“I’m Sheriff Hick Blackburn from Cherokee Crossing. I came to see how Father Grant is doing.”
In spite of his snow white hair, Father Ray Glennon had a hearty handshake and a youthful appearance. “You must be the young man Lavenia told me about. I’m on my way back to the sacristy. Why don’t you come with me?”
Hick followed the older man through the church. The Holy Redeemer Catholic Church was larger than Grant’s previous parish in Broken Creek. Splotches of red, green, and blue from stained glass windows painted the marble floor and their footsteps echoed in the quiet church. Father Glennon opened a doorway into the sacristy, a small room which held a cot, a hot plate, and a small bowl of fruit.
“Please, sit,” he said, indicating the only chair in the room.
Hick hesitated until the older man sat on the cot.
“I would offer you something, but, as you see, I’m not really set up for housekeeping here.”
“Is this where you’re sleeping?” Hick asked.
“The rectory is uninhabitable at present, but you’re not here to talk about me. I’ve been to see Father Grant. He is fighting.”
“Is he awake?”
“Not yet. But his color has improved and he is breathing normally. He has a long road ahead of him—skin grafts and surgeries, but the doctors believe his lungs have begun to heal.”
Hick leaned forward. “Tell me. Are you aware of anything Father Grant might have been doing, anything other than his supposed converting of Lavenia Skaggs, that might have caused someone to want to kill him?”
The older man furrowed his brow, seemingly surprised by the question. “I can’t imagine Father Grant would ever do anything morally reprehens—”
“No, no,” Hick interrupted, with a shake of his hand. “That’s not what I mean. I know Grant worked for the prison system here in Arkansas, and I know Ernest Kelly was a defense attorney here before he went to work at the Justice Department. While it is conceivable that Kelly was here to see Grant in a clerical role, perhaps for counsel or confession, I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to the story. If they somehow knew each other from before. Birch Tree is not on any major thoroughfare, and I’m hard pressed to think Ernest Kelly was just passing through. Father Grant is the only person in town that Kelly spoke with and, from what I surmise, speaking with Grant seems to be Kelly’s only purpose for being here.”
“I’m not following you.”
“To my way of thinking, regardless of what Sheriff Lowell believes, it’s a bit of a stretch that Kelly was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time when Skaggs decided to come here and save his daughter from the grip of the Catholics.” He glanced up and added, “Pardon me.”
Father Glennon smiled. “Go on.”
“I’m trying to understand why Kelly was here visiting Father Grant the night they were shot. No one knows why Kelly was in town, and he certainly can’t tell us.”
“And I understand Mr. Skaggs won’t be of much help, either.”
“Apparent suicide.”
“A shame.” Father Glennon said with a shake of his head. He looked into Hick’s face. “I cannot tell you why Mr. Kelly was here the night Skaggs came to try and murder Father Grant. And I have no idea why Father Grant would have a visitor from the government. But I can tell you that Father Grant’s vocation has not been an easy one. I’ve known him since he was a young man in the seminary. The bishop and I disagreed over assigning him to the prison. I thought he was too young, but Father Grant wanted to go there.” Father Glennon shrugged. “It was a mistake to send him there.”
“What happened?”
“It’s difficult when you still believe in the goodness of man to be confronted with what he saw. The injustice, the abuse, the suffering. He did what he could in the face of evil, but there was little comfort for this present world that he could offer those poor souls.”
Hick held up his cigarettes with a questioning glance, and Father Glennon nodded, handing him an ashtray. Hick lit his cigarette and asked, “But he finally left?”
Father Glennon shifted uncomfortably on the cot. “He had to. After years of witnessing the abuse and injustice, he couldn’t take it anymore. And then there was that woman …”
“What woman?”
“The mother of an inmate. She went to Father Grant expecting miracles and then blamed him for the execution of her son.” Father Glennon shook his head. “Father Grant took too much responsibility and left shortly after. Of course, there was nothing he could have done.” Glennon’s gaze traveled past Hick. “In a place such as that there was nothing anyone could do.”
