"Again,” I told him. “Slowly."
I must go with them, he said. To the etang. There had been an accident.
My stomach filled with ice. “Stella?” I asked.
He hung his head.
* * * *
It was the third man who had found her, the one they called Alain. He was a hunter and had gone into the woods to shoot. Normally, he said, he avoided the etang, but for some reason that morning he had been drawn. He had found her facedown in the water, frozen into the ice, and had run to Jacques, who in turn had called Chicot. The three of them had returned and dragged her out. Then they had come for me.
Somehow I managed to dress—I still couldn't find my clothes—and followed them to the pond. They had left her lying on the bank, face upwards in the frosted leaves, as though staring at the cold circle of sky above the clearing. Her lashes were thick with ice. The grey woollen frock, saturated and (since they had come to fetch me) frozen over, clung to her body like a diseased second skin, coarse and putrescent. I turned away and vomited.
A moment later I heard shouting. The police had arrived. There was much arguing and gesticulating—mainly, I gathered, because the body had been moved. For the first time I looked at the dark gash in the ice. Already it was filming over.
Gabrielle appeared and, despite my wild protests and demands to stay with my wife, she, Jacques, and a policeman led me back to the house. They took me to the kitchen and stared aghast at the mess. The dining room was in even greater chaos—spilled wine, kicked-over chairs, sprawling empty bottles. Had we really behaved so disgustingly?
"Party,” I mumbled as Gabrielle made a space for me to sit down and began to clear the debris.
* * * *
The following days were a nightmare. I kept expecting Stella to appear—there were so many things I wanted to tell her—but then I would remember and my stomach would churn. I howled with loneliness. The police interviewed me many times, but there was little I could tell them, other than that we had all drunk far too much and I had eventually passed out in a stupor. I cringed with shame. Neil and Penny confirmed my story but, like me, could offer no logical reason why Stella should have gone to the etang. Penny's suggestion that she had been drawn by whatever evil presence lurked in the house was dismissed, quite rightly, as nonsense. Although I have since learned that Helene Bazire was not the first woman to die there, I still cannot accept supernatural intervention. For pity's sake, we are no longer peasants.
The press, it goes without saying, were obnoxious. The incident had all the ingredients of a sensational story—mysterious death, well-known protagonists, hints of the paranormal. Even implications of foul play which I did my best to ignore. They couldn't substantiate, of course—any evidence had been destroyed when Jacques and his companions removed her body and by our footprints walking to and fro—but it added to the speculation. Which did not displease my agent. Sales of my books soared. Penny too, I'm told, was paid handsomely for her chilling descriptions of “The Ghost of Le Coisel,” although I suspect the “woman pleading for mercy at the top of the stairs” was the product of a business mind rather than psychic disturbance, and I doubt if we'll ever know what, if anything, she truly saw that night. I eschew the use of cliches but at times it is hard not to think of the proverbial ill wind.
Later that day I found my clothes. Gabrielle was pulling them from the washing machine when I stumbled into the kitchen. They were wet and clean, the cycle completed, so I said nothing and allowed her to continue. There seemed little point in drawing attention to what had otherwise passed unremarked.
* * * *
The verdict of the inquest was predictable—death by drowning whilst under the influence of alcohol—and I pray there isn't an afterlife or Stella will have died a second time through shame. I returned to Le Coisel, determined to sell, determined to have the etang filled in. In the event, I have done neither.
To be frank, there seems little point. I never go near the Devil's Pond now, and nor, I feel sure, do the locals. This latest incident will have done nothing to diminish its evil reputation. And as for selling...
I thought at first I would move south, but I find I am strangely content here. Yellow flags again line the riverbank and damsel flies dart jewel-like amongst the leaves. It is a haven of peace and tranquillity. I sit daily beside the water and have come to rely on its gentle murmur for solace, even, I suspect, for inspiration. I have begun writing again and my first novel for many years is under way. I see little reason to move.
Perhaps content is too strong a word ... The night of the tragedy is never far from my mind and at times I am deeply troubled. But there are some fears one cannot fully express even to oneself. That way lies madness.
