Witch Ball (6 page)

There were even some interviews with John Daigle, the father of Skip. Could there be a connection between Skip's suicide and
Coach's murder? Unlikely, in my book. It was all so tragic. John Daigle, or "Johnny D," as most people around here called him, was devastated. Photos of him in the
Dispatch
showed a slender man with red-rimmed eyes. His misery cloaked him. Anyone could see that he would never be the same.

The Packet included in their story a small detail about how Skip's mother, Linda Daigle, had disappeared several years ago. I suppose that made it much worse for Johnny D. Skip was all he had.

Coach's wife, Sue Ellen Russell, was playing the devastated widow. Columbus shared her sorrow. There were lots of photos of her on the news and in the papers. She was a mousy-looking woman, with a tight, gray bun wound on the top of her head like a steely tiara.

The story got "
curiouser and curiouser." Although the Russells owned one of Columbus' historic homes on the south side of town, he was discovered in a small bungalow on 3
^rd
Street North. The house was owned by him, but according to the investigation, his wife knew nothing about it. Apparently, it was a sort of party-house for the track team.

My dad found the whole story a source of great amusement. "Now, that's the way to have a happy marriage, separate houses across town! Wish I had thought of that."

I couldn't wait to get to "work" to ask Eric about it. He had called in sick, much to my disappointment.

Mother Goose was as disturbed about it as everyone else. At "Story Time" she was off her game, and asked me to do the reading. As it turns out, I am a very good reader, and surprisingly, really enjoy it. Who knew? Maybe I can discover my passion yet.

"Goose, you knew Coach Russell pretty well, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes, we served on the Historic Commission board together." She sat at her desk, eyes lowered, fingering a puppet that looked like a lamb. Her office is filled, floor to ceiling, with books and stuffed animals. It is like a garden of fuzzy plush and wild colors. This is the happiest place I have ever seen.

"And everybody loved him?"

"Certainly!
He worked for historic preservation, a great asset to the community." Mother Goose has one of those bigger-than-life personalities. Even though she is petite, her presence fills every room she enters. Southern towns always have characters like her. (Come to think of it, Aunt Fleur is fast becoming one, too.) Today, Goose was oddly subdued.

I realized that I had learned something from my mother's approach to questioning. She never asks what she really wants to know.

"I don't think Eric likes him," I offered.

"Well, Lewis could be abrasive. Once he verbally attacked me in the parking lot, yelling. He was angry about the way I had voted on the demolition of an old building downtown."

"Were you scared?"

"Indeed, I had never seen that side of him." She thought for a moment. "He recovered quickly, but after that I was always a bit leery of him." Mother Goose is an old lady. She is slender and fragile. Anyone who hurt her would be tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail, as locals like to say. Around here
, locals like clichés.

I decided to give Eric a call, just to see if he was alright. The phone rang for a long time before the answering machine picked up. When the beep came, I couldn't think of anything to say.

 

 

 

 

 

 

E
ric didn't come back to the library for a week. He must have been in pretty bad shape to stay out so long. I missed him, and tried to engage him in conversation as soon as he walked in the door. No luck
; he was sullen and quiet.

It must be sad to be sick with no mother to take care of you. I asked if his dad was a good nurse.

"Not really," he said, "my Maw Maw, Clementine, checked in on me. She's my mother's mother. So, it almost felt like I had a mom there."

"I thought your mom was an orphan." Something about his stories didn't add up. Surely, there was nothing to hide. If he had any secrets my parents would most likely know.

"She raised my mom, and for the most part, me too. No one knew much about where mom came from.  As far as I'm concerned, Clementine is my grandmother."

"I can see why you would love her. I love my Aunt Fleur."

He gave me a sideways glance. I got the impression that there was something he wasn't saying, something boiling beneath that dark and handsome surface.

"Eric, why don't you like Fleur?" This had been bugging me. Maybe I should have waited till he was feeling better. There was an air of vulnerability about him today.

"Truly, you don't need to know. You love her. That's all that matters."

"For Christ's sake, just tell me!"

"All right. The talk around town is that she's a witch. I didn't want to believe it. But when I met her, it made sense. The black cats, the 'magic'... She made my skin crawl." He stopped talking.

I had no idea how to respond. My throat burned. My eyes filled with tears. "I don't know how you can say such an awful thing! She is wonderful: quirky maybe, but a witch? I think you're crazy to throw that kind of shade at her!"

"Truly, I'm sorry. I didn't make it up. You know how people talk." I think he was sorry, but too late. The damage was done.

I started to walk away without telling him good-bye, but then turned back and said, "You missed a lot while you were out. I guess you heard the news about your old coach."

His beautiful dark skin turned ashen. "Yeah, I heard."

"Doesn't it make you sad? After all, it was a violent death. Someone must have really hated him."

"I have work to do. See you later." Then he was gone. And people say women are mysterious!

I stayed to myself as much as I could that day. I was deeply hurt by his comments about my aunt. It was a shock, too, to think that people in
Columbus were talking about her. A witch? How silly is that? That spell she gave me didn't even work. Of course, I had made a couple of alterations. That could be the problem. But, no! Not a witch.

I learned a long time ago to be careful what I said around town. The speed of gossip is faster than the Internet. Word of mouth can be more corrosive than acid. Why is it that good stories are so seldom circulated? People love scandal, even if it's not true.

Columbus walks a fine line between now and the past two centuries. This town slips back and forth between eras like we have some sort of time machine. It wasn't so long ago that crosses were burned on people's lawns. I wouldn't be surprised if there were a few residents who are just dying for an opportunity to drag those timbers out again. They probably still have a pointy-topped sheet or two hanging in their closets.

In spite of Eric's reserve, I had gleaned another tidbit about his family
—that he had a "grandmother." I knew my parents could shed more light on the subject. I was also beginning to realize that I would make a great detective. Maybe that could be a career path for me. It was certainly something to consider.

