Tail Gait

by Rita Mae Brown

  Caterer Warren Chiles, who had catered the Reverend Jones’s small dinner party, had prudently hired twenty extra servers to carry trays onto the lawn. There was no way all those folks would fit into the Pavilion, even if they kept circulating, which they did not. Four bars served those inside and those outside, with students under twenty-one not drinking. On their own, at their own parties, they could drain the James River, but in a situation such as this, students knew what was expected of them.

  Harry—separated from Fair, who was trying to get drinks—found herself with Nelson and the old boys from the football team.

  “Harry, let me get you something to drink,” Marshall quickly offered.

  “Thank you, but Fair is at the bar.”

  Looking at the mob, Paul Huber remarked, “Fair has the advantage of height.” Then he spoke to Nelson, “Ever wish Fair had played when we did?”

  “All the time,” Nelson replied. “But Fair’s an Auburn man, through and through.”

  Talking to Sandra Yarbrough, Harry fell silent for a moment.

  Sandra whispered, “Let’s hope there’s no one from Alabama within earshot.” This brought a grin to Harry. The two universities had not quite reached the level of hostility of the nations in the Middle East, but sometimes they hovered close to that.

  Back from UCLA, Lionel Gardner walked toward Fair to help him carry the drinks. Counting the glasses, Willis Fugate left the group, saying to Marshall as he did so, “I’m almost as tall as Fair. I can complete this mission.”

  Handed libations first, the ladies gratefully took sips, for this felt like the first day of high spring. A light breeze, low seventies, sunshine.

  Rudolph Putnam asked, “What did you all think?”

  Marshall cleared his throat. “Fitting. Teresa Sullivan”—he named the president of the university—“and her staff organized a wonderful service. But even knowing there would be a crowd, I don’t think anyone could have anticipated this.” He swept his arm to indicate the numbers.

  Paul checked his watch. “You’ve got about fifteen minutes before announcing the endowed chair, and I think it will take fifteen minutes to get in there.”

  Marshall straightened his tie. “Right.”

  Accompanied by Nelson, Lionel, Paul, and Rudy, Marshall made his way to the open front door. Willis, hands full of glasses, passing them, hurried additional libations to the ladies. “Girls”—he was of a generation that would use this term without any hint of offense—“I’ve got to go block for the boys.”

  Sandra laughed. “People will think we’re lushes.”

  “Could think worse.” Harry smiled.

  Susan gratefully sipped another vodka tonic. “This is overwhelming.”

  “Yes, it is,” Harry observed. “I don’t know where Herb and Miranda are.”

  “Maybe Herb is with Trudy and the girls,” Susan murmured. “He would be a great support.”

  “He would,” Sandra agreed. “He always knows just what to do and what to say.”

  The 1959 men made it through the Pavilion’s crowd. When Marshall made his announcement, only those in the room could hear, but the news rapidly spread to the outside.

  “The boys” as they would probably always be known, even if they all lived to be one hundred, had to date raised six million dollars for an endowed chair in Ginger’s name: “The Professor Greg McConnell Chair in Early American History!” Cheers rippled outward like waves, and when Marshall and the boys tried to get back to their wives and friends, they moved at a snail’s pace. Everyone wanted to shake their hands and slap their backs, and a few ladies kissed them. Everyone said “Thank you” or “How wonderful.” The money engine, Tim Jardine, had called everyone he knew. Walking with the old football players, he was also feted by those who recognized his success in the business world.

  One former governor was overheard saying to another, “Ah, imagine if Jardine had been our campaign treasurer!”

  While not happy, if a funeral can be said to be positive, Ginger’s was. People, giddy with spring, thrilled at the endowed chair, talked, mixed, cried, and laughed. Those without the money to make handsome contributions pledged one another to various activities memorializing Ginger. Knowing this, Marshall worked the crowd, as did the others, urging people to help: any amount, even five dollars, would benefit the fund for the new chair.

  Fair finally caught up with his wife, who was walking toward the arcade to get out of the sun.

  She had just noticed a furtive figure lurking nearby.

