Hidden Amongst the Cattails

The words of a nearly one-month-old newspaper headline screamed across the page, its bold letters seething with anger. “Prominent St. James figure accused of sexual abuse: former alter boys speak out on allegations from decades past!” A picture of my younger brother John smiled from underneath it. I just stared down at it as I felt a nauseous feeling twinge in my stomach. I slid the top newspaper off the pile and saw another headline just like it. “Prominent town figure also led Boy Scout troop: former members allege abuse there as well.” I slid that paper off to the side too.

No one would ever have expected this. Not one sign, not one inclination was ever displayed of his alleged predatory behavior. My younger brother had always been the charismatic one. Everybody loved him in school; he made friends so easily. He was charming, good-looking, and athletic. In high school, all the girls wanted to date him and all the boys wanted to be him. He volunteered for the Air Force after graduation, flying fighter jets and coming home with medals on his chest. After that, he got his pilot’s license and made a good living giving aerial tours to tourists in the area. He led a Boy Scout Troop and coached a Little League baseball team. He was a prominent figure around town and in both the church and school at St. James. He even sat on a few councils under the former mayor. Everyone used to say how much of a “good guy” he was.

My brother never married, but then again, he didn’t exactly have time to settle down. He was always busy, but had on-and-off again “female friends” he used to talk about. He never called them “girlfriends” and they never stuck around for long, mostly tourists that came for the season. You would see him around town with a woman or see a car that wasn’t his in his driveway, but usually never saw the same woman the next year.

Whispers of these allegations surfaced about six months ago. Nothing concrete, nothing out in the open, just rumors that circulated around the town. One week after that first article hit the stands, my brother was found dead in his home. It was ruled a suicide. He had opioids in his system and enough alcohol to knock out a horse. Where he got the opioids, we don’t know. I am surprised this newspaper hadn’t latched onto that story yet. Perhaps that article was coming soon.

Compared to the ones above it, the next headline was an improvement. “Former mayor took bribes: the backroom deals that built a tourist town!” A picture of Tom Schaffer graced the page, hands up trying to cover his face. I went to grade school with him, right here at St. James. Smarmy little kid he was, cheated off my spelling test in the third grade. That was over sixty years ago, but many had him pegged back then as the politician type. If it were true, that he took bribes, it would be no surprise.

-

Over twenty years ago, a large developer had tried to buy up nearly half of the town in order to build a huge resort complex. Oakhurst was a beautiful town. We have Victorian Era style homes, painted in pastel colors with window flower boxes and wisteria creeping over fences. Main Street was lined with tiny quaint little shops. There was an ice cream parlor set in a vintage 1950’s theme, a bar that had a wilderness log cabin vibe, and a English-style pub that served awesome fish and chips, just to name a few. The movie theater, built in the 1920’s had stunning art deco architecture. We had the gorgeous St. James Catholic Church in town, whose stained glass windows were featured in a Hollywood movie. But it was the area’s natural beauty that was its true gem. We were situated on a picturesque winding river, with cattails that lined the banks all the way up and down. There was one part of the river where it turned into protected marshland. There, the cattails stretched for acres. That marsh was featured in a Time magazine article regarding the conservation efforts for endangered migratory water birds. The town was also nestled up against a state park, whose forests stretched far as the eye could see. Only a few miles away, was a large and deep freshwater lake, with scenic sandy shores and impressive rocky cliffs. St. James’s had a bell tower, and if you climbed to the top on one of their tours, your breath would be taken away. The views were stunning, especially at sunrise and sunset, when the sun sat on the horizon, illuminating everything in a celestial glow.

All we wanted in this town was to keep the way of life that we were living. Sure we had tourism, but it was the personal kind. We had lots of bed and breakfast joints and small fishing shops that sold tackle and bait to the campers in the state park. We simply wanted no part of such a large enterprise as a resort complex in town. We took the developer to court and that put us on the front page in newspapers all across the country. It was a “David and Goliath” story and people just ate it up. “Big Resort Looks to Swallow up Beautiful Tourist Town.” “Little Historic Town Fights for Survival.” Ultimately, we prevailed.

The resort was built a few miles away on unincorporated land; and old pig farmer sold his plot to them, over five hundred acres. While Oakhurst had its share of tourism before, that incident really put us on the map. Tourism boomed, but not at the resort. The state park saw record numbers of visitors, and if you wanted a spot at one of the bed and breakfast places, you had to book six months or more in advance. I guess people really do love an underdog story.

Despite the fact that it was a water park resort, the complex financially struggled for a few years after it opened. Frustrated, they started to sue the town for everything and anything they could find. Over the next five years, the town went to court for water rights, taxes, and on and on. I guess it was the resort’s plan to litigate us into the ground and get their revenge that way.

