Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “That’s right, Nate. Teach Earlyville the right way.”

  Rosen felt his heartbeat quicken, and his hand, as if an independent being, picked up the file and began thumbing through the pages. Reviewing the case, planning strategy—as always, he was excited by the battle ahead.

  He began to think aloud. “It could be a question of intent. These people, these serpent-handlers, aren’t using poisonous snakes with the intent of injuring themselves or anyone else. Are their actions any more dangerous than those of a race car driver who knowingly risks his life for a profit or a boxer who could well be killed in the ring? I wonder how many boxing fatalities there’ve been compared to people killed by snakes or strychnine . . . we’ll have to find out. Perhaps there’s even more than the ‘intent’ question. Do these people even think of what they’re doing as dangerous? If it’s the Lord’s will . . . Jesse, we’re going to need to talk to members of the congregation, especially those who were eyewitnesses to Friday’s events. We need to know exactly what happened.”

  Jesse said, “We can arrange that this evening. And maybe the tape will help.”

  “Tape? What do you mean?”

  Jesse reached into the top drawer and took out a cassette. “I taped the service as part of my research.”

  “What’re you, Richard Nixon? Why didn’t you tell me? Let’s hear it.”

  Rosen leaned close to the desk, while Jesse turned on the recorder. For the next hour Rosen listened intently to the service, trying to imagine, from the sounds of preaching and praying, what had gone on. At one point he heard a woman talking distinctly, yet in a language he couldn’t understand.

  “That’s Claire Hobbes,” Jesse said. “She was speaking in tongues.”

  Rosen felt the sweat beading on his forehead. There was something familiar about what he was hearing, something he refused to acknowledge. Not now. The case . . . concentrate on the case. Returning his attention to the tape, he heard the police siren and the police chief’s call for order. A few minutes later there was a loud bang, followed by a great commotion.

  Jesse said, “Chief Whitcomb hit a chair with the butt of his shotgun. Then the rattlesnake bit Lemuel Banks.”

  Leaning even closer Rosen listened until Reverend McCrae was led away, then replayed that part of the tape. He had Jesse carefully recount all the events after the police arrived.

  Finally, he sat back and rocked slowly while wiping his face with a handkerchief. “Those two kids downstairs, can you have them transcribe the tape now? I’ll also want them to take down and type what you’ve just told me.”

  “Of course, if you think it’s urgent. Is there anything else you need?”

  “Make an appointment with the district attorney for tomorrow morning. Then I’ll need to call the airport. I want to see if there’re any flights back to Washington tomorrow afternoon. My boss isn’t going to be happy about this, but at least you’ll impress the hell out of your girlfriend.

  “What do you mean?”

  Rosen sighed softly. “Jesse, you didn’t need me. This case is never going to trial.”

  Chapter Four

  sunday evening

  If patience was indeed a virtue, then Earlyville was preparing Rosen for sainthood. He had wanted to grab some fast food and see Reverend McCrae, but Jesse insisted upon cooking dinner. While Rosen browsed through the library downstairs and the two graduate students transcribed the serpent-handling tape, their host grilled chicken in the backyard. So heavy was the aroma of barbecue sauce, it could’ve been cut and served on a plate. When Jesse finally struck the dinner bell, he didn’t have to ring twice.

  They sat at a table on the porch. The students were both sandy-haired, freckled, and polite in a “please pass the potatoes” kind of way that Rosen rarely encountered. They spoke mostly of their work at the popular culture center. Tired and absorbed in his meal, he listened not so much to what they said but to how it was phrased. Their words came in the same gentle, earnest manner that he himself had used in yeshiva discussing the Talmud with his rabbi.

  Finishing his second helping of chicken and salad, Rosen said, “Best meal I’ve had in a long time!”

  Returning from the kitchen, Jesse placed a pecan pie on the table. “My aunt Harriet made it yesterday. She’s a blue ribbon winner at the county fair. I’m cutting all three of you a right nice slice. Don’t you insult my aunt by leaving any on your plate.”

  After the dishes were washed and stacked, Rosen said, “It’s six-thirty. Can we meet Reverend McCrae now?”

  “Just give me a few minutes to clean up.”