  Stopping, she studied the lone man hiding as best he could behind one of the Rotunda’s large pillars. “Fair, get Marshall or any of the boys, will you?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Come with me.” She hurriedly made her way through the throng to Marshall, who turned from another handshake. Harry put both her hands on his shoulders, stood on her toes, and whispered in his ear.

  “Marshall, Frank Cresey is on the Rotunda behind a pillar. If Olivia comes out.” She left it at that.

  Marshall turned to Paul. “Get the boys, will you?”

  Within a few minutes, Marshall, Willis, Lionel, Paul, and Rudy were walking under the arcade toward the Rotunda. Harry watched with apprehension, as did Susan, now beside her. Fair, given his size, had left them to trail the other men, just in case.

  “God, I hope he doesn’t make a scene,” said Harry.

  —

  Frank froze as he saw the other men walking toward him.

  In a gentle voice, Lionel called out, “Frank, good of you to come.”

  At this, Frank burst into tears, ran down the Rotunda steps away from the crowd, away from his past.

  Paul began to follow when Marshall called out, “Let him go, Paul.”

  Nelson also said, “Let him go. We need to rejoin the mourners.” Then he said to the others, “Does anyone have a cellphone with them?”

  Willis pulled his out from his inside coat pocket, as did Marshall. “Whoever knows Sheriff Shaw’s number, call and alert him,” said Nelson. “I doubt Frank will do any harm, but we don’t want anything to upset Trudy, the girls.”

  Marshall quickly dialed the sheriff’s number, as Willis did not know it by heart. Marshall was always good with numbers. He made the call. There were already university security people all around, as well as sheriff’s cars, with lights flashing, to eventually lead people to the grave site.

  Trudy, Olivia, and Rennie had decided to have the reception immediately following the service. Then family members, dear friends, colleagues, and his students could follow to the grave site if they wished. Otherwise, it would have been a snarl to leave UVA grounds, then try to return.

  Two hours after the chapel service, they reached the grave site.

  Out of the corner of her eye, at least one hundred yards away from the grave, Harry again spied Frank. How he had gotten there was anybody’s guess, but the burial details had been printed in The Daily Progress. Perhaps he’d hitched a ride with someone. Frank’s eyes never left Olivia, but he kept his distance.

  After the interment, Harry said to Fair, “Frank’s here.”

  “Where?”

  She looked again at the spot. “He was over there.”

  Fair unobtrusively, or as unobtrusively as a six-foot-five-inch man could, moved toward Olivia.

  But Frank did not show himself again or harass Olivia. Their good luck held. Frank’s good luck was running out.

  April 25, 2015

  Two Hours Later

  Foot traffic on the Downtown Mall filled the brick sidewalk going in both directions. The lovely weather brought out residents living in the area. Other people drove downtown for an outdoor lunch.

  Relaxed in a director’s chair, Snoop sat under the overhang of the small crook of buildings next to the Paramount Theater. The shade felt wonderful. At his feet rested a colorful painted bucket. He’d made wooden letter openers with a sharp point, priced at two dollars each. People would walk by, notice how smooth and graceful they we
re, and figure for two dollars, how could they go wrong? Some folks were even nice enough to forgo making change, giving him a few extra dollars. With business this brisk, the night ahead looked promising, for Snoop would be able to buy a bottle of real liquor, not wine. He hated wine, although he’d drink anything if he had to do so. Even Listerine contained alcohol.

  Half dozing, the shuffle of feet opened his eyes.

  “Hey, man,” said Frank.

  “Hey.” Snoop smiled at him.

  Frank dropped next to Snoop, sitting on the ground. The bricks were hard beneath him, but he didn’t seem to care. “Heard some of the bastard’s funeral.”

  “Who?”

  “The Professor. Greg McConnell.”

  Snoop said, “Why go, if you don’t like him?”

  Frank grunted. “To make sure he’s dead.” He paused. “Taught me a lot about history, though. I’ll give him that. Taught me it all comes down to history.”

  They both laughed.

  A middle-aged woman stopped, picked up a letter opener, noticing the veining in the wood. “Red oak,” she said.

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “I can never resist red oak.” She fished two one-dollar bills out of her cloth shoulder bag, handing them to him.

