by Ben Adams
Cardboard boxes were stacked in the van. He tossed the lids back, looking for something he’d missed the other night, something that might explain the Air Force’s interest in Leadbelly. And Rosa. Most of the boxes were filled with trash, food wrappers, unread mail, women’s phone numbers. John flipped open another box. Leadbelly’s wall photos, the ones labeled ‘Area 51’ and ‘Los Alamos’. Digging through aerial shots of military bases, John found more photographs. Not photos linking Leadbelly to the Air Force. But of something else.
Photographs of John.
John leaving his mom’s place last Sunday. The photo was dated and labeled in the same hand as the aerial shots. John graduating high school, playing catch in the front yard, his mother watching from the porch, John in junior high, going to a Halloween party as Colonel Nathan Norris from Cape Canaveral. He still had the outfit. Leadbelly even had a photo of John kneeling behind a tree and photographing Randall Neilson getting slapped by his girlfriend at Genesse Mountain Lookout four nights ago. John had heard a cracking sound that night. He thought it was tree limbs breaking, but it had been Leadbelly moving to get a better shot.
He kept digging, and found pictures of his grandpa. Pictures going back sixty years. His grandpa as a young man, standing on the porch of a small home, his arm around a young, pregnant woman, John’s grandma.
And buried underneath these were pictures of another man. John recognized him from dreams he’d had every night since childhood, since the man disappeared. They were pictures of his father. Photos John had never seen. His dad as a child, then a teenager, and as an adult. And photos of John and his dad. In one photo, John is sitting on a Transformers Big Wheel, laughing, while his father is pushing him down the street. His father is laughing and smiling, playing with his young son. With John.
The last time he saw a picture of his father outside of his mom’s billfold was his sixth birthday, when, in an ice-cream-cake-induced rage, he threw out all the pictures of the man. That night, he heard his mother go to the trash and pull them out. The sound of the metal lid being lifted, the framed pictures scraping against Coke cans, juice boxes, and snack cake wrappers made him roll over and cry into his pillow. How could his mother still love someone who’d left them? who’d denied a child a lifetime of his love? How could he not have been there for his birthday?
John gripped the photos. He crumpled them, then smoothed the glossy pages’ ridges and depressions, his hand accidentally brushing over his father’s face. He wanted to wad them up, step on them, crush them until they were nothing, not even a memory. He wanted to save them, put them in simple, black frames and hang them in the living room next to pictures of family vacations and graduations. Holding the photos, he experienced eighteen years of anger and regret and yearning. But mostly, he felt paranoid. Leadbelly, or someone, had been following him and his family, photographing them over the decades, and he’d never suspected.
John scanned the trailer park, trying to catch the glint of sunlight off a camera lens, hidden in rusted sheds or behind tipped trash cans or in windows with broken screens. He laughed at his sudden paranoia and wondered if this was what the people he photographed felt like when they saw pictures of themselves dressed as pandas, having three-ways with people dressed as giant tacos and grinning dolphins.
He searched the box, looking for some reasoning behind the collected images from his family history. At the box’s bottom, he found it.
A book.
The leather cover was faded, stained, and split along the spine, but the binding still held. John opened the first page and read: Contained within is the personal journal of Archibald Abernathy, chronicling the years 1862-1901.
John recognized the name from the genealogy project he did for Sidewalk Stencil 204, spray painting his family tree all over Pearl Street. It was a branch whipping him in the face. Archibald Abernathy, John’s great-great-great-grandfather.
Leadbelly had kept the one-hundred and fifty year history of John’s family, the journal and photos, hidden among dirty clothes, empty beer cans, pornography.
