by Shelly Frome
“No trouble, if that’s what you’re thinking. I could start something quick and easy. Of course we’ll have to go out back. Did you know that in the old days the kitchen had to be separate from the main plantation building ‘cause of all the fires caused by the wood burning stoves?”
“No, I didn’t know that,” Josh said, waiting for her to get off this inane southern belle patter. “Look, I don’t mind hanging around for another few minutes.”
“Nonsense,” said Hannah, blatantly loosening the tab to show a little more cleavage. “Forget the breakfast maybe. But what kind of southern hospitality would it be if I didn’t at least show you around?”
The cleavage display was clearly slipping into a taunting gesture as well as a come-on, and so was the edgy tone in her voice.
Hurrying down, she took Josh’s hand and led him beyond the lobby-like central interior in the opposite direction of Dean’s study. Soon he found himself winding through a dining room past an oak table that seated over a dozen, under an identical chandelier, surrounded by variations of the gilt-edged idyllic paintings. Next, a sitting room featuring yet more of the same, and then she sent him swishing into another alcove set up like a gallery of memorabilia. All the while Josh could’ve have easily protested, but there was something about her determination that made him wonder what she really had in mind.
“There,” she said, sitting on a wicker bench, crossing her bare legs, blatantly revealing more of her physical attributes. “Catch the lineup and tell me what you think of my chances.”
Playing along, Josh glanced at the portraits, each young lady in a ball gown, evidently representing a trip down memory lane.
“Look closer,” said Hannah. “Notice the glistening golden hair, clear blue eyes, unblemished complexion, nubile figure. Then take a gander at me.”
Despite his better judgment, Josh glanced back at her slutty pose that belied the lyrics to the old sweetheart song she began to sing mockingly:
“‘The girl of my dreams is the sweetest girl of all the girls I know
Each sweet co-ed, like a rainbow trail, fades in the afterglow’”
Ignoring the fact that she was tone deaf, she carried on, rising up and sashaying around like a takeoff on a prom queen on full display:
“‘The blue of her eyes and the gold of her hair are a blend of the western sky
And the moonlight beams on the girl of my dreams
She’s the sweetheart of Sigma Chi’.”
Dropping her tacky act, standing as close to Josh as she possibly could, she said, “Of course, we didn’t all marry him and some of us still meet now and then. But as soon as the bloom is off the rose, as they say. And how much can you put up with and not at least have something going on the side?”
“Lady, I don’t know what you want me to say?”
“Well, you look bright to me, and you sound bright. So think about it. How am I supposed to go on with this charade? Would you believe our role model, the original we all have to live up to, isn’t even represented here? The legendary, the one and only Miss Caroline. ‘Oh, Caroline,’ he’d say when he had a few too many and then kinda tear up on ‘The girl of my dreams.’ Now I ask you, was she real or some pipe dream he’s been plying us with? I mean, as long as you’re here digging for dirt, maybe you could wheedle it out of him once and for all. Then give me a jingle. I could really use some ammunition right about now.”
Josh wanted to put her straight, but she wouldn’t give him the chance.
“What’s the matter?” Hannah said, her tone getting more and more strident as if this was some last ditch opportunity. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the direct result of exercising a little independence around here? Don’t tell me I have read you wrong and you are another damn chauvinist who approves of smacking and hamstringing women like in my granddaddy’s day?”
“No, ma’am, I surely don’t. However--”
“And I surely appreciate that. You do for me, and I will certainly make it worth your while.”
Before he could stop her from slipping a card from out of nowhere into his blazer pocket, the echoing sound of a door slamming shut put a kibosh on the whole exchange.
The only thing that saved Josh from any awkward embarrassment was Hannah’s retreat the second she caught sight of her husband whisking through the sitting room seeking her out.
