Lizbeth Andrew (Borden)
FALL RIVER, MASSACHUSETTS SEPTEMBER 27, 1921
Last year, I had a telephone installed.
Not for any particular reason, really. I like new things, and telephones are new. No one was ever likely to call it, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more concerned with the sad eventualities of life, and the sad eventuality is this: I’m growing older, and weaker. I’ll never be any stronger than I am right this moment. Next week, imperceptibly, I’ll be that much weaker still.
And next year. And the year after that.
So in another ten or twenty years, what would become of me if I should fall? What if I should take some topple down the stairs, or slide across the kitchen floor and shatter my brittle old bones . . . what then? No one ever comes to visit, except the paperboy and the milkman, and the postman, of course—but he never knocks. It might be days before anyone realized anything was wrong.
But (I told myself, in a moment of dire paranoia) if I had a telephone on the premises, and assuming I could reach it, I could summon help. Besides, I had the money . . . and what else was I doing with it? Absolutely nothing, but ordering more books and magazines, and giving the postman more difficulty cramming them all through the mail slot . . . or leaving them on the porch, to be perched upon by the cats.
So I have a telephone, but I usually forget about it.
Today, it scared the living daylights out of me. It rang.
For a good twenty seconds I stood there, astounded and confused and wondering what on earth that racket could possibly be. I had literally never heard it ring before. Not once, in the eleven months since it’s been hooked up downstairs in the parlor, on the end table beside the davenport. In that time, I’ve only used it twice: Both times, I placed phone calls to universities to inquire after a library’s holdings. It felt strange, speaking to someone I couldn’t see. The etiquette was all funny, and we kept stumbling over each other’s words—since we lacked the visual cues that would keep us taking turns in an easy fashion.
But the telephone rang, that’s what I mean to record here. It rang, and the noise rattled me down to my bones.
Then I felt silly.
Shortly on the heels of feeling silly, I felt alarmed, and then curious (in quick succession). Curiosity won the day. I quit merely staring at the shiny black device, and lifted the receiver like a modern, civilized person.
I wasn’t sure what to do next, but the man on the other end of the chat had more familiarity with the process than I did. He said, “Hello there.”
I said hello in return, with the strong hint of a question mark at the end.
“Miss Andrew, it’s been quite a long time since last we spoke, and for that I do apologize.” He talked quickly, in a clipped city accent. I couldn’t decide whether or not he sounded familiar to me, so I let him continue. “But I daresay the last thirty years have been strange for us both; and as for me, they’ve stayed strange, and gotten stranger—particularly in the last week, which brings me to my reason for calling.”
Before he could offer such an explanation, I blurted out, “Thirty years? I’m sorry . . . I’m not sure . . . I don’t understand. Who is this?”
“Again, I apologize. God, but I seem to be doing a lot of that lately. These blasted Southerners are rubbing off on me.” He noted that last bit under his breath, and added, “This is Simon Wolf, and as you may or may not recall, I’m an inspector from Boston. We met in Fall River quite some time ago, and under difficult circumstances.”
I was too dumbfounded to speak. My mouth went perfectly dry.
I remembered him, yes. A heavyset, pink-faced man in spectacles, representing some “Boston office” that he was never very clear about. He’d worked alongside Doctor Seabury, before that dear man went mad and passed on. He was helpful to us, at the time: There was a madman coming for my sister, and the inspector had given us what information he had, in order for us to prepare ourselves. He struck me as a competent—if somewhat cryptic—kind of man, the sort who is forgiven all sorts of nosy transgressions by virtue of his manners and his confidence. The sort of man who uses his wit instead of his size to get what he wants. (And I mean that as a compliment, really.)
And now, he’d called me on the telephone. The only person to do so, ever.
I stammered, because that was all I could do. “Inspector Wolf, yes. It was a difficult time indeed, and a long time ago at that.”
“I suppose this call surprises you.”
“I’d scarcely be human if it didn’t.”
