Abbeville (19 page)

The sheriff barely glanced in Karl's direction as he shifted into gear, let out the clutch, and got the car rolling forward.

“Put your hands down, Karl,” he said. “You're no criminal.”

“I admitted to the judge that I am,” said Karl.

He looked straight ahead through the windshield as the car swung onto the road out of Abbeville. The sheriff cleared his throat.

“A lot of folks feel as though they wouldn't've made it if you hadn't stretched for them,” the sheriff said.

“Harley Ansel didn't charge me with aggravated helping,” said Karl. “I made mistakes. I really thought I could ride it out and cover them.”

“Then Harley should've charged you with being a damn fool,” said the sheriff. “There's not room in Stateville for all of us that's been one of those.”

Sheriff Hawk turned north at the corner, but when the highway curved east, he did not follow it.

“You missed the turn,” said Karl.

“I ain't taking you to the county jail tonight,” said Hawk, “if that's what you were thinking.”

“It's trouble if I don't show up,” said Karl.

The wheels under them spun on the unoiled gravel, one of the many corners Fritz had cut.

“You hungry?” asked Hawk.

“I hadn't even thought of it,” said Karl.

“Gert'll be pretty upset if you don't at least make an effort,” said Hawk.

“Gert packed me a meal?” said Karl.

“She's made a proper dinner, Karl,” said the sheriff, “with all the fixings. You're going to stay the night with us. First thing in the morning I'll take you to meet the Stateville van.”

Karl looked at him and did not know what to say.

“Tonight'll count against your sentence,” said the sheriff, “so don't you go worrying about that.”

W
HEN
I
WOKE UP IN THE OLD HOUSE
, I realized I had slept as I had not in months. I'm sure there were dreams, but I could not summon them. I had a quick breakfast and set out for Potawatomi.

The records of Grampa's trial turned out to be remarkably accessible. An elderly lady at the courthouse bade me sit and read the newspaper while she dispatched a young man to fetch them from the basement.

“I just hope the mice haven't gotten to them,” she said.

The day's newspapers sat neatly scalloped on a big table that, though worn by what looked like a century of use, had obviously been polished that very morning. I could not help but contrast this with the few encounters I'd had with officialdom in the city. Once I'd had to make four separate trips to the Illinois Secretary of State's office to accomplish the simple transfer of the title of a car. That office resided in a monstrous state building not more than a decade old, yet it was already shabbier than the Potawatomi courthouse.

“Mr. Bailey?” said the woman. “Here's your material.”

The file was not thick.

“You may not take it out of this room,” she said. “But the desks over there are comfortable. If there is anything you would like to copy, it is seven cents a page, I'm afraid.”

I thanked her and sat down. The papers inside were yellow and brittle with years, typed by hand on an old manual typewriter that registered the variable impact of the fingers in the density of ink on each letter. Though this gave the sheets an uneven appearance, I was amazed that there were no corrections. The typist must have had to start a whole page over if she made a mistake. The cost of error had been very high in those days.

I had hoped to find a grand jury transcript to learn what secret things Harley Ansel had said about Grampa. But beyond the indictment itself, there was no grand jury record in the file. The only hint came in the transcript of the sentencing hearing after Grampa's guilty plea:

JUDGE
: Does the prosecution wish to make any statement?

PROSECUTOR
: I draw Your Honor's attention to the checks the defendant drew on the Bank of Abbeville in the months after October 29 of 1929. Your Honor will find purchases of tailored clothing from Chicago and various other luxuries. I would draw your particular attention to the draft paid to one Hempstead & Strong, London, England. The accompanying invoice shows that this was in payment for a handmade bamboo fishing pole and brass reel.

DEFENDANT
: rod.

JUDGE
: You will have your opportunity to speak, Karl.

DEFENDANT
: It was a fishing rod, not a fishing pole.

PROSECUTOR
: I stand corrected, Your Honor. Obviously the purchase was even fancier than I had thought.

DEFENDANT
: I had money in my account to cover those checks.

JUDGE
: Karl, hush, now.

PROSECUTOR
: Money you could have used to pay some of your debts.

JUDGE
: If that is the reason for the prosecution's recommended sentence, I have a problem. A man spending his money unwisely is not a crime.

PROSECUTOR
: It goes to the defendant's state of mind, Your Honor. He didn't give a damn.

JUDGE
: Harley, you know better than to use that kind of language in my court.

I looked over the list of items in the transcript, and it was clear that Grampa was trying to continue a lifestyle that had become untenable. I felt the tug to do that myself every time I looked at Rob or Julie. To be honest, I also felt it when I saw a sharp new sports car pass me on the expressway, the kind you could hop into, put the top down, and flee.

JUDGE
: Why did you do it, Karl?

DEFENDANT
: I make no excuse.

JUDGE
: But an explanation. Something.

DEFENDANT
: At first I did not want to alarm my family. Then I wanted to show folks confidence. In the end I suppose I kept going just because I didn't know how to stop.

PROSECUTOR
: The defendant has agreed not to contest the prosecution's recommended sentence.

JUDGE
: It's mighty harsh, Harley.

DEFENDANT
: I have my reasons, Your Honor.

JUDGE
: I understand the guilty plea, Karl. Those loans you made off the books, well, there's no getting around them. But I've always known you to drive a pretty hard bargain, and two years' hard time looks like you got the worst deal you could.

DEFENDANT
: I knew what I was doing, Tom. I mean, Your Honor.

JUDGE
: It is going to be mighty hard on Cristina and your young daughter.

PROSECUTOR
: Your Honor, this emotional display by the defendant is uncalled for.

JUDGE
: For heaven's sake, Harley. Can't you even let the man weep?

