by Paula Guran
“Julius’s dad, Roy, was my uncle by marriage. His family owned a farm a couple of miles up the road from where I lived. Had a big house set atop a knob, from which they looked down on the rest of us. They’d been fairly scandalized when Roy took a liking to Aunt Allison, who was my mom’s middle sister, but Roy had proved more stubborn than the rest of his family, and in the end, his father had granted Roy and Allison a piece of land which ran along one bank of the stream that swung around the foot of the hill. Julius Augustus was their only child who lived, and if folks judged it ironic that a man of Roy’s intellectual pretensions found himself with a boy who had trouble with the Sunday funnies, none of them denied the sweetness of Julius’s temperament. You could say or do nigh on anything to him, and the most it would provoke was a frown.
“It let him get along at his uncle’s, which had been his grandfather’s until the old man’s heart had burst. The grandfather hadn’t been what you’d call kind to his laborers, but he had been fair. His elder son, Roy’s brother, Rick, was less consistent. Not long after his father’s death, Rick had sunk a fair portion of the farm’s money into a project he’d been talking up for years. He bought a small herd of French cattle—Charolais, the breed was called. He’d seen them while he was serving in France, in what we still called the Great War. Bigger cattle, heavier, more meat on them. Cream-colored. Rick had a notion they would give him an advantage over the local competition, so he returned to France, found some animals he liked and a farmer willing to sell them, and arranged to have his white cattle shipped across the Atlantic. This was no easy task, not least because the Great Depression still had the country in its claws. More than few palms wanted crossing with silver, and then a couple of the cows sickened and died on the journey. The Charolais that arrived took to the farm well enough, but Rick had imagined that, as soon as they were grazing his fields, everything was going to happen overnight, which, of course, it didn’t. The great sea of white cattle he pictured needed time to establish itself. I guess some folks, including Roy, tried telling him this, but Rick would not, maybe could not, accept it. After another pair of the Charolais died their first summer, Rick decided it was because they hadn’t been eating the best grass. Anyone could see that the grass all over the farm, and all around the farm, was pretty much the same. But Rick got it in his head that the grazing would make his herd prosper lay on the far side of the stream that snaked around the base of their family’s hill—where Roy, Allison, and Julius had their home. Had he asked Roy to allow the cattle to feed on his land, his brother might’ve agreed. Rick demanded, though, said it was his right as elder son and heir to the farm to do what was best for it. Roy didn’t argue his authority over what happened on the farm. But, he said, his property was his property, granted him fair and square by their father, and the first one of those white cows he caught on his side of the stream was going to get shot, as were any subsequent trespassers. As you might expect, this did not go down so well with Rick.
“Despite the bad blood between his father and uncle, Julius was offered and accepted a job on the farm. Consisted mostly of helping with whatever labor needed done, from repairing a fence to painting the barn to baling hay. I suppose I found it unusual that Uncle Roy would permit his son to cross the stream to the farm, but there wasn’t much else I could picture Julius doing, except digging coal, which was a prospect none of our parents was eager for us to explore. Anyway, Julius let me tell him how to spend what portion of his wages his parents allowed him to keep. Usually, this was on candy or soda pop; though sometimes, I’d promise him that, if he bought me a certain funnybook I especially wanted, I’d read to him from it. I would, too, at least until I was tired of explaining what all the big words meant. I reckon I wasn’t always as kind to my big cousin as I should’ve been, and I reckon I knew it at the time, too. He was a great, strapping fellow, taller, stronger than me. Long as he was near, the boys who teased and occasionally pushed and tripped me kept their distance. Julius never let on that he didn’t like spending time with me, so I didn’t worry about the rest of it too much.