“What happened?”
“The boy was mentally retarded. They obtained a confession that was promptly admitted as evidence. Father Grant argued, the defense attorneys argued, but the judge …” Father Glennon shook his head. “A clearly innocent man was executed, and Father Grant couldn’t stop it.”
Hick’s forehead broke out into a cold sweat and a smothering heaviness settled over him. These unprovoked attacks of anxiety had become almost commonplace since he’d returned from the war, but he could never get over the shock of the intensity they brought with them. His hand began to shake and he took a long draw of the cigarette hoping Glennon hadn’t noticed. “And the woman?” he made himself ask. “What happened to her?”
“I don’t know that Father Grant ever spoke to her again.”
“Do you know her name?” Hick asked. “Or where she might be living now?”
“I’m sorry, but I do not. And, unfortunately, most of Father Grant’s correspondence is still in Broken Creek. He hasn’t had time to really settle in here.”
“Broken Creek wasn’t an easy place to be a priest either,” Hick remarked.
“True,” Father Glennon replied. “But, at least in Broken Creek he was able to be of some use. He was there throughout the war and got to know the families. He took it hard when they closed the parish.” He sighed. “Broken Creek was a difficult place, but in spite of that, Father Grant loved it there. It restored to him the joy of his salvation. It was a reminder of all the reasons he’d become a priest in the first place. It was a place he could do some good and make a difference, and he needed that.” Father Glennon paused and studied Hick for a moment. “I don’t know if I’m speaking out of turn, telling you about Father Grant’s struggles, but after that young man’s execution, he became despondent. He felt as if he had witnessed a murder, that he hadn’t done enough to stop it, and his powerlessness made him angry with himself.”
The force of this statement slammed into Hick and he heard himself say, “I understand more than most the feeling of being powerless in a situation like that.” He looked into the kind face of the elderly man and blurted, “I killed an innocent person and then stood by and watched someone else senselessly murdered.” He was surprised at the words that tumbled out in a choked voice. “It was in the war.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “But it shouldn’t have happened. None of it ever should have happened.”
The older priest’s eyes widened. “But in war—” he began.
“War should not … war does not change the fact that human beings are human beings.” Tears smarted behind Hick’s eyes, and he swallowed hard, then blinked. “But God has extracted his vengeance. A mother and child for a mother and child.” He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. He knew that somehow he blamed himself for Maggie’s death, but this was the first time he’d said the words out loud. His stomach clenched, and he thought he might throw up. His limbs felt heavy, like his whole body was weighted down by sadness and misery, and he stared at the floor, wishing that a hole would open and drag him down to Hell.
After a moment’s silence, Hick felt a hand on his shoulder. He blinked back tears and looked up to see Father Glennon squatting before him with a concerned expression. “I can’t pretend to know what you’re talking about, but you said something about God and vengeance. That is not God. He is not spiteful or vindictive. You have remad
e God into the image of man. It is illogical to believe God demands retribution because what recompense can we ever offer Him? No, God is not a God of anger. He is a God of mercy.”
“I don’t deserve mercy. God can’t forgive what I’ve done.”
Father Glennon rose and walked toward the door, facing the sanctuary. “We none of us deserve mercy. And, you underestimate Him.” He paused. “Do you have children?”
Hick swallowed. “I have two sons.”
“And you love them even when they make mistakes? Even when they do wrong?”
“But I didn’t lose my lunch money or break a window. I killed someone. How can God forgive such a thing? And how can I ever forget?”
Father Glennon turned back toward Hick. “You will never forget. There are things that happen, things we experience that we will never fully understand or put behind us. That, my son, is the harsh reality of life. Some believe that because life is cruel, God must be, too. But God is not cruel. God is merciful and forgiving. It is not God’s forgiveness you must seek. It is your own.”
Hick laughed a bitter, scratching laugh. “God took my wife and baby. Don’t tell me he’s not angry or unforgiving.” He looked into Father Glennon’s face. “I believe your Bible says something about an eye for an eye.”
