“Thank you. The key is to slow cook it at low heat. Well, well, well. Addison goes reading an old lady's diaries and finds a radical bisexual feminist living undercover in the Deep South.”
“Did you make the French bread?”
“Sorry to disappoint, no. So what happens next to our heroine?”
I slurped soup and sipped on red wine. “In 1911, she was asked to be part of a committee hiring a new teacher for the local white school. She found one she liked, Michael. He was young and not unpleasant-looking, and she started a very discreet affair with him that to her was all about being adored and getting sex. As much as she liked him, though, he just couldn't take Joseph's place in her heart, and when he proposed marriage in 1912, she had to say no.”
“Poor Michael! Elizabeth, the heartbreaker!”
“He was hurt, but he married a local woman, and he and Elizabeth remained friends.”
“This is the kind of history we want to read and never get to. Keep talking. I'm getting us some brandy. It goes with the night.” Outside, the rain dropped steadily, punctuated by the occasional fierce gust of wind, flash of lightning, or both. I sipped a little wine and resumed my synopsis of all I'd read between eleven-thirty the night before and three-thirty that morning.
“War started in August of 1914. Word came in November of that year that Joseph was dead, his wife's country home destroyed by German artillery. Dead. Just like that. Shortly after that news, Joseph's grandfather died.”
“Awww. Poor Joseph and whatever was his wife's name... Poor Elizabeth. How did she take it?” Ellie held two brandies, awaiting an answer.
“Better than I expected. She wrote that she wept, of course. But then in her diary she declared war an invention of men and an atrocious waste of all that is good and beautiful, and that was it. Two weeks later she decided to gather up all the cards, postcards, and letters into a box and burn them. She took it to the fireplace, but she was unable to toss any of these little tokens of Joseph into the flames. That's when she started a scrapbook of everything she had ever received from him. That seemed to be the grieving process she needed. By the summer of 1915, she was seeing someone else.”
Ellie handed me a glass and sat down next to me again. “And who was that?”
“Well, in 1915, a new doctor moved into the county. Dr. Greenwood was thirty, single, attractive even though he was losing his hair, and interested in her. They met several times, publicly and privately, and he was a nice guy, but he didn't turn her on like she thought he ought to, so after two years and a few randomly-placed fucks, she let him go, too.”
“Aww, poor Elizabeth. Poor Dr. Greenwood, cut off from the strawberry blonde nookie.”
“The end of that story regards their breakup. He said he didn't understand how she thought she could be so choosy at her age. She was thirty-two at the time. She didn't think much of the comment.”
“Spiteful jerk.”
“Then came 1918. Two events of note: first, a spike in cotton prices that her Grandpa accurately predicted would be its historic peak. Fall's looking great, war's about to end, then comes the second event: the Spanish Flu. Thornton, Fin, and Chrissy all died.”
“Fin and Chrissy holding hands,” Ellie inserted.
“Yes ma'am. Now we're back to the family history Elizabeth gave to the WPA writer.”
“What a life-changing moment,” said Ellie thoughtfully. “She's how old, thirty-three? All her father's and grandfather's assets are hers, and she's not married. She can do anything she wants. So tell me, Professor, what does she want?”
“She wants to see the world. Now that the Great War is over, she wants to travel and go everywhere she's ever heard of or read about: Africa, India, China, Hawaii, South America... I thought this interesting: she wrote that she wanted to go to Europe, but she felt this would be an embarrassing time for anyone to receive visitors, and she thought she should give them time to tidy up a little first. Isn't that just perfectly Southern?”
“Perfectly Southern,” Ellie agreed. “So when did she leave?”
“She visited family around the state after the funerals. Everyone wanted to see her, all to ask her the same question, you know, 'So, Ms. Independently Wealthy Spinster, what are your plans?' All she could tell them was that she wanted to maintain the house, and she had plenty of help with that among her tenants because, she says, she had 'good relations with all men'.
“On Christmas Eve she was back in her house, dressed in black, all alone except for the household help, when a messenger arrived on horseback with a telegram. It was from New York, and it read:
MERRY XMAS STOP WAIT FOR MY LETTER TO EXPLAIN ALL STOP I LOVE YOU
JOSEPH
“No.”
“Yep. Before New Year's Eve, she got a letter from him. He had not been killed when war broke out, but his wife had. He had only been knocked unconscious and suffered broken ribs, and as soon as he could leave the hospital, he tried joining up with the French Army. They said he was too old and asked him to drive an ambulance, instead. He agreed, but after six months, he jumped in with a regular French regiment, intent on vengeance. He and the entire regiment were promptly captured and sent to a prisoner of war camp in Germany. It took forever to get settled in one place and to be able to write a letter to anyone, and when he did, he wrote to his parents in Alexandria, Virginia, and they wrote back. He was a prisoner for over three years, but fortunately, he was one of the first released. Unfortunately, being classified as French meant that no arrangements were made for his transportation, as all the French prisoners had to walk back to France. He caught a ride with some Brits, who hooked him up with some Americans, who got him a train ride to Dunkirk, where he was able to catch a troop ship to Dover. Once in England, he was able to wire his parents, and they wired his money for his trip home.”