There was one particular case that really gave us trouble. It involved a drunk and disorderly that started a fire in the resort. The police and fire districts did not respond to the incident in a reasonable timely manner, which caused significant property damage to the resort. Again, the town was sued.

When the case appeared to be leaning in the resort’s favor, the owner was found dead, washed up in the cattails on the riverbank. According to the autopsy, his blood alcohol level was lethal. It was ruled an accidental death: he was so intoxicated that he probably fell into the river and drowned. Funny thing was, he was not an outdoor man, and the campsite he rented in the state park indicated he was not camping there alone. The new manager of the resort dropped the case and incorporated that land into the town. Tom Schaffer was the mayor back in those days and everyone thought some shady business went down. Nothing was ever proven, but oh how the theories did swirl about the town.

In fact, that was not the only body to be found near that river. A young woman was found dead in the middle of the marsh years ago. She was a tourist. They found her car on the edge of the state park. It appeared she went for a hike and got turned around or stuck. She had been out there awhile and there weren’t really any leads. Technically, it’s still a cold case in town.

And she is one of many. That state park is large and has some very challenging trails and high cliffs. People go missing often enough; they usually turn up a few days later, dehydrated and injured, but alive. That lake is huge too, cold, and deep in the very middle. And it is notorious for its rip currents on the beaches. People don’t realize how dangerous the natural area is when they take a little boat out or go hiking or swimming in a remote area. There are usually at least one or two bodies that are recovered per season and a couple people that go missing and never turn up. Of course, the town’s residents have lots of theories about them too.

-

I slid that paper off as well. Here at the bottom of the pile was the article that had everyone talking. It had just hit the stand yesterday and the chatter around town was that it was this article that would be the first of many nails in our town’s coffin. “Abuse! Corruption! Secrets! Valley Star beings investigational series into Oakhurst history.”

The Valley Star was the large newspaper, based in Pine Valley, the “big town” around here, about ten miles away. By no means was Pine Valley a huge metropolitan area, but it had a Wal-Mart, a train station, and a hospital, more than what Oakhurst had. And their newspaper was notorious for sticking its nose in places it didn’t belong. This was not the first time the Valley Star had done an “investigational series” into our town. They sided with the resort back in the day and really drug us through the mud.

Now, with just a few keystrokes, those articles had thrust another sword into our way of life. And even after a month since the first article landed, we were still hemorrhaging from the wounds inflicted. It was all the town’s people talked about and every tourist seemed to have a paper in their hand. Bad press is bad press. But worse this time around, my family was front and center of all of it.

BINGO was starting to fill up now. St. James Catholic Church and School had a large basement hall that they rented out for various functions. Tuesday was BINGO night, a favorite with the old ladies. It competed with the VFW hall, which hosted poker on Thursday night, popular with the old men. I didn’t care much for BINGO, but my ninety-five-year-old mother Jan and my sister-in-law, Rose, loved it. I watched as they sat at one of the long tables butted end-to-end that ran the length of the hall. They were chatting away with the other “old timers.” That’s what we call ourselves, the people who grew up here and never left. Well, some did, but they found their way back. I sat at one of the circular tables tucked away against the back wall. Here, the non-BINGO enthusiasts could sit, have a bite to eat or lemonade to drink. I loved to sit and just watch the people, for I find them so interesting.

I smiled as I watched Rose put down the cards in nice straight lines for my mother and neatly organize the chips in little stacks. Rose on the other hand, was more of a free spirit. Her cards were all scattered in front of her and she had her chips in messy piles. A few markers tumbled to the floor that her granddaughter retrieved. She looked over and caught me watching her from my safe spot.

“Are you sure you don’t want to play, love?”

“Nah, that’s your wheel house. I’m fine over here.”

I took another sip of soda as my eyes scanned the room. My gaze lighted upon a young woman up front at the ticket table. She was smartly dressed with a briefcase satchel slung over her shoulder. The ticket-taker stood up, looked around the room, and then pointed at me. My heart sunk to the floor. I diverted my gaze and tried to ignore the woman as she wove her way through the crowd to my table.

“Excuse me.” I looked up at her. “Are you June Schroeder, John Delaney’s sister?”

“Yes.” You could hear the dejection in my voice. I already knew where this was going.

“I’m a reporter with the Oakhurst Gazette.”

“The Oakhurst Gazette?” She nodded at my question. That was our local newspaper, the one who stood by the town during the whole resort court case ordeal. “You’re a little late to the game,” I told her as I nodded over to the stack of newspapers on the table. “The Valley Star beat you to the story.”

“I’m not here for that. Well, not that story.” She sat down and stuck out her hand. “I’m Jasmine Thompson. You might know my husband, Jeremiah. He’s a CPA, worked for Ed Waller; he took over the business when Ed unexpectedly passed away. Half of the town used Ed’s services.”

