The Hollows--A Novel

by Jess Montgomery

  “I can give them back; I told Hildy that—” Helen claps her hand to her mouth.

  “That doesn’t undo the original thievery,” Lily says. “Though if you would tell us who the nurses are, I’m guessing Chief here wouldn’t press charges”—he opens his mouth as if to protest, and shuts it again at Lily’s hard look—“and Dr. Harkins might be persuaded to let you keep your job—”

  “Well, on probation,” Dr. Harkins says. “We do have our reputation to consider.”

  For a moment, Helen stops sobbing. She’s thinking about it. Lily’s heart lifts: if she can talk to those two, find out if they can tell what happened that night at the meeting to Thea—

  Helen looks down. Shakes her head. “I—I can’t.”

  It’s not that Helen can’t, Lily realizes. She won’t. She is so afraid of these two nurses, of the hate that might push them and other WKKK members to take revenge on Helen, that she’d rather lose her job and go to jail for theft.

  Lily stands up, pushing her chair from behind her so hard that it scrapes the wood floor. She’ll have to accept never finding out who those two nurses are. She strides to the door.

  “Sheriff Ross,” Chief Warren says.

  She turns and looks at him.

  His expression is surprisingly sympathetic and concerned. “You can still rule Miss Kincaide’s death accidental.”

  Lily stares at him until he looks down. Then she says, “Not until I’m sure it was.”

  * * *

  In the old garden, Lily stares at the moss-specked, chipped statue of the woman with the urn in the fountain. Lily’d swept leaves off a bench, the back half of it covered by overgrowing bushes, so she could sit. Let the cool October breeze refresh and calm her. Think.

  She will have to find another way to prove that, though suffering from dementia, Thea Kincaide had motivation to make the trek to the WKKK meeting at the former Dyer farm.

  There’s Helen’s confession to Hildy—the threat against Clarence.

  The attack on Olive.

  Thea’s own writings in her autobiography—but she’d written her memories later in life, so the argument could be made that her writings, as articulate as they are, were also the “delusions of an old woman.”

  But if her writings were correct, then with everything else Lily’s learned, two interesting facts stand out.

  Thea believed her uncle had killed her father, besetting his wagon with a gang of thugs, sending the escaped, pregnant slave Garnet scrambling away with Thea. If that was the case—and Thea had in a moment of clarity recognized and confronted Mrs. Cooper at the WKKK meeting—then would Mrs. Cooper have motivation to attack, even kill, Thea?

  Just as intriguing, Thea’s writings revealed that she’d taken Garnet’s baby to the Dyer house after Garnet died, then maneuvered to work at the Dyer household and watch over that baby. Lily had already noted that the dates on the Dyer gravestones—Murphy born in 1856, to a mother who was sickly, never had children, and yet had given birth at fifty-one.

  That would make Murphy either fully Negro or half Negro and half Caucasian. Which would make Murphy’s son—Perry—of mixed race as well.

  If Thea had revealed this at the WKKK meeting, would it have enraged Margaret—or, for that matter, Perry—enough to kill her?

  Lily needs more support for these possibilities than Thea’s writings and her own conjecture.

  She needs to find the remains of Garnet.

  LILY

  Saturday, October 2—11:30 a.m.

  “I need to see the cave on your property.” Lily keeps her voice as close to honey as she can.

  Anna Faye shakes her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She starts to shut the door to her house.

  Lily catches the door in her hand, forces it to stay open. Anna Faye peers at her, fearful. So much for honey. “At one time, this house was occupied by Rupert Kincaide and his wife and daughter, Thea. I’ve come across some of Thea’s writing, in which she claims there’s a cave nearby where those coming through on the Underground Railroad would hide. She states a woman died in the cave—and if it is true, this corroborates her story.”

  “I don’t know of any such cave—”

  “I do,” her grandfather, Harold, pipes up behind her. “Move out of my way, child!” he fusses at his granddaughter.

  Anna Faye steps aside, and Harold gives Lily a long, studying look. Finally, she must pass muster, for he steps out onto the porch. “I can take you there.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Harold is out of breath. Lily had wanted to walk slowly, even claimed that her skirt made it hard to trek the rocky hill, but Harold had shaken his head at her—he knew better. Finally, they are at the cave, one of many such natural crevices embedded in the hills in this part of the county.