That evening at dinner I approached the subject carefully. Dad was on his second martini, and mom had a glass of wine. She loves her Pinot and buys it by the box.

"Mom, dinner is delish. You really outdid yourself tonight." It was Hamburger Helper, Potato Stroganoff flavor, not exactly a gourmet meal.

She gave me a look through lowered eyes. I think she was on to me.

"Did you guys ever know someone named Clementine?"

They both stopped chewing.

"She's Eric's grandmother. That's what he told me. She raised his mother." I stopped to give them time to say something.

"Yes," Mom said, "we all knew her. Clem was a maid. She worked for a lot of the families around town. I wasn't aware that she was still alive. She must be very old."

"I
dunno. A maid?"

"Gertrude, she is, or
was, a domestic, just one of the many black cleaning ladies who came in and out of our lives. I was a child when she worked for us."

"What was she like?"

"I barely remember. I know that my mother got furious with her, fired her. Something about stealing, I think. That was all so long ago."

I was surprised that Mom was telling me so much. She must have had more wine than I realized
, because she added something else. "I don't remember a whole lot, but Mother changed after that. Daddy started falling asleep on his chair in the den. Aunt Fleur came for a visit and totally redecorated my folks' bedroom. It was so girly. I don't think Daddy ever slept in that room again." She lowered her eyes. I took that as a clear sign that I wasn't getting any more insight into my grandparents' personal life.

"But Clementine had to be a nice lady, raising an orphan, and all. Where did Eric's mother come from?"

"Nobody knows. The story goes that Clem left town for a while, then came back with Ruby. She told everyone that a crying lady gave the baby to her while she was in Chicago. She had stopped working for us, so I don't know much about it. Most of the things that I know were repeated around town over the years. My own parents never talked about it." Mother went into the kitchen and returned with a tumbler full of wine.

"It was sort of strange," she said when she sat down again, "unusual for a white woman to give her baby to a black."

It took me a second to process all this. No wonder Eric was so sympathetic to the runaway slaves. He was partially raised by a black woman.

"So Ruby was white?" Yes, I know this is the 21
^st
century, well in most places in the world. In Columbus, and probably in a lot of Mississippi, old habits die hard. The races mix uncomfortably. I guess that crying woman in Chicago didn't know what sort of place her baby would end up in. "You guys must have known Ruby."

"Certainly," dad spoke up. "We went to school with her. She was close to our age."

"So what was she like? Did she look like Eric?" Inquiring minds want to know.

"Yes," my dad continued, "she looked a lot like him, darker perhaps. She was quite a beauty, exotic. Most of the boys had a crush on her. Girls didn't like her much, though."

"Did you have a thing for her, Dad?"

"She actually looked a lot like your mother. The coloring was different, but their faces were a lot alike. I always thought Kay was prettier. I had a big crush on your mom, but she had no idea that I existed...until later."

"Why did you get upset when you met Eric? You both acted like there was something wrong with him, with his family."

Mom got up and started clearing the table. The dishes clattered loudly together.

"Oh, Gertrude, can't you figure it out? His mother was raised by a black woman. She was just different, that's all." My dad stopped talking. I got the message that that was all he was willing to say.

"But Ruby was white. She was just like you guys."

Mom stopped clearing the table. "There was another rumor. Some people thought that she was actually Clementine's child," she said. "I never thought so. Ruby was a beautiful creamy coffee color. Clem was black, very dark, to be sure."

I don't claim to be the smartest girl in town, so I said one more thing. "Mom,
Granpa Hyrum told me that you dated Hunter Alexander before you married Dad."

She dropped a dish. It shattered on the floor, exploding into a thousand splinters. Dinner, as well as our conversation, was officially over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

L
ife hands me more questions than answers. Mom and Dad do not like Eric. This is possibly because his mother was raised in a black section of town, or because she was beautiful, and the girls were jealous, or something else. Eric does not like Aunt Fleur. He thinks she is a witch. Silly, she is so very dear.

Well, there is that dabbling in magic. But that's harmless.

Columbus, Mississippi is usually the most boring place in the world. But, this summer had suddenly exploded into a storm of fear and speculation about the murder of Coach Russell. Gun sales tripled. Anyone who had not lived in town their entire life was suspect.

Strangers are not welcome here
, even under the best of conditions. Oh, at first everyone is polite and charming, full of
Bless your heart
, and
you poor thing.
But the subtext is,
when are you leaving
.
You are accepted, but only to a point.

People here simply like others who are exactly like them. That comfortable familiarity goes for everything. Locals are not adventurous with food, either. They live on meat, potatoes, and greens, and frequent established fast-food chains, ones that serve hamburgers or chicken. Few people eat fish, except for locally caught Catfish.

For the most part, women dress alike and still tease their hair. Men know that bib-front overalls and baseball caps are acceptable dress everywhere, and chewing tobacco is just as good as a breath mint. 

EVERYONE is Baptist. There are a few Methodists, Episcopalians and a handful of Jews. But, many who practice those other religions are transplants, so they may be forgiven for not being Baptist.

The Columbus Police Department questioned a lot of people about the murder. They interviewed men with records. They got search warrants for every room in the Gilmer Inn, a hotel where transients usually stay.

It isn't hard to understand why Aunt Fleur seems so strange to locals. They have no sense of the exotic. Still, I began to worry. If some had considered her a witch, as Eric said, might they then assume that she is in some way evil, or even a murderer? I hope not.

I suppose my Granpa Hyrum was worried, too. One day I found him visiting his sister. He always spoke to her harshly, as if he were angry. Sometimes I couldn't tell if he hated her, or was just embarrassed by her. Whatever, there was no love in his exchanges.