Foley didn’t find whatever he was looking for and said that, what with George’s bad eyesight, he didn’t have enough calling to trouble Herman further—for now, anyway. All that did was make the Pastor throw his accusations in a louder voice. The Sheriff took the name and the address of the customer Herman said he had delivered the furniture to, though. And he took the truck, supposedly for examination purposes but they all knew it was so Herman couldn’t leave town. But at least Herman got to sleep in his own bed that night.
Just after nightfall, however, he had cause to wish that Foley had hauled him off.
There was another loud banging on the door and Herman opened, not to the Sheriff or the Pastor this time, but to the wrong end of a double-barrel shotgun.
Herman stumbled backward, eyes glued to the muscular, dark-skinned young man holding it. Ray Green kept the rifle steady and eye-level and kept coming until Herman backed into a chair and dropped down. Behind Ray came four of Ray’s male friends. Herman recognized them all, mostly by face, but Ray Green he knew because the boy’s father and brother ran the lucrative Green’s Hardware. Herman did regular business with them. It was no secret around town that Ray thought of Ebony as his girl. He made no secret of the fact that, even with her going to school in D.C., he planned on her coming back and the two of them getting married and helping to grow the family business. Seemed he didn’t know that Ebony had said no way was she marrying anybody who would keep her in this town.
Ray looked down along the barrel of his rifle now, his small black eyes squinting.
“Sheriff Foley might believe that you don’t know where Ebony is, Bagshaw, but we know better, don’t we, boys? Foley, Oyster George, they all white folk. We black folk take care of our own business. And you got ‘til tomorrow nightfall to tell where she is, one way or ‘nuther, or we’re coming back for ya.”
With that, they left.
Herman stayed rooted to the chair for nearly an hour, shaking.
That night, in his bed, he tossed and turned for hours before he finally fell asleep, then he jerked awake just after midnight, sweating and shaking even more. He sat up, dropping his feet to the floor and willing his body to settle down. When it did enough, he reached for the pencil and paper that always lay by his bedside and did what he always did when he was troubled—he wrote about what troubled him.
…A simple life I spent…I will not rest…
The words seem to write themselves, allowing his mind to otherwise clearly outline the urgency of his predicament. He’d done what he’d done without thinking it through well enough. Now trouble was coming, coming as sure as the next sunrise, and he had to do something about it or there’d be hell to pay.
~~~
1999…
Ginny sat on the bed, going over notes and the photocopies she got from the town library. She hadn’t had a night of uninterrupted sleep in so long that now there were circles under her eyes and her muscles felt sluggish, but she needed to find some clue to the barren grave and her recurring dreams, and her pickings were still frustratingly slim.
The story of Herman Bagshaw and Ebony Johnson might be one of the town’s most gruesome tales, but there were only four articles from the Mobile Bay Review, dated from July 10 to August 3, 1959, about it. Senior Littlejohn had given her a pretty good run down of the events, right up until how and where Herman had been found and the fact that Ebony Johnson’s body had never been. Mrs. Hessup-Green, the town’s librarian who had helped Ginny find the articles, was niece-in-law to Ebony’s old boyfriend, Ray Green, and added a little third-hand information based on what the now deceased Green brothers had told her husband. Even the girl at the grocery store, who claimed to be old Sheriff Foley’s granddaughter, told pretty much the same story. In truth, the newspaper clippings hadn’t added much to local word-o’-mouth.
The story was that Herman Bagshaw had killed young Ebony Johnson, presumably after she had spurned his advances, then he had been gunned down by Ray Green and the other angry colored people of Homestead. Pastor Johnson had refused to bury his daughter’s killer in the black churchyard, so Herman’s body had been hauled back out to the edge of town and buried on his own land, beside his father, under a nameless stone.
But none of that explained Ginny’s restless dreams. And it definitely didn’t explain the barren dirt (on Herman’s grave, Ginny was convinced), unless the murderous spirit had somehow poisoned the soil, which was a ridiculous notion for a scientist to even contemplate.
