The Dead Hand of Sweeney County

by David L. Bradley

  “Tag it William Conley,” I told him. “The Cherokee Rose, not a real rose, but a native of Georgia, was the clue. There's another non-rose in her garden plan. It's gone now, but there used to be a hibiscus here. Why a hibiscus in a rose garden? This particular hibiscus is called the African Rose. That's where you'll find the larger anomaly. That's where you'll find Isaac Cooper.”

  Kevin Robinson drew a deep breath. “Y'all please be careful,” he said.

  They found Isaac between the black-tipped stakes, just where I thought he was. Kevin gave the coroner the card of a local funeral home to take charge of all the remains after the coroner had filed his reports. Kevin gave him a cheek swab and a hair sample, too.

  I was already late leaving for Atlanta, but I hung out and drank coffee from a digger's thermos until Judge Askew called a recess until he obtained the results of DNA tests. Out at the road, the sheriff told the crowd that two bodies had been found but not yet positively identified. One at a time, the officials drove off, followed by Kevin Robinson, followed by the curious citizens, including Wild Bill in his Model A.

  Steve drove. I slept. To get to the interstate meant driving first to Carswell, and I woke up just as we were about to hit the by-pass.

  “Let's stop for just a minute at the Tavern, before we leave town,” I said.

  When I walked in, Ellie looked up from a book on European cathedrals. That's all she had to do, look up, and I felt all warm and goofy again.

  “Why, look,” she said. “It's the talk of the town.”

  “Hi sweetie. I solved it, you know.”

  “Well, gumshoe, give a girl the low down. What did you discover?”

  “Fin Conley was Isaac Cooper's dad. Thornton probably knew it, too. Isaac was lynched at the house and buried in the vegetable garden. Later that night, Willie hanged himself in the same tree, and Elizabeth had to bury the shameful family secret, both literally that night, and figuratively for the rest of her life.

  “She was beautiful, brilliant, principled, outspoken... but she was trapped, too. She was gagged by society and a commitment to her family's honor. She couldn't tell what had happened or even write it out, but she left a map to the truth, in her own handwriting.”

  “How so?”

  “Her garden had sixteen plants, but only fourteen true roses. The other two, an African Rose and a Cherokee Rose--”

  “--were grave markers,” she finished for me. “Wow. What a woman. Which clue unlocked the puzzle, Mr. History Sleuth?”

  “When the only other guy I know who's ever seen Isaac described him as 'not technically black.' Okay, to be honest, not then, but the next morning, when Steve repeated it, it hit me like a frying pan to the forehead that the Isaac Cooper I've seen has freckles. Just a few, but... freckles. Suddenly it all made sense.

  “What was in Fin's first will, we'll never know, but what if he intended to split his properties between them and tell the world that Thornton Conley, Klansman Extraordinaire and Defender of the Lost Cause, had a half-black half-brother? Somehow the Polks knew about that will, and if such a will existed, Polk had to either steal it or destroy it.

  “You've really got to hand it to Thornton. He's lying there on the ground, suddenly unable to feel his dick or his legs, and he has the presence of mind to hang Isaac for it. That's not just mindless hatred. That's hatred with a purpose.”

  “Again, let me offer my congratulations,” Ellie said. “Solving mysteries seems to be what you do best, whether anyone asks you to or not. The mystery of my marriage, for instance.” Her voice had changed. It was measured and flat, and I felt ice in my gut. “This morning my husband told me about seeing you in Augusta and all about his Costa Rican wife. For some reason he felt compelled to tell me everything, including much I did not need to hear.”

  “I'm so sorry--”

  “No, you're not. No. You're not. So don't say it.”

  “I only wanted--”

  “Addison Kane, who honestly gives a damn what you wanted, other than you? I know what you want. You want to settle down and make babies, to be the world's greatest husband and dad. It's admirable, but it has nothing whatsoever to do with what I want. Part of why I loved Greg is that he accepted the fact that I do not wish to have kids, adopt kids, or be any child's mother.”

  “But why not?”

  “Because I don't want to. Would you want a mother who didn't want you? Do you think a child should have a mother who never felt the desire to have children, who never played house, who never asked for a baby doll? What do you think, that maternal desire and instinct will just kick in the moment you knock me up?

  “I know that eventually, everyone starts to think about their own mortality. For someone who doesn't necessarily want to have kids, the sense of mortality is even keener, because she realizes that she is leaving no biological legacy. For a woman, that holds tremendous potency - the thought that you are capable of producing life, but potentially may choose not to. I don't think I can explain it to you any better than that.

  “It makes this life, now, so much more important. It makes me want not to waste time. Before I was bothered about not actively pursuing my historical interests, but now... what did I tell you? If I don't know, I don't have to do anything about it. But once I know, once he comes right out and tells me he's in love with Maria--”

  “Gabriela,” I corrected.

  “Whatever. The point is that now I know. Now nothing is what I thought, and I have to do something about it.”

  “So what are you going to do?” I quietly asked.

