A Cotton Mill Town Christmas

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Special Edition

MAYOR RECOUNT SHOWS TIE,

Legal opinion needed

For the second week in a row, Suzie Young was up late on a Tuesday night cranking out the newspaper on her mother’s old typewriter.

Oh no, I’ve gotten ink underneath my nails. I’d better get it out before Momma sees it, she thought to herself.

She had painstakingly used a black marker and a stencil to print the quarter-inch letters to form the headline. She went to the bathroom and scrubbed the ink from her fingernails. Satisfied it wouldn’t be noticed, Suzie went to bed.

The next morning at 6:05, she jumped out of bed when her alarm clock began its clang-clang-clang. She quickly and quietly began to dress, hoping not to wake her mother. She failed. Her mother opened her bedroom door.

“Suzie, what in the world are you doing up so early?” her mother said, squinting through her sleep-laden eyes. “Are you sick?”

“It’s alright, Mom. I just need to head down to Mr. Turner’s to print out the paper.”

“What time did you get to bed last night?”

“Before midnight.” Suzie didn’t lie; it was a good five minutes before twelve when she laid down in bed to proofread the paper one last time.

“Suzie, now I don’t mind you doing this paper on the weekend, but during the school week? I’m not sure I like that.”

“Oh Momma, please? I promise it won’t hurt my school work. Everybody’s depending on me. This is important news I’m reporting.”

Karen Young had accepted her daughter’s new passion for writing three years prior because it had seemed to take away some of the pain of losing her father two years before. She had to admit it had never seemed to affect Suzie’s grades. The girl had never brought home anything less than a B+ in her life.

Karen at the dozen or so balled up wads of paper in the trashcan. Suzie was never satisfied until her paper was perfect. Karen began reading the report of the previous night’s Council meeting. She had to admit, it was making a lot of news in the town. Even though she rarely took interest in the political affairs of the town, it seemed as if everyone was talking about this election.

While she dressed, Suzie thought back to the night before, and the excitement she had felt as the events unfolded during the meeting. It electrified her so to know she was the ears and ears for the town, reporting the proceedings of the events the citizens didn’t have time to attend.

She let her imagination drift from the little town of Fries. She was now in the far reaches of inner Africa, interviewing the chief of an unknown tribe for National Geographic. She could hear the pitter-patter as the raindrops fell from the jungle foliage to the vegetated floor. She could smell the fragrance of the exotic orchids. She could hear the bedlam from the menagerie of wild beasts roaming in the jungle, mere yards away from her.

She then found herself in a large ballroom in a fancy New York Hotel, and could hear the announcement being made, And now, the winner of the Pulitzer Prize for International Reporting in Journalism, Miss Suzie…

“If you’re going to make copies, you’d better get a move on,” her mother said, interrupting her daughter as she was about to go on stage to receive the prestigious award.

The vote recount had taken place during the executive session of the regular Town Council meeting on the previous night, Tuesday, November 18. First on the agenda was the recount, so the winner could then be sworn in and take over the meeting. The meeting was opened by Town Council Vice-Mayor, Buzz Wilkinson.

“The um, first, item on the agenda is the um, the recount,” Buzz said, very uncomfortable in his temporary position. “We will need to go into executive session, so everyone will need to leave the room.

“Shouldn’t take long,” someone called out from the audience. “How long does it take to count 500 ballots?”

“Yeah, shouldn’t take long,” Spunkie Akers shouted from the back of the hall, having just shown up. “You might as well go home Armbrister, save yourself some embarrassment.”

Even though he was standing twenty feet away on the steps, the musty smell of beer was very evident.

But it did take a while, a long while. After thirty minutes, the people were still standing there, getting more and more impatient.

“What’s going on? It shouldn’t be taking this long,” someone said.

“Unless somebody’s in there screwing with the votes,” Spunkie yelled accusingly as he flopped down on the top step. He was no longer able to stand, the warmth of the hallway making him more intoxicated by the minute.

Almost forty-five minutes after calling to order the executive session, a very pallid faced Buzz Wilkinson opened the door. He looked out into the corridor. He immediately detected the smell of alcohol and saw the glaring Spunkie Akers.

“Go down the hall,” Wilkinson whispered to Herbie Bourne. “Tell Bruce I think he might oughta come to the meeting. There might be trouble.”

Herbie saw the alarm in the vice-chairman’s eyes. He turned and walked down the corridor, ignoring Spunkie, and knocked on Bruce’s door.

“Sorry it took so long, folks,” an evidently unraveled acting-chairman said. “Come in and set down. We’ll start shortly.”

After everyone settled down, Wilkinson began to steal glances toward Spunkie leaning against the back wall. Spunkie would sway, and then catch his balance. In a few minutes, Herbie walked in, followed by Police Chief Bruce Smith. The constable strolled over, and leaned against the wall near Spunkie. Akers at first did not recognize who had walked up beside him. When he did, he teetered over to the corner, away from the officer. Wilkinson then struck the gavel to the marble base, cleared his throat, and took a drink of water. All eyes turned to him.

