Tail Gait

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Once a UVA player, always.” Susan smiled. “That’s what Ned says, but remember Ned treads carefully. He’s William and Mary, but heard that teammates tried to help Frank over the years. Once a Wahoo, forever a Wahoo,” she said, using UVA’s nickname. “After all, Frank was an All-American. The older players established by the time of Frank’s glory especially tried. Gave him a job when he was down on his luck. Stuff like that.”

  “What did happen to him?” asked Olivia. “Mom said he failed at business. At everything. He wrote Dad hateful letters. I didn’t know any of this until the nineties. Mom said Frank’s marriage blew up. He blamed Dad, always blamed Dad.”

  “Olivia”—Susan paused—“Frank lives on the Downtown Mall.”

  “What!”

  “He does. Ned has the sheriff’s department pick him up and put him in the Salvation Army shelter during the winters. He’s a total drunk.”

  “My God!” Olivia’s hand flew to her heart. “He was beautiful, you know. He could have gone into the pros. I had no idea.”

  That was obvious.

  “I don’t think your mother knows how far he has fallen,” Harry said.

  “I swear some people are born self-destructive,” said Susan. “Frank is one of them. Ned does what he can. His fear is one of those damned reality shows will dig him up. From All-American to Bowery Bum, or something like that. Frank will start raving. People would eat that up. How the mighty have fallen. That sort of thing.” Susan’s lip curled.

  “On the mall?” Olivia half whispered, horrified as it sunk in.

  Harry frowned as she recalled. “The only two times that anyone could cite where your father endured people’s anger was during the revival of the Jefferson-Hemings controversy and Frank’s bitter lost love, I guess that’s what you’d call it. But Fair says that Frank even drank back when he was on the team. He heard it from older football players.”

  “Yes, Officer Cooper brought up the Hemings affair,” said Olivia. “All water over the dam. No one even then threatened to kill Dad.”

  “Do you think Frank might’ve threatened your father?”

  Her blue eyes widened. “Daddy never told me.” She paused. “But then he never told me anything. He thought he was protecting me, and he was. Once I got over hating him for breaking us up, I realized that.”

  —

  Driving to Susan’s to drop her off, Harry inquired, “You don’t think Olivia will do anything stupid, do you?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like go down to the mall and see Frank.”

  Susan gasped. “Harry, don’t even think that!”

  One Hour Later

  Debating what to do, Harry pulled her old truck into Susan’s driveway. After they unloaded the four dwarf crepe myrtles next to the garage, Harry opened the front door and called for Tucker, who had been left behind at Susan’s to play with her brother.

  “Where are we going?” Tucker asked, happy to be outside.

  “In the truck, kid.” She lifted the solid corgi onto Susan’s lap. “I’ll get Owen.”

  Driving out the curving driveway, Tucker sat between the two women while her brother Owen sat in Susan’s lap.

  “You make me crazy,” said Susan.

  “Ditto.”

  “Well, why did you have to say anything about Olivia going to the mall?”

  “It popped into my head, Susan. I’ve explained myself all the way down Route Two-fifty. I’m not going to explain myself all the way back. It just popped into my head, and I got a funny feeling.”

  “Well, now I do too. She was shocked, and, well…”

  “She has diminished judgment. Death, divorce, even losing your job causes such turmoil. Diminished judgment can last as long as the loss or sorrow. At least that’s what I’ve observed.”

  “Yes,” Susan tersely replied.

  Neither spoke until they reached the Charlottesville Downtown Mall. Once the hub of economic activity, Main Street was blocked off to through traffic in 1976, creating a walking mall. Harry’s mother had a fit because, she declared, they could walk just fine when there were cars and sidewalks. When the anchor to this scheme—the large department store, Miller & Rhoads—left, activity sagged, and with it, profits. Over time, nice restaurants took over old spaces, the Paramount Theater was restored, specialty shops opened. Much had improved, but like all those revitalization ideas, the city planners rarely took into account how people really shop. At least there was still a large hotel at the western end, the Omni.

