Under The Family Tree

“Have you found what you’re looking for, Mr. Henderson?”  The question had a ring of accusation more than curiosity.  The librarian’s dark, beady eyes stared down through rimless glasses.

Seated in the shadowy reading room lit only by green-shaded table lamps, I looked up at Miss Gunterman, the stern spinster who reigned over Lincoln County’s genealogy collection.  In a faded, floral print dress with a pasty, gray complexion and gray hair pulled back in a bun, she evoked a Norman Rockwell painting.

My journey to Miss Gunterman’s domain in rural Illinois had been a long one.  In time, close to 50 years.  While a young boy, my family had passed through Clayton City several times traveling elsewhere to visit relatives.   We rarely lingered.  I never returned.

A Foreign Service career with postings around the world awakened an interest in my Midwestern roots.  After retirement, I explored the rich genealogy resources of the National Archives and the Library of Congress.    Burying myself in microfilm records and local histories, I assembled a nearly complete family tree tracing five generations to the Henderson origins in England.  But I still wanted a research trip to my family’s Illinois roots, which led me to Lincoln County.  And the somber figure standing above me.

“Thank you, Miss Gunterman.”   I motioned to the manila file of yellowing newspaper clips.  “Some good family information here.  I appreciate your help.”

“The Hendersons were a respected family in this county.”  Miss Gunterman hovered in shadow above the table lamp.  Her thin, reedy voice echoed across the dark, cavernous reading room with 16-foot ceilings that reinforced a forbidding atmosphere.  The Victorian-era building had been the County courthouse until the 1950s.  Previously the court archives, the reading room now contained individual family files in rusty metal dividers lining each wall.  “Is there anything specifically you’re trying to find?”

 “A lot of detail here about my father and his sister.  Much I never knew.  But one thing I haven’t been able to nail down.”

“And, what would that be, Mr. Henderson?”

“Here’s a LINCOLN COUNTY ADVOCATE obituary of my grandfather.”  I framed it below the lamp.   “Says he was preceded in death by his wife – my grandmother – and, a daughter, Mabel.”

The librarian’s mouth quivered slightly. “And, why would that be so strange?”
“My father never told me about a sister named Mabel.  Only a sister, Emily, who died in 1983, several years after my father.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you.   All the available information we have is here for you to see.”  The librarian started back toward her desk.

In search of a newly discovered aunt, I examined additional materials from the HENDERSON file but found no mention of Mabel Henderson.  I left the old courthouse with its soaring Victorian turrets and went to the new Lincoln County Courthouse, a box-like modern building on the other side of town.  The Department of Health had every birth and death certificates dating to 1880, but nothing about Mabel Henderson.  I visited the neatly manicured town cemetery surrounded by sprawling cornfields, but did not find a Mable Henderson among the dozen or so Henderson gravesites.

I returned to the genealogy library.  “Miss Gunterman, I’m confused.  Was there a Mabel Henderson?  Why would that obituary list a fictitious person?”

“I’m sorry,” the librarian replied with unconvincing sympathy. “I understand your frustration, but there’s nothing I can do.”  She paused.  “You could talk to someone who knows a great deal about the Henderson family history.”

“Who is that?”

“You have a cousin in Clayton City.”

“A cousin?”  My jaw dropped.   “No, actually, I didn’t know that.”

“Ira Henderson.  Runs the antique and gun store over on Main Street.  I think he’s the son of your father’s cousin.”

Learning about a relative – even a second cousin – in Clayton City stunned me.  “I’ve already taken the liberty to call Ira and tell him you’re here,” the librarian volunteered.

Although baffled that Miss Gunterman had not earlier mentioned my cousin, I took directions and steered the rental car toward Main Street two blocks away.  Dusk rapidly approached in the late fall afternoon.  Lights started to appear in the early 20th century homes along the tree-canopied residential streets.  Main Street was bordered by two-story brick buildings with retail stores, a Post Office, the marquee of the only cinema, and a couple Mom-and-Pop restaurants.   The town center had only one intersection with an overhead stoplight, which usually just flashed yellow.

Several blocks from the intersection, I spotted the “Clayton City Antique and Gun Store.”  It was closed.  Peering through the showcase window in the waning daylight, I could see a large display of rifles and shotguns on the far wall.

