Lost seeds, p.17
Lost Seeds, page 17
Mae waited for the Saline patrol cars feet from the cordoned perimeter around the place of Tim’s demise. When they crossed over the railroad tracks, she ran to meet them at the top of the driveway and gave Loretta a hug as she emerged from the sergeant’s car.
“Where is she?” Loretta spun around frantically, not knowing where to find Rosie.
Waylon did not wait for an answer and ran toward the working men.
Finding Dub looking into a hole in the ground, Waylon said, “Is my child buried? Is she dead?” He squeezed beside Dub and was taken aback to see a metal container being excavated by the fire department.
Dub spoke to the object. “It’s OK, baby.”
“Who are you talking to?”
Then a cry triggered Waylon. Through tears, he choked out the words he desired to say to his little girl. “Daddy is here, Rosie, Daddy is here.”
“I’m scared and want out. The room is shaking. Something bad is trying to come in here after me!” said Rosie at the top of her voice.
Loretta broke her way through the crowd of workers. Her hand went to her chest and her knees buckled, seeing the reality of her child’s situation. Waylon caught her and carried her away.
The first responders vigorously and cautiously continued digging to find the opening to the bunker, partially buried under the warm embers from the shack. Piles of debris covered the cavity in the ground that provided access to the locked hatch. While searching for Tim’s remains and clearing the site, the firemen had unknowingly stacked more hot wooden rubbish on top, further sealing access to the box and melting the lock.
After several hours of tedious, difficult work to break the melted lock and seal, emergency workers finally pried open the hatch door, made of wood with an inch of stainless steel beneath, just wide enough for an average grown man’s shoulders. They did not know the condition of the shelter or Rosie inside. Rosie lay in a far corner on the floor, grasping her knees to her chest with her face buried in her thighs under a wool blanket covered with the black soot that had seeped in through the only source of air, the four-inch plastic pipe affixed to the ceiling of the box.
The room contained miniature replicas of items tailored for a little girl: an oil lamp hanging on the wall near the trapdoor for Tim to turn on and off, a rug with colorful circles cushioning the hard floor, a sleeping mat, and a wool blanket with specks of pink flowers. Pictures of horses and dolls hung on the walls, thick with soot. A small potty chair completed the child’s needs.
Loretta and Waylon leaned into the trapdoor.
“Rosie?” Loretta said. “Rosie, Daddy is coming to lift you out of there.”
Rosie did not move.
Claire squeezed her head between Loretta and Waylon and barked once, then whined. From under the blanket, the crown of Rosie’s head, with the same two pigtails that Loretta had made the previous morning, protruded like a turtle from its shell. Rosie blinked several times.
“My eyes are blurry. Claire?”
Claire barked again and Rosie lifted her hands up and out of the blanket. Waylon jumped down into the opening, leaned over, and lifted Rosie out of the ground. Claire gave a hop and bark of joy. All the workers applauded. Waylon handed Rosie to Loretta. Loretta hugged her and kissed her cheeks as Rosie wrapped her legs around her mother’s waist. Claire jumped, placing her paws on Loretta’s side, rubbing Rosie’s thighs, and licking the girl’s arm. The grandparents held them all.
A policeman radioed to Beau’s car. “Thompson, she’s out and safe.”
Beau started crying and told Fran and Jason the good news. Neither one said a word. “Do you want me to take you to your sister?”
“Sure. Let’s go, Jason.” Fran grabbed his hand to help him out of the car.
They followed Beau back to the burnt shack.
As they walked, Jason lagged. Tim’s image appeared, strolling unsteadily toward Jason, dragging his feet along the gravel to the spot where the windowless shack once stood.
Hair standing up, wild and uncombed for days, strong odors spewing from his mouth, Tim stopped and said, “You still have my treasure?”
Jason nodded, scrunching up his face.
“Did you follow the instructions?”
Jason nodded again. “I brought the rose petals too, from the grave like the plan said.”
“What a smart boy.” Tim glared at Jason.
