The Reservoir (24 page)

Checking my watch, I feigned a sigh and went outside and across to the streetcar stop, where I deposited the letter in a mailbox. A few minutes later Lillian arrived, carrying her bag and wrist satchel. I reached over and pulled her veil down to cover her face.

Presently a streetcar came along, pulled by two stoical, blinkered horses. The elderly negro driver nodded once as Lillian and I got on. We went around to the left side and sat together, quietly, near the front. As the car proceeded up Main, a few other people got off and on, but they all sat facing the right side. From an open doorway at one stop a half dozen voices sang, “God be with you till we meet again.” The open front of the streetcar let in cold night air as we moved on, now with no fellow passengers. Flakes of snow melted on the window.

“Let’s keep riding,” Lillie suddenly said. “I don’t want to get off just yet.”

“But our stop is coming up,” I said.

“I’m not getting off. You can if you want to.”

“How far do you plan to ride?” I wanted to know.

“To the end of the line.” She was now drawn into herself, her face a frozen mask.

Fine, I thought—only a few extra blocks. The problem now, though, was that she might do anything. I stood and asked the driver what street we were on and how much farther to the end of the line.

“Coming up to it in five minutes, boss,” said the driver. “Reservoir’s the end of the line. I been twenty years driving this route, ever since the war ended, and Reservoir’s always been the end of the line.” He glanced back, saw that we weren’t interested in the life of an old negro streetcar driver, brushed the snow from his eyebrows, and turned back to his work. I thought, Oh, the burden of always being oneself.

Lillian and I disembarked at Reservoir and began walking south. “Why don’t we go over to the reservoir?” she said.

I looked at her, confused. “Whatever for?” I asked her.

“Because I’m frightened of the river.”

That made no sense to me. “What are you talking about?” I said. “It’s cold out here, and I don’t know how late we can turn up. They might not answer the door after nine.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “I think it’s a nice cool evening for a walk and I haven’t been up there in a long time. I don’t know when I’ll get another chance. It’s so beautiful and peaceful, and you can think and nobody will bother you.”

I told her there was nothing to see there at night. “We’ll turn left at the next corner,” I said.

“No,” she said, stepping out into Cary Street. “I went strolling up there with Cary Madison.” I followed behind, hooking my arm in hers and trying to turn her left. She slid her arm out and kept going straight. “Does that make you jealous, Tommie? I was up here with another boy. I kissed him—on the mouth. How many girls have you taken up to the old Marshall Reservoir? Isn’t it the most romantic place?”

“I can’t force you to go anywhere, Lillie,” I said. “But I don’t have to follow you.”

“Oh, are you still here?” she said, laughing, looking over her shoulder. She tucked her chin into her shawl and began to trot along. “It was just a silly flirtation,” she said, “there was nobody serious, not even your brother. Nobody until you.”

I caught up to her and put myself in front of her. She reached up and brushed the snow from my collars. “I couldn’t help it with my father,” she said. “He has things over people and he gets what he wants. He could tell I’d been with you, he could tell I wasn’t his anymore. I thought he might kill me. He called me out to the barn and he got that look, that silly grin, and he put his arm around me and smelled my hair and called me his little girl and I was afraid to pull away from him. That smell of his—like green tobacco and whiskey—his scratchy cheek on mine, and I wanted him to hold me so I wouldn’t be afraid, even though it was him I was afraid of.”

“It’s all right,” I said, holding her, feeling love for her, even as I tried not to.

“I’ve ruined my life, haven’t I?”

“I don’t want you going out to the reservoir by yourself. For my sake will you just not do that?”

“There’s nowhere else to go.” She went on, I following, and we passed a small tenement house she must’ve remembered from a visit long ago. Hardly knowing what she was doing, she took her shawl off and dropped it on a bush, as though marking her trail. “The Dunstans live there,” she said absently.

“Who?” I said.

“Nobody. Some friends of my parents. They visited us once.” She looked around, then quickened her step. The farther we walked, the fewer houses and lights there were. Lillian walked so that she was brushing up against me.

In another block the street ended at the Clarke Spring property, where the old smallpox hospital is. There was a bar on the corner of Reservoir and Ashland—we could hear voices and lights penetrating the night, and Lillie wanted to hurry by, back into the safety of the dark.

“Let’s rest here,” I said. “You must be tired.”

Stray flakes of snow drifted from a pale sky and across the yellow rectangle of light from the bar window.

“No,” Lillie said. “It’s too cold to stop. We should keep moving. Have you ever seen the reservoir at night?”

