The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter

by Sharyn McCrumb

  Sheridan was still trying to make sense of the 321

  intruders. "What do you want? Is this a robbery? Did you used to work here?"

  "No," said Tavy. "It's not a robbery. We don't want your money. And I wouldn't work here for any salary, including yours. I wouldn't want this place on my conscience. We came to talk to you about your plant's water pollution, Mr. Sheridan."

  The company president blinked. "You're environmentalists?"

  "Not really," said Tavy. "Didn't used to be, anyhow. I'm just a man dying of cancer, and I wanted to tell you a few things about your paper mill." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the Carter Biological water analysis. "Did you know that you are releasing into the Little Dove River mercury, dioxin, sulphur, and cadmium? Did you know that you are exceeding federal EPA levels for each of them? Did you know that three of those substances are cancer causing?"

  Sheridan shrugged. "That is not my area of expertise. I have engineers who take care of that sort of thing. And lawyers."

  "But they report to you. You have to sign the papers for the EPA reports. You have to know what you're putting into that water."

  Sheridan turned to stare up at Taw, impassive behind the gun. He seemed to be trying to decide which of his captors to reason with. The dying man had nothing to lose; maybe this one. . . . "It's a very complex business," he said, trying to sound friendly. "Lots of confusing government regulations; highly technical infor-322

  mation from many departments. I'd be happy to get someone to talk to you about this. They'd know more than I." He ventured a smile. "Look, fellas, I have grandchildren. I don't want to mess up the world any more than you do."

  Taw did not respond to his smile. The gun did not waver.

  "We don't need information," said Tavy in a harsher tone than before. "We came to tell you that the stuff you put in the river causes cancer. What are you going to do about it?"

  Sheridan's smile was as oily as a politician's. "Our studies do not confirm that allegation," he said smoothly. "Of course, we are concerned about the environment just like everyone else, and my engineers have assured me that the emission levels of this plant are perfectly safe and legal. Now, I understand how you might feel, having cancer and looking for someone to blame. Do you smoke, by the way?"

  "No," said Tavy. "I used to fish, though. So you're telling us that the Little Dove is not a health hazard?"

  "That's right," said Sheridan. He started to stand up, but Taw pressed the muzzle of the gun against his temple, and he slid back into the leather chair, glistening with sweat. "The river is perfectly safe," he finished weakly.

  "Well, for your sake that's mighty good news," said Tavy Annis with a bitter smile. "Mighty good news." He set the paper bag down on Roger Sheridan's shiny mahogany desk, and took out a mason jar filled with murky brown liquid, the color of tobacco spit. 323

  Titan Paper's CEO stared up at his interrogator, nervously licking his lips. "What's that?"

  "Why, Mr. Sheridan, that's a jar of harmless Little Dove River water," said Tavy. "Now, drink it."

  Sheridan's mouth dropped open, but no words came out. Finally, he said, "You're joking!"

  Taw touched the muzzle of the gun to the captive's sweaty temple. "You heard him," he said. "Pick up the jar and drink, or we'll blow your goddamn head off."

  Tavy picked up the jar, sloshing the liquid a little, as if it were a snifter of brandy, and held it out to the gasping man. "Go on, now. Drink it all. Chugalug."

  Roger Sheridan summoned up a trace of his old authority. "You can't do this to me!" he spluttered. "I'll have you arrested for this!"

  "Really?" Tavy grinned, motioning for him to drink.

  Sheridan brought the jar to his lips, inhaled, and jerked his head away as the reek of dead water slammed into his nostrils. "I'll get you for assault!" he whispered. "I'll have you charged with attempted murder."

  Tavy Annis nodded pleasantly. "Please do, Mr. Sheridan," he said gently. "Please take us to court, and say that making you drink a quart of Little Dove water is attempted murder. I want that statement to be a matter of public record."

  Taw had to prod Sheridan in the temples once again, and finally cock the gun, before he would 324

  drink the water, but when Taw began to count slowly, a weeping Sheridan thrust the jar against his mouth, and began to gulp down the foul liquid, coughing and crying as he drank. "Please! Please!" he sobbed between swallows. Mucus ran from his nose, mixing with the water and his sweat, but his captors remained impassive, and would not look away. At last he managed to drain the jar, his body heaving from the ordeal. His blue suit glistened with sweat and foul water. Sheridan slumped in his chair, hand over his mouth, taking deep, sobbing breaths. "I'm going to throw up!" he wailed.

