“But . . . ” Albert stroked his beard. He had felt so secure behind it.
“Ah! Traveling incognito, are we?” Runyon.
He was disguised, too! Albert had been trying to place the accent. Definitely English, but not like Heather’s. Yorkshire overlaid with Oxford. He’d probably gone to school there.
“Well, perhaps I’m more observant than most.” Runyon rubbed his hands together, slapped his knees, stood up, scratched his head and sat down, but never took his eyes off Albert. “It’s the eyes, you see?” He drew imaginary circles around his own. “Distinctive.
“I’m a great fan, you know? Yes,” he nodded. “Daunted, I must say, when I realized who you were. Speechless, in fact.”
Albert shuddered to think what might happen if he were talkative.
“So, Mr. Elmo,” Runyon put a hand on each knee, spread them as far apart as possible and leaned to within inches of Albert’s face. “What brings you, of all people, to my humble aerie?”
“I need to know who Robert is,” said Albert. He’d had plenty of time to frame the question.
“I beg your pardon?” said Runyon. “Robert who?”
On ‘who,’ Runyon leaned even closer and grinned like a cat that Albert had seen once in a children’s book. Albert leaned back. “I don’t know,” he said. “Sarah said you could tell me.”
“Sarah is – someone I know?”
“Grandy.”
“Sarah Grandy! Of course. Of course! A most delightful woman, to be sure.” Runyon exclaimed, leaning back and embracing the world with his outstretched arms. He removed a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from his pocket, put them on, and looked at Albert through them. “Now, as to Robert. Robert is someone local?”
Albert nodded.
“Ah! Living?”
Albert shook his head.
“I haven’t played Twenty Questions in ever so long!” He leaned in again with a predatory smile. “Twentieth century?”
Albert had always been a little confused about that. They called the nineteen hundreds the 20th century and the eighteen hundreds the 19th century – or was it the other way around? Either way, they didn’t call it whatever made sense. “Late 1890’s,” he opted, remembering Sarah’s comment about Lizzie’s dress in the picture.
“Ah! Late 1890’s,” Runyon exclaimed. He jumped to his feet and picked his way through the boxes toward a row of books on the dashboard. “Local . . . Robert . . . ” he was scanning the books. He turned and lobbed Albert a searching look over his glasses and knitted his eyebrows. “Very popular name at the time, you know? Robert E. Lee and all.”
“Just Robert,” said Albert with a smile. That should make things easier.
Runyon was still lobbing and knitting. “To be sure,” he said, after a brief silence. He boxed the glasses up his nose and went back to business. “Here, thePolk County Register, 1897! That should do it!” He withdrew the slim book and reseated himself across from Albert. “I became interim caretaker for some of the town’s official records after the court house fire.” He flipped several pages, running his fingers down the columns, as if absorbing the information by Braille. “That was, what? Twelve, thirteen years ago?
“Let’s see; here’s a Robert Anderson?” He arched his eyebrows to pull his eyes above his glasses and looked at Albert through a stray clump of hair. “Sound familiar?”
It didn’t.
He consulted the register again. “Cuthbertson?”
No.
Several other Roberts were briefly disinterred from their historical niches, in alphabetical order, laid briefly upon the alter, rejected, and consigned once again to oblivion.
“DuShane?”
Albert looked up. “DuShane?”
“Robert Lee DuShane,” Runyon read. “See what I said about Robert E. Lee?”
Albert didn’t know Robert E. Lee, but he wished he’d stop creeping into the conversation.
Runyon continued reading. “‘Born, 1880. Father, Ambrose DuShane.” He looked at Albert over his glasses. “Ambrose was a carpetbagger, from your neck of the woods, I believe. New Hampshire. Came south to make his fortune just after the Civil War. The War of Brothers, as I call it.” He laughed and waited as if expecting Albert to say something. He waited in vain.
“Yes. Mm. Succeeded quite well, too,” said Runyon. He read on: “Mother, Marydale Antrim Abernathy.”
“Antrim?”
“Abernathy,” Runyon corrected.
