Raintree County

by Ross Lockridge

  Johnny got up and started back to the hotel. He was dripping sweat, dirty, unkempt. He hadn’t been out of his clothes for two days. He shut his eyes; the hot sun rained on the lids like fire. He was afraid he would faint. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. Yesterday morning. They had been fighting a battle then in Pennsylvania. He opened his eyes.

  Somewhere in this same brilliant day, they were perhaps still fighting. Two armies were lying around a little town not even named on the map. Two hundred thousand men had rushed at each other, finding and giving death on the green earth of some rural county where brown roads met in summer. This was History, this was the Shape of the Future, here was the Destiny of the Republic, tossed on the horns of the herding armies. At this moment, that mythical being, the leader of the Confederate Armies, General Robert E. Lee, was studying maps in his headquarters and checking the disposition of troops. His voice was making edges of sound in the hot air. Men listened, rode away, gave orders. Flags advanced and receded. Maps, maps, maps, and the shape of the earth, the lay of the land—this was the whole thing. Everything depended on it. The Battle was for a little theatre of hills and roads called Gettysburg. Whoever won this earth won republics of the future, fair and fecund republics, which, alas, might also be split with endless war in summers to come.

  Yet all was chance. Blind chance decreed the battle, the bullet, and the patriot grave. What made chaos a Battle? What made ten thousand murders a sublime Event? Who had agreed to disagree? Who was it that decided to come to these decisions? What gave meaning to the Battle?

  And why must he, John Wickliff Shawnessy, be torn with fear because a darkhaired woman with a scar on her breast wandered somewhere carrying a little boy? What business was that of his? Weren’t all human beings forever shut off from one another? Had he ever really known or understood her? Was the touching of their bodies any true exchange of themselves, one for the other? Was he the father of this child? Suppose those two were really lost, suppose their poor ruined bodies were found in some back alley of the City? Must he weep for that—he, the young god with sunlight in his hair? Couldn’t he simply turn his conscience back like a clock to the time exactly four years ago when he had just run in the Fourth of July Race but hadn’t yet gone to Lake Paradise with a girl from the South? Why must he suffer for this thing? What gave it meaning, except to this weakness called a conscience and these faint nothings, composed of shadow and unsubstance—memories?

  Then he told himself that he had to acknowledge this connection and these meanings because these lost children had names. They had his name. Perhaps then it was only the names of things that rescued them from utter vacancy, appalling chaos. Only because he could give a comfortable name to this city, to himself, to all the objects that he saw, did they have any meaning at all for him or for anyone else. Without the names, they would instantly slip back into incoherent, frightening nothingness. No, not nothingness, because all these things were, they horribly and palpably were, and would go on being, but they would go on being without any care for one another. They would merely be things, nothing would integrate them, they would be forever meaningless.

  Names, names, names. Susanna, Little Jim, Ellen, T. D., Raintree County, Indiana, United States of America. Names, names, names. Vicksburg, Mississippi River, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. Names, names, names. Lee, Longstreet, Sherman, Grant, Hooker, Meade, Davis, Lincoln. All were names only, senseless deformations of the lips and tongue, vague cries shaking down clusters of memories. How could one justify the vast structure of names except by the names themselves? If one pulled the words away one by one, the edifice would crumble altogether, and no two things would hold together any longer.

  Perhaps John Wickliff Shawnessy was only a transparent awareness in a universe of chance and blind fruitions, an odd sort of newspaper in which certain mythical Events were reported.

  It seemed to him then that he was groping helplessly outside his own world and trying to get back into it. He must not give up. He must go on bearing the burden of the whole implacably connected universe of himself.

  —Hello, Johnny.

  The name was softly personal, like a caress. The voice that uttered it was low and sweet and touched with infinite concern and kindness. He blinked owlishly at the faces around him.

  Nell Gaither was standing just at the door of the Maddon Hotel. She was coolly lovely in a green summer dress. A pert straw hat teetered on her upswept curls. She gently swung a green parasol. An anxious, tender smile curved her mouth and made her green eyes peculiarly moist and bright.