  "That might be the best thing," Tavy told him. "In the long run. You can keep the jar as a reminder, Mr. Sheridan. You're forcing people to drink that water every single day. Think about it." He stood up and walked away, motioning for Taw to follow him. As they opened the door, they heard the sobbing turn to retching, but they did not look back.

  Morgan Robsart was sitting on the braided rug in Laura Bruce's living room, watching the Ninja Turtles take on the bad guys in a sewer battle. He seemed oblivious to the conversation of the two women seated on the sofa behind him. The light from the color television bathed his upturned face in an aura of light. Laura Bruce looked at the sturdy little form and longed to hold him.

  Barbara Givens, in a coat and skirt of patchwork suede, was writing on a notepad balanced on her plump knees. Beside her, on the end ta-325

  ble, a cup of tea sent wisps of steam into the air. "It's not all that hard," she was saying. "I've raised enough young'uns to know. He's three years old, isn't he?"

  "Yes," said Laura. "But I was an only child. I don't know much about little boys."

  "Three years old," Barbara said again. "He's potty trained. He talks good. There's not a whole lot to raising boys, you know. Keep 'em fed, and keep 'em from breaking their necks. That's about it. You'll do fine."

  "I hope so," said Laura. "I want him to be safe and happy."

  "He's a sweet little boy. I don't reckon you'll have any trouble, but if you do, give a holler. And if you ever need a sitter, my oldest girl would be glad to come over."

  Laura smiled. "Maybe when I have a doctor's appointment. Other than that, I wouldn't think of leaving him. It's wonderful to have him here."

  "How long do you have him for?"

  "I don't know." Laura tapped Morgan on the shoulder and handed him another cookie. When she turned back to Barbara, she spoke softly so that he would not overhear. "I went to a hearing before the magistrate, and I told him I'd be willing to keep Morgan for as long as anyone wanted me to. His only relative is his father, who is overseas. They called him, and he seemed relieved that someone wanted Morgan. So maybe when Will gets back, we can see about making it permanent. He's a special little boy."

  "Well," said Barbara. "He's been through a lot. How's he taking it?"

  Laura shrugged. "It's hard to tell. He wet the bed the first couple of nights, which was understandable. He had nightmares, too. And of course his misses his mother. But he's very sweet, and he's smart as a whip. He loves to be read to."

  "I've got some old children's books up in the attic," said Barbara. "I'll hunt them out for you. They'll come in handy for the next one as well."

  Laura turned to look at Morgan, still absorbed in his cartoon. Suddenly, he turned and grinned at her, and she smiled back. "There's something I ought to tell you, Barbara, about the next one," Laura said quietly.

  Late that night, Tavy Annis was sprawled in his Morris chair, grayer than mole fur. His breathing was heavy, but he wouldn't let himself be put to bed. He huddled under a tartan blanket, exhausted from the day's events. "Reckon that's about it," he said to Taw McBryde, who was stoking the fire, and pretending not to notice his friend's discomfort.

  "It sure felt good to watch that fellow drink his own muck," sa
id Taw. "Wish they'd come take us to court about it. I'd love to say in open court why we did it."

  Tavy smiled a little. He had given himself a

  morphine injection on the ride back to Hamelin, but it had worn off now. He was trying to

  fight the pain so that he could stay awake a lit-

  tie longer and savor the triumph. "I wish I could be there to see it, Taw."

  "I wish so, too." said Taw. There was no point in arguing anymore about death. You could see it now in Tavy's face. Hear it every time he drew breath. It wouldn't be much longer now, which was just as well.

  Tavy drew the old blanket closer about him. "You know we didn't really solve nothing today. What we did won't even make that Sheridan bastard sick. You've got to drink it regular to get what I've got. And the plant won't do a multimillion-dollar cleanup just because somebody attacked their office boy."

  "No. But at least we did something. We tried every other way we knew and got nowhere. At least we made him listen to us."

