The Burgenton Files

by C. Ruth Daly

  All signs of Ned Hollis gradually disappeared by the end of November. The campaign headquarters silently and quickly disbanded and soon was covered with a banner: Floral by Bess, Coming Soon! The Hollis house across from Grandma Becker’s was abruptly listed for sale. Surprisingly, Brian Reynolds and Thelma were listed as the heirs to the Hollis estate. Ned Hollis exploited both of them, yet left them his worldly goods. The contents of the house were divided between the two and sold at auction.

  Glynda, LBJ and I watched on the Saturday after Thanksgiving as the auctioneer with the buzz-cut, black rimmed glasses and fast-talking oration, disassembled what was left of the life of Ned Hollis. We were curious to see if there were any more old maps at auction, but there were none. The auctioneer and the assistants brought out furniture, camera equipment and whatever the authorities had not confiscated, plus numerous other articles of Ned Hollis’s existence. Few takers were from Burgenton. Most of the auction goers came from places as far away as Chicago. The three of us sat on the bed in Grandma Becker’s apartment and watched through the window as the last artifacts of Hollis vanished into the hands of strangers and drove down the road and out of Burgenton.

  SUMMER 1984

  THIRTY-TWO

  I downshifted to third as my car rolled into the boundaries of Burgenton. A large wooden sign posted on the right-hand side of the road read, “Welcome to Burgenton! Look Her Over and Stay Awhile!”

  I’ll do exactly that...just a very little while. I thought as I took a second look to see the red, white, and blue banner strung below the sign: “Founder’s Day Festival.”

  I made it. The banner gave tomorrow’s date and I had arrived in time. Will LBJ make it okay? It wouldn’t be the same without her. All three of us had to be here. My thoughts continued as the car cruised past the grain elevator then approached the railroad track. I down-shifted again to second and then first as the tires eased in between the rails and pits as the car made its way over the tracks and up the incline into the heart of town.

  Not far up the street on my right sat the sheriff’s office and county jail still with its single barred cell where rumor had it Officer Moore was now Deputy Sheriff Moore. Past the courthouse on the left, I made a left-hand turn to see everything the same. Floral by Bess was still in business with a huge carnation and gardenia wreath arrangement sticking out on a wire stand. Next door at the Pizza Stop stood the inflatable Pizza Man with a plastic deflated hand, limply signaling to passing cars as the summer wind sent an easterly breeze in its direction.

  The car behind me honked and I looked in the rear view mirror to see the scowling face of a woman. A familiar face. Did she recognize me? Or is she only alerting me to the fact that my reflexes are dull and I’ve been awake for thirty hours?

  Thelma had aged in the ten years since our experience. Her hair was completely gray and her face a leathered glove of wrinkles. Glynda had told me that Thelma still lives in the old brick farmhouse. Still alone. She no longer drives a bus but lives off the wealth of her now deceased son, Ned Hollis.

  She didn’t recognize me. Thelma turned left toward the post office and I turned right on Livingston Street. Past Tom’s Shoe Hospital and on to the white two-story where I had spent the first eighteen years of my life.

  Downshifting through two stop signs, I glanced to the right and respectfully nodded to the Baptist Church and moved down the street to see the For Sale sign up at Mrs. Randall’s house. I wondered how my mother was doing since Mrs. Randall died last year. It had been a rough road for Mom. The last decade had robbed her of two of the most important people in her life.

  Dad passed away my senior year in high school. Working long hours and raising ten kids had taken its toll. One morning in December, Mom, Tim, and I awoke to find Dad’s car still parked in front of the house. Inside, Dad’s still body lay slumped over the wheel. I was the one who found him. It had only been six years, but many times, it seemed like fifty. Life in the desert had done that to me. It had altered time. I had been placed in a world unlike my origin. And here I was, back again.

