Miscarriage of Justice

by Kip Gayden

  “Your father says the new barber is very good. He says you’ll barely know he’s there.”

  “I still don’t want to.”

  Anna pushed open the door of Person’s Barbershop. J. P. and the men in the waiting chairs looked at her askance, but the man standing behind the empty chair nearest the window had on a smile as welcoming as a spring sunrise.

  “Hello, ma’am. Does this young fellow need a little trim?” he said.

  “Yes, if you please. I believe you’re Charles Cobb, the man who cuts Dr. Walter Dotson’s hair?”

  “Why, yes, ma’am, that’s right.” He stuck out a hand. “But my friends call me Charlie. You must be Mrs. Dotson.”

  Anna extended her gloved hand to take the ends of his fingers. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Cobb.”

  “And what is your name, young sir?” he said, leaning over and offering a hand to Scott.

  “Walter Scott Dotson Junior.” Scott gave Charlie Cobb’s hand a diffident shake, looking everywhere except at the barber.

  “Now, that’s a fine name, young man. Did you know there was a famous author named Sir Walter Scott?”

  Scott nodded. He was giving Charlie Cobb a look of cautious interest. “Yes, he’s one of my daddy’s favorite book writers.”

  “Well, then, Walter Scott Dotson Junior, you’d better climb up in this chair here.” Charlie reached behind the chair and picked up a board about three feet long and nine inches wide, which he laid across the chair’s arms. “There we go, a little extra height. Now, then, Mrs. Dotson, why don’t you tell me exactly what you want?”

  “Maybe I ought to just stand beside him and make sure he sits still,” Anna said, moving closer to her son.

  “Mama, I won’t wiggle.”

  “I think that’s a fine idea,” Charlie said, pinning the cloth around Scott’s neck. He turned toward the counter behind the chair and selected a comb and a pair of clippers from his glass equipment case.

  Anna guessed Scott would probably behave. He was almost unfailingly cooperative, even when having to do something he didn’t want to do, like get a haircut. She should probably sit in one of the chairs for the waiting customers . . . but she didn’t want to. She wanted to stand closer to Charlie Cobb; she wanted to know as much about him as she could.

  “He has a double cowlick,” she told Charlie, motioning at the crown of her son’s head. “He nearly always has a rooster tail.”

  Charlie smiled. “Well, there’s only so much we can do to fight nature, you know.”

  His eyes twinkled at her, and Anna hoped he didn’t notice the tiny catch in her breath. “You’re so right about that,” she said, and allowed a shy little smile to show. “Leave it a little longer in front; it’s easier for me to comb it over.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The clippers began to chatter. “Now, Mrs. Dotson, don’t you have a daughter, as well?”

  “Yes, Mabel.”

  “I’ll bet she’s as lovely as her mother, isn’t she?”

  “Mr. Cobb. You’ll embarrass me.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon. I sure wouldn’t want to do that. But didn’t I see you walking with Scott, and his sister, back before Christmas?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Where would you have seen us?” It was a bit of a fib, but Anna hadn’t actually made complete eye contact with him—that first time, at least.

  “I believe I was sitting on the porch of the Keystone Hotel. That’s right across the street from your house, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. I suppose you could have seen us walking by. We often take little strolls downtown.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Say, Mr. Scott, can you hold your chin up just a little bit for me? There you go. Yes, I believe that’s when it was.”

  “Are you . . . still staying at the Keystone?”

  “No, ma’am. My family and I have a little house up on Railroad Street, north end. Not too far from your place, actually.”

  “Oh, really? You’re married, then?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Daisy is my wife, and our little girl is named Alice.”

  Anna wasn’t sure whether she felt relieved or disappointed. “Daisy. That’s a pretty name. And how old is Alice?”

  “She’s not quite three.”

  “Mabel is eleven, but I’ll wager she and Alice could have some fun playing dolls. She has always been good with little ones.”

  “I’m satisfied you’re right about that. I’ll tell Daisy. She’s been wanting to meet some people here in Gallatin. She and Alice have only been here since just after the first of the year.”

  “I see. Are you and your family attending church anywhere?”

