Chapter VII - Tragic Endings
August 1923, Mason City, Burial of Madeline
The local Harrison extended family are all in attendance: Bartholomew and wife Lizzie, Merrill’s brother Leroy and his wife, plus their two kids roughly the same age as sobbing Alice and Laura. Also there, in a black veil and long black dress, is an eerie-looking widow in her fifties, alongside her own smartly-dressed son and daughter. Many of Merrill’s business associates crowd around, but keep a respectful distance from the graveside.
The local minister reads the final prayers. The gleaming mahogany casket is then lowered into the tidily excavated grave at St Joseph’s Cemetery. Madeline’s resting place is to be shaded by an avenue of young trees. Starting with Merrill, the funeral director offers each family member a handful of fine sand from a wooden box. This activity makes six year-old Laura even more distraught. She refuses to participate and ladies in the funeral party rush to comfort her. Leroy’s wife, Irma, whisks Laura away to the distant line of shiny black cars supplied by the undertaker.
Immediately after the burial formalities are concluded, Leroy takes Merrill for a stroll to a quiet corner of the cemetery. They hug. “You look dreadful, brother,” says Leroy with a sympathetic smile.
Madeline had died of heart failure just days after a medical procedure to remove fibroids from her womb. Her physician had detected that the fibroids were the reason why Madeline repeatedly failed to deliver the son that Merrill desperately longed for. Madeline’s sudden death, on top of the pressure from the new Velo management at work, created unbearable stress for Merrill.
Leroy tries to comfort Merrill in any way he can, “It was a great coup for you to get Steve Conway to invest in Velo. That must have impressed the California bosses.”
“Well, Leroy, we needed someone to stump up the local capital. I didn’t want the likes of us taking out more loans. It was a drop in the ocean for Conway. He’s so loaded, he’s forgotten how to spend his fortune.”
Leroy tells Merrill that he’s organizing a big road trip weekend to a ball game across state that takes place in the coming weeks. He asks Merrill to come along on the trip, “It’ll be just like the old days,” says Leroy. “Merrill and Leroy, taking on the world!”
Merrill forces a smile, “Maybe. I‘ve a lot to sort out before then.” Merrill has to return to the main funeral party, now stretched between his wife’s graveside and the empty hearse parked on the cemetery driveway. Merrill shakes hands with each hand that is offered. Commiserations are muttered. Men pat his shoulder, and ladies offer to keep his children occupied anytime in the future. Finally, Merrill strides over to the peculiar widow stood away from the main throng. He thanks her for attending the funeral from out of town and receives a courteous nod from the veiled face. The widow is flanked by her son and daughter, but neither utters a word, or offers a hand of solace.
“How is Horace keeping?” asks Merrill.
“Oh, he’s the same as he ever was. Horace will never change now. He sends his condolences, and apologizes for being unable to travel.”
“I understand completely,” says Merrill. His parting words are, “Tell Horace I’ll be in touch soon.”
That night, when alone, Merrill crumbles and weeps uncontrollably. He has managed not to shed a tear for the last forty-eight hours. He wanted to appear strong for young Alice and Laura. Now, he feels lost, and weak. He drowns his sorrows with two bottles of the finest imported single malt Scotch, given to him by Bartholomew years back as part of an extravagant selection of wedding gifts. Previously, Merrill only sipped spirits when concluding business deals. It was the thing to do. In truth, Merrill preferred a cold beer, and he was always a cautious moderate drinker before and during Prohibition. He never wanted to lose control.
This time, something odd happened. The Scotch whisky made him feel strong again—or so he thought.
2011, Sligo
Sue appraises new-found facts, “... so Laura was six, not three, when her mum Madeline died—just a mere 100% off. We need to be wary of Laura’s disclosures to her son Tim. There are elements of the truth, but it’s by no means the whole truth.”
“Go easy on the old lady, Sue. At the end, Laura was probably out of her mind on morphine when Tim realized that he had one last chance to get her to open up about his grandparents.”