“The meeting of the Fries town council will now come back to order,” he said, “Hmm, Mr. Turner, as legal counsel, would you announce the results of the, um, voting recount?”

Doug Turner had attended Fries High School, before getting a law degree from Wake Forest University. Although he lived outside town, he considered himself one of its citizens, and provided free legal service to the council. He was also one of the town’s most generous benefactors. It was he who would always step forward when the football team needed money for a special meal the night of the championship game, or the basketball team needed new uniforms.

“On November 18, 1969, at approximately 7:05 p.m.,” the lawyer read in his polished baritone voice, “the Fries town council met for the purpose of a voting recount on the matter of the 1969 mayoral election. After three recounts, the final decision is that the final vote is…Jonathan Armbrister, 254 votes…”

The room immediately began buzzing. The vote was going to be reversed. Herbie Bourne was going to be announced the winner.

“Yeah. Hell yeah,” Spunkie said as he pumped his fist in the air, nearly falling out of his chair.

“Order. Order.” Wilkinson shouted aloud. “Let us finish.”

The vice-chairman looked at Chief of Police Bruce Smith, rolling his eyes toward Akers. Bruce edged over behind Spunkie, placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder, and gave him a fatherly but authoritative smile.

“The final vote is…Jonathan Armbrister, 254 votes,” Turner read again, “Herbie Bourne…254 votes. One vote was dismissed for being improperly marked.”

The room went silent, except for one person. Spunkie Akers spit out an epithet, and side-stepping the chief, stormed out of the doorway, pausing long enough to flash a parting glare and a middle finger in the direction of Armbrister.

Dozens of voices erupted. Wilkinson allowed the clamor to continue for about ten seconds, then realizing it was not going to diminish on its own, began banging the gavel.

“Ok, that’s enough. Quiet down.” he said, then turning to legal counsel, “Okay, Mr. Turner, what is your advice on how we should proceed?”

“I’m not prepared to render a decision at this time” the lawyer said, scratching his head. “And I do have a very heavy docket over the next two weeks. I would like to request three weeks to study precedence, and offer advice to the council on a special called meeting on Tuesday, December 10.”

The council voted 4-0 to accept legal counsel’s advice, and scheduled another meeting for that date. After approving the invoices to be paid for the month, Wilkinson requested all other business be tabled until the next scheduled meeting. The Council agreed, and the meeting was adjourned.

The twenty or so attendees shuffled out of the town hall, each offering guesses who would be declared the winner. Both of the candidates were strangely reserved and unknown to the other, were sharing the same thoughts. First, they wished they had not run for mayor, and second, each wondered if it would be best for the town if he withdrew and let the other be elected without any controversy. The two men looked at each other as they left the door, looking as if they were ready to say something. Then, as the crowd spilled onto the street, everyone grew hushed.

Parked on the street was Armbrister’s new 1969 green Lincoln Mark II with red barn paint splashed across the hood, over the windshield, and along the roof. The paint was fresh, with drops still cascading off the hood and splattering onto the polished chrome bumper.

Everyone turned to look up and down the street. There was no one in view.

About the only work Spunkie ever did was an occasional barn painting, a task for which he had an uncanny knack for stretching a week-long job into a month. One consolation to Armbrister was the paint Spunkie used was of such poor quality the first rains usually washed the coat away.

With a dazed stare hovering somewhere between anger and hurt, Armbrister turned to Bruce Smith. The others merely shook their heads, some turning to offer condolences to the superintendent.

“Why don’t you come on up to the office, and let’s have us a talk,” Bruce said.

“If you don’t mind me driving your car,” Herbie said, placing his hand on Armbrister’s shoulder, “I’ll run it down to the car wash. I think the paint might still be wet enough to wash off.”

“Thanks, Herbie,” Armbrister mumbled, handing him the keys. “I’ll be upstairs with Bruce.”

Sergeant Bruce Smith, about 65, had the professionalism and common sense of Andy Taylor, but the spit and polish of Barney Fife. His uniform, dark brown pants and tan shirt, was always neatly pressed. A black tie with its Windsor knot perfectly tied always ended one inch below the buckle of his polished gun belt and holster which housed his well-oiled, if seldom used, revolver. Even at his advanced age, he still had a lean and muscular look about him. He had served as Chief of Police for almost 40 years, having succeeded his father. In those forty years, there had been one serious crime, a murder of a beautiful girl by the name of Pauline Payne. It occurred thirty years before in the local theater and was a true drama of romance, mystery, and suspense.

