Mitchum: Back to Madison

By Billy F. Mitchell

Mitchum is a story about a man in his late 40s. He and his wife had planned an early retirement from his very successful but heavily stressful law practice in Atlanta. They and their young daughter, born to them as a blessing at the beginning of their middle age, decide to move to his old hometown in south Alabama. His wife is ill, he never spends time with his only child and Mitchum wants to simplify his life. However, his wifes illness is more serious than either they or the doctors had thought, and before they can move, she dies. He is inconsolable. It seems as though nothing can ease his profound sense of grief. But when he sees the effect his grief has on his precious daughter, he comes to himself enough to realize that it is now time to go home in an attempt to make a new start for them both. In the dead of night, he and his daughter make the sad and lonely trip back.

The first person he meets upon his return is his cousin, Gandy, a ruddy and corpulent lady in her middle 50s. Bossy but lovable, Gandy tries to restore some order to Mitchums upturned household. He then meets several people at the local junior college where he has accepted a part time post teaching in the Criminal Justice Department. One is an enormous, yet gentle, black Physical Education instructor who may not be as mild mannered as he first appears. Another is the oleaginous Dean of Instruction, a transplanted Yankee who turns out to the head of the local KKK. A third is Gina, a middle aged divorcee whose fresh face and understated beauty immediately and pleasantly distract Mitchum.

He also begins to reacquaint himself with several high school classmates. An old adversary is now the county sheriff. However, in a small town, rivalries are not soon forgotten even when the adversaries have been separated by time and space for thirty years. Mitchum senses that the two may still be at cross-purposes. One old buddy became a pharmacist like his father and grandfather before him and inherited the family drugstore.
His other boyhood chum has become a drunken derelict, a mere shadow of the football star he had once been. The school slut is now a respectable married woman whose husband is the wealthiest man in the county, if not the state. When Mitchum knew him, he was from the poorest white trash family in the county. The old gang is physically different from those high school days, fatter, sagging jowls, and some with less hair. But the same old personalities, weakness and alliances would soon reappear.

Most of the encounters Mitchum has with the faces and places of his past upon his return home are pleasant. But he is deeply upset by the appearance of his drunken friend.
It seems as if the latter is haunted by something so devastating that it is eating him alive. Another renewed acquaintance disturbs him as well- his old grade school teacher. She implores him to investigate the disappearance of her grandson and his girlfriend over twenty years ago. She just cant believe what the whole town had accepted long ago, that the young couple ran off to get away from her. While Mitchum reluctantly agrees to look into the situation, she places into his hand the thread that leads him to solve the mystery surrounding the two runaways and exposes some tightly kept town secrets in the process.

Friends may be foes and foes can be friends in this exciting mystery set in the Deep South.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 25, 2001
• ISBN: 9781465317841

Billy F. Mitchell

Were they the victims of an unsolved murder or simply two runaways? Everyone in town believed they had finally left, unable to bear the meddling of such a tyrannical grandmother as Alethia Hockum. Who could blame them? Besides, they disappeared over twenty years ago. The event was now forgotten and buried in the town’s psyche. But for Alethia it would never be forgotten, and only buried when her grandson had a proper funeral. She alone was convinced that he and his girlfriend didn’t leave Madison on their own volition. The last thing that Mitchum thought when he returned to his home town after an absence of thirty years was that he would get involved with an old controversy. However, he could not refuse his old school teacher’s desperate plea. Although he believed like the other people in town, he would make some inquires for her sake.

Book preview

1

The headlights of the oncoming car jerked Mitchum back to his senses. He sat up straight in his seat and gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands. He had been in a semi-trance for the past sixty miles or so, lulled into an easy reverie by the steady hum of the car’s engine and the monotony of steering in a straight line. He mechanically followed the yellow path that his headlights cut into the black velvet curtain of night which surrounded him. He felt as if he were a space traveler, leaving a lost world of happiness and promise and going to a world and a life which were devoid of these, expect for one thing: his little girl, Shannon, his precious cargo in the back seat.

The car that passed going the other way was the first one that he had seen in over an hour. You might kill yourself, he thought, which would be all right if you were the only one involved. He had considered this in the months since his wife’s death. However, he had to remember the cargo in the back seat. He immediately decreased his speed, and shook his head slightly to remove the remaining cobwebs of drowsiness.

