The Dead Hand of Sweeney County
Page 35
“A living memorial,” Kevin said. “I like it. Then, anyone who wants to feel her spirit can just come and sit in her garden. Wouldn't that be nice?”
“That would be wonderful,” I agreed.
“Well, we have a reception to host. We'll see you soon.”
Frank and I watched them walk away. “I think maybe we accomplished something,” I said.
“You figured out how to help the boy,” Frank said. “There is no William Conley in Conyers, is there?”
“Nah. That was just a bluff, just stalling for time. It was pretty weak, I know, but it was all I could think of--”
“And it worked. Congratulations. You turned this little county on its ear.”
“I couldn't have done it without you, and turning this county on its ear was Elizabeth's idea, not mine.”
“Ah, yes. I have a gift for you.” He handed me the envelope. I knew what was inside, but I opened it and looked just to be sure. Aphrodite looked over her shoulder and down.. “You seemed so taken with her, I thought you might like it.”
“Thanks, Frank.”
“I only ever knew her as an old lady, you know. When I compared it to the portrait in the photo album, I was stunned.”
“She was a stunner. Well, maybe Isaac will leave me alone now.”
“I think we can all sleep better now,” Sarah chimed in from behind. She stepped between us and asked, “Which of you gentlemen is escorting me to the reception?”
“I would be honored,” I said, offering her my arm.
She hesitated. “No offense, Addison, but you're a little young for me.” She slipped her arm into Frank's. “Let's all say goodbye now.”
Together we turned for a last look at the cemetery. Willie and Isaac waved a farewell, and we waved in return. We began walking to the road, but something made me stop and look back.
Elizabeth Burroughs stood at the gate with her husband, Joseph. They both smiled and waved. I waved in return and tried to smile while they faded away.
That's the story of Sweeney County and the Conley Land Trust. I continued surveying, but pretty soon I noticed that the job just wasn't any fun anymore. Rita never returned to my bed nor I to her house, and Ellie never answered another phone call.
Then one Wednesday night in August, I was driving back to the motel from a liquor store in Louisville, Georgia, when I was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of unbearable sadness. Tears were pouring from my eyes as I began bawling like a child. The most horrible thing yet had happened, and I knew it. I pulled over to the side of the road. I grabbed the cell phone and auto-dialed, but nobody answered. It rang and rang. Finally I called Ellen and asked her to go check on Veronica.
I told myself that everything was fine as I drove back to the motel, but I didn't get out of the truck before Ellen called me back. Veronica was dead. I felt tears building again.
And then she was in the truck with me. I looked over, and she was sitting in the passenger's seat. She looked to be about forty years old, and she grinned mischievously.
“Check out my painting. I love you, Addison.”
“I love you, Veronica,” I said, wondering why I had never said it before.
And she was gone, forever. At least she seemed happy about it. And if it was okay with her, it was okay with me.
Epilogue
When she died from heart failure, Veronica left me a sizable chunk of insurance money, along with her house and all its contents, including the portrait she had painted for her children. Neither of them wanted it, so I had it framed. It hangs in my office, which is what I now call the downstairs of the garage. On the left, a vibrant, sexy, brilliant woman in her prime is posed alongside two oblivious kids and Bill the cheating bastard, glaring bald spot and all. It's her last statement on anything, and it's a beautiful self portrait. It and my framed photograph of Aphrodite are good company on long nights.
Mike retired and moved out to the country alone. I stopped in to see him from time to time, because the truth is that he was always nicer off the clock than on, and he is quite the gracious host, but that's all it ever was, just he and I, drinking and smoking and chatting about old times, two guys who only heard the music stop when there were no chairs left, two cans sitting at the back of the top shelf with dusty lids, their expiration dates long past.
Eventually I lost all interest in my former life and just quit. I dropped out of work and went to college, majoring in History. I accumulated a family of sorts there, a handful of brilliant minds who now live in Veronica's house. Artists, researchers, techno-geeks: the house literally breathes youth and energy again. It's what she wanted.
A note from the Author
At the wreck of the Wadley & Louisville Railroad trestle, Louisville, Georgia
Photograph by Robert Valentine
Hi. Thanks for reading “The Dead Hand of Sweeney County.” I have spent years researching all this history, and I spent about a year writing the story of the Conley Land Trust, so I hope you enjoyed it. The answers to your questions are yes: I was a carpenter and surveyor before I dropped out of work to go to college, all the places and history are real, and all the women in this book, except Elizabeth Theodora Conley Burroughs, are women I've known. As for her, Miss Elizabeth is as real as Sweeney County itself, although I changed both their names so we can all live in peace. So let me ask you, would you like to know what happened to Veronica's house? Did Clint Eastwood really ride off with the Lost Confederate Gold? Do you wonder if Addison has seen the last of Eleanor? In brief, would you like to read another Addison Kane history-mystery? If so, please go to amazon.com and write a short review of this one. It doesn't have to be long or wordy. There is no set format.
Thanks again,
David L. Bradley