Fallerman's Grove Omerta

By Daniel Gibson

Fallerman's Grove Road was the idyllic escape Lewis Fogarty envisioned when he moved here with his wife, Donna. It was his opportunity to leave behind a somewhat troubled past. Everything he wanted was here, including a lot of privacy from distant yet friendly neighbors. All was perfect until a cancer was brought into the peaceful community in the form of Kara, Old Man Fallerman's young bride. With her came discord, distrust, and turmoil among the residents. She even drove a wedge between Old Man Fallerman and his son, Ronnie. Trouble, like a cancer, can only be allowed to get so far before it totally destroys its host, but if removed in time, the host can be saved. Kara was removed, but was Fallerman's Grove Road saved?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644243831

Daniel Gibson

Veteran author Daniel Gibson grew up skiing in New Mexico and has written a weekly winter column, Snow Trax, for twenty-four years. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Book preview

cover.jpg

Fallerman's Grove Omerta

Daniel Gibson

Copyright © 2018 Daniel Gibson

All rights reserved

First Edition

Page Publishing, Inc

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc 2018

ISBN 978-1-64424-380-0 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64424-383-1 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Prologue

The Grove is different these days. For the better or for the worse, I cannot say. Only the passage of time will reveal that outcome.

I do know this. The residents now wander among themselves in a distrustful, comatose state-of-being, much like the survivors of a fierce battle left to survey the aftermath and gruesome destruction of the combatant’s handiwork. I guess, to a certain degree, this is the way it should be because it was a struggle. An attempted dark invasion of our tranquil existence. For now, we mourned our casualties, but life will push us on like tumbling stones in a rushing mountain stream. Eventually, the residents, along with those of us not born here, will settle back into the comfortable niches that attracted us to this place like magnets to metal.

Fallerman’s Grove Road is normally a quiet eight-mile stretch of rural road that connects one slightly more traveled road to another slightly more traveled road. Sort of a long alley cutting a city block to join two thoroughfares. There is little purpose to be on this road, unless you are a resident, or a Sunday driver who brings his family to admire the relaxed country lifestyle and to unwind from the tightness of a more urban existence. It does look beautiful if you look through the innocent eyes of a sightseer viewing it for the first time from a distance. Normally, this place would almost be Eden, prior to the eating of the apple.

But this is not normally.

Truth is, the majority of Fallerman’s Grove community’s thirty-or-so residents have moved here to escape a previous life. We thought we could escape the trials and tribulations of our chosen path, only to find ourselves facing a different set of trials and tribulations. It is funny how the ghosts of our past lurk nearby. We attempt to trick ourselves into thinking the ordeals are different, but they are pretty much the same— the only difference being where we chose to hide.

The old money residents of Fallerman’s Grove Road were the Plowdens, who are now deceased, and the Fallermans, who have deceased or moved. Ah yes, the Fallermans, therein lies the story of our community. I still cannot shake the day it all culminated.

The deep-orange glow of the morning sun was teasing us with a hint of daylight when the doorbell broke into a continuous chime of panic. I had been awake, but the urgency of the bell brought me to a new level of alertness. Whoever it was, they continued to peck at the bell like a woodpecker digging grubs from a pine tree. I rushed to get to the door; however, I was not quick enough for the perpetrator. They began to pound on the door as if they were trying to knock it down. I stumbled to the entrance. I saw a sweating Michael Lanigan through the narrow windows which outlined the door. He was breathing hard, as if he had run to the house. His face was tight and colorless.

Before the door opened, he screamed, Lewis! He panted heavily. Lewis, you’ve got to come see this! You ain’t gonna believe.

You all right? I stood back, watching him lean over with his hands on his knees while he tried to talk and breathe simultaneously, not doing either very well at the moment.

He sucked in a deep breath. The Fallermans . . . you’ve got to come see. It’s the most gruesome sight I’ve ever seen! Kara is dead, and it’s ugly. I can’t even describe it. Come on! Come on!

Let me throw some clothes on. Just give me a minute. I backed away from the entrance. Come in, and relax a second.

Michael lived to stay abreast of the current events of our road and was quickly blessed with nickname News. I guess once a newspaperman, always a newspaperman. When a former crime reporter for the likes of New York, Philadelphia, and Los Angeles says that it’s too gruesome for him to describe, it must be horrible. I hurried to throw on some clothes.

We jumped into his truck and raced down my drive. He started, Wait ’til ya see this. It’s ugly. Old Man Fallerman is screamin’ and threatenin’ everyone on the road. The police are havin’ a time with ’im.