I am a gentle soul, I tell myself, when I lie awake in the early hours, heart pounding and bathed in sweat. I am kind and compassionate, incapable of inflicting even the mildest hurt. But then the other voice begins to speak, soft and insidious, reminding me that we are all capable of good and evil, and that I, as a writer, should know that better than most. Whereupon I begin to sweat again and strain to hear the former voice for reassurance. How well, I wonder, do any of us truly know ourselves?
©2009 by Caroline Benton
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Fiction: FOR THE LOVE OF MARY HOOKS by Christopher Bundy
Christopher Bundy's fiction and essays have appeared in Atlanta Magazine, Glimmer Train Stories, The Rambler, and many other publications. He is a teacher and a founding editor of the journal New South in Atlanta, Georgia. He joins us for the first time with a story that explores the mystique and magnetism of The Beatles. A small kernel of fact helped to inspire this story: there were actual accounts of barbers going out of business in the 1960s because of the popularity of the popularity of the Beatle cut.
Where the Cul-de-sac Met the Railroad Tracks
When Dobson Johns found Donny Palmer by the railroad tracks, Lake Claire, Georgia, embarked upon a change, just like the world beyond that had begun to surface in the newspapers and on TV. The citizens of Lake Claire thought the con-fusing headlines from Atlanta, Washington, and abroad, however forbidding, wouldn't make it to their town; and for the most part the town stood still. But then, among the odd rhythms of the summer of 1966, even blue sky was fleeting, buckets of rain submerging pastures and overflowing streams and rivers. Not a patch of solid ground to be found. Lake Claire, which never had a lake, only a few places where water seemed to collect more than others, went swampy. As soon as you rested on firm earth it gave way beneath. Inside the houses of the small south-Georgia town the sheets were damp and towels never dried. Clothes clung to warm backs and it was best to sit still and let the sound of rain quiet your heart. And for the first time it seemed even the television went muddy, revealing, nightly, a window onto a more and more inconceivable and unpredictable decade.
For the Love of Mary Hooks
Through the curtain of constant rain, Mary Hooks caught her second look at Donny Palmer. Hidden in the shadows of the entranceway to Drucker's 5 & 10 on the opposite side of Corbett Street, she watched as the boy and his mother dashed into the Dairy Queen. Mary had seen the boy only once before, when his father, Don Senior, had showed up to tell her he had to stay home that night—something had come up and his wife Dale expected him. In the rain, Don Senior had stood hovering in the doorway to keep her from his son's view. But she saw the boy, a beautiful blur behind the streaked glass of his father's Pontiac LeMans, shaggy blond bangs over his eyes. From the Dairy Queen, mother and son sprinted to Carmello's Barbershop where, under the awning, they shook off the rain. The boy's mother pushed open the shop door, but Donny shook his head and refused to enter, stepping back from the meaty figure of the town barber and into the rain.
The truth about Carmello DeNino was that ever since The Beatles first appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show he stopped liking boys altogether. The barber scowled from behind his chair, disgusted with the boys of Lake Claire who had let their hair grow
long: first the front and sides, over the eyes and past the ears, and to their collars, where it curled like a girl's. Then they stopped coming altogether. The Palmer boy, an oddball already, Carmello told anybody who would listen, was the first to refuse a haircut. But others followed. And here the boy was, standing in the rain, again refusing a haircut.
For eighteen years Carmello stood each morning before the American flag that flew from his barbershop. His massive hand spread over his swelling chest as he recited the Pledge of Allegiance with a solemn shake of his head, to show the people of Lake Claire he was an American, the best you could possibly be. But after two decades of running an honest business in Lake Claire, Carmello spoke painfully of the declining number of young customers in his shop each day.
Mary Hooks watched as the boy's mother appeared to plead with her son to enter the shop, angry, yes, Mary thought, but more disheartened than anything else. Donny remained steadfast in the rain, as if to underscore his defiance. The boy's mother dropped her head in surrender and entered the barbershop, nodding apologies at the immigrant barber, who had a moustache like Stalin, the cheeks of a bulldog, and a head like a fuzzy pumpkin. Donny stepped back under the awning and out of the rain. Crossing the street to get a better view of the rain-soaked, shaggy-haired boy, Mary sought shelter under the same awning.
