“Psalm eleven,” replied the African queen, who said, “I’m Leonora Wells, owner of this Eden.”
Some Eden! The grounds had gone to seed. Dead corn stalks and blighted strawberries littered a misconceived garden. A few chickens, haphazardly fenced, pecked at the sandy soil, and a sow rooted in a mucky pen. Invited inside the house, the two men discovered that the place had in fact once been a country school. A big room on the right, at one time a classroom, had a long dinner table, leading Jay to suspect that in the past this place had fed a number of guys on the run. The kitchen, on the left, had a woodstove, a dry sink, and an ice-box, stocked with regular deliveries. In the one bedroom, behind the kitchen, stood a large bed and a cot. Although the house had no running water—hence the pump and the rain barrels—Leonora did have electricity and a wall phone, which explained how her number had shown up on the list of calls made by the Maglioccos. The bathroom was a two-holer with a camphor cake hanging on the wall to dispel odors. On the roof of the woodshed, an oil drum served as a cistern for showers. A hose ran from above to a roughly rigged wooden enclosure that provided a modicum of privacy.
Under the kitchen, Leonora stored her provisions in a dirt root cellar with shelves for the jars of canned fruits and vegetables, behind which bull snakes dined on mice. Both the school and the bunkhouse used kerosene lamps and of course attracted a plague of moths. Outside the bunkhouse, Leonora had hung a tractor-tire swing from a maple tree for her grandchildren. (They learned later that Mr. Wells, a mechanic, had been crushed to death under a tractor.) Grasshoppers leaped in the scraggly undergrowth and millions of mosquitoes hovered in the pine trees. Jay couldn’t understand why anyone would stay here, especially in the winter, and how Leonora could cook in this inconvenient and uncomfortable place. But she lived here year round and, while they stayed with her, managed to materialize marvelous meals.
Jay explained that they were trying to find Piero and Arietta Magliocco, friends of Luigi Baldini and, no doubt, familiar to her. Leonora never acknowledged whether she recognized the names, but did invite them to stay with her as long as they liked. After dumping their valises in the bunkhouse, which Leonora had stocked with towels and soap, they joined her for a glass of lemonade.
Returning to the topic of the Maglioccos, Jay asked whether she had ever made their acquaintance. Instead of answering him, she took a large leather-bound family Bible that lay at her elbow on an egg crate that she used as an end table and read them the story of the Good Samaritan. Whether she intended the story as a cautionary tale (be a friend and don’t look for them) or an encomium (I approve of what you’re doing), he couldn’t tell. But then most of Leonora’s religious utterances left him confused. Even T-Bone, who had a good grounding in the gospel, couldn’t stay with her philosophy, which she called Gnosticism, a name Jay had never before heard. She said that what attracted her to this belief was its various approaches to God.
“If you think, for example, the virgin birth is unbelievable, the Gnostics say you don’t have to regard everything else as hooey.”
She also liked the fact that Gnostics often told the story of the Garden of Eden from the viewpoint of the serpent. “He’s not evil but an aspect of divine wisdom. It was the later Christians who changed the nature of the devil—in order to beat up on the Jews.”
Over dinner that first night, T and Leonora talked more Bible than Jay had heard in his whole life. Whereas T wanted to assign a certain meaning to a statement—“I hold this as gospel”—Leonora would argue for many meanings. Jay supposed that you could say the same for a good book.
The one subject that Leonora steered clear of was the Maglioccos. Rising from the table to her queenly six feet, she strode the boards of the room and lectured, “Is murder wrong because the Bible says ‘Thou shalt not kill?’ Shucks, the Bible is full of slaughter and mayhem. So how do we know right from wrong, and good from bad?”
Jay remembered what the gas station man had said and figured that Leonora would be at this subject for quite a while. Hanging around just long enough to hear T-Bone argue that a law-abiding country depends on consensus about what constitutes wrongdoing, and to hear Leonora counter with the view that laws are often in the eyes of the beholder, Jay went to the bunkhouse to unpack. Three cots, each separated by its own egg crate and kerosene lamp, constituted the amenities. A rope with clothes hangers had been stretched across one corner of the room to serve as a closet. Feeling dusty from the road trip, he took one of the towels Leonora had provided, entered the shower in the woodshed, and turned on the hose. What greeted him was a rush of cold water. He had forgotten that the cistern worked off the oil drum, which in turn depended on sunlight. Staying no longer than a few seconds, he grabbed the towel and while drying himself made a dash for the bunkhouse. He then crawled into bed with G. B. Shaw’s Major Barbara, as the insects incinerated themselves in his kerosene lamp.
A frustrated T-Bone returned from his colloquy fulminating about her heresies. “That woman,” said T, “is really temptin’ the infernal fires of Hades with those sinful ideas of hers.”
With Bernard Shaw on his mind, Jay said, “What constitutes a sin? Is it the act, the motive, the laws that protect the privileged, or maybe the conditions that drive people to break those unjust laws?”
T sniffed the air. “Jay, I think those kerosene fumes have got to your head, because I sure hope it ain’t what that crazy woman in there’s been sayin’.”
“I’ve been reading a play that says poverty’s a sin.”
