The Dead Hand of Sweeney County

by David L. Bradley

I couldn't honestly say what I meant.

  “Well, you think on it and let me know, okay?”

  I said I would, and she left.

  I spent the day at the Inman Park Festival, drinking beer and looking at art. I kept noticing young couples with babies. Mostly, I couldn't help noticing how young they were. Around five I switched to some sort of rum slushie and hung out listening to live music until it shut down, at which point I shuffled home to bed.

  The Sex Fairy landed with a big wet kiss that left my lips and wandered over hill and valley. I awoke with a burning desire for more than just great sex, and I remember squeezing her tighter than usual, kissing her more strongly, as if with enough passion and sheer will I could manifest my dreams into flesh. When all was said and done, though, there we lay: Addison and Rita, two individuals with separate destinies, temporarily sharing a bed as one would share an elevator or a table in a crowded restaurant.

  “What's wrong, honey?” She asked over a breakfast of coffee and toaster waffles.

  I shook my head and sighed. “I'm not sure I want to get into it.”

  “But you must,” she said, “for the sake of your mental health, and my mental health, which could directly impact your physical well-being. So talk before I make you.”

  “Okay. I want to have a baby.”

  “Not with me. Right? You're saying you've met some woman, and y'all want to get married and make babies?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “There's already a baby?”

  “No! I mean... I'm just saying... that I have been thinking about it lately, and I think that, you know, one day I want to have a baby,” I ended quietly. “Or two. Before I'm too old, or before everyone thinks I'm too old. That's all.”

  A moment of quiet, then Rita asked, “Who's everyone, hon?”

  “You know. Women. Possible moms. They're the only ones who matter, eh? I just feel...”

  “Go on.”

  “Like I'm playing musical chairs, and one day the music's gonna stop, and I'll be standing there alone, you know? Just... standing there... the guy who waited too long to make his move.”

  We both sat looking at our coffee for a minute. She spoke first. “I had no idea,” she said.

  I shook my head. “Neither did I.”

  11. Dinner Dates

  The following morning brought a few changes. Steve was staying in town; I was going to Carswell alone to work with Jack and Randy, helping them shoot underground utilities and perform other tasks as needed. I pulled out of town alone, and no sooner had I gotten on the interstate than Ellie rang my company phone.

  I could not have been more delighted. We chatted about this and that, and she asked if I wanted to meet her for dinner. We agreed to meet at a trendy new place in Greensboro, over thirty miles from Carswell.

  In those first post-Revolutionary days, while Virginian gentlefolk were swarming into Sweeney County, planting tobacco and building their first churches, Greensboro was a rugged little community on the east bank of the Oconee River when that body of water was Georgia's western boundary. One night in 1787, their Creek neighbors crossed the river and set fire to the intruders' cabins, attacking and murdering settlers as they emerged. Stubborn little Greensboro rebuilt up on the hill, slightly farther from the border, but they rebuilt.

  In 1793 Colonel Elijah Clarke, a farmer turned military officer who puts a whole new spin on the idea of reinventing oneself in midlife, rallied mercenaries here, across the river on Creek soil. He had been paid $10,000 by France to raise an army to march south and take Florida from Spain. After that mission failed to discharge adequately, Col. Clarke returned to this frontier and appropriated himself a huge chunk of Creek land for a new nation he named the Trans-Oconee Republic, populated by his family and at least a hundred other followers. Things didn't work out as he'd hoped. He was forced by the Georgia Militia to abandon his plan, and his forts were burned.

  Even though Washington himself had been involved in shutting down the Trans-Oconee Republic, that little faux pas never tarnished Clarke's reputation as a fierce Patriot during the Revolution, a leader who was joined on the front by his wife and child when Tories burned down his house. He led troops through the swamp and killed his share of Loyalists at Kettle Creek. I don't mean he pointed a sword and shouted orders; no sir, Colonel Clarke killed them with his bare hands. When he ran out of British and Loyalists to kill in Georgia, he got up a party and went to South and North Carolina, killing them wherever he could find them. Part of Mel Gibson's Patriot is based on Elijah Clarke: the house-burned-down-homicidal-maniac part. Clarke County is named for him.

  Ellie walked in the door precisely as I began to ask the hostess about her. She was dressed in a double-breasted navy business suit with a conservatively cut skirt, but instead of being starched and buttoned up, she wore a pearl necklace above a silk blouse cut just low enough to show off one and a half inches of cleavage. While we were being seated she caught me admiring that inch and a half, and she smiled both times.

  The food was more expensive than it was remarkable, really, but having dinner with Ellie was like living a dream. We began the evening seated across from one another, but in the dim light, I had trouble reading some menu items, especially those in French; Ellie, fluent in French, moved next to me to help me read my menu and just stayed there. She ordered for me, too, as I looked on in rapt admiration.

  Dinner conversation revolved around my interest in historical facts and details. Ellie suggested that because I'm curious, I should go to college.

  “Curiosity alone would drive me nuts,” I replied. “I need answers. That's part of why I love surveying. Even when I don't know the answer, surveying always gives me the clues to figure things out.”

