The Dead Hand of Sweeney County

by David L. Bradley

  I awoke, certain that I was alone in my motel room. The entire Ellie storyline had been nothing but a cruel dream. My gut went cold. I sighed, then rolled onto my side and into her warm, perfectly rounded backside. Delighted that her being a dream had only been a dream after all, I fell asleep again.

  Morning found me sprawled across a king-sized bed, floating in eiderdown, Ellie shaking my foot.

  “Five thirty-five, handsome. Get your clothes on and come to the kitchen.”

  She needn't have said anything. As soon as I was awake, the unbeatable aroma of fresh, rich coffee began pulling me. A mug and two slices of French toast awaited me on the kitchen bar. My eyes adjusted to the light, and I took in Ellie at five forty a.m. Her bedhead hair was tousled just right. Her unmade-up face was different, but she was still quite beautiful. She could have walked a red carpet in her oversized Hilton Head T-shirt and fuzzy slippers, she wore them so well.

  “I remember you said that you get up at five thirty. I don't know where you have to be this morning or when, but--”

  “Huddle House at six-thirty to meet the boys. This was perfect timing, thanks.”

  She yawned. “It's a little early for me. I usually sleep 'til seven.” She removed another two slices of French toast from the pan and sat down next to me. “But what the hell. I love an excuse to make French toast.” She raised her coffee mug. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” I toasted. “To a brand new day.”

  “Yeah? What are you doing today?” she asked.

  “A lot of the same shit I did yesterday, but in a different location.”

  “Do you like lamb?”

  “I can't honestly say,” I told her. “It's been so long since I ate lamb, I can't remember if I like it or not.”

  “Lamb should be eaten at the right temperature. I need to know what time to bring it out of the oven, that's why I'm asking about your schedule. Shall we plan on dinner at eight?”

  “Oh. Yes. For sure! I'll get here early for one of your Margaritas. And breakfast, wow. I can't remember the last time a woman cooked me breakfast, so thanks.”

  “Really? Aww.”

  “Really. Most Huddle House cooks are ugly men with tattooed forearms, not women who wake up looking hot.”

  She smiled at her French toast and gave me a gentle elbow. “That's enough of that, mister,” she softly said.

  She kissed me goodbye before I exited down the stairs alongside the pool. I strode quickly out to the barn and to my truck. With a single click, the Mighty Ford came alive, and I drove away in the dark.

  I was at that moment as happy as I have ever been in my life. That moment matched both the BB gun and bicycle Christmases, slightly edging out getting laid on my sixteenth birthday; I was pretty happy the day I left the Army, but this new joy beat all those and the '95 World Series win combined, and what really made me giddy was the thought that I could make it last.

  By six-thirty the boys were calling it a day, and after stopping by the motel for fresh clothes and the supermarket for a bouquet of roses, I parked the truck behind the barn at about seven. She met me wearing a little blue dress covered by a white kitchen apron, with black pumps: decidedly not work clothes. I don't suppose she wore that perfume to work that morning, either. I bowed and handed her the roses. She traded me a kiss for them before handing me one of her frosty Margaritas. When it was almost gone, she again helped me out of my work clothes and into the shower on the deck. When she shut off the water, she put her hand to my face.

  “Say cowboy, you ever think of shaving this cactus? You could damage sensitive skin with this mug.”

  “No problem, milady,” I said. “Sorry I didn't think of it before. Got a razor?”

  “My bathroom. You'll find everything you need.”

  I went to the bathroom and found a razor and shaving gel waiting for me on the sink. I emerged from the bathroom to find a man's clothes laid out on the bed. The jacket and pants were the softest, lightest gray wool I'd ever felt and so new that the pants had not yet been hemmed. The crisp cotton shirt was a lavender shade, and a silk necktie pulled it all together. She had even picked out a pair of socks and a belt. I got dressed, checked myself in the bathroom mirror, and combed my hair. I straightened my cuffs and rejoined her in the kitchen.

  She whistled. “Oh yeah. That's what I thought. Come here, you.” She poured me a drink from a silver shaker. “Your Martini, sir.”

  “Thank you, ma'am. You're looking quite lovely tonight, and that lamb smells delightful.”

  “Thank you. The roses you brought are beautiful. I really cannot believe how good you look in that suit. Turn around.” I did as told while she sipped her Martini. “It really hangs on you just right.” She put down her drink, crossed the space between us, and kissed me. We held each other gently and kissed each other eagerly. She leaned back her head, which I took as a signal to kiss her neck. She sighed deeply and reached below my belt.

  Her eyebrows raised. “My goodness,” she said.

  “I should tell you,” I said, “This outfit didn't come with underwear.”

  She pushed me backward into a dining room chair. She put her glass on the table and straddled my knees. She bent forward and down until our foreheads met. She lightly kissed my lips, then whispered in my ear, “Neither did mine.”

