Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees

by Janie DeVos

  Willa stared at him in confusion. “No one was . . .” Willa began, taking a step forward and tightly clasping his arm. “Did you say no one was hanged today?” Her voice escalated with desperate hope.

  “That’s right, miss, no one,” Camp repeated, pulling back from her a little. Her intense reaction to his simple statement made him uncomfortable.

  “Then who’s buried there?” she cried, still holding his arm with one hand but turning to point at the fresh grave with her other.

  “Why, I’m not sure, miss, other than the fact that I saw the wagon from McCrea’s Funeral Home arrive a couple of hours ago with a coffin. And whoever was in it got buried in a hurry,” he quickly explained. “I was over at the restaurant doing my lunch prep, so I just watched it from there.”

  “And you don’t know who it was?” Willa pressed.

  “No, I don’t. And no one else at the restaurant did either. But I do know that if there had been someone hanged, they wouldn’t have needed McCrea’s. The sheriff woulda just hired a couple o’ guys to dig a pauper’s grave to put the body in—’less, o’ course, the poor sap’s family come to claim him. But seein’ as how there wasn’t nobody’s family hangin’ ’round—oh, pardon the expression, miss—I figured McCrea’s was buryin’ a payin’ customer.”

  “Thank you, Henry! Oh, thank you!” Willa’s broadly smiling mouth firmly planted a kiss on the surprised young man’s cheek; then she abruptly turned and walked away, leaving him staring after her in curious amazement. With a torrent of questions running through her brain, Willa hurriedly led her mule to a hitching post in front of the sheriff’s office, securely tied it, grabbed her carpetbag, and walked through the door.

  Sheriff Buchanan was actually in attendance for a change, and after looking up to see Willa enter, sighed audibly, then went back to perusing the newspaper that lay open on his desk.

  “Where is he?” Willa wasted no time in asking.

  “Where’s who?” the sheriff indifferently replied, turning the page and feigning complete interest in an article on women’s parasols.

  “You know damn well who I mean, Sheriff. Where’s Sam Harold?” she insisted, gripping the edge of his desk and leaning over toward him, fighting to keep herself under control.

  “Tsk, tsk, Miz Holton! No need to use such strong language, and in a public servant’s office, no less!” he scolded.

  Willa took a deep breath knowing that any verbal pushing on her part would only result in his pushing back, and since he was the one wearing the badge, and she was nothing but a lowly widowed woman, she knew who’d win that game.

  “Sheriff,” she began again, trying to soften her voice a bit. “Please be kind enough—sympathetic enough—to tell me what took place this morning. Please, Sheriff.” And as much as she hated herself for it, her voice cracked with emotion.

  “The deputy took him away,” the sheriff simply stated.

  “Sam?” Willa quickly clarified.

  “No, Miz Holton, the Archangel Gabriel! Yes, woman, Sam Harold, for God’s sake,” he loudly snapped. “Here.” He pulled a yellow sheet of paper out of the desk’s top drawer and tossed it across to Willa. Snatching it up, she immediately saw it was a telegram.

  To Sheriff Buchanan:

  Received your telegram re: grandson’s death. STOP. The one who killed that son of a bitch should be canonized. STOP. Do NOT execute. STOP. Signed, Senator Beaumont Holton. STOP.

  “Oh my God,” Willa exclaimed, sinking down onto the chair in front of the desk. “Oh my God,” she repeated softly. Tears had filled her eyes but she quickly brushed them away. “Where’d your deputy take him, Sheriff? Did you release him somewhere?” she asked.

  “Now, c’mon, Miz Holton, you know damn well that I couldn’t just let him go. Why, how would that look to the townsfolk? How would that make me look? Why, I’d look like an old soft fool. And—”

  “And it’s election year,” Willa angrily finished, clearly understanding the sheriff’s motives.

  “Why, yes, ma’am, it sure is.” He smiled. “And I’m planning on keepin’ my job.” Then, leaning forward, he added, “And that means keepin’ folks around here happy. And ‘happy’ means keepin’ the streets clean of garbage, the man-made kind, and man himself. Why, hells bells, gal, you don’t think I could have let him walk, do ya? Shoot, the folks ’round here would have had my hide, if I hadn’t done somethin’ with his.”

