everything has to be spoken out loud.