“Did I mention that Rick had a daughter? He had three of them, and a pair of sons, besides, but the one I’m speaking of was the second youngest, a girl name of Eileen. Plain, quiet. Don’t know that anyone paid her much mind until her daddy showed up at Roy’s house with her on one side of him and the sheriff on the other. Eileen, Rick said, was going to have a baby. Julius, he also said, was the baby’s father. I don’t know what-all your folks have told you about such matters, but a man can force a baby on a woman. This was what Rick said Julius had done to his Eileen. Julius denied the accusation, but it was Eileen’s word against his, and given he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, her yes carried more weight than his no. The charge was a serious one, enough to have brought the sheriff to the door; though you can be sure Rick’s house on top of that knob helped guarantee his presence. The way the sheriff told it, he already possessed sufficient evidence to put Julius under lock and key, at least until a trial. And, Rick chimed in, did his younger brother know what would happen to Julius once the other prisoners learned what he was awaiting trial for? Messing around with a young girl—it would not go well for him. Julius might not reach his day in court, and that wasn’t even mentioning the cost of hiring a lawyer to defend him . . .
“In a matter of ten, fifteen minutes, Rick and the sheriff maneuvered Roy and Allison into believing that all they held dear was about to be taken from them. They were frantic. You can be sure Roy had some notion there was more going on here than his brother was letting on, but he couldn’t ignore the situation at hand, either. Rick let Roy and Allison sweat just long enough, then sprung his trap. Of course, he said, there might be another way out of this for all of them. He wasn’t saying there was, mind you, only that there might be. Everyone knew Julius wasn’t equipped with the same faculties as those around him. There were places that would take care of such folk, ensure they would not be a danger to anyone else. In fact, there was a fine one outside of Harrodsburg, small, private, where Julius could expect to be well-looked-after. Wasn’t cheap, no, though Rick supposed it was less than they might lay out for a decent lawyer, especially if the trial dragged out, or if Julius was convicted and they needed to appeal. Not to mention, it would avoid the talk about Julius that was sure to spread as a result of his imprisonment. Thing about that kind of talk was, it got folks riled up, thinking they needed to get together and take matters into their own hands. There wasn’t much the sheriff and his boys would be able to do if a mob of angry men marched up to the jail and demanded his prisoner, was there?
“By the end of an hour, Rick had everything he needed. To pay for the asylum to which their son was to be shipped in lieu of criminal charges and time in jail, Roy and Allison agreed to sign over their property to him. Within a couple of days, Julius’s bags were packed and he was on his way to Harrodsburg. I saw him before he left, and he wasn’t upset—mostly, he seemed confused by everything. Soon after he left, his parents went, too, to be closer to him. A school hired Roy as a janitor, and Allison took in washing.
“I saw Julius once, not long after he’d entered the asylum. Nice enough place, I guess, an old mansion that’d seen better days. But Julius was different. Among the conditions of his entering this place was that he not pose a danger to any of the women who worked or were patients there. Shortly after he arrived, he was given an operation to prevent him forcing babies on anyone else. When I called on him, he hadn’t fully healed. They’d dressed him in a white shirt and pants, to make him easy to track down in case he went to leave. There was a patch of damp blood down one leg of his trousers. He couldn’t understand what had been done to him, and they had him on some kind of pain medicine that made things worse. He kept asking me to explain what had happened to him, and when I couldn’t, tried to show me his wound to help. I don’t imagine my visit made things any clearer for him.
“All the ride home, I kept thinking about those white cattle. Our family h
ad talked about the situation. Wasn’t anyone doubted it had been a way for Rick to get where he wanted to go. Question was, had the road presented itself to him, or had he paved it, himself? No one could credit the charge that had been brought against Julius. On the other hand, whatever his intelligence, his body was a man’s, subject to all a man’s urges. With only a boy’s understanding to guide him, who could say what he might have done, had his blood been up? The women, in particular, would have liked a word with Eileen, but she was gone, sent off to a cousin in Memphis the day after her daddy had reached his agreement with her uncle.