  Harry pulled her truck into the parking garage at the eastern end, circling upward until she found a space big enough to park the 1978 Ford F-150. She and Susan hopped out, lifted out their corgis, snapped on the dogs’ leashes. The concrete stairwell’s heavy walls amplified their steps.

  “I don’t know why I do things with you,” said Susan. “All you do is get me into trouble.”

  “Oh, spare me, Sissy Tolerance! You get me in as much trouble as I get you. Now, where do you think the drunks are on this beautiful spring day?”

  “Down by the Paramount, I guess.”

  They headed to what people thought of as the center of the mall, passing storefront shops, displays in the large windows. As they reached the Paramount, they heard a scream.

  “Don’t touch me!” they heard Olivia’s voice holler, then saw her backing away from a man at one of the large planters filled with blooms.

  “Let’s go!” Tucker gave a hard yank on her leash. She flew across the brick walkway.

  “Tucker!” Harry yelled.

  Owen also broke free from Susan. The two dogs and two women ran toward Olivia. Tucker reached her first and spun around, facing the man advancing on her. “Touch her and you die!”

  Bloodshot eyes looked down at the corgi as Owen reached the scene. He bared his fangs. Olivia, startled by the shocked reaction of Frank Cresey when he saw her, was now startled and gratified by her two protectors. Harry and Susan reached Olivia as a small crowd of people gathered around.

  “What are you doing here?” growled Frank. He wore tattered clothing, had long, unkempt hair. His beautiful body was now wasted and thin.

  “Come on, Olivia, let’s go.” Harry put her arm through Olivia’s.

  Susan was trying not to breathe, as Frank reeked of sweat, alcohol, and urine. She inserted herself between Olivia and Frank, as did the two dogs. “Frank, she has as much right to the mall as anyone.”

  First mistake. Never try to reason with a drunk.

  Frank took a step toward Susan, who held her ground, as Harry pulled the transfixed woman away. That fast, both dogs latched on to a leg. He was so loaded with alcohol, he barely felt it.

  “Owen, leave him!”

  With jaws clamped tightly around a thin lower leg, the corgi, not yet willing to release Frank, looked up at his human.

  “I’m glad he’s dead, you know!” Frank screamed, so the retreating Olivia could hear him. “Ruined my life. I hope he died in fear and pain! You came here to pity me. I don’t want your pity. I don’t want to ever see you again. And you’ll never see your father again!”

  Susan backtracked and again ordered, “Owen, Tucker, come on!”

  The two dogs released Frank. Trotting to Susan, they were still looking backward, fangs bared.

  A man attempted to help Frank, bleeding heavily now, to a bench on the mall. Frank backhanded the Good Samaritan. Two police officers appeared from different directions, both running. Frank howled, no words, just howled.

  Harry half pulled, half dragged Olivia to Fourth Street. When she reached the corner, she pulled Olivia into Daedalus Used Books. The proprietor, Sandy McAdams, looked up just as Susan, Tucker, and Owen crossed the threshold.

  “Ladies, dogs, is it literature that created such flushed cheeks?” The bearded book lover smiled.

  “Oh, Sandy.” Harry caught her breath. “You don’t know how good you look!”

  Before he could respond, Susan filled him in on the uproar on the mall.

&nb
sp; “Frank Cresey,” said Sandy. “Well, well, I’m not surprised. Some days he walks into the store, sits down, and picks up a book. I give it to him just to get him out because customers can’t stand the smell. Other days when he’s clean, I let him stay. He says he was the star halfback on the 1975 UVA football team. Hard to believe.”

  “He was,” Olivia quietly affirmed.

  “Oh, sorry, Sandy,” said Harry. “This is Olivia Gaston, Ginger McConnell’s daughter. She lives in New Orleans with a brilliantly industrious husband.”

  “Your father was a wonderful man, and a good customer,” said Sandy. “Please accept my sympathies.”

