Tom Dooley

by Bill Brooks

Why, ain’t it that Tom Dooley?

  Don’t look, don’t look.

  Rain sweeps the courthouse square and I see no Liza waiting for me this day. Rain makes the air gray and thick as smoke. I put on my shirt, pants, shoes—the onliest little pride I’ve left. My feet ache still from all the marching I did in that war. But if I had to, and they’d let me, I’d march all the way to Asia and never complain.

  Rain drips from the trees gentle as a lover’s tears.

  O rain, carry me down.

  Hear the door yawn open. Hear the voices of men, Keyes’s mixed in with them.

  He up there?

  Yes, sir.

  You want to go get him or you want us to?

  I’ll go.

  No funny business there, jailer.

  No, sir.

  Thump, knock, thump, knock.

  Hidey, Tom. They’re here to take you on down.

  I’m ready.

  I sure hate to see you have to go, son.

  I reckon I do too.

  Scrape of lock as Keyes inserts his key and turns it—sound like a tooth being pulled out of its socket.

  Do something for me, if you would.

  Sure, Tom, anything.

  Once I’m gone, give this to Liza Brouchard. Tell her I wanted her to have it. Tell her . . . O, just give it to her would you?

  Sure, sure. I’ll do it.

  Tell her there may be more coming once I get down to Statesville, but I can’t be sure they’ll let me have any pen and ink and paper. So tell her I said wait to do anything with it if she’s a mind to sooner.

  I hand him the papers I’ve been writing, bound and tied with some butcher paper and a piece of twine.

  You promise to give it to only her.

  Yes, sir, I’m good for my word.

  Well, then, let’s get on downstairs and see what them fellers want.

  Two men in rough coats, felt hats wet with rain. Must have come up from Statesville for they sure aren’t locals. One of them is wearing a badge; both carry shotguns.

  Chain him up, Albert.

  The one hands the other his shotgun and takes from his coat pocket two sets of manacles and sets about chaining me up.

  I feel good and fixed when he’s finished.

  Let’s go.

  The one wearing the badge does the ordering. The other steps in behind me, the badge leads me out. Even chained, being outside that jail for the first time in two years feels like freedom.

  I lift my face to the rain and it comes down on me.

  Move along there, bub.

  The one in the back nudges me forward.

  They get me up into a wagon. The one wearing the badge keeps an eye fixed on me while the other drives the team. The iron rims clatter on the cobblestone, down the street as we head for the train depot. A few folks stop and stare, letting the rain soak through their clothes as we go by. A few I recognize and one or two wave, and one old man with a white beard, his back bent like a fishhook from too much time on this earth, pauses and removes his hat and holds it over his heart. I see, then, it is Mr. Clements, who fit in the Indian Wars and understands what it is to fit in a war and survive it. I nod my head to let him know I appreciate his gesture.

  Time we get to the depot, my hair’s plastered down and my shirt is soaked through and so are my trousers. Rain drips off the hats of the men with shotguns. They don’t seem to care none. Lift me down and I shuffle inside the depot and those waiting with tickets turn and stare—and some I know and some I don’t. Nobody says anything. I don’t say anything and neither do the men with shotguns. Instead, they take me on through and up the steps to a railcar and on down the aisle to the back where they sit facing me, me facing them.

  You fellers must like this line of work I take it.

  They don’t say anything. I don’t blame them.

  Time passes timelessly. I remember when the mad preacher, Shinbone, said we were all timeless. Odd that I should turn my face just then, see out the rain-streaked window him standing on the platform amid clouds of engine steam. Shinbone is looking here and there, up and down the platform. His bramble of white hair hardly matches the nice suit he’s wearing. Then I see that he is shoeless. I feel a sudden urge to tap on the glass to draw his attention, then think better of it. He is standing there in his madness and better he should have it to himself.

