Polly’s laugh was delicate, like birdsong.
“They showered and got clean and sang ‘Suwannee River’ and ‘What the hell do we care?’ He stole a glance. “I heard you singing that morning. You’ve got a beautiful voice.”
“I was a singer in another life. So what happened to your father and his doughboys?”
“Their clothes went into steam chests to kill the vermin. They wrapped themselves in big Turkish towels while they waited. Then it was back to the trenches to get cooties again.”
They’d reached a clearing in the trees where an abandoned stone house stood pocked with age marks, the roof weather-damaged and dented where a tree had fallen on it.
“The Crawley mansion,” said William. “Hasn’t been lived in since before the war.” The chimney soared toward the darkening sky. “Johnny says it’s haunted. The couple who built it founded this town.”
Nearby were the two trees that had given Twisted Tree its name. Polly touched the entwined trunks. “I’ve never seen such a thing.”
“My grandfather hung himself from it.”
Polly removed her hand as if burned. “I’m so sorry, William.”
“Don’t be.” He rubbed his hand up the smooth bark. Two trunks, each round enough to hug, had grown side by side until about the four-foot mark, at which point they’d begun to twist into one another, coiling upward for another hundred feet into one massive tree with boughs wide enough to shade half an acre.
“I told him to go away.”
“Told who, William?”
“Henry.” He bit his lip but tears came anyway. “That’s the last thing I ever said to my baby brother. I told him to go away.” Polly squeezed him tight, and the embrace gave him strength. “He kept pestering me to go outside and play. Usually I couldn’t say no, but that day I did, several times in a row. I yelled at him. Told him to go away. He did. And never came back.”
“He knows you loved him.” She rubbed his back affectionately.
“But you didn’t see his face. I found him in the aging house later, dancing. I watched him through the window. Decided to let him be. To wait until the morning to apologize; take him into town for an ice cream or something.”
“He knows, William.” She held him. They stared at the twisted tree.
“Asher didn’t die.” Polly broke the silence. “He was murdered. I witnessed it.”
William pulled away, far enough to look into her eyes. “Tell me about it.”
She nodded. “I will. But not here.” She squeezed him, hard. “Promise me.”
“Promise you what?”
“That your feelings for me won’t change after what I have to tell you.”
He leaned down and kissed Polly on the lips, kissed her with confidence. It felt like a first kiss should feel—sweet, soft, and naively everlasting.
“My father once had a farm,” Polly said as they sat side by side on the cottage stoop. Night had fallen like a baize curtain. “He grew corn and wheat, and for a while raised pigs. Overproduction sent prices plummeting; our bushels of corn were worth barely a dime and wheat even less. There were seven of us children. I was the oldest. We were about to lose the farm, and then my little brother Timmy’s appendix burst. We bartered our last pig to pay the doctor.”
“Did he live?”
She nodded, sipped from her flask, and offered it to William. “He lived, and we put him right back into the eating rotation. Timmy, John, and Joseph ate on Mondays; Deli, Francine, and Clare got to eat on Tuesdays, and then I would eat with my parents on the third day, although my father gave half of his to the young ones, feeding them around a dinner table that we’d eventually use for firewood. By then we stopped burning coal to keep warm. We switched to corn. It was cheaper. Our neighbors did the same.”
“Did the town smell like popcorn?”
“It did.” She put her soft lips against his for the tenth time since they’d sat down. Each time they held the kiss longer, until William’s hair stood on end. This time her tongue brushed his teeth. He shifted on the step. She giggled and touched the tip of his nose with her index finger. “Quit interrupting me.”
“You kissed me.”
She folded her arms against the cool air. “The popcorn smell only made us hungrier. But it was either that or freeze to death. At eighteen I started to substitute spirits for food. I’d encourage my younger siblings to split my share when our parents weren’t looking. There was an old distiller down the road, illegal moonshine. It’s where I got my first taste. I thought it was free, until he tried to take what he thought was owed. I slapped him, and luckily he was too drunk to chase me down.
