Hang the Elephant
Category:
Historical Fiction
Type: Fiction
JD Worthy fights to save Mary in this gripping tale of hubris, politics, love, courage and vigilante justice gone mad.
"When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptable struggle." - Edmond Burke, Dublin, Ireland 1750
John David Worthy, a celebrated photojournalist with Nathional Geographic magazine, finds himself in a familiar yet uncomfortable setting - behing the lectern and in front of 250 students at the University of Tennessee School of Journalism. The usual inquiry into the inspiration for his chosen path present an opporutnity to finally publically share the truth few remembered nor really understood.
John David breathes deeply, his weathered eyes glance upward to the right and he begins...
"It's small town Tennessee, 1916 and the circus is coming to town. At a time when Barnum is taking the country by storm and the railroads are connecting America as never before, Sparks World Famous Family Circus is touring the largest elephant ever shown in a traveling circus. As the people of Erwin throng the streets to catch a glimpse of the opening parage, a seemingly random incident triggers a horrific sequence of events which will have repercussions for the people of Erwin, for the state of Tennessee and for my family long after this day was over. "
This coming of age love story turns into a cautionary tale of revenge and thirst for power as the Worthy family find the courage to face thier loss and redeem their relationship in the midst of fighting to save the life of a great animal.
Excerpt
I don’t recall much of my mother. What I do remember is tethered to a recurring dream from
my childhood. Broad Street, Erwin, TN on a quiet, cool morning, a gentle wind blowing and
there she is; far in the distance, down by Emerson’s Compounding Pharmacy, fair skin and dark hair
gleaming in the morning sun. In my dream, she is riding an Indian elephant, the kind with the small
ears, not the African elephant with the large ones. The elephant is draped in bright fabrics and the
scarves billow gently about her face, obscuring the view of my mother and causing me to move into the
street for a better view, but the wind changes and the scarves blow in the other direction. In each
dream the elephant clumsily lumbers down Main Street. My mother’s grace and beauty seemed in stark
contrast to the gray giant at first. But as they approach, as I stand there in the middle of Broad Street,
frozen, mesmerized by their presence. The elephant’s clumsiness became a gentleness. Her
eyes, so round and deeply dark, radiated with knowledge and comfort. The elephant and my Mother
belong to each other, they move in a rhythm all their own. I could feel the heavy footsteps echo in my
chest, and watching the two of them, all I saw was flowing grace, beauty, and togetherness. My mother
and the elephant passed in overwhelming silence. I stood ma statue in the street; wanting to stop
time, desperately longing for sound and touch and all that comes with being awake.
This was a frequent dream of my early childhood. I fell asleep trying to conjure up this dream in
the same way I longed to stay in it and abide there forever with the two of them. But this story takes
place many years later, and the dream had long since stopped.
It was June 3, 1916, and the summer heat was already making it difficult to catch a deep breath. Today,
the afternoon held the humidity of the morning in a harsh foreshadowing of the days ahead. Too many
6th graders at Andrew Jackson Elementary were staring out the expanse of windows
filling an entire wall of our classroom, causing Mrs. Dooley to exclaim, “We can sit here until the cows
come home if that’s what it takes”, which made me think of Uncle Dale’s dairy farm and the daily march
of cows back to the barn. As I’m staring at the snowy white blossoms on the magnolia tree outside our
3rd floor classroom. At this level, the blossoms are velvety soft and snowy white. On the ground, lay
aged blossoms that have browned through bruising and burning by the sun. Again, Mrs. Dooley
interrupts with, “All right, I guess we can’t fight the sap rising. Ya’ll need to get outside and spread your
wings, just like the rest of God’s creatures”
And with that, I glanced at Marian in the row beside me. I thought I had misunderstood Mrs. Dooley.
She was the strictest teacher in all of Andrew Jackson Elementary School and had never let us go outside
before the bell. If I hadn’t heard her correctly, I was certain Marian would know for sure.