“No, and I don’t want to.”

“You can see everything from up there—the river, the city.” She began moving again, down to the end of the block. “It’s not much farther,” she said. “See—there it is.” To the southwest a dark mound loomed above fields and trees—a huge, flat-topped mass arising like an ancient earthen temple from out of a dream. I could see that to Lillian it was a destination, its size and gravity compelling her to find a way in and up. Since she didn’t know the way in, I began leading her.

We walked along a tall fence to the gate. I tried it, but it was locked. “There’s a hole,” I said, and we continued around the corner and down the long side of the earthen mound. “I’ll show you there’s nothing to see, then we can go.”

She twisted her ankle on the uneven ground, and she held my arm while she wiggled her foot. “I think it’s all right,” she said.

We continued on, and finally, along the south fence, I found the loose board, which I pushed aside. I crawled through, then held the board for her. But while she was waiting for me she turned and noticed the few rows of white wooden headboards jutting from their little plot like bad teeth. The clouds were scuttling fast across the sky now, veiling and unveiling a bone-white moon on the wax, and all she could do was just stand there staring at the crooked graves.

“What is it?” I asked, peering back through at her legs.

“Graves.”

“It’s only the smallpox cemetery,” I told her.

She stood for a moment looking at the sad little graveyard. “You’re cold and alone in your beds,” she said. “Someday, you will all awake and be happy again.” She sounded half crazy, but by then I honestly was carried away by the spell she was under. Then with me holding the board, she hunched down and was able to stoop through without getting on her knees. I began walking ahead of her, up the grassy embankment to the top of the slope. She started after me and caught her dress beneath her foot, and when she stumbled I held out my hand for her.

She said, “I’m walking to the top of a temple, Tommie. It’s like the earth mounds back home, and I’m an Indian princess. Daddy John said they were built by people before the Powhatan. That’s all so long ago, it’s like a dream, Tommie. Daddy John is like a dream, and you are too.” The snow had stopped and the clouds were thinning, and beyond them stars winked in the blackness of the heavens. She continued to the top, compelled by the slope and the certainty of her hand in mine.

We came out on a wide pathway which forms the rim of the reservoir. The lights of the city glowed to the northeast, the smoke of factories billowing even darker than the night sky, while down below ran the churning river. In the distance somewhere a train chuffed along. What drew Lillian’s attention now was the basin dropping away at her feet—she was staring at it, as if into a void whose dimensions were impossible to fathom.

“Tommie,” she said, barely audible, “hold me. I’m shaking.” It seemed we had arrived at a point of embarkation. I dropped her bag and put my arms around her. A dog barked, and the train grew fainter.

She shuddered at how deserted and gloomy the place was at night. “Tommie,” she said, “is there a God?” She sat down, her limbs lifeless. “I can’t see anything,” she said. “I can’t breathe. Where are you?”

“I’m right here in front of you,” I said. “Now we’ve seen the reservoir, let’s go.” She said something in a childlike voice that I couldn’t understand. “Lillie!” I said. “You’re cold. We have to go now. Lillie! We have to go, get up.”

“There is a God,” she mumbled, “but it doesn’t matter.” She took off her hat and gloves.

“Lillie! Let’s go. It’s cold here. Get up now.” I pulled her hand, trying to make her stand up, but she was inert.

“Get up!” I said. “Lillie! Lillie! I’m going to leave now.”

She held my hand tighter and tried to pull me down to her, and I cried out at the suddenness of her movement. Then I heaved her to her feet, drawing her in to myself, and when she yelled I put my hand over her mouth. I just did it without thinking—her voice was so shrill in the dark. I told her to be quiet. She twisted in my arms, but I gripped her tighter. “We’re going to leave now,” I said. “Do you understand me?” But she only struggled the more, and I was afraid to take my hand off her mouth. She was hurting me in some way—my hand hurt, and she was kicking me.

“Stop it,” I said. Then for a moment she was still, and I took my hand away from her mouth, waiting for the scream. There was nothing but her ragged breathing. “Let’s go,” I said. “Before it’s too late.”

But now she was moving away from me. “I’ve kept your key close to my heart,” she said. She opened her coat and drew the gold key from her pocket, then threw it toward the outer fence. “You want me out of the way, I’ll go.” She headed down toward the water.

“Don’t be foolish, Lillian,” I said, following.

Not turning around, she said, “There’s no other choice.”

She made her way down to the low picket fence at the edge of the water, then walked around to the end, as though trying to find a way in. Halfway along the south side there was a little gate. She fumbled with the latch.

