After a few minutes, a tall, thin woman who looked like she had just been to the beauty parlor walked up, extended a gloved hand, and asked, "And you are?"
"Nick Williams. Friend of the family."
"Nick Will... Oh yes, oh my." She paused for a moment. "Well, welcome to Albany, Mr. Williams. I hope you get a chance to meet one of our Georgia peaches while you're here." She put one gloved hand to her powdered face and thought for a moment. "Yoo hoo!" she called. "Marjorie!"
A short, plump woman walked over. We had already met.
"Yes, Dolores?"
"What about Paula Stewart?" Dolores looked me over.
"I don't know. Isn't she going with that banker from Thomasville?"
"What's a banker when there's a millionaire?"
They both twittered. Marjorie said, "Oh, you must think we are simply awful, Mr. Williams. But this is what we do. We have to get our young ladies married off." She looked at me appraisingly. "I'm sure the right girl..." Her voice trailed off. The innuendo was clear.
I stood there for a moment. I didn't want to be rude. So, I just said, "Well, since you ladies are both taken, I don't think there's any hope for me at all."
They both twittered again. Marjorie clutched her chest and said, "Oh, Mr. Williams, I could be your mother."
With a twinkle in her eye and looking very pleased, Dolores added, "You are a bad, bad man."
They walked off, twittering together, and left me in peace. For a moment, at least.
Eileen from the hotel was suddenly standing in front of me. She was still angry. Even more so, from the looks of it.
"How are you enjoying your stay in Albany, Mr. Williams?" Her voice was dripping with disdain.
"It's fine. Everyone at the hotel is taking very good care of us." I smiled to see if that helped. It didn't.
"I'm so glad to hear that." Her words were the exact opposite of her meaning. "The sixth-floor maid asked me why only one bed in your suite had been slept in."
"She did?"
"Yes, she did."
I said, "Well, that is an interesting question, isn't it?" I wasn't sure what else to say.
"That's dirty and filthy. If I were the manager, I'd have thrown you both out on your ears." She hissed this with a righteous fury. "How dare you stand in this very church and flaunt your sin?"
I put on my stone face.
She continued. "That sort of thing may be overlooked in places like San Francisco, but it won't go here. I'm surprised no one has run you out of town on a rail by now!" She spat on my shoes, turned, and stalked off.
I watched her as she moved into the crowd. I thought for a moment and realized she was right. We needed to leave the hotel, if nothing else. I thought about that big silver plane sitting out at the airport. We could be gone in thirty minutes. All I had to do was to give the word. I knew that Carter would do it in a flash. The only reason we were here was to avoid Mrs. Wilson's wrath.
"Nick?"
I turned and saw that it was the other Nick from last night's party.
"Sounds so strange, doesn't it? To say your own name. You're the first Nick I've known in a long time." He extended his hand warmly. I shook it.
"Did you hear all that?" I asked.
He smiled. In a low voice, he said, "Yes. I know all about Miss Eileen. She's just a frustrated spinster. Word is she always had a crush on Carter. That's what all that was really about."
I smiled. "Good. I hope that's all it is. I was seriously thinking about making tracks."
"Oh, you can't do that. Not yet."
"How so?"
"Well, everyone knows the sheriff isn't interested in investigating the murder."
"How do you know that it was a murder?"
"Oh, honey. Everyone knows everything in this part of the world. And, you know as well as I do that, if they do investigate, the blame will not land on any fair-haired man, if you get my drift. Lynching on a tree has gone out of style around here, but lynching by jury is still practiced. A lot."
Nick looked to his side and, under his breath said, "Oh my." I glanced over to where he was looking and saw Aunt Velma walking towards us. She was arm-in-arm with a tall woman whose drawn, ashen face was topped by blonde hair that was turning gray. She carried a resigned expression on her face.
"Gotta go, toots. Good luck!" With that, Nick dashed away and was gone.
Aunt Velma walked over and said, "Louise, this is Nick Williams."
