MacNally took a moment to gawk at the mayor’s personal effects as he and a few other workers hung tarps to seal off the rooms where they would be working. MacNally had never met a politician, let alone been inside the home of a person as powerful as this man.
“Let’s go, MacNally, get your ass moving,” Flaherty called to him as MacNally’s gaze roamed the bedroom with its woven lavender comforter, plantation shutters, and ruffled plum drapes. Such grandeur. Such wealth.
“Yes, sir,” MacNally said.
The next two weeks passed quickly. MacNally learned to dig and pour foundations, and made friends with one of the other men, who specialized in two-by-four framing, ventilation ducting, and electrical work. MacNally figured that in the coming months, he would become proficient in a variety of skills that could translate into other jobs. The more he learned, the more valuable he would become to an employer-whether that be Mr. Flaherty or someone else. He spent his lunch times chatting with his new friend, and had already gathered more practical information about construction than he remembered ever learning about any subject in school-the sole exception perhaps being mathematics.
MacNally felt like a contributing member of society again. Standing trial for his wife’s murder was becoming a distant, though still vivid, memory. The bank robbery was behind him, and he had received his first paycheck.
But on the third Monday of his work with Flaherty, the boss whistled him aside. And he did not look pleased.
“Sit down,” Flaherty said, and pointed at a tree stump that was due to be removed from the ground later in the day. Flaherty remained standing. “The mayor called me into his office this morning,” he said, his arms folded across his thick chest. “Wanna know why?”
MacNally did not know what to say. He nodded but said nothing.
“He asked me when we started this here job if I knew my employees real good. I told him all ’cept two, new men I recently hired. He asked me for their names. Yours was one of ’em.”
MacNally felt a sense of dread building deep in his belly. He tried not to show it on his face. “So?” he asked.
“So the mayor had someone look into y’all. And it seems you were arrested for-get this-murdering your wife three years ago.”
“Yeah, but-”
“I’m not interested in excuses, MacNally. I told you, you do anything that screws me over-”
“But I didn’t do anything, sir. I was not guilty. A jury cleared me. And they arrested someone else last year.”
“Mayor don’t care. He don’t want no murderer, or even a guy accused of murder, workin’ on his house, ’round his family. Almost fired my ass. I had to beg him not to. You hear me? I coulda lost this goddamn job. I need it, I need the money.”
“Me, too.”
“Well that’s too doggoned bad, ain’t it? You shoulda told me.”
MacNally rose from the stump. He threw his arms out to his sides. “Told you what? I didn’t kill my wife and they let me go. A jury said I wasn’t guilty.”
“Yeah, but they didn’t say you was innocent, neither, did they now?”
MacNally furrowed his brow.
“Here’s your pay,” Flaherty said as he dug around in his pocket. He pulled out a wad of cash and peeled off a bill. “For this morning. Now leave. Don’t come back no more. I need to tell the mayor you’re history.”
History.
History was cruel for Walton MacNally. And, as he was learning, history was not easily purged.
MacNally first went back to the school and asked for his maintenance job back. But it had been filled, and they were pleased with their replacement. They did not appreciate being shorthanded for a week while they sought for, and interviewed, new applicants.
After spending the two-plus weeks’ earnings MacNally had made working for Flaherty, and then dipping into their savings-from the bank haul-MacNally was becoming increasingly frustrated at his inability to land another job. Flaherty had kept his word, and had let it be known that MacNally had nearly cost him a customer that was vital to his company’s survival…and that he had stood trial for murdering his wife.
In a small town, MacNally did not stand a chance of escaping the wrath of a well-liked and established business owner who had been burned. And killing your wife was…well, frowned upon, even if no one bothered to ask about the details of something remotely important like a jury’s verdict. He was guilty in the municipal court of public scorn.
With no other work history MacNally could lean on for references-even the school would freely tell a caller he had left them without notice-he realized he needed to use a bogus identity to prevent a prospective employer from finding out about his prior arrest. The truth and disposition often did not matter; he was a marked man and would be so for a long time, if not the rest of his life. Not having experience with such things, he didn’t know what to expect-how long it’d remain an albatross, or if someone would be willing to invest the time and thought to truly evaluate his particular situation.
Flaherty’s retort that a not guilty verdict did not mean innocent was a distinction MacNally did not fully grasp at the moment, but in the subsequent days, as he thought about it, he saw where the man was coming from. But seeing the difference did not matter. No amount of talking was going to persuade Flaherty, he knew that. Going back to the man was out of the question. And he did not dare attempt to speak with the mayor.
MacNally was also concerned about getting Henry an education, as he was certain his son was falling behind in his schooling by now.
MacNally did his best to work with Henry on his reading and math skills using the local library’s resources. But he had to be careful not to call attention to themselves-one person had already asked Henry where he went to school, which led to a very uncomfortable silence while MacNally stammered something about being new to town and there being a delay in getting him “signed up.”
Three weeks after losing his construction job, MacNally explained to Henry that unless things changed soon, they would likely have to leave and find a more affordable city where, even if he couldn’t land a decent paying job, their money would last longer.
Days passed, yet they did not discuss it again. MacNally figured it was easier to stay where they were than to move into a new place with more unknowns than they had now. For the time being, it was better to remain in Alabama and continue trying to better their situation.
He resorted to going door-to-door, offering to do odd jobs as a handyman for cash. This worked at times, and at times not. His tax-free pay was less than it had been when he was working at the school, forcing them deeper into their savings.
One day, MacNally came home to find Henry sitting on the floor against the wall with his mother’s brooch in one hand-and a bar of soap pressed to his nose. It was round and tinted pink, with a beveled, decorative edge. The soap they used was a plain white square bar.
“Where’d you get that?” MacNally asked.
Henry’s brow furrowed. He moved the soap behind his back. “Somewhere.”
“Somewhere?” MacNally moved closer. “Where’d you get the money?”
“I didn’t need no money. I took it. From a store. That one in town, Chuck’s Five and Dime.”
MacNally knelt down in front of his son. “Henry. Taking things from stores without paying for them isn’t right.”
“We took money from the bank. No difference.”
“There is a difference.” MacNally thought a moment, searching for a way to explain it. Was there really a distinction? He sat on the dirt floor beside Henry. “We stole that money because we had to. We need to eat, we need a place to sleep. There was no choice. I don’t want to steal. But…” He did not know if Henry could comprehend the concept of having an unfair and soiled reputation hung around your neck without the ability to remedy it.