October 1923, Iowa highway
An old top-of-the-line Pierce-Arrow races a newer Ford Model T along a wide open stretch of roadway with flat farmland fields either side. Leroy Harrison, driving one car, wins the short race, so the Ford T slots in behind. Alongside Leroy is a cheap-looking girl, and slumped in the back is Merrill, next to another Velo senior manager. The following car contains four smartly-dressed men, friends of the Harrison brothers, all playfully shouting and hollering at the car in front.
Merrill looks worse for wear. The after effects of the night before are taking their toll. Whiskey and beer do not mix. He had been warned.
“Calm it down, Leroy. I’m trying to sleep,” winces the younger sibling.
“Chill out, Merrill. Chill out,” Leroy winks at his female companion.
Merrill complains about the route they have taken back to Mason City. Leroy says it’s only a short detour, enabling him to drop off his “girlfriend” at her father’s farm. The girlfriend is obviously a little inebriated. She shouts to the guys in the back, “Yeah, relax, fellas. I won’t tell your wives.”
Leroy whispers to the girl about Merrill’s recent loss, struggling to keep his car in a straight line. She reaches in the glove compartment and pulls out a half-empty bottle of illicit liquor. The girl offers it to Merrill. He refuses, so she swigs a big gulp herself. Then she passes it to Leroy, and he too takes a swig. Before too long, the front seat couple are giggling and petting as Leroy drives along at high speed. The girl strokes his thigh, then moves her hand to Leroy’s groin area. The front car in the convoy keeps weaving its way across the white line before returning to right side of the highway. The guys following behind think it is all a big joke. “Old Leroy is trying to stop me getting by. I’ll get him on this next bend,” shouts the chasing driver. Speeds increase again.
Suddenly, Leroy drops a wheel in the ditch. A loud bang announces the puncture of a tire. As he tries to correct his steering, Leroy veers off the road, clipping a telegraph pole on the front passenger’s side. The girl screams and bangs her head when the car jolts to a stop in the dusty field. Leroy quickly glances in the back. His male passengers are in one piece after being abruptly awakened.
A little blood trickles down the forehead of the dazed girl. Merrill groggily hops outside to inspect his prized automobile. The car is only slightly damaged, but it is now wedged in a rut and immovable. “What the hell are you playing at Leroy? You could’ve gotten us all killed.”
Leroy tries to stem the flow of blood down the front seat passenger‘s face with his white handkerchief. The girl reacts aggressively, “I‘m okay…I‘m okay. Now leave me alone!”
The pursuing car had screeched to a halt as the accident unfolded. After some discussion with the concerned fellow-travelers, Merrill tells Leroy that he and his fellow manager will drive on to the next town in the other car. “I’ll send out a mechanic or tow truck. You just hold on tight, and don’t take any more drink.”
The Ford T starts to disappear into the distance with six highly irritated men all squeezed up together.
October 1923, Iowa, Estherville, a small town gas station
In the adjoining diner, Merrill explains the situation, and seeks assistance for Leroy. The proprietor tells him not to worry, and that he will phone through to a colleague with a tow truck. Outside, all the other Mason City guys are now restless to get home: “Come on Merrill. My good lady will put me in the dog-house if we don‘t get back soon. Leroy‘s a big boy. He‘ll get your precious car back to Mason.”
Merrill knows his buddies are genuine, but has a niggling worry about how Leroy will explain his delayed return home to his wife, Irma. Then again, he recalls that they have had worse escapades together, and they had always managed to talk themselves out of trouble.
Somewhat reluctantly, on the promise of a total stranger waving at the city boys, Merrill’s transport pulls away from the gas pumps. The Ford T starts to pick up speed on the main Iowa east-west auto trail. Merrill is packed in the back of the car, looking wistfully over his shoulder, “Ah, you guys are right. My brother Leroy won’t do anything silly. Who fancies one last drink at the Hanford? On my account, of course.” The smart-suited sardines in the Ford tin can break out into a chorus of cheers.
The gas station man back in Estherville takes a return call on the phone. It’s the local sheriff on the line, who just happens to double as the local tow truck driver in the sleepy Midwest outback. The sheriff wants to know the precise location of the stranded automobile needing assistance.