While debating whether to go back to Mrs. Gunterman for the cousin’s phone number, I decided to wait until the next day and retired to my room at the Red Tiled Inn, the accommodation of choice in Clayton City.  In fact, the only choice.  The room’s carpet had a large stain of dubious origin, but otherwise the furnishings were clean and functional.  The room featured cable television and a coffee machine that did not work.

The next morning I started with the Inn’s imitation of Continental breakfast – a barely edible sweet roll sealed in plastic, watery orange juice from a dispenser, and coffee with no resemblance to my usual fare at Starbucks back home.  I drove back to Main Street bustling with local and long-distance traffic pausing at the town’s solitary streetlight.  Still blinking yellow.

Approaching the antique and gun store, I saw a huge, black SUV occupying two parking spaces in front.  The four-wheeled giant was completely disproportionate to the buildings and vehicles around it.  I pulled up and my compact disappeared in the SUV’s  shadow. 

A bell rang when I opened the door and entered the store.  The bright morning sun poured through the display windows, but without any lighting the store remained in semi-darkness.  From behind a glass counter across the room, a shadowy figure turned toward me.

“Can I help you?”  The voice was brisk and business-like. 

“Are you Ira Henderson?”   The man did not immediately reply but walked around the counter and across the room.  The daylight coming through the window revealed a middle-age man of medium height and a wiry, thin build. 

"Yes, what can I do for you?”  A close-cropped, military-style haircut crowned his tanned, sharply chiseled face.

“Allow me to introduce myself.  I’m Paul Henderson.  Miss Gunterman at the genealogy library told me we’re cousins.”  I extended my hand and the man hesitantly took it.  But the grip was firm and strong. 

“Yes, she called me.”   His manner was perfunctory and almost dismissive.

“From what I understand, your father and my father were cousins.”  His penetrating blue eyes surveyed me closely. 

“I guess that’s right.   What brings you to Clayton City?  Name again?”

“Paul Henderson.  You can call me Paul.  I’m doing some family history research.  The Hendersons, I hear, were once a prominent farming family around here.  Owned hundreds of acres in the area.”
“Yes, at one time, I suppose.  My grandparents had seven children and they all had property.  But the Henderson’s are gone now.  Died or left.  Except me and I just have the store.” 

He waved his arm around the room’s sparse antique inventory, a few country-style chairs and tables along with a velvet-covered Victorian sofa. Dominating the room was the display case across an entire wall.  With enough rifles and shotguns, I thought, to field an army battalion.  In another case was a large collection of handguns, including several long-barreled revolvers which I thought probably could take down an elephant.  Although not a gun expert, I decided they must be 357 Magnum revolvers, which I recognized from Clint Eastwood films.  “Glad to meet you, Ira, I mean if I can address you that way.” 

“I guess so.   Said your name was Paul, right?”

“Yes, I’m from the Washington DC area.  Last time I was in Clayton City must have been 50 years ago.  Late 1950’s, I think.  I was only nine or ten.  Really don’t remember much, but the town looks pretty much the same.”

“Things don’t change here except people leave.  That’s about it.” 

“Strange my father never mentioned your father or any family still here.”  My cousin stared back without expression. 

“Your father left, went to college in the East, rarely came back.  Probably no reason to recall.”  I looked around to see if there was anywhere to sit and continue the conversation in a more relaxed setting, but there was no place in the store’s sparse antique inventory.

“Ira, maybe we could go for some coffee…or lunch later…if you can.  I’d like to get acquainted and learn more about the family.”

“Sorry, can’t leave the store.  Only me and my wife run this place and she’s visiting family over near Peoria.” 

“I understand.  Just a pleasant surprise to find a Henderson here, especially when I’m doing some family research.”   There was no response.  Ira had a remote, detached way about him.  “What happened to all of the land in the Henderson family?”

“Sold off when they died or left the area. Nothing now except the old Henderson farm house outside town.  Been abandoned for years.”

"Any chance to see it?   I’d like to get some photos for my records.”

“Not worth your time.  It’s locked and boarded up.” 
“Another thing I found over at the genealogy library is reference to a sister of my father, someone I never knew about, a Mabel Henderson.”

Ira glared at me. Something registered, but he then brusquely dismissed, “Never heard of her. No such person.”

The first-time meeting was going nowhere.   I thanked him for his time and promised to stop by before leaving town, a pledge Ira greeted with indifference.

