by Anne George
bama. I looked it up. But, Buddy, I marry for love.' "
"And what did he say?"
"That he appreciated my honesty, and he hoped I would allow him to woo me."
"Woo you?"
"Woo me."
"This was in the hot tub with absolutely nothing going on?"
"Or off."
"Umm. If he's gay, why would he ask you to marry him?"
"Protective coloring?"
Mitzi leaned on her fence. "And to think I just came out to look at my Peace roses."
"Where are you going now?" I asked Sister.
"To get Tiffany at the Buick place. Her car broke down. Incidentally, Trinity Buckalew never called last night. Have you heard from her?"
"While ago. She said Georgiana Peach is just the same, and she's going over to her apartment to stay. It's close to the hospital."
"Looks like she'd have called."
"Maybe she did and you were too busy in the hot tub."
"Jackass!" Sister hit the up button on the window. I got my hand out just in time.
"Marry him!" Mitzi yelled to the departing car, her hands cupped around her mouth. "Lord, Patricia Anne," she turned to me, "the second richest man in Alabama, ninety years old with a bad heart? Lord!"
"Go figure." I took my casserole and my dog home.
After I did a minimum of housework, which consisted of making up the bed and zapping the most obvious dust bunnies with the Dustbuster, I sat down
at the kitchen table and stared at the computer. I needed to know what was in it. Therefore, I would turn it on and retrieve the information I needed. I would not be intimidated by this little black box. Fred and his male's superior ability with machines. What bullshit! I turned on the power and watched the screen light up.
What I was looking for was multiple listings of any one name, such as Camille's three. Following Philip's instructions, I zoomed right to the directory and found several. One was listed as Jasper Arnold, Jasper N. Arnold, and Jasper Newton Arnold. Two generations back, I discovered that Jasper's grandfather, Clifford, was unlisted on one chart; was a fanner in Tatnall County, Georgia, where he died, on the second chart; and on the third, was a counterfeiter who died in At-more Prison in Alabama. Three listings for Lacy Blake and Sutler Rowe provided the same disparity. An ancestor who might have been an embarrassment was washed clean.
"Okay, Meg," I said to the computer. "What's going on here?"
I got a pencil and paper and copied down the names and dates of the charts that had been changed. It didn't take a professional genealogist to recognize the snake in the woodpile here. But had this snake been the cause of Meg Bryan's death? Or Judge Haskins's murder?
While I was in the shower, I thought about the obvious advantages of changing a name on a family tree. General Sherman's name on the Johnson lineage chart had kept Camille Atchison out of an organization she felt passionately about belonging to. But if General William Tecumseh Sherman became William Thomas Sherman, a Georgia farmer wounded in service to the
Confederacy, could Camille take the revised pedigree chart and say, "Big mistake. Clean slate," and be admitted? How much proof would she have to come up with?
And then there was the flip side of the coin. If a family tree could have rotten apples plucked off, it could also have some grafted on. And how much would a person to whom ancestry was a matter of pride pay to have a Benedict Arnold expurgated from his pedigree chart? And would he keep paying? This could be a field ripe for blackmail.
I poured shampoo into my hand. Surely this wasn't what Meg Bryan was doing. Or was it? She had given the chart with General Sherman's name on it to Camille Atchison. Camille said she had had it "straightened out," obviously with the "farmer in Georgia" version. I lathered my hair with the special shampoo I use for curly hair. Some ancestor had forwarded his genes for curly strawberry-blond hair (now mostly gray), along with a million freckles, to me. Another had bequeathed straight brown hair (now curly strawberry-blond) and olive skin to Mary Alice. So what? I stood under the cascading warm water and realized that knowing who these progenitors were would never be the passion for me that it was to the people in Meg's computer.
And then I thought of the boy who fell from the cliff and was hanged by his hair. The stories. Now those I could get hooked on. All the stories of the world are found in each family. A walk through any cemetery is a walk through the world.
