Magnolia, in Two Parts

by Charles C. Cole

Part I

I live and work alone. I have no family. I’ve never been in a relationship. So, when my sometimes-friend Ben Lowenthal, chief administrative assistant to the Provincial Regent, sends me across the territory to investigate a possible murder suspect who happens to be a beautiful woman, my perspectives on the world change, some good and some not so good.

Her name is Magnolia Strehlke. She currently lives by herself in an older home where things have started to wear out. She was married at 14 and stayed in the relationship for over two decades, until her husband, a habitual heavy drinker, fell asleep in the bathtub and drowned. There were no reports of domestic unrest. There was no known affair for either partner. No life insurance scheme. If anything, to the outsider, Magnolia’s life has taken a turn for the worse.

Magnolia is advertising for a live-in handyman. I knock. She takes her time, like she’s been in the basement or the attic or otherwise indisposed. I’m patient. I’m five-foot-five and of a slight build: not an easy sell as a rugged handyman but also not a typical threat to a vulnerable woman. I’ve never punched anyone or shot anything previously alive and rarely carry a weapon of any kind. My strength is that I’m a good listener. I’m told it’s unusual in these parts.

I hear several chains removed, then Magnolia opens the door. I back off the porch to give her plenty of personal space. Her hair is pulled back, her face is sweaty, and she’s wearing worn coveralls with a simple white turtleneck underneath. Most remarkable of all, she has two nails hanging from the left corner of her mouth. She checks me out.

“I’m here about the ad,” I lie.

She removes the nails from her mouth and says dryly, “You’re kidding.”

“I may not look like I’m built for manual labor, but I can assure you nobody has a better work ethic or a sense of commitment.” I pull folded paper from my shirt pocket. “I have a letter of reference from the office of the Provincial Regent.” I place it on the stoop and take several steps back. She picks up the letter and peruses it.

“You read it?” she asks.

“Honestly, no. I don’t like to toot my own horn. When I was growing up, my momma always said: ‘SPS, self-praise stinks.’ It felt cruel at the time, but it’s stuck with me nonetheless.”

She steps down and approaches me. “Says nice things. Probably true. You keep it,” she says, stuffing it back in my pocket. She doesn’t back away. “Why are you really here? The Provincial Regent didn’t send you all this way to lose good help.”

“No, ma’am,” I say.

“And cut with the ‘ma’am’ crap. My name’s Magnolia, but you probably know that. Is this about Carl, my husband?”

“Honestly, yes. They wanted to hear your side.”

“So, they sent you,” she says. “Let me save you some time: I killed him. There. Now you can go home.”

“You’re kidding, surely.”

“No. Nobody ever asked me, or I would have said so before you came along, not that they would have believed me. Carl was big and strong and liked things his way.”

“I’m sure you had your reasons,” I say, trying not to provoke a bigger reaction.

“Not really. He was a waste of flesh. He was right there. I just, ever so gently, slowly lowered his arms from the edge of the tub and, eventually, he slid down. It wasn’t really my fault: a lethal combination of drinking and water and gravity. The end. But, if they ask me in court, I’ll deny it. Hard enough to get a hired hand without him thinking I’m a Black Widow.”

“Magnolia—”

“You wanted a more self-pitying soulmate perhaps?”

I try to reassure her. “I’m not the law. I’m the one they send when there are significant doubts about the official story. Everyone is busy with court cases lined end to end for months to come but, I’m sure, for you, they’d fit you right in.”

Her eyes “pop” wide and the ends of her lips curl down. For a moment, I feel strangely intimidated. “Aren’t you going to ask how I’m doing?”

“How are you doing?” I ask.

“With the guilt, the half-empty bed, the loss of my life’s purpose, it’s been challenging.”

“Are you being serious?”

“Yes. No. I have wild mood swings,” she explains. “It’s too soon. I can’t seem to appreciate my unexpected good fortune. When Minerva Coppleston dropped off her casserole, she said, ‘Hardships often prepare ordinary people for an extraordinary destiny.’ If only it were true.”

I push. “Do you want to come back with me, if only to clear the air? When events happen in private, without witnesses, the survivor’s version of the truth is probably the closest we’ll get to what actually happened. No more gossip. Whatever you choose to say will go into the history books, and nobody will ever have a better hold on the truth. How can they? You, and you alone, saw what happened.”

“You’re good,” she says, “and persuasive. Without a husband, I have a to-do list as long as my arm and nobody to divvy it up with. Careful what you wish for...” She turns to the house.

Is it her refuge from an unsympathetic world or the scene of the crime?

Then she has an inspirational thought and suddenly straightens up. “I have a cousin in the capital who I haven’t seen in years. She didn’t make it to the funeral. What a wonderful opportunity! You’d give me company for the long ride, and my arrival would shock the hell out of her. Let me pack a small bag. Give me just a moment.”

Her publicly presented version of the truth is not as dark as she shared with me. Is it the REAL truth? Only Magnolia will ever know. For me, I did my job and I was very happy to part company with her.