Tugging on the Velcro tab of her robe, Hannah offered some lame excuse about sneaking out to the mail room to retrieve a new outfit that had been delivered earlier and had no idea Josh would be wandering about. She gave a few more simpering excuses as Lamar Dean traipsed after her with Josh in tow, and added that it was really no matter. She flitted off and back up the stairway as quickly as she could and called down, “Hope to see more of you real real soon, mister, under less silly circumstances,” and in seconds was out of sight.
For his part, sloughing it all off as well, Dean did an about-face and escorted Josh through the wide front double doors, onto the landing under the marbleized columns. There he regaled him with a quick recitation of truisms. Leading off, he proudly displayed a $50 bill in Confederate currency featuring a portrait of the renowned Virginian and father of the country, George Washington. The love of the founding fathers segued into a belief in rugged individualism, free enterprise, the work ethic and how people are all driven to be assets to everything they hold near and dear. Gesturing toward the sloping landscape with the stands of trees symmetrically rimming the kidney shaped pond, he said, “It’s just like a balanced set of accounts, a balanced budget and a balanced life. Though you and I don’t share a taste for fine bourbon and cigars, surely we and everyone on this planet could find common ground in the traditional ideals I have just cited.”
Forgoing any reaction on Josh’s part, he dismissed Josh with a pat on the shoulder, invited him back when they both had more time to spare and could enjoy a home style early evening supper prepared by his grandmotherly cook. At the same time they could listen to the twilight call of the whippoorwill, and discuss how a governor of this fine state could assist Josh with a position on a “real going newspaper” like The Clarion-Ledger in Jackson.
Now at least forty minutes off schedule, Josh didn’t bother to comment on this offer or any of Dean’s remarks, let alone his encounter with the scantily clad Hannah. With a half-hearted thanks for his time, Josh hurried back around to the circular drive. He put the Falcon in gear and headed to the University to return the car, report back and snatch whatever data Hunter Cobb had waiting for him.
On the positive side, he had picked up a valuable pointer and was in motion. Not unlike those times in Santa Monica jogging by the Pier, all his sputtering and misgivings aside, caught up in the flow.
On the other hand, with a little hindsight, he might have questioned what Hannah was really going on about. Or at least considered the possibility that all the while he was being set up.
25.
Roy positioned himself high up against the cross-brace directly below the top of the water tower that resembled a tin man’s head. He did so trying to get a clearer read on the messages on the Palm gizmo. At first they came in fine as the dark cloud bank rolling in from the west held steady. But then the cloud bank split up and kept casting shadows so that Roy had to climb up and around a whole bunch of struts till the words finally got sharp enough and stayed that way.
Cursing under his breath, starting over, he tapped the flag again for message number one and studied it real slow to make damn sure he got the gist of it:
This Yank, this Josh character arrives. Could be in cahoots with Hunter Cobb, could be a whole lot different. Hannah makes a play for him but also could’ve let something out of the bag. More than likely pulled her calling card trick. Meaning, if he winds up at the Magnolia Spa, that puts him out of the way in more ways than one. We’ll lay the wood to him. If not, we’ll still keep a close eye. But, point is, if he crosses back over the line, that’s your lookout.
The second message from Grady P
oe jumped to the girl:
She’s holed up above The Bottletree at LuAnn’s. Got a break when Eddie the busboy told her any message would come in as a text. Nobody bothers calling anymore. Got her riled, Eddie showed her how it worked, got a peek at her cell number. Might come in handy depending on what it is you’re doing there.
Roy closed his eyes and worked on the message till he’d committed it to memory. Then he hit the latest on the girl:
Eddie spotted her drawing something on a napkin. Got her some crayons and paper place mats. Next time Eddie come by, she was making what looked like a map of backcountry roads. What is this? Better not add up to no goddamn situation.
Roy read all three messages a few more times till he had it down, erased them, shut the gizmo off and stuffed it back into his overalls. He braced himself for the tricky climb down and around the slippery struts and all which only made the riled-up feeling that much worse.
