The Chronicles of Marr-nia

by Karen Cantwell

  Rosabelle was making progress. “So she had been trying to obtain employ in the Patton household? Where Mr. Witherspoon now resides?”

  “Yes.”

  “And does anyone know when the last murder occurred?”

  “Oh! I know that one!” The recently married Sarah Pike shot her hand into the air like a schoolgirl bidding anxiously to answer a teacher’s question. “My husband knew of this man. They found him dead in his Manassas farmhouse . . . last Monday afternoon!”

  Rosabelle grabbed Flora’s arm and dragged her down the hall, leaving the group of befuddled women to whisper among themselves. Rosabelle heard Mrs. Franklin mumble something about “that odd girl.”

  “I am so confused, Rosa,” Flora sputtered. “Tell me, please. What is happening?”

  “Remember that newspaper story about Abigail Dawes, who was a spy for the South?”

  “Yes! We were just speaking to Mr. Witherspoon about her.”

  “And her favorite disguise was . . .”

  “A Negro woman!” Flora stopped just short of the door that opened to the back alley behind the Franklin home. A fresh chill around the area made Rosabelle suspect that someone had just exited through that door.

  “Yes. A Negro woman. I think Lucy is Abigail Dawes in disguise.”

  Flora’s eyes grew wide. She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a scream.

  “Flora, I need you to be strong and do something important for me.”

  “What?”

  “Leave the meeting now. Say you are feeling ill. Run to the police house around the corner and bring them here. I will try to find Lucy and stall her. Make haste!”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue. Go!”

  After Flora scooted off, frazzled but determined, Rosabelle opened the door to the alleyway and poked her head out looking for any sign of Lucy. Nothing. The steps had long been cleared of snow, leaving no chance of tell-tale footprints. She had not given much thought to what action she should take next. Should she search the house, and perhaps find the woman in one of the rooms inside? Or should she look more closely outside? While she stood motionless with indecision, she heard a cracking sound from under the steps. Her heart started beating furiously. Possibly the woman was right below her, hiding.

  Rosabelle’s respiration grew fast along with her beating heart, and the air filled with her visible breath.

  “Miss Raines!” Mrs. Franklin called from the parlor. “Whatever are you doing?”

  “Please do not mind me,” Rosabelle answered while her fingers turned white from the cold. “I’m stepping outside for a bit of fresh air. I will return in just a moment. Do continue your meeting!”

  Rosabelle stepped out onto the landing and closed the door behind her, preempting any argument from Mrs. Franklin about the silly nature of her choice to stand outside in the frigid weather without a cloak. Hoping that it would not be much longer before Flora arrived with the police, Rosabelle decided to venture down the four steep stairs to the muddy ground below. Indeed, once there, she could see faint footprints leading around to the under portion of the staircase. Taking a deep breath and making a silent prayer, she called out.

  “I know you are there, Abigail Dawes.”

  She heard a rustling beneath the stairs.

  “Stay away from me if you want to live, Miss Rosabelle Raines. I do not have time for the likes of you,” a woman’s voice growled.

  Fear racing through her veins, Rosabelle took two steps back. She was considering her next course of action when the door above flew open and Flora appeared.

  “Rosa! There you are!”

  A round and rather squat uniformed policeman squeezed past Flora. At the same time, the small but agile Abigail Dawes sprang out from under the stairs, visibly intent on making a quick getaway. Stopping for just a moment and glaring at Rosabelle, she did not pretend now to avoid eye contact. Her face had been scrubbed clean of whatever she had used to darken it, revealing alabaster skin. Her angry, green eyes bore into Rosabelle’s, and Rosabelle shivered not from the cold, but from the chill of hatred that radiated from the woman.

  When the policeman started barreling down the stairs, Rosabelle feared Abigail would get away. With no forethought, she lunged toward the woman, hoping to grab some part of her dress and hold her back. Abigail Dawes had other plans. Before she knew it, Rosabelle was caught helpless with a knife blade tight against her throat. Abigail Dawes was a master of battle as well as disguise. She had whipped Rosabelle’s arm fiercely tight behind her back while positioning the deadly weapon.