  She looked down and shook her head, brushing a tear from her perfect nose as she did. “I have to think,” she said. “Your ride is here. Go.”

  I looked behind me and saw the Mighty Ford idling at the curb. I looked back at her, so hurt, so lost. I reached out to hug her, and she stopped me with a hand to my chest.

  “Goodbye, Addison.”

  Steve drove. I slept. I woke up long enough to check in with Mike and drive home to the big city. I parked in my usual spot, went upstairs, stripped down and stretched out on my bed.

  The sun shone brightly on a grassy hilltop. Cerulean skies decorated with puffs of white stretched forever in all directions. A small party approached me, walking slowly up the hill. They neared, and I saw it was Isaac, carrying a boy on his shoulders I just knew was Willie, followed by the twenty-four year-old Elizabeth.

  Isaac stopped in front of me and put out his hand. I took it. “Boy,” he asked, “what do we tell the man?”

  “Thank you,” the boy smiled.

  “Thank you,” Isaac repeated. They walked past me and faded into nothingness.

  Elizabeth stood in front of me, smiling, her light green eyes sparkling. She stood briefly on tiptoe and kissed my cheek. She walked past, and I turned to watch her. She stopped, then looked back over her shoulder and down. She slowly raised her eyes to mine, smiled again, and winked. Then she took two more steps and disappeared.

  I slept until four o'clock the following afternoon. I shuffled downstairs, made coffee and took a shower. I grabbed my dirty clothes from the truck and went to see my landlady.

  She was in her studio, working on the most conventional painting I'd seen her attempt in a long time, a portrait of her family copied from an old photograph. Her hair was black, her children were of grammar-school age, and for the first time I found myself looking into the face of Veronica's ex-husband, Bill.

  “Sears portrait studio, 1964,” she informed me. She stepped back from the painting, looked at me, and smiled. “Wow, you look like shit. Come here and let me give you a hug.” I don't know why I did; I realized immediately that we had never hugged before, and I couldn't imagine why not, except that she had never offered before. Strange as it was, it felt good, too. It was warm and full and tender all at the same time, and it was of satisfactory length. “Sit down and tell me about it,” she said.

  She painted while I told her everything, about Ellie, Greg, Gabi, Dick the Turd and his no-necks in t
he green Suburban, the lawyer, the Sergeant-Major, the sheriff, the judge, and Kevin Robinson; I told her about the diaries, I told her about the suicide note, the trial, and the exhumations. And I told her about Elizabeth, her traumas, her growth, her feminism, her politics, her lovers, and her finding Joseph at last, if only for five years and change, and I told her about finding the photo of the Aphrodite Kallypigos when I went looking for a will.

  We talked, cooked up some dinner together, ate, and talked some more. The painting, she told me, is for her children.

  “Neither of them specifically requested it, but for all these years they've accused me of driving their father out of their lives, so I thought I'd put him back in, glasses, bald spot glare, and all. You know Addison, the damnedest thing is that when I got out the photograph and started sketching out the painting, spending all that time looking at his face, I started to think of him when I knew him, and the next thing I knew, I was remembering how much he used to turn me on. The cheating sonofabitch.” She smiled. “Here's to Bill, the cheating sonofabitch.” We toasted him with shots of Irish.

  “And you?” she queried me with a smile. “What have you learned from this great adventure?”

  I gave it a try. About twenty seconds into the effort, I shook my head. “Nothing so far. I'll have to wait and see. I know I'll probably think of her... a lot. I wish I could have met her before she met her husband, but the timing was all wrong, of course... All in all, I'm very glad I got to know her.”

  “I'm sure Ellie feels the same way.”

  “Ellie. Yes, I'm glad I got to know Ellie, too.”

  The next morning, I could swear I felt the Sex Fairy slide under my sheets and up against me, her breasts against my back, but the scent was Ellie's... I felt hot breath on my neck, and I rolled over to kiss her. I stopped. Ellie had aged twenty years. Her hair was mostly gray, her forehead creased with fine lines. Her eyes sagged, her face sagged, even her glorious neck sagged a little. And she was beautiful, absolutely perfect, just as she was. When I leaned in to kiss her, I woke up. Alone.

  I took a shower and made myself some coffee, grits, and toast, which I carried upstairs to eat. After finishing my light but satisfying breakfast, I took my plate downstairs and refilled my cup. Upstairs, I perused my books for something to pass the time, but as often happens with book collectors, I had read everything in my collection, and the same old Twain short stories didn't seem like enough, somehow. My eye fell on a volume of Sherlock Holmes mysteries, but having read them all, they contained no mysteries at all.

  I logged on and checked my email. Nothing exciting there. I opened a search engine and typed in the word “mystery”. Up popped thousands of links to all sorts of stories, including lots of murders and meth labs. I added the word “history” to the search. Everything from Roanoke to Lincoln-Kennedy conspiracies to the Voynich Manuscript appeared.

  The one that really caught my eye, though, was the Lost Confederate Gold. I laughed out loud. Anyone who's seen “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” knows that one. It's in an unmarked grave next to Arch Stanton's, or at least, it was. Lost Confederate Gold, indeed. Where's my poncho?