  “Thank you and hope you only open happy mail,” said Snoop.

  Frank plucked a letter opener out of the painted bucket. “Downed tree?”

  “One blew over near the railroad track. I stashed what I could. Been busy ever since.”

  The railroad line ran parallel just south of the mall. The small old C&O station at the northern end was no longer in use. Another brick station farther away handled passenger traffic. All across the United States, tidy small stations had been abandoned. Many towns no longer had passenger service. Those that did had nothing near the standard of the old days. Still, anything was better than getting ensnarled in Washington, D.C.’s traffic a hundred miles north. A pity the nation’s capital wasn’t on the Buffalo border, close enough to Canada’s capital. Many a resident in these parts, Virginia, Maryland, a sliver of West Virginia and southern Pennsylvania, would have thrown a joyous going-away party, thrilled to shift the congestion to upstate New York. Of course, those who made their living in the maw of endless traffic might feel otherwise. Once just to feel truly free again, Snoop and Frank hopped a freight boxcar, rode to Culpeper, Virginia, then hopped one back.

  Despite their drunken dreams of escape, the Downtown Mall and its surroundings was their home. The other alcoholics, the shopkeepers, the sheriff’s people, and even some of the patrons of those shops knew them.

  The two men sat next to each other for another fifteen minutes, then Snoop said, “You gonna stay sober?”

  A long sigh. “No.”

  “The man’s dead. Seems like you should be happy.”

  “I’m glad he’s dead. I wish I’d killed him. Wish I’d had the guts when I was young but then Olivia would have hated me. No win. Know what I mean?”

  Snoop nodded. Frank had some sense, but then so did most of the guys down here. The lights might flicker upstairs, but they could think clearly enough between power outages. It wasn’t lack of brainpower that drove them to hide in the bottle. He was never really sure why he or anyone else sought refuge there. Maybe the inciting pain receded, but the drinking had become a habit. Once one was a bona fide drunk, those first deep pulls on the bottle felt like rapture.

  “So?”

  Frank shrugged. “Dunno. I walked out of the halfway house. Didn’t check out.”

  Snoop nodded. “They’ll be looking for you.”

  “Yeah, they will. I hid at the old man’s reception, but some of the guys from ’59 saw me.”

  “Fifty-nine what?”

  “Football team. Good year. Those were the guys who gave us jobs, off and on. I let them down.” Frank stared off. “Didn’t mean to.”

  Snoop nodded. “Maybe you should go back to the halfway house. Then check out.”

  “Aw, Snoop, I don’t have to learn a skill. I already got a skill: I can drink you under the table.”

  They laughed.

  “Got that right.” Snoop smiled broadly.

  “And I have to be ‘reviewed.’ ” He tapped his head. “I’m not crazy. I might do crazy things, but I’m not crazy.”

  Snoop poked at Frank with the letter opener he was holding on his lap. “What’s the craziest thing you ever done?”

  “Hanging out with you!” Frank picked up a letter opener from the bucket and poked Snoop back.

  “Thank you. Come on, what else?”

  “Marrying three women. Man, one’s bad enough.”

  Snoop roared and nearly tipped over in his chair. He knew Frank had no children, despite the wives. The men on the mall didn’t talk about the kids they’d left behind. Many had been in jail for missing child-support payments. That multiplied their feelings of worthlessness so the denials escalated, as did the drinking.

  Snoop had four children, two grown now. He hadn’t seen them or the mother in five years. Couldn’t face them. Told himself she turned the kids against him, but truth was she hadn’t. He did.

  The pair sat for a little longer. Snoop noticed a Charlottesville police car parking in the lot just above the Paramount, catty-corner from the main library, once the main post office.

  He tipped his head. “Frank.”

  Frank followed Snoop’s gaze, stood up. “I don’t want to go back. I belong here.”

  “You gotta place to hide?”

  “Yeah. Down by the new construction at the hospital. No one will be working tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow was Sunday.

  Snoop shook his head. “Can’t stay there forever.”

  “No, but it will give me time to figure out how to get all these people off my back. Guess I shouldn’t have said I killed the professor. Was pretty well lit when I did.” He smiled. “Wish fulfillment.” As Frank started to leave, he leaned over to plunk Snoop’s opener back into the bucket.

