The Search for Joseph Tully

by William H Hallahan

  The second deed indicated that Henry et ux., Hannah, had sold the land and the house thereon to son Edwin et ux., Susannah. Price: $1100.

  Willow considered looking at the third title transfer—from Edwin and Susannah to whoever bought it. But that would tell him nothing about Henry and Hannah. It was a time-wasting byway.

  So he skipped the third deed and went instead to the Index of Mortgages. From there, he examined the lis pendens for civil lawsuits, for quitclaims, leases, liens, petitions and quiet title. Nothing there.

  He felt futility. This was all ground that McMurray had gone over, must have gone over many years ago.

  Willow started to leave. Then paused. Neatness counts. He didn’t like nagging voices at three a.m. disturbing his rest. So he got the third deed out—Edwin’s title transfer, dated 17 February 1798.

  And there he found a clue to the whereabouts of Henry and Hannah.

  Edwin declared in the transfer of deed that he had had the property from his parents, Henry et ux., Hannah, now residents of Goshen, New York.

  5

  Goshen, New York.

  Willow sat down and stared at it. One of those common pieces of luck born of instinct and persistence that genealogists retail to each other over drinks. Goshen.

  He stood up and opened his attaché case. He withdrew a New York State road map and unfolded it. Goshen. It lay in Orange County. County seat, in fact. Sixty miles from New York City. Three, four hours from New Haven.

  He sat down again to consider. Did he want to go to Goshen? After all, he was through with Henry et ux., Hannah. He was into the next generation, Edwin and his two brothers, Thomas and George—and then hundreds of offspring.

  He considered: Should he bother going to Goshen?

  And the hunch player’s voice said: Yes.

  It was dusk when Richardson emerged from the subway. An old man with a winter-white face looked at him solemnly through a steam-stained window. An old face at the gray end of another winter day, locked in until spring.

  As he walked in the relentless cold of the evening, Richardson thought of his wife. For the first time since the divorce, he felt lonely. Vulnerable. The thought of seeing her almost overwhelmed him.

  In the bleak light, he turned a comer and saw Brevoort House, looking like a beached gunboat, besieged and isolated. Beyond it, the frozen metal of the wrecker’s boom loomed in the twilight.

  He knocked on Goulart’s door. No answer. He knocked again. In vain. He mounted to his apartment, pawed through a desk drawer, found a key and returned to Goulart’s door. He knocked again, loudly. He wraited. Finally, he pushed the key in the lock and opened the door.

  The lights were on, had been on all night and all day. The bed was made—a neat rectangle amidst piles of magazines and art supplies and plants.

  He descended the stairs and found the tracks in the frozen snow that led across the quadrangle. His feet crunched as he followed them in the darkness. They led him to the middle of the vast quadrangle, then disappeared. The wind had scoured the snow down to the brick rubble and packed dirt. Around the empty windy fields lay blocks of empty buildings.

  Richardson returned to the apartment building.

  6

  Abby Withers’s eyes searched every bit of his face. “Where can he be?” she asked. “It's not like him at all. Oh, I tell you I’m worried to death. I saw those lights again last night and I tapped on his door and he didn’t answer and I tried again every fewr minutes and he never turned up. All day long I’ve been trying his door. I thought sure he’d show up when the Abernathys moved. Ruth and Gordon waited awhile for him. And his cat’s down in the cellar and nobody can catch it. Where can he be?"

  Richardson absently patted the dog’s head. “I don’t know, Abby, but I think I know who does. I’ll be right back.”

  7

  He knocked on Clabber’s door. “Have you seen Goulart?"

  Clabber frowned and shook his head. “Last night. Not since then."

  “Then he’s missing.”

  “Missing? What are you talking about?"

  “I mean missing. He hasn’t been in his apartment since last night... at least since around five this morning.”

  Clabber shrugged. “He’ll turn up. He’s a big boy.”

  “Come on, Clabber. You know Goulart, and I do too. If he was planning to be away for a day or more, one of us would have known it. Are those his tracks that lead out across those empty lots?"

