Tell Me a Story

By Joseph J. Sollish

Tell Me A Story is a mystery novel set in a small southern town during the Depression of the thirties. Loren Oakers, an attorney, is a man who, tyrannized by an abusive father, spent his early adulthood spiting that parent, to the point of bringing home a bride he knew his father would reject. The novel unfolds with a fateful Labor Day picnic, when Oakers twin boys are drowned. His wife, holding him responsible because he had been drinking, leaves him, taking their ten-year- old daughter with her. Oakers sinks into despair and is badly injured in a drunk-driving accident. While recovering, he tells stories to children in the childrens ward of the hospital, and is then asked by one of the parents, a radio-station owner, to broadcast childrens stories on the air.

This starts Oakers on a promising new career, with a hit radio program, but when two badly decomposed corpses are found in the woods at Hakers Creek, identified as his wife, Peggy, and daughter, Beth, circumstantial evidence points directly to him. He is brought to trial for the double murders. Feeling guilty and remorseful, he is unable to present a defense because he was drunk out of his mind the night of their deaths. A frightening event occurs during his trial, and the trial itself takes a bizarre twist, but the story doesnt reach its true and surprising climax until many years later, when Oakers is serving his country during World War II.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 15, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462831876

Joseph J. Sollish

Joseph J. Sollish is the author of seven novels, Gates of Horn and Ivory, Guardians of the Dream, Tell Me a Story, No More Tears, Bless the Children, Casey Calhoun, and Family Forever. He has also published Halls of Academe, a collection of thirteen new short stories. Sollish lives in Los Angeles with his wife of fifty years, Claudia.

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Copyright © 2000 by Joseph J. Sollish.

ISBN #: Softcover 0-7388-3662-1

eBook 9781462831876

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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To my wife, Claudia, and to my daughters, Erika, Robin, and Bonnie, who grew up with some of these story-teller animals.

1.

Had it not been for the children, Hendersonville would have canceled Labor Day. How can we go parading down Center Street, waving flags and cheering, then picnicking down at Hakers Creek and pretending to have fun when everything is going to hell in this town and all over the country, and the very workers Labor Day is supposed to honor and celebrate are without work, and can’t even afford new shoes for back to school?

Hendersonville, population 16,897, was the seat of Clagett County, population 38,502, comprising Blacksburg, Fenner, Homer, Brewerston, Plattstown, and Finchley. In this central area well north of prosperous tobacco country, a few farmers still raised hogs and chickens and grew corn in fields surrounding towns that long ago had come to depend for their sustenance not on crops but on textile mills, shirt factories, and other needle industries which had fled New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, Massachusetts, and Pennsylvania for the cheap, non-union labor of the south. Until recently, Hendersonville itself had prospered, with three such factories employing at their peak a total of 1,391 of its residents, including wives, daughters, sisters, and mothers of men who could no longer rely on the land to support their families. Then the Fruit-of-the-Loom underwear plant moved farther south to Georgia or Alabama, some people thought, and Marlborough Shirts went out of business. The lone remaining industry, the Sure-Fit factory, where they sewed knitted slipcovers in over 37 styles guaranteed to fit your furniture or your money back, then battled the AFL union which the workers had signed on over a demand for a ten-cent increase in the hourly wage, which had stood at thirty-five cents for as long as anyone could remember. After months of heated and frustrating negotiations, management put padlocks on the gates, posted guards around the plant, and locked out the workers.

The hard times that had settled over the entire country since the Wall Street crash five years earlier smothered Hendersonville, blotting out the sun, turning everything gray. Workers spent their days on the picket lines or in saloons. Some now declared they should never have brought in the union, no matter what Franklin Roosevelt said in Washington. Any job was a good job these days. Bunch of bolsheviks anyway, unions, they muttered, searching for someone to blame for their desperate situation.

The weeks before Labor Day were filled with bitterness and wild-eyed talk. Frank McIntyre and two of his buddies from the lumber mill, after spending most of the evening at Sorley’s saloon, which had been the town speakeasy during Prohibition and was about the only business in Hendersonville still prospering, especially since Repeal, engineered a break-in at the Sure-Fit plant. Exactly what they intended to do once inside was vague in their besotted brains, perhaps vent their anger by smashing up some sewing machines and trashing the manager’s office, but the ensuing brawl with the company’s club-wielding goons landed Jack Prentiss and Willy Michaels in the county hospital. McIntyre himself went to the county workhouse for thirty days, after being defended in court by Loren Oakers, who was assigned to the case by Judge Horace Lyman since McIntyre couldn’t afford a lawyer. The situation was ironic in that Oakers had been mediating the dispute between the union and the Sure-Fit management when SureFit suddenly padlocked the plant, which some hot-headed troublemakers interpreted as a sell-out by Oakers.

Three days later, Oakers defended Charlie Bullock, a pig-farmer out on Bladensburg Road, who stood accused of discharging his shotgun at sheriff‘s deputies enforcing an eviction order resulting from the First National Bank‘s foreclosure on Bullock‘s property. It was the fourth foreclosure in Clagett County that year, the twelfth in the state, but the first instance of violence.

