The Deep Abiding

by Sean Black

  Above the fireplace a faded rectangle of wallpaper indicated a missing picture. Ty wondered if it had been sold. “This is going to be a long night,” he said.

  “What are the odds we’re the first black people to be in this house who weren’t servants?”

  “Not a bet I’d take. She’s doing her best, though, right? Have to give her credit for that.”

  “Let’s see, shall we?”

  The door opened and Mimsy bustled back in with Sue Ann, who was holding an ornate silver tray with their drinks. Mimsy plucked them off and handed Cressida her glass of wine and Ty his soft drink. They thanked her.

  “You’re not having anything?” said Cressida.

  Mimsy seemed to flush a little. “I’ve never had alcohol pass my lips, my dear, but don’t let that stop your enjoyment.” She smiled. “Please take a seat.”

  They sat, Ty in one of the club chairs, Cressida in the other and Mimsy on the edge of a couch as Sue Ann left them to it. Ty wished he could go with her. The kitchen, or wherever she was headed, had to have a more chilled atmosphere than there was in here. The whole thing was taking him back to visiting elderly relatives after church on a Sunday when you were a kid and having to be on your best behavior when all you wanted to do was play ball outside with your buddies.

  “So,” said Mimsy, folding her hands into her lap, “what do you make of our small town so far?”

  Before either of them could offer an opinion, she shifted to face Ty. “Mr. Johnson, I heard about the little difficulty you had with Lyle Ray.”

  “It’s fine, he apologized,” offered Ty. “Consider it forgotten.”

  She gave him that more than slightly forced smile. “All the same. It should not have happened.”

  “Just to let you know,” said Ty, pausing to take a sip of his Arnold Palmer, which was so damn sweet he wished he’d gone for the Dr Pepper option, “that shiner he has, nothing to do with me.”

  “I never thought otherwise. Anyway, I’m glad it was settled. I’m afraid with Darling being such a small place, and so isolated, people around here aren’t quite as progressive as people from bigger places.”

  To Ty’s ears she’d said “progressive” like she was talking about Communism. He wasn’t exactly sure why she was trying so hard. It wasn’t as if racism wasn’t an issue elsewhere. Darling, Florida, was hardly alone in that regard. In fact, in Ty’s experience, any place in the world where the entire population looked one way, and had to deal with visitors who were different, the occupants reacted sometimes with hostility. It was human nature. You might not lynch someone or call them names, but you didn’t pretend you didn’t notice a difference when you did.

  Cressida returned the mayor’s forced smile. “So, would you still consider Darling a sundown town?”

  Ty took another sip of his drink to cover a laugh. Talk about being direct.

  Mimsy rocked back a little but recovered. “Well, hardly. I mean, you and Mr. Johnson are sitting in the mayor’s home, and I believe the sun’s already gone down some hours ago.”

  As counter-punches went, it was, Ty had to admit, pretty good. She’d slipped Cressida’s jab and crossed with a right.

  “But it was a sundown town?” Cressida wasn’t about to drop it.

  Mimsy stared down at the carpet. “I’m ashamed to say it was. Things happened here that shouldn’t have. But I would ask that when you come to write your story, you make it clear that we’re trying to move on from our past.”

  She looked at Ty, like he was some kind of neutral arbiter, and continued, “I mean, places change. Don’t you agree?”

  Ty wasn’t about to start taking sides. “They can change. I agree on that.”

  “But do they?” said Cressida. “I guess that’s the real question. It’s one thing to say you’ve changed, but another thing to actually do it.”

  “My, we haven’t even sat down to eat yet, and we’re already weighing some of the great questions,” said Mimsy, primly.

  “Mayor Murray, how old were you when Carole Chabon was lynched right here in Darling, then dumped in the swamp out there?”

  Mimsy had to have anticipated that this was going to come up, thought Ty. After all, Cressida had made no secret of why she was here.

  “I was, let me see . . .”

