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Authors: Thomas H. Cook
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see if the town might give him one.”
Clement sat only a few feet from me, but he seemed far way; Mr. Parsons bore in upon me so closely I could almost feel his breath upon my face. When were you last on Black Pond? Matter-of-factly, with no hint of passion, and certainly none of concealment, my answer came: On May 29, 1927. That would be a Sunday? Yes .
“You’ll have to go out there, of course,” Clement said, his gaze leveled upon me steadily, his head cocked to the right, so that for an instant I wondered if he mightalso be reliving my day in the witness box, listening once again to Mr. Parsons’ questions as they’d resounded through the crowded courtroom. What happened on Black Pond that day?
Clement’s eyes narrowed, as if against a blinding light, and I knew that he could sense the upheaval in my mind no matter how hard I labored to contain it. “I don’t guess you’ve been out that way in quite some time,” he said.
“Not in years.”
“Looks the same.”
“The same as what?”
My question appeared to throw him into doubt as to what his answer should be. “Same as it did in the old days,” he replied.
I said nothing, but I could feel myself helplessly returning to the days he meant. I saw an old car moving through the darkness, two beams of yellow light engulfing me as it came to a halt, a figure staring at me from behind the wheel, motioning now, whispering, Get in .
“Well, let me know what you find out,” Clement said, rising from his chair. “About the variance, I mean.”
“I’ll look into it right away.”
Once at the door, he turned back to face me. “You don’t have to stay out there for long, of course,” he told me, his way of lightening the load. “Just get an idea of what the town might think of somebody developing it.”
I nodded.
He seemed unsure of what he should say next, or if it should be me to whom he said it. Finally, he spoke again. “There’s one more thing, Henry. The money. From the land, I mean. I want it to go to somebody in particular.” He paused a moment, then said her name. “Alice Craddock.”
She swam into my mind, an old woman, immenselyfat, her hair gray and bedraggled, her mind unhinged, the butt of a cruel school-yard poem I’d heard repeated through the years:
Alice Craddock,
Locked in the paddock
Where’s your mama gone?
“It just seems right that she should get whatever the land out there brings,” Clement said. “I’m an old man. I don’t need it. And they say Alice has come on bad times.”
I saw Alice as a middle-aged woman, slack-jawed, growing fat on potato chips and candy bars, her eyes dull and lightless, a gang of boys chasing after her, pointing, laughing, until Mr. Wallace chased them away, his words trailing after them as they fled down the street: Leave her alone. She’s suffered enough .
“Not much left of what was given her,” Clement said.
“Not much, no.”
He shrugged. “Well, maybe this can help a little,” he said, then turned and walked through the door.
Once he’d gone, I went to the window and looked out. I could see him trudging toward the dusty old truck he’d parked across the street. But I could see him, too, as he’d looked years before, during the days of the trial, the way he’d stood with his cronies on the courthouse steps as Miss Channing had been rushed down them, jeering at her as she swept past, the dreadful word I’d heard drop from his mouth as he glared at her: Whore .
It was not something I’d ever expected to do, see Milford Cottage again, feel the allure I’d known there, the passions it had stirred. But once Clement’s old truck had pulled away, I felt myself drawn back to it, not in amood of youthful reminiscence, but as someone forced to look at what he’d done, view the bodies in their mangled ruin, a criminal returning to the scene of his crime.
And so I drove out to Milford Cottage only an hour later. It was still early, the streets deserted, with only a few
Clement sat only a few feet from me, but he seemed far way; Mr. Parsons bore in upon me so closely I could almost feel his breath upon my face. When were you last on Black Pond? Matter-of-factly, with no hint of passion, and certainly none of concealment, my answer came: On May 29, 1927. That would be a Sunday? Yes .
“You’ll have to go out there, of course,” Clement said, his gaze leveled upon me steadily, his head cocked to the right, so that for an instant I wondered if he mightalso be reliving my day in the witness box, listening once again to Mr. Parsons’ questions as they’d resounded through the crowded courtroom. What happened on Black Pond that day?
Clement’s eyes narrowed, as if against a blinding light, and I knew that he could sense the upheaval in my mind no matter how hard I labored to contain it. “I don’t guess you’ve been out that way in quite some time,” he said.
“Not in years.”
“Looks the same.”
“The same as what?”
My question appeared to throw him into doubt as to what his answer should be. “Same as it did in the old days,” he replied.
I said nothing, but I could feel myself helplessly returning to the days he meant. I saw an old car moving through the darkness, two beams of yellow light engulfing me as it came to a halt, a figure staring at me from behind the wheel, motioning now, whispering, Get in .
“Well, let me know what you find out,” Clement said, rising from his chair. “About the variance, I mean.”
“I’ll look into it right away.”
Once at the door, he turned back to face me. “You don’t have to stay out there for long, of course,” he told me, his way of lightening the load. “Just get an idea of what the town might think of somebody developing it.”
I nodded.
He seemed unsure of what he should say next, or if it should be me to whom he said it. Finally, he spoke again. “There’s one more thing, Henry. The money. From the land, I mean. I want it to go to somebody in particular.” He paused a moment, then said her name. “Alice Craddock.”
She swam into my mind, an old woman, immenselyfat, her hair gray and bedraggled, her mind unhinged, the butt of a cruel school-yard poem I’d heard repeated through the years:
Alice Craddock,
Locked in the paddock
Where’s your mama gone?
“It just seems right that she should get whatever the land out there brings,” Clement said. “I’m an old man. I don’t need it. And they say Alice has come on bad times.”
I saw Alice as a middle-aged woman, slack-jawed, growing fat on potato chips and candy bars, her eyes dull and lightless, a gang of boys chasing after her, pointing, laughing, until Mr. Wallace chased them away, his words trailing after them as they fled down the street: Leave her alone. She’s suffered enough .
“Not much left of what was given her,” Clement said.
“Not much, no.”
He shrugged. “Well, maybe this can help a little,” he said, then turned and walked through the door.
Once he’d gone, I went to the window and looked out. I could see him trudging toward the dusty old truck he’d parked across the street. But I could see him, too, as he’d looked years before, during the days of the trial, the way he’d stood with his cronies on the courthouse steps as Miss Channing had been rushed down them, jeering at her as she swept past, the dreadful word I’d heard drop from his mouth as he glared at her: Whore .
It was not something I’d ever expected to do, see Milford Cottage again, feel the allure I’d known there, the passions it had stirred. But once Clement’s old truck had pulled away, I felt myself drawn back to it, not in amood of youthful reminiscence, but as someone forced to look at what he’d done, view the bodies in their mangled ruin, a criminal returning to the scene of his crime.
And so I drove out to Milford Cottage only an hour later. It was still early, the streets deserted, with only a few
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