Deadly Southern Charm

by Mary Burton

  “Well, anyway,” Rosemary continued, “I went through the boxes searching for pictures taken on trips. Those in black and white, I planned to have colorized and have all the pictures reproduced in uniform size before taking them to a framer.”

  “What stopped you?” I asked.

  “When your objective is a certain type of picture, you gather them together, in this case I collected sixteen photos taken over four decades. Individually, the similarities weren’t apparent and gathered no attention. But together, the common thread was hard to ignore.”

  “What similarities?” I asked.

  “Take a good look at the first one,” Rosemary said. “It was taken in 1970 when they were seniors in high school.”

  I studied the photo. It showed the smiling young couple standing outside the iron fence that surrounded the White House. Standing by or walking behind them was perhaps a half dozen other people. “Okay. Nothing remarkable.”

  “I know, but now look at this one. Dad’s parents gave them a honeymoon in Jamaica as a wedding present. Here are Mom and Dad having dinner at the Half Moon Hotel in Montego Bay.”

  They were seated at a table outdoors in a beautiful setting. The dining tables were partially separated by island vegetation on a large flagstone patio. Other couples could be seen in the background at other tables.

  “Notice anything yet?” asked Rosemary.

  “No, maybe I’m dense. What should I be looking for? Is it that they’re both in the picture? Who is taking the picture?”

  “No, that’s not it,” she said quickly. “There’s always some passerby who will usually volunteer to take a picture.” She reached for the next picture. “Look at this one. Atlantic City, 1978.”

  This image featured Peter and Emily on the boardwalk in a rickshaw. In the background, the sky was a vivid blue and the ocean calm. And there was the uniformed rickshaw driver also in the frame.

  “Wait a minute.” I picked up the shot from Montego Bay taken two years before and thousands of miles away. “The guy at the next table next to your Mom and Dad’s looks like the rickshaw driver.”

  “Bingo!” said Rosemary. “Now look at the one at the White House again.”

  “Oh my God.” I keyed in on a guy walking by. The man appeared to be about fifty years old and was in all three pictures taken years apart at different locations. “How can that be?”

  “And here’s one taken at Marineland in Florida, and there he is again in 1983. And at the Bronx Zoo in 1985. The Golden Gate bridge in 1987.” Rosemary was now dealing out the pictures like so many playing cards.

  “The Eiffel Tower in 1991. St. Peter’s Cathedral in Rome in ’94. Yellowstone National Park with the buffaloes in ’95. Niagara Falls in ’98, Mount Rushmore in ’01, and several others, ending up with them standing in front of the Statue of Liberty just last year. And he is in every one of those shots. Sometimes in profile, sometimes looking directly into the camera.”

  “There is something very wrong. These pictures cover a period of over forty years, and he looks the same. He never ages. This makes no sense,” I said.

  “I noticed that,” Rosemary said. “What do you think it means?”

  “I have no idea. Can’t explain it. But whatever the explanation is, it doesn’t seem to be a danger to your parents or something would have happened long ago. It didn’t. Who else have you talked to about this?”

  “Just Jack. No one else.”

  “I understand what you mean about not seeing this when viewing the pictures the way your mother has them assembled.”

  “What do you think I should do?” Rosemary asked me, somehow expecting that I would give her sound advice.

  “I don’t know there’s anything to do. If there is, I’m baffled,” I said. “There may be other pictures with this guy that are not taken in front of landmarks. Understandably overlooked. Although, I don’t know what they would prove. They’d just be icing on the cake. Sixteen times pretty well clinches it.”

  I drove home, racking my brain for some possible explanation. How could some guy follow my sister and her husband around for decades and never age while so doing? In looking at a picture, one never thinks about who took it. A woman co-worker once told me that her grown son commented that she wasn’t around much when he was a little boy.

  “Where did you get that idea?” she asked.

  “Well, you’re not in the any of the pictures,” he answered.

  “I was the one who took the pictures,” she explained with some passion. It occurred to me that maybe some of the pictures in Emily’s boxes were taken by the mysterious passerby.

  * * * *

  Months passed.