“Her middle name . . . you said Antrim?”
Runyon re-read. “So I did. Antrim. Ah, yes. Marydale’s mother was an Antrim, I believe. She died young. Probably during childbirth.” He searched Albert for a while, but without finding what he was looking for. “That’s our Robert, then?”
“Yes,” said Albert. Something told him it was. It had to be. That other possibilities never occurred to Albert, substantially eased the process of deduction.
Robert DuShane had gotten Kathleen Antrim pregnant.
“Will you tell me what you know about him?”
“Happily! Happily my dear man!” said Runyon. “But, could I impose upon you – I’m curious you see – why do you wish to know? What are you looking for?”
Albert told him and showed him the letter.
Runyon didn’t say anything for a long time when he’d finished reading. “My, my,” he said finally. “Well, well. That must have made things very sticky on that side of the street.”
“Sticky?”
“To be sure. Let’s go back to the beginning . . . now let me see,” Runyon replied. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and folded his hands behind his head. “Robert DuShane –if that’s the Robert Kathleen is addressing – went off to college, somewhere. I don’t recall off the top of my head.”
Albert could barely remember where he went to college, much less anyone else. He allowed himself to be in awe.
“That might have been where he was going when this letter was written.
“In all events, war intervened. Mexican-American. And he enlisted. Had some kind of injury, as I recall. Lost his foot or something.
“Came back to Tryon, worked under his father at the factory.” He looked at Albert parenthetically. “Textiles, you know.” He re-closed his eyes. “Then, took over when the old man handed in his final time card.
“Married a woman named – Louisa, I think. Her mother was first generation Italian. Father was one of the Landrum Wentworth’s. I can look it up, if you like,” he began to rise.
“No,” said Albert, just above a whisper. Here was a man who knew everything that he didn’t. How could he contain it all? What was he looking at when his eyes were closed, roaming their sockets? Albert closed his eyes. All he saw was spots and an assortment of notes he’d yet to find a place for.
“Anyway,” Runyon continued, unaware of the affect he was producing in the mind of his hearer, “they produced a son named Marchant, 1907 or eight, thereabouts. They called him M.W. Obviously, he’s the one young DuShane’s named after. Only child.
“That’s when the family fortune went into decline. M.W. had a predilection for the only habit more expensive than two-legged fillies, that being the four-legged variety.”
“Filly?” said Albert.
“The ponies,” Runyon said with a wink. “This is the country for them. You noticed our Morris, I’m sure.”
Albert hadn’t noticed anybody’s Morris. He advertised the fact with his face.
“Surely you noticed the big wooden horse in the middle of town?”
Albert tried to envision the middle of town. All he came up with was a hazy memory of the cigarette rack in the 7-11 and a snapshot of his first meeting with Cindy. All else was a blur.
“Well, he’s fiberglass now, of course. His predecessor caught fire – ” Runyon could see that he was losing his audience. “Never mind,” he said. “Anyway, horses are very popular hereabouts. No shortage of opportunity for the occasional flutter of a few bob.”
Having no mental
room for fluttering Bobs, Albert slid off the hook altogether.
“I thought he gambled.”
“Yes,” said Runyon, after the briefest hesitation. “I should have spoken more plainly. He was a gambler, to be sure. Precisely what he was. And a very poor one, I gather.”
“I have to go,” said Albert without preamble. He’d seen balloons burst, and felt that was what his head was about to do, and he didn’t want to be there when it happened. He got up and opened the door. He’d forgotten the drop-off. It gave him vertigo.
He held the door casing and let himself gently down to the granite ledge. Runyon accompanied him. “Anyway, that’s why it must have been sticky on that side of the street. It would seem that young Robert DuShane had apparently failed in his promise to return for Kathleen and claim the child.
“What does he do instead? Marries a local girl and moves into the family manse. Then, some years later, Kathleen moves back to the scene of the crime, as it were – two doors along. Well, I shouldn’t think there was much borrowing of sugar among neighbors.”