  A half hour later Jesse came downstairs, freshly shaved and smelling of cologne. He had changed into a burgundy cashmere sweater and gray slacks. “All set,” he said, smiling.

  The Porsche drove slowly through the campus, turned right on Jackson Street, and passed several blocks of nineteenth-century homes. Before each house stretched an emerald lawn with arching trees and neatly trimmed bushes. Everything was old yet looked new, like polished silver. Jesse nodded at one of the larger homes, a symmetrical two-story building with balcony and colonnades. At either end of the house was a white one-story addition, mostly full-length windows.

  “That’s Ben Hobbes’s place. It’s been in his family for at least a hundred years. Of course, around here that’s not particularly old. We passed his brother’s house on the last block. Not quite as big, but it’d do nicely for most folk.”

  They continued past the enormous First Baptist Church of Earlyville, its tall white columns resembling those of an ancient Greek temple. A series of shops led to the old county courthouse in the town square. More white columns, in front of a bell and clock tower, and in a corner of the square, the statue of a lone Confederate soldier pointed his rifle north.

  Jesse said, “The statue’s supposedly modeled after my great-grandfather, who saved the town from Yankee marauders during that late unpleasantness between the states.”

  “You mean the Civil War?”

  “Hush now, you want to get lynched?”

  Jesse swung the car past another dozen stores, continuing on Jackson, until a half mile later the houses hunched closer together and peeling wood replaced polished brick.

  Rosen said, “I take it that Reverend McCrae isn’t one of Earlyville’s wealthier citizens.”

  Jesse shook his head. “He’s probably dirt-poor, or mighty close to it. We talked for a few minutes yesterday after the hearing. He’s originally from West Virginia and, like a lot of mountain folk, moved here to make a living. He worked in Nashville doing some carpentry, then came here and got a job in the furniture factory. Some of his church people moved along with him; others joined the congregation in Nashville or here in town.”

  “Ben Hobbes’s wife?”

  “I believe she’s from Nashville.”

  They passed small slat houses. Men in rocking chairs smoked on the front porches and women hung laundry, while their children swung in tires roped over old tree limbs or played kick-the-can with neighborhood dogs. Crossing the highway, they drove into a large development of modest town homes, four to a building, each with a postage-stamp lawn decorated with flower pots and wind chimes. Jesse parked in front of the second building, where a solitary pink flamingo tilted as if nursing a broken wing.

  “Reverend McCrae lives around the corner,” Jesse said, getting out of the car. “This is a state housing project built about twenty years ago. Folks here nicknamed it the Last Resort but keep up the place pretty well. Since we’re in the neighborhood, I thought we’d visit Aunt Emily.”

  “Are we going to have enough time to interview McCrae?”

  “This’ll just take a minute. Aunt Emily’d never forgive me for being so close and not stopping by.”

  The door was answered by a stout old black woman who wore a brightly colored dress and a matching scarf around her head. Pulling Jesse inside, she hugged him tightly.

  “’Bout time you come visit. Been over a month since I seen you last. Sit yourse
lf down.”

  The living room was taken up by a vinyl orange couch, a coffee table, and two chairs. A few Woolworth landscapes decorated the wall, as did a framed newspaper photograph of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Jesse sat on the couch, and Rosen took a chair.

  Jesse said, “This is Nate Rosen from Washington, D.C. We went to law school together in Chicago. Aunt Emily took care of me up until the time I went away to school.”

  “And a more troublesome child I never want to meet,” she said, then laughed. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Rosen. You all just hold on a second.” She walked slowly into the kitchen.

  “Aunt Emily was with my family for over forty years. Raised three of her own kids—two are teachers and one’s a bank officer. She always called me her fourth and biggest problem child.”

  Aunt Emily returned with a tray of lemonade and cookies. She placed them on the coffee table and settled on the couch beside Jesse. “My grandchillen was here last week, so look what I got. Still your favorite . . . them Oreos with the double fillings.”

  “We just had some pecan pie. I’m afraid I’m full up.”

  “Skinny thing like you! Why, Mr. Rosen, I was ashamed to admit caring for this child, thin as an old rooster chased outta the hen house.”

