“I thought you said thirty-five,” Cole said, reaching in his pocket.
“You were supposed to try and Jew me down. I only wanted twenty-five. You gave up before we got started.”
“Sorry,” Cole said sheepishly, then took a twenty and a five and laid them on the counter.
The old man opened a drawer under the counter and laid the money in the proper slots. He took something from the end of the drawer, laid it in his palm and rubbed it gently with the tips of his fingers.
“Somethin’ I want you to have.” Billy Gibson’s voice was soft and suddenly sounded old and tired. “Had this a long time. Brought me through a war and two marriages. I outlived all three. Maybe it’ll take a shine too.” He extended his hand to Cole, palm up.
In his wrinkled, oil stained, hand was a silver dollar. Cole reached out and took the coin from him.
“Your granddad gave that to me on a hot July night when I was about eleven years old. He was on his way to a place called Charlie’s where they used to have big poker games. Me and a bunch of my buddies were playin’ in the street when he walked by. It was like seein’ a movie star. Handsomest man I ever saw.
‘How come you never drive, mister?’ I asked him.
‘Don’t want to lose my car in a poker game and have to walk home,’ he said, with a big grin.
‘But you are walkin’,’ I replied.
‘That’s right, but it’s ‘cause I want to, not that I have to.’
And with that he flipped me that silver dollar. I never forgot it. Even through the heart of the Depression and Dust Bowl years I never spent it. At first ‘cause I was afraid I’d get a beatin’ for takin’ it from a Gamblin’ Man. Later on it was such a part of me I carried it everywhere. I tell you son, I was the envy of every kid in town. I had a bonafide George Sage silver dollar.”
“Mr. Gibson, I don’t know what to say. This is a treasure beyond my wildest dreams.” Cole felt a catch in his voice.
“Like I said, if it gets you through half the scrapes it got me through you’ll come out the other side a pretty lucky fella.”
Cole reached out and shook Billy Gibson’s hand. “I will treasure this until the day I die.”
“Let’s get that bicycle loaded up before we start bawlin’.” Gibson walked around the counter and out the door without looking back.
SEVENTEEN
Cole sat at the kitchen table, a sandwich, Diet Coke and silver dollar before him. The 1922 Liberty Head dollar was still sharp and crisp. The years of Billy Gibson carrying it around in his pocket hadn’t marred Miss Liberty’s face. Cole ran his finger across the wisps of hair that floated behind her as if in a gentle breeze. The spikes of her tiara were still well defined. He marveled at the beauty of the woman on the coin. Her gently parting lips held a sensual quality you would not expect to see on a coin. She was truly beautiful. Every detail of the coin was a thing of beauty. Like the year it was minted, the coin showed promise, strength and elegance. The bold stamp of LIBERTY across the top resounded with the optimism of a new age born of the War to End All Wars.
Cole turned the coin over and looked at the reverse. A majestic eagle rested atop a rock clutching an olive branch. The word PEACE emblazoned across the base of the rock spoke of the value of strength to assure peace. As Cole gazed at the coin he was struck by the brilliant rays of the rising sun that promised a new day. The thought that had been given to this coin of the realm, the cornerstone of the nation’s wealth and power, was the evidence that it truly was from another time.
It saddened Cole a bit to think of what had been lost since this coin was minted. The power that became the mightiest on Earth lost its righteous purpose, its purity of design. The wars of today were seeded in global economics, not the liberation of people from oppression. One form of oppression was now replaced by another and financed from the same bag of gold. Cole ran his finger over the relief of the eagle.
He smiled at his good fortune. A chance meeting and now he had a keepsake that belonged to his grandfather. Cole realized that it was just a coin in his pocket tossed to a kid he took a liking to, but it represented the man, and that was enough.
He finished his lunch and went and got a yellow legal sized pad from his desk. He preferred working in the kitchen to the office. There was an energizing quality to the light. Perhaps it was the reflection off the newly painted cabinets. Whatever the source, Cole knew he would miss this friendly room when he went home.
