We soon arrived at the tree. The Tree. We stopped in the clearing while Ellie looked the tree up and down.
“Wow, that's a whopper, isn't it? Two hundred years, you think? Maybe?”
“Maybe,” I replied. “I'd like to count its rings someday.”
“Don't say that.”
I laughed. “I didn't mean cut it down, I meant... you know, when it falls-- and all trees fall, eventually--, I'd like to count the rings myself before someone cuts it up and carts it off. I love trees. They're like--”
“--living history,” she finished.
“They are,” I agreed. “And even dead trees tell a story. When this one's ready to give it up, I'd like to know its story, that's all I'm saying.”
“Speaking of the dead, where's this cemetery?”
“This way, ma'am.”
Before long we stood looking at the locked door while I told the story of finding it locked, then open, then locked again. When I finished my story, I still couldn't tell if she believed me or not, and I was waiting for some sort of response. She just turned and looked at me with an impish grin. “So... are you going to go first, or is it ladies first, or..?”
I walked to a corner, where railing met the stone and concrete corner post. “Try this,” I said, using the railing cross-pieces as a ladder. In a moment I was over, and she was right behind. She handed me the portfolio over the top then scrambled over like a tomboy. I could not have been more impressed. I walked her through the cemetery, showing her the four-quadrant layout, eventually winding up back at the gate.
“Well, this looks like a good place to get to know folks,” she said. “Let's sit down.”
We sat on the sand path. She dug into her portfolio and brought out a large manila envelope from which she extracted a two-page document stapled together.
“This is a summary I typed up for you. The primary source documents are in the envelope, but this is the family history I gathered from all that. Ready?”
I nodded. “Hit me.” She cleared her voice and began.
“Okay, let's start with Elizabeth Burroughs, the last of the Conley line to occupy this house.”
“Eighteen eighty-five to nineteen sixty-eight,” I said.
“Right. No, wait... Okay, you know her; let's start with her great-great-grandfather Thomas Thornton, born in Isle of Wight County, Virginia, in 1775.”
“Seventeen seventy-five?” I whistled. “The Thorntons are over here,” I pointed to my right. “I saw them last week. Thomas and... Esther... and... “ Ellie shot me a look I'd seen on a hundred teachers, and I shut up.
“Thomas moved South with his father in1781, eventually settling on high ground across the Savannah River from his father's place in South Carolina. He built his house, planted tobacco, and operated a successful ferry crossing. He married Esther Baker, and they had ten children--”
“Wow!”
“--four of whom died--”
“Awww.” Annoyed teacher face returned, and on her, it was incredibly sexy. I shushed myself.
“He had two daughters who survived to adulthood,” she continued, “Bessie and Martha, the baby. Martha was the beautiful one, they said, and she married early to a man from a good Savannah family. In 1837, Bessie--”
I put up my hand. “Hold just a second.” I got to my feet and walked over to the first quadrant on the right, quickly searching out the name. “Elizabeth 'Bessie' Thorton Conley,” I read. “Born eighteen oh eight. Tell me more about her.”
“In 1837 she became engaged to Robert Conley, son of the next-closest landowner to the west, and in 1838 they were married. Her father gave the young couple two thousand acres to get them started, and his father, Mackenzie Conley, gave them twenty slaves.”
“What, were they registered at the auction house?” I put on my deepest plantation drawl. “Why, looky here, says they still need a butter tender, a moteesuh, and two cotton pickers to complete their set!”
“A moteesuh?” Ellie asked. “What's that? I'm from Vermont, and rural Vermont, too.”
“A moteesuh is a dining room attendant who shows up every time your glass is empty and asks, “Mo' tea, suh?”
The teacher smiled. “That's racist.”
“That's history and Southern culture, ma'am. And here's Robert,” I said, “right next to her for the ages: Robert Conley, born Goose Pond, GA-- January 20, 1815. So then what?”
“Robert Conley goes on to become one of the most successful planters in this county and the next, buying up land in Sweeney and Reynolds Counties. About 1845 he bought land on opposite sides of the Flat River and started his own ferry. Now here's the thing: everyone knew him as Robert, not Mr. Conley. That would have been his dad, Mac Conley. So the ferry became known as Roberts Ferry, and on the Reynolds County side, there's still a dirt road called Roberts Ferry Road.”
“Almost parallel to the highway on the north side of the bridge,” I described it from my maps. “It breaks off from the highway at the top of the hill.”
“Bingo,” she smiled. “This is fun with you. Where was I? Okay, here we go. In 1839 they had a son, Findlay.”
“Hold a sec,” I said. To my right was a long headstone that looked as if it could be shared, covered with honeysuckle. I trimmed it away with my machete and read CONLEY across the top with FINDLAY and CHRISTINE under that. Born on different days in July one year apart, they had both died on October 19th, 1918.
“Okay, go ahead.”