Wonder what that poor soul is doing out on this deserted highway at 4:00 a. m.? He laughed. He’s probably wondering the same thing about this ‘fool’, thinking that anyone in his right mind would be home in bed.

He was still slightly drowsy so he rubbed his eyes and massaged his neck in an attempt to wake up more.

What are you doing? he mentally asked himself.

He hadn’t had a clue what he had been doing with his life for the past three months. It had been three months full of grief and melancholy. Ever since his wife’s death, he had been relegated to the status of an automaton. He performed his duties at his law firm mechanically, and he had literally buried himself in his work. This was the only way he knew to assuage his unbearable burden. Self-pity was eating him alive, consuming him to the point that his thoughts were self destructive. But he had survived the deepest pit of self-pity and was now on the other side, struggling up and hopefully on the way out. He didn’t show any emotions at the hospital, nor at the funeral. Then and, even now, if his thoughts dwelled too much on Marie, he had an excruciating sense of grief that he could not shake. He thought the best way to get rid of those depressing and debilitating thoughts was to fill his mind with nothing but work and the law.

He spent nights at his office in an attempt to escape from the house where he had spent the last twelve years of his twenty years of marriage to Marie. When Shannon was born seven years ago, the family was complete so he had thought but, all the dreams of a happy and fulfilling family life died with Marie.

He worked on briefs and cases for hours on end. During the day he would only leave his office to walk to the courthouse two blocks away, file some legal papers and then walk somberly back to his sanctum sanctorum to only repeat the cycle the following day. His secretary would bring him food from local restaurants, only later to pick it up untouched or at the most partially eaten. He knew that he had to maintain at least the appearance of a half way sane and rational man by eating some occasionally.

If she expressed the slightest concern for him or if any of his partners changed their conversation from pending cases to awkward utterances of sympathy or doleful looks of pity, he would verbally and sometimes physically chase them out, lock the door, and feverishly delve in his law books to find points of law to write more briefs.

At this time he was only writing briefs and appeals, no trial work. Writing briefs was solitary work, devoid of people, This was the only thing that gave him any semblance of solace. He would work until after midnight, including Saturdays and Sundays. He did not want to go home and face Shannon. For some inexplicable reason, he could not face her. He would occasionally go home, only to spend a few restless hours tossing and turning in bed, or more often, on the living room couch before getting up and perfunctorily cleaning up so that he could leave before the household servants and Shannon would rise.

He existed in that condition for months until one night he answered the office phone and a small soft voice on the other end said, Daddy, I miss you. When are you coming home so that I can kiss and hug you like I used to do? He realized then that he wasn’t the only one who was experiencing grief over the loss of a loved one. He had lost his wife, but his daughter had lost her mother, and was now in danger of losing her father. He went home that night and decided that it was time to do what he and his wife had decided to do before her illness: go back to his old home town, Madison, Alabama. He knew he had no other place to go to find at least a semblance of happiness. So that’s what he and Shannon were doing now, in a car traveling on old Highway 78 from Atlanta to Madison, a small southern town he had left thirty years before.

He could have taken the new freeway from Atlanta to Montgomery, only having to cut off on to old highway 78 for about fifteen miles or so. He would have cut the driving time in half. However, he wanted to go back the way that he had left. That long-ago trip had been made on a rickety bus which didn’t have air conditioning, but back then air conditioning was not a necessity. He was going the same route, but this time using air conditioning. Back then he was going in the opposite direction to Fort McPherson in Atlanta. After being inducted into the army, he was transferred to Fort Jackson for basic training.

Even though it was pitch dark outside, and the scenery was hidden under the cover of night, he knew exactly what it looked like. He was certain that it had not changed a lot since he last saw it. As he got closer to town, the farms would have various types of fences separating themselves from the road. Some would be wire, some would be wooden, some new and some old, some painted, some unpainted and rusted or rotten, some well-kept and some broken. The fences told the financial and mental condition of the owners of the land. White picket fences, always freshly painted with no broken planks, surrounded well manicured farms and pasture land. The land would be cleared of underbrush with some flat farming land and some rolling little hills for pasture. The highest knoll would have a grove of trees and a well-kept, neat house nestled in between them. These houses were generally located a good distance from the highway and would have a long winding drive leading to them.

