Deadly Kiss

by Bob Bickford

“Keeping her a secret?”

  “Something like that,” I murmured.

  My dad was attached to Angela, and I had avoided thinking about his inevitable introduction to Molly. She and I weren’t nearly as much a couple as I wished, but we were obviously close enough to make things uncomfortable. I didn’t know if he entertained an idea that my ex-wife and I would reunite, or if he cared, but it was a discussion that I didn’t want.

  Kate went off to get our coffee, and I sat down and looked across the table at the old man. “So tell me about the little girl,” I said. “You never finished.”

  “Poor Wanda,” he said. “She really didn’t ever have a chance at all. By the age of twelve, she was a ward of the state of Georgia and was sent away. Marianfield Training School for Girls. I imagine it was a horror. About 1948, she joined a group of girls who tried to burn it down. They set fire to the main building and ran away. They were rounded up in a couple of days, except for two girls who drowned trying to cross a river.”

  “These were all kids?” I asked.

  “Girls sixteen and younger, yes. They were jailed in two separate counties, depending on where they were picked up. Twenty girls in total. They either developed a taste for fire or they had it planned, but in both facilities they tore up their jail cells and lit the bedding on fire. In one of the jails, they attacked the firemen who came to rescue them.”

  “Nice girls.”

  “Some of them probably started out nice. Back then, arson was still a capital crime in Georgia. It carried the death penalty.”

  “Arson? Seriously?”

  “Sure,” he nodded. “Lots of funny old laws on the books, even now. Especially in the South.”

  “What happened to Wanda?” I asked.

  “In just a couple of years, this girl had lost her whole family, been abandoned to strangers, and now she was facing the death penalty. Any chance of a happy, normal life was gone for good.”

  Kate brought a tray, and we busied ourselves for a minute with the coffee ritual. My father fixed his own coffee, and I wondered if he was getting better. He seemed stronger, more sure of himself, and I was relieved. I thought that telling me his story was lifting some of the stress off him.

  “No one really wanted to hang a bunch of young girls, I imagine,” he went on. “Eventually, they all got commuted sentences.”

  “Good to hear they didn’t execute little girls.”

  “The youngest was nine. I’ve always thought the really little ones were the most dangerous. The thought of a nine-year-old attacking a fireman gives me the horrors.”

  “Did you know about all this when you were a kid?”

  “Some of it,” he said. “Some I found out later. Wanda’s drifted in and out of Marietta her whole life. We’re not from a very big town, you know.”

  “I don’t remember you ever mentioning her.”

  “No reason to. Your mother never met her. We hardly ran around in the same circles.”

  “What happened to her? How’d she end up?”

  “Pretty sad and predictable,” he said. “She supported herself with prostitution. I heard she was arrested in every state in the South, through the ’50s and ’60s. Later, she came home to Marietta, and it was more of the same. She was in jail as recently as ten years ago. I assume she’s mostly retired by now.”

  “She’s the same age as you!”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t imagine she has trouble finding customers, Mike. You think hookers are showgirls?”

  I gestured to Kate for the check, and she waved it off. I pantomimed my insistence, and she shook a fist at me, smiling, and wandered back to the kitchen and out of sight.

  “She has a son Arthur, a few years younger than you. I taught him for a few months when he was a teenager. I felt an obligation to him, because of his mother, but I don’t think I ever got through to him.”

  “Is he still around?”

  “He still lives with her, far as I know. Interesting to me because of her age. Late thirties is a little old for a lady of the night to have a kid, unless she’s left the life and is trying to start over. Abortions were usual enough, even back then--no reason to keep one you don’t want.”

  “Maybe the father meant something to her,” I said. “Being a prostitute doesn’t mean you can’t have feelings for someone.”

  “He’s black. At least his father was. There’s no doubt about that.”

  “So? Things like that don’t bother you, Dad. Who cares?”