“Sticky,” said Albert, beginning to understand. Maybe Runyon was one of those people who began to make sense if you just let them talk enough.
“In spades,” Runyon concurred with a mischievous smile.
“He would have known that the boy next door – Kathleen’s son – was his son, too. Wouldn’t he?”
“Given the boy’s name – Robertson – I should think he rather had his nose rubbed in it, though that probably hadn’t been Kathleen’s intention when she’d named the child. At that time, of course, she was still expecting him to come back into her life.
“However, when she came back to town – to the way things were – one could imagine the name acquiring something of an edge, as it were. That is, if she was the typical woman scorned. I, personally, have no knowledge one way or the other.”
Albert thought he might adopt that as his motto. “Thank you for your help,” he said, clinging to the side of the camper and working his way along the cliff.
There was too much to remember. He should have brought a tape recorder. He felt that, if allowed to go on, Runyon would tell him everything there was to know about everything there is – it was probably all in those books.
“I say,” said Runyon, standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry if I bored you. I have a tendency to run on a bit, I’ve been told.” He stepped down and followed Albert toterra firmerer.
Albert had stopped and was looking at an old purple moped that was leaning against a tree, coquettishly draped in a blue plastic tarp festooned with pine sprills. He stroked the seat.
“Allow me to introduce you, Professor. Agnes, the Professor. Professor, Agnes,” said Runyon with a gracious bow in each direction. “Short forAgnus Dei,” he explained. “For the prayer I uttered whenever I rode her.”
“Does it go?”
“‘Go’ is perhaps too strong a term,” Runyon replied with a smile. “On the flat she hums along respectably, and downhill definitely prompts one to consider an afterlife, especially since the brakes are of dubious merit, shall we say? Uphills, though, are not in her vocabulary – a bit of a drawback hereabouts – though she does make a marvelous noise in the effort.
“Which is why I finally broke down and got that.” He nodded toward a big, black motorbike with lots of shiny silver and a thick leather seat. “Traded a banshee for a behemoth. But one to which sheer vertical inclines pose not the slightest impediment. Bought it from a Hell’s Angel who found religion. Good price.”
“May I have this one?” said Albert, stroking the tarp.
“You mean, you’d like to buy it?”
Albert hadn’t thought of that. “Alright,” he said.
Suddenly Albert’s blood was at a boil. His brain was filled with the memory of bicycle rides of his youth. The wind pillowing his ears with irregular rhythms. Rain thittering off his glasses and running down his neck. It was a freedom he hadn’t known since. He took off the tarp, bundled it up, and tossed it aside.
That Agnes had clearly seen better days – and a good many of them – he didn’t notice. That the wide leather seat was covered with cracks and bursting at the seams, and a spongy foam was showing through in several places, he didn’t care. Nor that she hadn’t been bathed since conception. Like a virgin groom at the first sight of cleavage, his eyes were clouded to a thousand and one imperfections, and he who spoke ill of Agnes would do so at his peril.
The negotiations were concluded with a nod. Runyon had named a price, and Albert had agreed. They shook hands. One day Albert would call Mrs. Bridges and tell her to send Runyon some money.
“She comes with a helmet,” said Runyon, sweetening the bargain. He opened a small compartment under the camper. Tossing several artifacts aside with a brief commentary on each, he at last produced a dingy purple helmet covered with sparkles. “Here we are!” he said. He buffed it with his elbow and handed it to Albert, who put it on.
Once the Queen of England had given him a medal, tapped him on the shoulders with a sword and called him ‘Sir’. Everyone at the School had been very excited. Of course, they’d never been given a purple helmet with sparkles.
Best of all, it fit perfectly – unless he tipped his head too far forward. Or backward. Or to either side.
Albert got on the bike and sat with his head erect.
Once again, life had taken an unexpected turn.
Runyon gave Albert a tour of Agnes’s mechanical mysteries and confided all her secrets and foibles.
“Mind you, she’s solid as a rock,” he said in conclusion.