  Suddenly she asked, “How's the search for Ramon Burroughs?”

  “Ended,” I said. “In Pelican Bay, Texas, at an Episcopal church with full Air Force honors.”

  “No.”

  “Oh yeah. But wait,” I said dramatically, “there's more. There's gotta be.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The obituary I read online mentioned memorial services, but it didn't say anything about where he was to be buried. Not a word. So where's his body? Also, the obituary contained a summary of the man's military career. Someone gave the Ft. Worth newspaper that information, and that someone probably knows where Ramon's buried, too.

  “But...” She looked genuinely puzzled. “No offense, but Polk's got lawyers on retainer.. hell, Polk is a lawyer, and if you found out Ramon's dead, then you know they know.”

  “Polk told me that in two weeks, he'll be answering any questions regarding land trust properties. If he knows Ramon is dead, why not just tell Mike instead of giving the company a dead man's PO Box and phone number?”

  She shook her head. “I'm mystified. So what's next?”

  “I found the guy who placed the obituary, at least, I'm pretty sure it's the guy, a Sergeant-Major Tyler. I found his email address and sent him a note, so we'll see what he can tell us about the Conley Land Trust.”

  “You'd better watch out,” she said. “The next thing you know, you'll be scouring old ladies' diaries for clues to buried Southern treasure.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because that's what researchers do,” she smiled. “We'll have to get you some bow ties, too. Might as well dress the part.” She raised her glass. “Here's to Addison the Researcher.”

  After dessert, we walked slowly out to the parking lot and to my truck. We stopped by my door. I unlocked it, reached under the seat, and pulled out a half-pint of Jamesons, offering it to her with my best raised eyebrow. She took that bottle and hit it like a farm girl, which is to say that she handed it back somewhat lighter. She grinned, and while I took a good slug, she burped. Just a little. It was adorable, and I giggled. She smiled and kissed me firmly, passionately, and much too quickly. I think I actually whimpered when she retreated.

  She smiled again. “Silly boy. If you think the people h
ere don't know the people in Carswell, you're out of your cotton pickin' mind, as you Southern boys say.”

  “No fair,” I mumbled. “I don't give a damn what any of them think.”

  “Ah, but Dr. Mrs. Greg--”

  “Mrs. Dr. Gregory Hubbard,” I corrected her. “She cares.”

  “Yes, she does,” Ellie agreed. “Perhaps too much, but that's the way it is. I hope you understand. So where are you going now? Which motel do you call home?”

  “The Fairfield on Main Street with the Huddle House across the parking lot. Room 218 this week. Upstairs in the back, if you ever need to deliver a pizza there... or flowers... or anything... No?” She just stood smiling at me. “Kiss me again here? Under this glaring streetlight? No? Okay, then. Back to the motel it is. Dinner was great, and you were wonderful.” She stepped back and just let me go.

  I drove out of that parking lot the most genuinely turned on I had been since high school, and the long dark miles between Greensboro and Carswell passed like nothing at all..

  After smoking a bowl and watching a little television, I crawled under the sheets, my mind still buzzing with her face, her voice, her scent, and her kiss. I rolled over on my stomach, enjoying the cool feel of fresh sheets and letting Ellie's face occupy my mind. Someone knocked gently on the door three times.

  “Who is it?” I yelled. No reply. It came again: knock knock knock

  I jumped up. Knock knock kn-- I cracked open the door. Ellie stood there with her shoes in one hand, knocking with the other. Despite being completely naked, I opened the door for her. Despite my being completely naked, she came right in and closed the door behind her.

  I've thought long and hard about what comes next, and all puns and entendre aside, know this: Ellie made me forget I'd ever thought about any other woman. Every man in every romantic comedy has to wrestle with the question of lifelong fidelity, whether he can restrict himself to only having sex with one woman for the rest of his life. For me, that question was answered. And I'll tell you something else: I have long believed that at the moment of orgasm, something is released inside a woman that temporarily transforms her face, and in my experience, all women at that moment are beautiful. When Ellie rolled onto her back and closed her eyes, I rolled up on my elbows for a peek. I was overpowered, overwhelmed, both perilously vulnerable and possessed of superhuman strength.

  She opened her eyes and looked into mine. She smiled. “Gotta go,” she said. She slipped out of bed and walked to the bathroom. I watched her with a soft sigh. She returned in a moment and sat on the bed, pulling on clothes.

  “That was fun,” she said.

  “I can't believe you came to a motel. It's so naughty.”

  “I know. I couldn't resist,” she laughed. “I backed into a parking space downstairs and took off my heels so nobody would hear me on the breezeway. What are you doing after work tomorrow?”

  “Looking for you?”

  “Give me something to write on.” I handed her a manila folder, and she wrote an address on the back. “That's the address on the mailbox on the right, half a mile before a gate on the left. The combination is 008. Please lock it behind you. Drive until you see a red metal barn with a hand pump in front of it. Park on the back side of the barn.”