Jason reached into his pocket and pulled out a dried pink rose petal and handed it to Tim. It floated to the ground, settling where the now-destroyed mahogany door had once stood, dividing Tim’s world from Dub’s.
“You know, you’re the image of me at your age. You’re the invisible type too.”
Tim grunted, shook his head, and kept walking. Jason followed.
Tim turned around one last time and said, “Thanks for helping. You’re the only one that did.” He completed the journey into the embers of the windowless shack.
Fran yanked on Jason to keep him from walking into the pile of burnt wood.
“Jason, I’m not surprised the ugly shed burned down. Uncle Tim was an embarrassment. That serves him right, I’m glad he’s gone. I don’t want other kids teasing us about a loser in our family.”
Beau guided Fran and Jason through the crowd of firemen and policemen to where Loretta held Rosie in her arms.
“Rosie, see Fran and Jason?” Loretta pointed.
The three children stared at each other.
Rosie frowned at Jason from Loretta’s arms. “I waited on that log for you inside the woods. I sat there like you told me. You disappeared. I got captured.” Rosie tightened her grip on Loretta and cried.
Jason stared at Rosie, then turned toward the embers with raised eyebrows. A brief vision of Tim nodded and smiled.
Waylon, Dub, and Beau thanked the workers. Reporters who had arrived hours earlier to write the story took pictures. While most were of Rosie and her parents, another middle-aged reporter with olive skin, black straight hair with a J-shaped flip, and a round face with a hint of natural blushed cheeks aimed her camera primarily at Dub.
Mae had called Dr. Matthews to update him on the crisis after Loretta and Waylon arrived. He had driven to Abingdon and now, after an examination, declared Rosie unharmed. Loretta took her for a bath and dressed her in an old nightgown left from when Mae had little girls. Rosie quickly fell asleep on Mae’s bed after having a small bowl of Corn Flakes cereal. Fran and Jason sat on the front porch in the swing, taking in the police and firemen cleaning up, strolling back and forth putting their tools away.
“Mom, can I speak with you in private for a moment?” Loretta asked.
“Certainly. Is something wrong?”
“Maybe. Jason had a cigar box. He said Uncle Tim gave it to him. Did anyone tell you?”
“No. Loretta, what are you talking about?”
“Jason hoarded things in the crawl space under our house, Mom. Things he stole over the years from me, the girls, a store, who knows. He even had some of Rosie’s dolls. But the scariest thing is he dressed up one of Rosie’s dolls in her clothing, bound her up, and put her in a hole.”
“Loretta don’t fret. I’m sure it’s just a boy thing. It must be. Jason has always been a little strange.”
“Yes, Waylon and I have Dr. Tucker dealing with Jason. Jason really likes working with Dr. Tucker. But I must ask, did Uncle Tim have a child?”
Mae froze and her reply caught in her throat. “Yes, he did, Loretta. Many years ago, when he first went to college. I don’t know if it was some girl in Morriston or elsewhere. He told me he fell in love with some girl and told Dub that she was pregnant. That’s the first time I saw him drunk. I don’t think he ever recovered. I sent him home to talk to his mother about it because I wanted nothing to do with anything that makes this family look bad. We’re above this kind of mess. Why are you asking me this? I would love to put this to bed, but it will be the talk all over the county. Anyway, what does that have to do with something Tim gave Jason?”
Loretta reached into her pocket and pulled out Tim’s notes and opened the first pencil drawing of the baby with the words Sweet Rosie. One by one, Loretta revealed the remaining pictures in age order.
“Tim drew these? Rosie resembles his baby, but darker.”
Loretta delivered one more piece of paper that contained the detailed plan to kidnap and raise Rosie as his own child in an underground room.
Mae’s eyes glazed over, tears welling up. “I knew he was disturbed, but to do this? I never should have let him live on our property. Dub never wanted him here anyway. I can’t even process this in my head. Tim kidnapped Rosie.”
