“Wait a minute...” Ellie started.
Lawyer Frank sighed. “Not everyone is the best manager of land, and a lot of that middle class I talked about depended on having customers to survive, and unfortunately, the majority of folks throughout the county stayed heavily invested in cotton. Prices kept dropping, so people planted more, and the prices dropped even further. Then came the boll weevil, and a shaky economy collapsed entirely. By the early Twenties, people were giving up on agriculture and wanting to move to the city. Any time someone wanted to get out of a lease, the Polks would be right there. They were working on a model of limitless pulpwood plantations where cotton had been, and they scooped up the property. Wanting to see the land used and being a nice person, Elizabeth Burroughs would lease it out to Muskogee under the same long-term conditions as her other tenants.”
“As for those other tenants, Muskogee Timber proved to be just about the best neighbor you could ask for. Run into trouble and need a little advice? Muskogee comes in and harvests any hardwoods you have, then plants row after row of pines. The lessees are supposed to share in the profit when the trees are harvested, but there never seems to be much profit to share.”
“Sounds familiar,” I said.
“Once Ms. Burroughs died, and the bank took over collecting rents and paying taxes, anytime someone wanted out, the bank rubbed their hands and assumed their lease at 1968 rates, paying rent to themselves, if they felt like it. Millions. I'll bet it's up to the tens of millions by now in collected rents and property values. I never could understand the old woman's loyalty to that bank, even through two restructurings. If it weren't for the Conley Land Trust deposits, the Polks would have folded a long time ago.”
“Restructurings?” I asked.
“Sounds better than 'the bank lost your money', doesn't it?”
I let it all sink in. “So in two weeks,” I ventured, “the bank is supposed to take over and sell those properties to whoever's holding the lease, including themselves?”
“The leaseholder get right of first refusal, yes. Their lease payments will be applied toward the land's 1968 value, and any accumulated rents in excess of that must be turned over with the title to the property. If the lessees don't want the land, it goes up for sale.”
“And if a Conley descendent is found?”
“Then that descendent takes control of all the Conley properties. His or hers to keep, sell, or give away.”
“If Elizabeth Burroughs was one of only two children, why did she think there were other descendents?” Ellie asked.
“I believe there were two reasons. One reason was that her younger brother, Willie, ran off to join the circus, and I think that in her heart, she always expected him to come home, bringing whatever family he had begun. The other reason, according to my dad, was that she believed her great-grandfather, Robert Conley, might have had another child. He frequently took trips to Savannah and Charleston, and I think it was rumored that he had gotten some woman in one of those towns pregnant. That's why the trust stipulates that any descendent of Robert Conley can make a claim, and the executor of the estate is supposed to be advertising, looking for descendents.”
“For three years,” I said.
“Right. After that, the trust dissolves.”
“In two weeks.”
“Now, not all the land is supposed to go to the lessees. There is a large piece of property called the Old Home Lot sitting out on Thornton's Ferry Road. That ten acres is supposed to be developed and maintained in perpetuity, as a park and nature preserve for the enjoyment of the people of Sweeney County. She wanted to forever maintain the memory of the Conley and Thornton families in the Flat River valley. Ramon, I remember, liked that idea.”
“You met Ramon Burroughs?”
“Sure. I met him the first time in the spring of '68, when he came from the Philippines to bury his mother. I met him again in 1972 or '73, when he retired from the Air Force and came to clear out the house. By that time, vandals had broken several windows, and the place was starting to fall down. Knocking it down was the best that could be done with it, I think.”
“People breaking into it?”
“No, not too much. Mostly just throwing rocks from a distance. Most people were too scared to go into the place.”
“Afraid of Crazy Isaac?”
Lawyer Frank paused and took off his glasses. He cleaned them on his Public Broadcasting T-shirt and put them on again. “Who told you about Crazy Isaac?” he asked.
“Wild Bill,” I replied.
Lawyer Frank sighed. “And just how did that subject come up?”
“I asked Fred McSwain, and he told me to ask Wild Bill.”
“I suppose you heard that I freaked out one night and ran screaming down the road.”
“That's just what I heard. Wild Bill brought you back.”
“Physically, yes. But you have no idea how those people are. That little incident ruined my life. I was the laughingstock of the county. Good thing I went off to college that fall. Since then, I've mostly stayed away from Sweeney County and Dick Polk, the Turd. Well, I hope I've answered all your questions.”
“Almost. Just one more thing. What exactly did you see that night?”
“Nothing. Moon shadows.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm pretty sure, yes. I've had over thirty years to think about it, and I'm pretty sure I saw nothing.”
It was my turn to sigh. “Okay,” I said. “That's it for me. Ellie, you got any questions?” She had none. I stood up. “I guess we'll be going. Thanks for your time, sir, I--”
“Wait,” he said. “What's your interest in this ghost story?”
I shook my head. “I don't know. I was just hoping to find out if you saw what I saw.”
“What you saw? Under the tree?”