“Naturally, he had spent his imprisonment thinking about Elizabeth,” Ellie inserted.
“Naturally.”
“Despite the shame he must have felt for lusting after a married woman.”
“Maybe. The important part of the letter was this: he realized that in all the cards and letters he'd sent, he'd somehow neglected to say that he loved her. When his parents told him she was still single, he fell on his knees thanking God, for he knew that he had survived the war and all its attendant injuries and privations just so that he could be with her, if she would have him. If she liked, he would come live with her in Sweeney County.”
“I love a happy ending. Tell me this has a happy ending.”
“Her last entry is New Year's Day of 1919. She put a Thornton cousin in charge of keeping the house, and told her that she wouldn't be gone too long. She set up charge accounts at the store, in case Aunt Sally needed anything, and she packed a couple of bags. She's leaving for Carswell to catch a train to Atlanta, and from there to Richmond, then on to New York City. She's stopping at the telegraph office to send a telegram saying,
HAPPY NEW YEAR STOP ARRIVING PENN STATION SATURDAY 423PM STOP I LOVE YOU
ELIZABETH
“I've seen both his telegram and hers in the scrapbook dedicated to Joseph. Happy enough for you?”
Ellie applauded enthusiastically. “Well done. You didn't leave me hanging. She did get there, right? There was no massive train wreck in New Jersey, was there?”
I emptied my wine glass and poured some more. “I suppose she made it. I mean, she's Elizabeth Conley Burroughs. She has a son named Ramon Burroughs. She's on her way to New York to see Joseph Burroughs.”
“You just stopped reading?”
“It was three-thirty! There's this guy named Mike who thinks I'm supposed to be working out here! Besides, it was the last entry. It seemed like a good place to stop. I've glanced inside the next one. It begins June 4th, 1924. That's about the time Ramon is born, so it's probably full of mom stuff. I was really looking for a secret child she might have had and given up, perhaps-- anything I could take to the hearing Friday--, but there was nothing. So come on, tell me. What do
you think of the story?”
“Are you kidding? After what, eighteen years of living there with her crippled dad and grandparents, she finally gets the man of her dreams? I'm delighted for her.”
“No, I mean the other part. I mean, don't you think that their love was fated? You know, he survives impossible odds while dreaming of her, while she stays true to him in her heart, unable to find another man his equal? Don't you think that proves they were meant to be with each other? I believe that's what it meant to Joseph.”
“Ah. Hmm. Do you suppose he was thinking he was meant to be with Elizabeth every time he banged his still-nameless French wife, or was it something he realized only after she became a German artillery target?”
“Ouch. I take it you don't believe in soulmates?”
“Define your term.”
“Someone you were born to be with. They're your other half; you're like two pieces of a puzzle until you join, and when you do, you unleash powers far greater than anything you could ever generate alone.”
She laughed gently and poured herself more wine. “Well, by that definition, no. You make it sound like finding your Power Twin. You join at the lips and hips, and then what? A glorious light begins radiating from your joined hearts? Evil is vanquished? Balance restored to the Force? Lasers shoot out your butts?”
“I am perfectly fine, perfectly complete just as I am. I guess I have a different definition of soul mate. To me, it's another soul with whom you can laugh, someone who likes the same kind of sunsets you do, someone who likes eating if you like eating, or quiet if you like quiet... someone you can just hang out and be comfortable with without having any constraints or expectations. But no, I don't believe we need to find some other psychic needle in this whole haystack of a world in order to be happy, or to be loved. I mean, I hope it's easier than that. It's a big world.”
“You don't think sometimes people find each other because they're meant to be together?” I asked.
“I believe sometimes people find each other because they want to be together,” she replied. “You know, like I want to be with you. Right now.”
She took the wine glass from my hand, placed it on the table, and kissed me. We made love there on the couch for over half an hour, until we both lay gasping and shaking. I know it's just me-- in fact, I'm certain of it--, but yes, in Ellie's arms, I felt I could vanquish evil and restore balance to the Force, all while shooting lasers out my butt spelling “I LUV U!”, ten stories high, in her favorite colors.
We drank more wine and made love again, this time in the bedroom. It was a comfortable bed; I will always remember that. Comfy, cozy, and warm. As for the photograph on the dresser, I decided to fix my eyes on Ellie.
Outside, the wind gusted rain into my face, and the top branches of the Lynching Tree groaned and undulated. I held on for my life, gripping two wet branches with all my might. I kept looking for someplace to anchor my feet... The limbs swayed and bounced, then suddenly bucked like a bronco, and I was terrified.
Lightning crashed, and Isaac laughed. He was likewise situated in the branches of another limb, slightly higher than mine, being bounced and buffeted first this way, then that, and he was laughing maniacally.