Carter's mother looked at me in the eyes but said nothing. I could play this game, so I did the same thing.
After an awkward silence, Aunt Velma said, "Mrs. Wilson's daughter, Marnie, works for Nick in San Francisco."
Silence. We just stared at each other. Finally, she blinked a couple of times and two big fat tears flowed out of her right eye, one right after the other, and down her cheek. Underneath her grief, she was beautiful in a very unexpected way. I could see why Carter was so handsome. He had her eyes.
I put out my hand, which I knew was completely wrong, and said, "I'm really sorry."
She took my hand and shook it. There was a vague warmth there, but not much.
As she dropped my hand, she dabbed her face with a lace handkerchief that Aunt Velma had handed her. Then, she asked, "Why?"
I paused and gave my answer the thought that it deserved. Finally, I said, "Because no matter how much of a son-of-a-bitch your husband might have been, no one ever deserves to be murdered."
Aunt Velma gasped. But Carter's mother cocked her head to the side and said, "Nick, you don't know the half of it."
I could feel the tears coming into my eyes, and I smiled. Much to my surprise, she pulled me into a hug and we stood there for a long moment.
As quickly as she'd embraced me, she pushed me away. She said, "I'll see you later at the house." With that, she turned and walked away from both her sister and me.
Aunt Velma said, "I've never heard anyone talk to Louise like that. Maybe I've been doing it wrong all these years."
I smiled and said, "I was just thinking about my own father, who's as much of an S.O.B. as Mr. Jones could've ever been, but with more money and more power. And I remembered how Carter talked to him a few weeks ago. I just did the same thing."
Aunt Velma took my hand, reached up, and gave me a quick peck on the week. "I'm so glad you are part of our family."
"Me, too, Aunt Velma."
. . .
I'd never been to a Southern Baptist funeral. I sat in the same row as Captain Morris and Christine. John and Roger came into the church as the service was starting. They sat with us as well, which is to say they took the space that no one else would take, which was right next to me. The church was standing-room-only except for that one spot.
The minister led the congregation in an opening prayer and then began by saying, "Today we are here to say goodbye to Brother Wilson Jones."
I turned to John with a question on my face. He whispered, "He was a deacon in the church." I nodded and wondered at that.
The minister informed us that Mr. Jones was in heaven because, just last year, he'd renewed his baptism in the very tank that sat above where the minister stood. He then took a moment and asked if there was anyone in the congregation who was feeling the call. I noticed that several people discreetly moved in their seats to look around and see who would heed this call. Not a few eyes were aimed in my direction. I had no idea what this call was, but I knew I wasn't feeling it.
John whispered, "They want you to go up there and repent your many, many, many sins."
I whispered back, "Now I know you are definitely related to Carter and that the smart-ass comes through the mother's side."
John and Roger both giggled quietly.
. . .
The rest of the service was not much different than the one for my sister Janet in May. I thought about her and wondered where she was, if there was an anywhere for her, or any of us, to go once we were dead. I wasn't sure about this and figured there would be time enough to find ou
t.
Once the service was complete, we stood as the family walked down the aisle and outside. I followed the captain and Christine. As we came to the portico where Carter and his mother were standing, with Aunt Velma and Uncle Leroy next to them, Carter grabbed my arm and put me on his right. John was pulled into place by Uncle Leroy. Roger ran off before anyone could say or do anything. I wanted to follow him, truth be told.
Most of the people who came by would look at me, look past me, and then reach for Carter. A handful shook my hand as if they had no idea who I was. And a smaller group shook my hand and called me by name.
The Mayor stopped and introduced himself to Carter. His wife nodded in my general direction but said nothing. Once they were gone, a man stopped and shook my hand.
"Mr. Williams?"
I nodded.