  I wondered if Veronica was up yet.

  23. Farewells

  At noon on the following Saturday, a gentle breeze stirred the treetops above the Conley family cemetery, overlooking the Flat River valley. It had been completely renovated by local contractors in a little over a week, and all the work had been done by Conley tenants and descendents. The weeds had been mowed, the monuments and stonework had been cleaned, and the ironwork had been sandblasted and repainted.

  Frank, Tyler, Veronica and I stood by Thornton's Ferry Road, peering to the west. So far, we were the only attendees.

  Finally the Sergeant-Major said, “We can't have a funeral without the guests of honor.”

  “I'm sure the funeral parlor will deliver the remains. I'm pretty sure the preacher will come,” Frank answered him.

  We continued peering into the distance. I heard a noise behind me and turned around to see Sarah approaching in a smart black dress.

  “What are you folks looking at?” she asked.

  “Wondering where everybody is,” I said.

  “They're not late. They're right on time. Look.”

  Down the road, a white hearse topped the hill, followed by a tan Toyota.

  “Okay folks,” I said, “We have remains, we have a preacher. Looks to me like we have a funeral.”

  “Damn you're impatient,” Sarah said. “Look now.”

  I saw a blue minivan, followed by a sedan, a compact, another sedan, an SUV, a pickup truck... on and on they came, dozens of cars filled with folks dressed in black. The cars pulled to the side and parked, lining both sides of the road for a quarter of a mile.

  “Well,” said Veronica, “this is the biggest funeral I've ever attended.”

  “It's not a funeral,” said Sarah. “It's a family reunion.”

  Among the two hundred in attendance were Kevin and Kasim Robinson and Brother John McElroy, who officiated, and only immediate family, which included the twin brothers and their families, could fit inside the cemetery, the rest paying their respects from outside the fence. Willie Conley finally came home, his remains buried next to his sister, Elizabeth. At Tyler's insistence, the carved Texas cottonwood box that had contained Ramon's ashes-- which Tyler had saved from the fire and had been carrying in the trunk of his Mercedes--, was buried at Elizabeth's feet. In the northwest corner of the cemetery, Isaac was laid to rest next to his mother, Sarah, and her husband, Thomas, all three marked by shiny granite headstones. Isaac's read:

  ISAAC COOPER CONLEY

  1862 – JUNE 1, 1900

  FATHER, HUSBAND

  BELOVED SON OF FINDLAY CONLEY

  I thought it was beautiful, but as I said before, there's just something traditional in me that like to see a family together.

  Isaac’s ceremony was held last. When it ended, the crowd was silent for a full minute before breaking up. In groups large and small, grateful tenants posed for group pictures in front of the cemetery before going back to their cars and then on to the reception at Robinson's Barbecue. With Lawyer Frank in tow, I approached Kasim and Kevin.

  “Gentlemen, the place is beautiful,” I said. “I can't believe what you've gotten done in a week.”

  “We're just getting started,” Kasim replied. “We plan to execute Ms. Elizabeth's wishes to the letter.”

  “I see you had the tree cut up and hauled away.”

  “The Lynching Tree? Yes, we did, but Kevin and I are thinking we should erect a monument there. It shouldn't be celebrated, but neither should its victims be forgotten. You don't have to like your history, but you can't forget it. Yes sir,” he said, looking around, “These ten acres will always be maintained as a privately-owned public park to celebrate the Thorntons, the Conleys, and the Robinsons, three of Sweeney County's great families.”

  “The greatest families deserve a great view,” I told him. “And how's the transfer coming?”

  “It's coming along. Your friends Mr. Miller and Judge Askew are keeping the process on track. The biggest problem, of course, is that the bank was short. It looks like millions of dollars have been embezzled over the years. Just to take what's owed us would close the bank.”

  Kevin joined the conversation. “And then what? What happens to the honest farmers who trusted this thief with their money, who count on the bank to make it through the year? What happens to all the old folks who get their Social Security checks deposited there? The county school system has its accounts there. What would happen to our county if we all just demanded the money owed to us? It would collapse.”

  Kasim picked up the thread. “So again, Mr. Miller is helping us out. We're looking at starting a community bank. We're declaring a temporary rent holiday while we get this all straightened out, but we're not going to let down the people of Sweeney County.”

  I smiled. “Ms. Elizabeth would like that, gentlemen. She woul
d like that a lot. So, have you thought of doing something, you know, as a monument to her? She was... she was special... to a lot of people, and... well, everyone should know.”

  They looked at each other and back at me. “We've thought about it,” Kasim said. “Her granddaddy loaned the money that started our great-great grandaddy's store, and that changed our whole world. She made sure our people were educated, and without the land trust, the whole damned county would be nothing but pines. What can you do for a woman like that?”

  On cue, Frank handed me the book, and I handed it to Kasim. “You could restore her rose garden,” I said. Kasim opened it, and he and his twin began carefully turning pages. “It's all in there, down to the paving stones. That's her handwriting,” I added.