by Bill Brooks
Do not tempt the temptress, Tom, for the apple is a poison I offer thee.
My hand trembles and I must hold it steady. More and more of this black feeling seeps into me and won’t let go. I can’t explain it proper. And in the night I dream of a smiling hangman who owns the face of Louis.
Hidey, Tom.
Hidey, Louis.
The colonel sent me.
Which one?
Why Colonel Grayson of course.
The hard knot of rope is scratchy round my neck. The fingers that place it there, tender.
The neck I kissed on those lonely nights I now must break. You understand, don’t you, Tom?
Then kiss it once more before you do.
The trap below my feet swings free and I go rushing down.
I am jerked taught.
I dance in the air a jig of dying.
The lovely bosom of Abraham beckons.
I am timeless.
Elizabeth Brouchard
And when all was said and done—when things got sorted out. When seasons changed again and again and love sloughed off its skin like an old snake growing older and wiser still—Billy came to me and sought my advice and in his seeking, I saw not so much his pitted face, his uncertain ways, his foolish past, but saw instead the potential of something greater.
O, how these things do play themselves out well.
So that we can hardly tell
What the Gods did send us in love’s disguise
to test and ruin us—portrayed us as wise
& lovey as dancing doves through whose wings
the sunlight shows fine bones of deceit and other things.
Rest on, timeless Tom. Rest on.
CHAPTER 20
Tom Dooley
Newbolt comes to question me again. It is early and he is disheveled as though he’s slept in his clothes and doesn’t care. He asks and asks me about Laura and murder.
And on the day Laura disappeared, you left the county. Isn’t that correct?
Me and half dozen other fellas.
But it was you the finger of guilt was pointed toward.
You write of it how you want to, Mr. Newbolt. I know what happened, and I know what didn’t happen. But folks round here already made up their minds I was the one done it.
He strikes a match to light his cigar. In the flare, his face becomes a jack-o’-lantern, a shred of gray forelock dangles over one eye. Morning light has not sought out this place yet and the match flare is like a bursting sun.
I’m tired of answering the same questions.
The search for the truth is a tiring task, Tom.
Let me be. O, let me be.
Newbolt is as worrisome to me at times as was Ann. They both fray my nerves. How I withstood her assaults in the face of everything now, I hardly understand. I remember the time she came and pitched stones at my door.
You’re in there with that little whore!
I tell Laura to stay put, to let me handle matters.
Her eyes were full of questions; fear maybe. Who could blame her? O, the fear that must have shot through her in her final moments before the flame of life was snuffed out of her. I calmed Laura as best I could before going out to confront Ann.
Hogsheads of clouds were ganged up along the west ridge of the brooding mountains. Belly-rumbling thunder followed forks of lightning. The air tasted like tin.
Go on home to Melton, Ann. Go on back to your husband.
Not till you bring her out here where I can see her!
It’s none of your business.
Ann was dirty-faced, barefoot, and shameless, her hair a bramble, her eyes white with raving.
You’ve gotten into Melton’s liquor. You’re drunk as a damn skunk.
Maybe so. But I ain’t too drunk to know what you and that little bitch been doing behind my back! And I’ll cut your heart out and hers too and feed them to the damn dogs.
It’s just something that happened, that’s all. I didn’t plan on nothing, and neither did Laura.
Oh, goddamn you to hell, Tom Dooley! Goddamn you both.
Maybe He will.
Maybe I’ll lend Him a hand in seeing you both go there.
A gray streaky curtain of rain swept in over the spiny backs of the mountains. First along the ridges, then down the slopes, turning them darkly wet before reaching the glade. Ann hardly seemed to notice, stood glaring, her wet hair becoming plastered to her head, her dress soaked through and through. There was truth and a coldness to the air, like a dishonest heart revealed. The whole of the valley was swept with rain. But that cold rain didn’t cool her and my attempts to reason didn’t cool her.
