Chapter Thirteen

I HIT A DEAD END…AND FINA NEW LINE OF INQUIRY

THE NEXT MORNING, after we’d spent the night in a neighbor’s front room, the fire marshal confirmed that the damage was superficial. Maggie heaved a sigh of relief. She and I drove up to Fairview while Arthur nailed plywood over the broken parlor windows, which would have to do until Maggie could get them replaced.

The nursing home that housed Lorne Beale, the former sheriff, was a low-slung building surrounded by a lush green lawn dotted with flower beds and rows of shrubbery. The windows twinkled in the late-morning sun. A bright-white sign with black letters set at the entrance to the driveway identified the place as John H. Chisholm Home for the Aged.

“Who was John H. Chisholm?” I asked.

“Is,” Maggie said. “He’s a very rich man. He owns a couple of canneries, two dairies, a trucking company and a tomato-processing plant. Inherited it all from his daddy. But he didn’t turn out to be one of those second-generation born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-his-mouth types who only know how to spend money but not how to make it. He’s wealthier than his father could ever have imagined. There’s a rumor going around that he’s planning to run for state governor.” She nodded at the building as she pulled into the parking lot. “He also owns this nursing home.”

“He owns it and he put his own name on it?”

“Thinks highly of himself, doesn’t he? I hear it’s a nice place. I’ve never been in it. I also hear that you need a lot more than what social security pays to stay here. Frankly, I’m surprised Sheriff Beale can afford it. Being sheriff might sound important, but the pay is strictly civil service.” She leaned across me to open the passenger-side door. “I’ll pick you up as soon as I snap a few pictures and hear a few bars of Beethoven’s Fifth.”

I jumped down and smoothed my skirt over my knees.

“Wish me luck,” I said.

Maggie gave me a thumbs-up and put the truck into gear.

As soon as I stepped into the cool, bright foyer, a woman at the reception desk looked up.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Lorne Beale.”

The woman smiled. “You must be his granddaughter. He used to talk about you all the time.”

“Used to?” Past tense. I didn’t like the sound of that. Had he died?

“He’ll be thrilled to see you,” the woman said.

I breathed a sigh of relief. He was still alive.

“Go down that hall.” She pointed. “Make a left turn when you can’t go straight anymore, and follow the corridor to the end. And don’t worry.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve seen a lot of grandchildren visit for the first time, and they all have that same look on their faces. They all expect it to be horribly depressing in here. But it’s not. You’ll see. And your grandfather has the best room in the house.”

I thanked her and followed her directions. She was right. The place was far from depressing. It was flooded with light. Paintings, mostly still lifes, hung on the walls. When I turned at the end of the hall, I found a corner alcove with two large windows, a couple of comfortable chairs and a small table. People could sit here and talk while enjoying the view. If only there had been a nook like this at the orphanage, somewhere quiet to read or think. There was only one door at the end of the hall. I knocked and heard footsteps. Mr. Beale had a spritely step. I hoped he had as lively a mind.

The door opened.

It wasn’t Mr. Beale. It was a woman in a starched white uniform and cap, with white stockings and matching crepe-soled shoes.

“Susan called and said you were on your way.” She stood aside to let me in. “I’m Mrs. Cadogan, your grandfather’s nurse.”

I wanted to tell her I wasn’t his granddaughter, but it seemed a little late for that. I followed her inside. Mr. Beale’s room turned out to be two rooms, both larger than I had expected. The first was a sitting room with a hi-fi and a TV. The second was a bedroom, equipped with a hospital bed. An old man was lying in it, his head raised, his gray face lolling to one side, an oxygen mask strapped to his face. He stared at me. One eye drooped.

“Go on,” Mrs. Cadogan said.

I approached the bed. The old man continued to stare at me.

“I’ll be in the other room,” Mrs. Cadogan said. “But I’ll leave the door open in case you need me.”

I went closer. One corner of Mr. Beale’s mouth sagged under the oxygen mask.

“H—hello,” I said softly. I glanced over my shoulder. Mrs. Cadogan was in the other room, watching a game show on TV.

“I need to ask you about Thomas Jefferson.” I leaned closer so that I could speak into his ear. “Do you remember him?”

The old man’s eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth, but all that came out were guttural sounds. I couldn’t understand a word. I wasn’t even sure they were words.

His grunting got louder. He raised one shaking hand to his face and tugged on his oxygen mask.

I called for Mrs. Cadogan. She rushed into the room and calmly but firmly removed Mr. Beale’s hand from the mask and returned it to his side.

“Now, now, Mr. Beale. You know that has to stay where it is.” She spoke quietly, in a soothing voice, and held his shoulders until he stopped struggling. “That’s it. Settle down. Look, your granddaughter is here.”

The old man closed his eyes. Mrs. Cadogan led me from the room.

“I am sorry, dear. I guess it’s too much excitement.”

“What…what happened to him?” I asked. “He was trying to say something to me, but I couldn’t understand him.”

