The Reservoir

  “I’m not trying to tell you anything, Nola. I just was thinking of her, and how different she was. And how it’s all right for some people to be different, but not for others. Why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know, Tommie. God gives us all different gifts, and you can’t go against what you’re made of.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just not right.”

  “Why does Ecclesiastes tell us to be not righteous overmuch?”

  “Oh, Tommie, why do you think such strange things? Sometimes you worry me. If you had your brother’s even temperament, you’d be the perfect man.”

  “And if you had Lillian’s bright eyes, you’d be … I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. “I didn’t mean it, I was just flustered.”

  She pursed her lips tight. Then, “So I’m not as good as Lillian? What would I be if I had her bright eyes?” He shook his head. “What would I be? I’d like an answer.”

  “You wouldn’t be so critical of me, I guess.”

  “I see,” she said, taking off the ring. “And was there anything else?”

  “No, I don’t want it back.”

  “You take it,” she demanded. He opened his hand and she dropped it in. He flung it out into the little copse of woods beyond the garden wall. Just like that. Nola stood there staring at him. “Good-bye, Tommie,” she said. “Give my best wishes to your family.” She crossed her arms, put her head down in a determined way, and walked briskly back to the house.

  When he got home, Tommie climbed up onto the long low roof of the stable, where he liked to go when he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. From here he could look down the hill toward the Trace, or, as he did this afternoon, turn around and view the barnyard and then the cornfield and the distant trees. The chickens gathered below him, clucking as though they expected an early feeding. “I’ll tell you chickens what happened,” he said quietly. He raised his arms as though ready to make a speech, and it amused him that they responded with louder grousing. He got to his feet. “I’ll tell you what,” he told them, clearing his voice and speaking up. The chickens stretched their necks to attend. “It was a humiliation that no one should have to suffer.

  “I’d be within my rights to sue for breach of contract. It’d be the same as if you were promised feed and water for an unspecified length of time—nothing in writing, mind you—and your owner up and decides not to feed you. Not that I’m anybody’s chicken. The point I’m trying to make is that there is a clear case for compensation in kind—say, one hundred dollars. That would go a long—”

  A high whooping laugh cut him short, and he saw Lillie emerge from around the end of the stable. She said nothing, nor did she look up.

  • CHAPTER TEN •

  AT THE COURTHOUSE Richardson sleeps downstairs, leaving Tommie and Birney to share the bed upstairs. The ropes are loose and the ticking scratchy and mildewed. Birney tells him he should hire himself a detective from St. Louis or Chicago. “They have the best,” he says. “You need to prove you were at thuch and thuch a place at thuch and thuch a time, a good detective is your bestht bet.” Tommie tells him he’ll consider it. They bid each other good night, and Birney is soon snoring, an arm flung out across Tommie’s chest. Another long and sleepless night, Tommie thinks, trying to steal a few hours’ rest.

  In the morning Birney offers Tommie a shot of whiskey with his coffee. Tommie doesn’t want to give them the wrong impression, but when he sees them each taking some, he changes his mind. “You know,” he says, “it is mighty cold out, and that’s a long ride to Richmond.” So Birney adds an amber dollop to Tommie’s coffee and gives him a cigar as well.

  Soon they’re on their way, and at first Tommie tries singing a gospel hymn. His voice quavers, so he tries whistling for a while. He loses heart and trails off, his hands tucked for warmth beneath the blanket. He also doesn’t want prying eyes staring at his hurt hand, though Richardson several times looks him up and down as if trying to figure out what he might extract from him in the light of day. Tommie glances away, at one point seeing an old black man and woman waving to them from an oatfield; Tommie waves his left hand and he and the man link eyes for a moment, a brief flicker of recognition in each other’s plight.

  “You can see my hand if you want,” he tells Richardson. “It’s cold is why they’re under the blanket. See, I scratched it somehow. It’s not much.”

  Richardson looks at the hand with a critical eye. “How did you do that?”

  “I don’t remember exactly.” He sniffs in, as though taking a quick, deep breath.

