Shadow Country

he was the dangerous kind that never showed it. Act like everybody else, joke and talk and go about his business, and all the while there’s a screw loose in his brain.”

“No,” Lucius said patiently. “No, I don’t think he was crazy.” He shook his head. But Tant persisted, eyes wide behind round glasses; he wore the dogged look Lucius remembered. “You realize how near your daddy come to bein killed before they killed him? It’s terrible to be so deathly scared day after day, folks just can’t handle it. And finally they had enough.” Tant glanced at Lucius as they walked along, distressed by his friend’s silence. “Naturally his own kids never knew that fear nor his friends neither. Captain Jim Daniels flat refused to believe all them bad stories. ‘That ain’t the Ed Watson I know’-that was all he’d say.”

They paused at the foot of the Edison Bridge to gaze at the brick mansion on the corner opposite. Walter Langford had built that house in 1919 and died of cirrhosis of the liver in 1921, leaving Carrie with more debts than assets.

“Them years you lived down in the Islands, your sister had a dog’s share of misfortune, but she had some spirit and she had some style. Liked to drink some, have a good time like her daddy. Never talked about the scandal”-Tant shot a glance at Lucius-“but would not act ashamed about him, neither. Nobody spoke bad about Ed Watson around Carrie Langford.

“In Prohibition, she run the Gulf Shore Inn, down Fort Myers Beach. Had a speakeasy in back but Tippins never bothered her. Course Carrie was well up in her thirties, she’d put on a little heft, but a fine-lookin widder woman all the same. And pretty quick, she got hooked up with a fish guide at the Beach, Cap’n Luke Gates on the Black Flash.

“One night I was in there when Gates’s wife come in-thin scratchy little blonde, she was just a- stormin! Run right over and tore into her husband where he was settin at the poker table. Picked up his glass and let his liquor fly into his face. Cap’n Luke never lifted his eyes up off the cards. Never blinked, never reached to wipe his face. Kept right on studyin them cards with the whiskey runnin off his cheeks. ‘See you, raise you five,’ he told them men.

“Makin no headway at the poker table, the wife let loose an ugly speech about Carrie Langford’s morals or the lack of ’em and how Carrie come by her bad character real natural, her daddy bein a cold-blooded killer. Well, darned if this banker’s widow don’t ring open the cash register, break out a revolver, and fire off a round into the ceilin. Ever hear gunfire in a small room? And in that silence Carrie said, real calm and ladylike, ‘Let me tell you something, honey. That kind of mean and lowdown talk is not permitted in my place just because some little fool can’t hang on to her man.’ And seein a weapon in the hands of Watson’s daughter, that little blonde cooled off in a hurry. She run outside where it was dark and yelled some dirty stuff in through the window but nobody paid her no attention after that.”

EDDIE

Tant Jenkins peered across the street. “Methodist Church owns that brick house now but Eddie still calls it ‘the Langford Mansion,’ comes over here most every day to tell the tourists all about it.” Shading his eyes, he said, “I reckon that’s him back in the corner of the porch.”

At the porch steps, they awaited Eddie, who came forward, saying “Good morning!” much too loudly. Despite the heat, he was dressed formally in linen suit, white shirt, green tie, well flecked with souvenirs of repasts long forgotten. He peered nearsightedly at Lucius, looking uncertain, and for the first time Lucius could recall, he felt a start of pity for his brother.

Tant Jenkins smiled. “Mr. Watson? Care to make the acquaintance of Professor Collins? Famous historian?”

Eddie stepped back with a sweeping gesture of welcome. “I am honored, sir! E. E. Watson, at your service, sir!” Grandly he waved them up onto the porch. “My brother, too, is a historian, comes to consult me-”

“Eddie?”

“This was the Langford Mansion, sir. My sister’s husband was the president of the First National Bank and Carrie and Walter entertained the Thomas Edisons and their friend Mr. Henry Ford. I believe that Mr. Samuel Clemens-”

“Eddie, wait-”

“What’s that?” Eddie looked alarmed; he recoiled when Lucius touched his arm to calm him. “What do you want?”

“I just wanted to ask you a few questions. For a biography of Papa-”

“Oh no you don’t!” His brother pushed past him down the steps into the sunlight, where he turned and pointed an unsteady finger. “Damn you, it’s family business, will you never understand? Family business.” His arms waved wildly. “You never came to see your sister even after she was evicted from this house! You broke her heart!”

Lucius said he had never been notified; he would go see her right away. “I just wanted to ask about a list of names sent years ago to Rob by way of Nell Dyer-”

“Mrs. Summerlin to you!” Eddie yelled crazily. “Oh, I took care of that darned thing, don’t worry!” Unable to meet his brother’s eye, he glowered at Jenkins. “You people are trespassing! This is private property, church property! I’ll call the law!” Stumbling, he hurried away and disappeared around the corner. The old river street stood gaunt and empty. They sat down on the steps.

“Eddie’s always callin in complaints, kind of a hobby. Depitties don’t pay no attention. Most days, he’s friendly, maybe too friendly. Still tryin to keep up with the Langfords, I reckon.”

Lucius nodded, unhappy.

“I reckon he done the best he could,” Tant continued, “bein mulish as his daddy but not strong. Lately he begun to call himself Ed Watson Junior. Figured bein the son of a famous man made him somebody, too, and brung in customers. Ed Watson, Insurance. Buy a policy, get to shake the hand of Bloody Watson’s son. ‘You the Ed Watson? You fixin to murder me if I don’t pay up my premiums?’-teasin, you know. And Eddie come back with the same answer every time-‘Betcher life! So watcher step!’-and went right on fillin out the forms. Never occurred to ’em, I guess, that Watson’s son might be a feller with real feelins. Said, ‘Why hell, if he can’t take a joke, he should of left this town or changed his name.’ Go back home and tell their friends that this Ed Watson is the spittin image of his daddy, which he sure ain’t.

“Folks always thought of Eddie as pretty meek and mild behind his bluster, but lately he took to hinting how he’s a chip off the old block, might have a violent streak. Figured your average American might take to an insurance man with a dangerous past and he weren’t wrong. Even hauled out a copy of your list, let on as how he went down to the Islands took care of them ringleaders. ‘Didn’t have no choice,’ he told ’em. ‘Watson honor.’ ”

Chortling, Tant wrote down the phone number of Pearl Watson’s institution. “She’d be tickled to hear from you,” he said.

In parting, Tant clung a moment to his hand. “You could always count on your backdoor family, Lucius, and you still can, what’s left of us.”

INSULTED PEAS

Pearl Watson had been nine or ten when their father was killed, a self-starved creature, a fugitive from the sun whose thin pale hair with its thin white ribbon let her scalp shine through. At Caxambas that black autumn, Tant had said, the child had been dumbstruck by her father’s death and terrified by the outcry of her mother, who had lost her infant son and fled her agony for days with shrieks of woe.

Pearl’s frail voice came over the wire after a long wait.

Who are you? Who is calling?

This is Lucius. Your brother Lucius.

Brother Who?

Pearl, this is Lucius. I just called to say hello, see how you were getting along.