FROM EAR TO EAR
It was a fearful gash, deep, wide and long enough to have killed the unfortunate man on the instant of its commission. From the bloody head and face and neck of the victim a distinct stream of blood had flowed towards the pavement …
THE STORY OF THE CRIME
From early in the evening there was a number of young men … at the northwest corner of Spring street and King street. Among them were William Munzenmaier, O. Weir, Mervin Johnson, Blodgett Baker … and the young men already mentioned. Some of them were playing cards and in the course of the game one of the party slapped and crushed a fellow player’s hat. This crushing was done by either Weir or Johnson, whereupon Munzenmaier interfered in a friendly way, and said that one friend should not treat another in that way. Both men resented this interference, but before anything looking to a row had taken place the proprietors announced that they had to close the store. This must have been within a few minutes of midnight … There was a good deal of bickering going on when the party went out but nothing which would warrant so serious a result. The whole party then started down King street. Munzenmaier and Johnson and Weir and Baker were well together and as to the rest, some were ahead and some behind. They then began throwing bricks at each other, Weir’s friends … trying to hit Munzenmaier and Munzenmaier’s friends trying to hit Weir. This was kept up until the party reached the spot where Munzenmaier was killed. “Just here there was an indiscriminate melee. I saw Weir with a knife—it might have been a razor … He had it out, and just then Baker picked up a brick and Munzenmaier hit him in the jaw, and then this fellow Baker went off. I heard somebody say: ‘Did you draw a knife on me?’ Another man said, ‘Yes, I did.’ Then Weir said, ‘———’ and then he jugged him.”
“Who jugged him?”
“Weir cut Munzenmaier’s throat, sir, with a knife or a razor, but I saw him do it. I was standing right beside Billy, (Munzenmaier,) and he turned towards me as he fell and the blood spurted out of his throat. Weir then ran off and I halloeed to the boys ‘He killed him,’ and we all took after him. He didn’t run far. We all reached him together. He fell down and we all fell on him in a heap. I think he had the razor in his hand when we fell on him.”
—THE NEWS AND COURIER, MARCH 10, 1889
34.
March 12, 1889. Charleston
IT’S JUST PAST nine o’clock in the morning. Hélène stands on the sidewalk on Broad Street. It’s chilly, the shadows are still long and cool. She shivers, lifts one foot, and presses it against her ankle, for warmth.
She’s just left the children at Miss Smith’s, standing in the arched doorway, letting go their hands, loosing them into the stream of children surging inside. Ethel’s face was still set in aggrievement over losing her books. She’d found them, of course, and now holds them tightly against her chest, but her eyebrows are raised plaintively as though she’d somehow been the victim. Because of this they’d had to take the streetcar, and she’d had to ask her parents for the fare.
Hélène has no patience with Ethel, who should have put the books out the night before, as Warrington does. Hélène prefers Warrington and so does Madame Dawson. Ethel should not believe, just because she’s the elder, that she is better than her brother. She is not.
* * *
HÉLÈNE’S WAITING FOR the red streetcar, which McDow will board farther uptown. He’d reminded her of this last night, asking her if she knew the instructions, as though she were a child.
“Now, which car do you take?” he asked. They were in his garden, at the back, just inside his gate.
“The red,” she said, “the red car.”
He put his arm around her waist and gave her a hard squeeze.
“Keep that watch wound up.” He nuzzled against her face. His nose was unpleasantly wet, and she drew back. “Is it wound up tight?”
“Yes,” Hélène said.
“Tight,” he said, pulling her close.
“Yes.” She let him hold her close at the waist but leaned back from his face.
He looked around in the darkness, as though someone was watching.
“Make sure you’re on it.” He tugged her waist close again.