“The girl’s name was Kate. It seems like she was a white girl in Morriston,” Loretta said, passing along the letter Kate wrote to Tim.
Beau walked back to his car to check in with the Saline station and found out the sergeant had returned to Saline several hours before and requested his immediate return. Before leaving, he gave Waylon a hug. “Brother, I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am. It’s really messed up, what Tim did. He must have been sick.”
“Thank you for all you’ve done,” Waylon said as the two brothers stood holding each other. “We’ll talk about the other two fellows later.”
“What fellows? There’s no more discussion. Rosie’s home and fine. I know nothing more,” Beau said.
The hours that followed brought a circus of people: police, doctors, coroners, family, friends, and newspaper reporters. At the end of it all, the crowd left Dub and Mae standing in the intense heat, holding each other, yards away from the smoldering rubble.
The reporter taking pictures of Dub had remained in her car, writing down observations of the hectic scene that unfolded, determined to find the right time to talk to the owners of the property with no one else in the driveway. Finally, she emerged and walked over to the homeowners.
“Sir, can we talk?” she asked.
Dub glanced at the lone car with the “St. Louis Post-Dispatch” sign and released a sigh of frustration.
“Yes, I’m a reporter. I’ve been following the disappearance of your granddaughter since late yesterday, when Rev. Marks called our paper to give it attention. Then, when the police scanner in our Abingdon bureau reported the fire emergency at your home, I came here to gather more information. My name is Charlotte.”
“This is not the time.”
“Mr. Brisco, I apologize, and I’m truly sorry for all that has happened to you in the last couple of days. Is it OK if I walk around for a few minutes?”
The silence was permeated by the sound of crackling wood.
Charlotte looked around nervously before speaking again. “I’ll come back tomorrow maybe?”
“Sure, lady.”
Chapter 42
Unintended Consequences
July 13–14, 1965
Returning to the police station, the sergeant confirmed the identity of the burnt body from the lynching as Damian Harris. He also informed Beau that he was aware from Jaffee that Beau knew the victim and asked him to pick up Lou to identify what was left of the body and items like the dog tags. Because it was a lynching, the sergeant explained that cars were lined up at the churches and a white policeman delivering the news might rouse “those” people in the community.
“Rouse ‘those’ people, Sarge?” Beau turned to leave, shaking his head, but the sergeant stopped him to report one more result of the investigation.
“By the way. Something’s funny. The coroner’s report said it looks like the boy died before the hanging. He did not die from asphyxiation or burning. He indicated signs of brain swell, clots, and a broken spine. The coroner concluded that he died from the effects of blunt force trauma. Supremacist groups usually hang their victims alive and take pleasure from the inflicted pain.”
Beau paused briefly, expressionless, in front of the sergeant’s desk, parting his lips to speak, then slowly walked away.
A few hours later, he called Dub’s house. Dub answered in a whisper with Mae asleep beside him.
“Dub, it’s Beau. I hope I didn’t wake you and Mae up. I know this is a bad time, but I need your help quickly. I had to go to Lou’s Tavern to tell Damian’s dad about his death. The Levee is worked up. Just so you know, the coroner said Damian most likely died from blunt force trauma. I’ll also tell Waylon.”
Dub said nothing.
“It’s been a long day for you, but can you meet me at Bootsie’s tonight? The men respect your wisdom, Dub. Your words will go a long way in keeping things from getting out of hand.”
Neither Beau, Waylon, nor Dub said anything ever again about luring Damian out of the bar and its aftermath.
Chapter 43
Facing the Truth
July 14, 1965
The day after Tim’s death, clouds slid across the sky, masking the sun. Rain threatened to fall at any moment. The erratic weather seemed to manifest the tragic circumstances of the previous day. Dub and Mae spent the day making calls to extended family, delivering the news of Tim’s death. The call to Morriston, Alabama, extracted the most emotion and offered the greatest relief.
Waylon briefly visited Dub and Mae to bring Tim’s cigar box and to report on the Thompson family’s condition, adding that all three children would attend swimming lessons the next day.