  Charlie laughed. “Funny thing, Mrs. Dotson—your husband asked me the same thing, last time I cut his hair. This is sure one church-going community.”

  “Well, I was raised as a minister’s daughter, so . . .”

  “Oh, I see! At church every time the doors open, I take it?”

  He was looking at her in a way that seemed somewhere between mocking and teasing. Anna felt a blush creeping up the back of her neck. She looked away.

  “We . . . try to do our part.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m sure you do. Hey, there, sport, can you lean your head that way just a fraction? There you go, perfect. Well, Mrs. Dotson, I think that’s grand, I really do. The family that prays together stays together, I always say.”

  “You always say that, do you?” Anna could hardly believe the words had come out of her mouth. Listen to the sass I’m giving him, right back! I ought to be ashamed of myself. But she wasn’t. He was looking at her differently: more respectfully, somehow, and more playfully too. She was an equal, not to be trifled with—a worthy opponent in this little verbal fencing match. Anna hadn’t felt this way, talking with a man, in a long time. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed it.

  Charlie made a few more passes at the back of Scott’s head, combed the hair this way and that. “Well, what do you think?” he said finally, standing back a little. Anna inspected Scott, tilting her head and studying him from several angles. “It looks good, Mr. Cobb. Very nice.”

  Charlie rotated the chair to let Scott look in the back mirror. “Okay with you, Mr. Walter Scott Dotson Junior?”

  Scott gave a bored glance at the mirror and shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “Well, then,” Charlie said, spinning the chair back to the front. He unpinned the cloth and removed it with a quick, snapping motion. “There you go, young man. All done.”

  Anna dug in her pocketbook and found three quarters and a dime. She handed the coins to Charlie. “Thank you, Mr. Cobb. He looks very nice.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I hope we’ll be seeing each other again, real soon.”

  Their eyes held for just a fraction longer than necessary.

  “Yes, well . . . Good day to you, then, Mr. Cobb.”

  He gave her a little bow. “And to you, Mrs. Dotson.” He stuck out a hand at Scott, who gave him another halfhearted shake. “Very nice to meet you, young man. You were a perfectly well-behaved customer.”

  “What do you say?” Anna said softly.

  “Thank you.”

  Charlie watched them go out. He stared appreciatively at the way Anna’s skirts swayed as she walked away down the sidewalk, holding her son’s hand. He smiled to himself as he reached for the broom and began sweeping up the clippings around his chair. Anna Dotson liked him; he was reasonably sure of that. And she hadn’t backed away one iota. He was pretty sure she was receiving all the messages he was sending. When the opportunity presented itself, he’d see where else matters might be persuaded to lead.

  THE WINTON SIX backed down the drive, backfiring noisily. Walter Dotson let it roll into the street, then shifted into first gear, hauling mightily on the steering wheel to bring the automobile’s front end around. With a few jumps and pops, the Winton Six headed off down North Water Avenue.

  From his seat on the Keystone Hotel porch, Charlie watched the car drive away. He took out his wa
tch and thumbed open the cover. This time of a Sunday afternoon, he was guessing the good doctor was on his way to a meeting at his church. Charlie judged he’d most likely be gone for an hour, at least.

  Charlie dropped his watch back into his vest pocket. He leaned back in his chair and tipped his black derby forward on his head. He was willing to bet that Mrs. Dotson had looked out her windows at least once, and if she had, then she’d have seen him. He’d positioned himself to make sure of that.

  He’d told Daisy he had to go downtown to look at a customer’s horse for him. He’d heard Charlie had some blacksmithing experience, Charlie told her, and the horse was favoring his off front leg. “I said I might be able to tell what was wrong. He asked me if I could come take a look.” Daisy had looked at him a few seconds, then shrugged and nodded.

  Charlie watched the front of the house and sipped at the lemonade he’d bought inside at the bar. It was a sunny, late March afternoon, but still a bit chilly, strictly speaking, for a glass of lemonade. Still, Charlie didn’t think it would do for him to be seen drinking beer on a Sunday afternoon, right out on the street. Might hurt his business. So, the lemonade would have to do.

  Someone was standing beside him.

  “Mind if I join you, Charlie?”