Now she sees the red tramcar approaching, the big horses nodding patiently with each step, the car rolling smoothly along the metal tracks. Hélène raises her hand to hail it and steps off the curb into the street. She’s aware of her body against the fresh morning air. Her dress is black jersey, a tight bodice with a white ruffle at the neck. Over this is a silky black cloak. Men pass by, in carriages, along the sidewalk. She feels their gazes. A man in a bowler hat is standing behind her, waiting for the car. She’s aware of him. He’s been looking at her, but she doesn’t look at him. She looks only at the approaching car. Her new boots lace tightly over her instep, clasping her ankles.
She takes a seat in the middle of the car. It’s empty except for two other people: an old man at the very front by the conductor, and a young woman halfway down, her face turned to the window. The man in the bowler moves to the back. Hélène sits very straight, like a princess. She knows that men look at her. She crosses her feet neatly, feeling them enhanced by the new boots. She settles the full dark sweep of her skirts. The car starts off. At the next stop the old man gets off. Hélène watches for McDow. He wants to take her somewhere.
Once he’d insisted on going out to the Dawsons’ kitchen building, where the servants live. He wanted to see the rooms upstairs. Hélène took him to the cook’s bedroom, but as soon as they stepped inside McDow put his arm around her and tried to kiss her. She turned her face aside and slid out of his embrace. All the servants knew she was up there. She could feel them downstairs, listening. She stepped away from him.
“Here it is. You see?” She waved her hand over the narrow bed, the chest of drawers. McDow looked at the bed.
“My own is much nicer,” Hélène said. “In the family house.”
“I’d like to see that,” McDow said, coming close to her. Stepping toward her he stubbed his boot into her new shoe and she stepped back.
“Ah, no,” she said, shaking her head. “You may not come there. The Dawsons’ rooms are next to mine. And the children.”
“I wouldn’t make a sound,” McDow said. He wanted her body in his hands, he wanted to press his fingers against her cushiony flesh and feel it spring back, but she stepped away and moved to the doorway.
“We must go down,” she said.
He stared at her, angry, but she shook her head. He had to walk past her as she stood in the doorway.
Now Hélène sees McDow out the window. He’s on the sidewalk, waiting. When he gets on the car he doesn’t look at her but moves toward the back. He nods to the man in the bowler hat. They talk, polite, desultory. McDow turns once, glancing at Hélène, but makes no sign. The car rumbles along, clicking and shifting on its metal tracks. McDow strokes his mustache, then leans back in his seat. He rubs his hands on his thighs. He doesn’t look at Hélène.
They’re going north. The buildings become smaller and farther apart, shabbier. They’ve long since passed Bull Street. The other woman has gotten off; only Hélène and McDow and the bowler man are left. McDow stares moodily at the street outside. She knows something is wrong.
Hélène stands to pull the checkrein, strung through loops along the wall. The bell rings, the car comes to a halt. She doesn’t know the street, doesn’t know the neighborhood. Hélène steps down without looking at McDow. From the corner of her eye she sees him getting out on the other side. He starts walking along the street, away from her. She follows, on her side.
He’s walking fast and wildly. She hurries to keep up. He turns at the corner and she follows. She doesn’t know this neighborhood, which is colored. McDow stops and she comes up to him in front of a big white church. It looms over them, tall blank pointed windows and high walls.
McDow is scowling. “We’ve been seen,” he says accusingly, as she comes up.
“We are not seen,” Hélèn
e says, looking around. “There is no one.”
“Don’t speak to me,” McDow says.
“You are speaking to me,” Hélène points out.
They’re in a remote part of town. There’s no point here in her beautiful soft black jersey, the new boots. There are no well-dressed businessmen walking past to see her. She feels wasted.
“That man on the car is a detective. His name is Dunn.” McDow is hissing. “I know him. He’s seen us.” His eyes are wild.
He turns and walks away again. She hurries after him.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
He stops. “I’ve told you not to speak to me,” he hisses, then turns away again. They go on for another block, nearly running. The new boots are beginning to hurt, the right one especially. It chafes at the toe.