This reminded Albert of something. “Rocks,” he said. He took off the helmet and placed it on the handlebar. “Can you tell me what this means?” He got off the bike and down his knees, picked up a twig and traced an ‘8’ in the dirt at Runyon’s feet. Then he added the triangular chip on the lower loop.
“Of course,” said Runyon. He was crouched low with both hands on his knees, tilting his head to the extreme right in order to study the figure from Albert’s perspective. “The underground railway.”
Albert stood up. “A train?”
“No, no,” said Runyon. “You know, the underground railway.”
Albert’s eyes failed to reflect the light of understanding.
“Before the Civil War, networks of abolitionists created escape routes for slaves. Shuttling them from place to place under cover of night and so on up the line, until they were safe on the other side of the Mason-Dixon line, often all the way up to Ottawa.
“Meanwhile, they’d hide in barns, cellars, outbuildings – which were plentiful in those days – cisterns, smokehouses, and so on. Whole families, sometimes, until it was safe to go on to the next stop. Came to be called the ‘underground railroad,’ you see. Often the stops on the way were called ‘stations’.
“No doubt you’ve noticed DuShane’s house has this mark on the cornerstone?”
“So does Sarah’s house.”
“Grandy’s?” said Runyon, unconsciously erasing the figure in the dirt. “You don’t say?”
“And Antrim’s.”
Runyon raised his eyes from the ground. “Surely not!”
“Yes,” said Albert. “Heather looked behind the bushes and found an ‘8’ just like . . . ” the one he had drawn was no longer there, “just like the others.”
“All three houses!” said Runyon, looking blindly at the trees behind Albert’s back. “Well, let me see,” once again he closed his eyes and consulted the archives in his brain. “Antrims built theirs, when? Always been Antrims there. DuShane’s – the old man, Robert’s father, was a carpetbagger, so he wouldn’t have had that place until well after the war. Say 1867 or ’68 at the earliest, could be much later. I don’t recall who owned that before them.
“Sarah’s house, let me see. Ah!” His hands flew out of his pockets and his fingers once again formed a point in front of his nose. “Ah! Reverend Bigelow!”
“Bigelow?”
&nb
sp; “Pageant Bigelow,” Runyon said enthusiastically. “Marvelous name! He was an abolitionist preacher. Made no bones about it, apparently. They tried to hang him once during a sermon at a previous pastorate, down Columbia way, I believe.
“He ended up here and apparently found a sympathetic ear among some of the town’s notables – mostly women. Before long, they were smuggling slaves out under their husband’s noses.
“That certainly would have been the case with the Cuthbert Antrims, anyway.”
“Cuthbert?”
“Grandfather to your Kathleen. He was the largest landholder in the area. Hence the biggest slaveholder.
“I can’t imagine relations between he and Reverend Bigelow would have been very cordial. But I must say, it’s intriguing to consider the possibility that his wife was using his own house as a station!”
“So,” Albert ventured, using his foot to indicate the figure that was no longer there, “this was a sign?”
“A sort of code,” said Runyon. “That’s right. Simple. Unobtrusive. Of course, the insignia would vary from one region to the next, but the principle remained the same. Certainly food for thought.
“Odd, isn’t it,” he continued. “There’s been sort of aleitmotif to your visit, hasn’t there? Robert DuShane, Marydale Abernathy and the Antrims, and Reverend Bigelow – all lived in one of those three houses on Sarah’s side of the street.”
Agnes had been pining for the open road. She started with one push of the pedal. “My goodness,” Runyon remarked. “She’d never do that for me.”
As Albert putted off down the rutted road, his elbows and knees akimbo, Runyon called after him, inviting him to visit again.
“Sine die!” he said, and meant it. “I wonder if he has a license.”
Agnes coaxed daring from Albert. By the time he got to the bottom of the hill, he was leaning his moped into the curves at two or three degrees off the perfect perpendicular, as opposed to sitting bolt upright as he had at first.
Had the brakes been in perfect working order, he’d still be at the top of the hill. Slowly, though, as his confidence grew, he eased his white-knuckled death grip, and the blood returned to his fingers.
Dead in D Minor Page 13
