Secret Keepers and Skinny Shadows: Lee and Miranda

by Mary A Russell

  LETTER 4

  April 1965

  Dear Miss Grayson,

  I have a guest today. It is a girl I met while I was in the state hospital, and she is reading what I have finished of my book. She likes it and said that there was no doubt in her mind that Bert was a man of high principles and good moral character.

  She never even saw Bert, and I am happy that this is what a total stranger got from the material I have written about him. It is the precise message I meant to convey, and every word of it is true. I would swear to it, and I am a woman who wouldn’t swear to a lie, not even to protect my own reputation.

  I have to correct a couple of things I told you in my last letter. I think I told you I hadn’t seen Bert for years.

  Actually, I was in the same room with him one night since that. He was in the Hot Dog Lunch, and I only saw him from a distance. I was in the back booth by the window. I was raised to believe that it wasn’t proper for married women to talk to other men, and I have never done it when I lived in the same house with a husband. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see Bert. Once, after we moved into this house, I walked clear to Green. I live quite close to Lake Park. I think Green is nearly seven miles from where I live. Anyway, I lost my nerve and came back. George and I had had a battle and I wanted to leave here. George had taken my bus pass and all my money so I couldn’t leave. That’s why I walked.

  Bert had told me that love lasted forever, but so many men had told me the same thing that I had a lot of doubts. I had no way of knowing that Bert might not be married. I hadn’t even the nerve to call him on the phone or ask someone who would know if he were married or not.

  I said that Bert only mentioned you once. I meant directly to me. I heard him mention your name to his drinking buddy Carl on occasion. I remember thinking you must have a sense of humor because Bert repeated something you’d said, I was busy and didn’t hear it, and they were both laughing when I got back to the bar.

  I have had a lot of unnecessary work to do after George, too, as a result of his drinking. Doing his work has never been a pleasure. It never will be. Work really isn’t work when you love someone, though. I remember I told Dr. Denny I’d be willing to die if I could just see Bert long enough to ask him to forgive me.

  My last letter was a pretty blunt statement of facts. Believe me, it wasn’t told to me that way or I’d have wiped up the street with Cheney. At the time I didn’t believe most of it since the papers had been printing cover-up stories. I had no proof for most of it, and I didn’t get most of the proof until last summer.

  I advertised in Labor newspaper for names and dates, and the proof originally came to me from Florida. From it I learned how to get most of the rest of it. The elderly couple he shot in their living room while they were watching TV. The paper said the police theorized that a child had gotten a loaded gun and that both deaths were accidental. Both people were shot to death with different bullets.

  At the time Bert was killed I imagine you were too upset to even suspect why it had happened. I know that, for me, all I could think of was the horrible way in which he died. I know it was my fault, but I couldn’t even remember why it was my fault.

  It came back a little at a time, just the way Dr. Denny said it would. He, Dr. Denny, was the first person to encourage me about the book. He was a wonderful person. My attorney said Dr. Denny admired me.

  I fault myself that Bert drank. I thought I had nothing to do with it when he started, but he told me that he knew I didn’t love him enough to marry him, but he wanted me to tell him I cared enough to ask him to stop drinking. He said he believed he could quit if I asked him to. I didn’t tell him, and I was pretty brutal about it.

  I said I didn’t want the responsibility of him on my shoulders, and I didn’t care what he did. Hate me for saying it if you like, but I had my reasons. You’d have to talk to me or read the book to understand.

  Forgive me for writing that last letter. I wish now I hadn’t, but I may have told you this before. I’m more afraid of the local police than I ever was of Clay, and I’m plenty scared of him. He can’t get into our house. The police can. I can’t keep them out.