  “It occurs to you,” he said, “that her father killed a black child for taking liberties with her, and then she has a child who definitely has a black father.”

  I thought about it. “Ironic, maybe,” I shrugged.

  “There’s only one more thing, and it’s not worth telling you how I know about it, but it’s important. Her prostitution career was really only broken by one significant jail sentence. She had a lesbian affair that cause a scandal in Florida, in 1966. She was over thirty, the girl was sixteen. The girl’s parents found out and pressed the matter. Eighteen is still the age of consent in Florida. If the partner is over the age of twenty four, it’s a felony.”

  “It’s important that she’s a lesbian?” I asked.

  “No, not at all. Let me finish.”

  “You sound like you did her biography.”

  “I made it my business to find out what I could. Know your enemy.”

  “Your enemy?” I asked. “I thought you felt sorry for her.”

  “I do feel sorry for her. She hates me, though, with good reason, if I’m fair about it.” He looked at me, peeved. “Can I finish about the girl in Florida?”

  I waved sorry, and he went on.

  “If Wanda had been a man, it would have been statutory rape. Because she was female, she was charged with corruption of a minor. She did two years in women’s penitentiary. Her next charge was in the ’70s, in South Carolina. Same situation--she was in her forties and the girl was in her teens.”

  “Another minor?” I asked. “What gives?”

  “This time it was worse. Much worse. The parents didn’t stumble across it this time. Wanda approached them. Wealthy father, farmer, politically connected. She hit them up with pictures. If the parents didn’t want their debutante exposed as a budding lesbian, they had to pay up.”

  “She’s a blackmailer?” I asked. “They turned her in?”

  “No. They tried to pay,” he said. “In fact, they did pay. Two hundred thousand, a fair bit back then. No unmarked bills, it wasn’t clandestine. They paid her with a bank draft.”

  “So then how did she end up in jail?” I asked.

  “I have no idea what went wrong for her, but the cops got wind of it and Wanda eventually was sent away for extortion. She did eight years. The money wasn’t recovered. The parents didn’t cooperate in getting it back. I guess they were scared of her--didn’t want to risk a visit from her or her son when she got out. She’s not a nice person, pathetic or not.”

  He looked around the room, and I waved a finger to get his attention back.

  “I looked her up a few months ago,” he went on. “I shouldn’t have. Some things should be left alone. She and her son are after me. They’ll never stop, now. I opened up Pandora’s Box for myself, and now I can never go home again. They’re violent people. I don’t know what they’ll do to me.”

  His eyes continued to search the room.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “That woman,” he said. “Could I have more pie? She said they have some kind of berry. I want to try it.”

  “I need to know where you come into this story, Dad. I need to know what you did. Why are they after you?”

  He looked at me owlishly. “You need to know?” he asked. “Since when do you need to know about me?”

  I was hugely irritated. I wanted to tell him that he didn’t own the world. I wanted to tell him that he couldn’t just land on other people’s doorsteps, disrupt their lives, and not tell them the whole s
tory. I wanted to tell him that I was worried sick about him.

  Instead, I walked him out to the jeep and said nothing. I ignored his request for a second piece of pie. Days later, I remembered my small cruelty and wept.

  CHAPTER 8

  Sheriff Ben Early,

  Marietta, Georgia, Sunday, August 4, 1946:

  Sheriff Early wheeled his radio car off the county road and onto the packed dirt lot in front of the general store. He felt a small shock in his chest when he saw the size of the gathered crowd. He edged the cruiser forward, and faces looked back through the windshield at him before they moved reluctantly aside. When the wooden steps were directly in front of him, he set the brake and shut the Ford’s engine off. He picked up the heavy microphone from its chromed hook under the dashboard and keyed it with his thumb.

  “Shirley, I’m going to need help out here. There’s got to be a hundred people outside the store and more coming. Mel Schmidt should be out on 41. Get him here fast. Get hold of Dicky at home and tell him to come on out here too.”