I lived three miles from the Fallerman Grove entrance so the trip was short. My head struck the roof when News bounced the truck onto the shoulder of the road about a hundred yards short of the extravagant gate that was the showplace of our road. We rolled out and hurried toward the small crowd. I could see police and people glaring at a sight I could not even imagine. Above the buzz, I heard the bellow of John Fallerman’s gruff, aged voice screaming that he would make this right, even if it took him the rest of his life.

I know who did this! I’ll take care of it. Selinger, you bastard! He marched around in quick circles waving his fists. You bring your ass out here right now. The three policemen struggled to stop him when he stormed the crowd. His stout fifty-three-year-old body did not seem to slow him at all. He was notorious for his strength. Stan had told me that he once lifted a tractor off of a hired hand.

News and I got up to the sight. I couldn’t look at it. I couldn’t look away. Gruesome did not adequately describe what I witnessed. I drifted into my own world, staring at the sight. Everything went silent. There was no noise from the crowd. No Fallerman screaming. No sirens moaning. Looking through tunnel vision, all I could see was Kara Fallerman’s head.

There it was!

Kara’s dismembered head had been perched on a metal fence post. It was placed to stare straight up the long oak-lined road leading to the mansion of the Grove. It seemed to yearn for the majestic home that sat above the trees about two miles from the road. Her eyes were covered with two Morgan silver dollars, a direct message to John; he was an avid coin collector. Her lips pasted with a bright-red lip gloss, another message to John; he despised her to wear bright red lipstick. The ends of her flowing corn-silk hair, which used to hang below a neck no longer there, were discolored from the stain of dried blood.

I shook my head when a voice brought me back out of my private state. Whaddaya think of that? News asked.

Who do you think did this? I kicked at the ground, expecting him to know.

Not a clue.

Our conversation was interrupted by Fallerman’s bellow. Why the fuck don’t ya get, you fucking onlookers! If ya don’t get the fuck out of here, I’ll get all ya bastards! Each and every one of ya!

Again, several officers struggled to hold Old Man Fallerman back as he attempted to rush the crowd. Fallerman was not one for idle threats and as crazy as it seems, everyone needed to take heed of his words.

Then I spotted Ronnie Fallerman, John’s son to his first wife Vera. He was visibly shaken, not in a mourning sense, but more like he feared being around his father. Ronnie and I had become good friends in my years on the Road. John had forever intimidated him, but then, John intimidated everyone. Actually, Ronnie was probably down right scared of John. He saw News and me. He shuffled toward us with his hands tucked in the rear pockets of his overalls.

Ronnie, is there anything we can do? I stumbled on my words as he approached.

He slightly raised his head to look me in the eyes. He always looked to the ground when he walked and due to his height he was still looking down at me. His reddish hair split across his forehead and contrasted his pale complexion even more than usual.

No, no, I’m fine. I can’t believe this has happened. Who’d do such a thing? The sound of his mild voice barely reached us.

When he got close enough, he reached out and hugged me. It caught me completely by surprise. His long arms tightened around me as if he was trying to release something locked deep inside of him. I gasped a little. Ronnie had his dad’s strength. He didn’t cry, but it seemed as if I was now holding him up.

Ronnie, if you need to stay with me, you know you’re welcome to.

Thanks, but I’ll be okay. He released me as he spoke.

What happened, Ronnie? News inquired.

I don’t know. I can’t imagine. I stayed down at the old house at the south side of the Grove. Dad had been out of town for the last four days and I drove up to the house to meet him. He wasn’t at the house, so I drove to pick up the paper. When I got to the road, I saw Dad’s truck smashed into one of the pillars. Ronnie’s arm stretched toward the gate. He was bleeding and passed out. Then I saw her. He nodded his head toward Kara but refused to look. Dad was bleeding from his head and I tried to help him. Then Buster came by. He went and called for help. By the time Dad came to, the police and ambulances were here. His voice grew heavy and he had to stop for moment, This is crazy, just crazy.

Old Man Fallerman spotted the three of us, This is your fault, you little piece of shit. If ya’d been at the house, if ya’d just keep your ass at the house, this wouldn’ve happened. You’re as much at fault as anyone! Yeah, just keep your scrawny ass over there. Old Man Fallerman scowled at Ronnie. Ya might as well done this yourself! He threw his hand at Ronnie and turned to spit.