  “Take it,” said Snoop. “You might need it.”

  “Maybe I’ll write you a letter.” Frank nodded his thanks and put it in his pocket. He melted into the crowd as he headed into a side street.

  —

  Harry and Fair reached the farm an hour before sunset. Her husband dropped her off, then drove to his clinic, as he had two horses there he wanted to check. On weekends an intern looked over any patients, but Fair liked to check in. He valued his human clients and often loved his equine ones.

  Harry got out of her clothes in a hurry, and put on boots, jeans, and an old sweatshirt, then hurried outside to do chores. She blew through the water buckets, threw down hay, swept out the aisle, and then hopped in the old truck, two cats and the dog with her.

  Minutes later, she turned onto the dirt road leading to Cooper’s place, passing the Jones family graveyard, a huge hickory in the middle of the place for the departed. The blackbirds favored that tree.

  Pewter stared out the window. “If only they’d sleep.”

  “Yeah?” Tucker thought the limbs were thick with birds.

  “I could climb right up there and grab one.” The gray cat licked her lips.

  Not especially motivated by thoughts of dispatching birds, Mrs. Murphy said, “They’d dive-bomb you.”

  The conversation stopped as Harry stopped, cut the motor. She stepped down from the truck and lifted Tucker down. The cats easily jumped out. Harry reached back for a jar of honey she’d bought on the way back from Ginger’s reception.

  The lights shone from Coop’s kitchen windows as the twilight deepened.

  Harry knocked on the policewoman’s back door. “Your neighbor.”

  Coop’s voice called out, “Come on in.”

  The small visiting posse stepped into the clean, bright kitchen, a large butcher-block table in the middle of the room, a small eating alcove under a window.

  Harry placed the honey on the butcher block. “You’ve been busy.”

  “Had it with th
ose old curtains.” Cooper noted a folded pile of curtains by the back door. “They’ve got to be older than you and I put together.”

  “Well, there are people in Albemarle County who value antique curtains even if they do have smiling daisies on them.” Harry’s mouth curled upward, for they were just awful. “Brought you some honey.”

  “Thanks. Sit down. What will you have?”

  Harry looked at the wall clock. “If I drink black tea, I won’t go to sleep. Same with Co-Cola.”

  “White tea? Or beer? Or bourbon?”

  “White tea.” As Harry selected her bag from the offered box, Cooper put on the kettle, then pulled out two heavy mugs made in Bennington, Vermont.

  “How did it go today?”

  “A cast of thousands.” Harry filled her friend in on events: who was there, the endowed chair, the fund-raising. “Thought you might be there to direct traffic.”

  “No.” Cooper shook her head. “Paperwork. Rick made me go to my desk. Do you know how much I hate paperwork? Harry, you can’t turn around without this and that to fill out and how anyone thinks they can actually get anything done is a mystery.”

  Harry laughed. “It is awful. That’s why I make Fair do it.”

  “Now, there is a good reason to get married.” Cooper brought over the teapot, then the cups and a bowl of sugar cubes, white and brown, plus granulated sugar in a bowl.

  Neither woman took milk, but both had a weakness for sugar.

  “Your choice of sugars.”

  “M-m-m.” Cooper took a sip, raising her eyebrows. “Thanks to you, I’m learning to love tea.”

  Harry smiled. “Took me years to like white tea, but now I do. Hey, I came to tell you about Frank Cresey lurking behind a pillar on the Rotunda. He slipped away, but wasn’t he in custody?”

  “Was is the operative word.” Cooper took another long sip as the three animals prowled the kitchen floor in case any crumbs fell. “Hold on.” The tall deputy rose, pulled out a few treats, and tossed them down, as these three were regular visitors.

  Large though she was, Pewter snagged hers first.

  “So he was released?” asked Harry.

  “His stories about the murder”—Cooper twirled her hand upward—“impossible. Once he was sober, checked out by the psychologist, he was sent over to the halfway house. The report was that he was cleaned up, was well behaved, cooperative. Then he walked out. And right now we don’t have the manpower to pick him up. He’s harmless, basically.”