  She was consumed with passion, and she quickly pulled me from the chair and laid back on the table. She was fierce and wild, yet gorgeous and refined, never wrinkling her dress. In the moment before her greatest pleasure, she looks as if she is just about to break down in tears, but instead of sobbing she giggles when it's all over. If you do it right.

  Dinner, while technically anticlimactic, was fabulous. She dropped the apron and put music on the house stereo. I didn't know the piece or the author, but for choral music, it was damned interesting. She told me it was Bach's Magnificat in D, one of her favorite pieces. Ever since that night, it has been one of mine. She told me her favorite music is Baroque and explained to me how Baroque actually preceded Classical. It's the music of the 17th Century, a period that saw the rise of such varied genius as Newton and Locke. I just let her teach, asking questions to hear her answers.

  That night I dreamed I was standing in front of Elizabeth Burroughs' headstone.

  “I thought you were gonna help,” a voice said.

  I turned around and saw Isaac standing outside the iron fence.

  “Help what?”

  “Help the boy. Get him in there.”

  “But why me?”

  “Because you can.”

  I turned back to the headstone. “I'm trying,” I said.

  I woke up with my heart pounding, confused, with no idea where I was. I bolted upright. Ellie lay on her side, facing away from me. The line of her back gently rose and fell. I had no desire to return to that dream, so I told myself I would stare at the ceiling until the alarm went off, but I probably didn't make it five minutes. The next thing I knew, Ellie stood caressing my foot.

  “Good morning. How do you feel about hot cranberry muffins?”

  “Mmmmmmm,” I replied. “Be there in a minute.”

  When I entered the kitchen, she was seated at the bar in her robe and glasses, sipping coffee and reading some large, thick hardcover while slowly nibbling at a muffin.

  “Good morning, dear,” I said, and kissed her on the forehead before sitting down.

  She gave me an odd look before she said, “Good morning. The muffins are hot. Have one.”

  “You got up and baked muffins for us?”

  She shook her head while she continued reading. “I stopped at the bakery last night. I warmed them up today.” Her eyes never left the page.

  The muffins and coffee were wonderful. Obviously, so was the book.

  “Whatcha readin'?” I asked.

  She held up the book for me to read its cover.

  “Cryptonomicon? Looks heavy.”

  “It is.”

  That conversation was going nowhere. “What's for dinne
r tonight?”

  “Sorry, sport. You're on your own tonight. I have a prior engagement.”

  “What, every Thursday?”

  “For some time now.”

  “Does your husband know?”

  “It was his idea.”

  “Oh.” I went back to my coffee and muffins. They were delicious.

  After letting me hang a good minute, she said, “It's a book club, and tonight we meet here. I should be further along in this book than I am, and I'm trying to catch up.”

  “Oh.”

  “And one more thing. I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I think I need to remind you that what I do with my time really isn't for you to worry about. Wow, it sounds even harsher when I say it than when I think it, but what I mean--”

  “Hey, no problem. I was just kidding about dinner. Just making conversation. Same with the book. I really don't care what you're reading, I just...”

  She nodded without looking up. “I understand.”

  The coffee and muffins were gone, and I felt I should be, too. I stood up. “Okay then, I'll be getting along. Stuff to do today.”

  This time she looked up. “Yeah, same here,” she said sweetly. “Come here.”

  She pulled me in for a long, deep kiss. “Thanks for coming over. I had a great time. I'll be seeing you around.”

  Then I understood: this was it. This was, quite literally, the kiss-off. Roll with it, I thought.

  “Glad I came,” I smiled. “If you ever want to see me again, just look for the orange vest. Well, better get moving. Take care, Ellie.”

  “Take care.” She walked me to the door. “One last kiss,” she said, so we did. It was memorable. I remember it now.

  I moved quickly across the deck and down the stairs. I waited until I was in the Mighty Ford with the door closed. When the V8 roared to life, I shook my head and said aloud, “As long as I live, I will never understand how this is supposed to work. Never.” I sighed and drove to the Huddle House.

  12. The Story Behind the Ghost Story

  Most of the morning, I couldn't get her off my mind. Not constantly, of course, because I was working. No epiphanies presented themselves; no deep thoughts distilled. I couldn't really think anything. I knew her husband was only away for a short time, and obviously, she was letting me know that play time was over. There wasn't much I could do about that. Realistically. I could fantasize, had fantasized... but being Mrs. Dr. Greg Hubbard was a job, a position, one that came with a pool and a great house, one she had no intention of quitting over a guy in an orange vest. Then I started catching myself remembering how I'd fantasized, and how sweet a fantasy it had been. Suddenly that entire fantasy seemed absurd, and sometime around eleven, I felt sufficiently humiliated by the whole affair that my mind began thinking of something else: Isaac and his message.

  “Help the boy. Get him in there.” What boy? Elizabeth's boy, Ramon Burroughs? Get him in the cemetery? That didn't seem so difficult, if I only had a clue where the hell to find him. I popped into the library at lunchtime to check my email, but it was just spam.