  I cut the ignition and took my foot off the brake. The warmth of the house opened before me and I felt a flood of nostalgia enter my consciousness. The two long windows on the top floor peered out as if they recognized me. Sheer white curtains waved in the summer breeze and danced in and out of the open windows. I thought I heard the sounds of my sisters’ voices coming through the breezy curtains, but it was only my imagination. No one occupied that room anymore. I heard the screen door open and out stepped Mom in a brown floral print cotton dress. She opened her arms to me with flab flapping below the sleeveless opening of the dress. She carefully stepped off the porch step and moved toward my car.

  “Donna! You’re here.” She said as she pulled my head into her hands and planted a dry kiss on my cheek.

  “It wasn’t a bad drive, Mom.” I reassured her. I knew she had worried about me making the cross-country journey on my own.

  The screen door slammed shut and I looked over Mom’s shoulder to see Irish’s oldest boy run toward me. Matthew was almost ten now. He looked a lot like Gil, but more like Stewart. I had long ago gotten over the resemblance.

  “Hey little Matt!” I said as I reached over and ran my fingers through his carrot-topped head.

  Matt looked up at me with his blazing blue eyes. “Mama says you going to be the star in the parade tomorrow.”

  I smiled at him and thought ...Star in the parade... more like a convertible filler.

  “Sure.” I replied; then added, “Are you going to ride in the backseat while your daddy drives?”

  Matt nodded as I reached into the backseat and pulled out my nylon duffle bag. “I’ve got to get some sleep, Mom.”

  Up the step and into the house to see that time had held still. Nothing inside had changed and a strong sense of comfort and familiarity came over me as I climbed the stairway up to the big blue room.

  Inside the room with trellised blue flowers climbing a paper pattern on the wall, I plopped my bag on the linoleum floor and fell with my back straight on top of the bed. The blue beaded bedspread pressed through my T-shirt and seemed so familiar—so serene. How I had longed to have this room all to myself, and now, with the absence of my sisters, with the absence of family, Dad dead, and sisters married and set in their lives, I pined for it to return. I wanted the day to come again when the room was full beyond capacity and the sound of my sisters’ chatter and laughter filled the four walls. My eyelids closed, and the movement of the road stayed with me as I fell into a deep slumber.

  THIRTY-THREE

  “Donna! Lord, child. Wake up!” Mom’s familiar voice quaked from the bottom of the stairs. Waking with a sense of displacement, I quickly came to and became aware of my surroundings. I was not in a small room in the desert, but in the shell of a room which had held me safe and secure for eighteen years.

  The safety of my big blue room—a safe haven from Hollis. No longer would I fear him. There was nothing to fear. Now I would be honored for his death. What irony. Did I save anyone really that night? Wasn’t it a tree root that saved me? And in turn, the root killed Hollis. Not me. Didn’t it?

  I reached over to pull back the bedspread corner that had covered me then flung my feet on the floor, and headed down the stairs to join Mom for a cup of coffee before meeting up with Glynda and LBJ.

  Just like in years past, I guzzled the hot drink and skirted out the door toward Glynda’s house. Down the back alley I headed to Glynda’s. Looking above me at the apartment and then across the street to see the former home of Ned Hollis now filled with plastic slides, inflatable pools, and tricycles. How things had changed... Grandma Becker now lived with Glynda’s mother in the house by the armory and Glynda, her two boys, and little Rodney, who remained little as a teen, all occupied Grandma Becker’s house.

  “Dat you Donna?” Rodney called from the front porch as I entered through the screen door. Slamming it behind me like years past. I walked over and sat beside Rod
ney. The porch swing still hung from the wooden ceiling and creaked back and forth as Rodney sat there looking out across the street at the kids now playing in what was once Ned Hollis’s yard. “I like to watch ‘em kids play over ‘dere.” Rodney said to me as he shifted a big wad of chew to the side of his mouth. A brown trickle of tobacco slipped into the scar cutting through his upper lip, Rodney’s lower jaw protruded forward now adding more of a deformed appearance to his face.