The remainder of the day I spent under Miss Gunterman’s vigilant eyes and then again visited the Courthouse.  The last vestige of the Henderson family presence, the farmhouse, intrigued me.  Old land records fixed its location off the highway four miles from town, the centerpiece of a farm property that in the 1920s included 1000 acres of rich Illinois soil.  County records were incomplete but seemed to suggest that the property had been sold or contracted to others. 

Daylight retreated as I left Clayton City and drove toward the Henderson family home in the flat Illinois countryside.  With crops harvested in the last weeks of autumn, one could see miles in every direction broken only by an occasional farmhouse or barn.  Following a handwritten map prepared at the courthouse, I located the secondary gravel road leading to the Henderson farm, which I soon glimpsed a mile away surrounded by tall elm trees and a dilapidated barn.  I started slowly down the weed-infested driveway toward the three-story frame house with a wrap-around porch.

Braking about 50 yards from the house, I saw a black SUV parked next to the front-porch.   Leaving the car in the driveway, I walked toward a house in a state of wretched neglect with pealing paint, boarded up windows, and a sagging roof.   I edged through overgrown shrubbery on one side of the house and approached a ground-floor window sealed by weathered plywood.

Just outside the window, I detected two voices in conversation -- a male voice that unmistakably was Ira and the high-pitched, frail voice of a child.  Or, perhaps an old woman.  I could not quite catch specific words.

Circling to the front of the house, I saw the front door slightly ajar.  The squeaky, warped porch steps announced my arrival. The voices stopped.  I gently pushed the door open and entered a dark, unfurnished entrance hall. 

To the left, however, a single gas lamp dimly illuminated a living room with overstuffed, tattered furniture.  Standing in the middle of the room was Ira with a menacing 357 Magnum revolver pointed at me.  The look on his face was equally menacing.   Partly obscured behind him was an elderly woman bent over in a wheel chair and wrapped in a blanket. 

“What are you doing here?” Ira barked.   “You have no business here.” 
“I’m sorry, Ira.  I just wanted to see the Henderson farmhouse.  I apologize for intruding.  I had no idea you’d be here.”

“Who is that, Ira?” the old woman croaked. “Can’t quite see him.  Is that you, Cousin Charley?   Come closer to me, Charley.  Come here.”

With the revolver still pointed at me, Ira’s other hand reached back to cradle the woman.  “No, Aunt Mabel, just a stranger passing through.  He’s leaving right away.”

“Sorry to disturb you.”  The reference to Aunt Mabel stunned me, but I was more concerned about that cannon disguised as a hand-gun aimed at me.  “Ira, I don’t think the gun is necessary.  I’d feel better if you didn’t point that thing at me.”

Ira lowered the gun and buried it in a holster strapped around his waist.  “I’m just upset you came out here without any notice.  I think it’s better you leave and just keep on going.  Okay?”  It was a command and not a request.

“Sure, I’ll go, but is this Aunt Mabel?  The aunt no one – including you – said existed.”

“Cousin Charley, that you?  Come here so I can see you.” 

Ira bent over and again gently cradled the woman in his arm.  “It’s not Charley.  Just a stranger.  He’s leaving now.”

“I’m not a stranger, Aunt Mabel.”  I felt more confident now that the revolver was holstered.  “I’m Delbert’s son.  Don’t you remember him?   Your brother, Delbert.”   The woman looked bewildered and gazed up at Ira.

“The poor soul has no memory of your father.  Or anything else. You just don’t understand.  She has the mind of a child.  You’ll never know what’s been done for her.  She was born this way but never lacked for anything.”

“Ira, I think the family should know.  She’s lived all these years hidden away?”

“You wouldn’t understand.  First my parents and then I was in charge.  That’s the way things are handled here.”

The woman stared at me blankly with her mouth wide open.  I just shook my head. “She’s been here for her entire lifetime?  In this decrepit place?”

“No, just the past 10 or so years.  She was with my parents until then.”

“And, the farmhouse here belongs to her?”

“Yes, of course.” 

“And, what about all the land, the 1000 acres of prime Illinois farm land?  Probably worth ten or fifteen million dollars, I’d say.”

"Yes, yes, what’s left is contracted, all very legal,”  Ira retorted, “but the income supports her, makes life easier in these last years.”