I reached out and shook her hand. “I remember that, right before tax time last year.”

She nodded. “It was horrible what happened to Ed, pneumonia just took him like that.” She snapped her fingers.

“Left us in a lurch; your husband really saved the day. So, if you’re not here for that story, then which one?”

“Well, I sort of am here for that story.” I rolled my eyes, to which she quickly replied, “but not in the way you’re thinking.” She continued. “You may or may not know that Robert Malone is editor and chief of the Oakhurst Gazette.”

“Yes, I know. His father David owned the newspaper when we were in school. He was Bobby back then.”

“Well, he wants to do a sort of “rebuttal” to the Valley Star’s pieces. We’re not saying that what they printed isn’t true. But, it’s just that it does this town a, a disservice. In fact, they have a history of doing this town dirty.”

“You got that right. What sort of piece do you intend to publish?”

“A series, actually. Every article the Valley Star publishes, we’re going to publish one too. It’ll be the same story, but told by the people, personally. Sort of, like, straight out of the horse’s mouth. You get it?”

“Yes, but why?”

“Well, Oakhurst is a historic town that was almost gobbled up by resort development. It clawed its way back from that only to be hit with allegations of sexual abuse, misconduct, and corruption. The Valley Star is saying that it runs rampant in the schools, churches, and government.”

“And?”

“The Valley Star is going to uncover the truth anyway; they did the last time with the resort court cases. It’s only a matter of time before they drag us through the mud once more.” She motioned to the disheveled stack of newspapers.

“You’re going to publish all this town’s secrets, and the resident’s secrets too?” I raised an eyebrow at her.

“They’re going to come out. The Valley Star will make sure of that. This is the opportunity to tell your story the way you want it told. Not to have certain juicy details cherry-picked for maximum shock value.”

“And you want my story because of my brother.”

“You can set it right. I know the Oakhurst Gazette is a little late to get going in the race, but that just means we’re going to have to run extra hard, extra fast to catch up. Publish powerful stories and yours would be a powerful one to come out swinging with.”

“Come out swinging? Those are fighting words.”

“This is a fighting town and from what I have heard about you from others in town, I think you’ve had to fight a time or two yourself.”

I looked over at Rose and my mother. The announcer called out B32 and they began searching their BINGO cards for it. Ah, Rose must have found it on one; she did this little shimmy in her chair every time. I loved that shimmy. The one corner of my mouth curled up in a half smile. I absentmindedly began to fidget with the Claddagh ring on my finger. The light reflected off the same ring on her finger as she placed a token on the board.

-

Rose was everything to me: my safe harbor, my rock, and my best friend. She moved in to the house across the street when I was five and we hit it of right away. We spent all our time together, shared all our secrets. We would spend summer days down at the river, swimming in its cool refreshing water. We would dry ourselves on the banks, lie in the sun, and let the rays warm our skin. The older we got, we became more than friends, shared more than secrets. Those cattails hid us quite often. I loved her, but we couldn’t be together back in those days, or else we would have. So we each found someone else to marry and to build an acceptable life with. But never really “left” each other.

My first marriage was to a wonderful man and good father to my children. But he died of cancer, left me widowed at only forty. So I married again out of necessity to provide for my five underage children. My second husband was a kind man too, but ultimately cancer took him as well. Neither of my husbands ever knew about Rose.

Rose married my older brother Raymond. He originally wanted to marry this Lutheran girl but her father put a stop to that. My brother knew the truth about the two of us. By marrying Rose, we would be sister-in-laws and that would raise fewer suspicions when we spent so much time together. He died about five years ago, hit by a drunk driver as he was out for his morning walk.

Rose and I were there for each other through all of it, for all our trials and tribulations over the years. After my older brother’s death, we sort of gravitated back together. Well, it was not like we were ever apart. It was a bit of a shock for some people in our families when they found out about our secret. Most of them were just happy that we were happy, except for my younger brother John. We had a huge fight when he found out, said it was “not right” and that I was going to hell for it. Why it bothered him so much, I don’t know. It wasn’t his life to live. I was raised a Catholic too and I struggled with what they teach about such things. But now, after those allegations hit, my mind keeps circling back to that fight. What a hypocrite he was, if it indeed was true what he was accused of doing.

-

The BINGO announcer had a coughing fit as she tried to call out the number G59. That snapped me out of my thoughts. I looked over at Rose and Mom. Must not have that one; Mom wrinkled up her nose. I looked back over at the reporter who was staring at me.

“So you want my story.”

“I do. Has the Valley Star not already been after you for comments?”

“Oh, they have.”

“I promise this is not going to be a smear campaign. It will be the truth. I’ve already gotten stories from the gentlemen at the VFW hall. Our first story comes out tomorrow.”

“And whose story did you get?”

“The former mayor’s.”

