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Surrounded on three sides by the Pittsburg County Court House, the Genealogical and Historical Society sat wedged in a narrow nook on East Carl Albert Parkway. Constructed of dark brick, the narrow building was dwarfed by the Masonic Rite Temple, a neighbor to the north, and paltry in comparison. Bigwigs from an earlier day had used brick and light-colored stone to build the Temple. Hangers-on kept the Masons going now, and their female relatives kept its counterpart, the Eastern Star, alive.
Nonny parked on the upside of the hill where parking was more plentiful. Before proceeding to the Genealogy Society, she paused to look over the town that rolled out at her feet. It was garlanded now in autumn colors that sparkled in the sharp, clean air.
It was an old town by Oklahoma standards, established in the early part of the twentieth century to support the coal-mining business that brought wealth to the mines’ owners. But old mine tunnels, the rotten underpinnings crumbling from the weight of dirt in their attics, now caused streets to buckle like an arthritic geriatric left to endure the sins of a wanton youth.
There was little industry left to entice diligent young people to stick around. Non-Indians that remained by choice lived a lower-than-average lifestyle, attributable to a lack of ambition and easy-to-justify welfare assistance. Those with enough blood quantum were entitled to tribal benefits that allowed them to live in relative comfort without breaking a sweat. Those with more ambitions left young.
Nonny had been one of those who couldn’t wait to leave, but these days she looked upon the town differently. Ironically, for the very reason she had fought so hard to leave it. It’s because old is safe, she thought. What a fraud I am. The gratitude that old people show me isn’t deserved, for they’re nothing more than a means to an end—a selfish end. Cutting short her philosophical musing, she made her way to the research room.
She felt irritable. Not because she dreaded research, for digging through dusty files and ancient records kept her mind from straying into less-safe territory, but because of the threat Mack Barlow introduced. The careless slouch of his body as he leaned against the wall in her kitchen had brought back too many memories. No, not memories, she thought. Feelings. She couldn’t afford those kinds of feelings. Feelings like that were synonymous with chips in a suit of armor.
Pushing open the door to the research room, she was surprised to see Mack deep in conversation with Hesta Bowen, the librarian. “You beat me here,” she blurted when the two looked her way. “It’s not two o’clock yet.”
“I came straight from the nursing home,” he said.
“Mack told me what you wanted to look at.” Hesta scrunched her nose to push up her eyeglasses.
Hesta had been a classmate of Nonny and Mack’s, one of the less-ambitious ones that chose not to leave home. Her hair, tightly permed and left untinted, made her moon-shaped face appear even rounder, and her finger-pleated skirt looked as if it belonged on a vintage clothing rack.
“Thought I’d start him on the Local Records shelf,” Hesta said, “figuring you knew your way around the census records better than he would.” She indicated rows of computers in the back room.
“Good idea. I’ll get started.”
“Where do I begin?” Mack looked to Nonny for advice.
Nonny paused, eyes blinking. “Well, Pa’s up in his eighties now, so begin when he was about twenty, that’s probably the earliest his name would appear in any records. Move forward from there.”
“That’d be about right.” He nodded, looking thoughtful. “Sister was already born when he joined up.”
“What was his full name? I’ve always known him as Pa.”
“Grover Cleveland Anderson. Pretty stuffy name for a down-to-earth man.”
“Common back then to name children after presidents. Look for his name in the indexes and write down anything you find.” Nonny pointed to a legal pad on the table. “Note the source, too, so you can find it again if you need to. I’ll work back there.” She nodded toward the computer room.
“Think I can handle that,” Mack said. Grabbing an armful of books, he sat down at a table.
“Um . . . you can only take three books at a time,” Hesta whispered, standing at his elbow. “You know, in case other patrons want to use them.”
Mack looked around the room, then at the librarian. “I’m the only one in here, Hesta. Other than Nonny and she’s working back there.”
Nonny suppressed a grin. “It’s a rule, Mack. Hesta’s just doing what she’s been told to do.”
