Читать книгу Forsaken - Ross Howell - Страница 13

6.

Only Brother

That morning I saw Pace’s story in the Daily Press before I saw my own. Mr. Hobgood was reading a copy at the office. He tapped the front page with a finger.

“That Pace has a nose for the news,” he said. “And he makes fantasy sound more credible than fact. That’s why people read gossip, Mears. They want something better than the truth. Now don’t forget to follow up with the victim’s brother, this Hobbs fellow, all right?” He folded the paper and threw it in the trash can on the way to his office.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

I retrieved the paper. Pace had had the same hunch as mine about Cahill. Whatever conversation they’d had convinced him to go with a story. “SUSPICIONS ABOUT BOARDER’S ROLE IN MRS. BELOTE’S MURDER” was the front-page headline, over a second line reading, “White Man Questioned In Case.” The article cited Cahill’s navy scarf being found at the neck of Mrs. Belote’s body at the murder scene, and that he had been questioned both by Deputy Chas Curtis and Dr. Vanderslice. The article quoted Cahill’s testimony that he recognized Mrs. Belote’s purse when it was shown to him at the inquest, and that he would have knowledge of its contents as well as other valuables that might be in the household.

“Authorities suspect the boarder Cahill may have encouraged or colluded with the Negress to perpetrate the crime,” the article stated, “robbery being the motive. There is also speculation that Cahill may have acted alone in the commission of the murder, given the violent disarray at the crime scene, and the brutality of the wounds inflicted on the helpless widow. Possibly the colored washwoman appeared on the scene only in order to spirit away the stolen articles later discovered on her person when she was searched by Sheriff Curtis’ officers at the Hampton jail.”

Pure fancy. Pace was a dogged reporter. He could have confirmed Cahill’s whereabouts the day of the murder as easily as I did. I tossed the copy of the Press back into the trash.

My two stories made the front page of the Times-Herald. Mr. Hobgood had agreed with my headline for the Cahill story. He headlined the John Wesley piece, “NEGRO HELD FOR ASSAULT ON GIRL.”

Straightforward; but he edited the lead, making it biased and wordy. “This entire section is highly wrought up and indignant on account of an attempted assault by J. Wesley, a Negro man, upon fifteen-year-old Hattie Power, daughter of W. H. Power, a prominent citizen and Town Attorney of Phoebus, in her home at Buckroe Beach last night.”

Sheriff Curtis would be upset when he saw the Wesley article. I’d have to explain to him again that I could not control Mr. Hobgood’s edits. And I’d have to remind Mr. Hobgood how helpful the sheriff had always been to me. I knew Mr. Hobgood would respond the way he always did.

“My job is to sell newspapers, Mears. I can’t help it if the old rooster gets his feathers ruffled once in a while.”

I decided to put off stopping by the sheriff’s office until later in the day.

The offices of the Hobbs-Newby Equipment Co., Inc., were in the Seaboard Bank Building in Norfolk. I smoked a cigarette in the lobby and took the elevator to the fifth floor. When I opened the door into the Hobbs-Newby offices, I was surprised to see the Commonwealth’s attorney, Edgar Montague, talking to a short, balding man. They were sitting in leather chairs beside a small lamp table across from a secretary’s desk. The secretary had her hair arranged in combs atop her head. She sat erect as she typed, her back and wrists gracefully arched.

“Well, Mears,” Montague said. He was a heavyset man rumored to be in poor health. He had a bright, florid complexion and thick, sandy hair. He wheezed when he spoke. “I see you’re hard at work. On the Christian matter?”

“Yes, sir. Any news about the trial?”

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Pace when he came by the office. The grand jury convenes Monday morning. Evidence from the coroner’s inquest suggests a heinous crime has been committed. While it is up to the grand jury to make the determination to move forward, I will tell you—and you may put this in your story, Mears—that the office of the Commonwealth’s attorney is aware of the consternation aroused in the community by this brutal act and is absolutely certain of its ability to prosecute the case successfully and see justice done if and when a trial is set.”

Montague leaned forward in the chair. He was wearing a brown tweed suit and vest that bulged with his paunch. A brown fedora sat on the table by his chair. From a vest pocket hung a gold watch fob. Montague touched the chain for a moment when he finished speaking. Then he pulled out the watch and checked the time. His hand trembled slightly. The secretary stopped typing and scrolled out her sheet from the platen.