October 1923, Iowa, Estherville Jailhouse
Leroy is in a cell. The girl has been taken away to see the local doctor. The local sheriff repeats his formal caution and explains why Leroy has been arrested: “Driving while intoxicated, causing an accident, injuring a passenger, no ownership documentation. These are all highway violations. And we need to investigate the supply of the alcohol. Your girlfriend is very drunk. She’s talking about suing you: she says the liquor bottle we found her drinking from is yours. She ain’t making much sense, but she tells us that you enticed her into the car, and that you sexually assaulted her within our town limits. This is a serious allegation, Mr. Harrison.”
The sheriff tells Leroy that he is going up to the doctor’s house to take a written statement from the girl. “You just sit tight here, Sir. Not that you have many options at present. There’s a bit of lunch there, to help you sober up. I’ll keep you informed.”
Left alone, Leroy starts to weep quietly. He definitely does not feel hungry. “What have I done?” he mumbles out loud.
Leroy is shocked to hear another voice reply to his question. For a moment, he thinks that his illicit hooch is making him delirious. “I’ll tell you what you’ve done, fella. You’ve thrown your life away, and all for the sake of a bit of skirt.”
The voice comes from the cell room next-door. Unbeknown to Leroy, the voice belongs to Everett Mansfield, a fellow-prisoner who has just received a twenty-five year prison term earlier that morning. Everett is waiting for secure transport to transfer him to the State Penitentiary.
“There’s a Bible-bashing judge in this town,” says Everett, “and you are in big trouble, my friend. You might as well get used to it. Could be a long stretch inside for you, buddy.”
Leroy realizes that he is not cracking up, “Who is that?”
“Well, we won’t be acquaintances for long, Mr. Harrison, but I’m Everett Mansfield. I kissed a local girl who came on to me and then I bought her a drink. Apparently, I’m some kind of rapist. I’m going on a long holiday. Won’t see my folks ‘til I’m an old man, by all accounts.”
“I think I’m going to vomit,” groans Leroy.
“Use the toilet pot under the bunk, Mr. Harrison. You’ll feel better for it.”
The stench of Leroy’s stomach contents soon competes with the odor of stale urine in the small jailhouse. In the meantime, Everett and Leroy are on first name terms.
“Feel better now, Leroy?”
“Nah, the pain in my gut won’t go away.”
“You married?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so. Kids?”
“Yeah, a girl and a boy.”
“Well, you can kiss goodbye to their childhood,”
Leroy’s head spins. He is incapable of determining whether Everett is sympathetic or a tormentor. Regardless, the last exchanged words are too much for Leroy to take, “Shut up. Just shut up! Leave me in peace. Let me think.”
The cell block falls silent. Leroy tosses and turns on his bunk for a few minutes. All of a sudden, he sits bolt upright and looks around his immediate vicinity with bulging eyes. Leroy snatches the knife from the dinner plate that had been left as part of his lunchtime meal. In total desperation, Leroy attempts to slash his wrists with the blunt dinner knife. He manages to sever the skin on one arm, and violently repeats the exercise after exchanging the knife to his other hand. Again he makes an incision, and draws blood, but the cuts are nowhere near deep enough to achieve his fatal ambition. The pain from the wounds just adds to his personal pandemonium.
Leroy stands up, ripping his necktie from his shirt collar as he scans the ceiling. The tie is tossed away. Leroy is now on a panicky mission of no return. In one continuous motion, he removes his leather trouser belt and lashes it around the cell roof beam. A crude noose is formed, and Leroy leaps from the wooden bench, deliberately kicking it in the opposite direction as he moves.
“You alright, Leroy?” inquires Everett, when he hears the wooden bench overturn. Everett was the only living being to hear the death-rattle which seemed to translate as, “Where are you, Merrill?”
About thirty minutes later, the main jailhouse door clanks open. The sheriff has returned with his witness statement. Everett takes delight in breaking the news, “I think we got a swinger, Mr. Cress.”
Instantly alarmed, Sherriff Cress rushes to the barred cell wall confining Leroy Harrison. There he sees the gruesome sight of Leroy hanging by the neck; two small pools of blood congeal on the floor, on either side of the corpse.