by Ron Fisher
I needed to derail this conversation before it put me into a permanent bad mood. Playing “what if” wasn’t going to change a damn thing.
“What proof do they have that Jamal killed the horse?” I asked.
“There were no eyewitnesses to the shooting. All the authorities have, are accusations from the horse owner. Jamal worked part time as a stable hand for him and the man recently fired him. He claims Jamal threatened to get even with him. And of course, there’s the rifle.”
“Rifle?” I said.
“They found the rifle that shot the horse in a shed out behind Jamal’s house,” Kelly said. “Mrs. Johnson swears Jamal didn’t own a firearm, and never had. She says someone put it there.”
I remembered that shed. It was a small wooden building out back painted white like the house. I’d supposed they used it for storage.
“How do they know it’s the rifle that shot the horse?”
“The bullets matched. The police said it was definitely the gun that shot the horse.”
“You mean they ran ballistics on a horse shooting?” I asked. “Do the cops up there not have enough to do?”
“The horse was worth millions,” Kelly said.
“Jesus,” I said. “What horse was it, Seabiscuit?”
“My friend Natasha, who lives over there, said it was a champion steeplechaser. A famous stud horse now. That whole area is big ‘horse country.”
“Natasha? How do you two know each other?”
“We were roommates at Smith. Her family moved down years ago and built a huge horse farm and stables in that beautiful border area of Tryon North Carolina and the South Carolina part they call the Dark Corner. They’re horse and steeplechase enthusiasts.”
“What does Natasha do for a living?”
“Nothing,” Kelly said. “She’s never worked, and neither has her parents. I don't think her grandfather ever worked either. They all live off a huge trust fund left by a great-grandfather who rubbed shoulders with the Carnegies and the Rockefellers. She’s a descendant of American royalty, you could say.”
“Or robber barons,” I said. “Don't they call her kind of people ‘trust fund babies?’”
“They even call themselves that. In their circles, I think it’s a badge of honor. There's a whole clique of them over there. They're all into horses, steeplechases, fox hunting, and raising pedigree dogs. Quite a close-knit group. Almost incestuous in a way.”
“Doesn't sound like a group I would fit into.”
“Natasha isn’t bad. She isn't snobby at all. Wild, but not a snob. She just divorced her third husband.”
“With her money, I guess she can get a new husband every year.”
“Oh, she doesn’t need money to get a husband, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Natasha stole every boy I dated in college. She’s a man thief. She can’t help herself.”
Kelly stared at me as if she had a question. She did.
“You’re a native South Carolinian,” she said. “Why do they call it the Dark Corner?”
“Looking for a history lesson?”
“Yes, I am. Enlighten me.”
“Well, they call it ‘corner’ because it’s the far northeast corner of Greenville County, but for some, it has come to include the little town of Landrum next door in Spartanburg County, and even the Tryon area just over the North Carolina line, too. The ‘dark’ part came about before the Civil War when it was the only area in the state that voted against the nullification act, which gave South Carolina the right to ignore federal mandates—the argument that eventually led to secession and civil war. A politician was making a pro-nullification speech on Glassy Mountain there and was physically pulled from the wagon bed where he was speaking. He shouted out that ‘this was a dark corner where the light of nullification could never shine.’ The name Dark Corner stuck.”
“Am I boring you yet?” I asked.
“No, I’m impressed,” she said and motioned for me to continue. “You’re quite the history nerd.”
“I minored in history,” I said before continuing. “There are some who think it’s called the Dark Corner because of how backward and poor the area has always been,” I went on, showing off. “Not everyone there had electricity until the fifties. There was a time when the biggest crops up there were corn and peaches, grown mainly for the numerous bootleggers who lived in the hills and hollows. The corn was for the whiskey, the peaches for brandy.”
“John David Bragg, the history professor,” Kelly said.
“Here’s more history,” I said. “The Bragg family, next door in Pickens County, was involved in that business a couple of generations ago, too. Still Hollow, the old family home where my sister still lives didn’t get that name because it’s so quiet and lovely. It’s called Still Hollow because there was always a liquor still up some hollow on the property.”
“I knew there was something illicit about you,” she said. “I like it.”
“But I digress,” I said. “The Dark Corner stayed poor and dark until those trust-fund-babies like your friend Natasha started coming in and buying up the beautiful countryside for a song, dispossessing the people who had owned the land for generations. They replaced the small farms with their mini-mansions and large horse farms. The old folks are mostly gone now, either dead, or in a condo in a town somewhere, purchased with the money they received for their land, and probably sorry they sold so cheaply. The natives who stayed either have commercial peach orchards or work for the new elite who have taken over the Dark Corner, helping them raise their thoroughbreds, organize their fox hunts, and work as their servants—like Millie Johnson.”
Kelly was smiling at me.
“What?’ I said.
“You sound like your grandfather. You’re a reverse snob just like he was.”
“I guess that’s only natural,” I said. “Where do you think I learned it?”