“I’d better get back to the office,” Montague said. There were tiny beads of sweat on his upper lip and his face looked clammy.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Montague,” the small man said. “I know Lewter was expecting you. I can’t imagine what’s keeping him.”

Montague stood and the small man rose, too. Montague picked up the hat and smoothed the brim.

“It’s quite all right, Howard. No doubt I’ll see him this afternoon at the club. I’ll see you at the courthouse Monday, Mears.”

“Thank you, Mr. Montague. Any other comments?”

“Each individual must understand his place under the law, colored and white alike,” Montague said. “That understanding represents the pediment and harmony and endurance of our culture. We have endured assaults on that understanding, Mears, especially of late, but the rule of law has always prevailed. As it will in this case.”

The secretary sat at her typewriter, rapt. The small man cleared his throat and adjusted one of the garters on his sleeves. Montague placed the fedora carefully on his head and tipped the brim. He strode from the office.

“Who are you again, son?” the small man asked.

“Charlie Mears,” I said. “I work for the Times-Herald. I wanted to see Mr. Hobbs.”

“Well, sit here. Perhaps he’ll see you when he comes in. I don’t know how any of us can get any business done with all this commotion. We have to make a living, after all. Rose, will you take care of Mr. Mears?”

“Of course, Mr. Newby.” The secretary scrolled another sheet of letterhead into the typewriter.

Newby walked quickly back to an office with a window overlooking the room where I sat with the secretary and closed the door.

“Would you like to look at some catalogs?” the secretary asked. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

For the next hour I looked through pages of rebuilt locomotive steam boilers and train cars mounted with cranes, massive steam shovels on caterpillar tracks, concrete mixers powered by Lambert engines with dual flywheels so big they looked like side-paddle Mississippi steamboats, and enormous steam hoists powered by coal-fired boilers the size of a house. I added another catalog to the stack on the table.

“I’ll try to catch Mr. Hobbs another time,” I said. “Thank you for your hospitality.” I stood to leave.

The secretary touched her hair. “Do you have a card? I’ll see that Mr. Hobbs gets it.”

“Yes.”

She studied the card I gave her. “Have you worked at the paper long?”

“Almost a year now.”

“This is hard to read. I think I need glasses. Have you worn yours a long time?”

“Since grade school.”

“Do you think glasses would make me look old?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I think you would look very attractive. I mean, you are very attractive.” I could feel myself blushing. She dropped her eyes, then shot a glance back.

“That’s sweet,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

In the lobby I smoked a cigarette and made notes of Montague’s comments.

I had carried The Pilgrim’s Progress with me in the breast pocket of my coat. I decided to stop by Mrs. Wright’s to leave it for Harriet.

The steam ferry to Newport News was right on time. The day had turned sunny. I took off my cap and put my feet up on the rail. There was a slight chop and the breeze freshened over the Roads. On a tall piling ospreys were building a nest. At the landing I caught the trolley to the Wrights’ neighborhood and started walking.

Approaching on the sidewalk was a man in his thirties. He was not wearing a hat. His black hair was slicked back straight from a broad forehead. His moustache was black and curled at the ends. He was wearing a dark blue suit and he handled the umbrella he carried like a cane. His stride was brusque and powerful. He looked as fit as a wrestler.

“Mr. Hobbs?” I said. “I’m with the Times-Herald.” It was a lucky guess.

“Not now, boy,” he said. “I don’t have time.” He brushed past me and turned the corner. I looked after him for a moment and continued on my way.

As soon as I got to the street, I recognized the cottage. I opened the gate and stepped up the walk to the stoop. I removed the volume from my pocket and knocked at the door.

Mrs. Wright opened the door immediately. She looked at me and smiled faintly. She seemed distracted.

“Mr. Mears,” she said. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“I won’t keep you, Mrs. Wright,” I said. “I brought this book for Harriet.” I held it out to her.

She started to take it but hesitated. She folded her hands together as if to pray.