“It’s rather out of the blue, I know. But if the call itself surprises you, you’d better hang on to your hat for the reason I’m making it.” He didn’t give me time to brace my hat or anything else; he launched forward into his explanation without so much as taking a breath. “I’m working on a murder case, but not in Boston—I’m in Birmingham, Alabama, at present, where a series of axe murders have taken place over the last year. Now, please, do not assume that I’m being indelicate, given your own notoriety. Far from it, I assure you. In fact, the simple coincidence of your trial and the hatchet deaths is not nearly enough for me to broach such a request as the one I’m about to make: Miss Andrew, could you possibly join me here? I believe our interests may overlap, and we might be of some assistance to each other.”
I was so deeply, purely stunned that once again—I couldn’t speak.
“Miss Andrew?”
I made some pitiful sound in return. It wasn’t a response, but it encouraged him to continue in his rapid-fire way.
“In short, and perhaps I should have opened with this, now that I think about it . . . in short, I am aware that the fate of your old companion Nance O’Neil has long been something of a mystery.” I gasped to hear her name, but he didn’t hear me, so he kept on going. “And I regret to inform you that I have no hard evidence in hand to suggest any resolution on that point. However, I do have a rough portrait of her—found in a box of evidence relating to the recent axe murders here, drawn by a man with a grievous head injury. He called her the gray lady, and I recognized her. Not immediately, no. It took me a moment of staring, trying to figure out why she appeared so familiar to me; but once I’d made the connection, you can imagine my astonishment. It may sound strange to say this, but I’ve been thinking of you lately, due to a series of coincidences, if you believe in such things. This portrait I’ve found . . . this is the most recent one, and I felt that, should I ignore this, I would do both of us a great disservice. I’m sorry, Miss Andrew, but are you still there? Have we become disconnected?”
“No,” I whispered. I said it again, louder, in case the word was so small that the line could not carry it. “I mean, yes, we’re still . . . I’m still here. I’m sorry, I’m only . . . You’ve caught me off guard, sir.”
“Maybe I should’ve risked a letter instead, to give you some time to absorb the information; but this is a new age, isn’t it? We can speak across the miles—a thousand or more, right this very second—and it’s both a virtue and a curse. I’m putting you on the spot, and it’s a rudeness, I daresay, this failure to give you time to collect yourself and form a response to what is surely the most ludicrous request you’ve received in ages.”
“No, not rude. Only shocking, and . . . and I want to say thank you, for thinking of me.” It was a stupid sentiment, but it was the best I had at my disposal. “You said . . . you’re in Birmingham?”
“In the Deep South, rather than the British Isles—though it could scarcely be more foreign if it were.”
“You mentioned coincidence . . .”
“I’m always on the lookout for them,” he told me. “I like to think of them as hints, or suggestions.”
“From God?”
“From whomever.”
He said it like an atheist, not that I cared. “I’ve read about the axe murders recently. I ordered some newspapers, in order to
learn more about them. And there’s something else going on down there, something that bothers me terribly, but we can discuss it in person.”
“So that’s a yes? You’ll come and join me?”
“I can hardly say no, and it’s not as if I have any other offers of travel or adventure beating down my door . . . though I’ll need to make preparations for the cats.”
“The cats?”
“I have some cats. Or they have me, as the case may be.”
“Fine animals, cats.” I couldn’t tell if he was being facetious or not. “So long as they don’t prevent you from your earliest possible arrival.”
“I’ll . . . I’ll get a train schedule. I’ll hire a car. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I told him, and I meant every syllable. “Tomorrow, if I’m lucky. The day after, if I’m not.”
“Excellent.” He sounded truly relieved, though I couldn’t imagine why. I was the one too relieved, too baffled, too amazed to do anything at all but accept his invitation.
He concluded by giving me the hotel where he stayed, promising to reserve me a room near his own for the sake of convenience—and then we respectively closed the call.