  Miss Grayson, I can’t believe that Bert would tell a deliberate lie, except for me. Carl was Bert’s best friend at the time. Carl was trying to talk me into marrying Bert. He said he wished he was my daddy so he could make me marry Bert even if he had to take me over his knee to do it. Carl said that Bert wouldn’t know how to pretend. When you told me that Bert was due to be sent overseas, I knew Bert hadn’t lied to Carl. They don’t take men into Foreign Service over 6’6’. They make too prominent a target. They may have some in the States who are that tall, but not in Foreign Service. Bert hated to talk about his height. The reason he told Carl was because he knew Carl would tell me. I was so hurt for Bert that I cried. I have no doubt that his age may have had a lot to do with it, too.

  If he had been younger, they could have trained him for another job and kept him in the service in the States. George got out of the service on age (he’s a year younger than Bert) and on the back of his discharge it says by reason of being transferred to the reserve corps, and because he was over thirty-eight.

  When Bert went to Missouri, he was evidently in a separation center. He wasn’t trained there. Bert wouldn’t lie to me—for me, but not to me.

  Did I tell you that Bert asked my dad to marry me when I was sixteen? Bert didn’t drink then. He started the summer I got married. Cain told me that Bert was blue about it, and he, Cain, suggested Bert have a few drinks to cheer him up.

  Forgive the pencil! My pen went dry. I have about a dozen, but it’s the only narrow one I have. I’ve written so much that I have a lump on the big finger of my right hand. It gets sore if I put too much pressure on it. Then I can’t write for a while at all. I have to keep it bandaged.

  There is only one thing wrong with Bert’s grave that I can see. It’s too close to Hap. Hap’s body defiles the soil. I even hate his memory for what he did to Bert.

  I don’t drive, either. We’ve never even had a car. I objected because I was afraid George would have an accident and kill someone. He’s a big pig head. You can’t tell him anything. I quit trying long ago. He spent his money on booze and women, and I wouldn’t give him what I’d earned for a car. There were too many more important things that were needed.

  Miss Grayson, an accurate description of my life with George would have to read like this; I worked for my room and board. Clothing and personal necessities I had to earn outside of the house. I only lived because I didn’t die. Bert knew it. He wanted me to be happy and he knew I never was.

  Maybe you’d better see a doctor about your nerves. They can help you. They helped me and I was in worse condition than you are. At least you didn’t have to feel that you were responsible for his death. I did. Bert mentioned to me that a brother or cousin of someone kept hounding him to sell them some land that Bert owned, and it was next to where you lived. Whatever came of that situation?

  I wish I had known he was sick. If I had, I don’t think principles or anything else could have kept me away from him. After we moved out here I didn’t even know anyone who knew him. He tried to give me hints, but I never took a hint in my life. I didn’t know that he was the one who had put the rose bush down by my garage. When it bloomed, the roses were white. He told me once that I reminded him of white roses, little, pure, and sweet. He took all the blame for the awful life I’d brought on myself because of the incident at the park. He told me once that I’d had everything I ever wanted right in the palm of my hand all of my life and I didn’t know it.

  Maybe I’d better not write to you anymore, if it upsets you. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I guess I’m a lot like Bert said he was. I can’t seem to help myself.

  My friend only got to read fourteen chapters of the book before she had to leave. She liked what she read. I would have let her take the rest of it with her, only I was afraid something might happen to it. George destroyed f
ive chapters of it. I was furious. I told him if he ever touched anything of mine again, I’d kill him. I didn’t mean it, but I had to make the threat strong enough to scare him. He said I’d go to the chair if I did anything like that. I told him I would not. I’ve been a mental patient and they might put me back in an institution, but they wouldn’t electrocute me, and that being in an institution would be preferable to living in the same house with him. I have to live here now, but I envy you and your freedom. It must be wonderful to be able to do whatever you like, whenever you want to do it.

  Fondly,

  Lilly

  LETTER 5

  February 1967

  Dear Lizzie,

  Thank you for answering my letter. I didn’t call you back because I got a lump in my throat and I was afraid I would start crying again. I cried for two years, and I know what it can do to me. I’m not good at talking on the phone anyway. I like to see people when I talk to them. Also, forgive me for taking liberties with your first name. Bert always called you Lizzie and he had the faculty of making me feel I knew people I really didn’t know. I didn’t know Bert had two sisters. I thought you were his only sister, but that he had two brothers. I never asked him about his family at all. Carl told me he thought Bert had two brothers.

