The Litter of the Law (9 page)

“Yeah, you guys should be forced to wear heels just once in your life,” Harry said. “Torture,” she declared, grinning.

“Well, these are low heels but I’ve had enough.” Susan rubbed her right foot. “Okay, the problem: County land remains county land. And those school buildings might be considered historically significant. Now, the county can elect to sell its land. There must be a public hearing advertised in the newspaper each week for a month. These days the announcement has to go on the county website, too.”

Neil spoke up. “You think the fear is that if the one hundred acres go, whoever purchases same will have no use for the schoolhouses and demolish them. That’s jumping the gun, I’d say.”

Harry’s mouth fell open a little, then she said, “I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but I guess it could be a real concern.”

“Those schoolhouses would make welcome living quarters for the aged,” said BoomBoom, thinking out loud. “Nice setting, pretty grounds, easy access from the state road and not really far from Route 250.”

“Or condominiums, which would bring the county more revenue than what we used to call the poorhouse.” Reverend Jones drained his glass.

“What do you mean?” Harry, one of the younger people in the room, asked him.

The reverend clarified, “Honey, back when the earth was cooling, every county in this state had its own poorhouse, and it was usually a farm. Those down on their luck worked the farm. We
don’t have that anymore, but a place for the aged is somewhat like that in that anyone dependent on government-subsidized living is usually poor. ’Course, at Random Row, they wouldn’t have to do farm work.”

“Random Row?” BoomBoom repeated. “I remember Mother saying that once or twice, but I figured she was just forgetting the actual name of the place.”

“It’s a great name,” Neil said, nodding to Reverend Jones. “Be a great name for condominiums.”

“ ’Tis, but I doubt they would be called that,” Reverend Jones quickly replied.

“All right, Rev, what’s the story?” Harry plied him.

“Well,” he said, “those schoolhouses were built for the African American children. When I was little, you didn’t use terms like ‘African American.’ The polite word was ‘colored’—polite among white folks, anyway. Really, back then no one said things like ‘Italian American’ either. Well, I’m getting off the track, but I do think about these things sometimes. Anyway, so many of the children at the schoolhouses had white fathers. Rarely did the men visit the school, because often they were married to white women, but many of those men did support their children, the random children, economically.”

A silence followed this, then Susan said, “Nothing is simple, is it?”

“Not when it comes to human beings.” Reverend Jones smiled. “What always strikes me is how most of us try to normalize an abnormal situation. I guess I learned this in Vietnam. We just struggled to keep things tied down. I mean, all I could think about apart from staying alive was, how were the Baltimore Orioles doing? We’d all try to get baseball scores and then football scores. If my team lost and one of my buddies gloated, fistfight. Here we
were in a war in a different world, and we’d fight over a football score. But it felt safe in a way. Random Row was kind of the same thing, people normalizing a difficult situation.”

“The desegregation act was enforced in 1965,” Susan informed them. “That resolved it.”

“You weren’t born yet.” Reverend Jones smiled at her. “It resolved political issues; it did not nor could not resolve personal issues. If your father is white and doesn’t claim you, you may not be thinking about desegregation the same way.”

Neil looked at the reverend. “What’s the old saying, ‘The personal is political’?”

“Is and isn’t.” BoomBoom was firm about this. “But in 1965, what happened to these so-called random kids’ schools?”

“Abandoned,” said Reverend Jones. “It was a political victory but it came at an unintended price. At least, I think it did. Basically, the children from Random Row were crammed into the white schools with no support system. The assumption was and still is that white ways are better. I don’t exactly see this as black and white, I see it more in class terms, but the reality of the children at Random Row was most of them were African American or mixed race, and poor. They were thrown into schools with children from a higher socioeconomic group and with vastly different needs. Not a good thing, in my mind.”

“Well, it’s a done deal,” Wesley replied with no emotion.

“It is.” The reverend nodded. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t learn from it, and not repeat our mistakes. We have to think of people’s emotions.”

“What happened to the teachers at Random Row?” asked BoomBoom; at forty-one, she was the same age as Harry and Susan.

“I suspect they were bought off. You know, early retirement or something like that. I guess what really gets my blood up is the assumption those teachers weren’t as well educated. Howard? Grambling?
The list of excellent black colleges can go on. The teachers may have gone to segregated colleges, but tell you what, I never met any graduate of those colleges who wasn’t well educated.”

“Racism is subtle and not so subtle.” Susan grabbed a cookie from the plate that Reverend Jones had placed on the table.

“So is sexism,” said BoomBoom.

“Yes, but you ladies have so many ways to even the score,” Neil teased her.

“Don’t forget that, Neil,” BoomBoom teased him right back.

“Not to ignore this fascinating history,” interjected Wesley, “but what I deduce from this is that the county, which could realize high profits on those buildings, won’t for political reasons?”

“Don’t you think it depends on the budget?” said Harry. “We’re in hard times. If the Board of County Commissioners wants to let those buildings and the land go, this would be the time.”

“If they’re willing to put up with the protest that our history is being demolished,” said Neil, in between bites of a chocolate chip cookie. “Here’s what I think. Use them or sell them. To keep the land idle, just sitting there, is stupid.”

“Do you think Buddy would sell his hundred acres to the county?” Wesley asked.

“They wouldn’t need it,” Harry replied.

“Probably not,” said Wesley. “I mean, if a housing development was part of the plan, yes. Otherwise, no. It does seem wasteful, though. The schoolhouses just abandoned and going to ruin.”

Susan simply said, “I say restore the buildings as a museum. It could be a good lesson for all and those rooms have cozy, lovely proportions. I’m like Reverend Jones, everything today is too antiseptic and big. I’m really tired of big.”

