10
BUNNY
I didn’t touch anything at first.
Quilts and sheets Jay had hung as curtains glowed in the afternoon sun like the sooty stained glass of a medieval church. In the middle of the room, his rickety picnic table was piled high with books and papers. One book called The Science of Codes lay open, dog-eared and yellowed with age. Another book jumped out at me: An American Tragedy, an equally weathered, two-volume set. His cot was unmade, the sheets twisted into a tight ball. His Purple Heart and an assortment of photographs of soldiers were pinned to the fabric above his bed, all askew. On his dresser, among old cologne bottles and empty film cartons, was a worn photo of Robbie. He sat at the end of the rowboat, shirtless, fishing pole in hand. I picked it up. On the back, it was dated June 8, 1943.
In his dresser, I found clothes shoved in haphazardly, mismatched socks rolled together and undershirts in wads, and in the bottom drawer, a jumble of camera equipment, but no journal. I searched under his bed and came across the shoes from the crime scene wrapped in a paper bag. Letitia must have returned them to him, or he took them away from her when she was distracted.
I cleared the bottles of liquor and a pair of muddy shoes off the top of his military trunk at the foot of his bed. I pulled on the top a few times before I realized it wasn’t stuck but locked. A thin gap opened between the trunk’s lid—which had been warped with use—and the base. I struggled with it until I heard voices coming around the edge of the conservatory. I swiftly crossed the room and plunged deeper into the house.
I considered hiding in the bathroom-cum-darkroom, but I didn’t want to get trapped, so I found myself in a dusty, unused dining room. A thin ribbon of light peeked between the heavy brocade curtains, hitting the crystal chandelier and casting brilliant fragments on the opposite wall. I wedged myself between wainscoting and a large china cabinet.
I listened for the squeak of the porch’s door, but I heard nothing, not even the murmur of voices. I held my breath and concentrated. Silence—not even the whine of cicadas. I stepped out of the shadow, and then the doorbell—presumably to the front door—chimed. It was loud and metallic. I leapt back into the shadow.
Slow and steady footsteps emerged from some distant corner of the house, muffled by carpet, then loud again, moving closer and closer. I debated whether to dash through the dining room and out Jay’s porch or to stay put. When I heard Letitia’s clunky shoes knocking at the floorboards in the next room, I flattened myself against the wall.
She cursed at the doorbell, mumbled something about door-to-door salesmen, and opened the door with a vicious tug. Light poured in, illuminating the rich reds and browns of the carved three-quarters stairway. I heard the voices of two other people, a man and a woman.
“Mrs. Greenwood,” the man said.
“Yes.”
“We need to speak to you. May we come in?” the woman said.
“I’m in the middle of something.”
“This is very important,” the man said.
“Say what you’ve come to say right here. I’m not letting a soul past this door. The house isn’t prepared to receive company.”
“It’s about your grandson,” the woman said.
“What about him?”
“His behavior.”
“Say what you’ve come to say, or I’m closing this door.”
“Your grandson is a deviant, an invert,” the man said. “You know that.”
Silence.
“I don’t want him anywhere near my daughter,” he continued.
“He isn’t bothering anyone.”
“He corrupted my son, and now he’s after Ceola.”
“That’s nonsense. He’s a good boy.”
“Our Robbie was a good boy!” Margery cried. So it was Ceola’s parents at the door. The door hinges squeaked and then stopped. It seemed Letitia was trying to close the door on them. “Our son was a good, brave boy, who gave his life—”
“Jay’s a good boy too. You don’t know what he’s suffered. How he’s still suffering.”
I recalled Letitia’s frail body in those floppy yellow gloves and big muck boots. She was a force to be reckoned with. She didn’t give a damn what people thought of her. Although the struggle with the Blisses was primarily a verbal one, I imagined her pushing the door closed on them, digging her heels into the wood, dropping her thin shoulders for more leverage. Like B-movie werewolves, the Blisses clawed at the front door, their nails tearing at the paint, teeth gnashing.
For a moment, I thought I might help Letitia. “Go away!” I would yell. “Leave her alone.” But I remained silent, listening as she shut the door.