  “And what did you do, sheriff?” she asked, terrified.

  “Well, Miz Holton, it really ain’t none of your business, now is it, considering you ain’t one of my constituents. But seein’ as how you’s so upset an’ all, I’ll tell ya. Mr. Harold was sentenced bright and early this morning, then I placed him in the care of my deputy, and sent him on over to a place that’ll keep him, ah . . . tied up for a while.” He smiled at his choice of words. “And that’s where that ‘friend’ of yours will stay until he’s an old, old man.” concluded the sheriff.

  “You can’t sentence him, Sheriff Buchanan! Who gave you the authority to do so?” Willa was furious.

  “Now hold on, Miz Holton. I never did say I was the one doin’ the sentencing, now did I?” the sheriff asked in the calmest, most smug way.

  Still infuriated, but trying to keep her head about her, Willa calmly asked, “Then who did, sheriff?”

  “Ya know, it’s an amazin’ thing how much a person can get done when he’s got friends in high places, or, in this case, a brother-in-law in a high place. Mine happens to be a judge here in town, Miz Holton, and he had a problem, too, a-lettin’ a murderer go simply because some half-assed state senator—and a Democrat, to boot—thought I should. The telegram didn’t go so far as to say let him go, so we didn’t. It just said not to kill him, so we didn’t!” he spat, clearly angry that the hanging had not taken place this morning.

  “Your brother-in-law is apparently up for reelection, too, isn’t he, Sheriff?”

  “Now, now, Miz Holton, that’s beside the point. As elected men of the law, we both felt it was our duty to uphold that law, and do what was right for the welfare of the good folks of Bolsey. And like it or not, that meant seein’ that your ‘friend’ paid a hefty price for killin’ a man. There ain’t no gettin’ ’round the fact that Mr. Harold blew half of Mr. Holton’s head clear to Tennessee. And because of that, that fella of yours is a-goin’ away for a long, long time. And whether or not he ever comes back is for the good Lord to decide—oh, an’ the parole board. Now, if you’ll excuse me, miss, I’ve got a town to run.” And with those closing words, he swiveled around in his chair and stood up to escort her out the door.

  Willa was momentarily at a loss for words. She quickly found her voice, though, when she realized the sheriff was dismissing her. If she didn’t find out more now, chances were she never would.

  “Where’d you have him taken, Sheriff? Where?” She asked, fear evident in her voice.

  He grabbed her elbow in a forceful grip and guided her quickly to the door, but Willa dug her heels in and grabbing the doorframe with her free left hand, repeated her question: “Where’d you take him?”

  Pulling the door open, the sheriff yanked her loose from the frame and shoved her out the door, then replied with a sadistic gleam in his eye, “He’s on his way to Salisbury Prison, the state pen in Hickory. It’s the old Confederate Prison. It’s a rough one, Miz Holton, but I think the accommodations are rather fittin’. He’s gonna be there ’til you’re at least a grandma, if not a great-grandma. And there ain’t a damn thing you can do about it!” And with that, he started to shut the door, but then remembered one last thing he wanted to say, “Oh, and Miz Holton, they don’t let women in for any visitin’, so you can bet your little bonnet you won’t be a-seein’ him for a very long time, if ever again. Now, have a nice day.” Smiling a most vicious smile at her, he once again started to slam the door, but Willa blocked it.

  “One last thing, Sheriff; who was just buried out back today?”

  “Why, your murdered hu
sband, ma’am,” he answered, surprise lacing his voice, as though it was only logical she would have figured that one out. “It seemed a shame not to use one perfectly good brand new grave. And seein’ as how his family didn’t care to come get the poor fella, the grave your ‘friend’ should have filled was the perfect answer. You know, ma’am, we could have tossed him in the river, but we’re God-fearin’ around these parts. God-fearing!” he reemphasized, again smiling viciously as he did so. And with that, he slammed his office door in Willa’s face.