  Poor little Rodney. I thought. This time it was true. He was poor little Rodney with his four feet ten inch stature, one big brown eye, and the other one permanently sealed by the pellet which once blazed from his brother’s gun. Black hair now balding on the top, stuck out on the sides in all directions. Seventeen-year-old Rodney. While his compatriots are out dating and cruising, the drop-out Rodney is attached to his sister’s house, playing with her boys ten year his junior, and dipping snuff like an old man.

  “Donna!” Glynda’s beaming face showed through the screen on the door and I could see into the house’s interior still decorated in the style of Ethel Becker. “How are you?” And then Glynda let loose the old familiar giggle, and wiped her damp dish-washed hands on her polyester pants. “I can’t believe you’re here. Have you heard from LBJ?” Glynda motioned for Rodney to get up and then planted her wide hips on the swing. “Sit here, Donna. We have to be downtown in an hour...let’s see what’s going on with you.”

  “I got in last night, Glynda. Can’t stay for long... just got out of bed and still need to brush my teeth and all that.” I couldn’t believe I left the house without grooming. I felt like I was thirteen again. “I can be ready in half-hour. Do you think L. will make it okay?” And as the words fell from my mouth I looked out the window to see LBJ pull up to the curb and hop out of her caramel-brown sports car. Glynda and I looked at each other and smiled. No words needed to be said, we walked outside.

  “Geez...I left after my show last night and drove all the way here.” LBJ said as she emptied a Styrofoam cup of coffee on the grass between the sidewalk and the curb. “This is my fourth cup. Do I have to pee.” LBJ stretched and yawned. Then looked at Glynda and me and grinned. “Do I have time to shower before the parade?”

  And we walked inside and up the spiral staircase to the room with the sun-beaten shade, cracked and still hanging loosely from one side. The room was now Rodney’s and it contained all the personality of Rodney with a large plastic pop bottle bank sitting in the corner and a calendar with a cute puppy for every month hanging crookedly from the corner of the wall.

  Glynda turned to LBJ. “Do you want to shower up here?—I clean his bath. There are clean towels in the closet ... and don’t worry... I’ll keep Rodney downstairs with us.”

  The three of us sat at Mrs. Becker’s table where we had sat and sipped large cups of tea for so many afternoons and evenings. Rodney had a little toy car that he zoomed back and forth between his stubby fingers as Glynda and I finished cups of coffee. I dismissed myself after the last drop hit my lips and retreated down the alley to the house to prepare for the parade.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “I can’t believe they put us all in one car.” Glynda complained as she squeezed her butt between LBJ and me. The convertible’s rolled down hood stretched behind our rears as we coasted around the courthouse square.

  “I can’t believe I drove sixteen hundred miles for this.” I said between gritted teeth. We had been coached to smile at the crowd, throw candy, and wave yet hold ourselves in the car as its blown-out shocks gave way to every dip and hole in the road.

  LBJ batted at the sash across her chest, gripped the side of the rolled back rooftop with one hand, and hurled a wad of candy at a crowd of elementary kids. “Same old crap.” she lamented.

  LBJ was right. It was the same old crap, but instead of us as onlookers, we were the parade. “This is pathetic.” I sighed and then reminded my two friends of our real reason for our meeting.

  “Let’s go tonight.” I said.

  LBJ nodded and smiled as she glanced at a handsome man standing on the curb by the refurbished Opera House. It was now marked with a stained glass sign that hung above the door we had entered ten years earlier when we found Thelma crying over the heart with her and Coach Moore’s initials scribbled across the inside. The handsome man waved and returned the smile with an equally brilliant grin of white. His hair was a plastic mold of sandy brown and his lean body was neatly pressed in khaki pants and a white muscle shirt.

  “

  Nothing changes, does it Glynda?” A sigh escaped me and Glynda nodded in return.

  “Tonight.” Glynda agreed

  “Can we do it the night after?” LBJ pleaded as she glanced over her shoulder at the Ken-doll-man still flashing a pearly grin at her.

  “It has to be tonight.” I answered looking up to the clear sky overhead.