“I knew. I knew that my cousin was innocent and that a terrible crime had been committed against him and his family. Sitting with him in the asylum had made me certain. For a brief time, I hoped the other members of my family might take action, avenge the wrong done Julius, but the furthest they would go was talking about it. One of my uncles proposed shooting Rick’s special cattle, but the rest of the family rejected the plan. Rick would guess who’d done it right away, they said, and he’d already proved beyond any doubt he had the law snug in his pocket. God would take care of Rick in His time, my Aunt Sharon said. We had to be patient.
“While I didn’t put much stock in Divine Justice overtaking Rick, I saw my aunt was right about the necessity of waiting. Such a man as Rick couldn’t help making enemies. He collected them the way a long-haired dog does ticks. The secret was to wait until he had gathered so many enemies as to move our name well down a list of potential suspects. This meant another six years, till I was halfway done with the university. Julius was dead—had died not many months after I’d seen him. The wound from his operation had never closed properly. Infection set in, and though he fought it for a good long time, this was in the days before penicillin. I was at his funeral. Rick insisted he have a place in the family plot. As much as anything, what he intended as a magnanimous gesture settled me against him. If a man had done to your daughter what Rick had accused Julius of, there was no way you’d make room for him alongside the rest of your kin. Had he been your patsy, you might try to soothe any twinges of conscience by permitting him the privilege of a burial amongst the elect of your line. I swear to you, it was all I could do not to walk over to where Rick and his wife stood beside Roy and Allison and spit in his face. Not then, though, not then. Years had to pass, Julius’s grave receive a fancy headstone, the grass grow thick over it. Roy and Allison had to leave for a fresh start in Chicago, where the family lost touch with them.
“At last, the time came around. It was a rainy night, the tail end of storm that had hung about for a couple of days. I wanted it raining so no one would think twice of my wearing a raincoat and hat, gloves, and boots. There was a fellow at the university who owed me a considerable favor. He owned a car. I proposed to him that, should he drive me a couple of hours to a location with which I would provide him, wait there no more than an hour, and return me to campus, we would be square. He agreed. I had him take me to a crossroads a mile or so up the road from Rick’s farm, where the stream that circled the bottom of his hill swerved close to the road. The stream was swollen with the rain, but not so much that I couldn’t wade it to the spot where Roy and Allison’s house had stood. Rick had torn it down, had a kind of lean-to built for his cattle to shelter under. This was where I found the lot of them, crowded in together. Their huge white bodies glowed in what little light there was. I dug around in my coat pocket, and came out with my buck knife. I didn’t know if the cattle would spook, so I opened it slowly. The ones on the open side of the lean-to shifted their feet, but made no move to run. Speaking softly, smoothly, the kind of nonsense you coo to a baby, I approached. I put my free hand on the cow to my right, to steady her. Then I leaned behind and drew my knife across the backs of her knees. She didn’t scream, just gave a little grunt as her hamstrings split and her back end collapsed. That knife was sharp as a smile. I doubt she felt much of anything. I did the same to her forelegs, and moved on to the cow in front of her. Once I had the cattle on the open side done, and the way out of the lean-to blocked, I relaxed. The rest of Rick’s Charolais put up no more resistance, though a couple called in protest. I was quick and I was thorough, and when I was done, I retraced my steps to the stream and walked it to where my friend sat waiting for me. The rain and the stream had washed most of the blood and mud from me. All the same, he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. I told him we could go, and we did.
“You can be sure, I spent the next few days wondering what had been reported by the local press. It was all I could do not to rush out and buy the papers. Problem was, as a rule, I didn’t pay much attention to newspapers; plus, I was in the middle of exams. I wasn’t sure at what stage the investigation into what I’d done to Rick’s cattle was. I didn’t want to do anything, however trivial, that might cast suspicion on me later. I didn’t really need to read a reporter’s account of what had taken place after I’d left. I could picture it well enough. Early the next morning, whoever Rick had put in charge of tending the cattle would’ve wandered over to check on them. He’d have discovered the herd under the lean-to, unable to move, blood watering the mud. He’d have run for Rick, who might’ve sent someone to fetch the veterinarian. The precise details weren’t important. What was, was there was nothing could be done for the animals. To a one, they would have to be destroyed, the meat sold for whatever Rick could get for it. I couldn’t decide if he’d have what it took to load the rifle and do what had to be done himself, or if he’d direct a couple of his men to it. I preferred the former scenario, but either possibility would suffice, because whoever’s finger was on the trigger, he’d hear the gunshots, each and every one of them.