  “It was 1974, if that helps,” said Cressida, eyes lasering on Mimsy.

  A bell rang in the hallway, as if on cue.

  “Well, shall we continue this discussion in the dining room?” their hostess asked them, getting up.

  Cressida stayed where she was. “I’m sure dinner can wait a few more seconds,” she said, as Ty tucked in his elbow, feeling the reassuring presence of the gun tucked down by his side.

  “Ms. King,” said Mimsy, her tone hardening. “Am I on trial here?”

  Cressida stared at her. “I don’t know. Should you be?”

  16

  Boot heels scraped the rough ground as he made his way toward the car. Light spilled from the front of the house. From inside he could hear the low murmur of conversation. Then a woman’s voice, raised.

  He held the paper in his hand. He unfolded it again and read what was on it. He had spelled a couple of words wrong, crossed them out, and written them again. He should write it over fresh, but there was no time for that.

  He couldn’t risk being seen.

  He looked up again at the window. There was the sound of a door opening at the rear of the property and something being thrown into the trash.

  He froze.

  “Come on,” he whispered to himself. “Do it, and leave.”

  Was he doing the right thing? He still wasn’t sure. He was scared. What if they knew what he’d done? There would be hell to pay. More than hell.

  But not to do anything, wouldn’t that be worse? Hadn’t that been as bad?

  He thought of a passage he’d read over and over until he had committed it to memory. It came from the Good Book, from Hebrews 10:26‒27, to be precise.

  If we keep on sinning after we have received the knowledge of the truth, no sacrifice for sins is left, but only a fearful expectation of judgment and of raging fire that will consume the enemies of God.

  He thought again of that passage as he folded the piece of paper and stepped in closer to the car. As gently as he could, he reached out, lifted the windshield wiper, tucked the paper under, and lowered it again.

  He stepped back as he heard someone walking down the side of the house, whistling.

  Startled, his heart pounding so loudly he could hear it in his ears, he turned and ran. He was making noise, he knew he was, but he couldn’t risk slowing down.

  If they cleared the side of the house before he got away he’d be seen. He couldn’t be seen. Not now. Not ever.

  He would give up his secrets, their secrets, but he wasn’t brave enough to do it in the daylight.

  17

  Over the years, Ty had broken bread at some tense dinner tables, but that evening had to have set some kind of record. When he, Cressida and Mimsy had finally moved through into the dining room, things had appeared to settle down. But the peace hadn’t lasted.

  Cressida had continued to ask Mimsy what she knew about Carole Chabon’s murder. Mimsy dodged and deflected, but rarely came close to giving a direct answer. Instead she would attempt to shift the conversation back to the town’s new image, and Cressida would listen politely for a time before dragging it right back to the murder.

  Through all of it, Ty noted the voice recorder that Cressida had placed in her handbag, picking up everything that was said. It was a classic reporter’s trick. Unless someone specified that something was off the record, and the journalist agreed, you could assume it was on the record.

  Ty didn’t know if Mimsy was aware of the protocol or the recording device, and he figured that now was not the time to ask. He’d kept his head down, accepted another Arnold Palmer, and sat back to watch the fireworks between two women who couldn’t have been more different.

  At
one point, he excused himself to use the bathroom. He walked toward the back of the house and, through a doorway framing the kitchen, saw Lyle, the cook from the diner, in a hushed but heated conversation with Sue Ann. They had their backs to him, Lyle hunched over the stove, Sue Ann standing at the sink, elbow deep in dirty dishes from the first course.

  Ty stepped off the side, and dialed in to their hushed conversation for a moment.

  “I knew this was a bad idea,” Sue Ann was saying.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “And get a black eye like you did?”

  Ty hadn’t figured Mimsy as the hands-on type, but maybe she’d gotten someone else to do it for her. Either way he guessed her intervention had been behind Lyle’s supposedly heartfelt apology.

  “You’d better get these plates in to them,” said Lyle.