  I know Clay murdered Bert, and that the police covered up for him and why. I know it was Cain’s picture in the paper the first time. They must have gotten too many correct identifications and changed it. I don’t know where Clay is now, but I know that he murdered Brian Merritt in 1965. He was in Bridgetown then.

  It was Councilman Jones’s sister who told me about your nephew, only she said it was your brother. I don’t know if she was trying to warn or threaten, or if it was just casual conversation. I do know that it’s not safe to put pressure on the police here. It’s a good way to get yourself killed. I’m a lot more afraid of the police than I am of Clay. Not all of them, however.

  I can understand how you would miss Bert. He was a wonderful person. Maybe you will see him a little differently when you read my book. Everything that happened was my fault. Sometimes I think my remorse is more than I can bear. Nothing I can do now will ever make it right, but I’m hoping God will forgive me for being so stupid, once my book is published.

  I still have some loose ends to wind up. So many people are afraid of me because I admitted from the first that I knew who killed Bert. I know that Clay killed at least eight more people, too. I haven’t been able to learn the name of the man whose body was found in the Cricket Field and a girl who turned Clay in for exactly what I knew about him. Clay did them and I know why.

  I’ll appreciate your utmost secrecy in this matter. It can cost me my life and put your own in danger. There’s nothing we can do anyway. Cain told me I couldn’t fight city hall. I’m going to try with my book.

  Actually, I don’t feel the book is even mine. It’s Bert’s. I’d never have written it but for him. I was offered a new car not to write it.

  I was sorry to hear about your accident. I hope you’re in good health now, also your sister.

  I hope you weren’t angry because I put flowers on Bert’s grave on Decoration Day and his birthday. Actually I had Anne do it. I was afraid of getting bawled out if I got caught doing it myself.

  You see, Miss Grayson, the thing that nobody seemed to know was that I was almost as shy as Bert was. The difference was that Bert was shy in a crowd. I was shy out of one. It’s a hangover from my childhood. The book will explain a lot of things no one knew. Writing it is the hardest work I have ever done. It will probably be the saddest book you ever read. I’m hoping to have it finished by late this summer. I’m copying the most important chapters to give to various people in case something should happen to me before it’s finished.

  Write to me or call me. You can even come to see me if you wish and aren’t afraid.

  Best wishes,

  Lilly

  I don’t use Mrs. in front of my name.

  P.S. My life is sad and dreary, for in my heart I find that love can never end with death for the one who is left behind.

  LETTER 6

  June 1968

  Dear Miss Grayson,

  I’ve been trying to answer your letter for some time, but I couldn’t seem to get around to it. Something always seems to crop up. Right now my sister is in the hospital. She has had three operations in the past week. One was a minor one to remove an obstruction from the tube between the kidney and the bladder. Right now she is in great pain, but I think she will be all right. I was afraid she had cancer, but the doctor says she has no signs of it.

  My red Persian cat got killed by a car last Tuesday, and I was terribly upset about it. He was such a beautiful cat and never ran away. He did get out of the yard, and that was the end of him. I don’t need more cats, though. Heavens! I have five now. About four weeks ago two little neighbor boys brought me a pair of kittens whose eyes were barely open. Their mother had been killed by a car, and I had to find a formula that would agree with them and raised them with a medicine dropper. They can eat alone now. I didn’t intend to keep them, but I don’t see how I can bear to give them up now. They look a lot alike, only Shadow looks as if he’s wearing glasses. Pixie has a black nose. Butterball had pneumonia, and I had to take him to the doctor twice. He’s getting better now, but the vet charges as much as a regular doctor.