“If I left, there would be that much more food for my younger siblings. So I left. A cousin in Louisville had invited me to sing at his theater—he had vaudeville shows and talent acts. I was naive in thinking that the theater would still be open. People didn’t have money for food, let alone entertainment. I found it boarded up and partially burned down. And my cousin was nowhere to be found. I slept in the doorway that night, freezing. The next morning I was blanketed by the shadow of Santa Claus.”
“Santa Claus?”
“He was pudgy, with a white beard and hair. ‘Do you need a place to stay, lovely lady?’ I didn’t like that he’d referred to me as lovely, but he had a voice I thought I could trust. And a hand as soft as a pillow. He covered me in a blanket and walked with me until we’d reached a brick building on Liberty Street. It had a sign that read BOOK STORE, and a bell that tinkled when we entered. The walls were stocked with leather-bound books. The man introduced himself as Devlin. I was in awe of the books. I liked to read. He asked if I knew how to do laundry. Yes, I told him, and so he showed me up to the second floor where there was a hallway splitting four rooms down the middle. Knew right then that he’d brought me to a house of ill repute.”
She paused for another drink, the last. She’d drained it dry. They’d drained it dry.
William was starting to feel it in his head.
“He put me in charge of washing the sheets. My pay was room and board and access to his library. The books had a smell to them that made me feel safe. And how bad could it be to do laundry? Well, it kept me plenty busy, and at night my hands were raw. But it wasn’t long before men took me for one of the doves. One in particular was obsessed with redheads.”
William wanted to paste someone.
“It’s okay, William. He never got me in that way. It was a butter-and-egg man who wasn’t used to hearing no, and so my Santa Claus told him yes. Yes, he could come to my room and watch me sleep; yes, he could watch me dress and undress; yes, he could sketch me; and ultimately yes, because this was how he courted his doves—he could have me if he wanted. His pockets were deep and he paid up front for a full night. He didn’t count on me having a pocketknife. He leaned in toward my ear, asking me to undress slowly, and got a knife in his jugular.”
William stood and breathed into his hands, pacing the grass.
“Please sit back down. I warned you. Don’t do this to me.”
“The man,” William said. “What happened to him?”
“I pulled my knife from him, took his wallet, and ran from the room. But Evil Santa was waiting with a knife of his own. And then the door opened and a man, bearded and broad shouldered, bundled in layers of dirty clothes, made Claus freeze in his boots.
“I fell into Asher’s arms. I’d been slashed across my right calf by Devlin and could barely stand.”
Polly turned her right leg to reveal a cruel white smile etched across smooth skin. William ran his fingers over the wound; it had barely a raise to it.
“Asher rested me gently on the ground. He spoke to Devlin. ‘Give me the knife, my son.’ Devlin jabbed at him, but still Asher approached, his arms raised in a gesture of peace. ‘Drop the knife, my son.’ Devlin drove the knife into his right shoulder. But Asher showed no sign that he’d felt the blade at all. He placed his palm against Devlin’s forehead and prayed as Devlin cowered, first knee
ling and then flat and unmoving on the floorboards. Asher stepped over Devlin and walked up the creaky stairs. He came back down with the four doves behind him, their satchels packed. They never returned to that place.”
“But you . . . you’d never seen Asher before that night?”
“No.”
“How did he know you were in danger?” William looked directly into her eyes. “Polly?”
She sighed. “I gave my first concert when I was five.”
“First concert?”
“Something small for the town folk. I was terrified. The newspapers were there. My father invited them. Come see the girl with the angelic voice. I couldn’t tie my shoes, but they say people wept when I’d sing. Left people in awe, the newspapers said. A child touched by God. I didn’t want it. I was frightened by so many people. So I stopped singing. Until I decided to jump that train and start a life of my own.”
“And Asher began watching over you then?”