A buggy is approaching, driven by a middle-aged white man. McDow turns suddenly off the sidewalk and grabs Hélène’s hand. He pulls her through a little gate and into a messy yard with an unpainted fence. The house is small and shabby, with a tin roof. A magnolia tree towers over it. A dirt path leads through the weedy grass to the house.
“Why do we go in here?” Hélène pulls her hand away.
“We can’t stay on the street.” McDow looks furtively back at the buggy.
“We are not on the street,” Hélène says. “What do we do here?”
Two colored children are playing at the edge of the porch. They stop to watch. An elderly woman steps out, holding a shawl around her shoulders. She’s lean and bony, long-jawed and fierce-eyed.
McDow walks up the dirt path. The woman watches him, unsmiling. “Morning, maum,” he says.
She nods, her eyes narrowed. Her skin is like soft coal.
“I wonder if you could let us come inside.” McDow’s voice is low, persuasive. “Just step inside for a few minutes.”
The woman narrows her eyes more. “Why you want to step inside?”
“There’s a man after us,” McDow says, keeping his voice low.
The woman looks past him to the street. The horse and buggy are nearing.
“No, sir,” she says.
“Just for a little time,” McDow repeats, and takes a step toward her. She shakes her head. Another older woman comes out from the doorway. She’s unsmiling. McDow turns to look toward the street. The driver glances in at them as the buggy goes by. McDow turns again to the woman.
McDow keeps his voice low, but the woman’s voice rises.
“No, sir, you can’t come in here,” she says. “That’s all.” She juts out her long chin.
McDow turns away and pushes past Hélène, grabbing her hand again. The woman stands on the porch, watching them leave. The children stare, motionless. McDow pulls her out onto the sidewalk.
On the street Hélène pulls her hand away.
“The scandal has begun,” McDow says.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Hélène says.
“It seems that everyone I know in Charleston happens to have seen us this morning,” he says. “That man in the buggy is a doctor called Melville. He knows my father. He saw us. And so did the detective on the car. It’s just my luck.”
He’s furious. He looks up and down the street. On the next block sits a groundnut woman, her baskets spread around her on the sidewalk. Standing before her is the man with the black bowler hat, face turned away.
“He’s here!” McDow says, whispering. He makes a fist and shakes it, close to his chest. “That’s Dunn, the detective. And I know who sent him: Dawson. I know what’s going on. Dawson has done all this. I’d like to beat him to a pulp. If I were younger I’d beat them all to a pulp.”
He makes a strange gesture with his mouth, opening his lips to bare his teeth. His lower teeth are irregular, like an animal’s. The cords in his thin neck stand out.
The baring of the teeth bothers her. Wildness comes from him like a smell.
“I’ll beat them all bloody.” His words are slurred. “I’ll do them all in. I’ll do him in, Dawson.” He’s half smiling, excited. Something lights him up inside.
Hélène turns and starts walking back toward Rutledge. He’s frightening her.
He comes after her. “Where are you going?”
“Home,” she says. She keeps walking.
At Rutledge she waits for the car. When it comes they both get on, but sit separately. She tucks her feet beneath her and smooths her skirts down over her legs so they cover her new boots. Her toe throbs. She hears him talking to himself. At first he whispers, and she strains to hear, then his voice gets louder and louder.
“Just my luck,” he says, looking up and down the car. “Everyone I know in Charleston is out on the street today. Just my luck.” He rubs his hands on his thighs. “I know who it is, it’s Dawson.” He shakes his head in a loose, strange way. “I’ll do him in,” he says, dropping his voice to an whisper. “I won’t stand for it.” He looks up at the front of the car, his head held oddly low. “I have the right to go where I want with my friends. I won’t stand for this.” He shakes his head. “I’ll do him in.” This makes him feel better and he nods. He looks straight at Hélène. “You know what that means?”
She turns away and looks out the window. Do him in. She thinks she does know.
It’s quarter to ten in the morning.
* * *
FRANK AND SARAH are late coming down to breakfast.