"Just can't stay dry these days, can we?” she said to him as she shook water from her umbrella.
"No, ma'am,” Donny answered, his eyes still on his mother and the big barber inside, who stood with his beefy arms folded across his chest.
Mary stirred at the boy's formal “ma'am.” At twenty-two she was not used to hearing such formal greetings. “Not ready for a haircut yet, I guess."
Donny acknowledged the pretty stranger with rosebud lips, brown eyes, and short dark hair with a puzzled glance her way. But he didn't hold his gaze; he pushed wet bangs from his eyes and looked away, barely grunting a reply. Donny's mother talked inside, with her back to the window, while the Italian barber glared at the boy over his mother's shoulder.
"My name's Mary.” She dipped her head to catch the withdrawn boy's eyes again.
"Yes, ma'am. I've seen you.” He shuffled his feet from side to side, kicking at the wet sidewalk with the toes of his sneakers.
"I'm going to make a guess here—and I'm usually right about these things—I bet you like The Beatles, don't you. Is that it?” she asked, the hope of a reply in her smile. Donny looked up with eyes wide. “Uh-huh."
"Is that why you don't want to get your hair cut?” Moving closer to the boy, Mary hummed the melody from “You've Got to Hide Your Love Away."
"Uh-huh.” He ran his hand through wet hair, his eyes returning to her in recognition.
"Your parents making you? Is that it?"
"Uh-huh.” He glanced at his mother again and back to Mary. “Mostly my dad, he doesn't like it one bit. But he's not here right now."
Mary Hooks nearly answered that she knew his father was away on business in Atlanta, but caught herself in the middle of a nod. She knew because she had met Donny's father, Don Senior, just yesterday during her lunch break, at home, and right before he had left for Atlanta. I've only got a few, Mary-girl, Don Senior whispered in her ear as he pressed his hips into hers. They didn't eat lunch but instead made love on Mary's rose-colored sofa, Don Senior murmuring promises of gifts from Atlanta, of a time when they would be together, of a ring on her finger. Don't worry, honey, I'll make you honest. Just, things have to move slowly in delicate situations like this. When he had exhausted himself, he kissed Mary's forehead and hurriedly dressed, cursing the clock on the wall. Don't you move from here until I get back. Mary knew he thought he was being romantic.
"Is that right?” Mary turned back to the boy.
"Uh-huh."
When she asked the sixteen-year-old if he had heard the new Beatles single, “Paperback Writer," Donny shook his head. Mary Hooks smiled and touched the wet bangs that had fallen again over his eyes, before jerking her hand away in shock at her own action.
"I like your hair,” she added, as if saying so would explain away her immodest gesture.
Through the large plate-glass window of Carmello's Barbershop, Dale Palmer, frustrated and tired from the latest battle between father and son, leaving her, as always, in the middle to mediate, watched as a stranger, a curiously familiar young woman, reached out to touch her son's face. Dale noticed that the young woman wore capri pants in the latest fashion, something her husband Don had forbidden her to wear. It's not proper. I don't care what they're doing in Atlanta, he told her. Without understanding why she needed to return to her son so suddenly but knowing that she did, Dale Palmer apologized to the bearish barber again.
"I'm sure we'll be back,” she said and left the barbershop.
Donny waited under the awning, grinning oddly at his mother. There was no sign of the young woman with short hair who had touched her son's face with such affection.
"Who was that?” Dale Palmer asked her son.
"Some lady,” Donny replied, turning from his mother and the offer of her umbrella. “Said she liked my hair."