“He’d been watching over me for months. It’s the first thing he said to me. He pulled the blade without a wince of discomfort and dropped it to the floor. Said he felt the warmth of my arrival. He picked me up, opened the door, and walked out into the night. I wrote a letter to my family and told them I’d found a life in Louisville. I never heard back from them. I followed Asher for the next year and a half. Watched his followers grow. Watched him perform miracles. Watched him heal the sick and comfort the dying. Watched him feed the hungry and clothe the naked.”
“Do you think there could be more?”
“More what, William?”
“People like him? Like Asher? If he is some kind of guardian angel?”
“I’ve never thought about it, but I suppose it’s possible.” An owl hooted and the wind blew a pinecone across the path. Polly said, “I also witnessed him suffer. Asher, he was taking pain and suffering from the inflicted and storing it in his own body. It was subtle. But it was not our greatest fear.” Polly shifted on the stoop. “Evil Santa lost his doves the night Asher rescued me, and his bordello. So he recruited followers of his own, sinners and sneak-thieves, pickpockets and swindlers, murderers and rapists. ‘Blasphemy,’ they cried. ‘Asher Keating is an opium fiend bound by illusions,’ they claimed.”
“John Swell once referred to him as a magician.”
“Many believed he was,” Polly concurred. “Devlin dubbed his followers the New Sanhedrin. The original Sanhedrin had its own police force that could make arrests—as they did with Jesus. But they never had the power to execute. That was in the hands of the Romans. That is why He was crucified instead of stoned. Devlin’s New Sanhedrin was a gang of thugs. We avoided alleyways and confined spaces, preferring to keep Asher out in the open, in large crowds.”
Polly chewed on a fingernail. “A man came begging us to help his little boy—claimed he was suffering convulsions. Asher followed him up Floyd Street, and he stopped at an alleyway between Market and Jefferson. A boy was there. Asher followed the man into the alleyway, and the boy took off running. As the man lowered the knife into his back, Asher bowed his head in prayer, as if he’d known it was coming and he was asking forgiveness, even before the rest of his attackers emerged, ten of them. They attacked with brutal force, slashing and stabbing until they were sure he was dead. Never once did Asher resist. Never once did he cry out in pain or give them the pleasure of struggle. They shouted insults and cried ‘blasphemer’ as they ripped and tore garments from his body—”
William put his arm around her and pulled her close. “I’m so sorry, Polly.”
“Devlin yelled out, ‘Let him save himself if he is truly chosen.’ I knelt beside Asher’s body. Blood bubbles escaped from his lips as he spoke. ‘Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.’ He smiled at me. At that moment I had no regrets about leaving my family. Asher was my family. They were all my family. He refused to drink from a container of water, but he did grip my hand and urge me not to hold anger. ‘Do not plot revenge,’ he said. I watched him die. He did so in anonymity. Few watched and many jeered. I will never forget his final words, his grip loosening around my fingers. ‘Father, into Your hands I commit my spirit.’ I closed his eyes.”
For a minute they watched the wind move shadows through the woods.
“Devlin was found along the riverfront the next morning with his throat cut.”
“Who did it?”
“I don’t know. Asher said not to seek revenge. I didn’t. But I won’t deny the relief I felt.” Polly stood, pulled him with her. “I’m tired.” She kissed him on the lips. “I need to lie down.”
William waited until she was safely inside and heard the bolt lock. He turned back into the woods and walked forty yards until the rear of the distillation house was visible.
“So do you think Babe Ruth really called his shot?”
He felt the end of a baseball bat poking against his spine.
“That idiot had an answer, but I don’t recall one from you.”
William put his hands up as if the bat could shoot bullets. Given a choice he’d rather take a bullet than get bludgeoned to death. “Everyone knows Babe Ruth called his shot.”
Eva Carcolli stepped out of the trees with a Louisville Slugger of her own. She swung, connected with his rib cage, doubling him over, and then the burlap sack turned everything dark.
TWENTY-TWO
William’s rib cage throbbed. He was sitting in a hard-backed chair. They pulled the sack from his head. All of the abandoned distillery cottages had the same simple floor plan, and he was in the living room of one of them. Two oil lamps glowed along with the tips of several cigarettes. Eva sat ten feet away with her long legs crossed, her eyes hawkish. Behind her stood three suited trouble men, all armed. Tommy paced, tapping the bat against his palm.