The unpainted fences with broken planks surrounded houses that were not well kept or maintained. They were always closer to the highway with an array of cars in the yard, some new and some old. Some were stripped of their parts, interior and exterior, to keep the others operating. Their remains looked like skeletons surrounding a watering hole in the desert. The weaker served as nutriment for the stronger.

Occasionally the highway was lined with thick forest land on both sides of the road. There would be, for long stretches, miles of this type of landscape with heavy undergrowth and no houses or buildings. This was land owned by timber and paper corporations. They would periodically strip cut large sections, leaving the land looking like a battleground with broken and fallen trees on barren land. New life would soon spring up when the newly planted pines would grow.

Well, anyway, he was going home. His wife’s death was something he had never dreamed would happen so soon, but it had, and because of it he was going home. He was heading south geographically, but backward in time culturally. There was not that much difference between Atlanta and small towns like Madison thirty or forty years ago; now, however he imagined that there would be a great chasm separating the lifestyles of the residents of the two cities. One was a metropolitan, no cosmopolitan, a beehive of hustle and bustle having little or no sympathy for people.

Material success preoccupied the gray matter of most of the denizens of that concrete and steel menagerie called Atlanta. The supposedly sophisticated people of this world would label Madison a boring backwater town. Yes, boring, with nothing to do except on Sunday when everyone went to church. But in these little towns, one did not have to pursue the almighty dollar to build a basis of prestige, influence and friends. All of these grew out of long periods of knowing each other. Yes, here one had the time to think and act more spiritually, not materially, in relation to people and things.

He glanced down at his speedometer, which registered sixty miles per hour.

Well, I’ll…we’ll be home in about another hour, more or less.

Madison will be good for me. for us both.

He looked in the rearview mirror at Shannon, who was curled up asleep on the back seat. Her wispy, ashen blonde hair was strewn over her fair skin. Her cool blue eyes were not visible, but he had them burned into his memory. Only two people had those pristine blue eyes—Marie and Shannon. He concentrated on her face for a brief second before turning his eyes back to the unending black strip of highway. The little face was the mirror image of her mother’s. Yes, she was her mother’s child. She had not inherited any of his physical appearance or mental disposition, only her mother’s. Her skin was fair, not olive colored like his. She was small of bone, and she certainly would be small of stature as was her mother. Her disposition was light and airy, and she always had a twinkle in her blue eyes. Yes, she was her mother’s child. None of his moodiness ever touched her or Marie. Marie. memories flooded in. He tried to block them, but they took possession of his mind.

He had spent ten years in the army, most of the time overseas in Europe. In the last month of his tour he became soul-weary of the usual activities of a soldier in a foreign country. The type of women he had met were not the type of girl to take back to mother, or even dad, if dad was the staunch fundamentalist his had been. His spirit hungered for the fresh and unpolluted atmosphere of a country setting, even if it were French. Therefore, he decided to take a seven day leave to bike through the southern part of France, away from the big cities. He needed to be in a small village in the rural part of the country, where people, regardless of their nationality, were basically the same—down to earth and honest. He had picked on a map a village called La Vingan. He started his trip there. At the time, little did he know that his trip would end there because he met a cure to his soul weariness. He had picked the village purely by chance, or so he thought. Later he would see that God, providence or kismet, which ever might be one’s belief, had a hand in guiding his pencil to that spot on the map.

He met her there, not in Paris, the city of love so called, but in a small peaceful country village. However, it was to painful too think of her even now, but his mind was determined to dwell in the past. So he diverted his thoughts to other memories less painful. Since he was no longer resisting, the memories flooded his consciousness to be relived again.

Mitch. The voice of his older brother Jake broke down the barrier of time and penetrated the present. Although he was two years younger than his brother, he was physically bigger. Therefore, his brother was the smaller tag along wherever he went. In fact, their roles were reversed, and anyone who did not know them would reasonably assume that Jake was the younger of the two. Jake called him Mitch, not Preston as his mother did, or Flint as his father. It was kind of confusing when he was young, but as he grew he would answer to any of those three names. His mother was partial to Preston for that was her favorite uncle’s name. His father liked Flint for he had once seen a movie and the main character’s name was Flint. To Jake, and most of his peers, it was more convenient to call him Mitch.