  I took the book back from her and our lips met in a long kiss.

  She picked up her shoes and opened the door. “See you tomorrow.” And she was gone.

  I lay back down and stared at ceiling, but all I could see was Ellie.

  The next day was spent in downtown Carswell, locating and shooting underground utilities. Our associates in the work were two young gents, Blaine and Rick, about twenty and twenty-three years old, respectively. Their home office was in Marietta, another Atlanta suburb, and they were staying in Reynoldston, at the other end of the job, where they also had work. They have some interesting toys in their truck, including ground-penetrating radar and a metal detector that also holds a can of marking paint so you never have to bend over. They carry a wide palette of colors, too: blue for water, red and orange for telecommunications, green and yellow to indicate gas and sewer. They use magnetometers and sometimes radar to find utilities buried underground, then they mark their location on the surface. This is why you can walk down the sidewalk and see colored dashed lines converging and diverging, accompanied by strange hieroglyphs-- actually notation indicating how deep the thing is buried and to whom it belongs. Surveyors come along, establish reference points, and mark the locations of all those lines and hieroglyphs, creating a multilayered map of the buried utilities.

  Utilities, especially sewer lines, often run down the middle of the street. To mark its location, we have to stop traffic long enough for a guy to hold a rod perfectly plumb over the manhole cover and another guy take a shot of it, which is why I flagged down Ellie's Volvo on Polk Avenue when she came to work that morning. Not a word passed between us. We just smiled at each other while she waited, and we kept smiling as I waved her past.

  I saw her at lunch, too. Rick and Blaine took us to a barbecue joint on the west side of town. It's just a smoky pit and a shack for food preparation surrounded by a large, screened-in seating area. It was packed, so we got our food to go and sat on our tailgates in the parking lot eating sumptuous pig smoked just right. I put down a sandwich long enough to reach for a cup of sweet tea, and there she was, sporting Ray-Bans behind the wheel of her Volvo, smiling as she drove past. Small towns are small. I was glad to see her and couldn't wait to see her again.

  The address was southeast of town, and the road was one I had driven before. It ran off one of the state highways, turned east, and quickly became rural. I passed the mailbox and slowed down. On the left was a wooded lot cut by a gravel driveway. The driveway was blocked by a simple tube steel gate painted white and kept shut by a chain and combination lock. I drove slowly another half-mile and rolled to a stop next to a large red metal building.

  I got out carrying a change of clothes in a plastic bag. Passing beyond the barn, I suddenly found myself in a suburban back yard. Trees lined the edge of the property to the left; to the right, wide stairs rose alongside a wall. I took the stairs.

  At the top of the stairs I stopped. To my right, an inflatable lounge chair floated empty atop a sparkling aqua swimming pool. Ahead, the rear wall of the house was mostly glass, allowing me to see a living area inside. The door opened just then, and Ellie stepped out carrying two oversized Margaritas.

  “Hello,” she said, “have a drink. How was work?”

  “Another day, another buck and a half with overtime.” She pointed me toward a table with chairs, and we sat. “How was your day?” I asked.

  “It was interesting. It was the usual routine day at the tavern, talking to tourists, talking to families thinking of moving here, handing out brochures and talking up the town, but it was very unusual in that all day long I kept thinking of you and last night, and it was quite distracting. Quite pleasantly distracting, but... it was interesting. I don't normally sit at work thinking of sex. It crosses my mind, but it never just gets to the middle and stops like that.”

  I chuckled. “I'll take that as a compliment. Delicious Margarita, milady.”

  “I love being called milady. How did you know?”

  “It just seems to fit.”

  “Want to go swimming?” she asked. “The water is perfect. You'll need a shower first. Come.”

  She stood up and took my hand. The far side of the pool was bordered by a privacy fence with bushy cedars beyond, and at the corner of the pool was an outdoor shower.

  “Um,” I said.

  “You have to take off your clothes.”

  “Sure, I knew that.” I began by unlacing and kicking off my boots. “Excuse me,” I asked. “Do you want this fast or slow?”

  She smiled. “Mmmm... no rush.”

  I took off my shirt next, then my pants and socks. When I looked up, she was unbuttoning her blouse. Ellie's work clothes were attractive and stylish, but they were al
so somewhat conservative and just a touch old-fashioned, even. Watching her undress in the daylight was magical, wonderful, a moment out of time, probably less than two minutes of living and breathing inside the classiest photo shoot ever imagined in any gentleman's magazine ever. Dear Hef, eat your heart out.

  And then she was there in front of me, pushing me under the shower and turning me, rinsing the work off me, running her fingers through my hair. We swam naked and finished our drinks, then she popped into the kitchen and came out with two more. We drifted inside to the kitchen, where I prepared for her my favorite salmon recipe, since she already had the sour cream and dill. She whipped up some fantastic salads, and we dined al fresco and au naturel.

  The conversation flowed, and I found myself not having to try very hard with her. She laughed at my jokes, and she kept complimenting various parts of my body. I kept finding new things about hers to adore. We adored each other a lot before we fell asleep.