"My name is Byron Johnson. I'm on the hospital board. I just wanted to say..." He stopped when he heard what I heard. It sounded like someone making a hushing noise. I looked over and could see Aunt Velma waving frantically behind Carter's mother. I turned back and said, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Johnson. Thanks for coming out today." I was just parroting what I had heard Carter say. Mr. Johnson got the signal and moved on to Carter. If the mother was anything like the son, and I suspected she was, this did not go unnoticed.
Chapter 8
On the way to the cemetery
Saturday, July 18, 1953
A little past 3 in the afternoon
Carter drove the car from the church to the cemetery. We were right behind Uncle Leroy in his brand-new Lincoln. As the parade passed through town, I didn't see anyone out and about. I wondered if that was because everyone was following us. Whatever the case, I was still thinking about getting on that plane. And my sense of urgency was getting stronger and stronger.
As Carter turned right off the highway, I said, trying to keep my voice calm, "We don't have to do this. We can leave right now. All you have to do is head to the airport."
Carter was looking ahead and replied, "I want to. Believe me, Nick. But now that we're here, we can't leave this case unsolved."
"Case unsolved?" This temporarily diverted me from the growing panic.
Carter looked over at me for a moment and smiled. "Well, that's what we're here for, right?"
"And to stay on the right side of Mrs. Wilson."
Carter laughed.
I felt a little better but not much.
. . .
I stood at the back of the immense crowd, up on a slight ridge, as the pastor said his words over the coffin. Roger and the other Nick were standing with me. I was looking for Carter to see how he was faring when I heard a voice behind me ask, "Mr. Williams?"
I turned and saw a man in a uniform standing there. He was stout and was stretching his shirt to its limit. He stood just about 5'9" and had a grin on his face. He wasn't happy. He was triumphant. Suddenly, I understood the panic.
"Yes?"
"Will you come with us?"
"And you are?"
"Sheriff William Shreve. And you're under arrest."
Roger asked, "What for?"
"Suspected of sodomy, boy."
I shook my head and presented my hands forward for cuffs.
The sheriff laughed. "No need for that, you pansy. Just come with us." His deputy grabbed me by the arm and pushed me along. Over my shoulder I said, "Go tell, Carter!"
The sheriff laughed. "Your boyfriend won't be able to help you. We have proof. You're going up for ten years." He lowered his voice. "Up to the Georgia State Prison in Reidsville where they'll teach you what bein' a faggot really means."
I shook my head again and realized I felt better. Nothing like getting the inevitable over with.
. . .
At the Dougherty County Jail, there wasn't much going on. It only took about thirty minutes to take mug shots, get fingerprints, and fill out my card. The jail supervisor himself took care of it all personally. He wouldn't look at me in the eye as he did, which I thought was a gleam of good news. I was allowed to keep all my clothes, but they took my wallet, my checkbook, and my keys while leaving me with my watch and that was about it.
I'd been in a couple of jails in my life, but never behind bars. The supervisor led me to the very end of a row of empty cells and locked me in. This was on the second floor. There was an opening about two feet wide and three feet high with an iron grate embedded in concrete to discourage anyone from trying to leave. From what I could see, there was a window, but it was pinned open to the outside wall for the summer. The prison was hot and humid and the only air came in through the opening.
The Dougherty County Courthouse was directly across from the jail. As I looked out, I could see Carter pulling up in the Buick. He got out, and John was with him. I called out through the square openings in the iron grate, "Hey, Chief!"
Carter stopped in the middle of the street and looked around. Finally, he saw me and he smiled. That was all I needed. I knew everything was going to be OK.
. . .
Whatever they had come to the jail to do happened without my participation. I heard the car horn and jumped to the window. Carter saw me and shrugged. Then he winked. He and John both got in the car and slowly drove away.
. . .
The next interaction I had with anyone was when I got my first meal around 6. It was brought to me by the jail supervisor. His name was Mr. Sterling, and he told me that the sheriff didn't want me mixing with the rest of the prisoners, for some reason, so he would be bringing me all my meals while I was there. He also said this was some of the best food in the county. After I ate, I couldn't disagree with him. The fried chicken was almost better than Mattie's.