“Got a smoke?” William was determined to be tough.
Eva pulled a small tin container from the bust of her tight blue dress and handed it to Tommy. He opened it for William to grab a butt, snapped the container shut, and handed it back to Eva. She slid it in the front of her dress.
“Give him some fire,” Tommy said.
One of the men behind Eva tossed a lighter across the room and William caught it. He lit up and then tossed the lighter back to the brute who’d thrown it. He exhaled, fought the tremor in his voice. “I’d ask for dope if I didn’t know where she kept it.”
Eva laughed, and then so did Tommy.
“I don’t smell urine this time.” Tommy sniffed the air. “I smell fear. You smell it, Eva?”
“I can smell it, Daddy.”
Tommy tapped William’s kneecap with the bat. “You asking about me around town?”
William didn’t deny it.
“You carry a torch for a skirt from the streets. Isn’t that right, William McFee?”
How much do they know? “What do you want with me?”
“Do you believe in this Potter’s Field Christ?” Tommy’s hash marks glistened in the macabre light.
“Left or the right, Boss?” William understood now. One scar for every kill.
“I believe in God,” continued Tommy. “So deeply it makes me weep. I believe in this Potter’s Field Christ. I believe your sister’s legs are healed because of Asher Keating. Do you know how I know? Because I believe in signs. That man you found dead on Rose Island. The body you discovered facedown in the mud. Dooly McDowell.”
Here we go. His ribs throbbed.
“That day dredged up negative press about me. It had died down, but that day rekindled it. And now the Feds are breathing down my neck. Would you believe it if I told you I once wanted that man dead? Dooly McDowell. He put me behind bars and then walked free. And you found him dead.” Tommy smiled. “I don’t believe in coincidences, William. I never met your grandfather, but I heard he took it pretty hard when they locked up his houses. And then he did the dance from the Twisted Tree.” Tommy tapped William’s chest with the bat. “Your father. Is he not the master distiller now?”
Willi
am nodded.
“Barley McFee. Is that his name?”
William nodded again. Sharp pains shot across his chest.
“I never met him either, I’m afraid. Perhaps I should go up to the main house now and introduce myself. Congratulate him on restarting Old Sam. Thank him for allowing me to visit this Potter’s Field Christ. Huh?”
Eva lit a cigarette. The three men behind her stood still as statues.
Tommy tapped William’s right shoulder. “I noticed the suited men with guns on your porch.”
“The protestors—”
“Yes, I know, they can be most brutal.” Tommy slammed the bat down against the floor and William jumped. “But we digress. Back to the signs and this dead man found on Rose Island. I once prayed for his death, William. I told Christ, on my knees, ‘Just this one more. I’ll give this man what’s owed to him and wash my hands of crime.’ And there he was, dead. I’d only recently found Christ, and He was already keeping me on the straight and narrow. I had to see the grave of this Potter’s Field Christ. We prayed over that cross. And tell him, Eva, what we felt.”
“The power of Jesus.”
“Yes, the power of Jesus Christ,” Tommy said. “Felt it coursing through my veins like Edison’s current. I knew it was real. The hairs on my arms and legs stood on end. I baptized myself in the river that evening, from the rocks of the Devil’s Backbone, and cried as the water trickled down my face.”
Tommy snapped, and Eva immediately stood from her chair so he could sit. He rested both palms on the bottom end of the bat, propping the barrel tip against the floor. Eva slithered behind him and draped her arms around his shoulders. She kissed his neck. “You’re so warm, Daddy. I can feel the power moving through you even now.”
William watched her slender fingers move up and down Tommy’s thigh.
Tommy said, “I read about that woman Bethany. I wept for that poor woman. Then she wouldn’t give me two words. But she talked to you. You are the conduit, William. Do you see?”
The Angels' Share Page 20
