No Defense (21 page)

Harold handed my father a bag with the boxes
of shells inside and put the camouflaged hunting hat on Daddy’s
head.

Daddy paid and we left.

“You look like a goof ball,” I said.
“Wearing a hunting hat downtown.” We both laughed.

We walked around the comer to Jerry’s Barber
Shop and sat down on the wooden bench to wait while Jerry cut two
other customers’ hair.

Finally, since my father obviously wasn’t
going to make it any easier, I got up my nerve and asked, “Don’t
you want to talk about it, Daddy?”

“No.”

“Come on. You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t feel bad, I told you.” That look
again.

“Are you mad at me?” I asked.

“No, LuAnn, I am not mad at you, but I will
be if you don’t stop annoying me.”

“Please,” I begged. “I need to know what
happened. I
know
you didn’t do anything wrong. I just want
to hear what happened. Why they talked to you of all people, why
you’re named in those documents. What does Dean Reese have to do
with you?”

He took one of the boxes out of the bag and
poured the shells into his new hat. He examined them, ignoring my
pleas.

“I don’t think that’s too much to ask of
you, Daddy!” I continued. “This is tearing me up, and you can stop
it. I can’t stand not knowing. I’m a wreck. Just tell me the truth,
please.” Tears I’d fought all afternoon found their release
now.

He took on a pained expression, as if I were
a dog that had misbehaved. “You remind me of your mother, the way
she used to carry on like I don’t know what, bothering me
endlessly. For the last time, LuAnn, I’m not going to discuss this
with you, or your mother, or Ben, or anybody! It’s not anybody’s
business.” He turned slightly toward me.

I fought to suppress a sob.

“I’ll say three things, all true,” he said,
counting them off on his fingers. “One, this is all a bunch of old
bullshit that somebody was bound to get around to eventually. Two,
I had nothing to do with those boys dying. Three, Dean Reese was a
mean, vindictive son of a bitch. Take it or leave it.”

I took it.

Jerry, the barber, pointed toward the empty
chair.

Daddy unrolled his shirtsleeves and buttoned
the cuffs. As he walked toward the barber chair, he turned around
to look at me. “At least you don’t look like her, kiddo,” he said.
He popped one of his s spenders and grinned.

After his haircut, my father returned to his
office. I didn’t know where to turn, who to turn to, or what to do.
I couldn’t bear to see anyone, so I walked past the Steak House,
got in my oven of a car, and headed east out of Tallagumsa, out Old
Highway 49 toward the memorial, the tree.

That July afternoon was no different from
every other dog day that month. It was miserably hot. As I drove,
the road shimmered in front of me and a thin haze turned the sky
bright white. Sweat trickled down my chest, between my breasts.

At the tree, I pulled off the road, parked
my car, and got out, kicking two beer cans out of the way. Behind
the fence, the field was crowded with cornstalks towering about ten
feet high.

I sat down cross-legged on the ground under
the pine tree and pulled up a few blades of grass. I was tempted to
talk to Leon and Jimmy and try to get their story when I heard a
car coming to a stop a few feet away. I raised my head. It was
Ben.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said
as he climbed out of his car. We had come to visit the tree and the
memorial twice since Ben arrived in town.

“Have you been driving by here all day
hoping to see me?” I asked.

“No. But I’ve been by your parents’ place,
your house, and the Steak House. So I figured you had to be riding
your horse or else you were here. I tried here first. May I sit
down?”

“It’s not against the law,” I said.

He sat down facing me. “How are you
doing?”

“Not so great.”

“You look beautiful,” he said.

“Wonderful.”

“I’ve been trying to reach your dad,” Ben
said. “He refuses to return my calls. I don’t know what to make of
it.”

“Just don’t act suspicious,” I warned. “He’s
a busy man, that’s all.”

“I’d really like to talk with him. I need to
talk to him. I can’t help but think he’s avoiding me.”

“He barely talked to me about this whole
mess, so don’t feel left out.”

“He talked to you?”

“Yeah, sort of. He said he had nothing to do
with the murders, and that Dean Reese was a son of a bitch.”

“So why did Dean Reese say-”

I interrupted him. “I don’t know why!
Goddamnit! I don’t know! You find out, Ben. You’re the reporter.” I
threw the blades of grass onto the ground and wiped the sweat from
my forehead with the back of my hand.

“You’re still mad at me, I guess.”

“I’m mad that this has happened. I’m mad
that we can’t see each other.”

“But we
could
see each other, LuAnn.
We should. You and I just started something. We shouldn’t throw it
away before we know what we’ve got. I need you, LuAnn.”

“That’s easy to say.”

“It’s true. I’ll be miserable without
you.”

“Then stop this before it’s too late.”

Ben grimaced. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve
said? It’s already too late.”

“I don’t want to believe that.”

“You have to,” he insisted. “Can I still
call you?” he asked in a gentler tone.

“I guess so.”

“But we can’t see each other? That’s
crazy.”

“No, we can’t! I can’t go to bed with
someone who thinks my father may have killed someone. I
should
hate you. I’m surprised I don’t.”

“You shouldn’t hate me.”

“What would my daddy think if he saw me
hanging out with you now, if he even saw us talking? I wish I
didn’t care, but I do. This isn’t New York City, after all. I have
to live here with all these people for the rest of my life.”

We sat quietly for a few minutes.

Ben sighed. “I wanted to tell you: A retired
FBI agent in Baltimore who worked on the case has agreed to an
interview with one of our reporters. That’s all my news. I’ll let
you know when I know anything else. Mostly people are avoiding me
and refusing to talk.”

“I told you that would happen,” I said.
“Nobody will help you. They love my father too much.”