I looked around the dingy living room with the boarded up windows framed by torn lace curtains.   “And, this is a good life for her?   Income from hundreds of acres could do better.  Where is the money going, Ira?”

“You know nothing, cousin Paul.  I don’t like the insinuation and it’s none of your damn business.  Everything has the complete agreement of Lincoln County authorities.  The way we take care of things around here.”

The indomitable Miss Gunterman was probably a party to the arrangement, too.  “The whole thing is starting to smell, Ira.  I want to know more.”

His hand moved to the handle of the Magnum in the holster.  “I think it best you leave.  And maybe put some miles between you and Lincoln County right quick.”

I looked at the threatening blue eyes fixed on me and then at Aunt Mabel, who gaped unresponsively, oblivious to the entire conversation.    “Okay, have it your way.  But I think something must be done to help the poor woman.”

I turned, went back through the front door, and never looked back.   While guiding the car down the driveway, I tied to digest this startling discovery, a family secret rippled by troubling overtones.

With darkness enveloping the Illinois countryside, I followed the secondary road toward the highway.  Distracted by an overflow of feelings and impressions, I did not notice behind me the approach of a vehicle without headlights. A few feet from my car, its lights suddenly ignited and bathed me in a blinding glare.  I tried to adjust my vision to both the road ahead and the enormous car or truck bearing down on me.  I accelerated to put space between us.  In the rear-view mirror, I could identify both a hulking SUV and the silhouette of Ira Henderson behind the wheel.

I heard the crunching sounds of tires on the gravel road and the roar of two racing motors.   Ira certainly had an unusual farewell for a visiting cousin.  He narrowed the gap once again.  Suddenly, the SUV nudged the rear of my pint-sized rental and then pulled away.  What in hell was he doing? 

Welcoming the intersection with the highway, I turned and prayed that Ira would go in the opposite direction toward Clayton City.  But he made the same turn with a resounding squeal of brakes and tires.   Accelerating, he hit my rear bumper again and again.  Hertz would never understand.  The compact was no match for a giant SUV, which pulled into the opposite lane almost parallel and banged against the side of my car.  The scraping of metal against metal ripped through the air.  I frantically tried to keep control in the desperate David and Goliath confrontation.   I could see Ira’s profile staring intently ahead.   He was trying to run me off the road.

My only hope was Interstate 55 eight or nine miles away, the link between Chicago and the state capital, Springfield, a refuge of heavy traffic compared to the empty rural highway.  My compact had the advantage of maneuverability and acceleration over the tank-like SUV, so I pressed the pedal to the floor, quickly reached 70 MPH, and left Ira behind. 

The two-ton SUV gained momentum and narrowed the gap.  Another vehicle raced past us in the opposite direction.  With my eyes fixed on the rear view mirror monitoring Ira’s approach, I missed the warning sign for an approaching curve.  With little chance to decelerate, my car skidded and began to spin out of control.  I forcefully corrected on the steering wheel, the braking tires screeched a protest, and the compact barely navigated the curve. 

Ira was not so lucky.  Back on straight-away highway, I saw in my rear view mirror the walrus-like SUV spinning at the apex of the curve, rolling on its side, and sliding into the ditch along the highway.  I stopped two hundred yards down the road and stared at a cloud of dust blanketing the overturned SUV, its headlights still piercing the dark highway.  Heart pounding and nerves shaken, I debated turning back to check on Ira’s condition.  He was, however, the one trying to run me off the road.  I could have been in that highway ditch.

The driver’s door of the SUV slowly opened.  Ira pulled himself up and dropped awkwardly to the ground.  He stood motionless next to the beached SUV, while I silently watched him in my rear view mirror.  He was family.  Another human being in need.  But his words at the farm and actions on this rural Illinois highway betrayed someone who could not be trusted.   Powerful images lingered of Aunt Mabel in the wheelchair and the 357 Magnum.  I shifted into drive and continued toward Interstate 55.

Mabel Henderson moved to an assisted living residence in the Chicago area, a result of my phone call to the Illinois Department of Public Health in Springfield.  She died, however, from pneumonia six months later at age 95.  Under pressure from state authorities, Ira Henderson, her legal guardian, ceded the position to an independent, court-appointed executor.  Mabel’s substantial estate – more than 500 acres worked by contract farmers – was sold and the proceeds distributed to fifteen Henderson descendents, including myself.