“Oh. Well, I’ve had to follow dumb-ass rules, too.” He took three books and let Hesta take the rest.
“Just let me know when you finish with those,” Hesta said. “I’ll give you three more.”
“No problem.” He bent his head low over a book.
Hesta bent her head low over Mack.
Nonny smiled at the attentiveness Hesta was giving Mack, thinking there might be more life under those wire-rimmed glasses than she had given credit. She headed for one of the computers and started with census indexes.
“I can help him should he need help.” Like a shadow, Hesta had appeared at Nonny’s elbow. “It’s my job.”
“Thanks,” Nonny whispered. “That would be helpful.”
And safer, she thought.
*****
Late afternoon shadows were creeping across the table when Nonny exited out of the census record she’d been searching. Decade by decade, she had identified the places the Barlow clan had lived in their sojourn in Pittsburg County, right down to the township they resided in, the post office they got their mail delivered to, and their next-door neighbors.
“They didn’t stray too far,” she murmured.
“Say that again?”
Nonny looked at Mack. “I said your grandpa and his girls didn’t stray too far. And a woman named Grace lived with them for a brief spell.”
“That would be my grandma. We talked about her, remember?”
“I remember.” Nonny decided not to mention her conversation with Ruby the day they met up at the gas station. She was still stunned at Ruby’s animosity toward her mother and confused as to whether the family matriarch was dead or alive. “You finding much?” She went to see what Mack might have written down.
“Not much. Some funny things though.” He hesitated. “Well, more curious than funny, I guess.”
“Like what?” She noticed the frown on Mack’s face.
“Seems like Pa and his friends would tie one on back in the early days. According to these sheriff’s records, they ended up in a jail cell more than once and had to be bailed out.”
She shrugged. “You never know what you’ll find when you start tracing your family history. We can pick our friends, but not our relatives.”
“That’s not what’s bothering me. It’s who he got crocked with that I find curious.”
Nonny waited for Mack to offer up his findings.
“Old man Turner. Do you believe that?” he said.
“Wash Turner?”
“If I’m reading this right.” He handed her a book.
“Son of a gun . . .” She laughed without humor. “Any other surprises surface?”
“No, but I’m just finishing up with this last one.”
Taking the book from Mack, she glanced at the spine. “Oh, no need to look at this one. These are old property tax records. He never owned any property.”
“Property tax records?” Mack took the book from Nonny and looked at the spine as she had done. “Then what the hell is Pa doing in it?”
“What?” She took the paper that Mack had been writing on and noted the page number. Checking the reference, she mumbled, “Good God . . .”
Mack stared at the entry, too. “What the hell does it mean?”
“It means Pa did own a piece of property,” she said, leafing through the book. “At least for a short while. There’s no other listing for him again in the index.”
“Why did he sell it?”
“That information wouldn’t be listed here.”
“Who bought it from him?”
“Wouldn’t be in this record either. Have to look elsewhere for that.” She looked at Mack. “You think it’s relevant?”
Mack rubbed his mouth. “Hell if I know, but I’m more than a bit curious.”
Nonny checked her watch. “That would mean a trip to the county clerk’s office, and I think it’s closed already.” She looked at the entry again. “Most of those records are archived now, unless . . .” She paused. “I think the cutoff date was in the 1950s, so there might still be a paper record.” She exhaled loudly. “Could take some digging.”
“Then we better stay focused on this Bill-and-Jack business.” He indicated the census list Nonny had made. “Pa didn’t seem too good today, his mind’s wandering. And I got the feeling he’s wanting to clear up some things while he still has time.” He hesitated. “Plus, I have this other business to take care of.”
This other business . . . Nonny recalled Mack’s announcement the previous night that he was moving his mother into town.
“I didn’t tell her yet,” he said, reading her mind. “She was asleep when I got home last night and still in bed when I left this morning. I plan to though, soon.”