I heard Margery say, “Some of us have suffered more than others,” before the lock clicked into place.
Letitia didn’t move for some time. Then she said, “Fools,” and left the hall, her shoes slapping the wood as she retreated to the other side of the house.
I wanted to run to her and tell her I loved Jay, that although I didn’t fully understand him, I knew he wasn’t a deviant. But that would’ve been unwise, to say the least. I would have to explain to her why I was in the house, that when I discovered Ceola’s note in the tree calling a meeting with Jay, I had felt marginalized again. I would have to tell her I decided to snoop while he and Ceola were rendezvousing. But I knew I wouldn’t have time to explain any of that; if she saw me, she would head straight for her shotgun.
I counted to ten, stepped out of the shadows, and made my way back to Jay’s lair. I took a few minutes to put things back in order. I didn’t want Jay to know I’d been there. As I was doing so, the corner of a piece of paper, sticking out from under the lid of Jay’s locked trunk, caught my eye. I recognized its powder-blue color. I must have dislodged it while tugging on the lid. With little effort, it slid out. Its size and feel were immediately familiar to me. It was the first page of Lily’s letter Jay told us he had found in Frank Vellum’s garbage:
May 22, 1945
Jay,
You know what it’s like to be from the mountains and to be so trapped. The city is the only place I could be really, truly happy. I imagine you feel the same way. And yet here we are. You in Royal Oak, me in Jitters Gap. Can you picture us, the three of us, living fancy-free in DC at the Howard and having nights out on the town? Oh, I want to feel that free!
I’m tickled you and I stumbled on each other. Those backstreet places aren’t the dark, seedy dives everyone makes them out to be. I can do without the pushy girls at the Showboat or the boys in uniform at Carroll’s (but I’m sure you don’t mind a look!). Croc’s is a good place, but that Teddie B.—where does she get those get-ups? What a mess! Oh, but I wish I was there now.
So I should get to the point. I really need your help. I’m pregnant. That no-good bastard Billy forced himself on me this winter even after I told him many times …
She was his friend. He knew her well, from the beginning.
I felt like I had been struck in the stomach by something heavy; I sat on the edge of his cot to catch my breath. To have lied so boldly to Ceola and me was simply astonishing.
My mind bounced from question to question like a ball in a pinball machine. What were these “backstreet places” she mentioned? The Showboat, Carroll’s, Croc’s? Were they bars? Dance clubs? What about the Howard? Was it a boardinghouse? A hotel? Who was Teddie B.? And what did Lily mean when she wrote Jay wouldn’t “mind a look” at the boys in uniform?
The old questions returned too. Where was Lily’s body? Who was George? What about Aunt Kathy? Was Billy or was Frank responsible for Lily’s disappearance and murder, or was it someone else, perhaps Bernice Hersh, the pharmacist’s wife, or—and I didn’t want to admit it—Jay himself? It seemed impossible that he could be responsible for her murder, so I pushed the thought from my mind. But what was his relationship to her? Had she been his girlfriend? I now knew undeniably that he had misled us, so everything he had shown us or said to us was in question.
I wanted
another look at the photos he’d taken of her. So I searched his room again, checking under the bed and in his dresser a second time. I didn’t know how to pick the lock on the trunk, but I did give his darkroom a thorough going over. I couldn’t find a single print, which was odd. I decided the photos must be in the trunk, but I couldn’t break it open without giving away that I’d been snooping. Since I couldn’t see the photos, I decided I’d do the next best thing and return to the scene of the crime.
A quarter of an hour later, I found myself again perched on top of the boulder, staring down at the rocky terrain where Jay had discovered Lily’s body. The sky above was darkening with afternoon storm clouds, and the shadows shifted and deepened. I heard the breeze sweeping through the trees, coming toward me. Jay had never indicated exactly where he found Lily’s body. He’d just allowed us to interpret the location, to make our best guess. Then Ceola had discovered her shoes.