“Yes.”
“What did you see?”
“I think I saw a man in overalls carrying an ax.”
“Was he wearing a hat?”
“A soft cap, yes.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Nope. He just turned and walked into the tree. Why?”
There was no answer.
“Why?” I repeated. “Did he speak to you? What did he say?”
“Help the boy. He said, 'You've got to help the boy.'”
“What boy?”
“I don't know.”
“That makes two of us. I saw him in a dream after that, and he said the same thing to me. I dreamed I was in the Conley-Thornton cemetery, and he was telling me that I have to help the boy get into the cemetery. I thought he was talking about Ramon.”
“Maybe it's Willie,” Ellie suggested. “Help the boy. Help him receive his inheritance... reclaim the family name... maybe it's just that he's buried someplace else, and he wants to be with his family.” We both looked at her. “I'm just guessing,” she said, “trying to help.”
“It's an idea,” Lawyer Frank said. “You've tracked down Ramon--”
“Almost,” I said.
“-- see if you can track down Willie Conley, circus performer.”
“What year did he leave home?”
“That I don't know, but I believe he was still a boy when he left, not even sixteen yet.”
“One more thing,” I said. “In my dream I asked Isaac why me, why I had to help, and he said, 'Because you can.' Why do you think he appeared to you?”
Lawyer Frank shook his head. “No idea,” he said. “For thirty-four years, I've been telling myself it was just moon shadows.”
“And a head full of Panama Red?” I smiled.
“Yep,” he admitted with a smile. “Now you're here, and I know it was real. At least, it seems a lot more likely. Either that, or we're both crazy. Or high.”
“Even that,” I said, “doesn't explain this.”
“All I can say is good luck to you, to both of you. Please, if you come across any new information, would you call me? And if there's anything I can do for Mrs. Burroughs or her
kin, just let me know.”
“Thank you, sir, but you've been more than helpful already.”
As we drove away, I remember telling Ellie, “Now I know what it is about Dick Polk, the Turd, that bothers me.”
“What's that?”
“He's evil. Just pure evil.”
“And,” she added, “he's good at it. Oh shit.” She dropped low in the seat.
“What did you see?”
“Greg's office is up this street on the right. Why did you go this way?”
“It's the road to the interstate. Greg's in Texas. Relax. Hell, if he were in Georgia, does he see patients on Saturday?”
She sat up. “No. Not usually. Okay, I'm being silly. But that brick Georgian-style with the dogwoods back there is his office.”
I looked in the rearview mirror. “Lovely building,” I said.
“Now seriously, where are you going?”
“I just thought we'd go for a drive. Been to Madison yet?” She shook her head. “Let's go to Madison via the Elder Mill covered bridge.”
“Drive on,” she said. “Show me.”
To get to the Elder Mill covered bridge, get off I-20 at Greensboro and head north on 15, past the Oconee River, until you see a sign on your left. A mile off the main road, you'll drive through it across Rose Creek. There are no tourist traps there, no place to buy a postcard, so bring a camera.
We parked, got out, and walked underneath, admiring the beams and pegs still carrying traffic a hundred and fifty years after they were hammered together. It is what is called a lattice design. The bridge's rigidity and strength are derived from its walls, which are constructed as a big wooden lattice. The design is elegant, simple, and easily adaptable.
“I wonder if this is a Horace King bridge,” I said.
“And what does Addison the Surveyor know about Horace King?” she asked.
“A little more than most people, I suspect,” I answered. “There is a bridge across the Chattahoochee down in Columbus named for him. At work one day, a guy from the Columbus crew told me about Horace King, bridge builder. Way back in the 1830's, this surveyor got a contract from the government to go survey a bunch of bridges out in Alabama and Mississippi, and along with his crew, he took a good number of slaves, including his personal slave, Horace King. They were attacked by Indians, and all the white men were killed. The Indians had never seen black people, and they didn't know what they were, so they didn't kill them, but let them go, instead. Now, most of the slaves wanted to run off, but Horace insisted they pick up the surveying instruments and go finish his master's contracts. They did, then went to Washington, DC-- just a wagonload of slaves--, and laid down all the finished surveys, then collected on the contract. Then later, he became this famous bridge builder.”
“Fascinating story. You learned that at work?” I nodded. “That's a great story. That should be a movie. Too bad none of it's true. King learned bridge building in South Carolina, and as civilization moved west, Horace King built bridges across every major river from the Oconee in Georgia to the Tombigbee in Mississippi. Early on his master, John Godwin, signed the contracts, and King designed the bridges and supervised the work. In 1846 they were living in Alabama, and Godwin petitioned the Alabama legislature to free him. For the rest of his life, this man, who was a mix of European, African, and Catawba Indian, lived, worked, and contracted for himself as a free man in the deepest of the Deep South. When John Godwin died penniless, King paid for a headstone, a monument, really. That got him a mention in Ripley's Believe It or Not as 'The Slave Who Built a Monument To His Master'.”