Ronnie just stared back at his father. He’s upset. He don’t know what he’s saying.

I know, I said, trying to console Ronnie.

We just stood together without exchanging a word. Old Man Fallerman fell back onto the seat of a police car and he broke into tears. He finally let somebody from the ambulance treat his bleeding forehead.

What are you gonna do, Ronnie?

I’m gonna try to help him through this, Mr. Fogarty. This is the one thing that could really break his heart, ya know. I don’t think he cared ’bout nothing but her. It will be hard, but I’ll try. He straightened up his back trying to convince himself to have the courage to deal with Old Man Fallerman. I’m gonna go be with him now.

I watched his tall gangly frame trudge back to his father. I worried about him.

The crowd thinned as the investigators encouraged them to go home. This was something you could only view a short while anyhow, but the vision would be etched in your memory forever.

Like a bull trying to get out of the gate at a rodeo, Fallerman continued his threats and constantly tried to break from the police to get to the crowd. Ronnie stood in the vicinity of his dad, more out of obligation than support. I told News I was ready to go. He wanted to stay, his old newspaper instincts kicking in again. Eventually, we were told we had to leave or be locked up. It seemed that the presence of the crowd kept firing up Fallerman, who continued to go through intervals of anger and despair. As we left, I watched him break into tears and fall to his knees; it was like watching a great oak fall.

During the silent drive back to the house, I began to feel sympathetic for Fallerman. He was a harsh man, not very well liked, but respected, more like tolerated, for his wealth and power. Anyone who knew him knew that he loved Kara Fallerman. Well, as much as you could imagine him loving anything. Many thought it was more like the way a man felt about a new Ferrari. It was true that he loved to show off his wife, twenty-five years his junior, but Ronnie often told me stories that provided evidence that he had a true affection for Kara.

Either way, about two years ago, life had changed for the Fallermans. Now, it was going to change again. The problem is when things change for the Fallermans, things change for everyone on Fallerman’s Grove Road.

No matter, because when you move here, you soon learn that the residents of the Road take care of our own. It would never be truer than now.

Chapter One

Tuesday, February 14, 1978

Ichecked the finishing touches on my look, shaking out the blazer sleeves and tightening the knot in my tie. It had been a few years since I had donned funeral attire. Satisfied I had achieved the proper look of mourning for someone I did not know very well, I turned to Donna and asked if she was ready. We complimented each other on our appearance, gathered our necessities, and exited to the garage.

The best part of dressing for one’s funeral, other than your own, is getting back home to undress.

I can’t believe we’re going to the funeral, I stated matter-of-factly, shutting the passenger door with a purposeful firmness.

You know it’s the right thing to do, I heard as I entered the driver’s side. I picked up on her emphasis of ‘you know.’"

You’re right, I admitted as we backed out of the garage, adding an I guess, in order not to relinquish complete merit to my statement. We started down the drive. I felt her sense victory.

The oaks lining our drive were barren this time of year. The grayish bark made it appear colder than it actually was. We were not farmers, and I just kept our fields mowed. To the left was the high side of our property. The view gave way to the tree line separating our land from the hay fields of Tommy Albertson. To the right, you could see all the way to Stan Plowden’s cornfield. His house sat back behind the field and was out of view from our drive until you reached the road.

Looking out over the fields reminded me of our rejuvenated excitement when moving to Fallerman’s Grove Road. It was this feeling of openness that drew me here. I had wanted to be surrounded by land since we first became homeowners. Donna feared the solitude of the country; therefore, we spent our previous existence surrounded by the tightness of a subdivision lifestyle. It felt like living between the jaws of a vise which slowly closed on you. She finally succumbed when our former neighbors became entrepreneurs in the pharmaceutical trade. She commented she was ready to move. I acted quickly and the following weekend this place appeared in the newspaper. We fell in love with our home without even seeing the inside of the house. When we did see the inside of the house, we knew that we had found our own Walden’s forest; fate had brought us here. We had a contract the following Monday. We had a new home within the month.

We had agreed to meet News over at Stan’s house. All of us would ride together. I told Stan we would feel more comfortable going to the funeral with him since he and Sarah were long-standing friends of the Fallermans. At Sarah’s request, Michael and I were convinced it was best to take them. She was unsure of how well Stan’s seventy-five year reflexes would be in city traffic. Stan’s pride would never have stood for that explanation.

