The Dead Hand of Sweeney County

by David L. Bradley

  “It don't hurt to try,” Lonnie opined.

  “Well, I don't know what he seen or what, but I lit out down the road after him, and I didn't catch him for over a mile, and when I caught up with him, he was still runnin' flat out. Took me another half-mile just to get him to slow down and talk to me. He told me the same thing he told her. Saw a big black man with an ax. Wanted to know if anybody'd been killed. He was dead serious about seein' that black man, but...” Wild Bill winked at Lonnie, who chuckled.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Well, it was the Sixties, and our little group had all just discovered something new. Thanks to our Army buddies, right Lonnie?”

  “You get my name, rank, and serial number, and you can go fuck yourself, gook.”

  All the men laughed out loud now, and I knew I was missing something good. Wild Bill gave me a look that indicated pity, and he explained.

  “That was the year certain kids in Sweeney County started smokin' pot, includin' Frankie Miller. That night, everybody had been drinkin' a little bit, at least, and some had drunk a little bit more, and some was just drunk! Frankie wasn't drunk, but he was damned sure stoned when it happened, and most everybody thought he hallucinated it. The more he kept insistin' he'd seen a big black man with an ax, the more everybody laughed at him. Most everybody knew the story of Isaac Cooper who swung an ax on a white man and disappeared, and so of course it had to be his ghost, you see.”

  “Of course,” I repeated.

  “'Course, nobody else ever saw a ghost there, either. Made poor Frankie the joke of the county. He went off to Augusta, I think, and he never come back. Oh wait, he was at the reunion for a little bit. He's a law professor, I'm pretty sure. His daddy was a lawyer with the bank Now there's a story. They say his daddy had an affair with Old Miss Elizabeth while he was writin' up her will. But if you ask me, that weren't nothin' but vicious rumor. Folks get bored in small towns. You know, I think sometimes they sit around and make up lies just for somethin' to do.”

  Lonnie spit. “Ain't it the truth.”

  The old smoker nodded.

  “So there you go, young man. There's Sweeney County's great ghost story, right from the horse's--”

  “Or jackass,” Lonnie offered.

  “Or the jackass' mouth. And the story is that there ain't no ghost, and we were probably a lot meaner to Frankie Miller than we should have been, since he was stoked on Panama Red at the time. Poor bastard. What the hell ever did happen to his girlfriend?”

  The old smoker coughed and cleared his throat. “Pam Wallace,” he said. “She married Dick Polk.”

  “Ooooohhh, yeah,” said Lonnie and Wild Bill together. “I'd forgot that,” said Wild Bill.

  Lonnie spit. “She always was in it for the money.”

  Bill and the Old Smoker nodded agreement.

  “Well, gentlemen,” I said, “I can't thank you enough for straightening me out. This is great. Now I know the true story of Crazy Isaac.”

  “Which most folks don't know anymore,” Bill informed me. “Most folks younger'n us don't know there weren't no ghost to start with. Most folks in this county think there is a ghost, and the story goes that all of us out there that night saw it.”

  Old Smoker cleared his throat again. “Most folks think he's out there every full moon.”

  I shook my head. “How the hell did that story get started?”

  All three men shrugged. Lonnie spit. “Folks get bored.”

  I headed back to the motel, where I opened the bottle, took off my boots, and leaned back in the chair with my legs stretched out across the bed. I picked up the remote and quickly found a Braves game. A couple of base hits into the game and a couple of shots into the pint, and I was no longer too worried about anything.

  I knew I should find Ramon Burroughs, and I told myself I was trying. I should find Frankie Miller, too, but this was 2002, and there was no free wifi everywhere yet, and I was not paying thirteen extra bucks a night for an internet connection, so Frankie could wait. Ellie... eh. Ellie was another subject.

  Ellie was married, smart, and realistic. I toasted her pragmatism with a shot. Her husband was probably coming home any time now, and I knew that if I were he, I'd be making a beeline from the airport to one of Ellie's Margaritas and a shower on the deck. It was truly a lovely home, at least the parts I'd seen. I toasted their lovely home with another shot. They enjoyed a sturdy dining room table and solid chairs, too. I toasted their sturdy furniture.

  I watched the Braves trade the lead twice with the visiting team, waiting, in true Braves fashion, until there were two out and nobody on in the bottom of the ninth to stage their two-run comeback. If I ever suffer a heart attack caused by stress, I will be watching a Braves game. I toasted their win and turned off the lights.

  That night, I dreamed I planted a tree. It was just a seedling when I put it in the ground, but when I watered it, the water turned to blood, and the tree began to grow straight up until it was two feet wide or so, at which point its branches started to develop these nuts that grew to huge size-- three or four feet across--, and suddenly they all exploded, and out popped black men hanging from vines that looked like old hemp ropes. It went from odd to weird to horrifying in a flash, and I woke up.

  The lynching tree. What a nickname. No wonder it gave me the creeps.