  —Nell! he croaked. Where did you come from?

  —I’ve been waiting here for you, she said. Garwood told me about your trouble. I’ve been back in the State for about two months, living here in Indianapolis with relatives and doing war work. I thought I’d come over here and see if I could help in any way.

  He told her about his search and failure so far. As they talked on the crowded sidewalk, he felt how far he had come from the older Raintree County of before the summer of 1859. Probably it had gone just as far from him. This poised young woman was after all not the one whom once he had seen like Venus in the river, had saved from a cardboard train in the Temperance Play, had paganly loved in the old Pedee Academy, had rowed down the Shawmucky River in summertime; she was not the one whom he had kissed in a haystack long ago, whose naked form had touched his own, whose long wet hair had fallen on his shoulders, whose teardrenched face had looked up to his in a December night, whose mouth had said, I love you, I will always love you. Those words had been said in the older Raintree County before his term of duty and slow endurance had begun. Those words had meant that he would be loved, yes, always, but always in the older Raintree County, now gone forever, and in the memory of it. There was no certainty that the Nell Gaither standing before him now was the one who had said those words.

  Nevertheless, he had a wild, foolish rush of affection, not only for Nell but even for Garwood Jones, who had sent her to him, who was helping out, even if he bore a dubious role in the affair.

  Being ashamed of his dirty, unkempt look, Johnny kept his face averted as he talked with Nell. He said that if she didn’t mind, she could watch the train station for Susanna.

  —I’d love to, Nell said.

  —I’ll come around and see you there after a while, Johnny said.

  Back at the police station, the sergeant had news for him.

  —Woman at a novelty store thinks she saw your wife. You can call on the lady at the store now. It’s closed for the Fourth, but she said she’d be there and open it for you.

  —Was the boy with her?

  —I don’t think so, the sergeant said. But you go and see this woman. I didn’t take the message. Another fellow did.

  Johnny ran the few blocks to the shop. The woman was a sharp-featured, talkative person of middle age.

  —It was yesterday afternoon about this time, she said. This lady was a young woman in a highnecked dress, kind of wine color. I didn’t see if she had a scar. She was very pretty but all run down. She kept smiling and looking around her while she was making her purchase. She had a Southern accent.

  —Did she have a child with her?

  —No, she was all alone. Her dress was sort of mussed. She did have a suitcase. She was very kind and genteel. I could see right away she was a lady. You’ll never guess what she bought.

  —Well?

  —It was a doll. She handled it for a long time and finally said, I believe I’ll take this one here.

  —What kind of doll?

  —Just like these here, the woman said.

  The dolls on the counter were all alike, boy dolls with blond hair and blue suits. The woman went on:

  —For your child, Ma’am? I said to her, trying to make talk. Why, no, I need it for something, she said. She paid for it then and left. This morning I read the item in the newspaper and right away remembered her. Do you think it was your wife, mister?

  —Yes, Johnn
y said. When she left the store, which way did she turn?

  —Left, I think, the woman said.

  He questioned her further, but didn’t find out any other important facts.

  Leaving the store, he turned left and walked up the street. Susanna had been here only yesterday at about this time. It was agonizing to repeat a fragment of her ghostly trail twenty-four hours too late.

  He ran over the conversation in his mind. I need it for something, she had said. Not for someone—but for something. I need it for something. She had walked up this street in this direction. He must still be retracing that lost trail. He stopped and looked around.

  Directly in front of him was a large sign hanging over a door:

  PHOTOGRAPHS, DAGUERREOTYPES, AMBROTYPES

  A temporary card underneath said,

  OPEN ALL DAY ON THE FOURTH

  Johnny Shawnessy felt the flesh on his back tingle as if a cold wind had blown on him. He turned in at the open door and climbed the steps of the Photographer’s Shop. Two at a time, he ran up, as he had done once long ago from the Square in Freehaven. He walked down through the gallery of the shop, which was lined with oval portraits. He opened a closed door there, wondering if he were about to repeat an earlier scene tragically rewritten.