"Records for Mount Olive?" the librarian in the Southern History Department at the Birmingham Pub-
lie Library said. "We've got some. But your best bet would be over at the courthouse."
"This man was a Baptist minister," I said, "in the late 1800s."
"The Alabama Baptist Convention has very complete records, too," she said. "I think they're at Sam-ford University." She got up from the same desk, I swear, where I had sat forty years earlier clipping newspaper stories for Miss Boxx, who still appeared occasionally in my anxiety dreams. "Our records are back here."
I followed her to the back of the room. Her skirt, I figured, was one-fifth as long as mine had been forty years ago.
"What is it you want, exactly?"
"I'm trying to find out all I can about a man named Clovis Reed Johnson and his wife, Elizabeth."
"Were they born in Jefferson County?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "He might have been. I doubt she was."
"Well, like I say, most of the Jefferson County records are over at the courthouse. If you don't find anything here, that's where you need to look."
"Thanks." I put my purse and notebook on a table as the woman walked off. In her green miniskirt and matching tights, she would have been at home in Sherwood Forest. Miss Boxx, the ultimate librarian and founder of the Southern History Department, scowled down at her from her portrait on the wall.
It didn't take me long to realize that the woman was right about the records. I found a 1900 census list that had Clovis R. Johnson and Mary C. Johnson listed with four children ranging in age from six to eighteen. Had Elizabeth died? Probably. There certainly wouldn't have been a divorce.
"Death records?" the wood nymph said when I asked her. "They're over at the courthouse. We're going to get all that kind of stuff put on the computer some day, so all you'll have to do is call it up right here." She pointed vaguely toward a couple of computers that sat, unused, on a table. "But right now you're going to have to go over to the courthouse. Up on the tenth floor. Archives Department."
I cut across the park to the courthouse, remembering that the last time I had been in this park, there had been emergency vehicles flashing their lights and Judge Haskins running to tell us Meg was dead. Today a few people were sitting on benches or by the reflecting pool, eating lunch or just enjoying the spring sun. A tranquil scene.
The lobby of the courthouse was dim and cool after the brilliant sunshine outside. I found the elevators and pushed the button for the tenth floor, realizing that the reason Meg had been on the tenth floor was probably because she was looking for something in the Archives Department. I shivered.
The tenth floor seemed deserted. A double glass door at the end of the hall looked promising, though. I walked toward it and saw that it was, indeed, the Jefferson County Archives and History Department. I pushed the door open, and a woman looked up in surprise from behind a tall counter.
"I'm looking up a family," I said. "They lived in Jefferson County in the late 1800s."
The counter, I realized, was average height; the woman was very short. "Sure," she said. "What do you want? Births, deaths?"
"Deaths. I need to find out when a man's first wife died. But I need the marriages, too."
"What's the name? Some of those records are al-
phabetized. Just some of them, though."
"Johnson. I need all I can find on a woman named Elizabeth Sherman Johnson. Her husband's name was Clovis Reed Johnson."
"What is this? You're the second person this week wanting to know about Elizabeth Sherman Johnson. What is it w
ith her?"
"Really?"
"God's truth." The short woman opened a door in the counter. "Come on back. I don't think I've even put those records up yet."
The woman was as wide as she was tall. I followed her down aisles lined with record books, where small stepladders attested to the way she reached the ones that were over five feet high.
"What did this person look like?" I asked. "The other one who wanted Elizabeth Johnson's records."
"Little bitty. Gray."
"Did she look like Jessica Tandy?"
"You know, she did. Thanks. I kept asking myself, 'Aileen, who is it this lady reminds you of?' And for the life of me, I couldn't think of it. And that was it exactly."
It was Meg. It had to be. "Did she sign anything in order to look at the records?"
"No, honey. They're here for the looking. She didn't stay but a minute, anyway."
Coming from between the aisles, we came into an area with several tables and windows that overlooked the park.
"There they are," Aileen said, pointing to a couple of large record books on the table. ' 'I know those are the same ones." She opened the nearest one. "Let's see. Johnson, Clovis. That's an unusual name, isn't it?"