  “Is Willard Davis dead, Sheriff? Caller said he’s dead.”

  “I have no idea,” he said drily. “Looks like somebody is.”

  He pushed open the car door and got out, adjusting his hat and belt as he stood. He ran his fingertips along the butt of the gun on his hip. He pushed the people lining the steps of the store back with his eyes and climbed to the front door.

  “Stay where you are, folks.”

  Tin tobacco signs were nailed up on either side of the entrance. Nails bled rust from the top corners onto the red-and-green lettering. Ben pulled open the screen and the smell of shit and blood boiled out. He stepped in.

  Floyd Sutton was curled up just inside the doorway. The wet trail on the wood floor showed that he had dragged himself from the middle of the store before he expired. His eyes were open. Early stepped over him and stopped for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. The store’s center aisle was littered with cans and boxes.

  Willard Davis lay amongst them, his body looking somehow small and childlike. Ben allowed himself to be momentarily grateful that the man’s face turned was away, but then he moved carefully and leaned over the corpse.

  The halo of blood around Davis’s head covered the width of the aisle and spread under the shelves on either side. The top of his head was gone, but enough of his features and blond hair remained to identify him.

  Ben walked back to the door and leaned out. “Who called this in?” he asked, certain that no one would answer.

  “I did, suh,” a voice said. “I called you.”

  The owner of the voice stepped forward and stood diffidently, turning his straw hat in his hands.

  “Jacob Tull?” Ben asked, incredulous. “You? What--come here.” He walked to the end of the covered veranda, as far from the wide eyes and ears of the crowd as he could get. Jacob followed him. “What telephone did you use, Jacob?”

  “I used the one in the store, suh. They’s one behind the counter. I’ve used telephones before, lots of times.”

  “What were you doing inside the store, Jacob? The nig--the colored service is out the back door.”

  “I know that, suh. There was something wrong, though. I had to go in. I had to.”

  “Why did you think something was wrong?” Ben’s feelings were going from bad to worse. This was a disaster.

  “She told me. I saw her standing on the porch and she told me. I found these two--” Jacob glanced back at the door, eyes flashing momentarily with hate. “--these two, inside, on the floor. She told me where they keep the phone. She wouldn’t go in.”

  “Who told you, Jacob?” the sheriff asked, his dread building. “She? Who’s she?”

  “The little girl, suh. The little girl told me.”

  ***

  Present Day:

  In the morning, I went out on the veranda and was surprised to find my father already up and sitting outside.

  “I’d like to sit where I can see the water,” he said. “Can I do that?”

  “Sure. We can sit on the dock. Want coffee?”

  “You’re on a damn island, and you can’t see water,” he grumbled. “Just trees. If you cut some of the damn things, you’d have a view. You could sit on your porch and look at the lake. Isn’t that why people build on the water, for the view?”

  “Probably,” I said. “Don’t forget I have to go everywhere in a boat, though. I see lots of lake water. I like the privacy, and I don’t much like cutting down trees.”

  I dragged a couple of canvas chairs down to the dock. When I came back up, I found him in the kitchen, splashing rum into a glass.

  “Where do you keep your ice?” he asked, popping open a can of cola.

  I opened the freezer and handed him a tray. “Why don’t you mix that with orange juice? At least you’d get some vitamins.”

  He peered sideways at me. “Is that a joke?” he asked, handing me the glass. “Carry this. I need my hat.”

  He stopped by the door to put on a white cloth fishing hat, pulling the brim low over his ears. It accentuated his tan. A cord dangled jauntily around his neck. Despite his years, he was still a good-looking man.

  He followed me down the front steps and onto the path that led through the trees. I turned back twice to check his progress over the uneven ground. The second time, he made a shooing motion with his hand. When we were settled, he sipped his drink, then leaned down stiffly, and set it on the boards at his feet.