I nodded. It was true; Valley Star reporters had been at my door since the first article was published. At first I tried to ignore them and when they wouldn’t go away, my mother threatened to come after them with a frying pan. I did want to say something, to fight back at their words, but I just couldn’t find my own words to say. I read those articles, read them over and over again. The Valley Star left out a lot and made assumptions that were not correct. I was not about to air our family’s dirty laundry for the entire world to read, but I did want to set the record straight

And those articles weren’t a lie; at least I was pretty sure. The day John died, I went over to his house to get his little beagle dog and take her home with me. A few days later, the authorities let us back in and I started to clean up a few things: dishes, towels, and sweeping, those sorts of things. As I vacuumed in his bedroom, I accidentally sucked up a corner of carpet. He had a potted plant sitting on top of it, which I had moved to get up some dirt. That’s where I found them: pictures, the kind you only possess when you’re guilty.

He had taken the scouts on a camping trip and had photographed them swimming in the river and lounging on the banks. Some of the boys were naked. But there was something strange about a few of those shots. My brother was in some of them, along with what looked like the whole troop. There was the edge of a finger in a few frames. Someone else was there and took those pictures.

But that wasn’t all. Yesterday, a detective showed up at my front door. He had a few questions about my brother. I figured he was going to ask about the boys, but he didn’t. He asked about my brother’s girlfriends over the years and the aerial tours he used to give. My brother owned some sort of floatplane and he used to take tourists over the marsh and even out to some of the remote sandbars on the lake. I told this to the detective. Then he started to say something about cold cases and DNA evidence, but I told him that I really couldn’t help him further. And that was the truth; after our fight, our relationship was icy. We were able to be civil enough to not kill each other at family gatherings, but that was it.

My mind circled back to DNA. It was such as short little acronym for something so powerful. One of Rose’s grandkids took a DNA ancestral test a few months ago, showed us where we supposedly came from. There were some surprises in the people we were related to. There were a couple of men that we didn’t know, closely related too. But not to Rose’s side, to Raymond’s, my side. You could tell because one of my grandkids took a test too. No one can quite figure out how or where they fit in the family tree and my mother has been tightlipped so far. All she kept saying was that it doesn’t matter anymore. I guess that’s another one of our family secrets yet to be divulged.

“Alright then. I’ll tell you.”

From out of her satchel, she pulled a notebook, pen, and little tape recorder. She smiled, switched the recorded on, and clicked the pen open. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I took a long breath in and out, but where to start? I closed my eyes and listened to my mother yell “BINGO!” For being a little old lady she sure had a set of lungs on her. My eyes snapped open to see what God-awful useless thing she was going to get this time. The BINGO game charged five dollars to get in and would always ask for donations for prizes. People were always happy to off-load unwanted presents. My mother seemed to have the worst of luck for getting real doozies.

She’s gotten candles with a layer of dust on top on the wax. And there was once a bobble head snowman jar topper. Like, what do you do with that? But the worst were these creations from Francine Waller. She would sew potholders and kitchen towels together to create this hanging decoration thing, which was virtually useless. When those came home, I usually took a seam ripper to them.

She held up a little basket for me to see. I smiled and held up a thumb.

“It’s a woven cattail basket,” she shouted. She was hard of hearing and thought everyone else was as well.

“Looks good Mom,” I shouted back.

A cattail basket… Cattails… Cattails… That word swayed through my mind like they do in the breeze. God, if only those reeds could talk, the things they would say. There was so much they have seen and heard over the years as the sat on the riverbank. I looked back at the reporter and began to speak.

“The cattails grow tall and thick on the riverbank. In fact, they grow so tall and thick here that you can conceal a person in them. Or a secret, and if you look hard enough, you’ll find there are many things hidden amongst the cattails.”

Author’s Note:

As this story is intended to be the first chapter of a book, I wanted to share with you what my insights would be for the rest of the piece.

This book would NOT be about a lot of things. It is not about the sex abuse scandals that have rocked the nation in the past decade. It is not about LGBTQ+ relationships and society’s evolution of acceptance of them. It is not about political corruption that has made major headlines recently. It is not about the advances in DNA that have lead to cold cases being cracked open wide or family secrets being discovered. Hell, this story is not even about murder.

Rather, I envision this book as one about survival.

It is about how a town survived the threat of destruction of the old for the new only to have to deal with corruption accusations. It is about a family that has to survive the revelation that one of their loved ones has committed horrible crimes and how they navigate those turbulent waters. It is about how a love survived all these years and how it continues to grow today. It is about relationships that are either going to survive or fall apart when long buried secrets are revealed. See how many times I have used the word “survive?”

Yes, this story includes all those things listed above and they are important. After all, you do need something to drive the plot. But that is not what this book would be about at its core. It is about the trials and tribulations that threaten to crush you and finding a way to keep fighting to survive.