  The engine’s whistle blows sharply, then tugs against its cargo of humanity, the cars lurch one by one. The two men with shotguns brace themselves with their feet when the car we’re sitting in lurches too. Fits and starts we lurch along and then we are gliding away, the clack of the wheels vibrates up through the floor, up through my legs, into my very blood.

  O, carry me on down.

  I watch what is familiar to me shrink away—this place I’ve known for two years now and that other place from whence I came and everything else that resides down deep in my bones. It all just shrinks away. I watch the wet trees nagged by the rain, the brick buildings of the town—the brick dark as old blood. I watch the rolling hills rise and fall like great green waves—cattle standing under their slick wet hides, old barns, lost dreams. All just shrink away.

  Everything is sodden and dreamless to me. The one man guarding me snorts, the other cuts a chaw from a plug of tobacco with a Barlow knife, its bone handle worn smooth. I watch the dream shrink away while they snort and chew. Farther up the car I hear an infant cry.

  In my mind I write my last will and testament.

  To who it might concern. I’ve nothing to give, and no one to give it to. I spent my days gathering nothing, preparing only for life and not death. And now that death is near, I’ve nothing to show for the life I lived. For, how is it a young man can be convinced of his own mortality when all around him are only the days of his youth? No warning given. I went to war and came home again and that seemed to me enough contemplating death. So do not blame me for being so ill prepared, so inconsiderate, so full of folly. And when I sucked the marrow of life from the bones of others, it was sweet and addicting and I never thought for once there would be an end to the feast. Now, I see I was mistaken—that the end comes too soon, too quickly—like a thief in the night. And even if I’d lived a hundred years, this death would still have come too quickly . . .

  The conductor shuffles down the aisle taking tickets, sees me, sees the two men with shotguns, sees the chains round my wrists and feet. The chaw freezes in his vein-splattered cheek. His black coat seems too tight fitting, his cap too small.

  You’d be the one I read about—Tom Dooley.

  He says it wrong, a common mistake, but right enough that I don’t protest.

  The man wearing the badge hands him three tickets.

  Move along there, bub—official law bidness.

  The conductor looks at each of them, then back at me.

  You take care, son, in that sweet by and by . . .

  He shuffles on calling—Tickets! Tickets!

  I see wet pastures, a cemetery of stones like crooked teeth gnawed through the earth, a church steeple rising from beyond a hillock pointing the way toward salvation, I guess. I ask the man with the badge what day it is.

  Sunday.

  Have you a wife and children?

  He looks away, the other one looks at his shoes. I finish writing my will inside my head.

  We are but children of the god who made us . . . no more, no less, so I’ve nothing more to leave to anyone (having sent my ma my last few things), and no one waiting to accept it. I gave love. I gave my honor to a war that dint care whether I gave it or not. I gave my friendship to them that deserved it. And now I’m all give out. That is my last will and testament, for you who care to read it. Tom Dooley.

  I feel pleased about the words and will write them down once I get to Statesville. Surely there will be time before they hang me. I think about you too, Liza, how I’d wished you’d been there to see me off. But I understand why you weren’t. It’s okay. Everything between me and you has always been okay.


  We travel far enough south that we ride out of the rain. Sun and clouds play tag over the fields and throw shadows over the distant mountains, then snatch them back again. And when sun struck, the mountains turn a hazy blue that feels like longing.

  It’s quit raining.

  The men with the shotguns don’t seem to care.

  Carry me on down.

  CHAPTER 38

  Tom Dooley

  Statesville don’t look like much to me—quiet little burg with fine white houses on streets bearing oaks that throw shade for a man to sit under, for children to play under, for lovers to stroll hand in hand under.

  I get taken down from the train, the steel rails still vibrating in my blood. Marched up the street, past the hardware store, past the barbershop, past the mercantile. I get marched up the street by two men with shotguns, one fore, one aft. Past the bank, a café, a bicycle shop. Always wanted me a bicycle. I think the men with shotguns have hearts tough as leather, tough enough to shoot me easy as they would a rabid dog should I run. Might be easier for me to get shot, unless their aim was off—high or low, then it could be brutal and they’d hang me anyway.

