Morgan James - Promise McNeal 02 - Quiet Killing (9 page)

“I can imagine wanting to stamp out liquor in the Western North Carolina Mountains where moonshine was king, wasn’t very popular.”

“No doubt you are correct. Though the Methodist Church has always been, officially, against the consumption of alcohol. At any rate, the more Pentecostal over-enthusiasm for the literal interpretation of the Bible put them in disagreement with some of the accepted Reform Christian theology of the times. As Methodists, we don’t believe a person need be born again to experience salvation. Nor do we believe speaking in tongues is necessary for understanding God’s message for mankind.

“I could go on and on about the differences. Suffice it to say that during your great grandfather’s time these issues were hotly debated and opinions expressed no less vehemently than Democrats and Republicans do
today. Except for those debating during those times, it was not a matter of who would govern the country for the next four years. Salvation itself was at stake. Heaven reunited with Jesus, or everlasting damnation served in hell’s own fires. Serious business Ms. McNeal. Serious business, indeed.”

He paused, perhaps gauging whether I was paying attention to his history lesson, and then finished his answer to my original question. “Short version: an apocalyptic preacher tells of the end of days, the Apocalypse, the Second Coming of Jesus, and believes he is charged by the Holy Spirit to bring the unenlightened to salvation.”

“I see,” I replied. Though I really didn’t. Being raised as a not particularly zealous Episcopalian, I could recite the General Confession and find the hymns in the back of the Book of Common Prayer, but I knew little about the Apocalypse, or
the Second Coming
. “And the other faction? What did they believe?”

A satisfied smile settled on Mr. Kolb’s face. “That faction, the majority and prevailing thought, held the idea that Methodist belief is rooted in reason, education, and intelligence. It is by reason that one asks questions of faith, and by reason one understands the will of God.”

“So you are telling me that January McNeal was out of step with the prevailing thoughts of the church, so they took away his membership?”

Mr. Kolb flinched at my assessment. “Well, let’s not be unduly harsh on them, shall we. I believe it was a little more than being out of step. There seemed to be a great deal of irritation with Mr. McNeal’s outbursts
during the Sunday worship services. From what I read in the testimonies given at the meeting, they, with the exception of the minister, all felt Mr. McNeal would be more comfortable with one of the newly formed Holiness congregations. However, I think it was the unfortunate business about the grave robbery that caused such decisive actions on their part.”

My fingers clenched around the papers in my lap. “What grave robbery?”

Mr. Kolb reached across the distance between our chairs and pointed to one of the sheets of crumpled papers. I lifted that page to the top of the stack. At this close distance, his cologne lingered in the space between us. I had a panicky urge to run outside and fill my lungs with fresh cold air.

“I believe the committee report gives scant details about an investigation by the sheriff into the graves of Mrs. McNeal and the baby being disturbed.”

“Are you saying someone tried to dig up my great grandmother, and the child?”

“Not tried, Ms. McNeal. Did. The account says the graves were found open and empty. The High Sheriff, as he was called in that day, was summoned to investigate. Apparently, much of Perry County, including the High Sheriff, thought January McNeal felt compelled to take his wife and child because he believed Jesus was returning soon to claim the faithful. Why he may have felt Jesus could not claim his wife and child in the Methodist cemetery, we do not know. Nothing was ever proven, of course.”

Grave robber? How could anyone take a shovel and dig up the grave of a person he loved? Even a person he
didn’t love? I mean, even the physical strength it would take to lift an occupied wooden coffin out of a six-foot deep hole was beyond my imagination. Bizarre. That was the only word I could assign to January’s actions. Maybe my great grandfather wasn’t harmless, after all. I remembered January McNeal from another dream. He stood erect in a wooden wagon—long gray hair lifting in the wind— snapping reins over an old horse’s back, urging the mare up the rutted logging road behind my house. I could hear metal wagon wheels creaking, laboring to climb Fire Mountain. Now I wondered, what was lying under the black tarp in the bed of the wagon?

8

Outside the Methodist Church, sitting in the safety of my comfortable blue Subaru, I willed my racing heart to slow down. I’m a psychologist. I have experience with religious fanaticism, delusions, and schizophrenia—just not in my own family. First I’d learned Reba was descended from a West Indian slave, and now I find out January’s reality was marginally on this side of a Stephen King plot. I flipped the visor mirror down and stared at the slightly freckled face and pale green eyes. The person looking back from the mirror was somehow different. Did Reba give me my wavy hair? Whose eyes are those? Where did the seeds of January’s twisted logic grow in my soul?

My mind jumped to wondering what my son Luke would think if he knew about January and Reba. Of course, he has his secrets, too. Going blithely about the world masquerading as an employee of Acadian Oil, when I’m almost certain he works for some government agency, maybe even the CIA—God forbid. Still, I couldn’t envision introducing our McNeal ancestor to
him. I expect Luke would be embarrassed. Or, in his young and flippant way, he would be amused and tell his dad, my ex-husband—the super jock, know-it-all, Atlanta cop, R.B. Barnes— who’d say he always knew my whole family, including yours truly, was nuts. No, I certainly didn’t want to share anything I’d learned about January McNeal with Luke, or R.B. Barnes.