A loud pop behind him. Glass breaking. The blast forced him against the van and to the ground. Green flames from Leadbelly’s trailer windows burned holes in the tent. The photos flew from John’s hand and were scattered on the ground like discarded big top ads from his Survey of Dadaist Circus Sideshow Posters 101. John scooped up the photos of him and his dad, put them and the book under his shirt, and zipped up his hoodie. He tossed the rest of the pictures in the box. There were some pictures he’d like to keep, photos of his father as a child sitting on his grandfather’s lap. His grandmother would want them. But there were too many photos, and John couldn’t keep them all. No one could. He put the lid back on the box and lifted it from the van’s floor. John faced Leadbelly’s burning trailer, the green flames rising from the windows and caressing the outside walls, and heaved the box inside.
The cardboard box quickly caught fire. It blackened, shrinking under flame. Satisfied no one would see the pictures again, John put one hand in his hoodie pocket and held the book and photos in place. Even though he was breathing freely, he covered his mouth with his other sleeve and blended in with the distracted crowd.
John and Sheriff Masters leaned against the sheriff’s car and watched NASA scientists run to their vans, wanting to save as much data as they could for later study, like it was a once-in-a-lifetime find, while Colonel Hollister stood in the turn lane, the gap between the dotted yellow lines dividing South Grand Avenue, watching the fire consume Leadbelly’s trailer, the Air Force’s crime scene.
And suddenly, it was over.
The fire burned itself out. The whole thing lasted a few seconds. Leadbelly’s trailer was the only one damaged.
“He burned his way out of Las Vegas again,” John said. He would have laughed, but journal and photos pressing against his stomach reminded him that there was something more urgent than trailer park arson.
Crossing South Grand, Colonel Hollister motioned for his men to get back in the tent and see if they could salvage scraps from the trailer’s skeleton. The wreckage still smoldered, but the fire was out. A hole had been burned in the tent’s roof. Its edges were shriveled and peeled back, having retreated as it blazed.
“John,” Sheriff Masters said, “what the hell’s going on here?”
“I don’t know,” he said. Elvis, Leadbelly, what he’d found in the burning tent, John didn’t know how they fit together. As much as he hated to admit it, there was someone better qualified to help them. “But I think I know someone who might.”
“Yeah?”
“Mrs. Morris,” John said, shuddering. He’d hoped to return to Denver and Mrs. Morris would be nothing more than a funny story to tell at bars or parties. Instead, he’d have to risk returning to her home of collectibles and bondage paraphernalia. “The woman who took the photo of Leadbelly, I talked to her when I first came to town. She seemed to be an expert on Elvis. Among other things. She might know some oddball Elvis theories, something that might help us out.”
The sheriff turned to the wreckage. Smoke still rose from the holes in the tent, but men in protective suits were inside, inspecting the charred frame of Leadbelly’s trailer. One of them held a small, black box, wires falling from it.
“Alright then, let’s go see what this Morris woman knows.”
“You think there’s anything to what the colonel said about the two from last night not being in your jail?” John asked, getting in the car, knowing that the men from the bar were far away, someplace outside of Sheriff Masters’s shrinking jurisdiction.
“God help us if there is.” The sheriff removed his Stetson and placed it on the dash. He picked up the radio. “Shirley, you there? How’re our two guests doing?”
“Didn’t Jimmy tell you? They checked out last night. Someone came in with a court order. Came from pretty high up, too. Had to release them.”
“Lemme guess, it was a military man, right?”
“How’d you know?�
��
“‘Cause we’re up to our asses in goddamn military men. Have you heard from the sheriff in Truth or Consequences?”
“I talked to him this morning. He said they have an open homicide investigation regarding some poor kid who went and got himself shot in the desert, but no leads.”
“I think our two biggest leads just flew the coop,” Sheriff Masters said, putting the radio handset back in its mount.
John rolled down his window, let his elbow hang out. Warm air filled the car as they drove away, leaving the Air Force to clear the confusion Leadbelly created.
Unzipping his hoodie, John removed the photos and book from under his shirt.
“What are those?” the sheriff asked, looking over.