  They laughed, and Aunt Emily said, “You, too, Mr. Rosen. Not much meat on them bones. You ain’t got no call to be shy.”

  He took the lemonade and a cookie. “You have a very nice home.”

  “Thank you. This whole development was started by the government. Coulda bought an old house closer to town but who’d wanna be messin’ with everything that’d need fixin’? Besides, I always wanted somethin’ that wasn’t a hand-me-down, somethin’ brand-new.”

  “I understand that Reverend McCrae is one of your neighbors.”

  Her brow crinkled. “You talkin’ ’bout the snake man? Yeah, he musta bought the place from Lettie Baines’s family, after old Lettie died. You remember her, Jesse? Her daddy run that fillin’ station on Crockett.”

  Rosen asked, “What kind of man is McCrae?”

  “Don’t know and don’t wanna know. Tell you one thing. If he come ’round here with them rattlesnakes, I’d be hollerin’ for help from the roof. What kind a’ man calls hisself a Christian and be temptin’ God like that?”

  Rosen looked into his lemonade. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Man like him gimme the willies. That daughter of his, though, sure’s pretty enough. I see her walkin’ to Burger King or sometimes drivin’ her daddy’s beat-up ol’ car.”

  The color rose in Jesse’s cheeks as he said between bites, “She must have lots of boyfriends.”

  Aunt Emily winked. “Sometimes in the evenin’ sittin’ on my back porch, I seen the girl sneakin’ out her back door. Down the block somebody musta’ come pick her up.”

  Rosen asked, “Why do you think she was sneaking around?”

  “Ain’t hard to understand with a daddy crazy as hers. ’Sides, you expect the girl to invite her boyfriend inside with all them snakes crawlin’ around?” Aunt Emily shivered. “Told my grandchillen to stay far away from that house. Rattlesnakes—the very idea!”

  “Has Reverend McCrae caused any disturbances in the neighborhood?”

  “Man keeps pretty much to hisself. But you musta heard about that poor boy who was bit the other day. Radio said he wouldn’t go to no doctor. Just prayin’ for a cure. Like the Lord’s gonna waste His time lissenin’ to some fool who ain’t got sense enough to stay away from rattlers in the first place. And this McCrae calls hisself a man a’ God.”

  “Have you ever seen him with the snakes?”

  “Lord have mercy! I tol’ you nobody’d get close enough to me with them devilish things! You sure is askin’ a lotta questions. You ain’t one a’ them snake people?”

  Jesse said, “No, Aunt Emily. Mr. Rosen is Jewish.”

  “Jewish?” She crinkled her brow. “Like that Mrs. Shapiro who owned the clothes store in town, then died and done give away all her money to the county orphanage?”

  “That’s right.”

  “She was a good old woman. Come from Russia or some such place. Wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with no snakes, you hear me!”

  “It’s all right, Aunt Emily. You just calm yourself.”

  “I am calm! You ain’t havin’ any dealin’s with the snake man, is ya?”

  “We just need to see him for a few minutes on legal business.”

  “Legal business? ’Bout gettin’ rid a’ them snakes, I hope.”

  “Don’t worry. You know I’d never let anything happen to you. Now, what’s this I hear about Miss Simms telling her nieces to go to blazes?”

  For the next fifteen minutes, Jesse gossiped with Aunt Emily about old friends and relations, moving so easily between living and dead that Rosen wasn’t sure which was which. Births were mentioned, baptisms, marriages, and funerals; everything seemed recorded in some great magical town Bible that all the residents, like Jesse and Aunt Emily, had memorized. As he had at dinner, Rosen remembered long ago studying with his rabbi and how the old man would speak of Hillel, Rashi, and other great sages of the past, as if at that very moment they sat around the table sharing their wisdom. And so, settling back in his chair and sipping the lemonade, Rosen listened to the wisdom of Aunt Emily.

  Finally Jesse glanced at his watch. “Eight o’clock already? We best be going. Still have that business with your neighbor to take care of. I’ll come again real soon. I promise.”

  “See that you do,” Aunt Emily said, “and bring this nice man with you.”

  As they left her house, the sun was just setting. Rosen yawned and stretched, enjoying the cool evening breeze against his face.

