by Bill Brooks
O, Liza, if only you’d loved me half as much as you did Tom . . .
You knew all along?
From the first minute I see you and you asked about him.
And thus . . .
O, it’s late in the game for us, Liza. Too, too late in the game. We’ve played our hand and all that Tom business is ever so long ago. Let it rest, won’t you. Let me rest. (Billy died the following Saturday.)
Tom would have loved you if he had not so much love in his heart already. I’m surprised he did not take up with you. But then to all us fellas, we stayed clear of you because of Swain and because you were . . . well, I’m ashamed to admit, but we all thought of you as afflicted. O, I know it’s such a terrible thing for me to say to you after all these years of us being married. Don’t let my words sting.
Your words do not sting me as you might think. I’ve lived my whole life hearing it: mute, idiot girl, dead tongue. Fools everyone, for they thought because a body could not speak it could not hear or think, or even tie its own shoes.
We both know well enough what a cruel world it is. I’m only glad we were able to leave that place and not look back.
But Tom never left it . . .
No, he never did.
Tell me about you and Tom and Pauline.
O, are you sure you want to hear it? What good can it possibly do for me to tell you such things?
I made a promise.
To a dead man.
To Tom Dooley.
Even in death you would not betray him.
Tell me, Billy . . . You and Tom shared her then, before she went over to Shinbone’s camp.
Yes. Tom took my case up with her and convinced her somehow that I was a good choice, given the choices she had. This was after Swain had used her and tried to sell her to that poor, softheaded Negro, Raymond.
Why do you think Tom would pass her along to you, having saved her from Raymond?
Because Tom didn’t ever love her. She loved him, but he didn’t love her. And yet he didn’t hate her, either. He was that sort of fellow; if he didn’t love you, it didn’t mean he hated you. I think he cared about Pauline as you would a baby rabbit or some other of God’s creatures that seem defenseless in a world so cruel.
Did Pearl ever tell you of how she felt about being part of a ménage?
She didn’t have to. Everybody knew what was going on. Lots of men in this valley felt it was wrong what Tom and the Foster girls were up to. But not because those fellas kept such high morals themselves, or for any more reason than they were jealous. They talked about him something terrible.
O, that goddamn Tom Dooley is hogging all the women round here.
Ain’t it enough he’s putting the cob to Melton’s wife, he’s got to put the cob to her cousins as well?
Maybe them girls is all inbred girls, maybe they got the same daddy and they don’t know no better.
Maybe somebody ought to take and cut that boy’s cob off for him!
Harsh words from harsh men in a place where women with even a dollop of perceived virtue were rare. Such was the situation too because of the war that came and took away the beautiful young lads and made it a widow land, this you know already, Liza—you seen how it was, so many of them boys gone for good. Once the war was quit, there were plenty of women to be had—some with broods of kids, worn-out widows with plain faces and hard hearts, which made the comely girls comelier still; pretty fresh girls like the Foster girls—and you as well, Liza.
The Foster girls were young and lovely and the men that were left were crusty as snapping turtles, some just as vile in their nature . . .
Do you think someone of them could have conspired against Tom, could have led to . . . Laura’s death? Who whispers the truth and who keeps it is anyone’s guess. The fact was that only Tom and Ann stood accused, only Tom and Ann were in jail. But who can say whether or not pinning a murder on Tom was their pact? Some like Grayson and even your father, well, who’d put it past them? But, show me the hard evidence, I say.
Where were you when . . .
Drunk as Jacob’s goat—lying abed with a slattern, Florence Garvey. Tom came that morning to my door.
I could stand some help, Billy.
I knew he meant money. He told me he was in a scrap with Grayson and he needed to clear out ’cause Grayson was threatening to swear out a warrant for his arrest with the High Sheriff. I tried to reason with him, make him see the weakness of his thinking.
O, Tom, Grayson will hunt you down with his dogs if you run. You might just stay and face the music.
No, I can’t Billy. I can’t.
I told him I’d spent all my money on drink and slatterns, like sad old Flo lying on the bed. He said he could almost rob her, that’s how desperate he felt. But I knew it was just talk. He talked of his wanting to marry Laura and how they were to meet that very morning.
She waits now for me, Billy. Without a poke, how can I carve for her a future?
If I could make it so, I’d give you a fortune.
O, I know you would. You’ve been a good enough friend.
We shook hands and I watched him go off—toward the springs, where he said Laura would be waiting for him. I watched him march off into the golden light that morning brought, and the light surrounded him as though he were one of God’s angels lost and wandering. It was no murderer I saw in that golden light—it was just a good boy who’d fallen into trouble.
And that’s the last you saw of him until he was arrested and brought back?
Yes. I saw Grayson and George Hare and Sam Pie and three or four others herding Tom like he was a shoat hog between their mules and long-legged horses—Grayson riding up front like a general—chin stuck out, proud that he had captured the murderer of Laura Foster. His pronouncement, not mine. People came and stood along the road and cursed Tom for what he’d done—what they’d thought he’d done, and he never said a word in his own defense. Pauline came by later and told me Grayson and them had caught up with Tom near the Tennessee line. She was shivering, could hardly talk.