After an hour of lively talk, the group began to trickle out. Harry, Susan, and BoomBoom stayed longest, helping Herb clean up, washing dishes and glasses.

Drying her hands, BoomBoom remarked to Harry, “I was so sorry to hear that Big Mim lost the Medaglia d’Oro filly. Stunning, that filly.”

“Fair was devastated. He thought she was one of the most perfectly formed horses he had ever seen. Big Mim was, well, in tears according to Fair, but still took it like a trooper. Being a grandmother was a comfort, I think.”

“Heard she doesn’t like the boy’s name, Roland.”

“Little Mim and Blair love the ancient history of Roland at the Roncevaux Pass. ’Course, Big Mim just ignored it and calls him Roy.”

BoomBoom laughed. “Those two never have gotten along. Still, they do love each other.”

“Would you want to be Big Mim’s daughter?” asked Harry.

“No,” the blonde replied. “I love being her friend, though.”

“Me, too. She’s one hell of a horsewoman.”

They nattered on, Susan chiming in as she wiped down the coffee table, Herb as he put away glasses. Each lady kissed Herb’s cheek, then each other as they left St. Luke’s.

On the drive home, the stars glittered in pale silver light. Friday would be a full moon.

“Good meeting.” Susan hit her brights. “At least Neil isn’t talking about algorithms anymore. He gave a straightforward treasurer’s report.”

“He’s figuring out that simple is better,” Harry said. “Always is, too, no matter what the subject.”

“Ned says what drives him crazy about his fellow politicians in Richmond is how they complicate things to make themselves look smarter. He also said the level of discourse is so low a man
of average intelligence has to stoop to match it.” She smiled. “But there are some good people there in both chambers. He likes working with David Toscano and he likes working with some of the people from the farming counties. He’s not too thrilled with the ones from northern Virginia.”

“Like I said before, he’s a glutton for punishment.”

They rounded the curve, Mount Tabor up ahead.

“My tire light went on. Reach into the glove compartment and get out my pressure check, will you?” Susan turned in to Mount Tabor’s parking lot. “Oh, dear, Witchy Woo has fallen over. Come on, let’s set her up. They put a lot of work into this. Then I’ll check my tire.”

The two kept the brights on in the direction of the display and walked over.

They reached the corn bundles, all the arranged pumpkins, some cut as jack-o’-lanterns, the large baskets overflowing with gourds and squashes. Witchy Woo had fallen uphill onto the uneven ground.

Harry sniffed. “Something’s gone off.”

Susan inhaled. “Just. Probably a dead gopher somewhere. He’ll be gone tomorrow.”

Harry bent over to pick up the tumbled-over figure, noticing that its rubber mask was complete with a long, warty witch’s nose. She stood up again. “It’s not a gopher.”

Both women stared at the black-clad figure.

“Good God.” Susan put her hand to her face.

Harry reached down to pull off the mask.

Susan shouted, grabbing her arm, “Don’t!”

“A
ren’t you off work tonight?” Harry, still upset, asked as Cooper crossed the parking lot in her civilian clothing.

“I am, but Dabny called me from headquarters and said that you, once again, have found a strange corpse. So here I am. Anyway, I’d like to see this before the body goes to the state medical examiner. You two stay here. I
mean
it.”

“All right,” Susan firmly agreed. “I’ll take charge of Harry.”

Cooper turned her back to walk away, then faced them again. “Are you two doing okay?”

Harry shrugged, and fibbed a tad. “Yeah. It’s gross but …” She shrugged again as Susan nodded in assent.

The police investigative team circled the display. The photographer snapped, stepping out of the way of the officers.

Dorothy Maddox, chief of forensics, had only been with the team a year. She was kneeling down, surgical gloves on, carefully touching the corpse’s arm. In the temporary lights now shining on the scene, she studied a swollen hand, and a forearm with purple splotches.

Cooper stood behind Dorothy. “Thirty-six hours at most, my guess.”

“Your guess isn’t far wrong. The nights have been cold, the days in the seventies. She’s on the other side of maximum rigor mortis, obviously, but intact, and that’s a huge help.” Dorothy stood up. “Is Rick on the way?”

No sooner was his name spoken than the sheriff pulled off the road and into the church driveway. He, too, was in his civilian clothes and driving his personal vehicle. He glanced toward Harry, then walked over to the scene.

“We’ll need to dust everything. The pumpkins, the baskets, every single thing.” He took a deep breath, then coughed slightly. “I hated to leave my ball game, but this is, well, original.” He paused. “There’s nothing like the odor of death, is there? It isn’t even that bad yet. I’m surprised the body wasn’t damaged.”

“Boss, can I remove the victim’s mask?” Dorothy asked. “I waited for you.”

“Yes, of course.” Rick motioned for all the lights to shine on the witch’s face.

Carefully, Dorothy removed the rubber mask with the hooked nose.

“My God,” Susan exclaimed, as she could see the face with the flashlight focused on it. “It’s Hester Martin!”

Harry recognized her all the way from where she stood in the parking lot. She covered her mouth with her hand, then let it fall. “Hester Martin. She never did a thing to anybody.”

Tears filled Susan’s eyes for the middle-aged lady. Her mind flashed to Hester proudly showing off produce, filling her specially decorated wooden wheelbarrows, some worn and painted green, some barn red, some faded marine blue. Large wheels were yellow with a pinstripe matching the color of the painted display cart. Hester had a good eye for proportion and color. The
produce gleamed, as she had misted it, too. Susan’s tears rolled faster now. She met Harry’s eyes. “Remember when Hester declared that black gum trees were conspiring against humans? Well, everyone gets a free pass for a few crackbrained ideas. Hester’s seemed more imaginative than most.”