  Lily looks at Harold. “How are you sure this is the cave Thea wrote about?”

  “There were specific places only a few of us knew about. This was one of them.” Harold sits down on a flat rock. Behind it, another rock fallen long ago, no doubt before white men came through, forms a back. Harold sighs, leans back like he’s sitting on the most comfortable seat in a lush parlor. “This here is Bench Cave. If you don’t mind, I’m going to sit here a spell. I don’t cotton to walking stooped over. I may never straighten back up.”

  Lily starts toward the mouth of the cave, but Harold’s voice stops her again. “Just so you know—after Rupert’s death, this area’s efforts for freedom died, too. Far as I know, no one’s been in the cave since.” He pulls out a ball of twine. “Here. Take the end. Hang on. Give a tug if you get in trouble. Bats and all—”

  Lily smiles. “I’m not afraid of bats. I thought you don’t want to go in, all stooped over?”

  “I don’t. But I can make it down this hill a darn sight faster than we walked up it, and get help for you. If you need it.” Then he smiles back at her. “I reckon you won’t.”

  * * *

  Lily follows the beam of her flashlight into the cave, ducking, then stooping, and finally walking half-hunkered down. If the cave gets much narrower, she’ll turn around and go back. She knows better than to crawl through narrow passages in caves—and surely, if this was where humans had hidden, she must nearly be in as far as any adult would go.

  At last, something glints in her flashlight’s beam. A tin cup, left on a pile of rocks. In the cup, more rocks. Lily shines her light into the cup, spots something metal. Gently, she lifts it out. It is a copper tag, embossed with: Charleston. 612. Laundress. 18560.

  Lily isn’t sure what this means, but carefully she folds the tag into a handkerchief and tucks it into her pocket. Then she kneels by the mound, puts down her flashlight and the remaining bit of twine, careful not to give it a tug and send a false signal for help.

  She begins pulling off rocks at one end, her hands quivering, but not at the effort. At knowing what she will likely find.

  A few more minutes, a few more rocks set aside—and there, in her flashlight beam, she sees the bones. Thea’s mother hadn’t been able to dig a proper grave. So she’d done the best she could with rocks over the body, and the marker of the cup and the tag. The burial site for Garnet.

  LILY

  Saturday, October 2—2:30 p.m.

  “Is this about Hildy?” Mrs. Cooper looks worried, but Lily thinks the expression is for show.

  “In a way,” Lily says. “We ought to talk inside.” She glances meaningfully at the townspeople walking past them, then nods at the Presbyterian church. She’d gone to the Coopers’ house earlier and then was reminded by a neighbor that the church was holding a reception for the retiring organist and decided that bought her a little time with which to find Seth, the newspaper reporter, and show him the tag she’d found and ask him to do some research. He already thought he knew what the tag meant—though he promised to go to the library in Columbus as soon as he could to do some research to verify. Then Lily had returned to the church, waiting outside until people started coming out.<
br />
  The first woman out rushed over to tell her, I’m so sorry. At first Lily thought she somehow knew about Hildy, but then she went on to say, About your vinegar pie. Didn’t even place in the pie competition! Oh—the fair is this weekend, Lily thought, breaking away as she spotted Mrs. Cooper, wearing all black as if Hildy had died yet also managing to walk with a bit of preening as Merle accompanied her. Lily had stepped in front of them.

  Now Merle says, “We’ve been so worried about Hildy.”

  Lily swallows back her distaste. God. Merle is closer in age to Mrs. Cooper than to Hildy—is it possible he will end up courting her? That is probably how it should have been all along. They’d be well suited to each other.

  “I’m sure.” Lily doesn’t bother to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, but they follow her—breaking apart momentarily so Mrs. Cooper can follow Lily through the women’s door and Merle can enter through the men’s.

  Mrs. Cooper settles into a back pew, hands on her lap, as if awaiting dire news. Lily sits next to her, uncomfortably aware of Merle hovering behind both of them.