I came and squatted on the slope just above, afraid now to touch her. “What are you doing, Lillie?” I said.

“Something I should’ve already done.”

The gate opened and she stepped onto the little grassy ledge, a border about a foot wide between the fence and the reservoir. She held onto the gate to steady herself, and it swung to and relatched.

“You might as well come back up here,” I said, not believing she would jump in with me sitting there.

“I can’t, the gate’s closed.”

“You got it open, and now you’re just putting on a stunt.”

She turned to face the water. The side of the reservoir sloped away, the water level a couple of feet below the grassy verge—she’d have to jump out. From where I sat, even I could feel the chill of the water. The footing was slippery from the snow, and as she turned back—and I think she’d decided now it was a foolish gesture after all—her foot went out from under her and she fell sideways, reaching for the fence.

She splashed in with a little yelp. I jumped up and called her name. But she wasn’t moving—all I could think was that either she was pretending, or she’d struck her head on the bricks lining the side. One doesn’t simply fall into the water and die.

I tried to open the latch as Lillian had done, but my hands were shaking and I couldn’t make it work. I would have to climb over—or run for help. She was only stunned, I told myself. She could not be dead. But what was I to do? If I went for help, it might be too late anyway—I might even be accused of murder. I stood watching her float, just beyond reach. I would have to get in the reservoir myself to save her—assuming it was still possible to save her. She looked so peaceful there. This was not supposed to happen. I was crying, and calling her name out into a black void. Then I staggered back up the slope.

I left her there.

• CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO •

W
HEN
T
OMMIE
has finished talking, his brother looks at him and asks, “Why? Why did you let all this happen, when you could’ve just walked away? And why didn’t you tell me or somebody before now? I’ll go tell Mr. Evans tonight, Tommie, we’ll get you a new trial. I’ll get Ma and Hannah Madison in here to testify what they know.”

“It won’t work, Willie. It’ll just bring shame on the family and you’ll be accused of perjury for things you’ve already said. Ma’s in no condition to come. Aylett will paint her as a drunk old lady who can’t remember anything straight, and Hannah Madison—you know she won’t say such things about her husband. And who would believe her if she did? They’d say we put her up to it. I tell you we have a better chance on appeal. Don’t make me sorry I’ve told you.”

“Then why did you?”

“I don’t know.” Tommie presses his hands against his head as though to stop the noise inside. He leans headfirst against the wall. “Do you honestly think it would stand in court?”

“I think we should at least run it by Mr. Evans.”

Willie is able to get Tommie’s permission to talk to Mr. Evans, and the next morning he meets him at his hotel before he has had his breakfast. He tells him there’s a new development in the case. They go to Mr. Evans’s room, where for more than an hour Willie lays out his brother’s story, during the recital of which he sits, then stands, then sits again, his foot jiggling while he talks.

When Willie has said everything, Mr. Evans shakes his head in disbelief. “Why now?” he demands. “Not that it would’ve gotten him off. But it might’ve saved him from hanging.
Might’ve
. Of course, he’s got no proof of any of it. The best thing for you and me to do is forget about it.” He thinks for a minute. “Unless. How well do you know this cousin of yours, Hannah Madison?”

“Enough to know she’s timid as a mouse and would rather die than get up in front of a crowd and say anything against her husband.”

Evans nods. “If we could get a signed affidavit from her it could help. But even were Hill to believe her, he’d be unlikely to throw out three months of work, given the fact that it still doesn’t clear your brother.”

“But all the rest—her slipping on the snow and—”

“I know, that’s in his favor, but there’s no proof of any of that, and, again, there’s the problem of him leaving her there.”

“I think maybe I shouldn’t have told you any of this,” Willie says, hanging his head.

“Of course you should. I would’ve in your position. I’ll speak to Mr. Crump about it, but I think he’ll agree with Tommie—our best bet now is to hope for leniency down the line. I don’t believe that’s a long shot.”

Now Willie goes back to the jail to report to Tommie, and finds his brother in no mood to talk about anything. He doesn’t want to talk about Evans, Crump, Hannah Madison, their mother—none of it seems to matter. Yet he’s cheerful, ready to go to the courthouse for his sentencing, as if he knows something that no one else does. And again, Willie has confidence in his brother, even though he knows he should not.