  The next day was Friday, and the boys and I parted ways after lunch at the barbecue joint. We got there after the rush, so we had room to sit inside and enjoy the shade and the fans.

  It was the sort of place you find only in a small town; it was the kind of place that makes a person wish he lived in one. It was the exact opposite of anything 24/7 or corporate. It was open Monday through Friday from eleven until eight, and Saturdays from ten until four. They were closed Sunday. At one time there had been a one-room shack with a counter and a window along the front side and a pig-roasting pit built into the back wall like a huge chimney. Outside the shack, management provided two wooden picnic tables for patrons' convenience, who were, in those early days, entirely black. Since that time, they'd been a proud booster and supporter of community affairs, including little league baseball and football teams. I know all this history because inside, on the wall above the register stand, was an ancient photograph of the founder and his wife looking out of window of the shack. Beneath them and spread about, framed yellow clippings and photographs memorialized family and community milestones: weddings, championships, military decorations, births, and so on.

  I was paying the bill when I noticed that the guy working the register was also on the wall. Or rather, two of him were on the wall. I read their names.

  “Are you Kevin or Kasim?” I asked when I handed him my money.

  The man smiled. “I'm Kasim, and back there at the pit is my brother, Kevin. And how was your meal? Everything good? ”

  A man tending the pit turned around, a replica of the man at the register, but with a mustache. He smiled and waved, then went back to his work.

  “We are twins, as you can guess.”

  “All these kids on the walls are related to the couple up top?”

  “This isn't even everyone. Granddad and Granny had six children; they all got married, and there were nineteen grandchildren, including us, and already there are twenty-one great-grandchildren with more on the way. With wives and boyfriends and ex-wives, and kids, you should see a family reunion. It's a mess.”

  “Sounds like a good time. Look, I just wanted to tell the chef that your sandwiches are killer, but man oh man, your ribs are supreme!”

  In the back, Kevin pumped his fist. “Thank you, sir! You come back again soon. Wait, did you get one of our fried pies?” I shook my head, and he started bagging one up. “They won't stay fresh 'til tonight; you go on and take one. They're cinnamon apple. Your friends want one? Don't be shy. Who wants a fried pie to take with them for dessert?”

  Randy and Jack each took one. We said goodbye, and I ate mine in the parking lot before I steered the Mighty F
ord toward the office and home.

  13. The Conley Land Trust

  Everyone should have a friend like Veronica. After three hours of highway to dump data and turn in receipts, thirty minutes of updating the boss on progress and dodging curveballs, then a solid hour of Friday night traffic getting home, after two hours of laundry and chitchat while Veronica painted in mechanic's coveralls cut off at the shoulders and knees, I was feeling like my old self again. So I told her.

  “Everyone should have a friend like you, Veronica. I sit here watching you paint, having a couple of shots, and, I don't know... you put these events in perspective for me.”

  “You've got a pretty good handle on the situation, I think. Eleanor's pragmatic. You had a good time, something you'll always remember, and now you know that you want to have kids. I love Rita; I think she's wonderful and beautiful, but she's had her kids. You can't pressure her, and she's got nothing to apologize for. Go forth, young man. Get busy. Be fruitful and multiply! And you can pass me the whiskey. Seriously, though. I was starting to wonder if you were ever going to grow up.”

  “Ouch. Thanks for the honesty, babe.”

  “No problem. Usually I like my friends to be people who tell me exactly the lies they know I want to hear, but sometimes you can tell your friends the truth and not kill them. You know, I've long thought that therapists can't tell you anything a real friend wouldn't tell you.”

  “At a hundred bucks an hour.”

  “Mmm hmm,” she agreed, sipping her whiskey and eyeing her canvas, “Real friends are hard to find.”

  A moment passed before I thought of something. “Speaking of family, how are your kids?”

  “Ungrateful, condescending, and demanding. The latest thing, of course, is that they want me to stop taking off to Charleston, Biloxi, and New York on a whim. If there were ever a point to successful investment and a secure retirement, it would have to be celebration of the whim, wouldn't you think?”

  “I would.”

  “'Why don't you call? That's why we bought you a cell phone.' I tell them that I never think about it until I'm out of town, and then I don't want to pay roaming charges. The truth is that I never think about it until one of them calls me whining about not being able to get in touch with me. And my will. I know I'm old, Addison. I don't deny nor do I ignore my mortality, but I will know when I'm winding down, and I will take care of everything, but I don't feel like talking to them about it. And I will go eat seafood or see a Broadway show whenever I can afford it. Damn it.”

  “Damn it,” I agreed. My cell phone rang. I knew without looking who it was, and by the look in her eyes, I could see that Veronica knew, too. I looked at the screen to be certain before I answered it and walked outside to talk.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello.” She sounded morose, pitiful.

  “What's up?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “You mean now?”

  “I mean this weekend. I'd really like to see you again.”

  I had no idea what to say next. “Do you want me to come out there?” I asked.

  “No. I want to get the hell out of here. I don't want to be Mrs. Dr. Greg in Carswell, Georgia, this weekend. Where can we go?”