You’ll see, my bastard lover. You’ll see not to tamper with a woman’s heart.
I never tampered with it. What we had, we had. And now it’s finished.
It ain’t never going to be finished for me, Tom Dooley. Never!
It never should have gotten started after you married Melton. Leave it be, Ann. Go on home and let old dogs sleep.
The wetness of her dress became like a second skin, thin and hiding nothing of what was underneath. I think she wanted for me to see her like that, hoping she might tempt me away from Laura.
But when I didn’t move to go to her, she lifted her skirts and showed me her nakedness. I looked away, looked off toward the blotted ridges, the gray nothingness the world had become. I didn’t want to see her that way anymore. My desire for her was as damp and sodden as the cold rain. I had no more truck for her.
I ain’t tempted. Nothing you will do will tempt me.
Look at me, goddamn you!
She screamed and screamed until I looked. Her bare legs were mud splattered, her cunny closed up like a flower against the chill. Water ran down the inside of her thighs. But nothing she did or said or showed me could change my mind.
I don’t care for what I see.
You cared for it once well enough.
I don’t care for it no more.
I knew without looking that Laura was watching us from the window. I knew how upset Ann’s lewd display must have been for her. But I couldn’t help the way Ann was acting any more than I could help what later on happened. Ann was a woman driven by mad passions; everything with her was full bore. And I understood that part of her, it was that part of what made me desire her in the first place, and it was that part of what made me want to leave her in the end. I finally understood why Melton felt helpless to deal with her, why he never took her out behind the shed and whipped her with his belt or divorced her. He was afraid of her lusts and how nothing would stop her from having them. And there in the yard that day I was a little afraid of her too. Not for myself so much, but for Laura or anyone else that Ann thought was trying to steal from her those desires.
Then I curse you, Tom Dooley. I curse you and that witch whore of yours.
Stop it!
You just keep going around fucking this one and that and you’ll get yours. You’ll sure enough get yours and so will she!
Silver wires of lightning danced atop the ridge, the surrounding sky blue black. Thunderclaps shook the ground. I started to tell Ann to clear out when a bolt of lightning split a tulip poplar to its roots just beyond my tool shed and turned the air raw.
I heard Laura cry out from the cabin and turned and saw her standing in the doorway.
And when I turned back again, Ann was gone.
What’d she want, Tom? What was Cousin Ann doing with her dress pulled up?
Nothing, she’s gone crazy I think.
She’s in love with you, isn’t she?
She’s crazy, that’s all it is.
Oh, Tom, I don’t believe it—that’d she act that away.
The storm pulled its clever tricks for the better part of an hour, then marched on leaving behind a gloom in its wake. And even after it marched on, I could hear the rumble of thunder and neither of us felt in the mood to make love, so we just lay there listening to the baying storm marching on. Then Laura got up and went to the window and looked o
ut, I thought to see if Ann had returned.
Pap’s horse has run away, Tom.
The rope she’d tied the horse with dangled from the tree limb.
You go on home and I’ll go look for him and bring him round when I find him.
I don’t understand, Tom. About you and Cousin Ann. I thought you said you was finished with her.
You know how she is. She just won’t quit a thing. Don’t worry none about it. Go on now, start for home, I’ll come round later with your pap’s horse.
Something precious between us had been broken, left dangling, like that horse rope. I couldn’t fix it no matter how hard I tried. I knew that when a thing between a man and woman gets broken, it can’t be fixed completely—it will always be a little bit broken.
Ann Foster Melton
O, he was such a craven man when he wanted to be. Craven and cruel and Laura was such a pretty little fool for his lies. Like we all were. And if I’m not mistaken, little mute angel, you are too. I can see it in your eyes. O, you don’t fool me with your silence and high-minded ways. A woman can always tell what flows in another woman’s heart by the way she tilts her head, the way her eyes glow when the mention of love’s object is spoken. You don’t fool me one little bit. But you wouldn’t be the only fool he’s charmed. I think Tom could charm a snake out of its skin, for it takes one to know one, don’t you see.