Then there was Fletcher Enloe. My heart began another wild tap dance. I was angry enough with him to spit nails. That old troublemaker had known about January all along. Why didn’t he tell me the whole story about my great grandfather and save me the humiliation of hearing the tale from a total stranger? You better believe I’d be asking him that question before the day was out. At the moment, I needed a friend, and chocolate, so I pulled my car out of the church parking lot and headed for Granny’s Store.

Just driving up in front of Granny’s made me feel better. Former owners who converted the barn to a general store left the wide, rough sawn siding when they remodeled, painting it a warm brown, reminiscent of the tobacco that once cured there. They added a porch and two large store front windows across the front, but left the chunky, speckled gray, native rock pillars elevating the four corners, giving the barn a big-eyed, russet chicken roosting in-the-dirt, kind of look. I liked it. Shushing sounds of the Little Tennessee River as it washed across sand and rocks met me as I crossed the gravel parking lot.

Too bad my foray into being a country shopkeeper wasn’t profitable because the comfort factor alone was worth thousands toward making me a happier
person. Just then, the Shoulda-Woulda-Coulda Girls Committee in my head reminded me I could not write checks to pay bills out of a comfort account. Sad, but true. For good luck, I gave the ancient, metal Nehi Orange sign hanging by the front door, a tap as I passed. The squeaking complaint from its rusty metal chain was a friendly and reassuring hello. I told the Girls Committee to take a hike down by the river and stepped inside Granny’s Store.

Other than Susan leaning over her laptop behind the checkout counter, the place was deserted. That was fine with me. I needed to talk in private. She smiled at me when I came in, and I felt better. “Hey there. You come to keep me company? Get yourself a cup of coffee. I just made it.”

I poured myself a cup, added extra cream, and took a giant sized Hershey’s bar from the shelf. “You want a chocolate?”

“No, too near lunch. Hey, did you see the Goddard twins driving in?”

“I bit into the sweet, melt in your mouth chocolate. Umm, good. “Lord no. I know you saw them recently at McDonald’s, but what were they doing in here? Did they bother you?”

Susan frowned. “Not likely. They know I keep a sawed off baseball bat under the counter. They were sweet as can be, which tells me they are up to no good. Bought all the D cell flashlight batteries, though.”

Over my coffee and the remainder of the chocolate bar, I recounted my visit with Mrs. Allen and explained I couldn’t be positive the little girl was real, because I hadn’t seen her. However my sense was
that Mrs. Allen did not show any signs of dementia, and I believed there was a little girl. Where she came from was another issue, because I also sensed Mrs. Allen was not telling the truth about the child being a relative, and was holding back some piece of information about the child. I didn’t mention Mrs. Allen and the burning kitchen chair. I don’t know why. I just didn’t.

Susan listened, her concern obvious. “I know Daddy, and all of us, will be glad if she’s not making up imaginary children. But still, that’s something weird going on when MaMa is so secretive about where the child came from. I vote we give her another few days, and if she doesn’t volunteer the truth, we go over there and confront her.”

I didn’t relish the idea of being part of a confrontational committee, though I agreed with Susan. Once we’d exhausted the subject of the mysterious child, I gave Susan the short version of everything I’d learned from Rev. Kolb and Mrs. Allen about my McNeal relatives in Perry County. Susan ran both hands through her close-cropped black hair, making the spikes she’d moussed in that morning stand straight up at attention. “Good Lord. That is really creepy. You must have been gobsmacked when old Rev. Kolb told you about the grave robbery.”

“I don’t know what gobsmacked means, but I probably was. Wait. Wasn’t a gobsmack one of those amazing candies from
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
?”

Susan rolled her eyes. “No, those were Gobstoppers. If you’re gobsmacked, it’s like somebody slapped you in the face with whatever it is you’re hearing.”

I nodded, glad we’d cleared up that bit of confusion, and Susan continued. “So, how do you feel about your great granddaddy maybe digging up his wife and child? Or about Reba being the granddaughter of a slave? Isn’t it amazing that MaMa Allen kept that letter all these years, like it was sitting in the suitcase waiting for you?”

Yes, amazing was one word for it.
How do I feel?
For the first time, I could empathize with my counseling clients. So many times over the years I’d asked the same question. It wasn’t an easy one to answer. I munched on the chocolate bar and thought for a few moments.

“Okay, here is the thing: I’m happy to know that my great grandmother Reba was raised by Joab and Enid Sorley. They seemed to have wanted her, and what was best for her. It’s like your MaMa Allen said to me, ‘family is who loves you and takes care of you.’ The slave part? That was so long ago that it seems strangely detached from me, and who I am. When I look in the mirror all I see are my Irish and English ancestors looking back at me, though I know Reba and her grandmother are there, somewhere. We are all an accumulation. Aren’t we?

“I don’t even have a name for Aiken Beauchamp’s mother…just that she was a mulatto woman, and a slave. I’d like to know her name. Not knowing seems to make her a non-person, and I don’t want to do that. She deserves more respect than being just ‘a mulatto woman.’ The thing that bothers me most about her is that, as a slave, she probably had no choice about the sexual partner that produced
Aiken Beauchamp. It’s hurtful to think that one of my white ancestors would force himself on a woman just because he could, yet I know that is the reality of history. Sure, history shows there were some partnerships between blacks and whites that were based on love, but not many. And were those truly equal relationships? I doubt it.” Thomas Jefferson, and the more recent Senator Strom Thurmond, came to mind.