  Clabber took a long, insolent look at Richardson. Then he gazed with slow disgust at Richardson’s suit and shoes. “I’m a librarian, Richardson, not a detective.”

  “You’ve also been having some close conversations with Goulart lately. It doesn’t take much brains to see that he had something on his mind."

  “I could say the same about you. In fact, you look worried to death."

  “This is no help.”

  “Okay, okay.” Clabber spread his hands in surrender. “Come on in.”

  Richardson stepped, for the first time, into Clabber’s apartment. The barracklike starkness surprised him. He followed Clabber into the kitchen. A book was propped against a table lamp, surrounded by soiled dishes.

  “Here,” said Clabber. “Sit down and have a coffee.”

  Richardson sank down slowly.

  “I’ll make a deal with you, Richardson."

  “What kind of a deal?”

  “You tell me what you know. I'll tell you what I know.” Richardson shrugged. “What I know you could put in a gnat’s eye.”

  “Okay. I’ll put it another way. I’ll tell you what I know if you’ll answer some questions in return.”

  Richardson nodded. “Okay.”

  Clabber poured coffee into two cups. “Here’s the straight of it, then. I have a lot of books out there,” he pointed toward the living room.

  “That’s all you do have out there,” said Richardson.

  “Okay. A number of those books deal with the occult and the spirit world.”

  “Oh.” Richardson snorted. “Well, that fits. That’s what you and Mrs.—ah...”

  “Quist.”

  “Yes, Quist. That’s what you were full of last night. Are you some kind of a medium?”

  Clabber studied Richardson’s face again. “Go over to the wall by the door and read the two documents hanging there.” Richardson was slumped in his overcoat, and he sighed. Then he gathered himself and stood. Slowly, wearily, he walked across the uncarpeted floor to the door. He stood reading while Clabber watched.

  Richardson returned with a quizzical smile on his face. “You excommunicated the Catholic Church—the whole Catholic Church—and all the Catholics in the world?”

  “Sure. They did it to me.”

  Richardson sat down again, half-smiling. “Are you for real?” “I’m for real, Richardson. I’m an orthodox Catholic and I believe devoutly in life after death.”

  “Who’s Bruno?”

  “A fourteenth-century Italian prelate. He was burned for heresy—especially for his views on the transmigration of souls.” “Oh.”

  “You asked me if I was a medium. I just gave you an answer. Okay?”

  “What’s this got to do with Goulart?”

  “Goulart is one of the few men I’ve met with a mind free of chains. Recently, he’s been having some authentic religious experiences.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He may be developing psychic powers.”

  “I don’t understand, Clabber.”

  “He and I have been talking about some of his experiences. And he’s reading my books. So you’re right: we have been having some close conversations lately.”

  “What experiences has he been having?”

  “If you want me to answer that, you’ll have to read a couple of my books first.”

  “Oh.”

  “How about answering a few questions of mine, Richardson?”

  Richardson shrugged. “Shoot.”

  “Goulart has been having a number
of 'religious’ experiences. What do you know about them?”

  “What religious experiences?”

  “Suppose you tell me, Richardson.”

  “I don’t know anything about religious experiences, Goulart’s or otherwise.”

  “Oh, goody,” said Clabber.

  “You asked me. I told you.”

  “You’re holding out on me.”

  “No I’m not, Clabber. If I knew something, I’d probably refuse to tell you on the grounds that it’s Goulart’s personal business. But I don’t.”

  Clabber’s intense dark eyes searched Richardson’s. “You heard a noise the other night. Right?”

  Richardson was startled. It took him a moment to catch himself. And in that moment, Clabber read him. And Clabber knew that Richardson knew that he’d been read. Richardson straightened up and reached for the sugar. “How’d you get that piece of information?”

  “Mostly a guess. What kind of a noise was it?”

  “Now come on, Clabber. You’re intruding on private territory.”

  Clabber studied him again with those black eyes. Then he shrugged. “Look, Richardson, I haven’t tried to fake you out.