  I clipped Bowtie yesterday, and it was an awful job. She didn’t want to be still. I used to have a man come to the house to do it for me and he does a neater job, but now I’m afraid to have any man come into the house. Too many people are willing to do anything for a lousy dollar. I painted the porch floor this week. It needed it badly. I hate to paint, but there are lots of things I hate to do that I have to whether I want to or not.

  About this Art Cassel, is he the illegitimate son of Ellen Jacobsen who was Ellen Cassel? The reason I ask is because she says he’s her brother, and all the neighbors say he is her son. They say he got drunk and told it right in front of her. She still denies it, and she told me she had a brother whose wife swore he was murdered. If this is the same man, do you know where his wife lives now? Ellen didn’t seem to know much about what had happened, but she did say that his wife was up in arms over the whole thing. She said the police did a good cover-up job on the murder. Do you know where he was murdered? Everyone here seems to think it happened in another town, but no one seems to know just where.

  Some of my cherries froze this year. I had a lovely peach tree, but George let it die when I was sick. He’s too stupid to know enough to take care of anything.

  I hope you weren’t foolish enough to sign off your rights to the land Bert owned. I still think you should put in a claim for what is rightfully yours. Your nephew probably wants to wait until the seven years are up and sell it until everyone is satisfied. All claims have to be satisfied before a piece of property can be sold. I know. I’ve been buying and selling property for more than twenty years now. Take a mortgage on it and file it at the courthouse.

  Call me anytime you’re in the mood. It’s easier for me to talk to someone when they start the conversation. I want to set a nice artificial arrangement for on Bert’s grave. Fresh flowers are nicer, but they don’t last long. I’m afraid to make a practice of going anywhere on a regular basis at the present time.

  I sent my book, Only Sissies Cry, to Carper and Stow. I haven’t gotten it back yet, but there’s always the possibility that I will. I wish I had known about the contest sooner. The book wasn’t my best work, due to lack of time. I’ve been working on Bert’s book for more than six years now and isn’t the way I want it yet. It won’t take long to finish it up now, though.

  I think I know why Bert wouldn’t buy a bed. Once when we were talking about getting married he asked if I like twin beds. I told him these were the only kind I did like. I told him he’d have to get an extra-long one for himself and a standard one for me and we could push them together. We could get a little bed for in a corner and be like the
three bears in the nursery rhyme. He said whatever I wanted would be all right with him. God bless him. How could I be so stupid as to think he was only kidding?

  I don’t drive either, and right now I’m glad I don’t. It’s too easy to kill someone and make it look like an accident.

  That’s what Clay wanted Detective Elway to say had happened to his wife. Elway was afraid to take a chance. He’d already killed one girl that way, and the insurance company would have been mighty suspicious of a second death in the same manner. The first one may have really been an accident. I have no way of knowing about that. I know there was only a small paragraph about it in the paper.

  I have an appointment to have my hair done today. I hate to take the time, but I like to keep my hair short. It’s so much easier to take care of.

  What do you think of the Supreme Court’s last ruling? The men on that court ought to have their heads examined. I think they’re all senile and sick in their heads. They are terribly concerned over the rights of criminals, but they seem to forget that murder victims have rights, too. I wonder if some of those men are being blackmailed. I can’t understand some of the decisions, unless someone in high places is putting pressure on them. Laws that have been enforced for years are no longer any good it seems. Bridgetown has never had many laws enforced. The whole of the city hall is corrupt.

  I sold my air conditioner and now I wish I hadn’t. I like to work in my room, and the fans blow the paper all over the place.

  Maybe I’ll buy another air conditioner. This place gets pretty hot during the day. It’s nice at night, though.

  So now its evening and I’d better get this finished. I worked in my yard this evening until it was too dark to see, and I managed to get several nice big mosquito bites. I’ll have to scald and scrape to get clean. I can get more dirt on myself than anyone I know.

  My sister is worse today. She is bleeding from the bowels and I can’t understand it. The doctor said he never had such a thing happen before. I don’t know what to think about her. She was too ill to talk, and for any Sanders that’s something. We’re all talkers once we get to know someone.