  Tavy nodded. "Yeah. They may have got me, but at least I got in one good punch."

  "You think Sheridan will report it?"

  "Maybe not. He's not hint, and he won't want the publicity, especially with a dying man ready to accuse them of murder. I wish I could have stopped them, though."

  Taw stood up and set the poker back in its brass rack. The fire was blazing merrily now, but Tavy still shivered. "I've got time. I haven't finished with Titan Paper yet," Taw said.

  Tavy sighed. "Hope you bought yourself a water filter."

  "We need to warn people about the river. We need to make the goddamn bureaucrats care. Can you take being bothered, or do you want things peaceful from here on out?" he asked. 328

  "Hell," said Tavy. "Might as well postpone peace and quiet while I can. Gonna have a lot of it directly. What did you have in mind?"

  Taw McBryde grinned at his lifelong friend, and walked to the telephone. "Why, I thought we might turn ourselves in."

  Spencer Arrowood sat in a metal folding chair on the floor of the civic center—section F, row 24—with a Judds Farewell Concert program, photo, and a cassette tape resting in his lap. Beneath his feet a soft protective surface covered the wooden floor of a basketball court, and high wooden bleachers lined the walls, but tonight the steel-raftered coliseum was neither a sports arena nor a convention site. For one night only it had become a secular cathedral. The massive slabs of sound equipment and lighting systems flanking the stage heralded the coming event, as did the hucksters selling Tshirts and albums in stalls near the back of the room. Spencer looked down at his newly purchased eight-by-ten photo of Naomi and Wynonna Judd in fringe and turquoise, posing in Southwestern landscape of red sandstone cliffs. Their costumes suggested the Navajo style of dress, which struck him as odd, since the Judds were descended from an east Kentucky family that went back well over a century in the Southern mountains. He wondered why the city people who decided such things thought that the Arizona desert was exotic but that Appalachia—despite its ghosts and gold mines, Cherokees and Civil War legends, 329

  cougars and Child ballads, moonshine and white water—was not.

  It was ten minutes until showtime, and still people were filing in. There was hardly an empty seat anywhere. Spencer glanced about him, a little embarrassed to be here at all, and hoping he wouldn't be seen by anyone from Hamelin and hailed as a country-music groupie. He looked at the assortment of faces in the rows near his seat, wondering if he had anything in common with any of them. Aside from this one mutual obsession. They weren't the concert crowd he'd expected. There was a smattering of teenagers, but there were just as many people over sixty. Most of the audience seemed to range in age from twenty-five to fifty: heavyset women with frizzy hair, urban cowboys in Harley-Davidson Tshirts, dowdy suburbanites wearing polyester finery and brass chain necklaces from Leggett's, and a smattering of wheat-germ folks with tanned, preppy faces and jogging suits. Spencer wondered if he was overdressed for the occasion. He was wearing his tweed jacket and the navy fisherman's sweater that his mother had given him for Christmas. The Judds would be decked out in sequins, but it wasn't as if they could see into the audience. Everyone else looked like they had just come from Kmart. He wondered if he still looked like a cop out of uniform. He still thought like one. He studied the faces, looking for images from mugshot books, signs of drug taking, or the hostile leer of a mean drunk. He wasn't even in Wake County. Strictly speaking, trouble here would 330

  be none of his business, but still he looked. He hoped there wouldn't be any trouble, though. She deserved better than that.

  A local disc jockey, pressed into service as master of ceremonies, climbed up on the stage, clutching the microphone as if he were tempted to burst into song himself. The thunderous applause was not for him. It was all anticipation for the Judds, the main attraction. But there was more between the crowd and their idols than the disc jockey in the velvet tux. To justify the eighteen-dollar ticket price to an audience for whom that was half a day's pay, another act was booked into the concert for padding, and they must be endured before the magic could begin.

  Spencer sighed, and put his program away as the houselights dimmed. He'd already read it through twice, but he'd rather go through it again than have to wait in darkness with nothing to keep him occupied except the warm-up group.