I stood in the parlor, the phone still in my hand, wondering what had just happened. I was flushed from head to toe; I could feel the pink warming my cheeks, and my hands were shaking. I put the phone back down on the table, lest I drop it and break it; I put my hand over my mouth, and pressed it there to keep from saying Nance’s name again, and again, and again.
Ruth Stephenson Gussman
BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA SEPTEMBER 28, 1921
My father’s trial began today, and all of us are doomed.
Pedro couldn’t come with me because he had to work, but George Ward and Chief Eagan showed up. They came partly to support me, and partly to show that they were still paying attention. They want Barrett and his Klan cronies to know that murder—especially murder in the middle of the day, as the sun looks on along with everyone else—isn’t all right with everyone.
But it’s going to be all right for my father and his friends, and deep down I think we all know it. They’re going to get away with it, and it isn’t right at all. What kind of world is this, anyway, when a mean old fool murders a man of God before a host of witnesses, and the court just shrugs?
Well, we’re not shrugging. We’re here, and we’re watching.
Today we sat in the back row, waiting for the prosecuting lawyer to call me up as a witness. He said he was going to when I talked to him yesterday—and I think he might actually do it. I can’t tell if he’s good or bad. He was in the Klan before, but says he isn’t now . . . and anyway, he doesn’t like Hugo Black very much, so that’s one thing in his favor.
Hugo Black is Daddy’s lawyer. He’s the man who’s helping him walk free, so as far as I’m concerned, he’s the worst man in the room. I said that out loud to Chief Eagan, and he told me not to be so damn optimistic.
So I watched them all from the back row, as they got started with their introductions.
It took forever, I swear—everybody introducing themselves, introducing evidence, introducing all the things they planned to introduce later, except for me. They mentioned me as a witness to be called somewhere down the line, but they didn’t mention when that might turn out to be. Mr. Mayhew just told me to make sure I kept myself available, as if I’ve got somewhere else to be—and as if I don’t plan to sit there on that bench and watch every goddamn minute of this trial.
Mr. Mayhew is the prosecutor. I should’ve mentioned that. I know: I’ll introduce him.
Mr. Henry Mayhew is an attorney from Mobile who moved here a couple of years ago. As I said, he once was in the Klan, and says that now he’s not. He also said that he wasn’t in the True Americans, but he could be lying for all I know. He’s a short man, only about my height; but his shoes are always shiny and he dresses like he owns a mirror. His hair is brown, but it’s starting to get some gray in it, just above his ears on either side. He’s about forty years old, I think. He’s not married, or if he is married, he doesn’t wear a ring. When he talks, he talks slow. I hope he talks slow because he’s thinking about his words, and his mouth just drags like that when he’s working on a thought. I’ll forgive slow, so long as it’s careful. But I won’t forgive slow if it turns out he’s stalling because he’s stupid, and he doesn’t know what to say.
Anyway, that’s Mr. Mayhew. He’s the one bringing evidence against my daddy, so I want to say he’s the hero in the room, except Chief Eagan says that’s optimistic, too.
I’d like to introduce Chief Eagan as a pessimist.
Along the back row with me and the chief, there were a few other folks from Saint Paul’s—one of the nuns, her name’s Irene; one of the altar boys, and his name’s David; two of the older folks, they’re Italian and I don’t know their last name . . . and they don’t speak much English, so I feel strange about asking them. I know them on sight, that’s all. They came to support me and the chief, and Father Coyle even though he’s surely up in heaven by now, and doesn’t much care what becomes of my daddy.
Like the good father used to say, one way or another, we all get what’s coming to us in the end.
I know he was trying to say something comforting, but I never felt much comforted by it. Mostly I just felt worried. Sometimes I think I’m a pretty good person, real decent and all; and sometimes I have terrible thoughts that make me wonder if I’m not fooling myself, and I’d better pray as hard as I can that I don’t get what’s coming to me in the end.