  Women and their kids see me coming and cross the street. Men lean on streetlamps and spit and watch me marched by. I guess they seen it before—this being the hanging place. Get marched past a livery, a newspaper office, a funeral parlor.

  Carry me down.

  Stop me in front of a stone building, stone steps worn smooth in the middle, big oak door. This must be it, the hanging place. Quarry stone blocks three stories high couldn’t blow it up with cannon if you had one and I ain’t. Gilt dome atop some of it green from time, windows with bars lower levels. They march me in, the men with shotguns.

  Man at a desk, bald, mole under his left eye like a raisin—long hall beyond.

  Sign him in, boys.

  Scratch, scratch goes the pen writing my name in a book with other names on red lines.

  Consider him signed in.

  Take ’em chains off.

  I feel twenty pounds lighter with the chains shed.

  Lead me down the hall; swing open a barred door.

  Go on in, son.

  Door closes. The three of them stand there looking at me.

  You want me to fetch you a preacher or anything?

  Bald man’s got a high-pitched voice.

  No, sir.

  Polite boy, ain’t he?

  The men with the shotguns don’t say anything. The three turn to go.

  I’d appreciate a pen, some ink, a few sheets of foolscap . . .

  The bald man blinks, the raisin under his eye leaps, settles down again.

  Like to write out my last will and testament.

  I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?

  No, sir.

  Real polite young man.

  There are no windows down in this place where they got me. It feels like gloom.

  Carry me down.

  Time passes. The bald man brings me a plate—cornbread not so sweet and moist as I like it, black beans, salted pork, coffee weak as tea.

  You didn’t forget my pen and writing paper?

  No, I ain’t forgot. Just ain’t got around to it is all.

  Turns to leave.

  You know when it will be?

  Soon as I get around to it is when.

  No, I mean the day they set to hang me.

  Friday, son. Friday’s the day they set to hang you. Eight o’clock in the morning. We lucky, it won’t rain. Hate a hanging in the rain.

  There it is, the stated number of my days left on earth. I guess it was writ a long time ago in the heavens, the number of my days. Writ on the first day old time existed. I guess it is one less of God’s great secrets he has to carry around with Him. I know I should try and settle affairs with Him, but I ain’t sure how, or even if it matters. What if I get over yonder and he ain’t there? What if there ain’t no over yonder and all it is, is just black nothingness? Well, it could be worse. Burning in hell forever and ever could be worse. I lay me down on the cot, the wool blanket rough as grit. I try not to think of the number of days I got left. I try not to think about anything. Impossible.

  Later still, the bald man returns and lights a lamp outside my cell and thrusts in pen, paper, ink.

  You want anything else, a Bible maybe?

  It ain’t never made much sense to me before . . .

  Maybe it will now . . .

  Yes, maybe so.

  Best get right with your savior, son.

  I reckon.

  That was a terrible thing you done, killing that girl.

  I don’t say anything. I’ve become like the men with the shotguns. I’ve become one of the lesser ones. I’ve become like Liza Brouchard—a mute.

  Creps, the night man’s coming on soon. You need something, just call out. He’s a little deaf, but you call loud enough he’ll come.

  All around, I reckon the bald fellow isn’t so bad, considering the line of work he’s in.

  Sometime during the night there is a ruckus. I have not been able to sleep, choosing instead to savor every moment left me. Even still, they go by quick. The ruckus is raised by a drunk man they’ve brought in and put into a cell across from mine. They shove him in roughly and he curses them, curses their mothers and curses their children.

  The one I reckon is Creps rakes his wood baton across the bars.

  You shut your yap, Mick, or I’ll bust open your skull like a t’mater.

  O, fuck you and yar ugly wife and all them ugly kids yar stuck in her and come out again ugly as sin.

  I’m warning you!

  Then the drunk turns and drops his pants and exposes his hams to the guard.

