Mad Tom Spring: Those People

Plain Sight

Maurice rolled the last of the snow fence from the Meadowlark into the bed of the truck, slammed the tailgate shut, and climbed into the cab with Samson, glancing towards the woods near the barn where the three new guys were diligently scrubbing the fence, and taking uncharacteristic pleasure in their struggle to manage the big water tank on the back of the cockeyed golf cart. The snow fence was a job that should have been done first thing Monday morning and it was immensely troubling to Maurice that he'd been unable to attend to it until Thursday, so troubling in fact, that he'd gotten up an hour earlier than usual to beat these enthusiastic pups to the truck.

He pulled from the grass onto the drive feeling the settled relief of having things restored to their proper places. Samson stood on his stubby hind legs to reach the window for the breeze, and Maurice drove slowly enjoying the tranquility of a completed task on a bright Spring day and looking forward to lunch. He passed the renter's house and the pool, then swung around the curve by the three big pines to the Stone House where the Bertram's lived; both cars were gone so he assumed they were out.

A face at the window caught his eye as he passed and he lifted a hand to wave. A face? His arm paused mid-air. The Bertram's weren't home and he'd seen Teresa on the

guest house porch watering the big pots. Suddenly alert, he braked and swerved in next to the garage, then motioned Samson to stay and moved with silent authority towards the back door. The faint sound of a vacuum cleaner wafted towards him through the kitchen screen and he relaxed. Just a cleaning lady, probably another one of Lydia's projects. He stood for a moment, just to be sure, then turned himself around and went back to Samson who was standing at the window in the driver's seat looking concerned.

"Alright," he told the waiting dog and put the truck in gear.

** ** **

Celia looked up guardedly from the yellowed clipping Augusta had laid on the picnic table between them, "You took that out of my purse."

She spoke quietly but her manner contradicted her voice. Augusta was watching, measuring the young woman's response. There was irritation certainly, but something

more too. A curious tension had invaded their pleasant lunch as soon as she'd produced the

clipping. The pretty, chatty young woman had suddenly become reserved, closed. She wasn't angry, Augusta was certain of that; she was afraid.

"You had no right to go through my bag."

"I don't see how I could have returned it to you without going through it," Augusta responded.

"It was hidden," Celia said.

"What makes you care?" Augusta asked mildly, "It's a very old clipping, and it's about my family here, not yours."

Celia's face flushed crimson like the roses behind her on the fence and her bottom lip trembled; it made her look like a child caught in some small naughtiness. Augusta leaned towards her kindly.

"This clipping is mine. Yours is still in your bag."

Startled, Celia grabbed the battered little purse and snapped it open, scattering tiny glass beads across the table and into the grass. Her hands shook as she pulled out the slim leather card case that held her driver's license. Quickly, she slipped her finger behind it and slid her copy of the clipping out from underneath, glancing across at Augusta apprehensively.

With gentle hands, Augusta took it from her, unfolded it, and laid it on the table next to her own. Hobo Steals Tiffany Lamp. Two identical headlines side by side. Celia began to cry.

"Why did you return it?" Augusta asked, handing her a travel pack of tissues, "And why secretly? We certainly wouldn't have blamed you for taking it."

"Well we couldn't keep it," blurted Celia, "not once we knew it belonged to you. And Dad was embarrassed. He said you were always nice to him."

"My dad blamed the tramps, but I don't think my mother was ever convinced," Augusta said. She turned her clipping over to reveal the small, penciled question mark on the back. Celia traced it with her finger.

"We didn't know about it until after Grandad passed. We found the box with the lamp when we were cleaning out the house and there was a note inside that said Return to Mad Tom Farm." She began to cry again.

"That was the right thing to do," said Augusta, attempting sympathy but seeing no reason for tears. Celia kept talking.

"When I was in high school, we were visiting my Grandad and he was telling us

stories, and he said awful things about your caretaker guy."

"He didn't like Black people," she added apologetically.

That, Augusta knew, was an understatement. Cliff Bowers had been a racist of the very worst kind and she'd been downright afraid of old Leroy Bowers, his dad. The whole pack of them were mean – temperament and spirit both. How Ronnie had been born so sweet was a mystery; Celia was just like him.

"But then my dad said that guy saved his life when he was little and almost drowned in your pool."

"It's true," said Augusta, "My fault really – I was supposed to be watching him."

"It was so strange after my dad told him that. Grandad just went quiet for a really long time, for months. We could hardly get him to say anything. And then out of nowhere he showed my dad this envelope and told him to open it when he was gone.

"Is that where the clipping was?" asked Augusta.

"The clipping was in the box with the lamp," said Celia, calmer now, "The envelope just had a note that said I am sorry about Mad Tom and then he wrote out his whole name, in cursive, with the date."

"Very curious," said Augusta thoughtfully. What had Cliff Bowers been sorry about? He'd been too young to steal the lamp himself, that had to have been his dad, and he'd been nasty to every Colored he knew, not just Thomas. She sighed. It was a simple truth that some mysteries were buried with their dead – this, evidently, was one of them.

Celia took a long, shuddery breath and let it out slowly.

"It feels better now that you know," she said shyly, "Thank you."

Augusta smiled, "You're welcome."