“But it also commands us to forgive … everyone, even our enemies and those who hate us. God would never ask us to do something He does not do Himself. Yes, you have done a horrible thing, but we all do wrong out of fear or anger or hate. There are things that happen, things we have done that we can never make right. In the blink of an eye everything can change, but it is how we respond to these things that shows what we’re made of.”
Father Glennon sat back down on the cot and leaned forward with his hands spread. “I believe we can use tragedy as an opportunity to turn to God for help or we can walk away and live our lives in bitterness. The decision, of course, will always be yours. The past cannot be changed. But what you do with the time you have now and what you do with the time you have ahead of you will define who you are as a man. And as a father.”
The face of his son, the dark eyes so like Maggie’s loomed up before Hick. “Don’t you ever want to be our daddy again?” Jake had asked. Hick felt as if someone had kicked him in the gut and he gulped for air. He stood suddenly, dropping his cigarette and knocking the ashtray to the floor. “I gotta go.” He rushed from the room, into the darkened sanctuary, and was suddenly enveloped in a blue light filtering through the stained glass. He staggered blindly out of the sanctuary.
“Wait,” Father Glennon’s voice called after him.
Hick didn’t stop. He fled the church, hurrying past the surprised secretary and running straight into Carol Quinn who was rushing in to find him.
“What are you running from, Hillbilly?” she said as he smashed into her on the front steps.
“I’m not … I wasn’t …”
She stared at him. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. What are you doing here?”
Carol waved to a car and Hick noticed Dr. Lyman inside. After a nod, Dr. Lyman drove away, and Carol turned back to Hick. “I just got a call from my office in Washington. We need to pay a visit to Brother Ulredge Mallon.”
13
Thursday, September 8, 1955
“I’ve been expecting you,” Brother Mallon said as he answered the knock on the door of the church. “A lie will always catch up with a man. The Bible says, ‘There is nothing done in secret that shall not be made manifest.’ I knew what I done would catch up with me. I knew you’d come back.” He stepped away admitting Hick and Carol who, after exchanging glances, followed him inside.
They entered the same room in which they had previously interviewed Mallon and sat where he indicated. Brother Mallon did not sit, but instead paced the room like a caged beast, wringing his hands.
“What do you mean you’ve been expecting us? Tell us why you think we’re here,” Carol said.
Brother Mallon stopped pacing and his shoulders sagged. He looked at his feet and sighed, then finally said, “I need not hide the truth. Yes, I lied when the Sheriff here asked me about that man in Alabama, Edwin Stephenson, and I knowed ya’ll’d find out. I lied because thirty years ago I sat on the jury that freed that son of a bitch. I voted not guilty though I knew Stephenson was. We all in that room knew that man was guilty as sin and that it was hate and ugliness that caused him to kill that priest. We pretended he was doing his duty as a father, but we knowed better.” Mallon sighed. “I was afraid to stand up and be a man. When fear overtakes you, it makes you its slave.”
“What were you afraid of?” Hick asked.
Brother Mallon’s glance fell on Hick. “Colored folks and Catholics weren’t the only ones the Klan hurt. You done what you was told. Back in them days I had a wife and four children at home.”
“And now?” Hick persisted.
Brother Mallon’s eyes filled and he blinked. “And now I have naught.”
“Then why all the lies?” Carol asked.
“Because I’m ashamed of myself,” Mallon said, his voice rising. “Shame will cause a man to do and say what he shouldn’t. Shame of his own fear and cowardice. Shame of who he used to be.”
“Used to be?” Carol repeated. “So you want me to believe you’re a fine, upstanding citizen now? Tell me, did you ever tell Nicodemus Skaggs about your past? Did you ever mention anything about the trial of Edwin Stephenson to him?”
“No, ma’am.”
“But you lied to us before,” Hick said. “Why should we believe you now?”
Ulredge Mallon shrugged and met Hick’s eyes. “I answer only to my God. What you believe is of no concern to me.”