I closed my eyes and tried to summon Lily to me, but all I saw was her head twisted to one side, hair white against the dark soil, her blank white body against darkness, suspended there as if by a string, dangling just out of reach. That, of course, was the point. Focus on her. On her hair. On her dress. On her gloves. On her shoes. On the blood. But not the backdrop. Not the shape of the stones behind her. Not the contours of the earth underneath her. Although I had no proof, I felt certain Lily hadn’t been killed where Jay told us she’d been. But why?
I felt a force—that Prescott determination—rising up through me. I was going to confront Jay and demand an explanation. He would have to explain, and his response would tell me something.
Royal Oak, VA
2/15/2000
Bunny,
Wouldn’t you know it, but a “mysterious” envelope showed up on my doorstep too! It came just after I mailed my first letter to you. Someone wants us to pay attention to old times.
When I pulled the photo out of the envelope and saw her again, chills came over me, toes to fingertips. That made me start thinking about it, everything that happened that summer—what Jay was trying show us and the horrible things that happened because of it.
I also thought about everything that happened afterward. Things I don’t think you know about, or if you do, it’s second- or third-hand.
Papa was charged with assault for what he did. But did you know that even though he was acquitted, he still lost his job at Dixie Dew? Maybe you did. It was hard on us, even though he deserved it. He spent years working at Hills’ dairy farm and died with a bottle in his hand, literally.
Mama had to go to work too. She scrubbed floors and bathrooms in the big homes on North Street, like the one you grew up in. She doubled over mopping Milly Evans’s kitchen floor. Struck dead at age 70. But I’ll be the first to say it, her bitterness kept her alive too long. Oh, now I’m just rambling on …
So what do we do? Whoever sent the photos wants us to talk. Should we?
-C
11
CEOLA
When I was in my thirties, I ran into Sylvester Hughes, of all places, outside of Hersh’s Pharmacy. Remember him, Robbie? Would you have known him? He was that nice black man who worked for Letitia Greenwood for a time, before the money from the sale of Dixie Dew ran dry. He was sitting outside the pharmacy on a bench, sipping a milk shake. His long torso was bent with age, and his face was baggy and scored with wrinkles. We exchanged howdy-dos and talked about Dixie Dew for a while. I asked him how many years he worked for the Greenwoods, and he pouted his lips and shook his head.
“Five or so,” he said, his voice deep and rough, but easy to understand. “Mrs. Greenwood was demanding. I tell you, she could keep you busy from sunup to sundown. That woman had endless energy, and she always expected me to move at the same rate she was moving. Good Lord, I remember the day she hit me with a broom because I wasn’t sweeping the back porch fast enough. She just snatched it from my hands and swatted me in the bottom with it. ‘Mr. Hughes, you’re a ne’er-do-well!’ she said, her face beet red, about to spit fire. I just smiled at her. She gave me a mean look and said, ‘An imperturbable ne’er-do-well at that.’ She left me alone for the rest of the day. Imperturbable—what a word to come out of that lady! I guess you could say we understood each other. But I can’t say I liked it.”
“How about Jay?”
He guided the straw to his mouth, his fingers like tentacles, moving slow and gentle, not fumbling or fidgeting, and took a sip of his shake. “He didn’t talk to me much. Mrs. Greenwood wouldn’t allow it. He’d come home from school and she’d send him directly to the study. After a bit, she’d join him and help him with his homework. I could hear them when I was working in the kitchen. Her voice was different. Gentler. The only times I heard her laugh—or the young man, to think of it—was through the walls of that room.”
“So she was good to him?”
He caught me with those dark eyes of his. He knew my story. He knew what I wanted to know.
“In one way of thinking, she treated him like a prince. She loved him and wanted to keep him safe. In another way of thinking, he was her prisoner.” He rubbed his knee. “What’s all the attention and knowledge in this world, if you don’t have your freedom?”
“I see what you mean.”