  I had signed up for a bus trip to Nashville sponsored by a singles club to which I belonged. The chartered bus left Richmond at six on a Tuesday morning and arrived in Nashville in time for dinner. Most of the club was tired from the long hours on the road, but a few of the heartier members, including me, went downtown to visit the honky tonks. Many country musicians worked these bars without salary but could usually pick up a few hundred in tips.

  On Wednesday, the entire group went for a very enjoyable performance at the original Ryman Auditorium, better known as the “Grand Ole Opry.” Thursday sent most of the women shopping but I am not a shopper, so I went with a few of the men on a tour of the Hermitage, the home of Andrew Jackson. It was a stately house with columns, located about ten miles east of Nashville.

  A tour guide met us at the front door of the house. As we walked down the center hall, the guide commented about the paintings that bedecked both walls. Most were of General Jackson or his wife Rachel, and I gave them a perfunctory glance. All of these pictures were artists’ renderings pre-dating photography. One in particular caught my eye, and I walked another five or six paces before it hit me. I stopped dead in my tracks. I returned to the picture that had grabbed my attention and stared at it in disbelief. The legend beneath the portrait read General John Coffee—Second In Command at the Battle of New Orleans. 1772—1833. It was the rickshaw driver, the man outside the White House, the tourist in Jamaica. He was all of them. And his name was Coffee. He had to be an ancestor to my brother-in-law, Peter Coffee.

  I sent an e-mail to Rosemary: Rosemary—I came across a painting of General John Coffee in the mansion of Andrew Jackson outside of Nashville. The tour guide said if you Google John Coffee, you’ll see the painting. I’ll be home on Saturday and will talk to you then. Aunt Ruth; sent from my I-phone.

  In the morning, I received an email back from Rosemary:

  Dear Aunt Ruth—I checked out the portrait on Google, and it’s the same man, without a doubt. I called my dad, and he said that his Great Aunt Deliverance Coffee (What a name!) wrote a genealogy many years ago, and it shows that General John Coffee was his 4X great-grandfather. Dad has never been interested in the family tree and so never mentioned it to me or my brothers. But you sure hit pay dirt. It makes me wonder if other people have ancestors following them around. See you Saturday. Love, Rosemary

  PS

  Looks like my dad has his own guardian angel. That’s a handy thing for a lawyer to have. It’s kind of like Jiminy Cricket watching out for Pinocchio.

  NEVER MARRY A REDHEAD, by S.E. Warwick

  Edith compiled a mental list of seasonal chores as she overlooked the garden behind her home near Virginia’s Eastern Shore. Her third husband Henry, the love of her life, had chosen the site for its elevation and inland location to withstand hurricanes. Each tree, shrub, and plant had been selected with care. Edith’s prized camellia, placed against a brick wall to shelter it from a killing frost, nearly reached the roof. From her favorite chair, she could see its buds swelling in anticipation of spring.

  “You’re going to love The Beacons, Mother,” Gail gushed from the kitchen as she emptied the dishwasher. “It’s like a cruise ship on land. They’ve got apartments with ocean views and lots of bridge partners for you.”

  “I’ll take care of that later, dear,” Edith sa
id aloud, annoyed at her daughter-in-law’s insistence on “helping.” She always put things in the wrong place.

  “There, Mother, all set. You need to be careful of that new hip,” Gail replied in a tone reserved for cognitively challenged seven-year-olds. “My realtor friend, Susan, says that homes in this area are selling quickly above asking price.”

  Edith ignored the real estate report. “I’ll wear the cranberry jacket. Its slick fabric helps me slide into the car.”

  Gail frowned. A photo on an end table caught her attention. “Oh, what a cute picture of Frank and Tom when they were little! I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.” She lifted the silver frame for closer inspection.

  “I came across it while looking for something else. We don’t want to be late for lunch.”