Part 2

This isn’t about me; I’m nobody: seriously. I was merely the person assigned to bring a suspected murderer to face justice. Magnolia, the woman convicted of drowning her inebriated husband in a deep bath, could have run off or assaulted me or denied her participation, but she was remarkably proud of standing up to an unloving husband.

Note: there was no bruising on her body. Abuse, to hear her testify, was in the dominating tone of his voice and the way he ordered her about the domestic chores and the way he refused to let her leave the house.

I don’t mean to sound cold or unsympathetic. I cannot, for the life of me, imagine an existence under the conditions Magnolia described on the stand. I have also never made a decision so permanent that it could not be undone with a course correction, the passage of time and, maybe, a heartfelt apology. So, why has Magnolia invited me to visit her an hour before her execution?

The prison guard announces me and steps back from her open cell door. “I’m going to leave the door open but remain here for your safety,” he says. “Desperate people sometimes make rash decisions.”

“Thanks,” I say, not yet sure if I’m in danger.

Magnolia stands under her barred basement window, watching the commotion in the prison courtyard. Witnesses, media, relatives, government employees and more than a few people looking for dark entertainment. We don’t often hang women in a public forum. Clearly, nobody realizes she’s watching. The guests are admiring the hastily assembled gallows and the celebrity witnesses dressed in their Sunday best.

“I smell popcorn,” she says, with her back to me. “But that can’t be right.”

“Unfortunately, it is,” I concede.

“It’s turned into quite an event.” She faces me, leaning back against the cold concrete of the wall. She is wearing a sleeveless white blouse and a calf-length black peasant skirt. Her hair is pulled back in a bun, and she has small smudges of rouge just above her hollow cheeks.

“No lipstick or eye shadow,” the warden stipulated. “You’re not going to the Harvest Dance.”

“I bet they talk about today for a long time,” she says. She’s quiet, thoughtful, no longer excited to be the woman of the hour.

“I’ve heard it on good authority that you’ll be on the cover of the Examiner tomorrow morning. They expect to need a second printing long before noon,” I say, meaning it as some sort of consoling compliment.

“No picture of me hanging, though, right?”

“That’s what the warden promises. ‘Not dignified.’ We are, one must always remember, the last bastion for civilization in this rough and wild country.”

Magnolia closes her eyes and takes a couple of shallow breaths, then smiles weakly. “I wrote you a letter,” she says, gesturing. “It’s on my pillow. Who knows, maybe it will be worth something one day.”

My face clearly betrays me at that moment.

“Don’t worry, no curses. I was brief and polite, as close to ladylike as I’ve ever been accused. In fact, I wanted you to know that I don’t blame you for any of this.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” I respond.

“I’d hand it to you, but I don’t think the guard will let me get that close; I might have a rusty stiletto up my sleeve... if I had sleeves. Maybe that’s why they picked out this blouse.”

“For what it’s worth, Magnolia, I for one am certain you didn’t think you had a choice. While you didn’t plan it, when the moment presented itself, it was simply too tailor-made to ignore.”

“Circumstances forced my hand, yes,” she agrees, “but I could have just as easily closed the door and prayed the urge away.”

“A method that worked in the past,” I say. “Surely, this was not your late husband’s first stupor.”

Magnolia covers her mouth with the tips of her fingers, stifling a gasp. Then: “Thank you for not judging me too harshly,” she says. “I can accept my punishment more easily if I know at least one witness is sorry for both victim and victimizer. I think, though I’ll be too dead to hear it, that there will be a round of cheering. Promise me you won’t cheer.”

“I won’t cheer.”

“And keep doing what you do, rounding up bad guys for the Provincial Regent, balancing the books. Someone has to. It won’t stop everyone — the threat of discovery — but if it prevents one violent death, if it helps the innocent and vulnerable sleep at night, it’s worth it.”

The guard steps forward, gentle now, aware of what happens next. “Magnolia,” he says, “it won’t be long. You sure you don’t want to say a quick prayer with the minister? I’m sure he can put in a good word for you with your next warden, if you know what I mean.”

“No, thank you. I’m ready,” says Magnolia. “Please let my new friend watch from here; I don’t want him standing in a mob of righteous misogynists; he’s too tender for his own good.”

Magnolia reaches out as if to touch my shoulder but stops with a look from the guard. “Thank you for watching,” she says. “And don’t forget your letter.”

“Shall we?” says the guard, gently.

“I may need to lean on you as we get closer,” she says.

They walk out and down the hall. She’s tiny: no threat. As they pass an open door, two more guards step out and follow close behind. I have a strong feeling they all know the way.

This is my first execution. I stare out the window at a crowded sea of boots and ankles. The audience is surprisingly still and attentive. A couple of women scream as Magnolia, black hood over her face, falls heavily through the hangman’s drop. Then people cheer, laugh, even cackle. A few mischievous young boys throw handfuls of popcorn at the crowd. In other words, life goes on.