  There was only a man in the room working at a chemical bath. Johnny explained himself, described his wife and boy, asked the photographer if he had seen anyone answering that description.

  —Yes, the man said, looking at him quizzically. Yes, I did. They were in yesterday at about this time or a trifle later. Lady in a dark red dress and a little boy. They sat for individual portraits and one together.

  —Did the—did the young woman act a little strange?

  —Yes, she did. She wanted to be posed holding a doll. I thought it was a little queer, but she said it had a sentimental significance. She was Southern all right. She posed by herself, holding the doll, and then she posed herself with the boy, but not the doll. I asked her if she planned to be in the City for the Fourth, and she said, no, she was going home. Home, I said, joking. If I’m not mistaken, lady, home for you is a long way from here, judging from your accent. Yes, it’s a long way, she said. She was a lovely woman, beautiful eyes, hair, and complexion, but she looked sick.

  —She is sick.

  —I have those plates, the photographer said, but I haven’t printed them. They came out good. You might be able to tell. I have them here.

  He began to run through a box of labelled plates, pronouncing the names.

  —Here we are, he said. Henrietta Courtney and boy James.

  —What was that name? Johnny said.

  The man repeated it.

  —Isn’t that right? he asked.

  —Let’s see them, Johnny said.

  The photographer held two plates, of the usual carte de visite size, up to the light. There, as through a veil darkly, sat Susanna and Little Jim—and the doll.

  —My God! Johnny said.

  They were there, in his hand, imprisoned in a glass murky with chemicals.

  —If she calls for the pictures, hold her here some way and get in touch with the police. By the way, when you finish the pictures, send them to me.

  He gave the photographer his address and, not finding any more information, hurried out of the shop and back down the stair. He began to feel like someone running down hill on a path that got steeper all the time.

  Back at the hotel, the clerk said,

  —A young woman called for you. A Miss Gaither. Said to see her at the train station as soon as you could.

  Johnny got his suitcase, paid his bill, and ran on through holiday throngs toward the police station. It was late afternoon as he went in. He told the sergeant his findings.

  —Well, what do you think? the sergeant said.

  —I don’t know, Johnny said. I have a hunch she may have left the city and gone back. I’m on my way to the train station now.

  —Well, the sergeant said, we could drag the river. That’s where a lot of these cases end up.

  —Thanks, Johnny said, tossing a scribbled address on the table. If you find anything, get in touch with me by telegraph there.

  He left the police station and ran toward the depot. A cold word trickled in his mind. The River. Yes, the River. Where would she go at last, except the River? The River that ran forever in the background of her life, with the steamboats stacking to the piers and the Negroes working at the levee loading cotton bales. Where would she go at last except back home to darkness and the River! So there were two things here contending, Raintree County and the River. Yet she had said that she would go home. Where was her home? Had she meant the County after all and the tall house below the Square? Where was home now to the uprooted, wandering soul of the little mad Susanna? Would she come home to her last great hope, to the one other person in the world whom she had loved and trusted? Would she come back again to Raintree County, bringing the child safe with her?

  He ran through the streets of the city. At the station, he found Nell in the waiting room.

  —Johnny, she said, I think she’s been here and taken the train. One of the ticket agents remembers selling a ticket this morning around ten o’clock to a woman like Susanna who had a little boy with her. A ticket to Freehaven.

  —Thank God! I can’t ever thank you enough, Nell.

  —I’ll go back with you if I can help any, she said.

  —No, you’ve already been an angel. When’s the next train out?

  —Trains are all jammed up, she said. With this big battle East, everything’s messed up. I took the liberty of asking the telegraph operator here to put a dispatch through to Freehaven to Niles Foster, telling him to look out for Susanna. The man said he’d try, but couldn’t guarantee it would go through tonight. The wires are full of news all the time of the battle.