Minutes later, back on the rutted road as it fell away toward the cabin, he was glad he hadn’t taken the old car. But that was the only good thing. He couldn’t walk off the feeling coming up or shake it off going back down. It was like he’d drunk whole pots of black coffee. With Grady now leaning on him, there was no way he was going to sit tight and hold out for much longer. With every passing hour something else was fixing to come undone. Even the coonhound sensed it, getting more skittish and crazy, more needing to be run into the ground before he’d be of any use.
Take last night, howling and baying till Roy let him out. It wasn’t enough he’d turned his pen into a moon crater. Keeping track of him was no use either or whistling him back. His nose was open but his ears were shut. So, since he was putting so much mouth on the ground heading straight towards Wolf Creek, chances were he’d maybe come upon the very spot where the girl buried the oilskin bundle. Which would go a long ways to ending this mess long as she stayed clear and stayed put. But it was no go. The hound worked a coon out of the water, ran it ragged and treed it, baying, chest to the trunk. And even that didn’t pan out. Dog was itching so bad to flush something out, run it down and nail it dead on, he missed the mark. No den. Nowhere near no oilskin bundle. Both the hound and Roy came up empty.
Now, shambling along between the stands of loblolly pines, Roy thought hard. When that was no go either, he thought of his ancestors--noble words he remembered to help him simmer down till he finally got a bead on his next best move:
Gray soldiers bathed in sacrificial glory. Against all odds, giving their all for home and country and way of life. . . Leaving nothing that could muddy the waters . . . or cast a shadow on The Cause and the bright days ahead . . .
Then the task at hand came to him just in time.
Leaving no loose ends that could cast a shadow on The Cause and bright days ahead. Like some agitator newspaper Yank from Ohio. Or meddling little bitch from Illinois who was not right in the head.
26.
As if he were conducting an old-fashioned editorial meeting, Hunter Cobb unscrewed the top of his fountain pen and positioned his legal pad just so.
“Some clue about no free rides but lots of free enterprise?”
“Not a jot,” said Josh.
“Some clue then about his own conspicuous consumption raising the issue of hypocrisy?”
“Grady Poe is testing a new Wrangler for gas mileage. Taking his cue from your Ford Falcon, Dean said he might as well keep his old one.”
“Oh, that’s shady. That’s real shady.”
The way the game was going, Cobb was not about to relinquish the contents of the manila envelope till Josh gave him something juicy in return. And Josh was having the worst time trying to put up with it.
“Common cause?” Cobb asked. “Surely he must have slipped up there. Something like, ‘We all are most comfortable with our own kind . . . separation fosters social stability, that’s human nature.’ Or, ‘None of us should spend beyond our means or expect to be taken care of when we didn’t earn it.’”
“All he offered was truisms and platitudes, plus a 50-dollar confederate bill featuring our founding father from Virginia, George Washington.”
Cobb screwed and unscrewed the top of the fountain pen several more times. Holding up the calling card under the hot light of the desk lamp, he said, “So it’s down to Hannah. And you absolutely refuse to partake of her southern hospitality, though she may during the course of the proceedings divulge a great deal more.”
“Look, you are not running a tabloid. I still have some integrity and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop jerking me around.”
Breaking out in another mischievous grin, Cobb said, “Just teasing, son. Just teasing.”
Scrawling away, Cobb said, “So, what you did manage to eke out raises the question of financing and construction of Lamar’s fake plantation. Namely, how much Hannah’s inheritance paid for it and the part played by some most gracious and generous state contractors.”
Gazing up at nothing in particular, something seemed to dawn on him.
“Better still, we got Hannah’s battered cheek and a file of ex wives and concubines harkening way back . . . and the phantom sweet Caroline . . . all who likely were sweethearts of Lamar’s chapter of Sigma Chi. And whose daddies may figure as stepping stones to his surreptitious climb up the political ladder. All these ex debs who meet periodically to compare notes.”
Arching an eyebrow, Cobb added, “Not bad for someone who was passing by and stuck his head in for a minute.”
By then, something began to dawn on Josh as well.