  Frozen with anger and fear, Willa stared at the door for a moment. Knowing there was nothing more that she could do—at this time, anyway—she returned to the mule, secured her bag to the saddle and mounted. She’d worry about purchasing a wagon in the next town she came to; she needed to be gone from this malignant place as fast as possible. As she rode past the graveyard, with the newly turned earth marking the resting place of a husband she could only think of with loathing and disgust, she gently but firmly bumped her heels against the mule’s sides and turned her back forever on the town of Bolsey River.

  PART 3

  Rachel

  CHAPTER 27

  November 5, 1922, Howling Cut, NC

  Grandma and I took our time on the way home from Sam’s as she continued telling me more about our family’s history, and answering my many questions. Grandma had said I was old enough to not only hear about it but understand it, and the fact that she felt that way made me sit up a little taller in the seat beside her and attempt to weigh the newfound information from a more mature point of view. I knew that her story would be replayed in my mind over and over again until I could digest it to the point that it became part of the fabric of my life. I wanted it to feel comfortable and familiar. Mama, however, had never been able to do that—to accept the fact that the father she’d never known had been a man whose sole purpose in life, it seemed, was to bring pain to everyone who had the misfortune of meeting up with him. Even his own family had disowned him by the time he was in his late teens.

  The Holton clan had been a family with a fair amount of wealth, and an even greater amount of respect in their community, the burgeoning town of Gastonia, North Carolina. Malcolm’s father, Davis, had been a highly regarded lawyer. Davis’s father, Beaumont, was an attorney as well, but had climbed the ladder of success to even greater heights by winning the seat of mayor of their town, and had even bigger political aspirations in mind. Malcolm, however, had been a blemish on the family’s otherwise sterling name. A black sheep almost from the beginning, he’d been in trouble from the time he was big enough to put a crate below a neighbor’s open window, hoist himself through it, and steal nineteen dollars in cash, a red coral cameo brooch, and a pair of emerald and diamond cufflinks. He sold the goods to some older teenage thieves, who, in turn, took them to the next town over and sold them for an even greater amount. But the event that put an unbridgeable distance between the boy Malcolm and his family was the death of Malcolm’s younger brother Benjamin.

  The two had gone with some other boys over to Blue Lake one hot June morning. The friends had fished for wide-mouth bass, followed by diving from a rock outcropping into the deepest and coolest part of the lake. Eventually, the two other boys with the Holtons decided to try another, less-frequented part of the lake, so grabbing their poles, they headed over to a cove on the lake’s southeast side. Malcolm, who was sixteen at the time, stayed behind with fifteen-year-old Benny, drying off and dozing in the sun on the lush grass of the lake’s bank. At one point, as they lay there in that soft and fuzzy state of half-wakefulness, Benny mentioned that he planned on asking Ruthie Jemmison to the upcoming Fourth of July dance on the town’s square. Benny had an aching crush on Ruthie, and Malcolm knew it. However, out of meanness, or maybe a secret shared passion for the little blond-haired, green-eyed beauty, Malcolm had beat Benny to it and had asked Ruthie just the day before. The girl had accepted. Malcolm, who had been waiting for just the right time to inform his brother of the news, smiled with cruel delight as he watched a bevy of emotions wash over his usually passive and quiet brother’s face. After a stunned moment, Benny jumped up and challenged his far bigger brother, and the two came to blows. As they fought, Malcolm intentionally drove Benny closer to the edge of the rock outcropping, and finally, with one right-fisted blasting blow, he shattered Benny’s nose and sent him over the side into the darkening lake below.

  The two friends heard Malcolm yelling for their help, and running back as hard as they could, they found him in a nearly hysterical state. They finally made out enough to get some idea of what had happened: Malcolm claimed they’d been having some fun, just wrestling with each other, when Benny had slipped off the outcropping, hitting his head as he did, and falling into the lake. Malcolm told them he’d immediately jumped in after him but had been unable to find the boy in the deep, murky water, and that it had been a good ten minutes or so since his fall. As plausible as his story sounded, there was one fact that seemed to tell a far different version of it; and that one fact was that Malcolm’s hair was dripping wet, while his clothes were only slightly damp. There was just something off, and the boys knew it. Not wanting to waste precious time, however, they did not question him. Instead, the older of the two friends jumped in to see if he could spot Benny in the depths below. But after several futile minutes, he climbed out and all three went for help.