  “Thank you.” Flustered, Olivia glanced from Sandy to Harry to Susan, then down to the corgis. “This is all my fault.”

  “You are not responsible for a drunk,” Susan firmly told her.

  “He screamed he’d recognize me anywhere, which after forty years amazes me.” She turned to Sandy. “I was wildly in love with him when I was eighteen, and Daddy broke it up. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Your father was a wise man.” Sandy took a deep breath. “Those poor devils have killed so many of their brain cells, even if they could once think rationally, they’ve forgotten how. But—he recognized you. How extraordinary.”

  “Olivia hasn’t aged much.” Susan smiled.

  “Susan, that’s a fib.” Olivia was calming down. “I’ve changed, my hair color hasn’t.” She half laughed.

  “Any good books on dogs?” Tucker inquired.

  Sandy reached under his desk, twirling two pungent treats, which he tossed to the dogs.

  “Better than a book.” Owen swallowed.

  “We’ll get out of your hair, Sandy,” Susan apologized. “But we knew we’d be safe here.”

  “Thank you. If you need anything, let me know. More books coming in every day.” He smiled, then turned to Olivia. “Your father would call once a week to ask if I had found anything from 1775 to 1820. Occasionally I come upon valuable old books, or I hear of a family Bible that’s turned up. He was diligent. He wanted old maps, old anything. He’d go down to Richmond, up to D.C., to Atlanta. I remember, one time, he drove to Guilford, North Carolina, as some wonderful old Revolutionary War maps turned up. Big battle there, you know.”

  “I know. We lost that one.” Olivia smiled. “Daddy would talk about that time as though remembering old friends.”

  “I guess to him they were,” Sandy said kindly. “We owe who and what we are to those who came before. Now, please, let me help you with anything, anything at all.”

  —

  As the group left, they walked toward the parking lot, where Olivia had also parked. Her car—well, her mother’s car—was on the second level, so they entered the stairwell. It was always dark, a source of complaint, but Olivia was glad because she burst into tears.

  “I am so stupid.”

  At the second-floor landing, Susan put her arms around the slender woman. “You’ve had a terrible shock and you’ve lost one of the mainstays of your life. A girl only gets one father.”

  “I don’t know what possessed me. I…” The group entered the garage’s second level.

  Harry, ever logical, said, “We shouldn’t have told you where Frank lives, so to speak. Curiosity would drive any of us to take a peek.”

  “Forty years. Why would I want to look at him? I guess I couldn’t believe he’d fallen so low.” She wiped away the tears with a handkerchief supplied by Susan, always ready for flat tires, tears, headaches, anything and everything.

  “Everything is a jumble when someone you love dies.” Harry knelt down to pet Tucker and then Owen. “At least it was for me when Mom and Dad died.”

  Olivia stood up straighter. “Here I was acting as though I’m the only person to ever lose a father, and I had mine so much longer than you had yours, Harry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  Susan said, “Nothing is wrong with you. It’s just right now, and for the next few months, it’s best not to make major decisions.”

  When Olivia looked puzzled, Harry succinctly said, “Diminished judgment.”

  “Yes.” Olivia walked to her car. She pushed the unlock button on her key ring but didn’t open the car door. “I can’t sleep. I keep turning over in my mind who would want to harm my father, the kindest of men. I even rummaged through his desk at home, the file cabinets, looked through his checkbook. I was sure I’d find a clue, but no. His piles of research were, as they always were, neat stacks all over his desk and some on the floor.”

  “Did he use a computer?” Harry wondered.

  “Daddy? He did. He was slow. Of course he had all those research assistants at UVA. All he had to do was tell them to look up something, or send a message to a colleague who used email. Dad was hands-on. Even if one of his ‘kids,’ as he called them, handed him research papers, if he could, he’d drive to examine the original sources. He was fanatical about that.”

  Although seeing that Olivia was more composed, Susan suggested, just in case, “How about if I drive you home? Harry can follow. Good plan, I think.”