  “I notice you don’t wear anything on that charm link of yours,” Richardson says, pointing to Tommie’s watch chain.

  “No,” Tommie says. “I used to wear my nice watch key on it, but it got worn out. Now I just use these old steel keys.” He pulls two keys out of his pocket and offers them to Richardson, who seems only mildly interested. Then Tommie shows him his gold watch. “It was a graduation present from my aunt.”

  They take Tommie to the second police precinct, and Birney asks him, in an almost apologetic way, to empty his pockets. Within a few hours Willie arrives with news that Crump and Crump have agreed to represent him. He has never met William Crump, but everybody knows him and his booming voice and illustrious career as legislator, commonwealth’s attorney, assistant treasurer for the Confederacy. His son is no slouch as a lawyer and speaker either. God, thinks Tommie, pleased and yet scared that he may actually need the great orator.

  “Is there anything you want to tell us?” Richardson asks, “before you go in front of the police court?”

  “I’ll wait for my counsel,” Tommie says.

  “That’s probably a good idea,” Richardson agrees.

  Then Birney takes him back to a holding cell and tells him he hopes he won’t have to be there too long. Tommie figures that wearing a good suit and a necktie and behaving himself like the educated gentleman he is may go a long way toward getting the whole case thrown out.

  While he’s trying to eat some thin soup with lumps of fat in it (Willie having gone out to find him something better), William and Beverly Crump arrive and introduce themselves. The elder Crump is the living image of Robert E. Lee, down to his neatly trimmed gray beard and bow tie. Tommie has seen this look in many men of Crump’s generation; some wear it better than others, yet he feels immediately comforted by the man’s warm handshake and intelligent eyes. He’s hale, like Mr. Evans, but shorter, and his gestures are quick and animated. His second chin ripples as he pumps Tommie’s hand. The son is quieter but equally attentive and well-mannered. They escort Tommie to a room with a table. “Mr. Evans will be handling most of the case,” Crump says, “and Beverly will be assisting.”

  “What about the newspapers?” Tommie asks. “Once they get wind of my arrest they’ll try me and convict me themselves.”

  “Not much we can do there, son. But we’ll give you the best defense we possibly can. You just have to trust us. What do you know about this case?”

  “I don’t know any more than you do, sir.”

  “They’re gonna want you to go by the almshouse to see the body of that girl. You don’t have to and I strongly advise you not to, whether you know anything about it or not.”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Fine, then, you’ll just have to sit tight, but it may take a while.”

  “How long?”

  “A few weeks, I’d reckon, depending on how long they can stall while they’re putting their case together.”

  “What evidence do they have, if any?”

  “Nothing much. It’s all circumstantial. There’s no eyewitnesses. They found a note they’re mighty keen on. They claim she wrote it to you. You know anything about that?” Crump eyes Tommie, sizing him up, almost, thinks Tommie, like a lover, studying everything said and not said. Tommie has the impression that Crump has seen it all and more, and that nothing would shock him.

  “Just what I’ve read in the paper.�
�� Tommie looks away from Crump’s penetrating sea-green eyes. He could never confide fully in this man, could he? “Like I said, I was in Richmond Friday, but I never saw Miss Madison.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past Wren to concoct something, or pay somebody to say something. But Judge Richardson says he has an envelope with your name on it, from the American Hotel, where she was staying. He’s not likely to make any such thing up. How do you reckon he came by that?”

  Tommie shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. What does the envelope say?”

  “Has your name on it, or so he says. Not too many people have your name.”

  Tommie thinks a minute. “There could be any number of explanations. Perhaps she was planning on sending me something sometime. Or she was just thinking about me for some reason. It doesn’t mean I saw her here.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But it dudn’t look any too good. It’s not signed, and it might or might not be her handwriting, but a jury might look at it and draw some conclusions.” Crump waits for Tommie to respond, then goes on in a disarming way, “You should write up a detailed account of all your actions that day and evening. Anybody you spoke to or saw or even think you recognized.”