Nonny grunted softly. “Well, back to this Bill-and-Jack thing . . .” She handed him a list she had created. “I’d start with these people—if you can find any of them still alive. I used a yellow highlighter to mark those I know have passed on. Don’t know for certain about these others.”
“Slim pickings,” Mack said, looking over the list. “Maybe that’s good, won’t take too long. Okay then, I’ll get right on it.”
Nonny couldn’t help but notice the uncomfortable look that crossed Mack’s face and the way he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Something else was on his mind. Translating the non-verbal language, her back stiffened.
Oh, geez, don’t ask me out, Mack, she thought. I’ve got things working in my favor here, don’t mess it up . . .
“Thanks for your help,” he said. “I’d be glad to pay you something for your time.”
“Not necessary,” she said, feeling her shoulders relax. “I do this all the time.”
“She does,” Hesta said from across the room. “Nonny’s always helping people with record searches.”
“Maybe I can buy you a drink then,” Mack said. ”I see that bar’s still out on 69. Sister’s wanting a Coke for some reason. I could pick some up for her at the same time.”
Nonny’s mind went to fast forward. “Another time maybe. It’s time for Hesta to close up and I need to help her shelve these books before I leave.”
“Oh, I don’t need any help, Nonny. You go on now—”
“It’s closing time, Hesta—you do need help.” Nonny picked up a stack of books and looked at Mack. “Besides, I’ve got some things to do before I head home, too. Tonight’s just out.”
Mack nodded. “Maybe before I leave town then.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She began sorting books according to their call numbers and sighed in relief when she heard the front door close.
“I don’t need help.” Hesta took the books from Nonny’s hand. “I’ve got nothing to do after work and . . . Well, it’s my job.”
“I know that Hesta,” Nonny mumbled. To give Mack time to get to his car, she picked up his source list where he had left it on the table and looked it over. Then she walked to the shelf and looked at the book on property tax records again. “The courthouse,” she said, turning to Hesta. “When exactly is the record’s room open?”
“Between ten and twelve, and then the whole building closes down for the dinner hour. It opens up again from two to four.” Hesta raised plucked eyebrows. “You planning on checking out that old record?”
“Maybe.” Nonny’s mind was still on the property the Grover Anderson had owned and why he had given it up. In that part of the country, land ownership was as much a part of a man proving himself as going off to war was.
“What happened, Pa?” she murmured. “Did you turn into an old drunk and have to give up the only thing you could call your own? Or was it the other way around?”
“Ought not speak ill of the man, him sick and all,” Hesta said. “I would never have taken Mr. Anderson to be a drinking man either, he was such a teetotaler when we were growing up—and a good churchgoer, too. But the good book says ‘Judge not lest ye be judged.’”
Nonny’s response was bitter. “I was planning to check out the property record, Hesta, not the drunk charges.”
Seeing the look on Hesta’s face, Nonny immediately regretted her harshness. Though her irritability was back, there was no need to make others pay. She left the librarian shelving books and made her way toward the door leading to front steps.
Like Mack, she found that Pa being a hard drinker was not as surprising as finding he was a drinking buddy with Wash Turner. She wondered again if there was a connection between Pa selling the land and his drinking problem. The Turners were notorious for searching out pieces of land that could be bought cheap. They turned the worst pieces for a fast profit, holding onto the better pieces just for show. That thought led Nonny to think about the irony of it all, that the man who loved the land like it was a brother ended up with nothing.
Hesta turned off the lights before Nonny reached the door, forcing her to stumble the rest of the way down in darkness. Climbing back up the hill, she looked out over a town just as dark and air grown bitter. The Masonic Temple shone in the moonlight like an ancient temple, and like a prophet from on high, Hesta’s judgment admonition echoed again in her mind.
“I was commiserating, Hesta, not judging,” she whispered.
Nonny closed her mind to Grover Cleveland Anderson’s need to drink. It was dangerous to delve into reasons that would lead a person to the brink of the abyss.