Sure I confronted him about Laura. I let him know he couldn’t have us both just because he thought we were such fools. Her, maybe, but not me. I know what you’re thinking little mute angel that you are: you’re thinking I was a married woman and I was trying to have both my husband and Tom. But I’d run away from Melton in a heartbeat if Tom would have only asked. He never did. I think he liked it that I was already tied to another. He liked coming and going as he pleased without any of the obligation that true love holds.
It was the devil in him, don’t you see. For what good man would have another man’s wife right under her husband’s nose.
Think of me what you will. It don’t matter. It don’t matter a goddamn.
Tom Dooley
Newbolt questions and questions and questions.
So Laura was suspicious of Ann. And was she also frightened of her?
I reckon she was, but I wasn’t going to admit how bad things was, frighten the fragile little thing that she was. As far as being scared of Ann . . . well, Ann could be scary when she got het up over something.
You were the instrument of her anger, you and Laura.
I wasn’t the instrument of nothing.
Truth became a weapon.
Suddenly I wanted to smoke a cigar and be fat with freedom.
You have a fancy way of putting everything.
Just searching for the truth, Tom. That’s all.
No more now, Mr. Newbolt, maybe tomorrow.
All right, Tom. I’ll come round tomorrow then. Sleep well.
Oh, I think of it now and I want to write of it in a way that fixes everything, that does away with Ann and her madness, and the murder and all the rest of it. I want to rewrite the tale so it has a happy ending, one where nobody’s heart is ever broken, where no dreams are lost to the terrible days of reality. Promise me, Liza, you’ll write it for me if I can’t.
In the fury of thy passion, love was lost to thee.
Oh stop it, hand!
Thy bloody passion left thee a broken
Wingless spirit bound to earth eternally.
Oh, goddamn, goddamn . . .
Maids of honor tend to thy bride. Buckle her shoes and
Put fine combs and soft ribbons in her hair
Laura, is that you?
. . . & kiss tenderly thy pretty eyes closed for ere more.
The ink spills upon the page and drowns the words in a black lake from which rises no hope. The ink stains my fingers, my cuffs, as black blood would do were I to bleed it; and I can’t wash it from me.
I dream I dance with Laura’s corpse in a moonstruck glade.
Tyree Shinbone
Dance with her Tom. Dance and dance and dance.
Tom Dooley
Shinbone is sitting outside my cell when I open my eyes. He has arrived with the morning. He possesses the smile of an idiot.
I feel lost, Tyree. My dreams are torturing me.
God is with you, boy. He is everywhere and sees into our hearts and knows of our sins.
No. He ain’t in this place. He is not with me.
How can you be so certain? You claim to know the one thing, but deny the other.
Because this ain’t no godly place, because I got me a coldness in my bones. The devil stole my soul in the middle of the night while I dreamed of dancing with a corpse.
You’ve not had your soul stolen, Tom. If anything, you may have sold it.
I ain’t sure no more what’s what, Tyree.
He sits, one leg crossed over the other, his eyes full of blue madness.
We fucked, Tom.
What?
Me and Mizrus Boots. We fucked.
A deep ache crawls through my chest, into my neck, my jawbone.
I don’t want to hear your ravings, Tyree. Get out the checkerboard or let me be. Let me not think of tragedies, false or real, and do not tell them.
It was when I went to fetch you your ink and foolscap . . .
Stop it!
And I told her how long it had been since I’d been with a woman and she fed my longing with her own . . .
I’ll call Keyes and have you thrown out.
She said I mesmerized her with my longing . . .
Keyes! Keyes!
Well, of course one thing led to another . . . man being man and woman being woman. We was natural, Tom. We was natural and what we done was natural. I understand now fully what you went through with Laura and Ann and Pauline.