I felt my ears warming. “That's the real story? Why does it sound so much more believable than my story?”
“He built the Confederate Iron Works in Columbus during the war. After the war he was even busier, rebuilding railroad bridges, cotton warehouses, public buildings, anything big.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I told you I read a lot at the tavern. Historical research requires more than listening to a story someone tells you and memorizing it. People are liars, Addison. Hunter Thompson said history is hard to know because of all the hired bullshit, and there's something to that. There are a couple of books out there about Horace King. I read a biography of him last year.”
“So is this a Horace King bridge?”
“No. But it is Georgia's last all-wooden covered bridge that still carries traffic. I'm sure you noticed it's even held together with wooden pegs.”
“You are so smart,” I told her. “It's such a turn on.”
“You're not so dumb,” she replied. “You need training. You really should think about going to college.”
“Thanks for the compliment. I do think about it sometimes. My future, I mean. Even making more money as a surveyor means going to school. Sitting in class and studying math. Just so I can sit in an office and do math while someone else has all the fun out in the woods.”
“So don't study surveying. Just study whatever you love. The rest will work itself out.”
“I'll think about it. What do you say to some barbecue for lunch?”
“I say let's go.”
We had lunch at Crowe's in Madison, then drove around town admiring the antebellum homes. Eventually we had driven every street and gawked at every building in historic Madison. The time to make my play had come.
“Where to now?” she asked.
“I have an idea. I'd like to take you to Atlanta.”
“Atlanta?”
“My neighborhood. Come stay at my place overnight.”
“Are you taking me home to meet your mother?”
“Just my landlady. She drinks Irish whiskey and paints. In oils.”
“What about my car?”
“It's on private property, hidden in the woods. It's fine.”
She looked unconvinced. “Are you taking me to some gross bachelor pad?”
“No. It's not gross. It has a great view of the trees. I'm right in the heart of Little Five Points. Come on. I've slept in your bed. Come sleep in mine. I just washed the sheets.”
“Gee, you sure know what to say to a girl. It is about as far from Carswell as I could get.”
“Lost in the big city,” I promised. “Complete anonymity.”
She dropped the visor and checked herself in the mirror. “Yikes! It's a good thing I brought makeup. Okay, mister, you've got yourself a house guest. But your toilet had better be clean.”
When we drove up to the house, she looked confused.
“This house is yours?”
“It belongs to Veronica, my landlady. I live out back, in a converted garage.”
“Ah. That makes sense.”
We pulled into the rear and got out. “Do you like the house?” I asked.
“It's very nice. I like it. It's old, not like our place. This house has character.”
“She's thinking of leaving it to me,” I blurted out.
Ellie looked at me, at the house, and back at me, smiling.
“You're a lucky man,” she said. “It's a great house for some lucky woman.”
The toilet passed muster. She liked the whole bathroom. She liked the spiral staircase and the book nook, and when I told her I'd done all the renovation work, she seemed even more impressed. Veronica wasn't home when we first arrived, which was a good thing, because Ellie had a sudden urge to be alone and naked. Afterward, we fell asleep in each others' arms and napped until sundown. We awoke at the same time and showered together, which gave her a chance to compliment my bathroom building skills. When we returned to my room, I began checking the internet for possible entertainment.
“I didn't bring much,” she said. “Fancy restaurants are probably out.”
“Baby, this is Little Five Points. Casual meets the dress code.”
She took her bag and disappeared downstairs. I went back to surfing. She reappeared in jeans and a yellow T-shirt, and I marveled at how she could look so good in something so simple. Normally Ellie's ma
keup is subdued, appropriate to the History Lady role, but tonight it was a touch more daring without being overdone.
We walked down to Little Five Pizza. She ordered a medium supreme, and I ordered a pitcher of Bass. We sat outside and watched people watching people, and it was great fun.
Little Five Points is the weirdest spot on the planet between Greenwich Village and the French Quarter. If it's trendy, if it's provocative, if it’s alternative, if it's now, it's in Little Five Points. Styles have changed, but the neighborhood has always fostered a music scene of upstarts and up-and-comings, the kind of bands young people must follow or be left behind. While that has served to keep the neighborhood stocked with genuinely interesting and talented people, it also brought in the touristas, what Manhattan calls the Bridge & Tunnel crowd and what we call the dreaded OTP, or Outside The Perimeter bunch. They fear weirdness, which is why they live in nice, safe suburbs outside Atlanta's perimeter of interstate. But what they fear they also crave, and L5P has been soaking those suckers for decades, through punk and new wave and every 80's permutation thereof, grunge, ballroom, post-grunge, and hip-hop, without ever losing acoustic folkies and jazz. The businesses in my neighborhood sell the clothes, the makeup, the haircuts, the paraphernalia, and in the last two decades, the tattoos. Mostly, my neighborhood sells the illusion of being cool. Business is always booming.
The Dead Hand of Sweeney County Page 16