“It should be,” Carol argued. “Suppose we find out that you told Nicodemus Skaggs how easy it was for you to write ‘Not Guilty’ on that slip of paper. Easy because you hated Catholics and you were glad that Edwin Stephenson killed Father Coyle in 1921. Suppose you wanted Skaggs to understand how simple it would be for him to kill Father Grant today. Suppose we find out that you told Skaggs that killing a Catholic, in particular one who was proselytizing his daughter, was no sin. Suppose you told him that it was his duty as a father to kill—”
“Suppose! Suppose! Suppose!” interrupted Mallon, his hand crashing down on top of a small bookcase, causing a potted plant to thump against the top. “I reckon it must be easy for you to come down here all high and mighty like and tell us how we ought to live. I reckon it must make you feel glad to know that we’s all backward and filled with hate and prejudice. But you don’t know what it’s like. You have no idea what it’s like to know you done wrong and that killer went on home to his wife after taking that priest’s life in cold blood. You don’t know what it’s like to let that sit and fester in your bones until your wife hates the sight of you and takes your children and leaves. You don’t know what it’s like to hate yourself because you didn’t have the guts to do the right thing when you had the chance.” The sudden flash of anger seemed to drain Mallon. Suddenly he stooped as if the air had been let out of him. He covered his face with his hand and sank into a chair. “You don’t know. You don’t know nothing.”
Carol sat, unmoved. “I know that Nicodemus Skaggs was aware of Edwin Stephenson’s trial, a trial that took place three decades ago and no one talks about anymore. How do you suppose he found out?”
“I can’t say,” Mallon said, a sound of tears in his voice.
“Nicodemus related particulars about that trial to us when we spoke to him in jail. I can’t believe he just picked that information up somewhere. Are you sure you never spoke of it to him? Maybe just in passing?” Hick asked.
Brother Mallon closed his eyes and his head drooped.
“Well? Did you?”
“What good would it do to tell him? I never mentioned it to him because I knew there weren’t no use. When a man wraps his hate in religion it eats him alive. Once you begin to justify hate, there ain’t no help for you.”
&
nbsp; “But have you spoken of it to someone else?”
“I’m ashamed of it. Why would I talk about it?”
“Because you thought it might help someone understand what hate does to a man,” Hick said. “You said so yourself. Was there someone you were trying to help? Someone you were trying to save from hate? Is it possible they said something to Skaggs?”
Mallon looked up from the chair and shook his head. “No. It’s not possible.”
Hick turned in frustration and his gaze traveled around the room landing on a familiar, tattered suit coat strewn across a chair. He stood and moved toward it. Brother Mallon jerked his head around and gasped.
“You told that boy, didn’t you?” Hick asked.
“No, I didn’t—”
“You told Skaggs’s woods-colt. You told him the whole story.”
“No, I didn’t … I mean to say …”
Hick picked up the suit coat and held it toward Brother Mallon. “Which is it? You tell him or not? What’s your connection to him? Why is his suit coat here?”
Brother Mallon shook his head. “That boy would have no more talked to Deem than I would talk to the devil. He didn’t say nothing to Nicodemus.”
“You don’t know that,” Carol said.
Mallon met her gaze. “I do.”
“Why’d you tell him?” Hick asked.
Mallon’s hands hung limply between his knees. “Just leave him alone. He didn’t do nothing wrong.”
“What’s your connection to him?”
“He’s got nothing to do with any of this.”
“Why are you protecting him?” Hick asked, his voice rising with frustration.
Mallon glanced up. “That boy saved my life.”
“What are you talking about?”
“How would you feel having to wake up every single morning hating yourself and knowing you can’t get away from the nightmares and the visions, the sight of your wife walking out the door, the days of drinking and wanting to die.”
“Just get on with it,” Hick growled.
“Matt Noble’s mama was my niece, Ginny. After my wife left me, I took to drinking. One night I tried to outrun a train in my old truck. When I woke, my sister was by my bedside. She brought me back home from Alabama and nursed me back to health.” Mallon shook his head. “But health in body ain’t health in mind.”
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