  Ty took that as his cue to step toward the bathroom before Sue Ann came out and caught him eavesdropping. As he closed the door his cell phone chimed with a text. It was Lock, checking in.

  Ty tapped out a quick reply.

  Tense, but all good. Will let you know if anything happens.

  He hit send, unzipped, relieved himself, then washed and dried his hands. As he stepped back out, Sue Ann was carrying the main course toward the dining room.

  “Can I help you with those?” he offered.

  She smiled. “Thank you, but I got it, and you’re a guest.”

  He let her walk ahead. In the dining room, some kind of temporary détente seemed to have settled between Cressida and the mayor. Ty took his seat. Before Cressida started up with the questions, he figured he might try to build some rapport.

  “You have a beautiful home,” he said, settling into his seat.

  “Thank you, Mr. Johnson,” said Mimsy. “It’s a lot of upkeep, but it’s been in the family for a long time, and I didn’t want to be the one to let it go, although when I pass . . .”

  Ty sensed Cressida about to jump when Mimsy mentioned the ancestral inheritance. No doubt it would be some question about how they’d made their money, with the answer being slaves. Ty managed to cut her off with a look, and for once she allowed him to continue.

  “You don’t have children?” said Ty.

  “Never married to have any,” she said, staring down at the fresh white tablecloth, which had been pressed to within an inch of its life.

  It was the first time Ty had seen anything approaching a truthful human reaction from the woman since they had arrived. Despite himself, he felt a little sorry for her. Looking at Cressida, he noticed that her expression had also softened a little.

  “Must have been difficult to meet someone. As you say, it’s a very small town,” Ty went on.

  “Oh, there were suitors, of course,” she said.

  “I’m sure,” said Ty, working in a little flattery. If he had learned anything over the past few years’ working with Lock it was that people could reveal their deepest, darkest secrets at the unlikeliest of times. He might not approve of Cressida’s confrontational approach, but only because it was never likely to work with someone who was clearly set in her beliefs.

  What Ty had found, what Lock had taught him, was that many people had a deep-seated need to purge themselves of their sins. It was as if by sharing them with another human being it made them less burdensome. Ty guessed that, if they were religious, folks figured it was better to repent before they died and seek forgiveness on earth, rather than wait until it was too late and their eternal fate had been sealed.

  All you needed to do was give the person the opportunity.

  “There wasn’t anyone who . . .” Ty let the last part remain unsaid. He was pushing his luck, he knew that. But he sensed that by taking this woman into one part of her past, she might just reveal the truth of what had happened to another young woman who never got the chance to marry or have children: Carole Chabon.

  “Oh, there was someone all right,” she said, her eyes smoky and wistful.

  “He met someone else? Moved away?” said Ty, praying that no one would blunder in, especially not Cressida, and break the spell that seemed to have descended over Mimsy Murray.

  “No, he’s still in town. In fact, you’ve met him,” said Mimsy.

  Ty did a fast inventory. It didn’t take long to guess whom she meant. It had to have been someone around her age and, judging by her manner, someone of the same social standing. There was no way a woman like this, who obviously set such store by appearances and status, would have dated someone with a blue-collar job.

  They hadn’t met that many people in town, so it had to be their host.

  “Mr. Shaw?” said Ty.

  At the mention of his name, her manner changed. The mists lifted from her eyes, replaced by the same fierce defensiveness they’d seen before. She straightened up, and seemed to notice for the first time that Sue Ann had been serving them.

  Mimsy fixed her gaze on the waitress. “Haven’t I told you about hovering around the table like a bad smell?”

  Sue Ann didn’t bother arguing, or apologizing. She flitted out of the dining room without a word.

  “Don’t let old Adelson fool you,” said Mimsy, directing the comment to Ty. “He’s not what he seems.”

  “How does he seem?” Cressida asked.

  Mimsy ignored the question. “Have you asked him about what happened? That might be a good place to start.”

  She turned her attention to the plate of food in front of her. “Well, this looks delicious, doesn’t it?” she said, lifting her knife and fork.