  The policeman stalled his approach while two more appeared in the doorway above. They attempted some verbal negotiations, which had no effect at all on the determined Abigail. The woman began pulling Rosabelle backward, moving ever closer to the busy street at the end of the row of townhouses.

  “Stay where you are men, or I will kill her right here, right now.”

  “It is me that you want, Miss Dawes,” said a calm, resolute voice behind them. “Leave this woman be.”

  Rosabelle had only heard that man’s voice once, but she knew it to be the voice of Eli Witherspoon.

  Abigail whipped around, carrying Rosabelle along for the ride. The forceful movement caused the blade to open her skin, and Rosabelle could feel warm blood trickle down her throat.

  “Let her go,” Witherspoon pleaded. “I offer myself as a replacement hostage, but please let this woman go.” He was so close to them that Rosabelle could see the sweat beading his temple.

  Rosabelle knew Abigail was a rat in a trap, and she feared this added to her own danger. She eyed the holstered pistol under Witherspoon’s morning coat. Abigail was sharp, so certainly she saw it as well.

  “Do you think me a fool, Eli Witherspoon?” Abigail hissed, still twisting Rosabelle to and fro as she looked from Witherspoon to the police and back again.

  “I think you are wise enough not to bring harm to this innocent woman.”

  The twisting stopped. Time seemed to stand still. Rosabelle could barely breathe and felt her world going dark.

  Without warning, Abigail loosened her grip on Rosabelle and shoved her into Witherspoon, causing them both to lose balance and fall to the ground. Rosabelle screamed in pain as her arm seemed to snap from the force.

  Rosabelle had only a peripheral view of Abigail Dawes fleeing into the street, but during her fall, she heard the loud clatter of hooves on brick, the shrill warning cry of a man, and the screams of onlookers. It was a ghastly sound that Rosabelle imagined she might never forget as long as she lived. On the ground, tangled in the arms of Eli Witherspoon, she was granted relief from witnessing the horses of a carriage trample the avenging woman. Mr. Witherspoon, strong and kind, shielded Rosabelle, making every assurance that once she was able to stand and walk, she would not be forced to view the grisly scene.

  Rosabelle would later be told while recovering at home that Abigail did not survive the accident. Over the next few days, Mr. Witherspoon made several visits to the Raines home to check on Rosabelle, whose arm was mending from a severe break acquired during the fall.

  Rosabelle worried that Flora would be jealous, but such was not the case. In fact, Flora always smiled and then excused herself from their company in order to allow them the time to be alone.

  “Rosa,” Flora confided to her sister one day, “Eli Witherspoon is not the man for me. I think he suits you far better.”

  On quiet walks, he revealed to her his own early suspicions that Abigail Dawes, the Southern Avenger, and the new servant, Lucy, were one and the same. In fact, he told her, he had asked his cousin Amelia not to attend the gathering at the Franklin home for that very reason.

  He told her as well, of his life before coming to Alexandria. The stories had been true. Mr. Witherspoon had felt great roman
tic love for a Negro girl named Bess. They had worked together setting slaves free and transporting them to havens in the North. He believed that all men were God’s men, regardless of color, and he would never owe allegiance to a people who would enslave another. When Bess died, he went into hiding until after the war, continuing his work as he was safely able.

  It was obvious to everyone that young Mr. Witherspoon had more than just a polite interest in Miss Rosabelle Raines, and that she gladly returned the interest. Before her, she found a compassionate man of staunch integrity, who understood that being different was not a bad thing.

  “How did you know?” Eli inquired on one of their walks.

  “Know what?” she asked with reserve.

  “That Abigail Dawes was hiding disguised in the Franklin home.”

  “I didn’t really know anything. She just . . . acted strangely.”

  “Strangely?”

  “Suspicious . . . I guess. She was acting oddly and . . . I just became curious. That’s it. I was curious.”

  He laughed lightly while sliding Rosabelle a sly glance.

  “It seems to me,” he teased, “that you know more than you are telling me.”

  “What in the world could a woman like me know?”