  Tommie wants to tell Crump everything now. Last night he told himself that this was the point at which he should make a clean breast of it, just lay it in Crump’s hands. But somehow, in the daylight, he feels less afraid of the future than of Crump’s judgment: How can he admit to this dignified man and his son, both members of his own profession, that he was involved in such a sordid affair? He can’t do it. Anyway, the prosecution doesn’t appear to have conclusive evidence. A confession now might be worse than just keeping his mouth shut.

  “Tommie,” Crump says, “this would be the time to tell us everything you know. We’re your friends, so if you have anything to say, unburden yourself. Then we’ll figure the best strategy. You know how this works.”

  “The truth is,” Tommie says, “I went to the Dime Museum at Mozart Hall that evening, and then I walked back to my hotel.” He gets up and begins pacing the little room, pausing to look out the window to the saloon and livery stable across the street. He begins chewing a nail. “I think it had to be suicide, don’t you?”

  “It don’t matter what I think. Anyway Richardson’s sent off for her trunk, and they’ll be digging around in there for evidence. Are there any letters or anything that might incriminate you?”

  “Not that I know of. She might’ve saved some I sent her, but they were just friendly. Sometimes I gave her advice about money.”

  “Son, do you mind sitting down—you’re making me nervous.” Tommie sits, but one heel goes into a sewing-machine motion. “Well,” Crump continues, “once you get us a list of people who can account for your whereabouts that night, this should all go away. We just have to be prepared for what they come up with. Were you and she sweethearts?”

  Tommie hesitates. “No,” he says. “We were good friends. I think she wanted to be sweethearts, but I was engaged to Nola Bray, so it never came to anything.”

  Now Crump stands and walks to the window himself. “If this goes to a trial, they’re going to have everybody who knew either of you get up in the witness box and say whether you were sweethearts. It sounds like at least two people are ready to swear you were.”

  “There’s plenty of people who can swear we weren’t.”

  “Okay, but it’s awfully hard to prove a negative. For now, we’ll just have to rely on proving where you were on that night. So get busy with that.”

  Tommie tells them he will, and, with relief, bids them thanks and good-bye. As he leaves, Crump takes Tommie’s hand, and, squeezing it, looks briefly but acutely into Tommie’s eyes as though for the mystery of life. Then he is suddenly gone.

  That night Tommie keeps writing and erasing until a jailer comes around and extinguishes the lanterns. For the night of the thirteenth he writes that he went back to the second showing at the Dime Museum, then had oysters at Morgenstern’s. He had seen Bernard Henley—perhaps Bernard would only vaguely remember, which would be good. “I saw him there,” Tommie imagines him saying, “but whether it was during the afternoon or evening I couldn’t say.” He doesn’t know Bernard all that well—he’s practicing law now in Richmond, Tommie thinks. How precise is Bernard’s memory? Even remembering the things he himself did on that important day, in their exact sequence and time, is not so easy. He knows what happened, though summoning the details and laying them out on paper is proving nearly impossible.

  In the morning Birney and a superior named Sergeant Epps arrive to take Tommie to the city jail for arraignment by the police court. Birney brushes his back off when he comes out of the cell, suggesting Tommie will want to look his best. “Don’t mind the people out there,” he warns. “They’re jutht curious.”

  Tommie squints when he emerges into the morning light, and it is not until the hack is rolling that he realizes all the people gathered along the snowy sidewalk are there for him—they just want even a glimpse of him. The hack travels down Marshall to Fourteenth, then down to Franklin; Epps and Birney get out and hustle Tommie into the jail building. Mr. Wren has staked out a position close to the entrance, his bulky presence a hindrance to their progress. “Good work,” he tells Epps in a knowing way, yet carefully studying Tommie as he passes. Epps nods to him in reply.

  Mr. Evans is waiting for them in Judge Richardson’s office. Tommie shakes his hand and has to clamp his teeth to keep the tears back. “Mr. Evans,” he says, “I’m so sorry you have to do this.”