“Something I pulled from one of the boxes they were taking from Leadbelly’s.” John guarded the pictures, putting them between random dates in the journal. “Let me ask you something. You said his place was a mess, right? blood everywhere?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say that it’d been tossed.”
“Leadbelly had something they wanted.” John’s fingers rapped against the book. “Colonel Hollister’s had Leadbelly’s place under surveillance for a while, since Mrs. Morris took his picture. I think he got impatient, sent those two from last night to toss Leadbelly’s. Leadbelly walks in on them, they kill him when he doesn’t talk. Then they go to the bar looking for Rosa.”
“He had Leadbelly’s place under surveillance? You didn’t think to tell me this?” The sheriff jerked the car right, onto New Mexico Avenue. “You know how much trouble you coulda saved me?”
“I didn’t think they’d…I thought I could get Leadbelly to leave town, avoid something like this.”
“Goddamnit, John, if there’s anything you’re keeping from me, now’s the time.”
“Nothing that pertains to this case.” John moved the book to his right, between the seat and car door. He didn’t know what was in it, or how it connected him to Leadbelly, or why Leadbelly had pictures of him. He knew he’d tell the sheriff everything. Once he’d figured it out.
The journal was written on yellow paper. The black ink had faded, and now the words were light blue.
February 22, 1862
I just returned from my meeting at the White House. I was quite surprised when I received a letter from President Lincoln requesting a meeting, but I was more surprised at the nature of the discussion and its participants.
Secretary of State William Seward met me at the White House doors and ushered me into a private sitting room where a woman sat before a fire. Of course, I knew who she was, Mrs. Mary Todd Lincoln, the First Lady. She wore a black dress and matching bonnet. In her hands was a small lithograph. I couldn’t see who the lithograph depicted, but I knew by the way she held it, it was someone important.
Without turning, Mrs. Lincoln told Secretary Seward to leave us. He nodded and backed out of the room.
Mrs. Lincoln turned and faced me. She was short and stout. Her dark hair was pulled tightly behind her head, exposing her round features. Her mouth was severe and down-turned. Her eyes were bloodshot and looked as if they had been aged by several personal losses.
She reached over and put the lithograph on the mantle next to a flickering lantern. It was then that I could see its image. It was of a young boy in a dark suit. His light hair was neatly combed. He had an expression on his face that said he hated standing still. I had read the papers and knew who the boy was, and why Mrs. Lincoln was in mourning.
She saw me looking at the lithograph and said it was the second child she’d lost; then she asked if I had any children.
I was stunned that the First Lady would address me so casually.
I told her that I did not have any children. She suggested that I should have as many as I could, so they could find new ways to break my heart every day.
The conversation made me uncomfortable, so I asked if President Lincoln would be joining us, and referred to the invitation, although it was vague in nature. Mrs. Lincoln said the president would not be joining us, that the death of Willie, that’s what she called their son, had taken a heavy toll on him.
She then veered the conversation in an unexpected direction. She was rambling and mostly incoherent due to grief, but I followed her as best I could. Mrs. Lincoln said her son was still with her, that he was with all the other spirits the White House attracts. She said their late son Willie had visited her during a dream, and told her to find me, or more specifically, someone like me, and to send me on a quest.
I told her I didn’t understand what she expected of me. Mrs. Lincoln simply said that we lived in troubled times. She handed me some pages and asked that I read them.
They were entries from a journal written by a Colonel Azeriah Standish stationed in Indian Territory. He described an attack on his garrison by unknown creatures that resembled men, but turned into animals when approached. Colonel Standish said the attack was over quickly, but when he looked at his pocket watch, over six hours had passed. Everyone was unharmed, but all their food and horses were missing.
When I had finished reading, a faint smile spread across Mrs. Lincoln’s tired face. She was excited and asked me if I knew what Colonel Standish had discovered. Spirits, she said, not letting me answer. Mrs. Lincoln then startled me by saying she wanted me to go and find them.