“Wouldn’t you like to give it to her yourself?” she asked. “Sadie’s back in school, but Harriet’s not quite feeling up to it. Why don’t you go round back to the garden, and I’ll bring her out. A little sunlight might brighten her up. Just follow the path.” She closed the door before I could speak.

I followed a stone path around the cottage. At the back I passed through a trellis with climbing roses. Daffodils nodded in a bed of periwinkle. There was a small patio of flat stones and a bench.

The back door opened and Mrs. Wright led Harriet out by the hand. Harriet blinked her eyes against the sunlight. The breeze lifted her long black hair about her face. She brushed it back with her fingers.

“Here she is,” Mrs. Wright said. Her voice was bright. Harriet took a step down onto the patio. Mrs. Wright put her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “You know, Mr. Mears, we had a very nice thing happen,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“The afternoon Momma was laid to rest, some colored people came over from the Ebenezer Baptist Church. They stood outside the gate on the street and sang hymns. Just for a few minutes. It was nice,” she said. “I’m afraid Uncle Lewter put a stop to it. He was having tea with us and told them to move on. That evening my husband took a donation over to the church. Did you see Uncle Lewter on your way? He was just here.”

“Was he carrying an umbrella?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then I did see him,” I said.

“Harriet, you’re shivering!” Mrs. Wright said. “Do you want a sweater?”

Harriet moved free of her sister’s hands. “No, I’ll be all right.”

“I’ll leave you two, then,” Mrs. Wright said. “Look, Mr. Mears brought you a present, Harriet.”

She raised her eyes to look at me. I held out the book. She took it.

“Thank you,” she said.

Mrs. Wright fidgeted with the door latch until it opened. She went inside.

“Is Mrs. Wright all right?” I asked.

“She’s just nervous,” Harriet said. “Uncle Lewter makes everybody nervous.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Have you seen the Delectable Mountains?” she asked.

“So you’ve read it,” I said.

“Not an illustrated edition,” she said.

“I’ve seen something like,” I said. “The Blue Ridge. Near Charlottesville. A friend lived there.”

She smiled. “I haven’t seen the mountains,” she said. “I’ve only been to Richmond.”

“Someday,” I said.

“Would you like to sit down?” she asked.

“Thank you,” I said.

We sat on the bench. There was a sweet fragrance. I noticed white clematis blooming against the wall.

“Have you seen Virgie?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I got a book for her.”

“She can’t read, you know.”

“A picture book,” I said.

“She likes to have someone read to her,” she said. “I used to afternoons, when she was hanging wash. Maybe you could read to her. Is she scared?”

“Yes,” I said.

“People want to kill her, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

She studied the bed of daffodils. “We have the same birthday. August fifteenth. Did you know that?”

“You and Virgie?”

“Yes,” she said. She began to leaf through the book, stopping at each illustration. “This is pretty,” she said.

“Do you mind if I smoke? Would Mrs. Wright mind?”

“Pauline? No, George smokes out here all the time. She won’t let him in the house, though.”

I lit a cigarette with a match cupped in my hands and held the match till it cooled. I tucked it into my pocket. She watched my face as I inhaled and exhaled the smoke. “I think I would like to smoke,” she said. “But Pauline says it isn’t ladylike.”

“No,” I said. “I suppose it isn’t.”

“I think I’d like to drink whiskey, too,” she said. “Do you drink?”

“No,” I said. “It isn’t godly.”

“Godly?” she said. She turned away. I saw her chin tremble. She shut the pages of the volume. “No,” she said. “I suppose it isn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I meant no offense. It’s just what I believe.”

She nodded, and wiped her face with the back of her hand.

“Pauline says Sadie and I must live with Uncle Lewter and his family,” she said. “He’s Momma’s only brother.”

“I visited his offices,” I said. “He must be very successful.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “He has buckets of money. Have you seen his house?”

“No,” I said.

“I guess you’d call it a mansion,” she said. “Room after room.” She lifted the little book to her breast and began to rock gently from the hips. “I won’t stay there,” she said. “I’ll run away.”

I took a long drag on the cigarette. Then I crushed it on the side of my shoe heel and tucked the butt in my pocket with the match.

“It’s a big change,” I said. “Maybe after a while it will feel like home.”

“That’s not likely,” she said.