You think he did it, Billy? Pearl asked me as Tom was led past.
No. You?
I don’t know, honestly know, but could be he did.
You knew him well as me, Pearl.
I thought I did once. We shared a pallet is all. He never loved me. How’s I suppose to know what was in his head?
You know him to be decent and kindly, though—didn’t he always treat you square?
Decent! He passed me round like I was a liquor jug.
He saved you from Raymond.
For what did he save me for, Billy? For what?
I reckon he saved you for the mad preacher—ain’t that who you been sharing a pallet with lately?
You’re mad with jealousy still.
I think Tom’s got clean hands is all. Jealousy’s got nothing to do with it.
After that, she would never speak to me again. I’d see her on occasion in the village, but she wouldn’t look at me.
The light is oddly strange at this hour . . .
O, I know it. I see it settling over the roofs of Paris and it leaves me melancholy. Does it leave you melancholy, Liza?
That’s the way it always is when it’s true. The evening comes on and flattens the light down over everything until it’s like a painting . . .
The sky is . . .
Like washed blood and bruises, I know it.
Will you go to the hanging?
What are you talking about, Billy? The hanging took place forty years ago.
I must go and rest now, Liza, will you come and lay with me?
I think I will stay here and read and try not to look at the bruised sky and think of the conspiracies. I think I will stay drunk a week and listen to the madness of ravens. I think I will spend my very last dime on a slattern and write sonnets to her:
O, foul and troubled air that blisters the skin &
Rains bitter ruin that blinds the eye—blessedly so,
That I
do not see the wickedness that doth abound
& drip from the dubious hearts of kindred men.
Kiss me with thy bruised mouth and let me taste thy
Honeyed lies for the price of coins I dare not squander.
Tell me sweet tales of unfaithful love & dazzle me with
Thy jeweled faithless smile & gnash me with thy teeth until
I am rendered blood and bone and little else save a spirit spoilt.
You’re just an old fool, Billy.
There are worse things than being an old fool.
See how the last light glows almost tenderly, then is gone . . .
I will tell Tom when I see him of your loyalty, Liza.
Billy, I’m sorry I stirred the ashes in your old burned out heart . . .
O, don’t trouble poor Tom none with my niggling thoughts—for what good would they do him, or anyone? Who cares, do you think, the thoughts of a pit-face teacher who was lucky enough to have married you, the mute muse of us all?
Had I known that in seventy-two hours you would be dead, darling Bill, I would have not disturbed you with my everlasting curiosity. You were the last true link—that part of the chain of events that keeps me tethered to the long ago past.
Tisn’t nothing, darling girl.
O, that I could have loved you better, could have been a better wife to you, dear Billy, could have given you children to dote on, perhaps the past would have long ago faded from memory, wilted in the pages of some old book like a pluck’d rose whose red turns black with mourning.
O, dear Billy, why is it do you think we can never love as fully the ones we end up with as the ones we did not?
Do you in that nether place hear the children singing?
Yes, I hear them dear—I hear them singing.
CHAPTER 30
The Testament of James Melton
Don’t come here looking for any sympathy from me. Tom Dooley is a legalized son of a bitch far as I’m concerned, and he got what he had coming to him. Look how he ruined lives and stole futures. O, I’ve nothing good to say about Tom Dooley, nothing good at all. If you’ve come here looking for sympathy, you’ve damn sure come barking up the wrong tree. Why, I’d a put the rope round his neck myself and kick the chair out from under him if they’d let me. The snap of his neck bone would have been music to my ears. And I’d a let him swing for the ravens to come and eat the eyes out of his skull and for every man jack to witness what happens to a legalized son of a bitch.
But you didn’t hate Ann?
O, I never could. She was as much his victim as Laura was . . .
And you?
Me. I should have done the right thing. If I had, the state maybe wouldn’t have had the expense of hanging him. I guess you could say we was all Tom Dooley’s victims . . . those who died and those of us who have still to die.
Could you . . .
I got shoes to cobble and no time for idle talk.
Ann gave me this to give to you.
A letter, is it? All this time she sat silent, swallowing her lies and those of Tom Dooley, and now she writes to me?
She asked me to wait until . . .
Until they hung him, or until I gave a reply? Even in death she wouldn’t betray him. It don’t matter. And even if I could help, what do I care what happens to her now?
Surely you loved her once . . .
Loved her like the blue-eyed devil she is. Loved her like a backslider loves sin. Loved her like a man eat up with love. But I ain’t eat up no more. Man can only take so much. She become like over-ripened fruit to me, ruined from too much ripeness.
Would you like to read it?
Oh, hell, oh, hell! What do I care what she says. I have plenty of my own words if words is what you came here for!
I have broken my teeth on the Bones
Of Love, & feasted on cold desire.
My cheeks are stain’d with ruin’s tears
And dark jealousy has set my soul afire.
Look it me, would you? What do you see, but a man who all his life has tried to live the godly way and do right by others. And for this I was repaid with treachery, deceit, and the shame of being a cuckold. Behind my back when I went to town to drink at Swain’s I could hear the men whisper and snigger and snort over the infidelities my sweet faithless wife committed under my nose and in plain sight. It was as though I ate broken glass and swallied pepper, the way such talk felt in my guts.