Grampa never once hinted at the connection to Fritz.

When I had finished with the documents, I carefully returned them to the file and gave them back to the woman behind the desk.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked.

W
HEN IT HAD COME TIME
for my mother to move into a retirement home, she chose one closer to Abbeville than to Park Forest. This made it a trek for me to visit her from Chicago, but she seemed to know everyone in Cobb County, so she did not want for company.

Today, though, the location was an advantage. The drive from Potawatomi only took twenty minutes. I had called ahead and told her I would be there shortly. She asked where I was, and I told her.

“You're coming from the wrong direction,” she said.

“I stayed the night in Abbeville,” I said.

“You did?” she said, obviously pleased. “It looks real good, doesn't it?”

The retirement home was a rambling, four-story structure with a colonial facade, set back from the road behind a broad lawn. My mother had a two-room apartment stuffed with every piece of furniture from her house that she could fit. It was a wonder she could get around it with her walker.

The door was ajar when I arrived. I knocked and went in.

“It's me,” I said.

She labored to stand.

“Don't get up,” I said.

“I want my hug,” she said.

She had become quite frail after her stroke. I was careful when I embraced her, but she held on to me with surprising force.

“You did want a hug,” I said.

“It‘s been a long time,” she said.

“Only a few weeks,” I said.

“It's been a year,” she said.

“We're going to have to get a notebook I can sign each time I come so you'll remember,” I said.

“I'd just forget to look at it,” she said.

She never had any trouble remembering her years in Abbeville.

“Your grandma wrote him every day,” she told me. “But he only replied once. ‘Until I come home again pretend I don't exist,' he wrote. ‘It will be easier that way.' So your grandma naturally decided that I should go.”

“Were you afraid?” I asked.

“I went,” my mother said.

W
ILL
H
OENIG DROVE HER
in a truck that Karl had sold him. They bounced over roads that had deteriorated badly as the money dried up. This made the trip slow and uncomfortable.

“Your Uncle Fritz could have used a little more asphalt on this stretch,” Mr. Hoenig said.

“Don't let's talk about him, all right?” said Betty.

She knew that people wanted to take her side, but they didn't know how dark her feelings were or they wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere near her.

“They say there's justice in the next world,” Mr. Hoenig went on.

“If there is, I hope it puts Fritz on roads like this for all eternity.”

It took hours to get to Joliet. Mr. Hoenig had to tack back and forth to avoid the potholes, and he did not always succeed. He fixed two flat tires along the way. It reminded Betty of the time they had driven to Michigan, which made her think of drowning.

The prison, with its limestone walls and battlements, seemed to have come down from the time of dragons. A low building that looked incongruously like a home stood at the gate. Several families had already queued up at the door. A meaty matron in a blue coat with a badge and black Sam Browne belt sat behind a small table reading a crime magazine.

“Will I be able to see my father today?” Betty asked her.

“What did you say, girl?” said the matron. “Speak up.”

“My father is in this jail,” Betty said, forcing herself to stand proud.

“It's up to him if he wants to see you,” said the matron, who took her name and passed her on to another, thinner matron who led her down a long corridor. A heavy door closed behind them with such a clang that Betty thought it might never open again.

Eventually they reached a room deep in the interior. In it sat rows of straight-backed benches. There were also a number of heavy chairs. She took one of them and scraped it along the stone toward a solitary corner.

A dozen other people were waiting in the room, women mostly, looking tired. All except one, that is. She had exuberantly red hair and a bright light behind her eyes. Her skirt billowed—old-country style—as if she were an actress in a play. Betty wondered what remarkable kind of man she was visiting. A gypsy king, perhaps. Or somebody the
Tribune
would call an anarchist.

From time to time the matron presiding over the room called a name. Finally it was Betty's.

“I hope you aren't planning to take that inside,” said the matron, pointing to the sack in Betty's hand. Cristina had given it to her full
of Karl's favorites. It had become oily in several places from the shortening, so you could almost see right through the paper. The matron took it away from her.

“That's for my father,” Betty protested. “Harley Ansel said he cheated his own bank, but he never cheated anybody in his whole life.”

“I lost all my money in a bank,” said the matron. She turned some pages on a clipboard, putting her finger to the lists. “Karl Schumpeter must be quite a fellow, because you're the second female here to see him today. The other's a regular, but I don't know you.”

“I'm his daughter,” said Betty. “His only daughter.”

The matron wrote it down.

“Well, at least you aren't both his wives,” said the matron. “Don't think I never seen that. You might as well sit. It will be a while.”

When Betty turned back to the room, she could not imagine who else could be waiting to see her father. The tarty-looking thing in the tight skirt and fake fur? The masculine one who could have been a matron herself? The redhead? Impossible.

She went to one of the long wooden benches, sat down, and arranged the ruffles of her Sunday skirt. The wood was filigreed with names and initials and dates. She ran her fingers over them and wondered why anyone would want to leave her name in such an awful place.

“So you are Karl's daughter,” said a voice behind her. It startled her, and when she turned, she saw the woman with red hair. “I'm Luella Grundy.”

When she put out her hand, Betty felt drawn to take it.

“My name is Betty,” she said.

“I don't suppose Karl has ever spoken of me,” Luella said.

She had a friendly face, though with a hint of hardness deep at the level of bone.

“What do they do when someone has two visitors?” asked Betty, because it was the least of her confusion.

“I imagine they go with a preference for blood,” said Luella. “After maleness and wealth, that's the usual.” She must have seen something come into Betty's face, because she immediately softened. “Don't worry,” she said. “I was a secretary in his uncle's firm in Chicago when your father came in out of the North Woods smelling like a chimney.”

“He took my mom and me to the North Woods once,” said Betty.