The county courthouse commanded a quiet park at the center of town, set back from Center Street and lined with elms and magnolias, its tall, white ionic columns a faded reminder of grander days. Roosting birds had permanently marred the granite entrance steps just as they had despoiled the bronze equestrian figure of General Robert E. Lee and the bust of Jefferson Davis facing each other at the entrance to the square. In another circle of ground, bordered by hyacinths and tulips in spring, a dusty bronze doughboy in tin helmet charged with fixed bayonet atop a gray granite base on which a bronze plaque read, „In honor of the brave men of Clagett County who gave their lives in defense of democracy 1917-1918." This last monument had been approved by the Town Council after four years of argument as to who should pay for it, considering that the monument covered the entire county, not just Hendersonville, and was finally unveiled on Memorial Day, 1923, in a celebration which also honored the dead of the Confederacy. The courthouse dwarfed the adjacent Hendersonville City Hall, which contained the town jail and police department and had been rebuilt twice, most recently after the fire of ‚06, so that it now presented a curious hybrid of Greek Revival and Georgian architecture. The third building occupying the square was the modest red-brick Elks‘ Hall, with gilded B. P. O. E. letters over its white entrance doors.

Portraits of black-robed judges stared sternly from the walls of the courthouse vestibule and along a wainscoted corridor, then followed up a worn staircase with its oaken balustrade darkened by time and polish. Yellowish daylight seeped in only through the second-floor skylight, but within the courtroom, from its high arched windows, broad shafts of glittering motes raked across from ceiling to floor. People moved as though suspended between those shafts of light, soundless until a chair scraped across the floor or someone coughed, or tired wood creaked under the pressure of a foot.

At one table to the right of the judge‘s bench, Loren Oakers stood beside his seated client, Charlie Bullock. At a second table sat Mel Cookson, county prosecutor. Behind an oaken rail, a colored man and woman occupied the first row of seats alongside a white man, Jesse Noble, an attorney from Finchley, the closest town over the ridge, presumably the next case to follow Bullock‘s. A few spectators sat scattered about the courtroom, fanning themselves in the late summer warmth with newspapers or hats. Turned toward the judge, a black electric fan rattled from a shelf. To the left of the judge‘s bench, Gus Hadgeborn, the graying, rotund bailiff, rocked back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back. Miss Hattie Ireland, black hair pulled tightly into a bun at her bony neck, sat sharp-nosed and intent over her stenotype machine.

Judge Horace Lyman, his round pink face peering down from the depths of his black robes, studied the scene below him.

„Now, son, he said, addressing Loren Oakers, „are you all going to spin the same yarn you were spouting the other day with what‘s-his-name in the dock? Mclntyre? He waited, eyes over his lowered half-moon glasses.

Loren Oakers stood with his knees pressing against the table. He was tall, lanky, and long-jawed, dark hair boyishly tousled in contradiction to the gray creeping into his temples. At the table beside him sat Charlie Bullock, uncomfortable in an ill-fitting suit, his heavy, creased neck tortured by the shirt and tie Oakers had insisted he wear, saying, „It‘s a matter of respect for the court." Oakers glanced over to his right, where Mel Cookson looked down, concealing a grin.

„Your Honor, Oakers began earnestly, „my client is a simple, God-fearing Christian who for thirty-seven of his fifty-six years on this earth put his body and soul into the little piece of land he worked, the hogs he raised, and the house he lived in. This man—

„Counselor, the judge interrupted, „I asked you all a question. Let me repeat it. Is your defense the same as the one for McIntyre?

Oakers chewed at his upper lip. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, at the same time pushing a lock of hair off his forehead. He looked down at the tired old man beside him. He remembered the Halloween night when a gang of boys from town, including his older brother Wally, who had allowed Loren to tag along, had indulged in the time-honored prank of knocking over ‘tabernacles,’ except that poor Mr. Bullock was inside his and had come running red-faced and bare-assed out of the toppled outhouse. But furious as he had been, Bullock had never, thank God, complained to their father, even though the moonlight had revealed Wally as plain as day.

Your Honor, Loren began again, my client has never before in his entire life run afoul of the law. He and his wife Tessie reared three fine children on his land, in his house. Everybody knows Charlie Bullock to be a mild-mannered, honest, fair-minded man—

Who unloaded both barrels of his 30-30 at two sheriff’s deputies! the judge injected sharply. You’ve already pleaded him guilty to that charge, and now you’re giving me the same—

Oakers raised his voice to drown out the judge, who then settled back, resigned, and allowed him to continue. —who was driven to violence by anger and frustration over the heartbreaking circumstances that so many Americans find themselves in during these days of national depression, and these circumstances must be considered in any fair and human assessment of the charges against him if there’s to be true justice before the law. And, Your Honor, what also must be considered here is that no one was hurt in the confrontation at the Bullock property. My client fired clear over their heads. There was no intent whatsoever to do anyone bodily harm.