If not for the steel latticework of the door, I would strangle him.
You see, Tom, the reason I tell you these things is the preacher has no one to confess his sins to and you are the perfect one for me to tell such things to.
I’m not your confessor. Confess to that God of yours if you need to confess at all.
Keyes rattles open the door, his wood leg thumping impatiently.
What goes in here?
I want to be left alone. Will you please get this madman out of my sight?
Let’s go, preacher. Leave the boy be.
She was a virgin, Tom. She told me so. She was as tender as ten virgins . . .
I hear the scrape of the wood leg on the stone floor as Keyes wrestles Shinbone out, hear the madman say—Oh, it was a delicate act, but one well done and now she will not have to go to her grave wondering what the love of a man . . .
Move along you crazy son of a bitch!
Shuffling, grunting, stumbling. A chair falls, a door slams closed, a bolt is thrown. At last silence, sweet and lovely silence.
I weep for the spinster if what Tyree says is true. I wonder if he raped her or put a drug in her water. I worry he’s spoilt her as I’d spoilt Laura. When Mizrus Boots comes to see me the next day I look deeply into her eyes and see only the same happy eyes I always see as she passes me the foolscap and ink to replace that which I’ve spilled and ruined the paper with.
I can’t tell by looking at her if Shinbone has told a lie or not. She doesn’t mention his visiting. I think if the madman has done what he said and Mizrus Boots is unwilling to confess it—then it is a secret she keeps for good reason. For maybe it wasn’t rape at all, but some form of strange desire that overtook her and caused her to give herself willingly to the crazed preacher. Who can know the heart of anyone, the hidden desires too long unattended?
Take thy love swiftly, without regret. Look not back upon the heart’s reason.
Mizrus Boots smells of lilac water, her cheeks are rosy as though recently pinched.
I’ve been praying for you, Tom. We all have.
Thank you kindly.
Tom?
Yes’m.
&
nbsp; No one is completely innocent in the eyes of God, and no one fully guilty.
I just want to be innocent in the eyes of these who would see me hanged.
Through the bars her fingers touch mine, and I wonder had they also touched the mad Tyree in ways more intimate. And if they did, did he kiss them tenderly, suckling each one in a state of hungry passion that clouded her judgment?
Bless you ma’am, for your kindness.
You’ve become like a son to me. I never married or had children of my own.
Never met the right man?
Yes, I did once, but . . .
For the first time her eyes lose a bit of their happiness.
I need to know something?
Yes, Tom?
Did . . .
Oh, it’s best not to talk about it, don’t you see.
Are you all right?
Dear Tom, you’ve worries enough, haven’t you . . . don’t worry about me. My life has been lived as it has been lived . . . I’ve no regrets.
She kneels on the puncheon floor and bows her head and prays for me, calling down God’s mercy upon me and all I can think about is the mad preacher’s hands holding her, taking every advantage of her, stealing away her purity.
I reach through the bars and touch her hair and when she lifts her face to me, her cheeks are wet with tears.
I must go now, Tom. I won’t be back again.
I know.
Goodbye, goodbye.
The scent lilac lingers after she’s gone and I breathe it in for it causes me to remember Laura, the smell of her freshly bathed, coming to my bed, her skin smooth and warm, her hair damp against my chest.
Polly Boots
Tom had the child of God’s heart in him—you could just see it. He was tender and kind and I felt most sorry for him, most sorry. He looked no more dangerous than a caged pup. O, I don’t know if what they say he did is true or untrue—given man’s wicked nature, who can say for sure. We are all sinners of a kind, one kind or the other. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. But surely not me. Surely not me.
Tom Dooley
I open the new bottle of indigo and dip my pen in it and let my hand do what it will under the blind guidance of higher gods. I’ve no say in it.
I call to thee a thousand times, my love.
I answer love’s call a thousand times.
Our echoes of love are like thunder in the night.