Fed up, Ginny shoved the papers back into the file cover and tossed them aside.
Perhaps she should just forget all this and simply find another house to rent for the remainder of her exile. Maybe what she needed more than anything was just a few nights of solid, deep, undisturbed sleep. That sounded wonderful.
Enchanted with the idea, Ginny took a hot shower then made herself a glass of hot milk—half-laced with bourbon—and headed to bed, drinking quickly in the hope that it would put her down fast and deep.
As she passed the living room, the glow from her laptop caught her attention. Sure she had turned it off, she made a detour to raise the lid and do it again...and promptly spewed milk (-y bourbon) all over it and everywhere else.
“What in the world...?”
She scrambled to blot up the mess, all the while gaping at the computer’s screen.
She knew for sure she hadn’t typed the words, yet somehow they were familiar:
I will not rest in barren ground
If my life you take from me,
If not with angry fists and tools
Then with all your cruel intent.
My weak flesh may rot with ease
Because a simple life I spent,
But I’ll not rest in barren ground
‘Til truth is told; my soul content.
“I am perfectly calm,” Ginny lied. “I am not losing my mind. There is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.”
But the only explanation she could come up with was that she had a real, honest-to-goodness ghost on her hands. His name seemed to be Herman Bagshaw, he’d once owned this house, and he had killed a young girl and paid for it with his life. Yet, forty years later, he still haunted Paradise and the woods around it.
It struck Ginny now, however, that never once had she felt in fear for her own life from this allegedly murderous ghost. He was more a pain in the neck than threatening. Emboldened by that knowledge, Ginny swallowed the large lump in her throat and said aloud, “Okay, I’m finally listening. What is it that you want?”
She waited, heart thumping until her blouse fluttered with each vibration.
This time the voice came—deep, clear, distinct. And real.
“Hello, Ginny. My name is Herman Nathaniel Bagshaw. Don’t be frightened, ma’am. I just want you to listen to me for a ‘lil while. Then, I’ll be needin’ you to help me some.”
~~~
1959…
Herman slipped out the house through the back door and into the woods while there were still a couple hours of light left. He planned on sticking to tracks and back roads so no one saw him, not even Oyster George. He moved with ease into the familiar forest, casting a quick look back just as the house slipped out of view. Keeping the cypress where ‘Zeke was buried to his right, Herman secured a hold on his rifle with his right hand, the jute bag with his left, and struck out northeast.
He would have got further faster on the road, definitely if he’d had his truck, but even on foot he planned that by the time Ray and his boys realized he was gone it would be too late for them to catch up with him.
That morning, Herman had gone into town to shop and had felt folks’ eyes following him. Some were sly about it; others hadn’t bothered, letting him see plain what they thought. He’d heard the words “murder”, “rape”, and “body” muttered often enough to realize what he had to do. But he had kept on about his business, like a man whose soul was spotless, buying his bread, a few Coca Colas, and a World Almanac. Then he had walked back home
and knocked about in his shed a little longer.
Then, satisfied that Ray and his boys weren’t coming for him before night fall, Herman had lit out. No-one knew this part of the woodland like him. Couple miles further up past the water tank would be less familiar, but he still figured he could make good enough time to get to Mobile City before morning. He’d catch the first bus he could heading to New York City and get this whole thing behind him.
Just as Herman passed the water tank, however, he heard them coming. The barking and the yelling voices cut through the dense green with frightening ease. Ray and his boys were somehow already on him and—Sweet Jesus and Mary! –they sounded no more than half a mile back.
Herman left off the brisk pace and broke into an outright run, cutting off the track to head deeper into the trees, trying to hide himself under the leaves and early darkening of night. He pounded forward, looking over his shoulder and listening for the dogs.
They were getting closer.
He quickened his pace, zigzagging, hoping to confuse and tire out Green’s dogs.