“Now you listen to me, Jay, it ain’t no sin to be poor. I oughta know. Just remember what the good book says about a camel passing through the eye of a needle. That’s how hard it’s gonna be for a rich man to reach heaven.”
“Then why would anyone want riches?”
“Good question. Now blow out the light.”
6
They rose about ten, ate a hearty breakfast of eggs, waffles, and bacon, then, finding some horseshoes, pitched a few games. Jay took T to the cleaners. After the game, which had kicked up clouds of dust, he decided to shower. This time the water came out warm. As he stood there soaping himself and washing off the residue, he noticed stuck in the coarse boards of the wooden enclosure several long strands of hair, the color of Arietta’s. Turning off the water, he dried himself, dressed, and then gently removed the strands, carefully placing them in a fold of his towel. When T-Bone showed up, he showed him the evidence. T seemed convinced.
“But you gotta persuade that queen of hair-splittin’, ’cause you can bet she’ll come up with some excuse or what she calls ‘interpretation’ that will explain them away. That woman could make you believe you ain’t who you are.”
Instead of immediately confronting Leonora, Jay decided to wait until supper. In the meantime, he and T-Bone drove into Vineland to see the garage man who had first directed them to the farm. The young man, cheerfully wiping his hands on his overalls, asked if they needed help.
“Got a real dirty job in there,” the man said, referring to a car on a lift. “The oil case broke.”
They asked him the location of the other garages in and around town, because they had to find the driver of the Waterhouse sedan. The attendant led them into a cubbyhole of an office and, shoving aside some papers, discovered a pencil stub and drew a rough map of the area with X’s indicating the other gasoline stations. As they started to leave the fellow pointed at T and said to Jay:
“He goin’ with you?” His question caught Jay by surprise. Before he could reply, the fellow added, “Not all the garage mechanics round here’s as open-minded as me.”
Jay didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or thank him. In his most noncommittal manner, he mumbled, “Yeah,” and left with T at his side.
Their labors took longer than they expected. First, in this piney wilderness they had to find the gas pumps; second, they had to overcome the skepticism of the mechanics, who seemed in
no mood to answer their questions. Although he hated to admit it, Jay was greeted more warmly when he parked the car out of sight and T stayed behind.
Still no luck. The Waterhouse sedan had not gassed up in the area. Their failure made Jay’s impending confrontation with Leonora all the more important. After a chicken dinner with mashed potatoes and a local beer to wash it all down, he brought in a few pails of water that they heated on the woodstove and then poured into the stoppered sink where they washed the dishes. Relaxing around the dining room table, they moved aimlessly from one subject to another until Jay said:
“You do know, Leonora, why T and I made this trip down here?”
“Sure, you’re looking for some people.”
“It’s to save a friend’s life. I’ll pay you well for information.”
“You know, son, a long time ago, I learned that silence keeps a body out of trouble.”
Detecting an opening, Jay said, “That’s where you’re wrong, Leonora. For a woman who assigns such importance to interpretation, I’m surprised that you don’t realize that silence leaves itself open to all kinds of meanings. Do you want to leave interpretation to others or do you want to have some say in the matter?”
Leonora looked perplexed and then hazarded, “There’s laws that say just because I keep my peace doesn’t make me guilty of a robbery I didn’t commit.”
“You must know the old saying: Silence is consent.”
“Maybe yes and maybe no. Like you just said, a person’s silence can signify a lot of different things.”
Without her realizing it, Leonora had moved toward his position.
“Yes, and that’s the trouble. You want your silence to signify innocence. But someone else might read it as guilt.”
Leonora shrugged as if to suggest she wasn’t changing her mind.
Removing the hairs from his handkerchief, where he had moved them, he gingerly slid them across the table.
“What’s that?”
He chose not to bluff but to show her his hand. “Some strands of hair from Arietta Magliocco. I found them caught in the shower boards.” Before she could deny his flimsy proof, he added a personal note, figuring that a blow to the heart beat one to the head. “I was once a suitor, and I kissed her hair enough times to know its heavy texture and color.” He paused to let that statement sink in. “My guess is that the two of you stayed in your bedroom and Mr. Magliocco slept in the bunkhouse. If I’m right, I’m sure that you and Arietta got pretty thick. I’d be willing to bet that if I carefully examined your room, I’d find some evidence of face powder or rouge or mascara or maybe even a strand of hair that matches these.”
Leonora was the sort of woman you wanted on your side in a revolution. She did not flee at the first whiff of gunpowder. Without conceding a single point, she tried to move the discussion into the realm of the theoretical. “It’s hard enough to understand ourselves, much less other folks. To know what moves a person requires the wisdom of Solomon. That’s why I look at what people do—not what they say—and ask myself how that doin’ affects me. I return kindness with kindness, for example, and I’ll bet you feel the same way.”
Jay had his answer. The Maglioccos, and especially Arietta, had, as he suspected, treated her well.
Leonora ran a hand over her mouth and adjusted her hair bun. Then she studied the handkerchief in Jay’s hand. “In all my born days, I’ve known preciously few men wanting to find someone so as to save him. Just the reverse. Do you get my meaning?”