Within a half hour Cole outlined and sketched a framework for the story of the little Oklahoma town and the boy who would become its antagonist. Oddly, he could not be called a hero because Cole had no idea how the story would end. He wrote sketches of the characters, yet unnamed, who would be George, Mattie and Alma. He decided early on in his pondering the idea of a novel that he would not use the real names of his family for the book. They were sacred, something he would not share.
Later he would go back and transcribe portions of the notebooks to capture the flavor of the times and the language. Then it hit him. He would credit his grandfather as co-author of the book. Cole laid his pen down and leaned back. He chuckled aloud at the idea. His grandfather always wanted to write a book. This would be it! It was, in all fairness, his story. Cole would just put flesh on the skeleton. His mind raced with the freedom this process would give him. He could use any and everything he wanted from the notebooks, word for word if need be, and it was moral, ethical, and more importantly, it would fulfill the dream of George Coleman Sage.
With a new zeal for his reading, Cole took a dozen notebooks from the shelf and made his way to the front porch. The page where he stopped reading was marked with a gum wrapper. Even though he knew the blood signature was there, the sight of it still gave Cole pause. There was such finality to the statement, such a definiteness of purpose, it could not be questioned. On the opposite page the entry continued.
I arrived home with my two girls around 10:30. I expected a battle royal with Alma but she was strangely calm. I asked her to get Effie something to eat. Lottie fell asleep in the car and was asleep in my arms. I took her to the parlor and laid her on the chesterfield.
As I left the room I heard Alma say, “How old are you girl?”
To which Effie replied, “I’ll be eleven on June second, ma’am.”
When I went back to the kitchen Effie sat at the table eating a piece of bread and jam. Alma was leaning back against the sink and staring at her.
“And what exactly are you thinking, George?” she asked in a quiet voice.
I told her as calmly and kindly as I could that Effie and Lottie were mine and they lost their mother in the fire. Effie sat and wept quietly. I told her we would take them in. The hatred on her face would have knocked birds from a telephone wire. Her voice became low and more harsh than I have ever heard.
“Your mulatto bastards will not be raised with my children. Not in my house.” Little white balls of spit formed in the corners of Alma’s mouth like a rabid dog as she snarled the words.
“It is my house, from my father. They will not be turned out.”
“We have four children we can’t feed now. This one,” she jabbed a finger at Effie, “is old enough to help around the house, but I will not be nursemaid to a baby.”
It was then I realized I would lose this battle. If Lottie were to come into the house, the Good Lord only knows what kind of meanness and neglect this woman would heap upon the poor child.
I must come up with a plan. I cannot think for aching for my Mattie. I miss her so.
April 2, 1934
In keeping with the agreement I reached with Alma, I went today to the colored side of town to try and find someone willing to take in my Lottie. With Effie’s help I found two women who said they would think about taking Lottie. One of the women was a good Christian woman whose little boy died last winter. Her husband has a good job with the railroad as a fireman. She was a friend of Mattie’s and said she would talk to her husband when he returned from his run to
Topeka.
The other woman I was not as pleased with. She had no husband and lived with a grown daughter and her three kids. There was no man in the house and no means of support they could explain. The daughter said Mattie helped her out in a tough spot and she owed her.
It is hard to even think of leaving Lottie with someone. I think of my childhood, the safety, food and love from my family. Now it is all gone. These are hard times and I can hardly believe such pain can come from such a great love. I will do the best I can to maintain what small amount of peace I have with Alma, but I can’t justify losing my girl forever. No matter what, I will get her back and she will be with me.
April 6, 1934
Thomas and Lucille Hardin will take Lottie in. We all understand the pain of losing Mattie. They know without saying that a dark child in a white home would not do anyone good. We stood in a circle and prayed. I told Lottie I would come see her when I could.