He used his rifle to slash at branches and lever over roots. He barreled under a low-lying bough, clutching at the breast pocket of his old jacket to secure the thick roll of dollars inside it. His hearing pricked up when he realized that the barks and yelling were now coming from two sides, closing in on him. He panicked and changed tack, not caring that it would actually take him out to where there was less cover. Maybe the small patches of marsh would help wash away the scent of his fear.
At that thought he launched into a blind run, tightening his hold on his rifle and the jute bag that held a change of clothes and the Coca Colas.
He was moving so fast he didn’t see the tangle of tree roots until his foot caught it. He stumbled and flung out his arm to right himself, automatically using what was immediately to hand—his rifle. But it, too, got caught in the tangle, and his hand groped frantically, losing and regaining grip at the very worst place.
He couldn’t right himself.
The last thing Herman knew was a loud BOOM! – and the blast that ripped straight through his neck.
~~~
1999…
Ginny dabbed her neck to wipe away the sweat. The action was almost pointless since another rivulet would form soon, but at least it cooled her skin for a few seconds.
Heavens, New York is hot! Why hadn’t Frank warned her that this city in July could put places closer to the equator in the shade? She could almost taste the heat on her tongue – heavy, petrol-y, with just a hint of asphalt. She couldn’t wait to get back to good old Homestead. Less than four weeks there and she was already craving clean open air, narrow roads, and the chance to take two steps without bumping into someone.
She gave another dab with the towelet then tucked it into her purse and concentrated on the names under the door-buzzers before her. Her eyes hit on the right name and she sent up a silent thank you. Having a brother who was a detective in the Birmingham Police Force came in handy occasionally, but it wouldn’t help her with the next part—explaining herself so she didn’t sound like a loon, and making a request that didn’t emerge like a kidnapping threat.
It was a good address, though—Chelsea was definitely nothing to sniff at. Ginny pushed the buzzer for apartment B107, knowing hers was nonetheless a fool’s mission.
“Can I help you?”
On hearing the voice over the intercom, more uncertainty leaked away. The female voice had obviously been influenced by years on the east coast but it still held the unmistakable back-throat twang of an Alabama native.
Ginny leaned closer to the speaker. “My name is Ginny Webster, and I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time.”
“May I ask what it’s about?”
Ginny decided the best way to ease into her story was head first. “I’m from Homestead and I was wondering if I could talk to you about Herman Bagshaw.”
There was a sharp gasp and Ginny waited to be dismissed, but instead came the invitation, “Please, come on up.”
Fifteen minutes later Ginny was still seated in the Southern-styled living room, sipping frosty sweet tea directly across from none other than Ms. Ebony Johnson. Given what she knew, Ginny had expected the woman to be brittle and self-centered, even abrupt. Instead here sat a charming older woman with skin the color of polished mahogany, face barely creased with age, her quick observant eyes and full smiling lips putting Ginny completely at ease. Despite her youthful face, Ebony’s head was crowned
in pure thick silvery hair, cut just below her ears. She didn’t stand on ceremony, either, but beneath her flowing silk dress her movements were elegant and graceful.
Ginny had also anticipated having to work hard to get her talking about the past. Instead all it took to unlock the floodgate of Ebony’s recollections was the mention of the name ‘Herman Bagshaw’.
“I never knew what happened to him until weeks after he died,” Ebony said in her smoky singer’s voice. “I cried and cried. He was sweet on me, you see, Dr. Webster. I knew that he wouldn’t have said no when I asked him to drive me to Mobile. City He never mixed much and I think I was his only friend. After I left…well…I always wondered if he didn’t kill himself out of plain old loneliness.”
Ginny almost sputtered in her tea.
“Oh my, are you okay, my dear?”
This time Ginny managed to limit herself to a few inelegant coughs. “Yes, tha...thank you, I’m fine. It’s just...uh, how...how exactly did you find out about Herman’s death, Ms. Johnson?”