I wanted to protest, instead I asked why I was chosen for the task, and suggested that there might be someone more qualified for this expedition.
She said I was chosen because I was an attorney, like her husband. I replied that my abilities as an attorney were questionable. In fact, I hadn’t won a case in over a year, and had recently lost my license to practice law.
Mrs. Lincoln ignored me and called the steward to the door. She said Secretary Seward would have all the details regarding my mission. Then she proceeded to berate me until I left the room.
The young man escorted me to Secretary Seward’s office. Mr. Seward started by apologizing for having to send me on what he considered to be a fool’s errand, but with the war going on, President Lincoln felt they needed to explore every possible advantage, no matter how obscure. He then proceeded to tell me what was expected of me. He told me President Lincoln wanted me to go west in search of the spirits mentioned in Colonel Standish’s journals, and to convince them to fight for the Union. He gave me the journal entries and money to buy supplies. He said I was supposed to send correspondence to them when I could, and then sent me on my way.
John ran his hands through his hair and groaned. He bookmarked the page with a photo of his father playing tee-ball.
“So?” the sheriff asked. “What’s in the book?”
“When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”
“Everyone’s got a right to their secrets, and I’m trying to respect yours, but goddamnit, John, if this leads to something…”
“I’ll let you know before that happens.”
* * * *
They pulled up to Mrs. Morris’s house, walked up the gravel driveway past the Pinto and camper. John shuddered with each step, recalling her dry hands searching his body, her tongue forcing its way into his mouth.
“Sheriff, do me a favor. No matter what happens, don’t leave her alone with me.”
“You scared of an old woman?”
“Something like that.” John put his hands in his pockets and drew his elbows close to his body.
They were halfway to the house when Mrs. Morris threw open the front door and ran toward them.
“Mr. Abernathy! Sheriff Masters! Oh my, this is exciting! You’ll have to forgive my enthusiasm. I saw you walking up the drive and I couldn’t help myself, I had to come out here. Oh, I’d been dreaming of seeing you again, Mr. Abernathy.” She lunged toward John and hugged him. His arms at his side, John pulled his head back, wincing as she put her cheek on his chest.
The sheriff cocked his head to one side, mouthed, ‘Okay?’
“So, did you find him?” Mrs. Morris asked,
releasing John. “Did you find my Elvis Presley?”
“That’s what we’ve come to talk to you about, ma’am,” the sheriff said. “Maybe we should go inside.”
“Yes, yes. Let’s go inside,” Mrs. Morris repeated, shaking with excitement. “I’ve just made some lemonade. Would you boys like some?”
“We would love some, ma’am.”
They followed Mrs. Morris into her house. John saw the Elvis bowtie in the glass display case, steam cleaned. Mrs. Morris coughed and winked, startling him. He didn’t want to be in the congested living room where Mrs. Morris had attempted to seduce him. Having been there before, he knew what to expect, from both the room and from Mrs. Morris. John ran his hands through his hair, determined that no matter what she did or said, he wouldn’t unravel, and defiantly marched into her sitting room like he was immune to Elvis fever.
But at the sight of the room, the Elvis memorabilia decorating every wall like an interior designer’s nightmare, Sheriff Masters skidded to a stop at the door. John imagined the sound of screeching, stacked leather boot heels and black boot prints across Mrs. Morris’s entryway. The sheriff gawked at the keepsakes and collectibles, wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open. Then he turned to the fireplace, to the painting of naked Elvis with a comically large erection hanging above it. Unable to contain himself, the sheriff bent over and laughed, slapping John on the back.
“Whew, that is something,” he said catching his breath, wiping a tear from his eye.
“What do you think of my collection, Sheriff?” Mrs. Morris asked from the kitchen. She poured lemonade from a glass pitcher, decorated with Elvis singing into a microphone, into matching glasses. She put them on a tray depicting Elvis in a cage, being lowered into a pool of sharks.