“I don’t care about them. I just wish you
would come with me right now,” Ben said. He touched my knee.

I looked at his hand there, and for a second
I wished that I could do just that.

“Please,” he said.

But I shook my head, got up, and drove
away.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

I
spent the
following days in a numb and teary haze, going through the motions
of my life: work, the children, sleeping, eating, and more work.
Buck and my father thought I was overreacting. After all, the FBI
had investigated the matter once fifteen years ago and nothing had
come of it. They therefore saw no reason to postpone or cancel the
upcoming major fundraising event planned at the farm of Birmingham
millionaire M. Aaron Bullock.

Anxious for any distraction, I volunteered
to oversee the set-up of the party at the Bullock farm. Buck was
shocked and elated that I was finally getting on board the election
bandwagon. He didn’t realize that I would have accepted almost any
offer to escape from the Steak House where so many people were
talking about the documents, Ben, and my father-mostly negative
talk about “the Yankee traitor.” Within days of Ben’s receiving the
documents, it was hard to find anyone in Tallagurnsa who hadn’t
heard about Dean Reese’s accusations against my father. The farther
away from town I could get, the better.

Buck loved M. Aaron Bullock because Mr.
Bullock had been an early supporter of my father’s bid for
governor, because (Buck claimed) he was the spitting image of
Lyndon Johnson, and because he was famous all over the Southeast
for his Christmas decorations.

Every Christmas, Bullock had his
farm-including the seven barns, the mansion, the greenhouse, the
tennis and pool fences, the pool house, and hundreds of the larger
trees-hung with miles and miles of green, blue, orange, yellow, and
red Christmas lights. Each year he invited the world to take a
look, and the world came. Voters and the children of voters
cherished Bullock’s Christmas extravaganza, and they’d love my
father too, according to Buck, once they knew Newell Hagerdorn and
M. Aaron Bullock were buddies.

After working at the Bullock farm the morning
of the fundraiser, I returned home to rest and to get Jessie, Will,
and Hank. Roland, worried about my mental health, drove back down
with me and the kids. By this time every summer, Roland’s hair was
streaked with varying shades of red, and his freckles were so dense
that his skin took on their red-orange coloring.

Will and Hank, almost five months old now,
were dressed in matching green and white seersucker short overalls
and white shirts, compliments of Jane and Buck. During the
air-conditioned car ride, the boys were all sweet smiles and
“aahs,” “oohs,” and “baahs,” but the day was another hot, still,
gnatty dog day, and within minutes of leaving the car, their golden
hair was matted to their heads with sweat and an ugly red heat rash
appeared on their necks. They were miserable. Will threw his red
and blue plastic ring toy on the ground every few minutes, then
howled in misery until it was retrieved. Hank fidgeted, his face
puckered in discomfort.

Jessie wasn’t too happy either, but not
because of the weather. Her father had been gone three weeks, and
his absence was wearing on her. Although he came by the house each
day while I was at the Steak House, she needed him home all the
time. On the drive down to the Bullock farm I could hear her
playing with her Barbies, convincing them and herself that Eddie
would be at the party, even though I told her that wasn’t likely.
Once the festivities began, Jessie walked from one group to the
next, searching for her father.

We and the other early arrivals at the
Bullock farm sought relief from the overpowering sun under the
large yellow and white striped tent that covered the tables of food
and drinks. At Buck’s behest, Bullock had strung Christmas lights
from every available strut and pole. The lights would be turned on
at sunset following Daddy’s speech.

Around seven o’clock, just as dusk and a
hint of a breeze brought some relief, one of the waiters found me
and told me I had a phone call. I followed him into the house and
picked up the kitchen phone. It was Ben.

“How did you find me here?” I asked.

“Your father’s campaign schedule isn’t a
state secret,” he said. “Buck gives any reporter who asks a
detailed daily schedule. Hopes we’ll write something.”

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t be writing about
Daddy ever again,” I said.

“I’m afraid I am. The
Star
is
breaking the story this afternoon,” he said.

“What?” I asked, shocked. “But it’s too
soon, Ben.”

“I can’t put it off. I wish I could,” he
said. “I’ve postponed it as long as possible.”

“But maybe Daddy would cooperate more now,”
I said. “If he knew the story was coming out.”

“I’ve tried to talk to him every day for a
week, including today, LuAnn, and you know as well as I do he won’t
budge. He told me so. No question about where your stubborn streak
comes from.”

“What’s the story going to say?”

“That Dean Reese, an FBI informant, told the
FBI that your father and Mr. Waddy were with him in the car and
that your father killed Turnbow and Johnson. It’ll say the FBI
covered it up because of its own problems with Dean Reese-to save
their own asses, in other words. So your father won’t look like the
only bad guy.”

“That really makes me feel a lot better,” I
said. An ugly image formed in my mind of my father, Floyd Waddy,
and Dean Reese together in a car out Old Highway 49 near the tree.
I couldn’t bear the thought of that image being conveyed to the
world outside Tallagumsa.

“A little something for everyone: murder,
politics, coverup. You can’t help but have a hit, Ben.” Waiters
from a Birmingham restaurant bustled past me, leaving the kitchen
with trays of food, returning with empty trays. None of them
noticed my distress.

“That’s not my goal, LuAnn,” Ben said.

“When will it be in the news here?”

“Probably tonight on television, tomorrow in
the papers.”

“Everywhere else?”

“The same.”

“Who wrote the story?” I asked.

“Me,” Ben said.

“Your wife must be very proud.”

“She doesn’t know yet, LuAnn. Jesus Christ,
don’t you think
you’d
be the first to know?”

I didn’t respond.

“Do you want to know anything else about
it?” he asked.