  Good question. An idea suggested itself. “Want to help me solve a mystery?”

  “What do you need? I'm at a computer.”

  “Frank Miller, lawyer, Augusta. Franklin Miller, maybe, or Francis... attended UGA Law, maybe...

  “Miller, Frank... Tax lawyer... former Associate Professor of tax law at UGA, Who's Who... attended Yale Law, UGA, Polk High School, Carswell, Georgia. Widowed. Aww.”

  “Damn, you're good. Got his number?” I opened the truck and pulled out a notebook and pencil.

  “Of course.” She read it to me, and I copied it down.

  “Perfect,” I said. “Okay, you want to get away? Print out his address and meet me tomorrow--”

  “I was thinking sooner.”

  “Oh.”

  “I want to talk to you. I need to do it in person.”

  I wanted to talk about Thursday morning's kiss-off, but I couldn't think of how to begin.

  “Please,” she added.

  Well, she did say please, didn't she?

  “Okay, tell you what. Not too far from you is a town called Louisville, in Jefferson County. Across from the airport is the Louisville Motor Lodge. I'll meet you there in three hours. Just come around back and look for the truck. And don't forget Frankie Miller's address.”

  Back in the studio, Veronica dabbed at her canvas, amusement dancing in her eyes.

  “That was Ellie. She said she'd really like to see me again.”

  “Well, that was unexpected. What, you mean now?”

  I nodded. “We're gonna go track down the only other person who's ever seen the ghost of Isaac Cooper.”

  “What about her husband?”

  I shrugged. “I don't think he's seen Isaac Cooper.”

  She nodded and turned back to her painting. “Whatever you did, she likes it. Be careful, sport. Have fun, but be careful.”

  I went back outside to reserve us a room. I sat in the truck to make the second call, reading the number from my notebook. The phone rang four times and went to voicemail for Frank Miller.

  “Hi, Mr. Miller. My name is Addison Kane, and I am surveying parts of Sweeney County for a highway widening. I would appreciate if you would call me back about the Conley Land Trust. I will be in Augusta tomorrow, and I would like to meet with you, if you have a few minutes.” I ended it with my phone number.

  I said goodbye, threw my clean clothes back into the truck along with some other gear, and headed down I-20 toward Warrenton, trying to figure out exactly what I was driving toward. She wanted to see me again. Beneath my calm acceptance of her flat-out rejection, I was glad to hear it. That had to be good, right? Even though she said she wanted to talk, that needn't be a bad thing, necessarily. And I needn't say anything, just let her apologize and let her talk about whatever was on her mind, if it helped clear the table, so to speak, for further adventures. All that thought occurred within, say, two miles. I probably spent the next fifty remembering what Ellie looked and felt like naked. That's just how we are.

  And then, somewhere beyond Covington... It suddenly struck me that there was something strange about the way Veronica said “be careful” as I was leaving. She'd said, “be careful” a hundred times in ten years: when I cleaned the gutters, when I rewired the garage, when I used striking tools, and almost every single time I went out drinking. Something about the way she said it that time, though, bothered me.

  From Covington to Lake Oconee, scenes of disaster played out in my head. Ellie sounded upset. What if she's told her husband about doing me? In their bed? Oh, that could be one unhappy husband. Doctors know every possible way to kill someone. What if he's waiting there with her? What do I do, stop? Confront him? Drive on?

  But wait: what if he's abusing her? The thought that I could be headed into a confrontation with a wife-beater got my pulse going. The problem with all the quick ways the Army taught me to disable an enemy is their efficiency: it's okay to go from stomping someone's instep to crushing their larynx as your very next move. It doesn't leave a lot of room for talking things out.

  But wait again: what if Ellie's a femme fatale? What if she's not really being abused but pretends she is in order to have me murder her husband? What if he's waiting there with her, and at the last minute she slips him a knife, expecting me to disarm him and kill him with his own weapon? What then? A cold smile as the cops take me away, then she inherits a fortune and cashes in his life insurance? And what's in it for me? Life in prison and Christmas cards from the Caribbean? God knows it's happened before.

  What if her husband's waiting there with a Sheriff's Deputy? Is adultery illegal? Should I be carrying an already-opened bottle of whiskey? What should I have done differently with the bag of pot currently stashed in my backpack? Could Veronica have possibly sa
id anything to make me more paranoid?

  Suddenly my phone rang, a number I didn't recognize. “Hello?”

  “Addison Kane? This is Frank Miller, how are you, sir? You have questions about the Conley Land Trust?”

  “I do. I'm trying to find the owner of several properties, and I'm not getting anywhere, so I--”

  “What made you call me?”

  Because we've seen the same ghost? I didn't think he was ready for that yet.

  “I understand your father wrote up Ms. Burroughs' will, and to be honest, I was trying to find him--”

  “Yes, he passed away a few years back.”

  “I have quite a few questions to ask. I'm driving now, and I have miles to go tonight, but I'd like to get together tomorrow if possible and talk.”