  You stupid sot!

  Creps goes out grumbling. The drunken man curses him all the way out.

  Sees me.

  Hey!

  I don’t say anything.

  Hey, you. What they got yar in for?

  I don’t say anything.

  Well, ain’t this the goddamnedest thing . . . me, in with a mute!

  In a few minutes the drunk is stretched out across his cot and snoring.

  I don’t want to sleep, but comes an hour I guess before dawn I cannot any longer stay awake.

  First sleep, then the dream.

  Girls in white dresses dancing upon crushed flowers—violets and roses and daisies—their pretty little feet white as alabaster. Hand in hand they dance and sing. They are the cousins, Foster—Laura and Pearl and Ann. They dance below me, reach up and touch my dead boots. I am strangled, dangling from a rope, but still can look down into their pretty faces. Pretty Tom, pretty Tom, they’ve hanged you for what you did to us—ruined us every one, each in her own way. O, pretty Tom, look, see how he’s become the pretty vine that hangs from the garden tree.

  I awake in coldness and write down the dream and everything that has happened to me since they took me from Wilkesboro. I want it all to be known, even the littlest detail—for my being here should count for something.

  Hey?

  The fella across the way, the one brought in last night, stands up against his bars like an ape. He is dark and squat and dangerous looking.

  Say, you didn’t see what them lads did with me fiddle, did you?

  Fiddle?

  I think I beat an engineer over the head with it in a fight last night.

  That’s no way to treat a good fiddle.

  I know it ain’t. But you get to fighting, especially over a garl, you’re liable to use a fiddle over some feller’s head or anything else you can . . .

  So we started talking about fiddles and fistfights and women and he told me his name was Mick Kennedy and that he played music professionally in many of the saloons from here to Charlotte and on up to Virginia. I told him I was a musician too, but never got around to playing for money.

  Why, money is the best thing there is to play for. Money and the pretty garls, of course.

  I know it.

  He asked me what I was in
jail for and I told him.

  To be hanged.

  He asked me what I did for them to hang me.

  Nothing.

  I don’t know if he believed me. I told him my name.

  Why everybody around has heard of you, Dooley. Why there’s even a ballad been writ about you and what you done to that garl up on that mountain.

  Weren’t no mountain and I didn’t do anything.

  Why, if I’d not busted me fiddle, I’d play the ballad for yar . . .

  I heard my heart beating in my ears. He began to sing without encouragement.

  O, they say poor Laura Foster went to her grave fair and pure. They say Tom Dooley loved her, but jealousy was love’s cure . . .

  His was the voice of a man who understood grief in a way that only certain men can understand it. I’d known many of the Irish boys during the war and they could all sing and weep and grow maudlin, especially when they sang about potatoes and hunger and true love lost. I called over to him to stop, for I didn’t want to hear nothing about the events. But he didn’t stop, for lost was he in his grieving ballad.

  . . . and up there on that mountain, Laura sleeps all alone in a grave Tom Dooley made her, a grave as cold as stone, cold as a marder’s heart they say!

  Then he stopped and said he didn’t remember rightly all the words yet and that each time he’d heard the ballad it had changed some; words were added and taken away and that he himself was now encouraged to complete it having met the real Tom Dooley. I told him it wasn’t Dooley but Dula. He didn’t seem to care the difference, said Dooley sounded better for the singing.

  When will they turn you out, Mick?

  He shrugs his broad sloping shoulders.

  I’ve no money to pay me fine. I suppose tharty days is what I’ll get this time. It’s what they gave me last time.

  In a way, he reminded me of Louis—the way he spoke, like a man going through each day for the very first time, as though he’d never lived any days before this one.

  Were you in the war, Mick?

  I was, Tom. But I’d just as well not speak of it and the terrible things I seen happen.

  I felt the soldier’s bond with him.

  Can I ask a favor of you, Mick?

  Sure, Tommy, me boy. Just tell me what it is.

  Could you sing me the ballad again?