Marian was a quietly small girl wearing oversized hand-me-down clothes. She kept to herself but
heard everything. I thought she looked like a statue sometimes. Like the statue of Mr. Erwin, the town
founder, in front of City Hall, not a statue of someone caught in movement like the one of Andrew
Jackson in New Orleans (I know this because we have photographs and illustrations of our great
Tennessee governor and United States President all over our school) but a statue of someone afraid to
move for fear that any movement might result in fissures and cracks and broken fingers or arms that
could never be repaired. That was Marian (who told me with a new brightness to her eyes and a slight
smile that I had not misunderstood Mrs. Dooley).
We land on the playground in an avalanche of 6th graders. We think we own the school. For some of
us, this year will be the last we will ever spend inside a classroom. But for me, the son of a lawyer, I will
continue for a long time, following in my father’s footsteps. That’s what the Worthy’s do. Then, there’s
Torbett and Jake and Cal, short for Calhoun, they are already bragging about the money
they are going to make this summer when they start working at the cotton mill or the coal mine over in
West Virginia or the railroads.
Erwin got the first railroad in 1912, now we have three. My dad does a lot of work for them,
most defending them because some train killed a stupid cow grazing on the tracks, or cut off
somebody’s arms or legs or because some ignorant mountain clan doesn’t want to sell their land. “You
can’t stop progress”, my dad says. He stays busy defending the railroad and that’s why we came to
Erwin after Mother died, so Aunt Lena could live with us and look after Troy and me and dad could
defend the railroad and progress. I can’t wait for Torbett to go work for the railroad and get out of
Andrew Jackson. But, for the other boys who don’t brag so much, especially for Micah and Marion’s
brother, Peter, who won the science competition when he was in 6th grade and got to go to Kingsport
with Mr. Monroe for the regionals, I wonder if they like what they do. I see them coming out of the
cotton mills at 6 o’clock in the evenings, hair full of white fuzz and shirts full of dirt and sweat. Now, he
runs with older boys and women in their 20s and they chew bacci’ and drink the hard lemonade. Peter
works in the cotton mill to help support Marion’s family – she has 10 brothers and sisters, but it just
seems wrong for some reason. I like to imagine him inside the cotton mill with the great machines and
endless spools of thread, crafting inventions that will one day make him and his whole family rich and
famous. But the looks he gives me when we pass on the street tell me he probably doesn’t have time
for inventions.
Moments after I arrive to the front yard of the school, I see my little brother, Troy, playing pennies with
some other boys on the steps leading to the back door of the school building. Pennies is a great game,
but we aren’t allowed to play because the fellas in town gamble with it. We are Baptist and we stay
away from games that lead to gambling; games like cards and pennies. So, I give Troy the stink eye and
he picks up his pennies and runs my way.
“What are you doing here?” Troy demands, making it obvious that he needs me to look after him even
more than I already do.
“I go to school here, bumpkiss” and I shove him in the arm.
We start walking toward the giant Magnolia and there they are, the predictable bruised-brown and
dried blossoms on the ground. I glance up, making a note of how high and out of reach the perfect
blossoms are -much too high for even a ladder. Being on the top floor of Andrew Jackson really is a
privilege. When the windows are open, the sweet Magnolia scent fills the classroom, like Mrs. Dooley’s
perfume. Down here, you can’t smell it at all unless the wind blows. Troy has no idea since his fourth
grade classroom is only on the second floor. I don’t spoil it for him. He’ll find out soon enough.
Chapter Two
"When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice
in a contemptible struggle." – Edmond Burke, Dublin, Ireland 1750
Three nights ago, Marion’s Ma came banging at our door. It was late and she woke me up. Troy just
slept through it but he could sleep through a cattle train coming through the house. Father answered
the door and Marian’s Ma was crying and shivering even though it was so hot we had all the windows up
just so we could sleep.
“They’ve taken him again, Bill, and I know they won’t stop this time”, Marion’s Ma blurted out before
she even crossed the threshold.