  We sat and looked at the day. The sound of a marine engine echoed over the lake. The morning was fresh and lovely. The long Canadian winters made the arrival of spring more acute--the new warmth and green brought an aching beauty. The air smelled like a kept promise.

  “Have you thought about what I told you last night?”

  “Yes. It’s a pretty wild story. Did Mom know about this?”

  “She knew,” he said. “All of it. The only one I ever trusted enough. When she died, she took it with her, and I never expected to tell anyone else.”

  The dock moved gently beneath us whenever a boat went past. I leaned back, lulled nearly to sleep by the softness of the air and lapping sounds of the water.

  “Are you going to tell me the rest of it?” I asked. “What did you tell Wanda that has her so pissed off?”

  “It’s not what I said. It’s something I did, a long time ago, when I was a boy. I was part of Eli Tull’s story, and no one ever knew. It got hushed up.” He shifted and held out his glass. “Get me another one, would you?”

  “You might want to take it a little bit easy, Dad,” I said, taking it from him. “It’s still pretty early.”

  The year’s first real heat was on the way, and I figured that we’d need to move into the shade soon.

  “Save your advice. I need a drink,” he said simply. “I can’t tell you the rest of it otherwise, about my part in things. It’s the most important part, and I want a drink to tell it with.”

  I nodded, resigned, and took the glass. “Now’s the time to tell me, Dad. I’ll be right back.”

  I walked up the finger of granite that anchored the dock, through the screen of trees, and into the shady clearing in front of my cabin. The yellow dog was lying in front of my steps, and he scrambled to his feet when he saw me. We looked at each other for a few seconds, and then he trotted around the side of the cabin and was gone.

  “This is beautiful,” Dad said, when I came back. “You shouldn’t forget how lucky you are, seeing something like this every day.”

  “I try to remember that,” I said, setting his drink down.

  “It’s easy to forget what’s important. You look right at it and you don’t even see it anymore. Do me a favor? Leave me alone for a minute. Let me think.”

  I watched a water skier in the middle of the reach. She skipped the boat’s wake and tumbled. Her head popped up, and the boat turned to come back for her.

  “Don’t you want to just get it done with?” I asked.

  “I’m
going to,” he said. “I just need a minute to get my thoughts together. This isn’t easy.”

  “Sure,” I said, and stood up. I figured that he needed to get the drink in him. “I have some stuff to move from under the porch. I’ll give you a few minutes and come back.”

  From time to time, I glanced along the path down to the dock, where he sat motionless, looking out at the lake. His ankles were crossed beneath the canvas chair. The sun was bright and stinging, and his hat looked very white. Its brim cast a shadow over his face. After a while, I left the trees and walked down to talk to him.

  “You doing okay?” I asked. “Hot out here.”

  He didn’t answer, and didn’t move. His hands rested on the chair arms, relaxed and very tanned. The last slivers of ice in his rum and coke moved slightly, stirred by the breeze. All at once I knew.

  “Dad?”

  We were perfectly, finally, still. The lake sounds faded away, leaving only the silent two of us in the brilliant spring light. I looked at him, and he looked at nothing that I could see.

  Later, I most remembered the ice that hadn’t yet melted, and the twin tracks of tears that were still drying on his face. It wasn’t a look of pain. It seemed more the expression of a man who had endured a painful mystery for the entirety of his life, and at last wept at the beauty and simplicity of its revelation.

  CHAPTER 9

  Jacob Tull,

  Marietta, Georgia, Sunday, August 4, 1946:

  Jacob was arrested for the murders of the two white men in the afternoon of the same day that they were killed. He was taken from his home in the hot afternoon, cheating the mob that would have taken him by nightfall. He was not treated roughly or unkindly.

  “You know why we’re here, Jacob,” the sheriff said. “I’m taking you in for killing Floyd Sutton and Willard Davis.”

  “The girl knows I didn’t do it, suh.”

  “The girl doesn’t know who did it. You won’t give me any trouble, will you?”