  “Okay. Tonight.” LBJ nodded firmly as we headed south around the square.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The road was a deep black of freshly paved tar lined with three feet high weeds and grass. Glynda was behind the wheel, LBJ in the passenger’s seat while Rodney and I sat in the back. The houses along the river were sparsely lit with a few night owls enjoying the late summer air along the river’s bank.

  “Did we bring enough stuff?” LBJ asked looking over her shoulder at little Rodney.

  “I did.” Rodney offered a rare smile at her. His scarred upper lip moved little as his protruding lower lip and jaw extended forward with glee. “Six shobels and a chain saw.” Rodney looked out the window. “Dey be here soon.” He uttered.

  We sat in silence as the car careened down the road and past the dark Morreli house. At the end of the drive stood Trevor, still wearing the khaki pants he had on this morning at the parade. A nylon jacket zipped at his waist lay open exposing his muscle shirt.

  “Dressed for the occasion.” I muttered with sarcasm as LBJ threw a dirty look my way.

  “He still looks good.” She smiled. “His dad’s real estate agency fell nicely in his lap and he has a thriving business.” LBJ tossed her brown silky hair over her shoulder and leaned forward in her seat as Glynda pulled into the drive. Trevor moved out of the way and with a bow motioned for the car to head through the open door straight ahead.

  The familiar glow of a cigarette moved from a corner of the garage as we opened the doors and hopped out of the sedan. “Hey, Donna. Glynda. Lori Bell.” His voice was unsteady and as I approached with my hand extended for a businesslike shake, I noticed the odor of whiskey flowed from his breath.

  “How are you Evan?” I asked cautiously as I approached the dirty, bearded, and disheveled man.

  He managed a deep guttural cough and spat a wad of sputum between his boots. “Good.” And he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve then took another drag from the cigarette.

  “Are we set to go?” Trevor asked as he grabbed a jacket from a hook in the garage and placed it over LBJ’s shoulders.

  We marched out of the garage each with a shovel in hand. There were four flashlights for the six of us and Rodney led the way carrying the chain saw.

  I walked beside Glynda just like we had done ten years earlier, but this time she moved with deliberation following her brother’s steps. Evan was in tow and LBJ and Trevor walked in front of him, arm in arm as if they were on their way to a church picnic.

  Evan removed his lighter and another cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket.

  “Uh....Evan...” I turned to him and he looked up at me. It was difficult to discern his features under the baseball cap and dark beard beneath. “...please don’t light another cigarette. We want to be as unnoticeable as possible...We don’t know how dry these woods have been either.”

  Evan nodded and put it back in his pocket. From his rear pants pocket he pulled out a can of dip, opened it, and tucked a fingertip piece of tobacco between his lip and gum. “Sure. No problem.” He offered a sticky black grin and then quickly put his lips together.


  I looked at Glynda and sighed. He’s never recovered from Linda’s murder, I thought. He definitely deserves a part of this, although he probably won’t live to enjoy it. I looked back at Evan who walked slower than the rest of us. His hacking cough filled the night air, only drawing attention to the entourage before him.

  The trees were freshly silent and sweet, unlike years earlier when in the fall their downed leaves had been damp, musty, and soft beneath our feet. Brush grew everywhere and there wasn’t a soft spot of ground. It had been a dry summer Irish had written to me a month earlier and Gil had been worried about the volume of crops that would be lost.

  Stealthily we made our way through the trees. A slight pathway had been worn, but to the unsuspecting eye it was not recognizable. It was Trevor who had found Evan after we had graduated high school. Evan never did finish with his class in his new town not far from Burgenton. He said he attempted a GED, but it wasn’t important. Mr. Miles had died from cirrhosis of the liver Evan’s junior year—that’s when he dropped out. His mother met another man soon after. The widower had two thirteen-year-old twin girls who needed a mother, and Mrs. Miles had no children as far as she was concerned. That was it for Evan. He moved back to Burgenton, the town was the closest thing he had to a mother and family. Evan looked up old classmates in the phonebook and found Trevor Morrelli’s name.