  I’m a student of the occult. It’s a very serious matter to me—I destroyed my whole life inside the Catholic Church because of my convictions. Whenever I hear of anything that might relate to my interests, I get very curious. Something has been going on in Goulart’s life, but lately he’s been shutting me out.”

  “Oh yeah? Why?”

  Clabber’s eyes were furious. And, again, he shrugged. “Nothing. Methodology’.”

  “What's that mean? Methodology?”

  “We disagreed on the techniques he was using to—ah—study his manifestations.”

  “Maybe it’s about time you told me something concrete about this, Clabber. I can’t make head or tail out of anything you’re saying.”

  “And I told you I can’t explain it unless you read a few books on the subject.”

  “Fencing.”

  “No, Richardson. Not fencing. Esoteric. Unless you’re familiar with certain basic concepts, it’ll all be gibberish to you. And I’ll tell you something else. If you’re having religious or occult experiences, I’m sure I can help you.”

  “Religious and occult? Me?”

  “A phenomenon that defies rational explanation—at least on the surface. Maybe that noise you’ve been hearing—”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Okay. It’s nothing.” Clabber reached out for the coffeepot and poured more coffee into Richardson’s cup. “It’s a long cold evening out there. We’ve got a full pot of coffee and a night to talk it away in and two highly intelligent minds. Conversation is one of the few meaningful acts open to intelligent men. I’m very interested in strange noises. So tell me about it.”

  It was Richardson’s turn to take a long hard look. Clabber’s gaze was steady, patient. “It’s very simple, Clabber. The other night a noise that came from my living room woke me up. It could have been caused by a million things. Old buildings are filled with odd noises.”

  “What did this noise sound like?”

  “A kind of whistling noise. Like—” Richardson shrugged inadequately. “Like a golf club when you swing it.”

  Clabber frowned at him, composing a question. Richardson already regretted the confidence. Clabber was inside the circle now, inside Richardson’s private world, and in an instant a relationship was formed: superior-inferior; doctor-patient; officer-enlisted man; master-slave.

  “Look, Clabber, before you ask any more questions, I don’t want this to be a subject of lengthy discussions.”

  “Oh, it won’t, it won’t. Tell me about the sound again.” Richardson blew through compressed lips. “Like that. Okay? Let’s drop it.”

  “In a moment. You were asleep when you heard it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “No, I didn’t dream it, Clabber.”

  “Okay. Have you heard it again?”

  Richardson hesitated and exhaled. “Can we drop it?”

  “Just a couple more questions.”

  “Okay. Yes, I heard it again. Same thing. I was asleep and it woke me up. Whoosh. That was it.”

  “Can I see your apartment?”

  “Stow it, Clabber. I don’t want to pursue it any further.” Clabber studied him. “Okay. For the time being, we’ll stow it. Just do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “Notice I’m not smiling.”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean this with deadly seriousness.”

  “Okay, okay. What’s the favor?”

  “Any time you hear that noise again—day or night—come directly down here and pound on my door.”

  8

  The sun was nearly gone, down behind the foothills of the Catskills, when Willow found the church. It was a block away from the famous Trotters’ Race Track.

  He stepped out of his car and felt the sundown breeze freeze his ankles as he crossed the roadway. There was a warm light in the front window of the parsonage. Willow stumped hollowly across the wooden porch, rang the bell hunched against the wind, feeling the cold pain in his ears. He turned and saw the railing and spindles of the famous Trotters' Race Track. It looked forlorn in the bitter darkness.

  A young man in a woolen sweater opened the door.

  “Good evening,” said Willow. “Is the rector about?”

  “Ah—come in. Come in,” said the young man. He eagerly shut the door behind Willow. “He’s gone over to Campbell Hall to visit the sick. Might I help? I’m the curate.”

  “Oh. Fine. I’m trying to locate the death records of a man named Tully and his wife, Hannah.”

  “Hmmmmm. Interesting. Tully.”

  “Yes.”

  “When did they die?”