“Now Fin grew up and got married to Christine Morrissey, and in 1861, they had a son named Thornton Conley. War came, and off rode Colonel Robert and Captain Fin Conley. War ended, and both men returned home intact-- and get this: Captain Conley is said to have been one of the last men to see the Confederate gold.”
I laughed. “Not the fabled Confederate gold! This is fantastic! Please go on!”
“Fin had a head for business and deal-making, and he went from cotton brokering down in Carswell to a partnership in a company in Savannah, to commodity trading, and by 1880 he was spending a lot of time in New York, where he rented an apartment for himself and his Chrissy.
“His dad, Colonel Robert Conley, did just the opposite. He came back to the bosom of his community, as we used to say, and permanent political power-- along with command of the county regiment of the Georgia Militia--, and he never left again. So while Fin attended to his business interests in Carswell and New York, young Thornton would have grown up following his grandpa around the plantation, absorbing stories of The War and the Lost Cause. Thornton was enrolled in an academy for awhile, but he returned to running the sixteen hundred or so acres under their exclusive cultivation with his grandfather.
“In August of 1876, Chrissy accompanied Bessie to Savannah, to the funeral of one of Bessie's oldest friends. They were only in town for a little over forty-eight hours. They came up the river to Augusta, then up the line to Carswell, and by the time she got off the train, Bessie was deathly ill. She had gotten yellow fever in Savannah, where an epidemic had just begun.
“Thornton got married to Rebecca Jenkins in '84--”
“Hold it...” Next to Fin and Chrissy were two smaller headstones that read simply Infant Girl and Infant Boy and nothing else. Apparently nothing but weeds filled the rest of the quadrant. I stood next to those baby graves, unsheathed my machete, and dropped it to my right. Chunk! It stuck, so I moved a little to the right and tried again. Chunk!. Again I moved to the right. Ching! The machete bounced off something hard under the carpet of weeds. I tapped a few more times and uncovered two slabs set into the ground.
“Okay, go ahead.” I began clearing weeds so you could read both of them: Thornton and Rebecca Conley.
“... and in '85 they had a daughter and named her for her grandma: Elizabeth Conley. A few years later, she was joined by a little brother, Willie. In 1890 Grandpa Robert died. Fin came down to bury his father, then left Thornton in charge while he went back to New York. In October of 1895, Rebecca Conley died of a brain fever. In June o
f 1900, Thornton was paralyzed from the waist down.
Also about that time, young Willie left home to be a circus performer and was never heard from again. Fin returned with Chrissy from New York to train his granddaughter to take over the family interests.”
“Willie joined the circus, eh? Archie Leach did that,” I said.
“In October of 1918, the Spanish Flu broke out in Georgia. Several cases were reported down at Camp Gordon in Augusta, and it didn't take long for it to pop up in Sweeney County. Fin and Chrissy got sick the same day and were put in different beds. By the time the doctor finally made it out to the house and diagnosed them as both having the flu, they had both already developed pneumonia. They insisted on being put into a bed together. They passed that night within minutes of each other, holding hands.”
“Awwww,” I interrupted, but this time I only got a sympathetic look and a steady nod. She continued.
“Old Thornton died of the flu a day later, all alone. Elizabeth didn't marry until two years after her father's death. In 1920, she married a wealthy young man named Joseph Aloysius Burroughs. In '24 she had a son, Ramon Burroughs, whose father died that same year, hit by a car. Ramon joined the Army Air Corps in World War 2, and as you know, Elizabeth died in 1968. And that's all history has to say about the Conley-Thornton clan.”
I returned and sat down across from her. “And Ramon is the son in Texas with the disconnected number,” I said.
She shrugged. “That I don't know. I didn't run across any obituary for him, so he's presumably still alive and therefore not yet within the realm of history. That part's up to you.”
She patted the manila envelope. “There are more details, of course. It's all in here, including the WPA history of the Conley family,” she grinned, “which was given by a widow lady whose Grandfather fought in the Civil War, Mrs. Elizabeth Burroughs.”
“No kidding?”
She shrugged and grinned. “Obviously, she sat down with an interviewer one afternoon and gave her entire family history. Convenient, eh? I checked out her history against available records, and it all seems to check out. There are other prominent families in there, too. What we call the County Seat Elite.” She rolled her eyes. “Oh, and don't forget your summary.”
I slid the summary into the envelope and felt its heft. “Thanks, Ellie. You sure did a lot of research.”
“It gave me something to do at night.”
“You spend your nights looking for something to do? I thought you were married.”
“I am. I am Mrs. Dr. Gregory Hubbard. And that gal has too much time on her hands at night.”
“Should I know who Dr. Gregory Hubbard is? 'Cause I don't.”
She paused and a smile lit her face. “Say it again.”
“Who the hell is Dr. Gregory Hubbard?”