• • •
(I feel bad and angry that way when I look at my daddy. I feel it boiling up hot, when I see him sitting all smug in front of the judge, next to Hugo Black with his slick hair and his smile that shows too many teeth. I feel like if I had a gun, maybe I’d just show them all what it was like—when someone comes walking up to you, and for no reason at all just blows your head clean open. I could do it, too. One by one, until I ran out of bullets. Six bullets, and if I’m a lucky shot that means six heads blown open. I’d start with Daddy’s head, then take his lawyer, then take the judge. Maybe I’d stop there, because maybe it’d take more than one bullet on a couple of them. Maybe that’d be enough, and the boiling-hot feeling would be all burned up, and I could sleep at night without seeing blood behind my eyelids, at least until they hanged me for doing all those murders. But then, maybe after that I could dream, without dreaming of murder.
I am an awful woman, and I am probably not going to heaven when I die. But if that’s the case, maybe I ought to do something really awful to earn a spot in hell, if it’s all the same difference anyway. I could start in that courtroom, and I could leave this world a better place than I found it.)
• • •
The courtroom was an uncomfortable place, even when nothing dramatic was happening.
It was cold in there at first, and then it got too warm as the place filled up, and everyone sat thigh to thigh on the wooden pews. (Do they call them pews when they’re not in church? Benches, then, if that’s better.) I wished I had a fan, but I hadn’t put one into my bag because it’s been so cool as of late, so I did without.
The chief also looked warm, but he was wearing his wool uniform—the dress uniform that the policemen wear for fancy occasions like funerals. I know he wasn’t really a policeman anymore, not with a badge to prove it; but he’d always be a policeman down in his soul, and nobody would’ve argued his right to wear the uniform. He tugged at his collar once or twice, and I saw a little shine of sweat on his forehead by the time the first hour of introductions was up.
Finally, the prosecutor, Mr. Mayhew, got down to business and started telling the jury what he meant to convict my daddy of.
“The courts will show,” he said, leaving his spot behind his desk, “that Mr. Stephenson with malice aforethought arrived at Saint Paul’s Church, and with gun in hand, he approached the
priest—opening fire on him, and killing him instantly.”
Well, no kidding. Everybody knew that part already.
I wished he would say something snappy, make some real accusations, do something to startle the old white men who sat in two rows opposite him. But no, he just paced back and forth, and in that slow, plodding Southern voice of his, he said out loud what everyone already knew. It was old news to us all, and I don’t think anyone was moved by it, or gave a damn about it one way or another.
Then Hugo Black got up and said his piece.
He only stood. He didn’t pace back and forth, but he leaned forward, his hands on the desk as he spoke.
“It is true that Edwin Stephenson shot and killed Father Coyle. He did so in daylight, before a number of witnesses. However, I intend to show that his actions did not represent the behavior of a sane man—that, in fact, he was deranged by a series of events beyond his control, not least of all the elopement of his delinquent, disobedient, ungrateful daughter with a Puerto Rican day laborer . . . an elopement facilitated by the scheming priest, who sought only to add to his own congregation.”
• • •
I objected to a whole lot of things in that description.
For one thing, I’m no delinquent. I ran away a few times, but that shouldn’t mean anything to the judge or jury—and I was never arrested for anything, so the word doesn’t seem right. So, yes, I ran away; and, yes, the police brought me back at my daddy’s behest until I got married and he couldn’t do that no more. All right, if that’s all it takes to be a delinquent, then fine. But I don’t like the word. It says something about me that isn’t true, and it makes me sound like a child.
For another thing I don’t like, my daddy has never behaved like a sane man, so it’s not like anything he did on that day on the church’s front steps was anything out of the ordinary for him. It wasn’t some “crime of passion,” as I’ve heard it put. He knew good and well what he was doing, and if he was deranged when he did it, well, he’s been deranged his whole life, when he’s done everything. Convict him for fifty years of being a jackass, why don’t they.
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