After supper, Mae heard a knock on the door. She removed her apron, stained by the constant hand wiping that accompanied the preparation of dinner. Observing Dub pensively reading the newspaper in the living room while waiting for the church pastor to arrive, she rolled her eyes but still traveled dutifully from the kitchen through the middle room, into the living room and then to the front porch, studying the face of the lady on the other side of the door, who was holding a pad and pencil in one hand and an umbrella in the other. Mae paused, then cautiously unlocked the screen.
“Good evening, Mrs. Brisco. I apologize if I startled you. I’m Charlotte, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch reporter. We spoke last night.” She extended her hand.
“Oh. I’m sorry for my reaction,” Mae said. “Of course. I knew your face looked familiar.” She managed a brief chuckle.
Charlotte’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to reply, then she lowered her head, taking a shallow breath. After the reporter extended condolences, Mae yet again rejected the request for an interview and pulled the screen door closed. The reporter nudged the door open.
Hearing the tense encounter, Dub dropped the paper into his lap and turned toward the exchange on the porch. He walked up behind Mae with the newspaper rolled up in one hand, then pulled her back with the other to step between the two women.
“There’s nothing you need to know, lady,” Dub said.
The three stood observing each other, offensively positioned to pursue their respective missions. Drops of water sat multiplying on top of Mae’s rose bush. Charlotte remained in the threshold, one foot on the porch inside and the other on the steps outside.
“I need your help. It won’t take long.”
The rain fell harder as Charlotte struggled to open the umbrella with one hand while holding her notepad and pencil with the other. A sudden downpour descended with a heaviness that defeated her effort to stay dry. Mae opened the door, giving access to shelter.
“Dub, let’s give the lady a few minutes. The rain could ease. I’ll make a quick pot of tea.”
Taking her arm, Mae led Charlotte into the living room, where Dub returned to the chair, still holding the rolled-up newspaper. He twisted it in his hands like wringing water out of a mop. The chimes from a grandfather clock recovered from the curb of a wealthy resident on the other side of town rang the half hour. As the echoes died away, Dub looked up to acknowledge the person standing in front of him.
“The kettle is already hot. I’ll bring us each a cup of tea.” Mae apprehensively cleared her throat and scurried to the kitchen.
“I didn’t know we had a young lady reporter in Tarboro prying into people’s lives,” he said. “We aren’t ones to put our business out on the streets. You’re lucky this rain got you in the door.”
Charlotte replied, “I’m forty and have been doing this for many years.”
Dub stared at the ceiling in thought, then slowly an urge drew him to Charlotte’s face, where he lingered on each feature. During the silence, the clock continued to tick rhythmically, and shrubbery smacked at the windows. Mae returned, served the tea, and extended her hand for Charlotte to sit.
“Tell us about yourself, Miss Charlotte,” Mae said nervously, scoping the room and glancing at the storm.
“My husband died a while back, and I have a teenage son. I grew up in this town.”
Over the minutes of mundane chatter, the rain and thunder began to settle down. A glimpse of sun reflected on the waterdrops settling on the roses. Noting the pain he felt looking into Charlotte’s eyes, Dub forced himself to gaze out the window at the flowers. Charlotte turned to take in the scene that brought anxiety to his face.
He finally said with force, “Miss Charlotte, let’s talk about why you’re really here.”
She became reflective. “Your brother Tim and you. Were you very close?”
Dub studied Charlotte again. He leaned toward her, tapping the newspaper on his knee.
“That’s none of your business.”
“He lived in your backyard for almost forty years, yet you don’t want to talk about him, Mr. Brisco?” Charlotte said.
Even her voice brought pain to Dub’s face. The newspaper wound tighter in his grip.
“That’s an awfully personal question. Why?”
Charlotte didn’t answer Dub’s question and Dub didn’t answer hers. Each sat looking at the other.
“I don’t need to explain my life to you, but you have something you need to say to us. I see it in your face,” Dub said finally.