Mitch. The sound resonated again and there in his mind’s eye was Jake, his football shoes draped across his shoulders, calling him from a small grassy hill in the back of old Doc Barnett’s house.

Although Doc’s housekeeper, Evens, tried to keep people, especially children, from crossing Doc’s yard to get to Maple Drive, he and most of the other kids who lived on Maple Drive and beyond crossed it two or three time daily. The traffic was so heavy that a well worn path, up Doc’s drive, across the back yard and up the grassy hill was a permanent mark on the land. Once, when he and Jake were hurrying across, he had heard old Doc tease the housekeeper that the city should be obligated to pave it and dedicate it as Evens Drive.

He never knew whether Evens was her first or last name. Back then, it didn’t matter. However, now he thought it was sadly funny that someone could live in a small town and not know a person’s full name, only knowing the name that others used to address that person; such as Joe, Bill or Evens. That person could, however, be part of your fond memories, and, being part of your memories, a part of your life. On that particular afternoon, it had taken the third Mitch before he reluctantly moved across the yard and up the grassy hill to join his brother. That afternoon, and numerous other afternoons before and afterward, he had stood looking at the magnificent house, the most palatial home in all of Madison, in fact in all of Mason county. He swore that one day he would own it or a house every inch as big and beautiful.

Madison: 10 miles, flashed the sign post as his headlights illumined it as his car went flying by. The sign, like the doctor’s slap on a baby’s bottom, brought him sharply out of his memories. The scenes in his mind were gone.

As he turned off the state highway onto the county road, he thought to himself, I wonder if it has changed a lot? Then, answering himself he replied, Why certainly, just like I have changed over these thirty years. In fact, so much that I might have difficulty recognizing the town and most of the people. Again he laughed to himself, Of course, I’m certain that for the next few days most of the gossip will be: who is that new widower with the young child? Much too young to be his daughter, must be his grand-daughter.

As he slowed to get his bearings, he saw a sign to the left: Madison: 2 miles with an arrow pointing to the left. He turned obediently to the left. After a minute or two he noticed a small by cosmopolitan Atlanta’s standard, but probably not to the people of Madison, shopping center off to the right. This is definitely new. Let’s see a Dollar General Discount Store, Farmer Grocery Store, Ace Hardware, First National Bank of Madison, Martin Cleaners and a Cobb Movie Theater. Madison, you have arrived in my absence. Yes, a bona fide suburban shopping center with a cow pasture on one side and a peanut field on the other.

After several more minutes, he turned to the right and proceeded two blocks down Jackson Blvd. which ran into Lee Square in downtown Madison. It was all coming back to him now. Although it had changed on the outskirts of town, the downtown was basically the same as he remembered. The square was dark and deserted now. The clock in the courthouse in the middle of the square struck a doleful one.

One O’clock and all is well, he muttered to himself.

He was running about 2 hours later than scheduled. They’d both had a hectic day. It was emotionally draining. It had been traumatic, he was sure, for Shannon leaving the only home she had known. She was trusting him that where they were going would be better than what they were leaving behind. He only hoped that would be true.

A turn to the right and once around the square, old buddy, and then it’s home for you and the little one.

As he turned into the street in front of the courthouse, he saw the famous or, to some of Madison’s citizens, infamous statue.

Well what do you know. It’s still there. A statue memorializing an insect. That’s Madison. It may not have changed too much after all.

The car left Lee Square and sped down Monroe Avenue to get to Sloan Street and Barnett’s house, the one that Mitchum had wanted from his youth. He always felt that if he owned it he would be successful and happy. Now he owned it, but the dream was only half true. He was successful but, without Marie, he was not truly happy. He was in many ways only existing. But he could not let that condition continue because of Shannon. The melancholia tried to force its way back into his conscious being, but he resolutely denied its reentry. Although not happy, he would not allow himself to sink into deep depression again.

Yes, he now owned the palatial, baroque home of old Doc Barnett. After Doc died about ten years ago, the house gradually deteriorated and fell into bad need of repair. Doc’s only relative lived in Detroit and for the last ten years had leased the house to various and sundry families of Madison. About a year ago, after his wife’s illness was discovered, they had purchased the house from Doc’s relative who was more than willing to sell. At the time, although serious, the illness was considered to be tractable with proper treatment. However, as Mitchum discovered, like lawyers, doctors do not know everything. They, like all human beings,