"It's his wife, Elizabeth Sherman Johnson, when I'm really interested in."
"They list them by the man, honey. Makes me furious." She ran her finger down an index. "Here's Clovis, page 219. Elizabeth should be attached. What's she done, anyway, to warrant all this attention?"
"Nothing that I know of. It's a family-tree thing."
"Family trees are for the birds." Aileen laughed at her own wit while she opened the heavy record book. I reached over to help her.
"Page 219, 219," she murmured, turning the pages. "Pages 218, page 221. Page 219?"
"What?" I asked.
"There's not a page 219." She turned back several pages and looked through again.
"Let me see," I said. She moved over and I turned the pages. 218, 221. No 219 or 220. "Is there any way it could be misnumbered? Out of place?"
"With these records, sure. But look here." Aileen, whose eyes were much closer to the book than mine, pointed. Close to the binding were a few jagged edges of paper.
"Somebody tore it out?" I asked.
"Somebody tore the son of a bitch out! Brenda!"
A voice from the stacks answered, "What? I'm dusting."
"Come here."
A tall thin woman with a red feather duster in her hand appeared from between two of the aisles.
"Look at this," Aileen pointed. "They've done it again."
Brenda came up, looked at the ragged edge, and shook her head. "Computers," she said.
"Well, I know what the answer is, Brenda," Aileen
said. "How many you going to donate?"
"What laws are they breaking?" I asked. "Tearing these pages out."
"Every law in the book. Ticks me off to hell and back."
"Me, too," Brenda said.
"Well," I put my notebook back in my purse, "I guess I'll try Samford. Clovis was a Baptist preacher."
"Gonna have to put these things under lock and key," I heard Aileen telling Brenda as I left. For starters, she could try not leaving them lying out on the desk for days, I thought.
On the way to the elevator, I passed a ladies' room and decided I would be more comfortable if I took advantage of the facilities. When I entered, I found myself in what was the courthouse tenth-floor equivalent of the teachers' lounge at Alexander High. And like all teachers' lounges, it was furnished with a couple of chairs and an old sofa salvaged from someone's basement. In this case, they matched, though, rattan with faded flowered cushions. A coffee table with a cracked glass top and a nice, built-in makeup counter completed the furnishings. In the next room were four toilet cubicles and sinks. The courthouse is a nonsmoking building, but word hadn't gotten up to the ladies' room on the tenth floor. Smoke hung heavy in the air in spite of the window opened wide to the spectacular spring day.
As I was drying my hands, I walked to the window and did a double take. This was where Meg jumped. Or was pushed. I glanced down again. The view made me dizzy and I backed away, but below me was the exact spot where her body had landed. I looked around the room as if expecting some answers.
The door burst open and two young women came in laughing.
"Hi," they both said to me as they took out their cigarettes and plunked down in the chairs.
r
Fifteen
I was starving. I was starving for fast, fatty food. I went through the drive-in at the Green Springs McDonald's and ordered a Big Mac and a chocolate milkshake. Then I took them home, pulled off my shoes, and settled down to eat and watch Jeopardy. I knew the answer to the Final Jeopardy question and that, plus more fat than my digestive system usually had to cope with in a week, cheered me up. So did a message on my answering machine from Debbie that they were home, very happy, and I should give them a call.
"The most wonderful honeymoon in the world," Debbie bubbled. The quaintest inn, a wonderful fireplace in their room with a fire every night, a wonderful view of the mountains from rocking chairs across the porch. And a wonderful husband to share it with.
"I'm glad you had a wonderful time," I said.
"Thank-you, Aunt Pat," Debbie said, seriously, a sure sign of how rattled she was. "I talked to Haley, so I know about her and Philip. I think that's wonderful."
213
"Wonderful," I agreed. "And your mother got a marriage proposal."
"So I hear. I think it's—" Debbie paused.
"Wonderful?"
"Well, sure. He's getting on up there in years, though, isn't he?"