  Olivia hesitated for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I think it is.” She scanned both of their faces. “Please don’t say anything to Mother or Rennie. No reason to upset them over my mistake. My curiosity got the better of me.”

  “Of course not.” Susan took the keys from Olivia’s hand and slid behind the wheel as Olivia walked to the passenger door.

  Five minutes later and two levels up, Harry opened the truck door. A little creak reminded her: Time for more grease. She lifted the dogs onto the bench seat, swung herself up, and then followed Susan and Olivia home.

  “I wonder if Frank is even strong enough to kill someone,” she mused aloud.

  “Best not to find out,” warned Tucker, still angry at the man.

  December 25, 1779

  Snow squalls swirled through the camp, promising heavier snows soon. From each barracks, a tendril of smoke attempted to escape from the log fireplaces—only to be flattened by the low pressure. Brick would have been far better for the fireplaces, but logs, charred, cost nothing. Central Virginia’s red clay made excellent bricks, but brick, practical and beautiful as it was, proved expensive. An all-brick home shouted Money! Many lovely clapboard homes splurged on brick fireplaces. However, not the primitive log barracks now housing the British prisoners. And worse, from time to time, a downdraft pushed the smoke back into the rectangular interiors.

  Sergeant Edward Thimble’s thatching of the roof helped keep in the warmth. When the needles died on the cross-laid firs, and the rain, sleet, and snow filtered inside, accentuating the gloom, the sergeant was suddenly much in demand to thatch other barracks. The commandant of the prison camp secured extra funds from the colony’s legislature for straw. His appeal was met with grumblings from the governor of Virginia about how wickedly the colonists who were imprisoned by the British were being treated. Many rebel prisoners were held in the holds of ships anchored in the harbors of coastal cities occupied by the British. And for helping the Continental soldiers, many civilians were also suffering in miserable conditions. The accepted rules on the treatment of prisoners of war were ignored by the British, although the standards were known throughout the Western world. As far as the Crown was concerned, these rebellious people were criminals at best, traitors at worst. Since they were not recognized as soldiers, they could not be exchanged, and were subject to deplorable conditions. Many died of disease. The terms of surrender at Saratoga had now been emphatically denied by the Crown, creating uncertainty for all.

  In contrast, the Continental commanders behaved with decency toward their captives.

  General Washington was distressed by the suffering of men he considered patriots, men he considered under his care, but his entreaties and letters to Britain’s General Howe and others were ignored. Clearly, the king and his ministers meant to teach the upstarts a painful lesson. And so they did. They also hardened the colonists’ resolve.

 
The war that the British had thought to win quickly dragged on and on.

  As the small number of captives from Captain Alexander Fraser’s regiment sat around the fire, smoking clay pipes, they wondered how long they would be imprisoned. Edward Thimble groaned, “I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of women I have seen since I was brought here!”

  “Oh, Edward, ’tis not that bad!” Samuel teased. “The sutlers’ wives come along, and some have daughters.”

  “Not enough. I’m tired of looking at your ugly faces.” Then Edward laughed and quickly glanced at Charles West. “Not yours, Lieutenant!”

  At that moment, they heard the men in the next barracks singing, men from the Braunschweiger Regiment. “They keep their customs,” Edward remarked of the Hessians.

  Charles simply noted, “As do we.”

  Sam lowered his voice, although no one other than his mates was near enough to hear him. “When spring comes, we have got to put ourselves forward to work on the farms. Better than being cooped up here.”

  Thomas counseled, “Do your job for the family that takes you. Who’s to say, Samuel, they won’t have a beautiful daughter! Falling in love with a woman isn’t a crime now, is it?”

  A silence followed this observation, then Sam piped up: “With my face?”

  They laughed. Thomas said, “ ’Tis different for you, isn’t it, Sir?”

  Charles nodded. “As an officer, I do not know if I would be allowed to go out for farm work. But I would not mind. Along the way on our long march here, Americans could have spit on us, thrown rocks, but they did not.”