“LaRae, calm yourself down so I can know how to help you”. Father seemed to know all about “the
other times” and who “they” were. I didn’t know any of this and I knew that if I wanted to find out, I’d
best just stay right where I was on the 3rd step of our staircase. Otherwise, I’d be sent “back to bed
right away”
“Bill, they’ll kill him just like their Pa killed my brothers and we’ll have nothin’”. “He won’t let ‘em
humiliate him on the courthouse lawn like they did last Fall. He’ll fight ‘em. And they’ll kill him. You
have to do something!”.
“LaRae, is that where you think they’ve taken him? To the courthouse lawn again? Because if they are
there right now, I’ll go get Constable Brown and we can stop this once and for all” Father reached for
the rifle he kept in the back of the coat closet by the front door. I had never seen him do anything with
that rifle other than clean it and my heart started pounding so loud I thought it would give me away.
Marian’s Ma looked at Father, shook her head and lowered her brow as if to say, “how long have you
lived away from Erwin”, but instead she said, “Bill, they never go to the courthouse first. They start at
Bryson’s cave, where they have the monthly meetings.” Now I knew where Marian got her smarts. And
looks too, for in the light of the full moon shining through our window, Marian’s Ma looked like she
must have 15 years ago, before she embarked on this life of “wife of the town drunk, the poor thing”.
She had fair skin and light hair that cascaded in wringlets around her shoulders. She was not Cherokee-
German. She was like the rest of us, Scotch/Irish.
And in a flash, they were gone out the front door. At first I heard footsteps on our front porch, then
disappearing on the sidewalk, followed by Mr. McDowell’s coon hound barking as they ran east towards
Frog mountain, off towards Bryson’s cave.
Chapter Five:
On this Monday morning, I rose before Aunt Lena and shook Troy until he was awake too.
“It’s Circus day, Troy” “Get up, it’s Circus DAY!” I said in a loud whisper. As soon as he understood
what I was saying, Troy bolted up in bed. When he did, the summer mattress made of corn husks and
hay crinkled and the sheets fell to the ground. These days we are sleeping on the summer porch with all
the windows open for the night breeze. It’s the only way we can sleep because the house is just too hot.
I had to look at Troy twice because I thought for a moment that I had fallen back to sleep and he had
dressed while I slept. But no, he had just worn his clothes to bed. Why didn’t I think of that?
Troy ran like lightening to the kitchen, grabbed the metal, berry bowl and leaped outside to
start picking. I felt like I was moving in slow motion – like those movies at the theater when the reel
begins to slow down, trying to dress and catch up with Troy. I had already stocked the oven with
firewood the night before and now all I had to do was light the fire. I lit a stick of fat wood and the
flame took hold immediately. I’ve never started a fire that fast. Must be a sign of good things to come.
I find my summer boots by the porch stoop and fly through the back door, realizing too late that
the slam it makes when it closes will probably wake the dead.
The dew was still on the berries and it was almost chilly out here with the cool morning haze
from the Smokey Mountains sitting like a brooding hen over the town. We picked as many as were ripe
– we wouldn’t want Aunt Lena complaining to Father that we hastily picked the berries and left some
perfectly good ones. Then we flew into the kitchen (by now Aunt Lena was up and had made a pot of
coffee and was frying eggs with the fire I had started. She smiled and commanded that we sit, drink our
coffee and eat an egg because we will need the energy for this day. I wished she had just given us an
egg sandwich to take with us like she did on days when we had to hurry, and I try not to let my
frustration show.
Of course, for Troy, there is no hiding his frustration. “uh, uuuuhh” he moans and plops down at the
kitchen table. It’s already set but we still have to wait for the food and for Father to say grace. From my
seat at the table, it seems Father always has to slightly bend down when he walks through the kitchen
door. As if he isn’t made for being in this room. Even though the kitchen was added to the house a few
years ago, it’s doorway doesn’t seem any smaller to me. But Father never seems to fit through it
without stooping. I think he is better made for the living room or for his office at City Hall, with the
grand marble floors and walls and the chiseled inscription of the Ten Commandments (something we
already memorized in second grade).