"Honey, you know that game on The Price Is Right where they play yodeling music while the little mountain climber chugs up to the top? And he falls over, clunk, when you overbid?"
"You're saying Mama better bid carefully?"
"Something like that. On the other hand, who knows? Buddy Johnson may outlast us all. You need to come over when you can. We've got a lot of catching up to do. This has been a busy week."
"So I hear. I couldn't believe Meg Bryan's death. She seemed fine at the wedding."
"That was just the beginning," I said.
"Well, could you and Uncle Fred come to supper tomorrow night? Henry wants to try out a new lamb recipe. I think Haley and Philip will be here, and Mama. We can hear about everything."
"That sounds wonderful," I said. We made a date for six o'clock so we would have a chance to see the twins before their bedtime.
I had been talking to Debbie at the table where I had stacked the letters from Meg Bryan's computer disk. I picked up the one on top of stack three, with the names, Williams, Murphy, Bobby, Trinity, scribbled on it. It reminded me that I hadn't found Heidi Williams like I had promised Georgiana Peach. I called Debbie back and asked her if she had a city directory.
"Sure. Right here."
"See if there's a Williams, Heidi listed. She's not
in the phone book under the name Heidi, but the city directory lists wives' names separately."
"Just a minute, Aunt Pat. Talk to Fay while I'm looking."
A conversation with a child who has just turned two is exhausting. Not that Fay didn't talk; she talked a blue streak. But I didn't have the foggiest idea what she was telling me. Consequently, my side of the conversation consisted of "That's right, darling." I was glad when Debbie rescued me with the news that Heidi was, indeed, listed, and did I have a pencil?
I did and was rewarded with both Ms. Williams's phone number and address. Bless the city directory people. I called the number and got the usual answering machine. Heidi had such a strong Southern accent, her voice could have been a study for a linguistics class. Most people think Southern accents are all alike. Not so, as any Southerner can tell you. Heidi's voice was straight from the Tennessee mountains. I left a message for her to call me, and told her that Georgiana Peach was sick at University Hospital and was trying to get in touch with her
. I stuck the card with the phone number and address in my purse, then turned back to the letters. The last one I read before my eyes closed in a delicious nap was one in which Meg was questioning the contraction of Pollack into Polk. Was James K. Polk's original family name Pollack? The sandman cometh; I embraced him.
An hour later, I awoke feeling like hell. I had been too sound asleep for too short a time. My head ached slightly, I had a crick in my neck, and the Big Mac seemed to have wedged sideways in my esophagus. I got up stiffly and went looking for the aspirin and Maalox, which I promptly spilled on the kitchen counter. Damn. Why is it that sleeping in the daytime
seems such a great idea but leaves you feeling like a zombie?
I was holding a wet paper towel against my face when the phone rang.
"Patricia Anne?" It was Frances Zata, my friend, the counselor at Robert Alexander High. ' 'You know we were talking about Castine Murphy?"
"I knew you would be happy to know she's turned out okay."
"Well, I went back and pulled her record here at the school. She went to Vanderbilt. Did you know that? And here's a letter from Vanderbilt in her file that she graduated magna cum laude."
"Nobody said she didn't have a brilliant mind," I grumbled. "She just did what she wanted with it."
"Were you asleep?"
"Just waking up," I admitted. "My head's loggy."
"Oh, but the idea of being able to take a nap," Frances enthused. "I've decided I'm definitely retiring this year. Why shouldn't I? I've put in my thirty years."
"You'll miss the kids," I warned. "And the school."
"About as much as you do."
Which was quite a lot. There was a large hole in my life that I still hadn't filled.
"Anyway, you know I told you her parents were killed by lightning while Castine was in college?"
"Yes, and that she didn't inherit the money everyone thought she would. She still got to finish school, though?"
"Apparently, thanks to that judge that was murdered the other day. Judge Raskins. He became her guardian. This letter is a copy of one Vanderbilt sent to him saying congratulations, that Castine was in the
top five percentile of her class and would be graduating with honors."