  Gail was right. The Beacons did have the aura of a resort. Its lobby was bright, welcoming, scented with fresh flowers, and equipped with subtle handrails for those unsteady on their feet. A perky young woman named Lauren greeted Edith and Gail, and then introduced a silver-haired couple named Ruth and Ed as they sat at a table covered with snowy linen. While they ate, Lauren extolled the virtues of life at The Beacons. Their dining companions nodded in mute agreement, reminding Edith of the sports hero bobble-head dolls her sons had collected when they were boys. Looking around the room, Edith noticed that all of the residents wore medallions that she suspected were call buttons, and most sported dreamy expressions. She wondered if they were on antidepressants.

  After lunch, Lauren gave them the grand tour of the complex, finishing at a pleasant third-floor apartment with a sliver of ocean view.

  “Your favorite chair would be perfect here with the television there,” Gail said, gesturing like a windmill. Edith stood mute.

  Back in Lauren’s office, the sales pitch began in earnest. “That unit has generated a lot of interest. I don’t know how long I can hold it without a deposit,” the young woman said, sliding a contract and pen toward Edith. “We could have you moved in by the end of the month.”

  Edith pushed her chair away from the table and stood up. “Thank you so much for your time and the tour. Fetch my jacket, please, Gail.” Lauren looked at Gail, who now glared at Edith.

  “Mother, wait, we need to talk about this.” Gail hurried after her mother-in-law, who was striding toward the door. “I’ll call you later,” Gail told Lauren over her shoulder.

  Edith was furious at her daughter-in-law’s latest attempt to remove her from the home she loved. Gail, who had been designated to “take care of mother,” finagled the sale of Edith’s car after her hip surgery in the hope that the resulting isolation would encourage her to move to a congregate care facility. Her great-granddaughter Phoebe, however, had introduced Edith to Uber. A true “ginger,” Phoebe was the only one of Edith’s descendants to inherit her bright red hair.

  Gail had a conniption the first time she arrived at Edith’s home to find the older woman gone, and even more furious when her mother-in-law explained. “You were absolutely right about my giving up the car. These nice Uber chauffeurs pick me up and drop me off at the door of wherever I’m going. For an extra tip, they’re happy to carry my things inside. Much nicer than driving myself.”

  “But that’s so expensive,” Gail complained.

  “So what? I can’t take it with me,” Edith replied, relishing Gail’s annoyance.

  As the car came to a full stop in her driveway, Edith opened her door and started walking toward her house. Gail caught up at the front porch. “Thank you for a most informative afternoon.” She was about to close the door, but caught the determined expression on Gail’s face. Like it or not, Gail wasn’t going to let this go. “Join me for tea, won’t you, dear? We need to talk.”

  In the familiar sanctuary of her kitchen, Edith brewed a pot of tea with herbs gathered from her garden while Gail set cups, sugar, and a tin of cookies on the breakfast room table. Sipping the fragrant beverage, Edith picked up the picture of her sons.

  Frankie, her first-born, had been such a cute little boy. How had the ditzy flower child he married all those years ago become Gail, the controlling gorgon? Retired, Frankie now devoted his time to shaving strokes off of his golf score and researching a book about an obscure Civil War battle. The scar on his left cheek, still visible a lifetime later, summoned memories better forgotten.

  “I don’t believe we’ve ever spoken about Frankie and his brother’s father,” Edith said stroking the picture frame.

  “Frank told me he died at Pearl Harbor. He didn’t know much else.” Gail sipped her tea. “This is very good.”

  Edith nodded. “My wedding to handsome young naval officer Jake Whitcomb was the talk of Norfolk society in June of 1940. ‘Edith Tate, with her copper hair and violet eyes, was a stunning bride in white silk and antique lace,’ the society editor said.” She paused, nibbled on a cookie, and then squared her shoulders as if reaching a decision.

  “I’m sure you were a lovely bride,” Gail said.

  “The trip to Jake’s duty station in Hawaii doubled as our honeymoon. We took a train to California, followed by a cruise to the islands. If a photograph had been snapped of me boarding the ship in California, it would have captured a beautiful, carefree young woman smiling at the camera. Thankfully, there was no picture of the hollow-eyed girl who hobbled down the gangway in Hawaii, robbed of all innocence after Jake exercised his marital rights with a brutality unimaginable to an innocent young girl.”

  Gail’s eyes widened as she grasped the meaning of her mother-in-law’s words. “I am sorry.”

