Abby flipped through several letters, mailers, and magazines. I noticed a couple. Southern Living. Soldier of Fortune.
She stared at the outside of one envelope longer than the others and then quickly tore into it. She read it for a few moments. Her lips slightly parted and she used her right hand to brush the hair from her face onto the back of her ear. She tucked her legs up under her, shook her head, and then handed the letter to me.
The letterhead was, like Maggie said, from a private investigator in Memphis named Art Copeland. He wrote pretty simply that he intended to keep the deposit that Bill MacDonald had given him. He said he’d exhausted his search through Social Security, criminal, and Department of Motor Vehicles records. Still, he could not find out more about the man Abby’s father wanted.
I’m sorry but there is no record of Clyde James since 1974.
“Holy shit,” I said.
“Holy shit,” Abby said.
T he rain hit us as soon as we reached this wide-porched white house on the outskirts of Oxford. Man, it felt like it had been raining since I arrived in Memphis and I just wished it would stop for a few minutes. I was tired of being wet and cold and having to change clothes about every hour. Somehow, the rain felt different here as we ran to the house. Felt much colder and more brittle, little tiny needles angled at my face.
We clamored up onto the porch filled with dead plants in mossy terra-cotta pots. Abby walked ahead of me, pulling out a key from her balled fist.
Crime-scene tape covered the back entrance and it looked like someone had tried to lock up the house. A padlock had been ripped from the frame and it sat dangling and useless.
Abby tossed it aside and opened the door’s dead bolt. We ran inside as thunder boomed in the thick night, making patting sounds in the pine forest.
As we entered, thunder boomed again and shook the dark house.
She tried the light switch but nothing worked. I clicked on my lighter and Abby scurried off for a few seconds and returned with two thick candles. She rushed back into the room as if the other rooms lacked oxygen and she could only breathe when she was next to me.
“Where’s the office?” I asked.
She carefully held the candles as I, slightly shivering from the cold rain, lit them and followed her to the back of the house. The thunder crashed pretty damned close to us again and Abby reeled but caught herself and kept walking. I knew she could hear the gunshots in her head and it gave me a thick lump in my throat as I watched her trying to ignore the sounds and images.
She rolled back some wide-paneled doors and pointed at a large wooden desk and two tall metal file cabinets. The walls were painted a deep red and lined with prints of Confederate battle scenes. There was a collection of antique guns mounted on the wall.
Abby sat on the couch, teeth chattering pretty badly. Lightning spliced in a blue and purple zigzag outside and she covered her face with her hands.
“Do you have any clothes here?” I asked, trying to get her mind on something else.
She nodded, face in hands. “No.”
“Still at the dorm?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Abby, I’ll go with you. Where’s your room?”
She stayed still for a few moments and then she wordlessly got to her feet and circled around the den to a short hallway and a room covered in art print posters. Renoir. Picasso. On a long blue bookshelf, she had several trophies topped with gold horses. An old cowboy hat sat crooked on a life-size cutout of James Dean.
The room smelled stale and dead. Almost like some of the museums in New Orleans. Place had the feeling that nothing should be touched here. In the candlelight, Abby carefully opened an antique dresser and pulled out a pair of old jeans and a sweatshirt.
Her curly blond hair hung loose. Her brown eyes looked tired as hell. I folded my arms and studied the spines of her books as she pulled off her jacket and peeled off her T-shirt.
In a short flash I saw her wet bra and tight stomach. I turned my head quickly.
“Doesn’t matter. You’ve already seen all of me anyway.”
I nodded and studied the books. Eudora Welty. Willie Morris.
“You like Salinger?” I asked.
I heard her slough off the sweatpants and saw a wet bra tossed onto the floor.
“Haven’t read him,” she said.
“You should. He has this story he tells in Catcher in the Rye about finding an old baseball mitt that belonged to his brother, Allie. He said Allie used to write poems up and down the fingers and into the pocket.”
When I turned back she was pulling her wet hair into a ponytail and had on a fresh pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. I picked up the wet clothes and balled them under my arm. She waited for me to finish whatever the hell I was talking about.
I smiled and said, “After a while this stuff won’t hurt so much. Keep some of their things so you can remember them.”
“You close to your folks?” she asked.
“I was.”
“They’re dead?”
I nodded.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
“Shit,” I said, looking away. “That was a long time ago.”
“Were they killed or something?”
“My father was an alcoholic and drank himself to death.”
“Your mother?”
I grabbed the candle from the bookshelf and took a deep breath.
“My mother just didn’t like living very much,” I said.
Her eyes changed as she watched me. They went from sad to soft, picking up her candle and for the first time truly leading the way.
F or more than an hour, we tore through her father’s twin file cabinets. Seemed like we went through every file her father had ever touched. I’d read through each one and then passed it to her to read by candlelight. A couple times she looked like she had something she desperately wanted to tell me, but at the last second would change her mind and bury her head back into a file.
“What kind of law did your father practice?” I asked.
“Mainly he worked on contracts,” she said. “He helped people with their money, set up special accounts. And he did a lot with wills for old people around town. He was always busy when someone died.”
“What’s the Sons of the South?” I asked.
I tossed her a loose pile of papers and pamphlets with a Confederate battle flag logo. She read along as I did, about a lot of mission statements and quotes from dead generals. Kept on saying they were not a hate group, only preservers of Southern culture.
“Never heard him mention it,” she said, her lips still silently reading along. Rallies to save the Mississippi state flag. A battle re-enactment in Vicksburg. Some kind of big convention in Jackson, Tennessee.
“It’s a hate group,” I said.
“Says it’s not.”
“ ‘We don’t endorse the Klan’ doesn’t exactly mean they want to hold hands and sing the world a song in perfect harmony.”
“Look right here,” Abby said. “ ‘The Sons of the South does not advocate any violence or malice to anyone outside the Celtic heritage of the South. The SOS will further the sponsorship of stronger states’ rights, the advancement of Southern heritage, and the return of Christian morals to our children.’ That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“What kind of Southern heritage?”
“Oh, says ‘Celtic,’ “ she said, frowning at me. “Listen, my daddy loved the Civil War. That doesn’t mean he was a racist. Just because you support having a flag with history doesn’t mean you don’t like black people. My daddy worked with blacks his whole life.”
“Abby, it’s okay.”
“There was one time we were having a dinner party and some asshole from New York was there and talking about how Southerners were racist because we were illiterate. I thought my daddy was going to tear his head off. He said the most racist people he’d ever known lived up north.”
“Calm down,” I said, prying the pamphlet from her fingers. “Let’s just put this aside. I just wanted to know if your daddy ever talked about joining this group.”