The crowd is thinner this morning at the courthouse, but there is growing concern about what’s going to happen to Tommie—as people are calling him now, instead of “the prisoner”—and whether it’s right. A lingering doubt still hangs in many people’s minds about whether Tommie got a fair trial after all, and whether he really deserves to die. He seemed like such a nice young man at the trial, not a mean snake—just a frightened boy, really. And that girl, she certainly was no innocent virgin. What really happened out there that night in the hearts of two young lovers, people want to know, and why were we so quick to pass judgment?

Inside, it’s not impossible to get a seat anymore. Tommie notices a few familiar faces—the stalwarts of the trial, including an old lady who has a sympathetic face and reminds him of his mother. She sits there with her knitting, and when he catches her eye, she smiles sadly. And there’s Wren, sitting beside Gretchen, as though proclaiming he doesn’t care whom he is seen with; he laughs at something she says, his high voice carrying through the room.

When the court is in session again, Crump makes a motion for a new trial. It being Saturday, the judge says he’ll come to a decision on Monday. Meredith says he has no interest in arguing right then against such a motion. Instead, he says, “We would appreciate it if Your Honor could go ahead and fix a sentencing date.”

Tommie sits motionless, staring out the window, while powerful men calmly discuss ending his life. When they’re done, he again thanks Evans and Crump, and Evans takes him aside and shakes his hand. “How are you holding up?” he says, his palsied eye now seeming less conspiratorial than disdainful.

“Better than you might expect,” Tommie replies. “I still have hope.”

“That’s good, son, that’s good. Your brother gave me your declaration.”

“Do you think it could help?”

“It’s late in the game, but it could still save you. I’ve canceled my plans to go home today. I’m going to meet with Mr. Crump and we’ll discuss it in detail. You need to write up a statement.”

“But if I change my mind?” Tommie locks eyes with his mentor. “I don’t know if I want a confession like this to be out in the public.”

“It’s too late for that, Tommie. People will find out. I won’t tell them, nor would Mr. Crump. But things have a way of getting out. As your counsel I have to advise you to present this statement.”

On Sunday, then, Tommie meets with his lawyers in the jail’s dispensary. No one beyond the four men in this room and Willie have any idea of the turn the case has suddenly taken. A confession is what the public is now clamoring for, to ease their doubts about the verdict. And a confession is exactly what Tommie most wishes to avoid.

Crump is stony-faced, his son offering a smile and handshake for both of them. Evans greets Tommie with his usual inquiries after his health. They take seats around a small deal table that has been moved in for the occasion. Crump Junior is the only one preparing to take notes, his stack of writing paper squared in front of him and his sharpened pencil in hand. A guard comes in and reaches up on a high shelf for a roll of bandages. Evans nods to him, and the guard says he’ll leave them undisturbed unless he needs anything else.

When the door has closed, Crump says gruffly, “Let’s see your statement.” Tommie slides over the pages he has worked feverishly on since yesterday. There are fourteen sheets of Tommie’s tight, precise handwriting. Crump glances through them, occasionally rubbing his face or puffing through his nose. After a few minutes he hands them on to Mr. Evans. “So the only thing they were wrong about was the way she died?”

“They were wrong about lots of things,” Tommie begins. “The key, the poem, the Belle Isle business, the letters, I don’t know where to begin—”

Crump cuts him off. “The only
important
matter they were wrong about was the manner in which the girl died. And the possibility that you were not the father. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

Crump nods, his grave expression unchanging. “Son, I’ll just tell you that when Mr. Evans told me about this, I thought the best thing for me to do was to drop this case. Can you tell me why I shouldn’t?” Before Tommie can articulate a word, Crump goes on. “You hoodwinked the court. You made fools of your counsel. And, worst of all, you probably sank your own case.” Tommie’s jaw unhinges as if he has been socked, and Crump takes pity. “Maybe you didn’t sink it, but you didn’t help it any.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Crump,” Tommie says. “Especially for making a fool of you.”

Crump laughs at this, glancing to the other two. “It’s certainly not the first time that’s happened. I just don’t like being left in the dark, goes against my nature. Hoodwinking the court—now, that’s all right, as long you don’t make an occupation of it. But in all seriousness, I declare I think we’re better off at this point sticking with what we’ve got. Our whole case is built around the flimsiness of theirs. They have no solid proof that you struck or drowned Miss Madison. But you have even less proof of your statement here.” Crump slaps the pages that Evans has laid down. “This Mr. Madison business is a serious charge, and if you had left it at that—”

“I wanted to tell Willie the whole thing,” Tommie says, “but I wish I hadn’t.”

“Be that as it may, you stated to the police that you never saw her here. To go back and change that now …” Crump shakes his head, rubs the back of his neck.