  Rosabelle’s attempt to act coy was ineffective. “My guess is, Miss Raines, that you are no ordinary woman.”

  She smiled and guided their conversation toward her companion’s new employ in the business of shipping.

  One day, Rosabelle knew—one day she could share her own secret with Mr. Eli Witherspoon, and that he would not judge her, think her a witch, or jail her in an asylum.

  One day, she could tell him all, and he would embrace her for who she was, and he would love her. That was what Rosabelle knew in her heart.

  And time would prove that Rosabelle Raines knew correctly.

  “Sherman’s Purpose”

  By Karen Cantwell

  BONUS SHORT STORY:

  This story is dedicated to my son, Patrick, because it is his favorite.

  “Sherman’s Purpose”

  Coffee. Sorry excuse for a beverage, thought Sherman Foster, staring into the empty can. Stuff stank up the house, made his nose itch and his stomach turn.

  Resealing the empty container with its plastic lid and shoving it to the back of the counter, Sherman snickered, pleased with himself that he had purposely let the coffee run out. He’d show Horace. Make him real mad, he would. Predictably, Horace would soon yell from his room. “Sherman! Hey, Sherm! Can ya bring me a cup a coffee? My rheumatiz is actin’ up.”

  “Heh, heh,” cackled Sherman to himself. “Ain’t no coffee ta-day, Horace ol’ boy. Guess you’ll just have some o’ that caffeine withdrawal, ’cuz I ain’t goin’ out in this weather. Sure enough, I ain’t gonna walk half a mile to the Seven Ee-leven, just to get you some stinkin’ coffee.”

  Sherman shuffled slowly on the yellow linoleum floor that, in its heyday, had been the color of soft, speckled cream. For a man his age, a trip from the fridge to the counter was a major undertaking. An arduous ordeal.

  Steam blossomed invitingly from the bowl of oatmeal in his hands, stimulating his saliva glands, tempting his taste buds. But halfway to the table, he remembered the honey.

  “Damn!” grumbled Sherman to the quiet, friendless kitchen. “Can’t eat no bowl of oatmeal without honey.”

  A mouse on the floor might have heard the scritch-scritching of Sherman’s cheap slippers (courtesy the Salvation Army) scuffing the floor as he moved back to the counter where the honey bear bottle colonized with the hen salt shaker and rooster pepper shaker next to the ramshackle gas stove—the same place they’d resided all the years Sherman knew.

  Finally, Sherman’s bony bottom made contact with the seat of the tippy chair at the small round table. Hunched over the chipped ceramic bowl, holding the bear upside down over the oatmeal, Sherman waited for the honey to drip. He had no choice but to wait. The arthritis made it near impossible to squeeze even the tiniest bit.

  Before the honey came, Sherman sighed. He took a peek behind him, down the hallway. “Damn!” he mumbled. “I got oatmeal and I got honey. Horace may be a pain in my ass, but he ain’t got no coffee.” He shook his head. “Damn, stinkin’ coffee.”

  Flipping the bear back upright, he set it onto the tabletop with a thump. He looked down the hall, sighed one more time, then rose from the chair slow as a sloth and began the long, laborious ritual of bundling up for a cold, even more laborious walk to the Seven Ee-leven.

  “Hey there, Sherm!” Nancy bellowed from behind the counter. She smiled so broadly that her chubby cheeks pushed her eyes nearly half-closed.

  “Damn, Nanc, you look like a crazy China-woman when you smile like that. Anyone ever tell ya that?”

  “Why, yes, Sherm,” she laughed. “You, as a matter of fact.”

  “Then why you still do it?”

  “To give you sumthin’ to complain about.” She patted her stomach when she talked and didn’t stop smiling. It was Nancy’s way.

  Evidently, she didn’t care if she looked like a crazy China-woman or not.

  “So what can we get ya today, Sherm?”

  “Can o’ Folgers,” Sherman answered, shuffling in the same direction as always.

  “For Horace?” she asked.