  It was Avery Upshur, one of his regulars. “Good afternoon, Avery. Not at all, have a seat.” Charlie pushed a chair back from the table and motioned for the other man to sit down.

  “Nice day, isn’t it?” Avery said, taking off his hat and mopping his forehead. Charlie had noticed that Avery was always sweating, seemingly without regard for the temperature.

  “Sure is.” Charlie kept his eyes on the front of the Dotson house as he talked. “What brings you around?”

  “Oh, just getting out of the house for a little bit. Wife’s holding an afternoon tea party with some of her suffrage friends. Little too hot at home, if you know what I mean.”

  Charlie laughed. “Well, I don’t blame you.”

  “I’ll sure be glad when all this women’s foolishness is over with,” Avery said. “What do you reckon the legislature’ll do? Will they vote to ratify?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Avery. I reckon I don’t follow it all that closely.”

  “Is that so?”

  Charlie shook his head. “No, I don’t guess I much care if a woman votes or if she doesn’t—just as long as she does what I need her to do, if you take my meaning.” He gave Avery a conspiratorial wink.

  Avery snickered.

  At that moment, the front door of Anna’s house opened and she walked outside, holding in front of her what looked like a newspaper or a magazine. She sat down in a wicker chair that faced the street. Her face was angled down for a moment, as if she was reading, then she looked up. Charlie gave her a friendly wave. Her face immediately returned to her reading.

  “Isn’t that Anna Dotson?” Avery said, looking in the direction Charlie had waved.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “I cut her husband’s hair. Her son’s, too.”

  Avery nodded. “Don’t guess she saw you, though.”

  Charlie smiled, keeping his eyes on Anna. “Oh, yes, she did. Excuse me a minute, will you, Avery?” He got up from the table and crossed the street. He went to the front gate, then called out, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Dotson. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  For a second, he thought she was going to ignore him. Then she looked up from whatever she was reading. She gave him a little wave.

  “May I come in?” he said, his hand on the gate latch. He could hear the children’s voices carrying from the backyard, but they were conveniently out of sight.

  “I . . . suppose so.”

  He opened the gate and went up the sidewalk, keeping his eyes on her and holding onto a friendly smile. Just like working with a high-strung horse: no sudden moves, keep your voice nice and easy, and pretty soon you can do whatever you want.

  Charlie stopped when he reached the porch steps. She was staring at him as if she were afraid of what he might do. He motioned toward the thing she’d been reading. “I don’t suppose that’s today’s newspaper, is it? There was a story I heard about, and I wanted to see if it was in there.”

  “No, it’s not a newspaper, it’s . . . a magazine.”

  “Oh, really? Which one?”

  “Argosy.”

  “No fooling? The one with the stories in it?”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Well, sure! I’ve read some of those stories; some of them are pretty good. I like some of the poetry, too.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  He nodded. “Any good ones in this issue?”

  She looked down at the magazine, thumbing the pages. “I like this one,” she said, handing him the periodical.

  “A River Apart,” he read. He scanned the first few sentences. “Looks interesting,” he said, handing the magazine back to her.

  “Why don’t you keep it?” she said.

  “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “No, not at all. It’s a back issue and I’ve already gone through it. Read it, if you like. I’d be interested to hear your thoughts on it.”

  “Is that so? Well, all right then, with your permission.” He folded the Argosy and tucked it under his arm. He touched the brim of his derby. “Nice talking with you, Anna.”

  She didn’t flinch. “Enjoy the magazine, Charlie,” she said.

  He gave her a wide smile and went back the way he’d come, letting himself out the front gate. He crossed the street and returned to his table. Avery was watching him.

  “What was all that about?”

  Charlie made a dismissing wave. “Oh, nothing to it. Just asking her how her son was liking his new haircut.” He looked at Avery. “Taking care of my customers is all.”

  Avery nodded, but he was looking at Anna Dotson, still sitting in her chair, her head tipped back, as if she were taking the afternoon sun.