  “No have to about it,” Evans says, glancing at Tommie’s face, then away. “It’s a privilege. Maybe you’ll see me out of a scrape sometime.” Then he leans in and in a quieter voice says, “We’ll get you cleared in no time, son.”

  He seems to want Tommie to reassure him, but all Tommie can say is, “I know you will, Mr. Evans. You’ve always been very kind to me.”

  Evans nods, then tells Tommie it would be best not to say a word at the arraignment. “You’re a good talker, but this time leave it to us.”

  The courtroom is packed. Tommie recognizes a number of people—young attorneys, men he went to college with, all here to feast their eyes on one of their own caught in a net. There is Sid Aylett, whom he still looks up to, now a lawyer like his father, and Bobby Valentine, and good old James Courtney, still as quiet and mild as ever. He tries to pretend he’s playing a part; it’s just another mock session, a refresher course. The commonwealth’s attorney, a man named Charles Meredith, asks Judge Richardson for a continuance of ten days because of his upcoming cases in the hustings court. Crump objects to this length of time, but after some back-and-forth agrees to March 30. Shouts arise from outside. Someone yells, “Lynch him!” Richardson tells Crump to bring Tommie back to his office to wait for the crowd to die out. A half hour later Birney comes in and says there are more people than ever—hundreds of them, all the way down Mayo to Franklin.

  “Let’s go then,” Epps says. “Before there’s even more.” With that they rush Tommie outside and into the hack, Birney holding his stick as a warning. People are yelling and hooting and pushing. Somebody spits and it lands on Birney’s shoe. “Hang him! Murdering bastard!” From somewhere near the front, a woman’s voice: “Why, he’s only a boy.” Tommie looks up to find her in the seething press of faces. But then he is in the hack and moving down the street.

  Tommie was getting along well in his work with Mr. Evans, and Nola and he even patched things up enough for him to be an occasional visitor at her house. She had become engaged to a Richmond banker’s son and liked confiding her concerns—the young man spent too much time at the racetrack. Tommie had every hope that, as soon as his prospects allowed, they might become reengaged. It was also near the end of that summer that Lillie announced she was going to live with her grandfather and uncle over in King William.

  She came to Tommie first with the news. He was out in the garden picking a few ears of corn for their supper, disappointed with
the number of worms he was finding. They’d had too much rain lately. “How about this one?” he said, handing her an especially mealy ear containing two fat green worms. He pretended not to watch her peel back the shucks.

  She made a noise of disgust and dropped the ear. “You ought to be ashamed, Tommie,” she said.

  “Willie thinks it’s because Aunt Jane makes him coat the seeds in tar,” he said, “so the birds can’t get them.” He took a bite from a clean ear and offered it to her.

  “I’ve decided I’m going to move in with Grandpa John.” She looked up at him with such expectant eyes that he wanted to kiss her forehead as though she were a child. But she had recently told him she did not want to kiss him anymore, that she just couldn’t, and after a while he’d quit trying. “They need somebody to help do for them,” she said, “and I’ll be close enough to home to tutor my little sisters. I’ve missed them.”

  “Have you told Aunt Jane and Willie?” Tommie asked.

  “I wanted to tell you first,” she said. Again she waited. “To see if you would care.”

  And then he understood, and yet he could not help being cruel. She missed the attention he had given her, her attachment to him growing in proportion to his very lack of attention. “Of course I care,” he said. “You’re like a sister to me. I’ll miss you. But you’ll visit, won’t you?” He felt warm with pity and a kind of perverse power, and he wanted to fold her in his arms like a dog he had just kicked.

  “Don’t you want to know why I’m leaving?”

  “You just said your grandfather needed somebody to take care of him.”

  She bit her lower lip and looked at him, blinking as if she were about to cry. “Willie and me are never going to get married, don’t you understand that? Don’t you talk to him, Tommie?”

  “Not about you,” he said. “He doesn’t talk about you.” He hadn’t spoken much with Willie all summer—Willie had been away a lot, his work taking him to the far reaches of the county, and when he was home he seemed too tired and distracted for much conversation.