  “Lessons learned in finishing school taught me how to avoid the wrath of the more ambitious wives grappling to help advance their husbands’ careers in a peacetime navy. And it was mostly a pleasant life in a tropical paradise.” Edith settled back in her chair relieved to be telling her tale.

  Gail sipped her tea, paying close attention.

  “To my delight, Jake was at sea for weeks at a time. The life he planted in me on the ocean voyage—Frank—was a comforting companion. We hired a local girl as a maid who not only brought me herbs to ease the morning sickness, but others to enhance the flavor of our food. She taught me how to use just the right amount for maximum effect. The tropical flowers that surrounded me ignited my lifelong passion for plants.”

  “Really?” Gail said. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Frank was born in March while Jake was at sea. A baby nurse, the maid’s cousin, helped me recover from the birth. Talk of war was in the air, but I paid little heed. President Roosevelt would keep America out of any fighting. I was so naive.” Edith lifted a spoon and stirred some sugar into her tea. “Jake returned from a long cruise in late May. He barely glanced at his firstborn before forcing himself on me. When he was spent, I poured whiskey until he passed out, and then tended to the baby and my bruises. Jake was absent most of that summer, home just enough to ‘lay the keel,’ as he put it, on his second son, Tom.”

  “I never knew,” Gail said.

  Edith continued. “Anxiety about war waxed as the year waned. One afternoon in September, Jake lined up old bottles behind the house and taught me how to shoot. At first the pistol felt awkward and hard to control, but I soon got the hang of it. I liked the sense of power it gave me.”

  “You shot a gun?” Gail blurted out, frowning with disapproval.

  “Oh yes. Jake was pleased at my skill. ‘You’re a natural,’ he told me. ‘You must be able to protect yourself.’ There was a lot talk about Japanese sleeper agents hiding within the local population, planning to defile white women. He meant that I should shoot myself rather than be ravaged by the enemy.”

  “Wow,” Gail whispered.

  “I was skeptical. My baby nurse and maid were third-generation Japanese who loved baseball and, as I learned on the Fourth of July, knew all of the words to all of the verses of the Star Spangled Banner. Jake returned at the end of November, after nearly two months at sea, craving sex and liquor. He drained the bottle of bour
bon, but stayed conscious long enough to painfully claim his rights. Afterwards, I threatened to tell my doctor and Jake’s superior—that cooled his ardor for a while.”

  “How awful,” Gail stammered.

  “Jake was charm personified at the officer’s club that Saturday evening. He drank so much that he could barely walk. I drove home and left him in the car to sleep it off. Frankie’s cries woke me early the next morning. I nursed the baby and watched the sun rise. The zoom of airplane engines shattered the peaceful dawn. Aerial maneuvers were common, but not on Sunday mornings. And then came the explosions, followed by plumes of smoke and flames in the distance. I knew it was no drill.” Edith gazed over Gail’s shoulder as though looking at something long ago and far away. “I wrapped the baby in a blanket, grabbed the gun out of a drawer, and ran to the car where Jake was still unconscious. He pushed me away when I tried to wake him, so I put Frankie in the back seat and slid behind the wheel. We were halfway to the base by the time he woke up. The roar of plane engines overhead was deafening, but Jake did not seem to realize what was happening.

  “‘Where are we going? You’re driving too fast,’ he yelled as I floored the accelerator. When I slowed for a curve, he slammed his foot on the brake, stalling the car.

  “I shouted over the din, ‘What are you doing? You need to get back to your ship!’

  “‘You need to give me a proper send-off!’ He pulled my face toward his lap.

  “‘Are you insane? There’s no time for that,’ I shouted.

  “‘You’re my wife and you will do what I say.’

  “As he gripped the back of my neck, Little Frankie started wailing in the back seat. Jake released me long enough to backhand the baby, his academy ring slicing through his tender cheek, giving him that scar. Trying to right myself, I felt the familiar shape of the pistol under the seat.”

  Edith paused to sip her tea. “Two days later they notified me that Jake’s body had been found at the back gate of the base near the body of a Marine sentry, both riddled with enemy bullets.”