  “Wait,” said Cressida. “He knows what happened to Carole Chabon. That’s what you just said, isn’t it?”

  Mimsy eyed her across the table. She was holding her knife like she might just use it to cut more than chicken. The switch was unsettling to Ty. It was rare to see such white-hot rage in someone of Mimsy’s age. People usually mellowed as they grew older, let things go.

  “Let’s just say a lot of things died back then,” said Mimsy, hacking away at her chicken breast. “Now, I’ve said all I’m going to say on the matter. You know who you should speak with.”

  “But you must know what happened too,” Cressida said, not about to give up. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have suggested I speak with Mr. Shaw.”

  Mimsy set her cutlery on her plate. “You won’t hear it from me. No one will. I made my peace with what happened a long time ago.”

  “How can you make your peace with an innocent young woman being murdered?” asked Cressida.

  “Innocent!” said Mimsy, before noisily clearing her throat.

  “She was on a mission,” said Cressida, her voice tightening.

  “Oh, she was on a mission all right,” said Mimsy, a little hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  Cressida slammed her hand onto the table. “Why don’t you stop talking in riddles? What do you mean by that?”

  The atmosphere in the dining room shifted once again.

  “It wasn’t the word of the Lord she was sharing. That’s what I mean. She was sharing herself, like a common whore.”

  Even Ty, who was used to industrial language, sat a little more upright at that word.

  “That’s a lie,” said Cressida. “You know it is. Her pastor, her family, they all gave the same testimony. Carole Chabon was going to take holy orders, become a nun. She’d never even held a boy’s hand, never mind had a boyfriend, so she certainly wasn’t doing what you’re suggesting.”

  Mimsy rose up. Her face pale, her hand clamped around the knife handle. She glared at Cressida from across the table. “Women like her come in all kinds of forms,” she spat. “And the Negro ones are the worst.”

  Cressida smiled. “Now, you’re finally being honest, aren’t you? So much for times changing, people changing. Tell me, are you the fourth or the fifth generation of your family to have joined the Klan? The Women’s Ku Klux Klan was pretty big around here, wasn’t it? Your mother was an Exalted Cyclops, wasn’t she? You were one as well, right?
”

  Mimsy was standing. Her fists, one still clutching her knife, were planted on the table, her chest and jaw forward. It was the posture of a raging bull ready to make its charge. Ty was glad of the table that lay between the two women. He didn’t doubt that he could handle the old lady if she lunged for Cressida, that wasn’t remotely in doubt, but it was the last thing he wanted to do.

  “Get out of my home,” she said.

  “Gladly,” said Cressida, getting up and pushing her chair back.

  Ty looked down at the chicken. It was a shame he wouldn’t get to eat it. It looked pretty tasty. He guessed that now wasn’t the time to ask for a doggy bag.

  “But don’t think this is going away,” said Cressida, as she stood, matching Mimsy’s posture, equally fierce.

  “Oh, you’ll go away,” said Mimsy. “I’ll see to that.”

  “Like you did with Timothy French?” said Cressida. “You know what happened to him too, don’t you, Mayor?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Mimsy, the self-satisfied smirk on her face contradicting her words.

  Ty wanted to know who Timothy French was, but it could wait until they were in the car and heading out of this crazy town. Old or not, frail or not, he didn’t doubt that Mimsy Murray would make their stay uncomfortable.

  “He was murdered, too, wasn’t he? He didn’t disappear. He’s out there somewhere, dumped in that swamp like Carole,” said Cressida.

  Sue Ann had appeared in the doorway. She was holding Cressida’s jacket.

  Ty pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “Come on. I think dinner’s over.”

  Mimsy sank down into her seat. She looked emotionally spent. Ty knew how she felt. This had been like everyone’s nightmare family Thanksgiving dinner, only on steroids.

  Cressida collected her jacket from Sue Ann, who was busy studying the floor, no doubt hoping the boards would open up and swallow her.