Since his death, Grandfather was never far from my thoughts. He raised my sister Eloise and me from childhood after both our parents were killed when a jack-knifing eighteen-wheeler swept their car off a rainy highway one night. He was an undemonstrative old man, with stern ways and unyielding moral principles. We had our disagreements over the years. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize nor appreciate that his harsh methods were for my own good, and that he loved me, which I guess I’d never believed—until after he died. Kelly was right. Grandfather and his high-minded principles shaped my life, and my greatest regret is I never got to tell him that.
“You’re starting to look too serious again,” she said. “Let’s change the subject.”
She was right.
“Steeple chasing," I said. "Do they ever catch the steeple?"
“God, you're a hick,” she said, laughing. She then gave me another look as if I might not be kidding.
“Seriously, are you not familiar with a steeplechase?”
“I'm in the sports business, darling. Of course, I know what a steeplechase is. It’s also called ‘jump racing.’ As you probably know, there are two kinds: one run by people, as in a track and field event, over hurdles, the other with horses and riders. It’s obviously the latter we’re talking about.”
“Have you ever been to a race?” she asked.
“Can't say that I have. Nor a fox hunt or a dog show.”
“That's where it got started,” she said. “Fox hunting. In Ireland or England, way back. I've been to a race. I went with Natasha once. It's more exciting than regular horse racing and more dangerous, I think. They jump over hedges and rail fences, some surrounded by sand and water, and with the horses and riders bunched together running full out, sometimes they stumble and fall coming over a jump. Horses and jockeys get hurt, some of them very badly. That part I don't like. I don't think I could ever become a great fan of the sport.”
“I couldn't either,” I said. “I'll stick to football where only about four players per team get a concussion in each game.”
“Or become paralyzed from the neck down,” she said,
solemn again.
Dammit, I thought. I’d brought us back to that subject.
“On that note,” she said, “I’m going to bed.”
When I joined her in the bedroom, she was lying under the covers, naked.
I shed my clothes and joined her.
She was lying on her side; her hair spread across the pillow like an open Japanese fan. I held her and kissed her, always amazed that someone like this actually loved me. But we played our long-distance relationship like some complex game, cautious in the use of the love word, neither of us wanting to be the one to push things so far that the other one had to make a decision that might tear us apart: like, who gives up their job and career and relocates? Me to South Carolina? Her to Atlanta? It was a decision neither of us was ready to address because neither of us knew what the outcome would be. So, we made a silent agreement not to talk about it. But it was a looming question we would one day need to face.
We made love tenderly, but for the first time since we’d become intimate, my mind drifted. I couldn’t stop thinking about Taylor Johnson.
CHAPTER TWO
We were up early Monday morning. Kelly made oatmeal and toast while I made the coffee. We sat at the kitchen table eating and not talking much. She read the Atlanta newspaper which came with a thump outside my apartment door, and I sat tossing around an idea that had come to me in the night.
Finally, I said, “Why don’t I follow you back and stay for a couple of days?”
She looked at me as if she thought I was kidding.
“That would be terrific,” she said. “What brought this on?”
“Well, for one thing,” I said, “I didn’t get enough of you this weekend.”
That was true, but it was also true that I kept thinking of Taylor, and wondering how he was handling his little brother’s disappearance.
“What’s the other thing?” she asked.
“I want to go see Taylor. I want to know how he’s doing, and if there’s anything I can do for him or his mother.”
“You’re a good man, John David Bragg.” Kelly stood up and kissed me on the top of my head like I was a child.
“I need to get dressed and get going,” she said. “When you get there, come by the Clarion. Eloise will want to see you, and maybe we can have dinner with her tonight.”
I agreed, and while she was getting dressed, I called Joe Dennis, my boss at SportsWord magazine. Joe was my old editor there, and now the new publisher of the magazine. I still answered directly to him, which was great, because he was a good man and my friend—unlike the former publisher.
I told him I was going away for a few days on family business, but would email him a piece I’d written about suspected kickbacks in the building of a new billion dollar NFL stadium in a major city out west. A council member and a team executive were suspected, and it made a juicy story. I promised Joe he would have it in less than an hour. The story would keep him satisfied until next week’s edition neared deadline. Joe was okay with that and knew I wouldn’t let him down.
I was finishing up the article on my laptop when Kelly came out ready to go. “Are you coming?” she said, seeing me still sitting at the kitchen table.
“I’ll be along later,” I said. “I’ve decided to go straight to Greenville and see Taylor first. Go ahead and make plans for dinner with Eloise, and I’ll meet you at the Clarion when I can get there. We’ll go to my sister’s together.”
She placed a hand on my shoulder and leaned down and gave me another kiss. This one, she would never give a child.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m off. Drive carefully.”
“You too,” I said and watched her pull her rolling overnight bag out the door, admiring the way she moved. I never tired of looking at her. She was a tall and graceful woman who bore the high cheekbones of the Cherokee in her bloodline from generations back. Her hair lay straight and long over her shoulders, so black it had a blue sheen to it. I would be looking forward to a couple more days spent with her. I emailed the Word file to Joe and went to pack a bag myself.