  The cowboy band that opened the show received a flurry of polite applause. Spencer forgot their name as soon as he heard it. He listened impatiently to the blare of noise from their guitars, and wished that the promoters had used the time to show a Judds video, or slides of their career. He didn't want to be distracted from the object of tonight's concert. He felt the impatience all around him as well.

  He sat in the blaring darkness trying not to think about death. The tensions of the past few weeks wouldn't go away; it was one of the haz-331

  ards of his job. He was supposed to be off-duty, relaxing at a concert, and yet he felt that he was attending a memorial service. This was the Judds' farewell tour, because Naomi Judd had been stricken with an incurable disease, and now a host of their loyal followers had crowded into the coliseum to say good-bye. It was a funeral with T-shirt sales. He felt like a fool for being there, and even more because he minded so much that Naomi Judd was dying.

  Spencer felt a twinge of guilt. Had he minded this much about Tammy Robsart? He had felt genuine regret at her terrible death, and for Morgan Robsart's loss, but the sorrow had not lingered. He'd even caught himself thinking that the boy might be better off with a middle-class guardian; that maybe it was his only chance to escape the cycle of crime and poverty that sucked every generation of Robsarts down to the bottom of society. He remembered seeing Tammy and her son on the hillside in December, waiting for the Santa Claus train. There had been such a light of pride in the young mother's eyes when she looked at the little blond boy. She never had a chance at a better life. She had died because she was too poor to get by without a space heater, and because her ramshackle trailer was a death trap. And now she wouldn't even know how her beloved son's life turned out. Surely hers was the greater loss.

  At least Diana Ellen Judd Strickland had taken a wonderful ride on the cosmic carousel, before she lost her balance. In a career spanning eight years, she and her daughter had won 332

  the Country Music Association Vocal Duo of the Year Award six times, and just about every other honor in the business as well. Four Grammy s, a slew of awards from Billboard and Cash-box, and tributes from half a dozen other arbiters of musical achievement. They had made it.

  It was an Appalachian fairy tale. At twenty, Diana Judd must have seemed as doomed as Tammy Robsart. She was already pregnant when she married at seventeen. At twenty-five she was divorced, and raising two kids on too little money. But she managed to beat the odds. First nursing school back in Morrill, Kentucky, then a nursing career, and finally a kitchen-table demo tape of her singing with her teenage daughter, in the tight mountain harmony like spun gold. At the hospit
al Nurse Judd badgered a patient's father into taking the demo tape to RCA, and from that came an audition. A series of small, random moves suddenly made everything fall into place, transforming pretty nurse Diana into the Queen of Everything: Naomi Judd. She could have reigned for decades on her voice and her style, but she developed an illness, and that was the end of it. The glory hadn't lasted long enough, but at least she had been given it. If she died young, she would become the female Elvis, a bluegrass Madonna canonized by the love of her fans, because they had to keep believing that dreams came true for people who lived in trailers.

  The roar from the crowd shook the rafters. Spencer stood up with the rest of them, and ap-333

  plauded as the two auburn-haired women walked to center stage and greeted the cheering darkness. Naomi Judd was as beautiful as ever in her gold lame costume with a full skirt that made him think of square dancing. Wynonna, her rawboned daughter, was dressed in black, and carrying her guitar, but Spencer barely spared her a glance. This was Naomi's night. He watched the way she slinked across stage, like a cat dancing among the footlights. When Wynonna sang lead, Naomi would stand like a candle in her pink spotlight, with such serenity that you never realized that she must be counting measures, and thinking of the notes she would sing. She glowed. She laughed. She teased the stagehands. He had never seen anyone look so radiant, so far from death's door. He tried to remember every detail of the performance, to save the joy of it for later, when— wherever Diana was—Naomi would be gone.

  Toward the end of the performance "Mama Judd" thanked the crowd for their support and their prayers. She talked about faith and beating the odds against chronic active hepatitis. Then Wynonna chorded a note, and they began to sing a slow, sad song. It was several moments before Spencer glanced away from the stage, his attention caught by the flicker of lights in the darkened hall. People in the bleachers were standing up, holding lit matches, candles, cigarette lighters. Their tiny flames flickered in the darkness, illuminating tears on the solemn faces: burning prayers or just an eternal flame to say good-bye?