“Didn’t your mother tell you? Honey, your grandfather had a stroke.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Well, I’m sorry to be the one to deliver the news. Since the stroke, your grandfather can’t talk. There’s a very good chance that he’ll never speak again. But that doesn’t mean you can’t talk to him. He understands what people say. Well, most of what people say. I think.”

“But how does he communicate with you?” I had an idea. “Can he write?”

Mrs. Cadogan shook her head. “I wish he could. He gets so frustrated when he tries to express himself.”

Poor old man. I couldn’t imagine how awful it must be to hear what is going on around you but have no way of making yourself heard or, even more important, understood.

“You will come back, won’t you?” Mrs. Cadogan pressed. “He’ll be so disappointed if you don’t.”

I told her I would. I felt bad, though, because I had no intention of returning. Mr. Beale wasn’t going to be able to help me.

I had to wait by the side of the road for a good fifteen minutes before Maggie returned to fetch me.

“So?” she asked as I slid into the front seat. “Did you find out anything?”

I told her what had happened.

“Well, I guess that was a dead end,” Maggie said. “I’m sorry.”

“How was the whistler?”

“You’re going to laugh when I say this, but he was very good. I got a great picture for the front page.”

The day was a complete write-off, or so I thought until I was doing the supper dishes. I heard the doorbell ring, and a minute later Maggie poked her head into the kitchen to tell me that I had a visitor.

“I do?” How was that even possible? I barely knew anyone in town.

There was no one in the front hall.

“He said he preferred to wait outside,” Maggie told me.

I went out onto the porch. At first I didn’t see anyone. Then something moved in the shadows.

“Daniel. What a surprise!”

Daniel nodded at the plywood over the parlor window.

“I heard about the fire. Ma wanted me to make sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine. I feel bad for Maggie though.”

“I heard it was arson.”

“The fire marshal was here. And the sheriff. But so far there’s no suspect.”

“You think it happened because of you?”

“It crossed my mind, but I hope not.” I told him about going to see Sheriff Hicks, who’d told me the police records had been destroyed, and then about my visit to the former sheriff. “He can’t even talk.” I was so discouraged. There had to be someone who knew what had happened all those years ago. “Daniel, do you know anyone who knew your brother? Anyone who’s still alive, I mean.”

“Besides Ma?”

I nodded.

“There’s Edgar.”

I recognized the name. “The caretaker from the church?”

“Yeah. He knew TJ. He still talks about him sometimes. Tells stories about him. When TJ was a kid, Edgar did odd jobs. He could fix anything. He also did gardening. Looked after people’s properties. TJ used to help him.”

“Do you think he’d talk to me? Do you know where he lives?”

“He has a place a couple of miles from here. But these days, mostly he’s at the church. You want me to introduce you?”

I said yes, and we made plans to meet the next day.

I got up early the next morning and dusted and vacuumed the living room and dining room before breakfast.

“My goodness,” Maggie said. “I didn’t mean for you to do everything in one day.” She spooned fluffy scrambled eggs onto my plate along with strips of crispy bacon and slices of golden toast. “Try the jam,” she said. “I made it myself.”

It was strawberry, filled with chunks of ruby-red fruit. It was the best jam I had ever tasted. I ate faster than I’d intended and then waited as patiently as I could for Maggie to finish so that I could tidy up.

“Go on,” Maggie said with a laugh. “You look like you have ants in your pants.” I was almost at the door when she added, “There’s a bicycle in the garage. You can use it, if you want to.”

The bike was old, and most of its original blue paint had chipped off, but it was well oiled, and the seat was thickly padded. I covered the distance between Orrenstown and Freemount in record time and found Daniel waiting at the road that led to the churchyard. I left my bike at the church’s front door, and we went inside. The little church was a wood-framed structure with straight-backed plank pews. A dais took up most of the front of the church, and there was a podium to one side where the minister delivered his sermons. There was no organ, just a well-worn upright piano. Apart from a bare cross on the front wall, the place was unadorned. The windows were plain glass, although someone—Edgar?—had buffed them until they sparkled.

Edgar was mopping the vestry floor. He smiled and leaned on his mop handle when he saw Daniel and asked after his mother before turning to me with an expectant look on his face. Daniel introduced me.

“Cady wants to talk to you about TJ,” he said.

Edgar’s face clouded.

“What you want to know?”

“Daniel says you knew him well.”

Edgar nodded. “He was a good boy. Worked with me after school most days. He was always looking to make a little extra money.”

“What about when he came back after the war?”

“He didn’t work for me then, if that’s what you’re asking. He had other plans. Came back here with a buddy, and the two of them talked about opening a garage.”

“What I really want to know is what TJ did with his time after he came back.”

“What he did with his time?” Edgar scratched his head. “He wasn’t back all that long before…” He broke off. “I know he talked to Mr. Jenkins down at the bank about a loan. Must have done okay too, because he was busting all over with smiles that day. Oh, and he and that friend of his—what was his name now?”

“Patrice,” Daniel said.