  Lily takes a moment to look at the front of the church, at the simple wooden cross hanging in the apse, directly behind the pulpit and between two small stained-glass windows, one depicting Jesus and the miracle of the fishes and loaves, the other Jesus as a shepherd. She takes it all in, wanting the image to douse that of the other night’s burning cross, prays that someday this cross—which for all her doubts has always represented grace and transformation—is the only one she sees in her mind’s eye.

  For now, she turns her gaze back to Mrs. Cooper. “What happened at the WKKK meeting at the old Dyer place the other night?”

  “You have no business asking me—”

  “Do you want to know how Hildy is doing?”

  Merle grabs Mrs. Cooper’s shoulder, makes the woman gasp. Lily should tell him to let Mrs. Cooper go, but she watches as Merle snarls, “Tell her, so we can find out about Hildy!”

  “All right … you already know I was there. What more do you need?”

  “Did you see your cousin, Thea Kincaide, there?”

  “I did, but I didn’t do anything to her, I swear! I was shocked to see her after all these years, to recognize her—” She stops, sniffles. “She recognized me, too. Started screaming that my father had a gang attack her father—that they were responsible for killing her father! I told her to shut up, that her father was a dirty abolitionist, and deserved whatever he got—”

  Merle inhales sharply, giving Mrs. Cooper a withering look. Well, as harsh as he could be, he’s at least not as monstrous as Hildy’s mother has become over the years.

  “So what did you do, Mrs. Cooper, after you saw her?” Lily asks.

  “I told Margaret Dyer that she was there. That her father had been an Underground Railroad operator. That Thea could be up to no good at our meeting.”

  Lily considers. If Mrs. Cooper had murdered Thea, why admit this much so easily? She’d only done so hoping to stay in Merle’s good graces—likely holding out hope that Merle and Hildy would still marry and take care of her in her old age. But she could have admitted being at the vile gathering without implicating Margaret.

  “One more question, Mrs. Cooper. Why have you held on to such hatred for Thea all these years? She seems at most … eccentric.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Mrs. Cooper snaps. “The other night, or today? She came to my father’s funeral to gloat that he’d died! She said—even then—that she believed my father and his friends had actually murdered her father! As if he could do such a thing!”

  “You don’t believe he could?” Lily casts a meaningful glance at the cross at the front of the sanctuary, to remind Mrs. Cooper of where they are.

  By the time she looks back, Mrs. Cooper’s face has blanched. “No—no—of course not.”

  But in Mrs. Cooper’s eyes, Lily sees the truth. She does believe it. Has always believed it, ever since Thea’s visit all those years ago. And fighting that possibility, rather than reckoning with it, has soured her very soul.

  Lily stands, starts to the church door. Merle rushes after her.

  “What about Hildy?” Merle calls after her.

  Lily pauses. Mrs. Cooper hasn’t even asked. “She’ll be fine.”

  With that, Lily exits the church and walks briskly toward the jailhouse. Thank goodness Margaret is still locked up. It will be easy enough to confront her while she’s in a cell.

  HILDY

  Saturday, October 2—3:30 p.m.

  “Now let her be!” Mama fusses.

  Hildy smiles, sips on the bone broth that Mrs. Gottschalk has poured for her. A half hour before, Hildy had finally stirred to wakefulness and quietly come down to the kitchen. She looks at Mama with gratitude—she knows it’s due to her and Mrs. Gottschalk’s ministrations that she is clean, in a fresh gown, and well rested.

  She keeps her voice gentle. “I can play a simple game of checkers.” She smiles at Jolene, who brightens. “I’ve been sick, though, so are you going to let me win?”

  “No!”

  Hildy laughs. “That’s the way.”

  Jolene hasn’t quite finished setting up the checkerboard, though, when there is a commotion in the parlor.

  Merle. Talking over top of Mrs. Gottschalk. Hildy looks, stricken, at Mama. Anger flashes over Mama’s face—and Hildy knows that Lily has told her everything.

  Mama starts toward the door to the parlor.

  “I can handle this.” Hildy stands, pulls her robe tightly around her, and smiles at Jolene. “Play a practice game with your mamaw—I bet she has some clever moves to teach you!”