I don’t understand why you . . .
Let it happen? O, I could have taken matters into hand. I could have killed Tom Dooley and gotten away with it by law. Not a man in this valley, judge or sheriff or neighbor, would have convicted me if I had. I would have been carried about on their shoulders and called righteous and a hero, and been boughten beers.
But you chose to do nothing.
Because she would have left me if I had. What would I have gained if I had taken back my honor, my manhood, and lost the very thing I wanted it for in the first place? Tell me what good is a man’s pride, his honor, if he loses the thing that causes his heart to beat?
Pride and honor . . .
O, hell, give it over to me and let me read it. Let me read it aloud so you’ll know what sort of damn craven fool she is.
Dear James, I have had much time to reflect on the events that has led me to this place—this tiny small place where indignities are as common as the lice that invade my bedding. And for what? What did I ever do to deserve this fate? To you I confess my sins of infidelity, but not murder. I never had a hand in it. Think of me what you will, but I never murdered Laura or anyone. The only thing’s been murdered is my freedom. O, I am sorry for my caprices. I am sorry I was so shameless when it came to you, rubbed your nose in my mess. For that I should be punished, but not for this I did not do. Maybe you think, like a lot of others, that sin is sin and I’m getting my comeuppance—if not for the one thing, then for the other. And maybe I am. But if they hang me, then the innocent will be murdered by them that’s not fit to judge me. For who among any of them is without some sin? I know if you will go and speak to the judge, if you will protest my case, it might make all the difference in the world—for you were the wronged party as well as anyone—and I would be forever beholding to you. And if not the judge, then hire me a lawyer. And if set free, I will come and be your wife in all the ways a woman can be a wife to a man. I know you are a good man and I have dragged your name through all sorts of mud, but once you see how I can be with you, once the others see it, they will forget, and you will forget all this terrible business. And some day this black thing will be behind us, and the memory of it will be wasted away. Save me, dear husband. Save me if you can. Yr. Loving wife, Ann.
Mr. Melton?
Oh, hell.
It sounds sincere enough . . .
I don’t know what to believe anymore.
Surely a person can change.
Oh, hell. I wish you’d leave out of here, gal. I wished to God you’d never come here with your silent ways and slate and chalk and your big dark eyes like one of God’s own, sniffing around for sympathy for that damn murderer. Go on back to your pap’s. Don’t let him find you out. He’s no more love for Tom Dooley than any of the rest of us. If he was to find you out, he’d surely take a belt to you, afflicted little child that you are, you’ve a lot to learn about the human condition. Go on, now. Leave me be. Leave us all be.
CHAPTER 31
The Testament of Colonel James Grayson
I never had it in for Tom Dooley, in spite of what others may have told you. Tom was just Tom and I know there are folks around here who didn’t care for him much and there are folks that did. He was in the war three years and that ought to count for something in the book of life and I’m sure that it will when he faces his maker.
He was a drummer . . .
Yes, I heard that he was. Look it that sky, those mountains, the lay of the valley—the way the river flows through it like a vein bringing life blood and taking life blood away. You can see
why a man would be hard put to leave a place like this.
Tom has spoken often of wanting to leave it.
Of course he has, look at what he’s wrought. Have you gone to visit Laura’s grave?
Yes.
Along the pike, not far from where she was found. We dug it up high so when the river floods it won’t wash it away. O, she’ll never leave this place—Tom made certain she wouldn’t.
Would you have shot him without a trial if he had not surrendered?
I would have done what was necessary to see justice served.
Even though you couldn’t be sure it was he who . . .
If you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Brouchard, but it seems to me you’re a bit naïve. I think everybody knows he done it. Why else would he have run off the very day Laura came up missing? And lest you forget, he was tried and convicted twice for the crime.
But weren’t there others who left the day Laura disappeared?
Might I compliment you on your fine penmanship . . . I suppose being mute you’ve had to learn to develop a fine hand.
But about the others who left that day of Laura’s disappearance . . .
Rumors. Something bad happens, the air is rife with rumors. Don’t believe everything that passes from the lips of drunk men and gossipy women.
You’re not originally from here, are you, Colonel?
No, Miss. I come down from Tennessee originally. Have a place just north of here. Raise blooded horses—Walkers mostly. Raised them in Tennessee as well, but this land down this way always looked bluer and greener somehow.
There was some talk that you had been pursuing Laura’s affection . . .
Laura was a pretty girl and I won’t deny I had gone a time or two to court her. She was too good for the likes of Tom Dooley, I can tell you that.
But she was quite a bit younger than yourself?
A young woman does herself well to marry an older man . . . a man with experience and holdings and not someone who is young and foolish and just as liable to leave her with a brood of kids and no sound future as he is to go off hunting squirrels. Older men are steady men. Speaking of which, I don’t know why it is I never really noticed you before, Miss Brouchard. Has anyone spoken for you? Has anyone asked your daddy about coming to court you?