  “Who else? I told ya a thousand times, I can’t stand the smell of it, much less the taste. Stuff rots your gut.” He had made a successful trip to the coffee aisle, picked a can off the shelf and returned to Nancy’s register, where he began the slow motion effort of opening his tattered coin purse. “It’ll probably kill him,” said Sherman, counting out quarters, dimes and nickels one at a time onto the cold counter, “if the laziness don’t first. He should be walkin’ here himself—get up off his feet ever once in a while. He’s just an idiotic old fart. Oughta put him in a home. Let someone else take care of him.”

  “You love your brother, Sherman Foster. I know ya do.” Nancy was getting that sad look on her face again. It bothered Sherman. Sure enough, he didn’t like the China-woman look, but that sad-as-a-lost-puppy look was even spookier. Someone really should have a talk with that woman.

  He clinked a final coin onto the counter. “That enough, Nanc?”

  She counted out the coins, which totaled a dollar fifty-three. The coffee cost three dollars and ninety-nine cents, not including tax.

  “That’s enough, Sherm,” she said. “You be good now. See ya tomorrow?”

  “Not if I can help it! This oughta last him least a week for cryin’ out loud,” moaned Sherman, making his tortoise-like way to the door.

  “Right. Well, say ‘Hey’ to Tina when you see her,” said Nancy, who then turned her attention to another customer.

  Sherman shook his head and wondered to himself. Tina? Who’s Tina?

  Snowflakes had started to fall—monstrously luscious snowflakes, floating to the ground like the feathers of angels wings. Once outside, Sherman stopped and looked to the sky. “Snow. Who’s gonna shovel this crap? Sure ain’t gonna be that lazy bum, Horace.”

  A young girl stood next to him, looking skyward, eyes shining. “I love the snow,” she whispered.

  Grumbling and angling his head toward the sidewalk he began the long shuffle back to the house where he and his brother had spent years growing from boys to men, so long, long ago.

  He passed the big field where they played cops and robbers, and where in winter, they would sail like the wind down the heaven-kissing hill on toboggans. That was when snow was a dream, not a nightmare.

  He passed the cemetery where they’d buried Mother, and then Father, who just didn’t want to live without her no more.

  He passed Pearl O’Leary’s house—the woman who broke his heart. Of course, Pearl didn’t live there no more, b
ut her granddaughter did, and every once in a while, when she visited the girl, she would stop in and say “Hey!” to Sherman and Horace. She always complimented Sherman on how kind he was to take care of Horace the way he did, bein’ like a nurse and all. “You’re a good man, Sherman,” she’d say.

  “Ach—he’s a bum. Oughta put him in a home.”

  “You ain’t foolin’ me,” she’d answer, “You love your brother, Sherman. I know it.”

  Back in his house, which wasn’t much warmer than the air outside, Sherman shook off the snow, hung his ratty coat on its hook, laid his hat and gloves carefully on the radiator nearby, then made his arthritic way to the coffee pot on the stove.

  “Hey, Horace!” Sherman shouted down the hall. “You’ll have yer stinkin’ coffee soon! Don’t go yellin’ fer it ‘cuz I don’t wanna hear yer caterwaulin’.”

  Dog-tired from his grueling walk, Sherman decided to have a sit on the sofa in the living room. Take some weight off his feet for just a few minutes—just while the coffee perked up. As happened on most days, he laid his head down and drifted off.

  When Tina came at her usual time, she found a familiar scene—open can of coffee on the counter, a pot percolating furiously over the flame of the single functioning burner left on the stove, and Uncle Sherman asleep on the living room couch.

  She took the red can, opened the small door of the pantry, and placed it next to the others that filled the four lined shelves. She counted them. Twenty-one. Twenty-one cans of Folgers. She threw away the empty can, but knew that miraculously, she would find it on the counter when she returned the next day.

  After cleaning up, she covered Uncle Sherman with the quilt and waited. When he woke up, she would sit and tell him again. Tell him that Uncle Horace had passed peacefully in his sleep nearly a month ago now. She would ask Uncle Sherman, didn’t he remember? Didn’t he remember finding Horace in bed that morning, and the lovely funeral when they buried him next to Uncle Fred and Aunt Mimi? Didn’t he remember?