She sighed. “I don't hear that everyday! Well, since you just arrived on a turnip truck, and apparently not in the cab, either, Dr. Gregory Hubbard is the cardiologist, researcher, and surgeon superstar of the Southeast who enjoys a very select pool of wealthy patients with crappy hearts. Just the worst. His patients and their hearts. Not only is he famous, his father was a famous trial lawyer; granddad was a powerful judge, etc., and so forth and so on. My mother in-law's no slouch, either. Junior League, Eastern Star, DAR and Daughters of the Confederacy... Her family goes back to the settlement of Darien. And you just waltz into this town and pretend not to know any of this?”
“Didn't know a bit of it. Still not sure if I actually care or not, and here's your bus stop weather report: Darien can stink at low tide. How do you like being Mrs. Dr. Gregory Hubbard?”
She regarded my flippant remarks with a slowly growing smile, but at my question she turned serious again. “Not all it's advertised, I'm afraid. Greg teaches on Tuesday and Thursday and has office hours and surgery scheduled on the other days.”
“Teaches? Where? Is Sweeney Tech teaching heart surgery?”
“Augusta. He teaches and has his practice in Augusta.”
“Oh. But that's sixty miles from here. Is that where he is now?”
“No, right now he's on his way to California for a consultation.”
“Oh!”
“Then he's flying to Texas for a week-long cardiology convention in Dallas. It's not like he's ever here, anyway. He has an apartment in Augusta where he stays a lot of the time. He comes home when he can, but his work keeps him away and keeps me wondering why I married in the first place. But those are my problems. Let's talk about your problems. Are you married?”
“No.”
“You're not bad looking. Are you gay?”
I laughed. “Hardly. I've been close to marriage once or twice.”
“What happened? Wait. Don't tell me... yet. Do you like your job? Surveying? Is this you, or would you rather do something else?”
“I like surveying. This is me until something comes along I like better, how about that?”
“Fair enough.”
We chatted on about a dozen topics, and if she'd wanted to talk all night, I'd have sat and listened. Her voice was musical, like the lower end of a flute in its purity, throaty and resonant then light and lilting, like a violin, with consonants that fell like triangles and definite husky touches of alto sax thrown in for sexy emphasis. She could talk about film, music, history, and current events in the most enlightening and entertaining way, and I found myself completely captivated by her. I sat passively listening as if to a brilliant, witty, woman who just happened also to be more beautiful than my feeble brain could ever, would ever have dreamed. I sat there on my ass in an abandoned cemetery and decided that there was no doubt: I could listen to Ellie's voice and look into Ellie's face for the rest of my life.
It was nearly sundown when we noticed the time, and we both stood up brushing ourselves. She turned around.
“See anything?”
“I think the quarter in your back pocket was minted last year... in Denver, I would say... but no dirt or leaves.”
She smiled but did not respond. She handed me her portfolio, grabbed the railing, and bounced over the fence like a doe. I followed her over, and we walked around the woods and back to the truck at a leisurely pace. To our right, the sunset stretched over the valley. The sun was largely gone, leaving only a hazy coral smear on the horizon and a brilliant wash of colors thrown against the clouds rising dramatically against a darkening sky.
“Gorgeous,” she said. “Isn't it?”
“This is the part of surveying I really like,” I replied. “Sunrises, too.”
We talked about sunrises and sunsets in Vermont and how early night comes in winter there, and before I knew it, we were standing between her car and my truck.
“Thanks for showing me the cemetery,” she said. “Will you let me know what you find out about the son?” She walked closer, and my pulse quickened.
“Of course.”
She stepped right into my personal space. “You won't forget?”
“Forget? You... I mean, me?” I shook my head. “Not likely.”
We stood there, our eyes locked. “You are a handsome one, aren't you?” she said.
It was one of those moments when you both know. We both knew. She came in close and we kissed. Softly at first, gently... then deeply, and her scent made the short hairs on my neck stand up: not her perfume, not her shampoo, but Ellie, her scent, her pheromones. It was delightful, maddening, and this was only a kiss! I was standing up all over the place when she broke off the kiss with a smile.
“Good kisser, too,” she added.
“I'll call you tomorrow,” I said.
“Call if you want to, but I can't see you tomorrow. It's Thursday. Call me Friday?”
“Gotta go back to Atlanta and turn in time, et cetera. I'll be back on Monday.”
“I'll be here.”
“What time do you get up?”
She laughed as she opened her car and slid inside. “Call anytime you like,” she said. She closed the door, started the engine
, waved goodbye, and drove into the twilight. I let out a deep sigh, adjusted myself, and followed in the Mighty Ford.
9. Labor Issues
The following afternoon, Jack and Randy took Steve to help them cut line in an overgrown lot outside town, and I ran the GPS units alone. I was sitting on my tailgate alongside the highway, knocking ants out of my boots, when a black Lincoln Navigator pulled up behind me and parked. Inside was Richard Polk, III. He sat talking on his cell phone, signaling with a raised finger his desire to speak with me. I put my boots back on, got some water, and went about my business. Some five minutes later he approached me as I was making a sketch.
The Dead Hand of Sweeney County Page 10