“Git on down, you ol' bastard!” he shouted. “Git yo' ass on down! Git on down... NOW!”
Lightning struck the tree between us, and Isaac screamed in laughter. I held tight as the tree tilted and fell, down, down... and Isaac riding it down like a surfboard, laughing all the way. We fell and fell, crashing through other trees on our way to the earth, and then suddenly--
I awoke in Ellie's bed, heart pounding again. I cuddled up close behind her and lay perfectly still until I fell asleep.
20. Revelations
Thursday dawned bright and clear. The storm system had moved on, leaving behind an irregular trail of fallen trees and downed power lines. It took a full hour to drive the twenty-five miles to the river, where Steve and I were assisting Randy and Jack in surveying the highway bridge. Engineers want details when they're expanding a bridge: curbs, gutters, abutments, handrails... It's a long, slow, boring way to spend a day, and it's even worse when you're exhausted, as I was.
The nights of reading were catching up to me. During slack moments I caught myself dozing on my feet, something I hadn't done since leaving the military. I let my weary mind drift and allowed myself to be entertained by whatever popped up. Over the course of the day, Ellie, Greg, Elizabeth, Joseph, Tyler, Lawyer Frank, Ramon, Sarah, Dick Turd, Mike, and Isaac all drifted before my eyes. I could see them all plainly, knew all about them, but I only knew what I knew, and for all I knew, I knew I was still missing something, somewhere.
I thought back on my dream of riding the Lynching Tree a hundred feet to the ground. It was all so real... all these dreams were so real, so vivid in detail... I wondered if the tree were actually down. Would that be weird, or what? What indeed. Too weird. Not possible. Once I dreamed I was working alongside Isaac, frantically chopping its roots with an ax and getting drenched in blood, and that didn't happen. At least, it hadn't happened yet. Silly dreams. I wondered when they would end. When I finished the surveying job? When I figured out how to help the boy?
It was all so ridiculous, as was my telling Steve to drive up to the Conley place instead of going straight back to the motel.
“Why, what's up?”
“Tomorrow at this time it may belong to somebody else, and we may no longer be welcome. I just want to go see it one last time.”
“You're the specialist,” he grinned, slowing down for the left turn..
We parked, and I immediately sensed a change. It's weird how surveyors can go someplace entirely new and over the course of a few weeks or months, by close, develop a feeling for it. Something was different. I scanned the woods, and out in the trees, to my right, I saw a huge patch of sky where there should have been canopy.
Seeing it was like an intravenous jolt of pure speed, and I was instantly alert, instantly recharged. In a flash we were out of the truck and striding quickly through the woods.
“So what's up, Addie?”
“What's Granny say about dreaming something before it happens? Know things without being told?”
“Addison Kane. That's what this is? You see ghosts? You have visions?”
“Maybe.”
“It's foretold, you know: 'and your old men shall see visions, and your young men shall dream dreams.' How long you been seein' ghosts?”
“Okay, no more Bible verses. But you see that hole in the canopy? Last night I dreamed that the Lynching Tree came down in the storm. If it did, I may just shit a brick. I don't know. But I might, so watch your step.”
“Heads up, Addie, we're not alone.” I immediately froze, but he continued with, “it's Sarah. Sarah! What's up, girlfriend?”
Sarah stood in the clearing on the other side of the massive trunk. “Did you see that storm last night?” she asked.
“Sure did,” I replied. “I watched it at a friend's house. I guess it blew pretty hard out here, huh?”
“I think I heard it when this evil old thing got hit. There was a blinding white flash, and a loud KEE-RACK! like God ripped the air in two. Then there were limbs breaking, and the loudest crash I ever heard. I suspected it was this one. I've had dreams about it.”
“You ain't alone,” Steve told her, and they both looked at me.
“I'm hoping it will pass,” I said. I began slowly walking the length of it until I reached the top, Sarah and Steve following. There on the ground was the branch on which I'd tried to find a foothold, as well as the two smaller branches I'd gripped for dear life the night before. One limb extended beyond the rest, forming the highest clump of tree where I had seen Isaac.
I stood back and addressed the fallen oak. “Git the hell on down, NOW!” I shouted. Sarah stared at me. I shrugged. Having inspected the tree all the way to one end, I started back toward the root. The exposed trunk was hollow as far up as you could see, and the root ball wh
ere it had ripped out of the ground was soft. I touched it. “Spongy,” I announced. “You smell that? That's fungus. Up top, all you see are mushrooms growing under an old oak tree, but underground, the fungus softens the roots until they no longer carry water and food up the tree or they rip right out of the ground in a storm.”
“My granny made soup from those mushrooms. My goodness. Rotten at the roots.”
“It was, wasn't it?” I agreed. Suddenly I saw a glint in the root ball, about three feet off the ground. “What the hell is that?”
I dropped to my knees and started probing the root ball with the tip of my machete.
“What's it look like?” Steve asked.
The Dead Hand of Sweeney County Page 29