I gave Thomas one hundred dollars I saved as my poker bankroll. He is a good and proud man and at first refused, but I convinced him it was for his family and not just Lottie. He said he was the one with the job and he should be helping me. We laughed and shook hands. I gave Lucille my pearl handled pocketknife with my initials engraved on the plate. “Something for her when she is older” was what I called it. Lucille said she would make Mattie proud the way she will raise her angel. We both shed tears, embraced, and I left the house. Someday I will get Lottie back.
April 10, 1934
Another letter came from Lloyd today. This time Alma got the mail. She was waiting for me when I got home.
“My brother has work for you. It says here that this is his second letter.” She shook the pale blue paper at me. “What are you waiting for?”
“I wasn’t ready,” I answered.
“Your black whore is dead. What’s stopping us now?” Alma said with a sneer.
Without realizing what I was doing I backhanded her across the mouth. I hit her hard. She flew back against the table, knocking over the lamp. She just laid there glaring up at me.
“I hate you!” she screamed.
I felt ashamed. In all the years and all the fights, I never laid a hand on her.
I have been drunk for three days. I can’t remember where I went, but someone brought me home, and I woke up in the front yard. I was filthy. I bathed outside by the shed.
I have written Lloyd to tell him we are coming. Maybe he can help me with his hellhound of a sister.
I told Alma to start packing, sort through things. We’ll sell what we can, take what we can.
I have one thing left to do.
April 12, 1934
I am going crazy. This is the second day of this dust storm. I cannot see the street from the front windows. We have laid wet rags in all the window sills and bottoms of the doors. Alma has laid poor little Georgie on the floor and covered him with a wet sheet so he can breathe.
There is so much dust in the house all the lamps have a strange halo of light around them. Every surface is covered in the fine silt. The girls were playing a game writing in the dust until Alma yelled at them to stop. I can’t see what it hurt, but I wasn’t going to cross her as long as I’m locked up in here with her.
We all look like bandits because of the wet kerchiefs we are wearing.
If only grownups were more like kids. Effie has been accepted by her new sisters without any problems. If it weren’t for the occasional snotty remark from Alma you would think she had been here all her life.
The dust saps everybody’s strength. We have tried to pack but get tired out too quick. If the dust ever settles, and we get packed up, I plan to leave by Sunday.
April 14, 1934
Tomorrow we leave. It is a strange feeling. I have lived in this town my whole life. So much has changed, so many are gone, my memories are all of the dead. I went today and said good-bye to Mama and Papa. The cemetery was so covered with dust it was hard to find the grave stones. I sat for a long while and told Effie of my life. I feel I owe her a great apology for how I have turned out. She had such hopes of me. I have let her down. I used my hand to wipe away the dust from her marker. I know it is foolish to think it will remain clean. The next dust storm will bury them all again. For now it is all I can do for those I loved so much.
I will not go to the farm. There is no point. Today I went to the telephone exchange and called my father’s brother Joseph in Tulsa. We agreed he would buy the farm and house. They are worth far more than the agreed upon price but today anything I can get is better than letting it sit empty.
He gave me the name of a bank in Colorado Springs where he will send the money. Papers will be drawn up and after I sign them the money is mine. He is a hard man and could not help giving me a lecture on my “Godless ways” and how my father would “be ashamed” of how I turned out. Since he is right, there was no sense arguing with him. I just sat quiet and listened. It was a small price to pay for the two thousand dollars he is giving me for the house and farm.
The car is loaded for bear. Every available inch is stuffed and crammed with what we think we will need for the trip to Colorado. The neighbors swarmed our yard like locusts when we said we were leaving and bought everything that wasn’t nailed down. I got the feeling that some of them bought things just to pay admission to snoop around the house. The old busy bodies just had to see how “those people” lived.
It killed me to do it but I sold Mama’s piano for five dollars to the preacher at the Pentecostal Church.