  Driving to the motel that evening, I remembered thinking that probably no black person had ever seen Isaac. I decided to find out who besides me ever had seen him.

  I took my shower, ate a fatty steak at the Huddle House, and walked around the block to the liquor store. I purchased my customary pint of Irish and hung around chatting about the weather and the Braves game playing on their tiny television behind the counter until we were alone. When only the three of us remained, I got to the point.

  “I really came in to ask you guys some questions, if you don't mind. It's about Crazy Isaac.”

  They both turned from the game and looked at me.

  “Butch, has anyone you know ever seen Crazy Isaac?”

  Butch appeared to think for a moment. “No, not really. Nobody I know.”

  “Fred? How about you? You know anyone?”

  “No, I can't say I do. None of my friends ever saw him out there. I wasn't drivin' yet when the stories started, but I know somebody who was. Here.”

  He handed me a business card reading, “Haddon's Garage,” with an address.

  “You go get Wild Bill to tell you the story of Crazy Isaac. Tell him I sent you.”

  I looked at a wall clock proudly advertising the worst beer ever made for sale or consumption. “Is he still open? Will he still be at the garage?”

  “He'll be there, most likely. You can either catch him there, or look for him tearin' up the highway somewhere.”

  “How will I know his car?”

  “You'll know.”

  “Is it walking distance from here?”

  “Depends,” he said. “How lazy are you?”

  It was a couple of miles away, so I took the Mighty Ford to save time. It wasn't hard to find, marked as it was by a candy-apple '32 Coupe hot rod parked out front.

  I parked and walked up to the open bay. Inside, two young guys and a middle-aged guy, all in uniforms, worked at various tasks. Outside the garage were an old-fashioned steel glider and a couple of rocking chairs to match. On these, three older gents sat talking, one smoking a cigarette, and another spitting into a can. The third boasted thick, curly white hair and a mustache to match, and he spoke to me.

  “Can I help you?”

  I pulled the business card from my pocket. “I need to speak with a Mr. William Haddon, if I can.”

  “I reckon you can; he's talkin' to you. What do you need?”

  “Fred McSwain sent me to ask Wild Bill to tell me the true story of Crazy Isaac.”

  “And who might you be?”

  “Addison Kane, sir. Surveyor. I'm surveying the Conley woods, and I buy my liquor at Fred's store. He told me you have a story about seeing a ghost there?”

  “Naw, I never saw no ghost.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I did see a young man who said he seen a ghost in there. I can tell you about that, if you want me to.”

  “Please. I would very much like to hear about it.”

  “Well, let's see. It must have been the summer of... what was it, Lonnie? Sixty-eight? Sixty-nine?”

  Lonnie spit in his can and cleared his throat. “Musta been sixty-nine, 'cause I enlisted in sprang of '66, and I was gone three years.”

  “That's right, and so it was, the summer of '69. Old Miss Elizabeth had died the year before, and that's when we started goin' out there, after her funeral.”

  “To make out in the woods?”

  “There was some of that, but mostly we went out there to race. We had a quarter-mile marked off, and that's where we ran, those of us with fast cars.”

  The old smoker spoke up. “The rest of 'em was high school kids, makin' out in the woods,” he said.

  Lonnie spit in the can and spoke again. “I was there to make out in the woods.”

  “So one night, I guess a Friday, maybe, 'cause the place was pretty full... we'd been runnin' all night, and I was givin' Junebug a rest... I know I was just sittin' in Junebug when this kid Frankie Miller come runnin' out of the woods, hollerin', 'He's got an ax! He's gonna kill us all! Run!', and he was takin' his own advice, too. I couldn't hardly figure out what the hell was goin' on before his girlfriend come out just shakin' and cryin'. She said they was swappin' spit in the clearin' under the Lynchin' Tree when--”

  “'Scuse me? Under the Lynchin' Tree?”

  “That's what they called it. It's a big red oak, probably two hundred years old. It's more'n a hundred, I know that. Well anyway, she said he looked over her shoulder and just started shakin', you know, his eyes buggin' out. She said she asked him what was wrong, and she turned around, you know, and looked for herself, but she didn't see nothin'. Then he started screamin' 'Run! He's got an ax! He's gonna kill us all!” All the same stuff he was yellin' when he went by me, you know. Well she wanted me to go after him, said he was her ride home, and she knew I had the fastest car in the county... She was a pretty little thing. What was her name, Lon
nie?”

  “I wanna say Tina Louise.”

  “Naw, Tina Louise was on 'Gilligan's Island.' She weren't nothin' like Ginger, though. She was a lot more Mary Anne, you know. God, where you'd find a Ginger around here--”

  Lonnie spit. “That'd be a goddamned miracle.”

  “So did you go after him?” I gently reminded.

  “Yes, I did. Little Mary Anne or whoever she was, you know, she was awful cute. I thought it couldn't hurt.”