Southern Ghost

'What was the Judge going to do?' Annie gripped the arms of the garden chair so tightly her fingers ached.

Those bereft eyes slid away from Annie's. 'The Judge?' Julia's voice was as empty as an abandoned house. 'I don't know. I'm sure we could have persuaded him.'

'Persuaded him to do what?' Annie pressed.

'I don't know.' It was the cry of a cornered animal. 'I don't know. And what difference does it make now, after all these years?' She stared down at the crumpled kerchief in her fingers, then slowly smoothed it into a wrinkled square. 'No one ever loved me except Amanda and Missy.' It was a simple statement of fact. Not forlorn. Not angry. The anguish and rage had long since been spent.

Annie blinked back sudden tears. But it was too late to cry for Julia and Amanda. And much too late to cry for the Judge.

Softly, urgently, she asked again, 'What was the Judge going to do?' Because that was the nub of it.

Julia lifted her chin defiantly. 'I do not know what you are talking about.'

Milam slouched on the worn couch, his legs thrust out in front of him, his paint-spattered arms spread wide on the upright cushions. This was not a living room that would be included in books describing the fine homes of the South. Old newspa­pers and magazines littered every tabletop, rested in stacks on the chairs and floor. The furniture was undistinguished, bland: rounded easy chairs and divans that could be found in count­less department stores from Savannah to Pascagoula. The drapes must have been there for years, they were so faded, the green fronds of the weeping willows barely visible against the dulled lime background. The grime of many seasons dulled the windowpanes; handprints smudged the once-white panels of the doorways. Milam looked neither better nor worse than his frowsy, down-at-heels surroundings.

So far, Max hadn't succeeded in ruffling the painter's nonchalant attitude. He tried again, his words sharper. 'You admit you were angry, so how can you say you didn't have any reason to kill your father?'

'Look, Darling, I didn't want him dead. I wanted—' For the first time, Milam's voice wavered. '—I wanted him to love me. When he died, I felt empty, like somebody broke me open and all the stuffing spilled out. There wasn't anything out there, no direction to take. All those years I tried to get his attention. God, the things I did to get his attention. And it was always the same, those cool gray eyes would look me up and down and I always felt dirty. That's because he thought I was dirty. I can see that now. Whoever killed him, killed something inside of me. I don't know what exactly. But I was getting over it. Because of Missy. My life started to come together, because of her. I might have been a good artist, a really good artist. Missy was like a perfect spring morning. Have you ever had a little girl--a beautiful little girl—look up at you like you're God? She was so sweet and funny and kind. She loved everyone. Me. Her mother. Old people. Kids. Black. White. Everybody. And she woke up early one morn­ing and went downstairs and outside and she walked into the pond—I found her floating there. And nothing's ever worked,since then.' He balled the stained rag and flung it across the room, his face as empty as a broken heart.

'He was going to make Amanda leave,' Annie insisted.

Julia shook her head in slow, stubborn negation.

Annie would have sworn to it. She felt, at this point, that she knew Judge Tarrant only too well—implacable in resolve, immovable in judgment, untouched by human appeal. Oh, yes, she could see it all. Amanda would have to go, sent away from the only home she'd ever had as an adult, away from her children and her infant grandchild. What kind of panic had seized Amanda?

And how had the Judge threatened his daughter-in-law Julia? 'What did he say to you?'

Julia huddled in the big white wooden chair. She wouldn't look at Annie. She simply said over and over, 'Nothing. Nothing.'

'Then why were you crying that day?'

'I don't know,' Julia said dully. 'I cried a lot of days.'

That was as much as Annie could bear. She couldn't stay here and badger this wretched woman. She had learned enough to know that murder may have moved in Julia's heart. Wasn't that enough for now?

But there was one more question she had to ask. 'Mrs. Tarrant, the fire at the museum . .

She didn't have to finish.

Julia looked up, her face so defenseless, so revealing. 'All those letters,' she said simply. 'The ones I wrote to Amanda. Just notes, really.' Her mouth quivered. 'I even wrote her a sonnet once.' Her chin lifted defiantly. 'I wanted her to know . . .' Her voice fell away until it was little more than a whisper. '. . . how much I loved her. Was that wrong? To say 'I love you'? But people would make it ugly. I thought, maybe if it all burned up . . . I watched it burn.' Her eyes were puzzled. 'I wanted to destroy it—all those years and years and years of Tarrants. But it didn't help. You can't burn memories.'

Annie stood. She hesitated, then bent and gently patted Julia's frail shoulder. 'I'm sorry, Mrs. Tarrant. About every­thing.'

As Annie started down the gazebo steps, Julia called out thinly, 'Are you going to tell Milam?'

It was the last question Annie would have expected. Why should Julia care?

Their marriage—Milam and Julia's—was so patently a fail­ure. Why would she care at all?

Before Annie could answer, Julia struggled to her feet. 'If you don't have to tell him,' she said breathlessly, 'then please don't. You see . . . Milam loved his mother so much. It's the one good memory in his life. Don't'—her glance slid away from Annie's—'ruin it for him.'

Their suite at the St. George Inn wasn't home, but it was the next best thing. And it was a refuge. As the door closed behind them, Annie stepped into Max's arms. She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a huge hug. She didn't—and perhaps that was most important, most wonderful of all—have to explain.

'I know,' he said softly into her hair. 'Poor damn devils. God, we're lucky.' And he held her.

The phone rang.