The story was reported in both the March 1942 edition of Complete Detective Cases Magazine under the article Silent Killer and the Talking Pictures, and later, in the June, 1946 edition of Inside Detective in their article, The Secret Clue in Pauline’s Diary. These popular sleuth magazines told of Sergeant Smith’s role in cracking the case. He received an accommodation by the State Police for his committed investigation of the case.

Bruce’s slow drawl made him likeable to the locals of this small southern town. He did, upon occasion though, have to show without question he was the law. He left no doubts he wasn’t to be messed with, whether it be confiscating a sling-shot or breaking up a fight between knife-wielding punks.

Now in his waning years, he still performed his duties admirably. His usual monthly crime docket consisted of two drunks-in-public, one inevitably being Spunkie Akers, and other various misdemeanors that usually went no further than the offenders being taken to Bruce’s office and receiving a reprimand. These misdemeanors were usually very minor offenses, but about once a year, usually during football season, the most odious of all misdemeanors would occur.

This was when teenage boys would wait on the railroad trestle leading out of town and would pee off the trestle onto the bus carrying the visiting team. If Bruce ever set up surveillance for this act of biological warfare, the young marauders would then retreat higher in the woods and merely egg the bus using rotten eggs.

On those occasions when the perps were apprehended, Bruce would load them into the police cruiser, drive them to their houses, and turn them over to their parents. He knew the moms and dads would dish out more punishment than he would. Bruce seldom had a repeat offender, with the exception of Spunkie Akers.

Armbrister entered the office, slowing to look around the walls. There were several certificates from various police training schools, showing Bruce had graduated from them with honors. One picture showed the officer as Armbrister had never seen him before, in civvies, dark dress pants, a light gray dress coat, tie and hat, standing next to his beloved yellow Model-A he had lovingly called “Sunflower.”

“Now, Mr. Armbrister,” Bruce said, his drawl making others want to reach out and grab the policeman’s words and yank them from his mouth. “You and me both know Spunkie probably did this. I will look around for witnesses, but I doubt I will find anybody willing to step forward.”

“Think we should just forget it?”

“Spunkie is a hothead, and I’ve never seen him so riled up. I think he might be dangerous this time. I’m gonna phone the Grayson County Sheriff and advise him we need to keep an eye on the kid. It may be time he needs to be sent away for a while.”

“I know you’ll do what you can. I’ll remember what you said, that he might be dangerous, and I’ll notify the Mill security consultant.”

What Armbrister wasn’t saying was as Mill superintendent, he had knowledge things were about to get even worse. He knew decisions had been made at the corporate level, and in despite his strongly voiced objections, were about to be enacted. Changes were coming, he just didn’t know how bad they would be.

When Mr. Armbrister walked down to the street, he found a beaming Herbie holding out the keys. All traces of the red paint were gone from the Lincoln.

“I’m surprised it washed out,” Armbrister said, obviously relieved.

“There were a few spots left after the washing, but Dave was able to buff those out down at the White Flash.”

“What do I owe you? And Dave?”

“Not a dime. Dave wouldn’t take anything, and I certainly won’t.”

“I appreciate it Herbie, I really do. Cynthia would have tanned my hide if she came back and found her car damaged.”

“Mr. Armbrister, you’re a good man. You don’t deserve stuff like this going on. I certainly wish we could go back and change things.”

“Thanks, Herbie. That means a lot to me. And I know what you mean, I feel the same way.”

For the next two weeks, the wedge between the town was driven deeper and deeper. Neighbors went out of their way to avoid speaking to each other. Children were forbidden to play with their best pals. Life-long friends were no longer talking.

Even the two major churches began to feel the friction.

Armbrister belonged to the Fries Baptist Church where he served in many capacities. Those at the church knew a very different man from the hardline Mill superintendent some of the other people in town thought him to be. Most of the Mill management attended this church.

Herbie was born in Fries and had attended the Fries Methodist Church his whole life. Even though he had only finished high school, he had studied the Bible faithfully. He taught the youth group, where he had a propensity for being able to take any event in a young person’s life and turn it into a parable. Although thirty years older than most of the kids, Herbie was able to relate to them on their level. They never felt he was talking down to them. He also served as team chaplain to the Fries Wildcat football team. It was easy to understand why he was the young generation’s choice.

Each church had always had its own sense of pride and direction, though. This was the town’s founding fathers’ intention from the beginning. The Baptist Church attracted the stricter followers, many of whom had evolved from the old Moravian faith which dominated the religion of the Winston-Salem area. The Methodists were more ecumenical, bringing in the rural churchgoers, many of whom whose grandparents had never attended an organized church. Like the Bourne family, they had been brought into the fold by the hell-fire and brimstone preaching of Reverend Sheffey in the late 1800’s. Only 150 yards separated the two churches in distance, but they may have well been in different towns.

There was hope Thanksgiving would heal the strife between opposing forces in the town. After all, wasn’t Thanksgiving the time for peoples of different beliefs and cultures to sit down together in peace and harmony?