The children have left for school, Hélène’s not yet back. In the dining room the sunlight sifts in through the leaves outside. The crystal grapes—clear, soft amber, pale amethyst—catch the light. Jane comes in with the breakfast tray. Her boots creak, and when she turns her back to set down the tray Dawson looks at Sarah and raises his eyebrows. Sarah ignores him.
“The nurseryman is coming with the trees today,” Sarah reminds him.
“Well done,” Dawson says. “And my palmetto.”
“Which will make you a real Charlestonian.”
“If I’m not one by now, I’ll never be,” Dawson says.
“Which reminds me of the portrait of you,” says Sarah. “Is that artist here yet? Landon? That’s what I want for my birthday.”
“I forgot to tell you,” he says. “If you still want it, the sitting will have to be today. Landon will only be in Charleston a few days.”
“I do want it,” she says. “I want to hang it there.” She points at the wall over the sideboard. “Where my father’s was in our dining room.”
“And what about a portrait of you?”
She shakes her head, smiling. “I’d rather die.”
“You set up a drastic choice,” he says. “I’m not so adamant. But if you want this you must make me do it. Come and pick me up at three. You must carry me off, no matter what I say. I’ll tell you I can’t, I’m too busy, but you must tell me I promised.”
“I’ll be fierce,” she says. “Adamant.”
Outside, the gravel crunches under the phaeton wheels. Isaac is driving down the driveway to wait for them on the street. It’s after ten, and Sarah leaves to get her hat and cloak. Hélène is just coming in the front door, and follows her upstairs to her room.
Sarah takes her cloak from the armoire. “You’re late again,” Sarah says in French.
Hélène raises her eyebrows. “Madame?”
“The children are due at school before nine. The trip takes less than twenty minutes. You should be home by quarter past nine. Twenty past at the latest.” She looks at her watch. “It’s after ten.”
“Does Madame think I am late?” Hélène asks, meek.
“I think you are sometimes,” says Sarah. “I think you must stop.”
“I only go to the school and back,” Hélène says. “But you won’t need to say this to me again, Madame.” Her eyes are full of something.
Sarah turns to her. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, Madame,” Hélène says. “Do you think there is something wrong?”
“Obviously there is,” Sarah says, but she has no time n
ow to talk. She stands before the mirror and settles her hat over the mass of her hair. She brings the veil down over her face; it makes a shadowy scrim against her skin. She pulls it taut and draws the long ends behind her neck.
“Let me help you.” Standing behind her, Hélène takes the long ends and ties them at the nape of Sarah’s neck. Hélène watches Sarah in the mirror. Sarah watches herself. Hélène makes a loose bow, then tucks the ends neatly into the collar of Sarah’s cloak.
“Voilà,” Hélène says, looking at her in the mirror. “Madame est très chic.”
“Perfect. Thank you.” Sarah smiles at her. Hélène is young, and far from home. Perhaps she’s being too hard on her.
Sarah starts down to Frank. Usually Hélène walks Sarah out to the carriage, but now Hélène stops at the top of the stairs. Frank waits at the foot.
“Do you want me to come?” Hélène calls, not moving.
Sarah, now feeling guilty, calls, “No, no, you needn’t.”
Frank reaches out to take her hand. She’d fallen once, they’d fallen together, from the top of the stairs. The two of them thudding horribly down, and he’d been so frightened for her spine. Now she reaches the bottom and smiles at him.
“Is Hélène coming?” he asks, looking upstairs.
“I told her she needn’t.”
“Then I’d like your help. I want to take some books to the office.” They each carry a stack to the carriage. They’re in the phaeton today; Sarah has errands to run.
As they set off Dawson says, “I haven’t seen Hélène in days. I feel as if she’s hiding. Is something wrong?”
“Maybe she’s embarrassed,” says Sarah. “I told her she takes too long coming home from school.”
“What did she say?” Dawson turns to look at her.
“That she only goes there and back,” says Sarah. “She promised not to be late again.”
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