* * * *
Donny Palmer had a pretty face for a sixteen-year-old boy: the eyelashes, the yielding blue eyes, the smooth, clear skin of his mother, the fine fair hair that fell well past his ears to the collar of his shirt. While most of the boys of Lake Claire wanted to be like Aaron, Alou, or Matthews as they cracked balls into the hot, humid air of Fulton County Stadium, Donny wanted to be a Beatle. Ever since he, like seventy-three million others in America, had gotten his first glimpse of The Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show, Donny felt something stir inside that he could hardly name, an enthusiasm that rose up from within and brought tears to his eyes as it swelled to a scream. He had no idea why, but he knew he wanted to keep that feeling. Watching The Beatles sing on television in their neat black suits as they strummed guitars, heads bobbing, Cuban heels tapping to the backbeat, Donny wanted to jump around. It was a fantastic noise, not unlike music on the Negro station he heard when their housekeeper Mrs. Jackson thought no one was around. Listening to The Beatles gave Donny the idea there was something beyond the borders of Ball County, beyond the stifling walls of his father's house and the needy hands of his coddling mother. When Donny heard The Beatles, he danced, and not the dances he had been forced to learn at junior cotillion where, dressed in dinner jacket and dark trousers, he hid in gymnasium corners waiting for the evening to end. In his bedroom, Donny danced like the kids on American Bandstand, where everyone danced together, where stylish city kids knew the latest hit songs and pretty girls cried out for pop stars like The Lovin’ Spoonful, The Turtles, and Love. Donny couldn't stop himself and he didn't care. He didn't care that his father had forbidden him to listen to The Beatles or any music like it.
"What good could possibly come from that nonsense?” Donny's father asked.
Donny didn't care that only days before his father had taken the few records he had ordered from a shop in Atlanta and burned them all in an oil drum out back. He didn't care that his father was planning to lead a Stamp Out The Beatles campaign in Lake Claire in response to a Datebook magazine story in which John Lennon said The Beatles were more popular than Jesus Christ.
"No one, you hear me, no one's bigger than Jesus,” Don Senior preached.
Donny didn't care that his father had ordered him to have his hair cut before he returned from a sales trip to Atlanta on Friday, because on Thursday a strange, pretty woman with dark hair who knew The Beatles said she liked his haircut, and that was enough for him.
* * * *
Don Palmer, Senior, had disliked The Beatles from the moment he first saw them on television. He sat behind his son and wondered aloud what sort of baloney Donny watched.
"What do they call that racket?"
"They're from England,” Donny answered, not taking his eyes from the television. Don Senior, lead salesman at Quality Stone Supply, alderman, usher at Mt. Zion Baptist Church, a
nd a man who thought no music finer than a Roger Williams number, believed English fellows in tight, shiny suits like monkeys on show, their hair cut long and dandyish like Dr. Tweedy's boy, who had the body of a man and the mind of an idiot, were surely a temporary foolishness. It was possible, he conceded, the English hooligans were worse even than the crude black singers he'd seen shaking and shrieking under a giant tent out by the fairgrounds last summer, the many and varied voices of the devil inhabiting the bodies of a hundred Negroes so they too shook like the possessed. As The Beatles grew in popularity, and Don heard more of them in his own house and around town, he liked them less—the screech of electric guitars and the hypnotizing effect the longhairs had on his mollycoddle son.
"I've had enough of this noise,” Don finally told his son. “How am I supposed to rid Lake Claire of this garbage when my own son's parading around town looking more like a girl than a boy?"
Don watched his son's head bob back and forth like a jack-in-the-box freshly popped, inches from the television. Donny's hair hung in his eyes, fell below his ears, and curled at the back. Such a susceptible nature behind those weak blue eyes. Donny had the soft features of Dale's father, a yielding man who had surrendered easily to a death of something Don could never remember: infection, pneumonia, obstruction. Don had tried to interest his son in those summer activities he knew and loved so well: baseball, and with the Braves so close by in Atlanta; Hemingway's Nick Adams stories; and the rewards of youth ministry. But God had provided him with a different son: a girlish, gawking boy, who bobbed his head back and forth to the clatter of electric guitars. Preacher Avery suggested to Don that God wanted him to love his son no matter the differences, this was a new generation of kids, and that was all right. But Don recalled his relationship with his own father, a man who expected a son to carry on the traditions of his elders. Was this not the way families worked? Despite his irritation with Donny, Don tried to understand his son's passions, but he also knew that as his father it was his responsibility to intervene when he felt the boy was being misled. Certainly this infatuation with a boy band was temporary, just like the electric guitars they played. And even as he searched his heart for the love he knew Christ encouraged, he could not remove the image of his bob-bobbing son.
EQMM, May 2009 Page 17