  Jesse said, “Let’s walk. After pecan pie and cookies, I could use the exercise.”

  Approaching the corner, Rosen saw the curb crowded with automobiles, mostly old “beaters” with bumper stickers proclaiming: honk if you love jesus. A lone police car was parked in front of a fire hydrant. Three men lounged on the steps of the second town house. They looked like a Norman Rockwell painting in their flannel shirts rolled to the elbows and baggy gray work pants. They were speaking softly to one another about the best signs under which to harvest corn, as they nodded politely and moved aside for Rosen and his companion.

  The living room, similar in size and furnishings to Aunt Emily’s, was crowded with people of all ages. A crying toddler was taken up by the nearest woman, petted, and cooed, then passed along to someone else. A platter of sandwiches nearly filled the coffee table, which also offered boxes of cookies and lemon squares. Standing beside the coffee urn, a young policeman carefully balanced a pyramid of chocolate chip cookies on his paper plate.

  Jesse said, “Deputy Pete Higgins, this is my friend Nate Rosen. Is Lemuel Banks getting any better from the snakebite?”

  The policeman chewed thoughtfully. “Time and the Lord will tell. He’s pretty much the same as yesterday. Here, you all got to try one of these cookies. Miss Ann Hensley, daughter of Jake, the hardware store owner, baked them.”

  Jesse took one and handed another to Rosen.

  “Umm,” Jesse said, “tastes so good it must be a sin. We’d like to see Reverend McCrae. It’s real important.”

  “He and a few others are with Lem in the Reverend’s bedroom. Go ahead—last room on the right.”

  Rosen asked, “All these people members of the congregation?”

  The policeman nodded.

  “How have they been acting?”

  “Like normal folk worrying about one of their own.” He lowered his voice. “I didn’t want Chief Whitcomb sending me over here. Didn’t know if some rattler’d be popping out of the sugar canister like one of them peanut brittle joke cans. But everything’s been right civilized so far. Still and all, I’m chewing my food real careful.”

  Rosen and Jesse squeezed through the hallway and stopped at the bedroom door. Heads bowed, three men and a young woman stood around the bed. Neare
st the headboard, a broad-shouldered man with thick black hair and a square jaw led the others in prayer.

  “. . . and that, if it be Your will, to make the bite on Brother Lemuel’s shoulder as harmless as the viper’s that fastened onto the hand of Paul. For he shook it into the fire ’n’ felt no harm.”

  “Amen,” the others said.

  “For Brother Lemuel has shown that same love and tried his best to walk in the path of our Lord Jesus.”

  “Amen.” One of the other men, much older, added, “Praise the Lord and His mercy.”

  While the prayers continued, Jesse whispered to Rosen, “The man praying is Reverend McCrae. That’s his daughter, Bathsheba. Old fella’s named Tucker. Don’t know the third man.”

  Rosen stepped closer to the bed and, over the woman’s shoulder, saw Lem’s walnut-colored face. His hair was plastered against his head, his eyelids half-closed, his mouth twisted into a grimace, teeth biting into his lower lip. A heavy woolen blanket covered Lem up to his armpits. His upper body was naked, and the wound in his right shoulder was black and swollen.

  Soon the small congregation said a final “Amen,” and Bathsheba wiped Lem’s face with a cool damp cloth.

  Jesse asked, “How’s he doing?”

  The old man said, “I seen a lot worse. It’s the Lord’s will, but I believe the boy will pull through.”

  “That’s real good to hear. Reverend, this is the attorney I spoke to you about—my friend Nate Rosen.”

  They shook hands; McCrae had a powerful grip. He looked Rosen straight in the eyes and, unlike most people, didn’t smile. He was sizing up Rosen at the same moment he was being judged.

  After a long moment, McCrae turned to introduce the others. Nodding shyly, Bathsheba stepped back. She was a beautiful woman, and despite her shapeless dress, Rosen guessed that her figure was striking. Easy to see why Jesse was attracted to her and, considering her surroundings, why he wanted his feeling to remain a secret. Rosen wondered if the attraction was mutual; was she even aware of Jesse? He saw no word or gesture pass between them.