Alma left out just enough blankets for tonight. She has cooked up a mess of food for our trip. I have $112.38 to get us to Colorado Springs. It will be five kids, two adults and 350 miles in my poor old car. God help me.
The car is so loaded down, the back tires nearly rub inside the wheel wells. I bought one extra tube for the tires, and one fan belt. I cleaned the spark plugs and filled the radiator. Poor old car probably thinks I’m going to sell her. We will leave at first light.
The facing page was blank. The next two pages were folded over and tucked tightly into the binding. As Cole tried to free the pages they tore. Some sort of adhesive was applied to the edges. An uneasy feeling came over Cole as he flattened down the pages. At the top of the front page was written “The Account of the Execution of Thomas Wilkerson”.
I solemnly swear the account I am about to give is the truth before God Almighty. I have sworn to avenge the murder of Mattie, the only woman I will ever love, and this is how I made good my pledge.
Around midnight on the 15th of April, nineteen hundred and thirty-four, I slipped out of my house, leaving my wife and children asleep in their beds, and walked downtown. At the end of Main Street I found Tom Wilkerson, the murderer, doing his nightly rounds as a door rattler, just as I thought he would be. I circled the block and waited at the end of Billing’s Paint Store in the alley.
When Wilkerson stepped off the sidewalk to cross the alley I hit him with all my might in the jaw below his right ear. He dropped to his knees and I kicked him in the ribs. I used his own cuffs to handcuff him behind his back. As he gasped for air I shoved a rag in his mouth that I had in my back pocket.
I considered for a moment that I would take his gun from his holster and shoot him with it. That would have been too quick. I looked around in case of someone who might be passing by and saw the livery stable. I knew what I must do.
I pulled him to his feet and began shoving him toward the livery stable. Next to the door of the livery I untied the hay lift rope. I unhitched the hay hook and fashioned a noose with the end of the rope.
“Tom Wilkerson,” I said, as I put the noose around his neck, “you are a villain and have been since I met you as a boy. For reasons only known to you and God, you have had it in for me for nearly thirty years. Today it ends.”
Wilkerson shook his head from side to side. For the first time in my life I saw fear in his eyes.
“You burned down my house and a beautiful, kind, loving woman. She never did you any har
m. She was the mother to my two beautiful girls. Now they are without a mother. Because of you I had to give my Lottie to strangers to raise.” I watched Tom Wilkerson begin to cry as I looked him right in the eyes and spoke. “No court would ever convict you, Deputy Wilkerson, because Mattie was colored. But there was a witness. My daughter saw you. A court might not believe her, but I do. So I find you guilty and sentence you to death.”
Tom Wilkerson was kicking at me and trying to wiggle free. I stepped back and pulled the rope until he was on the tips of his toes. His eyes bulged and he danced as he spun at the end of the rope.
I turned him to face me. I got right in his face, eye to eye and said, “They usually say ‘May God have mercy on your soul.’ I say the hell with that! Damn you forever, Tom Wilkerson!”
I pulled the rope with all my might and mane. The block and tackle creaked and squealed and he lifted from the ground. He kicked like a wild cat in a sack. A dark spot appeared on the front of his khaki uniform, he had pissed himself. The kicking stopped.
His feet were ten feet off the ground when I tied the rope off. I looked up into his face. His right eye popped from its socket. His face was purple. A foul stink suddenly filled the air, the coward shit himself. I smiled at the thought of him being found. The big bad deputy messed himself like a baby.
I started to walk away when I saw a piece of burnt stick on the ground next to the corral. I took the stick and went back to the livery door. Across its clean, whitewashed surface I scratched these words in charcoal, ARSON, MURDERER.
I went home and lay on the floor with a blanket rolled up under my head. When light finally came into the room, I woke Alma and the girls. We loaded the girls along with their blankets into the back of the car. Alma loaded up the box of food for the trip. I locked the front door, and we left.
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