Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction (63 page)

I came tumbling to the ground as the storm ceased and quiet returned, when they lowered the coffin into the grave. A grief came over me too deep for tears. I couldn’t move; my expression wouldn’t change. I was gripped by this finality. I had become like Thomas was in his last days, only to look down and back. There was no future for me without him. I moved my body when someone told me to.
Stand up, honey, throw the rose into the grave, honey, time to walk back to the hearse, honey, eat something you’ll feel better, honey, why don’t you lie down, honey?

I found myself facing our bed, crawling in, shoes and all and hugging his pillow, moving my knees up into a fetal position, staring at the bathing tub. I watched the shadows creep around the walls and deepen; darkening the room to black. The katydids returned as they had done every night, telling me over and over that life goes on. But I found my way to the window and shut it firmly. I wanted no part of the katydid’s optimism.

Against my wishes the shadows lightened and brightened the walls. If I had slept, I wasn’t aware, my eyes opening and closing at random. A newspaper came into view, slid under the door. Without hesitation, I was drawn to it like scripture to the starving soul. The newspaper was dated the day after Thomas’ death. Circled was an article and photograph of a much younger Thomas, one I’d seen framed on their entranceway table, with Cady by his side. Here they had cut her away, displaying only his head and shoulders. We have both loved and lost, his youthful eyes seemed to say to me. But I had no sympathy for him; only this sense of betrayal in him leaving me. Now I bitterly supposed he was in heaven with his first wife smiling again that happy grin and I blocked his gaze with my hand as I read the article.

Pickering is Shot; Heart Finishes Him Off: Grandson of the founder of Pickerville News, Mr. Thomas Pickering, died in the hospital last night. According to Dr. Mooreland of the Civic Hospital Emergency Ward, Pickering was brought in by his brother, Joseph Pickering of Pick Plantation, with a gunshot wound to his arm. The doctor states that Pickering had lost a good deal of blood but his wound was not life threatening. Trauma and blood loss combined with an already failing heart caused the heart attack and Pickering was pronounced dead an hour after arrival.

Why he was shot is still under investigation. His brother, Joseph Pickering, made a statement to the paper that he and Thomas were strolling along the pier late that evening when they were attacked by two masked thugs demanding money. Thomas resisted and one of the attackers fired a .22 caliber pistol. The attackers panicked when Thomas fell to the ground and ran away without achieving their purpose. Joseph did not get a description of the two, nor could he give chase, he stated, with a wounded brother to attend to. Police report will not be released until the investigation is closed.

I read it again, having much to absorb. What stood out was his failing heart. Why hadn’t he told me? How typical of Thomas to relay his story through the newspaper. One that only told half-truths. I jumped up and ran my bath. It was time to reenter the world and get some questions answered.

“Because he said he had convinced you he wasn’t an old man, but an ailing heart would confirm you had married one older than dirt,” said Joe. He took a sip of his coffee. “He had too much pride, that boy.” He scooped more wet eggs into his mouth, churning my stomach.

I drummed my fingers on the newspaper article lying there between us on the table, evidence of lies and deception. And waited once again for truth. He gulped down his remaining coffee and continued. “He found out on his last trip here. Chest pains, being tired all the time. I didn’t want a Yankee doctor, so I called Doc Williams, the same one that brought him and I into the world. Doc Williams
came out and examined him and said his heart was weakening. He was directed to take life easy.”

“And bootlegging with you was going to give him the easy life, Joe?”

His fork clattered to the plate and Harriet’s cup clinked loudly with her saucer.

“How dare you insinuate that my husband—”

“Harriet, hush your mouth,” he said and patted her arm. He rubbed his face hard, bringing my attention to the heavy bags under his eyes. “Bess, I take all the blame for this, I really do. I’m feeling as low as a toad in a dry well. I keep thinking I shouldn’t have told him, but Tom is the only close blood family I got, and I tell him everything – well, told him everything. He knew things here on the plantation weren’t going so good and he knew I owed money to our uncle. And when I went out on my runs, he said he’d come with me. He said he wanted to see what I got myself into. He wouldn’t have taken no for an answer, he’s my big brother.

“And, well, I don’t mean to switch horses in midstream but there’s another reason too. Tom owed me.” He ate a biscuit while I watched him and wondered why Thomas’s life was unfolding for me after it ended for him.

“You see, neither one of us wanted to grow cotton. Tom being the oldest was willed the plantation, Pa not taking no for an answer. He made us promise that we’d never sell the land. He was the second generation to own Pick Plantation, Grandpappy being the first. But that was before the Civil War and the slaves just about run the place. Grandpappy could manage this and the newspaper at the same time. But after the Yankees pillaged and burned, destroyed our crop and seeds, burned down the barns and sheds, and part of this house, Grandpappy and Pa had to start all over. Slaves were gone and that meant they’d have to work Tom and I to death.