  The lake swarmed with dozens of people who joined in the search. But, it wasn’t until three days later, when a bloated and blue Benjamin Wayne Holton resurfaced on Blue Lake, that the final chapter of the boy’s short life was closed. Though no charges were ever brought against Malcolm, and it was written in the books that accidental drowning was the cause of Benny’s death, the boys who had accompanied the Holton brothers to the lake that awful day were more than willing to tell their side of the story to willing listeners. Unsurprisingly, a great cloud of suspicion followed Malcolm thereafter. And no one was more suspicious of the troubled boy’s part in Benny’s death than his own family. Finally, less than a year later, with pockets filled with money made from selling off quite a bit of expensive jewelry he’d taken from the Widow Waltrap’s home, Malcolm headed toward Asheville to begin his professional life—one befitting his nature and his need for dangerous escapades, as well as dangerous company. Malcolm became a professional gambler.

  As it happened, one of the games Malcolm joined in with was in a little saloon called The Painted Horse, in a town named Spring Creek, just outside of Howling Cut. The saloon owner was none other than Willa’s own father, Earl Cooper, and it just so happened that on that fateful afternoon, Willa had stopped by on instructions from her mother to ask Earl for a dollar with which to get some black thread and cornmeal. Once in town, Willa had headed directly over to her father’s saloon to retrieve the money, and it was then that she met the tall, darkly handsome stranger. Malcolm was taking a break from his eight game losing streak of seven-card stud, and was standing at the bar downing his second whiskey of the afternoon, when the raven-haired, blue-eyed beauty came hurrying in, waiting for her father to finish helping another of his customers.

  Willa stood there awkwardly as Malcolm gave her a good looking-over. Although very aware of the stranger’s perusal, she pretended not to notice, which made it all the more obvious that she did. Finally, amused by her attempt to ignore him, he moved closer to her, introduced himself and made small talk about how windy a day it had been, how nice the town’s people seemed. Hoping to evoke some pity, Malcolm mentioned being new to town and knowing no one. Looking into the stranger’s dark gray eyes and feeling compassion for this person who was so alone, Willa was easily hooked.

  A two-week period of whirlwind courting followed, but was cut short because Malcolm’s money was running out. He knew that in order to keep Willa, he’d better wed her quick before the truth was found out about his “temporary state of financial instability,” which was how he referred to his ever-increasing debt to an ever-increasing number of people in
various places. Naive, young, restless, and in love, Willa accepted his proposal immediately, and they married the following weekend in the Baptist church she’d been raised in. The simple, homespun wedding was followed by a honeymoon in Asheville.

  But the honeymoon ended almost immediately when Malcolm’s money ran out, and Willa was forced to take in laundry while her husband took his anger and frustration out on her. As Willa was quick to learn, Malcolm lost far more than he won. They left Asheville in the middle of the night a couple of months later, owing more money than they’d ever be able to repay, and headed toward Upper Bolsey River. There, Malcolm built a small cabin on a piece of land which his father had given to him soon before he’d left Gastonia. The land had been part of a larger parcel of unused land that had been in the family for many years. No one in the family had ever had any use for it, until Malcolm became a problem and an embarrassment to them. The vacant land seemed to offer the perfect solution to the Holtons; Malcolm would have land of his own and be far enough away to keep him out of their lives. Upon handing Malcolm the quitclaim deed, his father had informed him that should he ever come back to Gastonia, he would delve more deeply into the events surrounding the death of his beloved son, Benjamin. The threat worked, as did the “gift” of land, and the family was rid of the thorn in its side. Malcolm, in turn, had the perfect place to build a new life with his bride, for it was isolated enough to hide from those he owed money. And it was also far enough off the beaten path that few were likely to see the telltale signs of the beatings his new bride had to bear.