“On the other hand, how did Grady Poe know about me being a trucker, a deadbeat and/or a wanna-be reporter?”
“Haven’t a clue. I certainly didn’t let on.”
“Exactly. Look, I hate to break this up but, in case you haven’t noticed, these dubious crossroads seem to be cropping up with greater frequency.”
Josh grabbed the envelope before Cobb had a chance to react, turned to go and then turned back. “By the way, there’s a Christmas carton of Old Taylor 86 tucked inside Lamar’s secret den. The exact same dusty carton I delivered in the boonies to Darryl Purdy. Purdy, as it happens, is the very same diehard Lamar Dean supporter who tried to hide said carton from me, gave me a hard time, assaulted Dewey Charles up in Memphis and tried to wrench Alice’s arm off, all the while hell-bent hunting for Bubba Gillis.”
Cobb glanced at the notes he’d made yesterday, added a few broad strokes with his pen and said, “Well now, Joshua, you be sure to keep in touch, you hear? Now that Grady Poe’s gotten word and Miss Hanna’s on the prowl, something just might come of all this.”
. . .
Unable to wait a moment longer, Josh climbed into the cab of the truck and scanned the materials Hunter Cobb had dug up. The first thing that caught his eye was shots of three kids: gawky Darryl tagging along behind a hefty Bubba Gillis and his rawboned companion Rowdy Childers. Dressed in confederate soldier’s costumes, waving rebel flags, they were apparently goading a group of federal marshals braced in front of the Ole Miss Administration building. But unlike Darryl, Bubba and Rowdy were parading as close to the marshals as they could get.
The second set consisted of photocopies of young Dewey Charles a few years later, taken somewhere west of Batesville in the flatlands of the Delta. The first one showed him leaning up against a dilapidated yellow bus. Another, as if on a dare, found him seated behind the wheel with a slouch cap turned sideways as a mixed group of people began to board. A third image captured him leaning out the window doffing his cap, taking a bow.
In contrast, a newspaper clipping from the police blotter reported that Dewey Charles was charged with attempting to drive a vehicle illegally disguised as a school bus, breach of peace and disorderly conduct. It was noted that an Otis Brown tried to intervene suggesting that his misguided half-brother was simply caught up in the spirit of things. At any rate, Brown suggested, there was a great difference between a sin of omission and a sin of commission. This notion was summarily called in
to question by an eyewitness, the selfsame Darryl Purdy.
In an interview with a local paper, Dewey claimed he was only fooling around till the real driver showed up, had come along strictly for the ride and to play tunes and sing songs to cheer everybody up. In fact, he knew little or nothing about the classes in voter registration scheduled to be held: how to fill out a long application form, pass a test on the interpretation of the state’s constitution, and how to behave respectfully before the county registrar. As far as that was concerned, his intention was to listen-in just in case or else to maybe stand watch.
Next were a later set of reports that Dewey was caught after dark on some back road over in Benton County driving a stolen vehicle, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer and a local citizen (the same Rowdy Childers). He was also charged with counts of conspiracy to incite criminal anarchy. Taken in conjunction with his previous arrest and conviction, he was sentenced to an undisclosed period of time at the state penitentiary at Parchman Farm for correction and rehabilitation.
The last clipping, dated much later, stated that noted bluesman Dewey Charles was attempting to revive a tradition of Mississippi hill country music. He’d fixed-up a rambling, cobbled –together shotgun shack over in Ripley which, coincidently, had served as a meeting site of the Freedom Movement back in the Civil Rights days. His aim was to turn it into a gathering place and a record company: “To feature CDs of blues folk who got to struggle to stay above the poverty line. To rustle ‘em up from out-of-the-way backcountry jukes-- brothers and sisters who know how to shake it on down.”
Unfortunately, his dream went up with a fire bomb and he retreated over the line to Memphis.
As a sidelight, Cobb had thrown in a notice that assailant Rowdy Childers was presently incarcerated in a maximum security facility for gunning down his employer which, at any rate, eliminated him from any consideration.