Tom and I changed in different ways. While I grew to resent the Yankees for taking our slaves, Tom gained more sympathy for what the slaves had to do while they were working here. He grew to hate the plantation. We both know Tom’s not the type to stay put in one
place and do hard labor. He was a thinker and a writer, a reporter with wanderlust. He wanted out and he wanted to make a deal. He said if I took over, he’d see to it that little brother was looked after. So Tom got hired at the newspaper and saw to it that whatever we were selling got the biggest share of advertisement, and if I got into trouble he was there to bail me out, or lend a financial hand. But then while at college, he met Cady and that was all she wrote. They took off to New York and Harriet and I have been struggling to keep this place going ever since.”

I wondered how one decision could linger for so many years without changing form, only to affect new decisions. Joe used Thomas as a freed slave, held by obligation.

“I understand,” I said. “That brings us back to today and now that Thomas has …” Here I struggled to say the word but couldn’t.

“Yes, passed away,” Joe said, his chin on his chest.

“This has raised suspicion about your – your other means of income, so what now? Aren’t you worried that an investigation could find you guilty, and, oh my God, Joe – I might be arrested as some sort of accomplice!” This had not occurred to me since his death. My world had stopped.

“No, I’m doing what I can to protect you, don’t you see? That’s what Tom would have wanted. No one knows you were there. I had taken the number plates off both automobiles. I’ve got connections at the newspaper – couple of cousins work there that have some control over what goes into it. I didn’t mention you being with us and I already talked to the owner of Mama Mia’s – he runs The Blind Pig too so he and I get along just fine. You weren’t there as far as they’re concerned. When Tom saw the gun, he wanted you out of there. He closed your trunk lid and gave you the signal to go. His movements scared – well, the gun went off and Tom fell to the ground. When your automobile didn’t move, he wouldn’t give up. He reached up as far as he could reach and continued to knock until you drove away. Thank the Lord you didn’t find reverse.”

I shuttered and pushed away my toast. “Why was he shot, Joe?”

“A rival came in. Wanted a piece of the action, he said, or he’d rat on us. We told him to go to hell, pardon my expression. He pulled out a gun and waved it around, it went off - meaning to scare us more I think - Tom fell, the man took off running. My business partner reloaded the crates back on the boat and cruised on down the shoreline, while I got Tom into my automobile and to the hospital. No traces. The investigation will find nothing. We look out for each other down here; everybody knows everybody, nobody knows nothing.”

“Then you must know who shot Thomas.”

His eyes darted to Harriet and then back down to his plate. He loosened his tie which had suddenly become a nuisance to him. “Yes ma’am, but we take care of our own. Don’t you worry your little head about that.”

“Do I know him, Joe?” Harriet asked, watching him closely. She, too, saw the signs.

He crossed his arms on the table and stared down at his half-eaten biscuit. “Oh, yeah, you know him,” he said to the biscuit.

“I swan, it’s my cousin, Louie, isn’t it?”

“He’s a bad egg, Harriet.”

“Good Lord, Joe, he was probably drunker than Cooter Brown!”

Joe raised his right hand as if to swear. “I’m not going to hurt him, Harriet, no permanent damage. Just teach him a lesson he won’t forget.”

I hadn’t driven to Georgia; I had driven to another world, one with twisted thorny vines so thickly intermingled, I couldn’t see my way through them.

I tried to raise my head above it all. I took a deep breath. “So let me get this straight. You know who shot Thomas, but you’re not going to report him to the police?”

He squinted his eyes at me as if I had shone a flashlight on him. The rueful blue eyes turned distant. “No, and no one else is going to either. I’ve already given my report to the police. You want me to go back and tell them, ‘oh by the way, it was family that shot my brother’? And then tell them why? Do you want to go to jail? I know
I don’t.” He scooted his chair from the table, threw his napkin down and slammed the kitchen door behind him as he left.

Harriet jumped up and stacked plates. “You’ve done it now.”

I stopped her with my hand and looked up at her pleadingly. “I haven’t done anything except I tried to please my husband. I’m no different in that regard than you are.”

She studied my face and then nodded.

“Now can you and I work together on this to clear our husbands’ names and keep us all out of trouble? We need a clear alibi for when the policemen come around asking questions.”

Caught in their thorns and scratched badly, I knew without any doubt I did not want to root here. I wanted to go home.

But home was not to be until the investigation was complete. Joe said it would look suspicious so I was to stay right there until he said I could go.

Rightly so, I sensed danger in Joe - the angry bear who would fiercely protect his own, including his own skin. I barely qualified as his own, hence I behaved myself and caused no more reason for suspected treason. Reluctantly I admitted to myself I needed his protection. Ironic, when it was he who put me in danger in the first place. He played savior and Satan and Harriet walked through fire for him and raised her eyes to him like he was God Almighty. So he saw nothing wrong with his logic. He could justify it all, including Thomas’s death.

I bided my time.