  “In 1800—1810, possibly. I’ve been to the Goshen town clerk’s office, but his records go back only to 1881.”

  “You obviously believe they were attached to this church.” “Yes.”

  “Hmmm. Tully. Yes. Well. Let’s see. Let’s go in here.” He led Willow through a large living room, through a dining room and into a small study. A safe stood in the corner, and the curate knelt before it. “Actually,” he said, “you’re very fortunate. These records shouldn’t be here. We ought to have turned them over to the County Historical Society long ago. But let’s see.” He opened the safe and peered into it carefully. “Ah yes, here we are.”

  He stood up with a ledger in his hands and carried it to a desk. “This is the original church register. Goes back to 1740. Let’s see. Tully.” Small red alphabetical tabs extended from the side edge of the volume. “T, T, T. Here. T.” He opened the tabbed page to the T’s. “Oh. Bad luck,” he said. “Badly foxed.” He pointed to the freckles that marred the page. “Dampness over the years. Yet other pages are perfectly preserved.” He squinted at the list of names, set off in a sinuous Spencerian script done with a split-tip quill. The ink was faint, faded to a beige that blended with the foxing. “I’m afraid—practically il legible. Is that Tull there?”

  “Tull?”

  “Yes. It might be Tully.” He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a magnifying glass. “It might be Ann Tull or Hannah Tully.” He examined the rest of the page with the magnifying glass. “Here’s another. That could be Tully. What do you think?”

  Willow examined the page with the magnifying glass. “Can’t be sure. May be, may not be. How about the tombstone?”

  The curate’s mouth opened. “Tombstone?” His eyes slowly slid to the window and to the waiting winter night outside. “I suppose you mean now.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I suppose that means that I should go with you to find the plots.”

  “Is that an offer?”

  “I was hoping it sounded more like a lament.”

  “Strange,” said Willow with a smile. “Sounded just like a firm offer.”

  9

  A cold flow of bitter
air poured down the hill and moved through the acres of headstones, obelisks and tablets, a conclave of hooded shapes. A wind was stored up in the east and the temperature was dropping rapidly.

  Willow followed the bundled curate, who led the way with a flashlight. “Amazing,” said the curate, shivering. “The sun goes down so quickly and night falls like a thrown blanket.”

  A slow freight eased through Goshen somewhere over the hill and slowly picked up momentum. Briefly, on a curve, its headlight backlit the hill. There was a low rumble of train wheels and a slight vibration of earth. The train emitted a long shriek from its whistle—a lonely homeless cry.

  The curate turned off the graveled path and walked quickly up an incline. The thick turf was matted with ice crystals and streaks of old snow. The beam of light picked up the names on the stones and tablets. A flotilla of dead.

  Our Jim. Mother. Jeremiah Cornwall. Boone. Margaret, beloved daughter of... Annie, wife of... Scoll. Pierce. Bird-whistle. Throne.

  “Here,” said the curate. “This must be it.” He knelt beside a

  table-slab stone and brushed away the ice crystals and the winter’s debris. He squinted, squatting, trying to read. “Hmmm.” He struggled a hand into his pocket and withdrew a small box. He handed the flashlight to Willow. “If you’ll do the honors—” He opened the box and lifted out a large lump of chalk. Quickly he rubbed it across the stone’s facing. The surface was badly weathered in spots, and spalled. His hand was trembling with cold. The name came up Hannah. And Tull came up. “No Y?” asked the curate of the stone. “Come now, a Y.” But the chalk failed to reveal it. “Oh, well. It is undoubtedly Mrs. Tully.” The chalk exposed the dates: 1740-1808.

  He stepped over to the other stone and set to rubbing it. Willow watched attentively and the freight train rolled faster through the valley.

  The chalk revealed the name, Henry Tully, and the dates, 1728-1811. No further legend on either stone.

  Willow looked at the chalked areas of the two stones, then at the shivering, patient curate.

  He’d found the graves that had eluded Ian McMurray. He wondered if he’d find the will.

  10