“Dear Lord, We thank you for another day. We thank you for the gift of family and friends. For this
wonderful meal so lovingly prepared by Lena. Your wisdom is great, Oh Lord, and we ask that you guide
us in the work we are about to do. Sometimes we don’t understand your plans. But you do, Lord and
we trust you. Today and Always. In Jesus’s name, Amen”
Prayer said and we are off, racing to see who can finish first without being told to slow down. Of course
it’s me. Troy is knocking over bottles and dropping spoons and stuffing so much food in his cheeks that
he looks like a squirrel preparing for winter.
Finally, we are finished and we kiss Aunt Lena goodbye, thank her for breakfast and race out the back
door and down the street. Mr. Cooke’s coon dog hears us before he sees us, but he lets the whole
neighborhood know that the Worthy boys are off on a new adventure.
We run like the wind toward Bryson’s Lake. The Bryson family always let this property be used
for the county fair so now it is called The Fairgrounds. But we know it as Bryson’s Lake and Farm.
Before we even get there, we hear them and smell them. Smells of hay, and manure that smells like any
other animals’ manure, really. Snorting and roars and baying. All with the morning sunrise. They must
have arrived in the middle of the night because the tents are already up and the circus camp is already
in place where yesterday evening, there was nothing.
Then we see them; the man and the elephant. We both stop walking for just a moment, and
then, without speaking we run toward them as if we are afraid we will lose them. Suddenly I realize I
don’t know if elephants spook like horses or not, but we had better slow down, just in case. The man is
taking the elephant out of the enclosure and it seems like that are leaving the campground. The sun is
finally over the mountains and it’s fully daylight now.
“Excuse me sir” I say to the man who is not much taller than me. He turns and I see that he has
brown skin, but not dark like a negro and his hair is straight like mine. “Sir, may we…see…uh ask you
some… “ and with this, I realize I don’t know if he speaks English or not. Now I notice his clothes and
they are loose and white and very different from anything I’ve ever see a grown man around here wear.
“Hello, young men!!” He bellows in a voice much bigger than his body. (It almost reminds me of
Santa Claus) “How are you on this fine July morning?” And immediately I realize this is The Circus and
he knows we will bring them some money when they perform this Friday. Troy doesn’t know this and
said, “We are good.” And in the same breath, “is that an Indian elephant or an African elephant?”
The man says, “My, you know your elephants young man. This dear lady, (Mary is her name) is
an Indian elephant. And one of the finest in all of the Himalayian Mountains. Her mother before her
and her mother before her were owned by the royal family of India and were ridden by the Royal
Princess herself”
I had seen pictures from my Mother’s trunk of the Himalayian Mountains. Much taller than the
Appalachian and always covered in snow. But I don’t remember elephants being in the pictures.
“Hi, I’m Troy”. Troy said without taking his eyes off Mary.
“I am Damu Dhorte, and I am honored to make your acquaintance” said the man, with a wide
sweeping gesture with his arm. Then Mr. Dhorte turned to me. “I’m John David, but they call me JD.
“Hello, JD!” Mr. Dhorte said with such a melodious tone I wondered when he was going to stop
with the Circus act and just talk like a normal person. Yet a small part of me wanted it to be authentic,
not an act at all. It was like Christmas in July.
Mary was magnificient. She captured all of me the moment I first laid eyes on her. I imagined
my Mother as she rode down Broad Street, scarves blowing softly. Somehow, without even trying, I
remembered her smile and I felt her presence.
Mary was enormous, just like the Sparks Circus flyer said – bigger than Jumbo. Mary could
easily reach the magnolia blossoms on the great old tree in the school yard. Her trunk was the length of
me and felt like a snake exploring my calves. Slowly and gently she tickled my leg with her groping
trunk; lifting my trousers and searching my pockets for treats. Frozen, I stood there waiting
for Mr. Dhorte to call her back or calm me down.
Troy is full of questions as always, “what does she eat? Does she sleep standing up? How much
does she weigh?” and on and on.
Dhorte begins by telling us a story. “You wish to know all about the Asian elephant from India?
Take a seat and I will tell you all you wish to know...”
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