  9

  Anna sat on her porch for about another ten minutes, then went inside the house. She went to the kitchen to see if there was anything left of the chess pie Gertrude had made on Friday. Chess pie was her favorite, since childhood. Sure enough, there was a single thin sliver remaining, resting on a tin plate covered with cheesecloth. Anna didn’t bother with a fork; she picked up the pie with her hand and downed it in three quick bites. She licked her fingers, looking through the kitchen windows into the backyard. The children were still playing with her sister Flora, who had come to visit.

  Charlie Cobb was trouble; she couldn’t pretend otherwise. But then he’d come up to her front porch a little while ago—so careful to stop just short of gross impropriety, the careful rascal!—and looked up at her with those hazel eyes, wearing that dimpled, sneaky smile of his. Her mind took off like a spooked horse, trampling through all sorts of places it had no business going. When he called her “Anna,” there was a secret place inside her that rolled over like a lap dog, then sat up and begged for more.

  She wasn’t really planning to give him the magazine; that just sort of happened as she was trying to think of things to say. But now that she had, she could see the usefulness of it, even the justice. She’d been reading a story in Argosy when she’d made her disastrous blunder with Walter—her last blunder with him, she told herself. Walter sitting over there, high and mighty with his Shakespeare, too good to trouble himself for one moment about her feelings, except to worry about being discovered by Mabel or Scott. Far be it from Walter to talk with her about a story she’d liked and that had made her weep, both with joy for the lovers who’d discovered each other in the nick of time, and for the utter absence of any such chance in the world outside the magazine’s pages, where Anna was doomed to live.

  Let Walter keep his Shakespeare, his dusty-dry literature that matched his dusty-dry heart! Charlie Cobb knew how to talk to a woman. He was interested in what interested Anna. He wasn’t too good to cross the street and pass the time
of day, nor too proud to think that he might enjoy something that amused her.

  And besides, who said anything was going to happen with Charlie Cobb? Anna was a free and independent woman—in mind, anyway, if not before the law. She’d decide for herself whom she would and wouldn’t converse with, thank you very much!

  “ALL RIGHT, THAT TAKES CARE of the menu. Mrs. Pardue, we are so very appreciative of all your careful thought. And now, the entertainment.” It was Tuesday, and the ladies had gathered at the home of Mrs. Olmstead.

  They all looked at Anna, as she’d known they would. “I’m sure the band will be happy to play,” she said. “I’ll speak to Dr. Dotson about it.”

  “Oh, I do hope they’ve learned a new Sousa march,” Mrs. Baskerville said, in the overly dramatic way Anna found so annoying. “I’m so dreadfully tired of hearing ‘The Washington Post’ and ‘The Liberty Bell,’ year after year. I was in Nashville a few weeks ago, and one of the municipal bands there played the most delightful march. It had tunes from The Mikado . . . Oh, and now I’ve forgotten the name. Mrs. Dotson, dear, couldn’t you speak to your husband and see if he couldn’t find out—”

  “I doubt Dr. Dotson is interested in my opinions on the band’s repertoire, Mrs. Baskerville. But maybe you’d like to speak to him yourself?” Ignoring Mrs. Baskerville’s open-mouthed stare, Anna said, “I suppose it will be about the same as in years past: music before and during the dinner, then a short program afterward, followed by dancing?”

  “Ah, yes, that is what I presumed,” Mrs. Oldham said, glancing nervously at Mrs. Baskerville. “I’m sure that . . . whatever the band plays will be fine.”

  “Thank you,” Anna said. Elizabeth was looking at her strangely. Anna just rolled her eyes.

  The Spring Gala and hospital fundraiser was three weeks away, and the ladies in the tea group seemed all atwitter about it. Anna found herself rather bored with the whole thing. The first few years it had been somewhat enjoyable, helping with the arrangements and getting to know the ladies in the process. Walter had been only too happy to commit the Gallatin Commercial Club Band to provide the evening’s music, even though he had rather strict views on dancing. “Not in public,” he’d say, and Anna would laughingly demand what other sort of dancing he might imagine engaging in. “A minister’s daughter ought to know better,” he’d say, finding no humor at all in her comment. Despite his moral reservations, though, he always managed to provide a satisfactory program, mixing in the latest waltzes, fox-trots, and even the odd one-step—though he always appeared nervous when the band played something so avant-garde.