Lights out happened at 10. I had already slung my coat across the back of the one chair in the cell. I slipped out of my shoes, socks, shirt, and trousers. I folded them up neatly and stretched out on the cot in my undershirt and BVDs. It was hot and humid and I was soaked in my own sweat as I lay there in the dark.
The cot wasn't the most uncomfortable place I'd ever slept, but it was close. Around 3, something woke me up. I stood up and walked over to the window. It was raining and a little cooler. In the dim light of a street lamp, I could see the Buick parked on the curb right under my window.
I whistled. I'm not good at whistling so it sounded more like a hen that might be dying. The dashboard light in the car came on, and I watched as Carter got out and very quietly closed the door. He leaned against the car in the rain and just stood there with his arms crossed. I wondered why they hadn't arrested him, but I was very happy they hadn't.
I pressed my face against the grate and watched him watching me. I stood there as he got drenched and remembered, one more time, the first time I'd seen him. I knew this wouldn't be the last time I'd see him, but I didn't like sleeping alone. I didn't care if it was in a jail cell. That would take care of itself. I just didn't want to be alone, and I knew he didn't either.
The rain began to taper off and finally stopped. Carter just stood there watching me and I just stood where I was and watched him. Neither of us spoke. Even though I was locked up, and I couldn't reach out and hold his hand, I felt closer than ever to the big guy who was standing vigil for me. Steam began to rise from the wet pavement. The air was still thick and barely cooled off from the rain. If anything, it was hotter now that the rain had ended.
I don't know how much time had passed but suddenly I realized Carter needed to go back to the hotel and get into dry clothes. Using my normal speaking voice, I said, "You won't do me any good if you get a cold."
Carter shook his head. "I'm not goin' anywhere, son."
I shook my head. "Go on, Chief. I'll be fine. They're taking good care of me in here."
Carter shook his head again. He was definitely his mother's son.
Finally, I played my trump card. "You gotta go get the you-know-what out of the you-know-where, Chief."
This got his attention. He mouthed, "I love you." And I nodded. He got in the car and drove off
.
. . .
After our trip to Washington in June and following some conversations with Andy, I realized that whenever we traveled, we needed to carry a lot of cash with us for just this very reason. Andy had told us that there were folks in the Bureau who wanted to arrest us for sodomy but since that was a state affair, they couldn't. We might need bail money handy, however, if we got caught in a jurisdiction where the local authorities were feeling a little trigger happy.
This was our first out-of-state trip since we'd made this decision and the cash had been stowed in the Connie in a briefcase with the rest of the luggage. When Carter and Captain Riddle had been unloading the plane after we arrived, Carter had told the captain to keep that one briefcase in the hold and to be ready to get it on a moment's notice. I assumed it was still there.
. . .
Mr. Sterling brought me breakfast around 6. As I was thanking him, he said, "You need to avoid any more late night visits, Mr. Williams. You were lucky I was on the watch. Otherwise, you might have found yourself in the hole."
I quietly nodded. I could do almost anything, but I didn't think I could handle the hole, which was, in most places, a dark space with very little room to move where prisoners were sent when they weren't able to be controlled or when they were being punished. I'd heard horror stories about such places over the years, and I knew I couldn't survive a situation like that.
. . .
Sunday went by slowly. Around noon, Mr. Sterling brought me lunch and a book of crosswords along with a pencil to pass the time.
As he put down the tray, he said, "The puzzle on page 37 is one of the hardest ones in the book. Give it a look and see what you think."
"Thanks, Mr. Sterling, I will."
He left and I opened the book. Inserted between pages 36 and 37 was a small folded-over note. It was from Carter.
Boss – Found what we wanted. Mama's on to us about the jam. You're in big trouble. I'd stay in there if I were you. See you Monday. Your ever lovin Chief
I leaned back on the cot and read the note over and over and over again.
. . .
"They'll be sending you across the street for arraignment at 10."
The Laconic Lumberjack (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 4) Page 7