“Tommie,” says Mr. Evans, “we’re going to study this, but there’s not much we can do to put off sentencing tomorrow. We might can buy us a day with a motion for arrest of judgment. Beverly’s preparing the bills of exception, but they’ll take a few days. I do think we’ve got a good chance on appeal. In the meantime, we’ll just have to see what sort of mood Judge Hill is in.”

Crump makes a little laugh. “I wasn’t aware of Judge Hill having moods.”

On Monday Judge Hill overrules the motion for a new trial, much as Crump and Evans expected, and Crump makes a motion for arrest of judgment. “Well, it buys us another day,” Crump tells Tommie. “Try to get some rest, and take care of that cold.” Tommie nods. He caught a chill the night before, even though it was not a particularly cool night, and today his head is fogged and cloudy.

Willie has been seeing to some business back down the country, but Jane continues to visit the jail twice a day. Now that the trial is over, only Tommie’s lawyers can see him in private; all other visits are attended by an officer.

“I wrote a letter to the judge,” Jane tells Tommie. She alternates between black and dark blue dresses; today, feeling more optimistic, she wears dark blue, and a black velvet hat with a veil. “I think he’s a fair man, and I think he’ll overturn the verdict once he reads it. I told him what a dear, dear boy you are and that you could not possibly have seduced, much less harmed, your own sweet cousin. I know in my bones it was her father that was responsible for naming you in the first place.”

Tommie raises his eyebrows, wondering if Willie has hinted anything to her.

“I’ve told Willie this,” she says, “and I hardly want to repeat it to you.” She glances over to the guard, who is standing just outside the dispensary with an inattentive expression. “I’ve sometimes wondered … if he didn’t engineer it all some way himself. There, I’ve said it, and God forgive me, but I might as well say as think it. It’s good to get it off my chest.”

“You think he—?”

“He was ashamed of her,” Jane says. “And if he found out that she was—expecting, and maybe she told them, poor thing … I just don’t know. They were so jealous and spiteful, I just don’t know what they might do. Oh, Lord, what am I saying? Of course, it was suicide. It just had to’ve been.” She pauses to blow her nose, not bothering for reassurance from Tommie.

“And I see you have an admirer,” she says, smelling a bouquet of flowers in a vase.

“A man from Alexandria sent them,” Tommie tells her. “I’d never heard of him. And look at all these cards and letters.”

“Are they all nice?”

“Mostly. There’s some that want me to roast in hell, but I’ve learned to spot them. Here’s a nice one: ‘In your time of tribulation, trust in the Lord to break the bonds that you so unjustly wear.’ And here’s one from a Pennsylvania woman. She says I was framed, and ‘I have important information for you.’ ”

“What does she mean?” Jane has a credulous, hopeful look.

“Probably she’s crazy, but I’ll give it to Judge Crump.”

“Of course you must, right away. I’ll take it to him directly I leave here. Let me sort through all those, Tommie. You know I’ll do anything for you, don’t you?”

Tommie hands her a stack of letters. “If I didn’t know that by now, there’d be something wrong with me. But this has been too much for you, Aunt Jane. And you’ve spent far more than you should’ve.”

“I don’t care if it takes every penny I have. I’m going to get you out of here.” She averts her face and blows her nose again. “It was all going to be yours anyway. Yours and Willie’s. You’re my boys.” She seems unable to find anything more to say, so he asks her for the news of Little Plymouth. She’s all right until, without thinking, she says, “Nola Bray’s gotten engaged to a lawyer from Richmond.” She suddenly goes blank and white, her storytelling hand floating like a wounded bird back to her lap.

Tommie pats her arm. “I’m happy for her, Aunt Jane, and I’m glad to hear about it. I know it was hard for her to have her name mixed up in this thing.” Tommie had written to her, and received no reply.

The next morning the heat and humidity of summer have settled in like a fat, sedentary cousin from the Deep South, the effluvia of the sluggish canal filling the pores of the city and plastering shirts and blouses onto sweaty backs. Tommie attends to his toilet—shaving, putting on his suit, oiling and combing his hair—as though he were meeting with potential clients.

Again a crowd has formed along Tenth and in the alley behind City Hall, just to catch a glimpse, to gape openly as he emerges from the carriage, as though he were an exotic animal or mythical creature. There are black people as well as white people, young and old, and they are mostly quiet, content just to stare, and he is content to look as ordinary as he can for them, an unassuming young man whom they might see anywhere—in the haberdasher’s, in church, on their own street—and think nothing of.