The Plowden’s residence was the most modest of Fallerman’s Grove. Stereotyping a bit, they had the traditional farmer mentality. You worked from early morning throughout the day, counted your pennies, and by no means put on any airs. Stan had built this house with the lumber from his land, bartering excess lumber to have his cut at the saw mill. He had farmed this land going on fifty years now. He and Old Man Fallerman were the paternal icons of our community. Their common thread ended there.

Two quick years had passed since we first met the Plowdens. They had come to welcome us to the community with a house-warming gift of collard greens. He wasn’t fond of the fact I didn’t eat collards, but deemed Donna a good Southern girl when she announced how well she liked them. From that day we have been blessed with corn and the best tomatoes this family has eaten.

Once we had been Plowden approved, we were soon welcomed to the community as if we were lost relatives who had returned home. If not introduced directly, everyone knew us as the folks that moved next to Stan and Sarah, and we had the key to the community because Stan had informed them that we were all right people. For the first time in our lives, we felt a part of something bigger than us. The us versus the world attitude we moved here with had soon eroded to a comfortable sense of belonging.

Last year, a window fell open while we were at work. The alarm was set off. Stan heard it and within minutes, the Grove Road militia had surrounded our house. By the time Donna arrived, there were dogs to track the intruder, guns to maim the intruder, and lessons to be taught to future intruders. After a thorough search of the house and property, it was deemed safe. We were informed we look out for our own on Grove Road. It was that day we knew we were home.

As Donna and I walked up onto the porch of the Plowden’s home, News slung the door open and greeted us with a sullen hello.

We returned the greeting in the same manner and entered the small living room while he held the door.

Stan’s gettin’ ready. News walked in behind us. Sarah is in the kitchen.

With that, Donna went into the kitchen.

News and I walked to the front porch. The smell of burning winter leaves was in the air. I looked across the road to see if I could spot any smoke. From here, I could see the roof of Lanigan’s home, but that was all that was visible. Stan and News were close friends although thirty years denied them being peers. News constantly checked on the Plowdens—every morning to be exact. I surmised it wasn’t always that way. News had to work harder to be accepted than we did. Stan had once told me he had separated that hundred acres to build his older daughter a home and that, in less than a year, she turned around and sold it. He wasn’t happy about that, but as he stated, what could he do. On top of it all, News was living out his lifelong dream of raising horses. Stan just didn’t understand having horses. He told me it was because he grew up plowing fields behind the wrong end of them, besides, they just cost money. But he guessed if that was what you wanted to do, so be it. The situation was made a little easier since News turned out to be an all-right guy. When Stan’s tractor went down during a pivotal planting period, News stepped up and lent his to Stan. My understanding is that is when he achieved the Plowden approval.

It must be hard burying your wife on Valentine’s Day, I broke the silence and then continued. Stan says they’ve been married almost thirty years.

Don’t understand it myself, News left me hanging with his suspicious tone.

Whaddaya mean?

She was ready to be buried two days ago.

Maybe this is a final testament to his love for her? I looked up and spread my arms to the sky.

Old Man Fallerman ain’t that kinda guy, you know him. He strike you as the sentimental type?

Ya never know.

No, it ain’t a love thing. I guarantee that. There’s something going on at the Grove.

What are you thinking? I was curious because News always knew a little more than the rest of us.

Nothin’. Just think it’s strange she could’ve been buried Sunday and he’s going to wait until the ‘day of love’ to plant her in the ground.

That’s cold, News.

Just then, the front door slammed open against the wooden glider that sat in the crowded entrance.

Mr. Fogarty, Stan greeted me in the usual way. I had to call him ‘Stan’, but he would only address me as ‘Mr. Fogarty’. His large hand swallowed mine in a handshake.

Well Stan, ya look good in your suit. I’m impressed. Never seen ya in anything but overalls, I said truthfully while looking him over.

Mr. Fogarty, you are a pistol. Stan took his favorite seat on the porch swing that faced the displaced glider.

Everyone ’bout ready? News asked.

The ladies’re in the kitchen. We got a minute or two. Stan relaxed into a slight swinging motion.

He then began to rehash the history of Fallerman Grove with us, most of which we had heard before. He drifted off into a world that News and I never knew. Together, we watched him slip through that portal to his youth. He talked about when Old Man Fallerman’s father and he were the only two farming out here. When Stan got out of the service, Fallerman sold the farm to him at fifty dollars per acre. Fallerman got into trouble years ago. Stan had bailed him out. After that, they were inseparable. Over the years, they looked out for each other. They watched the Grove grow. He was around when