  Johnny and Nell sat down on a bench in the station and waited. They talked a little and after a while had a bite to eat. It was eight o’clock before a train east was ready to leave.

  —Good-by, Johnny, Nell said, standing on the platform and waving to him as the train began to move. And the best of luck.

  He waved from the window, watching her small lovely face and stately form recede. In the clanging depot, standing in the classic attitude of farewell, she slowly faded; trainsmoke closed over her; the remorseless, strange river of his life had carried him beyond another anguishingly brief intersection.

  Now there was nothing to do but wait. The train was bringing him back across the fastdarkening land. His pursuit had been a circle, returning upon itself. He listened to the lonely whistle of the train at crossings. It couldn’t be long now. Two hours at most. He would be back in Freehaven by ten o’clock.

  Curiously calm, he was thinking then of the last time he had seen Susanna and Little Jim. It had been a week ago, just before he left for Beardstown. A week—and yet since then the pattern of a whole life had almost unfolded to him. He was beginning to understand, to get it clear. He was beginning to grasp a dreadful, ancient, and significant fact about his wife Susanna and himself and Little Jim. He was about to grab the Sphinx by the throat and pluck the riddle from its tongue of stone.

  When he had said good-by, it was in the evening. He had gone into Little Jim’s room on the second floor. The little boy had stood up and put his arms around Johnny. At that moment Johnny had felt a strong impulse to lift the child from the bed and take him away forever. The slight form of Little Jim had clung to him thus in the night, and he had said good-by. He had gone downstairs then, and had thought to leave immediately, but he had talked a moment with Mrs. Gray, and then on an impulse had turned and gone upstairs again. He had opened the door to the child’s room and stepped inside and had gone over to the bed. It was very dark then, but a little light came in from the window. The child was asleep already. The little breast faintly respired. Again he had wanted to pick the child up, awaken him, and take him away forever. But he had had that impulse many times. There was no use taking
it as an evil omen.

  Then he had gone downstairs. Susanna had been waiting at the door, and he had kissed her, and she had watched him with almost frightened eyes, while her mouth kept making its little crafty smile. She had squeezed him very hard and had said, with peculiar intensity,

  —Now don’t you worry about a thing, Johnny! I will look after everything!

  No doubt she had already been planning this grand gesture of escape and flight.

  From what?

  A man got on at Greenfield and took the other half of Johnny’s bench. He kept talking, as everyone else did, about the battle. He had a late paper and insisted on sharing it with Johnny. It appeared that the battle had ended in a great Union Victory.

  —This time, we got Bob Lee where it hurts, the man said. What’s more, Grant has taken Vicksburg. That old river is free at last.

  Johnny read some of the reports from Gettysburg. It appeared that the last great day of the three had been July 3, when Lee had launched a tremendous assault on the Union center north of the town. This attack had been repulsed in the bloodiest fighting of the War, and Lee’s army was broken and believed retreating, perhaps routed.

  He put the paper down. Sleep dragged his chin down. His head ached and buzzed. But he kept automatically reviewing memories, which he tried to put together like the fragments of a puzzle. He remembered that he had some of the pieces in his pocket. He pulled out the two notes he had received on July 2, starting him on his quest. In the dim light, he could hardly read the writing.

  Yes, the handwriting on the note telling of his wife’s infidelity was very much like that of the note he had found on the album. Now that the bad light dimmed the individual letters, he could see the same pattern in the large, childish scrawl of both notes.

  There was no doubt about it; the note apprising him of Susanna’s infidelity had been written by herself in a badly forged scrawl and mailed to him from Indianapolis.

  He groped for meanings. Was there a dreadful reason in Susanna’s unreason? Did her insanity have its own remorseless logic? Why did she want him to believe her unfaithful? Why did she tell upon herself, betray herself to him, become shameful in his eyes? Why did she wish to be undone by her own hand?