“For a couple of months afterwards, I half-expected a visit from one lawman or another. Over the Christmas holidays, I kept a low profile. Rumor was, Rick’s suspicion had lighted on a fellow out towards Springfield with whom he’d had a dispute about money the man claimed Rick owed him. Naturally, everyone in my family had an opinion as to who was responsible, but none of them so much as glanced in my direction. I was at the university; I was the last person who would commit such an act and jeopardize his future. The exception was Aunt Sharon, who, as she decreed that God’s wrath had descended on His enemy, let her eyes fall on me long enough for me to know it.
“Obviously, what I did on behalf of Julius, I got away with. Even if I hadn’t, though—even if the police had broken down my door and dragged me off to prison—it was the right thing to do. Family comes before everything. Someone wrongs one of yours, you do not let that go unanswered. You may have to bide your time, but you always redress an injury to your own. And when you do, you make certain it’s in a way that will bring misery to whoever offended. That’s what your blood demands of you.
“So anybody who stood up for his big sister to a trio of girls who deserve to have their lips sewn shut, I’d not only give him a bottle of pop, I’d hoist mine in salute to him.”
Rachel followed her grandfather’s direction and lifted her soda in Josh’s direction. The time it had spent in her hand had taken the chill from it, but it was still sweet, and she drank it down eagerly.
7. The Freezer (2): Opened
One time Grandpa was away, he left the freezer unlocked. As they always did after he was safely gone from the house, Rachel and Josh descended the basement stairs; although she, for one, had done so without much enthusiasm, as if she were going through the motions of a ritual grown stale and meaningless. At least in part, that was due to her being seventeen, and more concerned with college applications and the senior prom than with a riddle whose solution never came any closer, and was probably not all that exciting, anyway. But Josh had insisted she come, the moodiness that had erupted with his fifteenth birthday temporarily calmed by the reappearance of their familiar game. He had been working on his lock-picking skills, he said—for reasons she did not wish to consider—and was eager to exercise them on the freezer’s locks. Rachel couldn’t remember the last time she’d spared any
thought for the freezer, but the change in Josh was welcome and substantial enough for her to want to prolong it, so she had accompanied him.
As it turned out, her brother would have to find another test for his burgeoning criminal skills. For a moment, she thought the trickling she heard as she swept her cane from basement stair to basement stair was water running through the brass pipes concealed by the basement’s ceiling tiles. Except no, there was none of the metallic echo that passage made. This was water chuckling into open air. At almost the same time, the smells mixing in the basement reached her. The typically faint odors of cinnamon and vanilla, with the barest trace of brine, flooded her nostrils, the cinnamon filling the end of her nose with its powdery fragrance, the vanilla pushing that aside with its almost oily sweetness, the brine suddenly higher in her nose. There was another smell, too, stale water. In comparison, the basement’s usual odors of synthetic carpet, dust, and damp were hardly noticeable.
Josh’s, “Holy shit,” was not a surprise; nor, really, were his next words: “It’s open. Grandpa left the fucking thing wide open.” The sound, the smells, had told her as much. She said, “He’s defrosting it.”
He was. He had pushed the freezer a couple of feet to the left, until the spigot that projected from its lower left side was hanging over the edge of the drywell. He unplugged and unlocked the freezer, turned the lever on the spigot, and who knew how many years’ worth of ice was trickling down into the ground. Late-afternoon sunlight was warming the basement, but Josh flipped on the light. Rachel would have predicted her brother would run across to inspect the freezer, but he hesitated, and she swatted his leg with her cane. “Hey,” she said.