“Please, call me Ebony, and it was from the Pastor…my father. I called him the day after I got to New York to tell him where I was and that I was okay. I could tell he was furious. He didn’t say anything to me except that my soul was going to Hell and his lunch was getting cold. Then a few weeks later, out of the blue, he turned up at my door, right here in New York. That was when he told me about Herman killing himself two days after I left, just hours after I’d called home, in fact.” Ebony’s chin dropped and Ginny gaped at the silver crown of hair.
“But Herman didn’t kill himself, Ms. Johnson, I mean, Ebony. It was an accident.”
Ebony’s head flew up. “What do you mean, an accident? The Pastor said Herman took his own life and that’s why they couldn’t bury him in the colored cemetery.”
Ginny shook her head. “He did shoot himself, but it was purely an accident. It was night. He was running through the woods and stumbled over a tree root. His rifle went off and killed him.”
Ebony frowned. “Why was he running through the woods with his rifle at night?”
There was no way to make this easier. “Because Ray Green and his boys were after him. You had disappeared and everyone in town thought he’d killed you.”
“What?!” Ebony gasped, eyes wide and horrified. Then came sorrow and the start of tears.
Meanwhile Ginny was putting things together, realizing that Jeremiah Johnson had not been so much a Man of God as an Advocate of the Devil.
“Bu…but…I called the Pastor…I told him…he knew...he could’ve stopped them...” Ebony made no effort to hide her crying. “I should never have involved poor Herman in my scheme. And I should have stood up to the Pastor back there instead of sneaking out of town like that. I bet he thought it fitting to punish Herman for helping me. That’s why he kept quiet about me calling home. Oh, my sweet Lord.” Her tears fell silently for a few moments then her mouth twisted bitterly.
“And he wanted me to feel guilty about Herman, too. That was to be part of my punishment, I’m sure, on top of my exile, and it worked. All these years, I thought my leaving drove Herman to suicide.”
She took a moment to recollect some more.
“When the Pastor showed up here, he told me that if staying in New York was what I was hell-bent on doing, so be it, but that he would never approve of my sinful choice. He said that it would be better if we parted ways and never spoke again.” She shook her head. “He knew that if I�
�d known the truth about how Herman really died, I would have gone back, if only for a little while. The Pastor didn’t want that. He’d rather town’s folk think me murdered rather than bear the shame of them knowing his own daughter had run off to be a night club singer. So he perverted the truth. I suppose he’s long dead by now.”
Ginny nodded, regretfully.
Ebony lowered her head and her tears flowed faster. “God rest his devious soul.”
Ginny felt the woman’s anguish, but she also saw an opening.
“I know this is going to sound far-fetched, Ebony, but since I’ve been staying in Herman’s house, I’ve been having these…dreams. Hearing his voice. He writes…”
“…poetry,” Ebony finished easily, her smile nostalgic.
Ginny blinked. “Yes, poetry. I don’t know how to make this sound sane but…well…he talks to me. He said that he kept his promise to you forty years ago, but that now you have to come back and let people know what really happened. He says he can’t rest in peace until people know that you’re alright, that you always were.” Ginny held her breath, waiting for Ebony to tell her in no uncertain terms to get out.
Ebony wiped her tears with the hem of one long sleeve and stood up, but only to ask, “When would you like to leave?”
*
Ginny pulled her car up in front of Homestead’s Town Registry and cut the engine. It was lunch time and she was hungry, but first there were a few important matters to address.
She looked across at the passenger seat and asked softly, “Ready?”
Ebony offered a shaky smile. “Give me a minute.”
Ginny understood. After all, they were about to change a chunk of Homestead’s history.
The Town Registry had seemed the logical place for Ebony’s homecoming. For one thing, official documents concerning her death and the accusations of Herman Bagshaw had to be amended. Also, Ginny figured she owed Senior Littlejohn some reward for helping her in her inquiries. The least she could do was offer him bragging rights to the juiciest story to come out of Homestead in forty years.
“Okay. I’m ready,” Ebony announced, and flashed Ginny a steadier smile.
Alabama Blues Page 3