As Oakers paused, Mel Cookson shrank down in his chair, eyeing the judge expectantly. Spectators in the courtroom suddenly showed more interest in the proceedings, creating a murmur that caused the bailiff to step forward and glance up at the judge. Miss Ireland paused at her stenotype machine, eyes downward.

Mr. Oakers, Judge Lyman said, quiet menace in his voice, please spare me, sir. According to you, the whole world is suddenly free to run amok because there’s a depression. Is that right? McIntyre was provoked into breaking into the Sure-Fit plant by having been laid off at the mill, by anger and frustration, unemployment, hard times, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. That was your argument the other day, wasn’t it, Mr. Oakers? And it got your client thirty days in the county workhouse, if my memory serves me.

Oakers swallowed hard but did not respond.

So now Mr. Bullock here, the judge continued, his voice acquiring a sharper bite with each word, was provoked into firing at Sheriff Moulton’s deputies because of his anger and frustration caused by the same depression, the same hard times, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. And you all want this court to just say, ‘Sure, folks, times are tough, you poor people are having it rough, case dismissed. He shook his head.

Your Honor— Oakers tried to speak, but the judge cut him

off.

Counselor, Counselor. You know I generously let your last client off with only thirty days, since the only damage inflicted was to the other two members of his gang of drunken hoodlums, and they were so inept they deserved what they got at the hands of the goons. Too bad McIntyre didn’t get some of the same. But this man, your simple, honest client here, he jabbed a finger at Bullock, he has admitted firing his shotgun, both barrels, at two peace officers doing their sworn duty in execution of an eviction order which I personally signed! Somebody might have been killed. The deputies. Or Mr. Bullock himself, if they fired back in their defense. Or some innocent bystanders or passersby. He paused to look around the courtroom and his manner and voice seemed to include everyone both inside and outside the building when he resumed. Now you all listen to me.

Oakers dropped into his chair. Bullock turned a bewildered face toward him. Oakers shook his head helplessly, eyes downcast.

Yes, Judge Lyman said, his voice quiet again, these are hard times. Millions of men are out of work across the country. One-third of the entire work force, I am told. Factories are closing. Prices are high. People are losing their homes, their farms. But this court cannot, will not, allow lawlessness to prevail no matter how severe the times may be or no matter what injustice any individual may feel has been done to him. Mr. Bullock was in default of his mortgage. The bank followed all the requisite legal processes including giving him the time required by law to repair his situation before proceeding with foreclosure and eviction. This court cannot condone his actions in endangering the lives of others. He draw in his breath sharply, and the hiss caused Oakers to look up. Mr. Bullock, I sentence you to ninety days in the county jail! He slammed down his gavel.

Loren Oakers’ mouth hung open. He spread his arms wide in a pleading gesture and stepped toward the judge, cracking his knee against the table leg. But, Your Honor, I never fully presented—

Judge Lyman glared down at him and rapped his gavel. Bailiff will remove Mr. Bullock and remand him to the sheriff. He rapped his gavel. Next case!

Oakers could only watch helplessly as Hadgeborn led a confused Charlie Bullock away. Noble, the lawyer from Finchley, busily ushered his colored clients to the table where Oakers still stood. The old boy’s really spitting bullets today, Noble muttered. Oakers hardly heard him as he scooped up his papers and jammed them into his briefcase.

Lighting a cigarette, he hurried down the corridor to the stairway, briefcase and hat in hand, almost crashing into a group of men coming up the steps. His pulse raced, his face was flushed with anger. His throat was parched dry. He glanced at his watch, thinking he might head over to Sorley’s for a beer or two. As he approached the vestibule, he instinctively turned his head toward the third portrait from the left, raising his face to a white-maned figure in black judge’s robes. Instantly he was lying on his back, those eyes, coal black and smoldering with rage, glaring down at him as he lay on the floor, sent sprawling by a blow for failing to sweep out the cellar, or for not cleaning the back porch, or for some other dereliction of duty or infraction of his father’s rigid rules. You’ll say, Sir, Your Honor, or Judge Oakers, Sir, his father demanded as he lay there, just like any other miserable miscreant who appears before my bench! He saw those same eyes searching for him in the hayloft the time he had concealed himself to escape his father’s sudden explosion of spite. But why not? Why can’t I go to the carnival? Loren had dared to question, and then he felt himself being dragged down by his neck and beaten across face, arms, and legs with a thick leather strap. I’m going to teach you boys to abide by the four great rules of life, Honor, Obedience, Loyalty, and Faith, Judge Benjamin Oakers swore, if I have to break every bone in your bodies to do it!

Wally, Loren’s older brother by four years, had left home at fifteen, vanished, after another ferocious beating administered when the judge found Wally sitting proudly behind the wheel of the judge’s new 1905 Packard, pretending to drive. I told you boys not to ever put a finger on my new car at any time, except as an invited passenger, but you defied me, you disobeyed my order. After