About
This Novel; Chapter 1 ; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6; Chapter 7; Chapter 8; Chapter 9; Chapter
10; Chapter
11;
Chapter
12;
Chapter
13; Chapter
14
1980
Louella sat at the head of the hotel bed. Her feet on the
floor, she hunched into the light of the bedside lamp. Her finger
circled the face of the telephone until she located the zero. She spun the dial and waited until she heard
the voice of the operator. “I’d like to
place a collect call, please” she said.
A minute later, Lydia was on the other end of the line.
“It’s not
working out,” Louella said in a shaking voice.
“You just
started,” Lydia said. She sounded calm, relaxed, and distant. Like she was reading in bed.
“I know,
but it isn’t what I thought it would be,” Louella said. She twisted the telephone cord around her
wrist.
“Nothing
is.”
“I just
need your support right now, I guess.”
She plucked a loose string out of the bedspread and laid it on the
bedside table at the base of the lamp.
“I am
supporting you,” Lydia said. “If you
want to come on home you can, but you owe it to yourself to at least explore
the possibility…”
“I know,
but the people here…”
“What
people? The lawyer?”
“Well, yes,
Melvin thinks he’s the next Paul Newman, but it’s not just him. It’s everybody. I can almost see their minds calculating new
ways to exploit my being here.”
“How?”
Lydia asked. “You aren’t the type to
throw money around.”
“They don't know that. They think I’m the free money dispensary.
Either that or they think I’m going to write them into my book, and
somehow that will somehow transform them into an international celebrity.”
“Like
who? Oliver Twist?”
Louella
kicked off her shoes. “Exactly. There is no basis in reality. Most of the people in this county have never
even read a book, but everywhere I go, whether it’s in the field doing research
or at the mayor’s dinner party, everyone thinks I can make their lives more
glamorous through the magic of typing.”
She lifted her feet unto the bed and lay down, facing the telephone. “It’s ridiculous.”
“Why would
anyone want to be famous in the first place?” Lydia asked.
“Everyone
pestering you for autographs,” Louella said, “as if your name on a piece of
paper carried in value. What do they
even do with them?”
“Keep them
in a scrapbook maybe?”
“Or on a
bookshelf,” Louella said, “next to the other books they’ve never read.”
“It’s just
something people do,” said Lydia.
“Why do
they think it would be nice to be recognized all the time, to never be able
to walk down the street in public without having some stranger accost them, to
never be able to sit in a coffee house and chat with a friend without being
interrupted, and to have their anonymity and privacy stripped away for the amusement
of people who, when it comes down to it, don’t care a fig about them?”
“Oh, Honey,
I think you’re just homesick.”
Louella
turned on her other side, away from the phone.
“Well yes, I suppose so. Don’t
you miss me?”
“Of course
I do.”
“But you
don’t want me to come home.”
“Of course
I want you to come home, but you just got started. You need to see where this takes you.”
“This afternoon
it’s taking me to meet a convicted murderer.”
“You’re
going to a jail?” Lydia asked.
“No, a
funeral home.” Louella imagined a
question mark appearing over Lydia’s head.
“He got early release for good behavior.”
“Is Jim
going with you?”
“No, he has
to work.”
“What about
Melvin?”
“It’s just
going to be little old me.” Louella
smiled. “Why,” she asked. “Are you worried about me?”
“No,” Lydia laughed. “I’m worried about him.”
* * *
Louella
entered the lobby of the funeral home and padded across dark blue carpet in
tennis shoes that sank into its thickness.
A large silent man sat on a stool behind the counter, looking as if he’d
rather be some place else.
“Good
morning,” Louella said.
The man
behind the counter offered a blank, if not overtly menacing stare, but said
nothing.
“I have an
appointment to meet with the funeral director, Mr. Johnson.”
At last,
the man stood up and turned his back to Louella. “This way,” he said in a bored tone of voice. He led her down a darkened hallway to a conference
area, where he left her in one of six foldout metal chairs situated around a
long oak table in the center of the room.
The room
held a distinct odor. Formaldehyde
maybe. The floor was covered in the same
blue carpet as the lobby. The walls were
completely bare. Not even a painting of
Jesus. Off to one corner was a
chest-high, elbow-shaped bar.
“That’s
odd,” Louella muttered to herself. She
stood and went over and peered behind the bar.
She found it stocked with an assortment of liquor bottles including
bourbon, gin, vodka, vermouth…
“Can I pour
you a drink?”
Louella
turned suddenly, holding her hand to heart.
“Sorry, I
didn’t mean to startle you.” A man stood
across the table from her, a smile affixed to his face. He appeared to be in his forties or early
fifties. He had patches of gray in his
hair. He was about six feet tall, clean
shaven, and dressed in a rumpled black suit.
The smile told her he was the funeral director.
“Mr.
Johnson, I presume.”
Ernie came
came around the table holding out his hand.
“And you must be Ms. Harper. I am
so excited to have you here.”
Louella
took his hand cordially. “I suppose it’s
nice to be wanted.”
Ernie
motioned for her to sit. “Did you want
that drink?”
“I couldn’t
possibly,” Louella said. “It’s much too
early for me. Ask me again in five
minutes.”
Ernie threw
his head back as if to laugh, but no sound came from his throat. “We’ll talk then,” he said. He took a seat at the head of the table. Louella sat to his left. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Well,”
Louella began. She opened the satchel
resting on her lap, and removed a legal pad.
“I’m in town researching a book about a man you may know.” She placed the pad and a pencil on the table
in front of her.
“I know why
you’re here, Ms. Harper, and I’d love to help you.”
“You would?”
“Yes, of course," Ernie said. "I knew the Reverend quite well. As well as anyone could have known him. In fact, due to the nature of my business, I
know just about everyone in town. I’m
kind of a lightning rod for the community.”
“Is that
how you would describe yourself?”
“Ask anyone
in town,” Ernie said. “I’ll introduce
you to the Reverend’s wife Cassandra. That’s
his third wife. I knew his other wives
too—I buried them—and I know the rest of the family. Now, these are people who might not be open
to questions from outsiders, but they’ll talk to you if I tell them to.”
“Would
they?”
“Oh,
yes. And I would be happy to facilitate
meetings with all of them… for a consideration.”
Louella
eyed the man for a few seconds after he finished speaking. She picked up her pencil and began tapping
the pad with the eraser. “How is it that
you have so much control that you can… facilitate all these meetings?”
“As I
explained, my business allows me to meet a diverse group of individuals, and,
well, the Reverend’s… activities… all seemed to require my services.”
Again,
Louella stared at him for a few seconds after he completed his sentence. “If you don’t mind me asking, when you refer
to your business, are you talking about the mortuary or the criminal
organization you run?”
Ernie, who
had been leaning toward her, recoiled.
“I am a funeral director,” he said softly. “I’m a business man. A respected member of the community.”
“But you
also went to jail for murder?”
Instead of
looking at her, his face drifted off to the side. “I never committed any murder.”
“No, you
had someone else do it for you. I
understand you also distribute narcotics and run all of the illegal gambling
operations in town.”
“I think
someone has been telling you lies.”
“So you
weren’t connected to the shotgun murders in 1957 for which you were arrested,
but,” she flipped open the legal pad and examined a page of text, “the charges
were dropped after two of the witnesses became violently ill and had to be
rushed to the hospital.” She looked up
at Ernie. “They later refused to
testify.”
“You’re
making a very big mistake.”
“Mr.
Johnson,” Louella said. She looked him
right in the eyes. “You may run the
illegal activities in this town, but you don’t frighten me.”
No comments:
Post a Comment