  In the parlor, Merle and Mrs. Gottschalk fall silent and look at Hildy.

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Gottschalk says. “I told him he needs to leave my property. I’m not sure how he got past the deputies, or found us—”

  “Because I’m her fiancé!” Merle hollers. “And one of the deputies’ wives told me.”

  Hildy stiffens her spine and squares her shoulders. “No,” she says firmly. “You’re not my fiancé. Not any longer.”

  Merle’s face crumbles. “Hildy … what am I to do?… I need your help at the store, and you need a firm hand to guide you—”

  Hildy silences him with a hard look. “No. I do not. Hire help if you need it—”

  “Hildy, you may be out of that asylum, but we all know you’re prone to hysteria—”

  “Prone to hysteria?” Hildy’s voice filets the question. “Here’s some hysteria. Go to hell, Merle.”

  LILY

  Saturday, October 2—3:30 p.m.

  Lily stands on the Dyer porch, fuming. Dammit! Margaret wasn’t in the jailhouse after all. The deputy on duty explained that she’d been released earlier—her hold time more than exceeded without actual charges.

  Which left Lily with a choice—wait until Monday, when the court opened, to have Olive formally file charges and to get a warrant for Margaret’s arrest. And risk Margaret fleeing, if she senses, or receives word from someone at the asylum—one of those unnamed, cowardly nurses—that Lily is closing in.

  Or come today, risk overstepping legal rights, thus nullifying any hold she’d have on Margaret.

  She’d come. She’d have to speak, and move, carefully.

  Lily removes her hand from her holstered revolver. Forces a smile to her face. And knocks on the door.

  To her surprise, the door opens quickly. Missy, her pale face tear streaked yet eager, gazes out. When she spots Lily, she quickly turns crestfallen. “Oh. Oh, I was hoping…” Then she looks anxious. “Are you coming with word of my boy?” She clutches Lily’s arm. “Junior? Has something happened to him?”

  Lily, though alarmed, takes gentle advantage of Missy’s distress. “Why don’t you let me in and we can talk?”

  Missy throws the door open, and Lily enters swiftly. In the parlor, Lily sits in the same spot she’d selected days before at the Woman’s Club meeting, while Missy hovers in the arched entry
to the room.

  “Junior? Is he all right? Did something happen to him?”

  Then it hits Lily—Junior is not here with Missy. If she is so concerned, why is she still here? Why isn’t she out looking for him?

  “Please, take a deep breath,” Lily says. “Tell me what happened.”

  “He ran off this morning, been itching to get back to his father, and this morning he was gone, and … and—Oh.” Missy comes to an abrupt stop and sinks to her knees. Her next words are bitter. “You’re not here with news about Junior, are you?”

  Margaret and Perry appear in the hall behind Missy. Margaret kicks Missy. “Get up!”

  Lily’s jaw drops. My God.

  “Go clean up the kitchen!” Margaret snaps.

  Missy staggers to her feet, starts to leave, but Perry says, “For God’s sake, Margaret, she’s had a shock. Let her rest!”

  “We all have.” Margaret’s words snarl and tangle. “Losing our boy!”

  Our boy?

  Missy puts her face to her hands, crying. Lily stares from one to the other. Perry stares, crestfallen and with tender worry, at his wife. Those three children’s plots in the Dyer cemetery … Margaret has, in her mind, taken over Junior as if he’s her son. Margaret’s hatefulness notwithstanding, the whole scenario is simply tragic.

  “Please,” Lily says, rancor gone from her voice. “Come sit down, talk with me—”

  Margaret’s nostrils flare. “Who are you to tell us what to do in our own home?”

  “She’s still sheriff, honey.” Perry gives his wife a gentle nudge into the parlor.

  “Very well.” Margaret enters her parlor as if a queen taking her spot in her court. “I hope you’ve come with news about the boy? Perhaps found him on his way back to that miserable farm?” Margaret sits down on the sofa, and Perry takes an uneasy seat next to her—but not too close, Lily notes. Missy remains trembling in the entryway. “Perry and I had hoped to rear him to be a fine young man.”