Papa used to say that if you know a man’s family, you know him. I don’t think you can know everything about a person from his family, but you can get a pretty good idea. Not long after I ran into Sylvester at the drugstore, I began asking everyone, anyone, about Jay and his family. Mama and Papa wouldn’t talk to me about the Greenwoods, but other people, particularly the First Presbyterian Church ladies in their bouffants, pastel knit suits, and pearl chokers, would. Letitia, from time to time, still attended church, so even when I was an adult, gossip about her was still alive and well. Sam and I, just newlyweds then, joined the church, and I began nosing around, always the detective, I guess. Missy West, Barbara King, and Amy Matthews, whose husband I worked for at Twin Oaks after Sam’s death, were all, at one point in time, close friends of Letitia’s, and all of them wanted to spill the beans on the Greenwoods.
Over time, I pieced together their stories.
The part that has to do with Jay, the only part worth mentioning, began the night Georgie Greenwood knelt in the middle of the Harvest Ball and asked Betty Blackwell for her hand in marriage. Missy West told me the whole story while we were arranging flowers on the altar one Saturday. Supposedly, when Betty said yes, friends and family applauded and popped up from their seats, napkins falling from their laps and glasses overturning on the tables. Georgie kissed her, bending her back in his arms.
“Georgie and Betty seemed to promise a bright future for our little town,” Missy said. “You don’t remember this, but the walls of that ballroom were at one time painted with murals of cattle farmers, salt miners, and local tradesmen, all depicted hard at work, milking cows or hauling salt or stitching quilts or what have you, and behind them, completing the scene, were our blue mountains and valleys of pink rhododendron. Georgie and Betty fit right in, like they had been painted there too.”
Over coffee at the Pie Shop, Barbara King told me George Greenwood Sr. took the engagement as a sign his son was settling down and would soon take over the family business. She explained that George Sr. had toyed with the formula for Sid’s Snappy Soda and had reintroduced it as Snap Cola, which was well on its way to becoming a hit. So he needed his son to take on greater responsibility at Dixie Dew and behave like a proper heir apparent.
“Betty, the dear,” Barbara said, after another sip of coffee, “tempered Georgie’s wild streak—well, for a time.”
Soon Jason George Greenwood was born. His grandmother was particularly fond of him, always cooing over him, calling him her “beautiful boy.” But after Jay’s birth, the marriage began to crack.
“Rumor had it Georgie was stepping out with some horrible girl in Washington,” Barbara said, dropping her voice and leaning in, “but no one had proof. About the time whispers of his
infidelity became parlor gossip—which of course is their first stop before becoming stone-cold fact—news of the terrible car accident came, and the scandal quickly became a downright tragedy. Just awful.”
The entire town went into mourning. George Sr. proceeded to drink himself into a stupor and lose control of Dixie Dew, selling it to Wayne Prescott in 1933 and dying soon after.
After saying my good-byes to Barbara, I went to the library and looked up the article about the accident. The Royal Oak Times reported that the couple had been driving back from a late-night party in DC. Georgie had gunned his car to beat the 12:20 freight train to the Culler’s Mountain crossing. The Duesenberg won the race initially but bounded over the tracks at an awkward angle, couldn’t manage a sharp right turn, and collided with the cliff on the other side, rolling back under the passing train. Betty was thrown from the car, her neck broken on impact. Georgie was still in the car when it toppled, side-over-side, underneath the moving train. Under the headline two dead at culler’s crossing, a photograph of the mangled black Duesenberg peered out, its silver fender bent out of shape like a crooked smile.
“Can you imagine?” Amy Matthews said over dessert at a church picnic, her white-gloved hands darting back and forth. “Letitia went through all of it. The confusion, the grieving, the loneliness. As a young lady, she wasn’t a beauty, but she had a sparkle, a real intelligence, I remember. That must’ve been what intrigued George Greenwood.”
George and Letitia fell in love, married, and made a happy home together, but she nearly died giving birth to Georgie and, because of it, couldn’t have a second child. She had wanted a large family. To make peace with her situation, she poured all her love into raising the one son, spoiling him, by all accounts. When Georgie entered school, she became involved in Junior League and dedicated herself to the community, toiling away at the church bazaar and set-designing the Harvest Ball. Royal Oak society followed her lead. Dixie Dew Bottling Company thrived, and for years she was queen of the town.
Dodging and Burning Page 14