For a second, I toyed with the idea of driving the vintage 1959 Cadillac Eldorado I'd inherited from my grandfather, but decided against it. It was his pride and joy, and he'd been obsessive in the care of it. I tried to carry on the tradition, and only drove it around town to show it off, and on Sunday drives when Kelly was down. It was still in pristine condition, and I left it under the tarp to keep it that way. I threw my bag into my trusty old hard-top Jeep Wrangler and took it instead. It was a dozen years old, and another accidental scrape or dent would be lost among the many.
Two and a half hours and a hundred and forty-five miles later I walked into Taylor's room in Greenville. He was in bed, as usual, watching the news on a TV on the wall. I didn't try to count the number of tubes and lines running into and out of him. His eyes were sunken into his head, and he looked like he'd lost even more weight since I'd last seen him.
He cut his eyes toward the door and saw me. He grinned, but it came out more like a grimace. The only thing that still looked like the Taylor I knew was the spark of life in his eyes. He hadn’t given up when most other people would have.
“J.D. . . . my man,” he said. “Good to . . . see you.” The breathing pacemaker showed its effect on his speech.
“Hey bud,” I said. How are you doing?” It was a dumb question.
“You hear . . . about . . . Jamal?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I came to see if there’s anything I can do to help. How’s your mom?”
“She’s awful . . . broken up. Jamal . . . didn’t do . . . anything. Cops got it . . .all wrong. He’s . . . a good kid. Didn’t . . . kill no horse.”
He lay there looking at me for a long moment before he spoke again, Wolf Blitzer’s voice on the TV the only sound in the room.
“I knew . . . you’d come,” he finally said.
“I’m sorry it’s been so long,” I said. “I meant to get over here before now.”
“I’ve got . . . a favor . . . to ask,” he said.
“Anything, Taylor, you know that.”
“Find . . . my brother. Clear . . . his name.”
It took me a moment to realize he was serious.
“Please,” he added, desperation clear in his face.
“Taylor, I wouldn't know where to start. I don't know anyone in the Dark Corner. I think we should let the cops do their job. They’ll find him.”
“No!” he said, as close to shouting as he could probably get. “Cops . . . aren’t trying. They don’t care about . . . some black boy . . . going missing. Busy . . . with more . . . serious things. I saw on . . . TV last year . . . when you proved . . . the cops wrong. You . . . caught that . . . guy. You . . . can do this.”
He bored his sunken eyes into mine, a message in them that said if he could, he would go looking for Jamal. But he couldn’t, so I must do it in his place. He was calling in a debt he didn’t even believe I owed—but he knew I believed it, and would pay it to assuage the guilt I carried for my part in his injury.
“I guess I can at least try to build a fire under the cops,” I said, “and look in on your mama, but I don’t know what else I can do.”
He looked exhausted from the effort it took to talk. In good conscience, there was something I needed to say to him before I left. Something I’d been thinking all night.
“Taylor,” I said. “If Jamal is innocent of killing that horse, why would he run away?”
“He didn’t . . . do it,” Taylor said, raising his voice again.
“That’s not what I mean,” I said. “If he didn’t run away, then something—or someone—caused him to disappear, and he may not be coming back at all. You need to prepare for that.”
“You think . . . I haven’t . . . thought of that? But even so . . . I got to know . . . for Mama’s sake . . . and mine.”
“Would he take off if he heard someone was going to pin it on him?”
He seemed to think that over for a m
inute.
“Don’t know . . . about that. Maybe. But he would . . . tell Mama . . . he was going.”
He closed his eyes and lay silent for a while. A nurse came in and checked his pulse. She turned to me, “He’s exhausted, so maybe it would be better if you left and let him get some rest. He’s had a turn for the worse since his brother went missing. He loves that boy.”
I know,” I said and turned to see him looking at me.
“I’ll do what I can,” I said.
“Thank you . . . J.D.,” he said, so quietly I could barely hear him. He closed his eyes again, and I left.
CHAPTER THREE
A half-hour later, I was in the little town of Pickens, the namesake of the county where I grew up. I went straight to the offices of the Clarion. Doris Mozingo, my late grandfather’s long-time administrative assistant (and rumored paramour) was at the reception desk and greeted me when I came in. The crusty old lady agreed to stay on when we took over the Clarion, to remain the mother hen of paper and the stanchion that held it all together.
She was also the closest thing I had to a mother after Eloise and I went to live with Grandfather. Mrs. Mozingo—no one called her Doris, she commanded that much respect—still treated me like a ten-year-old, and I loved her enormously for it.
She came around her desk and gave me a big hug, squeezing me against her ample breasts, then stood back and looked me over.
“You’ve lost weight, John David,” she said. “Are you eating right?”
“I’ve upped my workout regimen lately,” I said. “Soon to be lean, mean, and handsome again.”
She laughed. “Well, be careful you don’t overdo it. The car won’t go if there isn’t gas in the tank.”
“Good advice,” I said, gave her another hug and asked her if Kelly and my sister were in. They were, and I went back to see them.
I found them both in Eloise’s office going over what looked like circulation numbers.
After hugs all around, Kelly gave me an expectant look. “Well, how did it go?”