“I was sent away when my mother died, but it turned out all right,” I said.

She stopped rocking. “Did they send you into a viper’s pit?”

“No,” I said. “Not anything like that.”

Her eyes gleamed, like a bird’s trapped on a limned twig.

“Do you mind if I call you Charlie?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “Do you mind if I call you Harriet?”

“No,” she said. She began to rock again, faster, clutching the book. Then she stopped.

“Charlie, my uncle uses me,” she said. “For his pleasure. Whenever he has the chance. I won’t live in his house.”

I had never seen someone shudder. It was like something was shaking the breath from her body. I looked away, out into the garden. Purple hyacinths bloomed along the stone path. I wanted to look Harriet in the face but my courage failed me.

“Pauline doesn’t believe me,” she whispered. “She doesn’t want to.” She touched my hand. Hers was so cold I flinched. Then I held her fingers in mine.

I tried to think of a passage of scripture, some meditation or prayer. I turned and saw her lips pursed, like a schoolgirl puzzling over a question. Then her chin quivered and she stifled a sob. How had I never noticed her eyes were green as emeralds?

“I believe you, Harriet.” I said.

She searched my face. Then she removed her hand and stood. Erect, shoulders back.

“Thank you for the book, Charlie,” she said. She bowed from her waist. She opened the back door and disappeared inside the cottage. I realized the fragrance had been her hair, not the clematis.

When I got back to Hampton I stopped by my rooms to retrieve A Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck. By the time I reached the jail, Sheriff Curtis was putting on his hat and coat.

“The constable’ll have to give that to the Negro, Charlie,” the sheriff said. “Any item received by the prisoners, you know. Got to be inspected. I’ll make sure he takes care of it for you.”

I looked down the corridor.

“Not this evening, son. Missus said she’d have supper on the table at five o’clock. I’m late as it is.”

If Sheriff Curtis was upset about the John Wesley article, he never let on. No more crowds had gathered at the jail, even with the improving weather. Maybe seeing it wasn’t likely a riot was in the offing put the sheriff in a good mood. For that matter, maybe he hadn’t even seen the paper.

I asked the sheriff to give my regards to Mrs. Curtis and walked over to the Times-Herald offices. I typed up my article about Edgar Montague and turned it in.

Mr. Hobgood ran it the next morning on the second page. “COMMONWEALTH’S ATTORNEY CONFIDENT OF OUTCOME,” the headline read. I hoped Sheriff Curtis would see that story. It might reassure him the town would remain quiet as we headed into the weekend.

Quiet it was. Still, Sheriff Curtis kept the constable on duty all weekend, along with Chas and another deputy.

On Monday, April 1, a grand jury returned an indictment against Virginia Christian for the felony murder of Ida V. Belote. The trial was set for 10 o’clock on the morning of April 8. There were front-page headlines in every newspaper in the region. At a hearing on Wednesday, April 3, the circuit court of Elizabeth City County awarded guardianship of the orphaned female children Harriet Martha Belote and Sarah Elizabeth Belote to Lewter F. Hobbs. All that appeared in the papers was the court record.

The evening of the guardianship hearing I sat for a long time on the iron steps to my rooms. Miller moths spun about the gaslight. The blue spark of the last trolley lit the new leaves on the limbs hanging over the line. After the last shriek of metal wheels on the tracks, I heard a sound I recognized as the chain. I moved up the steps as quietly as I could. In the icebox Maebelle had left potato cakes fried in bacon. I retrieved a couple and went across the sidewalk to the street. This time I placed the cakes in the middle of the pool of light and went back up on the porch to watch. I lit a cigarette and waited.

I finished my cigarette, lit another, finished it. I nodded off, then stirred myself.

Just then a gaunt creature dragging about three feet of chain from its neck crept into the pool of light. Its big head was connected to a frail body. It was a pit bull terrier, a male. His coat was black as pitch. His ears were clipped tight to his head and his left ear was torn. His paws looked like each had been dipped in white paint. There was a big white mark on his chest the shape of a crushed cigarette packet.

“I’ll call you ‘Lucky,’” I whispered. The dog lifted his head at the sound, then snatched Maebelle’s potato cake and wolfed it down. He disappeared into the twilight.