Edgar nodded. “Told me it was French for Patrick. The two of them liked to blow off steam. And who could blame them, two young men back from the war. They used to go down to the roadhouse. The joint was always jumping. Music, booze and lots of red-blooded American boys and girls.”

“What roadhouse?” Daniel asked.

“You’re too young to remember it. The place burned down in ’49. It was no accident neither. Folks said it was burned on purpose.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Story was that it was on account of the man who owned the place. They said he got himself in the middle of a liquor war. There was two rival suppliers of, well, let’s call it non-government-approved liquid refreshment. One supplier was white, the other was black. The owner went with the black fella. The white fella—I think he was out of Indianapolis—didn’t like his business being poached, so he arranged a fire. That’s one story. It’s the one the police settled on.”

“Is there another story?” I asked.

“There is.” Edgar’s face grew more serious. “I never set foot in the place. I had my troubles with drink in the past, and I took the pledge. But I used to hear about that place. One thing I heard time and time again was that there were plenty of people in town”—he nodded in the direction of Orrenstown—“who didn’t like the fact that their children were going down the road to a Negro establishment and were rubbing shoulders with colored folks, dancing to their lewd music—that’s what the white preacher and the mayor and some of the others called it. There’s plenty of people who think that’s the real reason the place was burned.”

“Do you know anyone who worked there?” I asked. “Maybe the owner?”

He shook his head. “He’s long gone. Everyone is. The flood drove a lot of people away. Most people, in fact. Ain’t anyone left from that place.”

I thanked Edgar and waited while he and Daniel chatted. Finally Daniel said his goodbyes, and we left.

“I sure would like to know more about that roadhouse,” I said.

“Why? What are you thinking?” Daniel asked.

“I don’t know much about Orrenstown, but people seem upset about what’s going on in Mississippi, and I’ve heard some people say that your brother didn’t act the way they expected him to when he came back from overseas. People say he acted superior.”

“He didn’t act anything.” Daniel’s nostrils flared. “He was just a person. A man. And a soldier.”

“If what Edgar said is true, if the roadhouse was burned down because people didn’t like that white kids were hanging around down there, then maybe that has something to do with what happened to your brother.”

“You think TJ got on the wrong side of some white boys?”

“I think it’s possible.”

Daniel thought for a minute. “Ma used to know everyone around here. Maybe she knows what happened to the owner of the roadhouse.”

“Can you ask her?” I glanced at my watch. “I have to make a phone call. I have to check on something.”

“Why do you want to write about my brother?”

“Because something is wrong. It’s just too much of a coincidence that everything about the case is missing. And”—I hesitated, but not for long—“because I want to be a reporter, and I think this story might help me.”

“A reporter?”

“Mrs. Hazelton—my headmistress—always used to say that we should set our sights high. Everyone else always told us to be grateful we had a roof over our heads. But Mrs. Hazelton says the reason we have dreams is to help us strive for something better. I’m striving to be a reporter. And Mrs. Hazelton says that just because something seems impossible now, that doesn’t mean it will never happen.”

“Ma says the same thing,” Daniel said. “She worries a lot. She says life is unfair, especially for colored people. But she believes that can change. She thinks Mr. King has the right idea.”

“Mr. King?”

“Mr. Reverend Martin Luther King Jr.” Daniel told me about the bus boycott in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1955, when a black woman named Rosa Parks was arrested for refusing to give her seat to a white person. “She had worked all day, and she was tired. She didn’t see why she should have to give up her seat when she paid her fare same as anyone else. A lot of people thought a boycott was useless and that it wouldn’t get anywhere. But it ended with the Supreme Court ruling that segregated buses are unconstitutional. Reverend King was involved.” Daniel spoke quickly, and his eyes were bright with excitement. “He also led a protest march in Birmingham, Alabama. The protesters were peaceful, but the cops attacked them with police dogs and fire hoses. Then there was the march on Washington and Reverend King’s speech.” Daniel quoted parts of it, lines beginning with I have a dream. It was like poetry.

“TJ was right,” Daniel said. “Things have to change. You can’t say people are good enough to give their lives for this country but not good enough to drink from the same water fountain as white people or eat a meal at the same lunch counter. I wish I could go down to Mississippi. TJ believed in fighting for what’s right. So do I. But Ma would skin me alive.”

We parted company. As I rode back to town, I kept my eyes open for a phone booth. I had to ask the operator for the number I wanted, and the next thing I knew I was talking to the woman at the front desk of the John H. Chisholm Home for the Aged.

“I came to see my grandpa yesterday. Mr. Lorne Beale?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I remember.”

“But I forgot to ask…my mom wanted to know if she owes anything for Grandpa’s room and board.”

“Oh my, no,” the woman said. “Everything is covered. You can tell your mother she doesn’t have to worry about a thing.”

“But she said the place is expensive, and on Grandpa’s social security…”

“It’s taken care of, honey. You tell your mother that your grandfather is well looked after. If she wants more information, she can write to the director.”