For all she had said about the impenetrability of people’s motives, he concluded that she thought she knew theirs.
“You’ve got us all wrong on this one.”
“But, son, if I’m right, what then?”
Perhaps recklessly, though certainly not insincerely, he said, “If you feel that way about us, I suppose we’d better move along.”
Leonora paused as if weighing in the balance some intangibles; then she went to a cabinet in which she stored pots and pans. Lifting the lid of a saucepan, she removed a linen napkin, which she unfolded. Inside was a handwritten note to Leonora, giving her the Maglioccos’ address in Cape May. “They’re living there at a rooming house,” she said with downcast eyes, “under the name of Clark.”
As they motored south, he guessed from the car in his rearview mirror that his pursuit of Arietta was being tracked by another.
Rolf’s contacts had traced a telephone call from Piero Magliocco to Leonora Wells, who lived in Norma, New Jersey, where Rolf pulled into a nearby garage driving a 1934 Packard 120 sedan with white-wall tires, a spare in the right well of the fender, and bullet-shaped headlights. As Rolf had requested, the car resembled one suited to a family, nothing ritzy or conspicuous, even though the car was costly. The garage was the same one at which Jay and T had stopped; and Rolf asked the same question. Had the attendant seen a “Toga Maroon” 1929 DuPont Model G Waterhouse five-passenger sedan? The attendant shook his head in disbelief.
“Is someone offering big money for that car? You’re the second person in a few days to ask about it.”
“Who else is interested?”
“A couple of guys, one white, one Negro, who drove off to see Leonora Wells.”
Rolf handed the garage man a fiver and asked him about this woman. A few minutes later, Rolf reached her house. As was her custom, she came to the door to greet the visitor.
“Good to meet you, Miss Wells,” said Rolf, extending his hand.
She had a dish towel in her hand, which she twisted nervously, wondering how this stranger knew her name. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Rolf Hahne,” he said, and pushed past her into the house.
She followed. To her astonishment, when he turned to face her, he was holding a pistol.
Surprised, though not frightened, Leonora said, “Now, son, you don’t wanna be behavin’ like a misfit. We got enough of them runnin’ around as is. If there’s somethin’ I got that you want, just ask. Hope, faith, and charity . . . I live in those words. And as you know the greatest of those . . .”
“Shut up!” Rolf commanded. “If I need Bible lessons they won’t come from a monkey.” He waved the pistol indicating that he wanted her to sit, which she did with folded hands at the kitchen table. He pulled up a chair next to her. “Where did the others go?”
“What others?”
Rolf pointed the pistol at her. “The two from last night, and before them you housed a girl and her father.”
Leonora shook her head. “I don’t know no girl and her daddy.”
Rolf slapped Leonora’s face. Blood trickled from a split lip.
“Don’t lie to me, you black monkey. You belong in a jungle.”
Touching her puffy lip, Leonora said, “The way you behavin’, son, I’m there now.”
“All blacks are savages.”
“It ain’t me doin’ the savagin’, but you, s’far as I can tell.”
Rolf eyed the kitchen, side to side, top to bottom.
“Can I get you somethin’ to eat? I got some nice apple pie.”
Her question completely disoriented Rolf. He began to stutter. “Eat? Now . . . here? Me?” Having expected Leonora to beg for her life, he was unnerved by her charity. He thought of his mother, but refused to allow that a black person could be imbued with her sensibilities. Trained to treat non-Aryans, particularly Jews and blacks, as an alien species, he tried to regain his balance. “You’re like a parrot; you’ve learned to mimic others. You don’t mean a word that you say.”
“Maybe you want somethin’ bigger. I got a pot roast. But maybe you’d like me to cook up some chili.”
Rolf slithered out of his chair and rose to his full height. “Stop talking!” His breath came in pants, and his pounding heart felt as if it were trying to burst through his rib cage.
“What you want, son?”
“I’ll spare you if you just tell me where they went.”
With the note no longer in the saucepan, Leonora said, “Look around. See for yourself. Ain’t nobody here now or before.”
Rolf pulled down books from her cedar bookcase mounted on the wall near her rocking chair: cookbooks, dime novels, an atlas, a pocket dictionary. Fingering her Bible, he paused and then threw it against the wall.
“What you lookin’ for, son? If it’s truth, you just tossed it on the floor.”
“Where are they?” he wailed like a wounded animal. “Tell me and I won’t kill you.”
The sound of a car bouncing along the rutted road could be heard coming their way.
“Is there only one road in and out?”
“You can follow the Indian trail at the side of the house. It bends back to the Vineland road. But it ain’t easy goin’.”
Peering out the window, Rolf asked, “Where else does it go?”
“Son, you saw when you come up here that you got two choices. One way is Norma, the other Carmel. Of course, beyond those towns are others. And beyond them still others. Your best choice is the holiness road.”
Misunderstanding her meaning, he said, “Which one is that?” He pointed out the window. “The car’s stopped. An old Ford.” He paused. “Carmel!” he exclaimed.
She added wistfully, “The mountain in the Bible, where Elijah and Elisha walked among the vineyards.”
Dreams Bigger Than the Night Page 17
