One Dead Body

By Karen Kier

Who knew? Who would have guessed? I was surprised by the tales my aging mother had to tell. As she was recovering from a lingering illness, I spent an extended stay with her to help her pass the time. Anticipated boredom blossomed surprisingly into engaging hours. For a short time we weren’t mother and daughter, but had become best friends telling all.   

She started with tales of the war and having a pen pal from Europe. She was 16 at the time of WWII. She showed me a brown leather-bound book on her night stand that had been sent to her back in 1942. It was inscribed by her “pal” with well wishes for a happy holiday. My mother lamented that she’d only sent this girl nylon stockings because that’s all she could afford. Stockings were hard to come by back then, so she knew they were appreciated at the very least. But they were nothing so lasting as the book she now held close. 

These meaningful memories sent chills up my spine as I realized for the first time, cuddled on the couch next to me, was not only the warm hearted mother I knew, but a wonderful beautiful woman with a past I hadn’t known at all. There were more memories shared of “back in the day” and they came with a peace that warmed both our hearts. 

But what came next was a shocker. The last story she told, as we were sipping our favorite wine, almost had me question this old lady’s mind. 

“A dead body! What? Back up…what’s that story?” I had apparently drifted off during one of her tales but this brought me back to the edge of my seat. 

“Yes, one time, I found a dead body.” How did I never know this? I needed to hear what this was about. The warmth from the fireplace now left a chill in the air. Wrapped in her afghan, she began to share.

It was a cold, cold day. It was definitely colder back then. I was one of two friends, two sisterly souls, unrelated by blood but bonded by friendship living in the same tenement home. We were two French girls growing up in the heart of “Polish” Salem. Back then everything was divided by nationality or wealth.  It was 1935…depression times. Everyone said that with an end to prohibition, things would get better….but they hadn’t. Parker Brothers, on the other side of town, had just given birth to this game called Monopoly, giving the allusion that the economy was good...but it wasn’t. Speakeasys weren’t spoken of, nor was the back-alley crime. But we all knew it existed although we tried to pretend life was simpler and better back then.

Each day my friend Mary and I would set out for the day to go to St. Joseph’s Catholic School. It was two miles from home, both ways uphill, of course, or so it really did seem, especially in winters which were really extreme. We’d always either walk hand in hand or skip along while singing a song. The time always passed easily – it never took long.

This day I remember because it was colder than ice. The sky was deep gray like the fur of the fat rats running along the curb. And the clouds were filling up with the makings for snow. We had begged our mothers to spend a nickel, so we could ride the trolley part way. But they each shook their heads “no” and we walked away. We didn’t mind walking to school despite wearing woolen socks with a hole in the toe, boots one size too small, and hand-me-down coats. I remember my hat most. It was toasty warm and the only one I had. 

 We were proud, with no cares except for the cold, and enjoying our freedom before hours of lessons ahead that were expected to be a bore. Our books over our shoulder we headed on our route. The smell of low tide hung in the air. Kicking trash on the sidewalk, we made our way to the bridge separating our side of town. It was made of cobblestones and cold metal that creaked in the wind. We waved and gave big smiles to the bridge master who was always there. His job was to watch for boats with cargo and let them in to port.  We thought of him as our friend though we never met or spoke. We were just kids and he, just a bloke. But we minded our manners and waved nonetheless. Every day was the same, so routine were our lives.

But this particular day the wind picked up, swirling around like a storm about to break loose. My hat blew away, over the bridge. At first it went high and then it went low and before I could reach it, my friend yelled through cupped hands “let.. it.. go!” I was heartsick and frightened. This was the worse thing I feared. My only hat had disappeared.  

I had to chase after it. The alternative was to go on and be cold and then to report I’d lost it. I’d be accused of being careless. A hat was expensive and I was sure it would not be replaced. We lived on such a short string.

I had to run back. Down to the riverbed I went. I had started to sweat which made me shiver. Then I stopped short when I saw the worst thing ever. A man, all blue in the face, was laying half on rock, half swallowed by muck. Eyes bulging, he was like a fish washed ashore. His wool coat darker than the gathering clouds was still buttoned up against the weather. He had been neatly groomed and wearing a tie. I remember his shoes were shiny, despite ripples of mud. His left hand adorned by a gleaming gold and diamond ring…..was missing its finger. It was just gone!

My soul sister who followed was in shock, I could tell. I silently hugged her while screams went off in my head. I was the older one and had to be strong. I had to decide what to do about what we had found.  Just then a shadow, more like a presence, came looming over us as we huddled together with fright. I looked up to see it was the bridge master wearing a brown and green tweed woolen coat buttoned up tight. Up close, the whites of his eyes were yellowed and his skin rough and pocked. His breath smelled like whiskey though I couldn’t be sure. The sight of him was a mix of both dread and relief. 

“Ya girls get away now – off ta school. I’ll take care of this mess. Mind yar business and never tell. Ya didn’t see this – ya understand? It didn’t happen. If ya tell, it’ll be known and then darkness will fall on ya home and all ya love. Now git." 

With that we ran fast away and headed off to school. Too scared to tell anyone we vowed to each other to never say a word. Crossing over the bridge, returning home later that day, we saw no signs of the body and had no doubt that any remaining evidence would have been taken by the rising tide.

Although we didn’t have papers back then for our news, there was talk by the women who visited for tea. A man had been found dead by the bridge, they had heard. As all tales on cold winter nights, the story grew each time it was told. There was supposition about it being an accountant for the mob. But with that left-hand finger gone, I suspect it was a woman who might have been wronged. Or it was murder by some husband in a jealous rage. Or there could be another story in all of this. In those days there were always strangers and travelers coming through town so who knows the real story of what happened back then. I never spoke up to share what I knew…at least not until today. I was nine years old at the time – just a little girl. And now I’m very old but not too old to be afraid. If you tell that I told, I’ll deny it, until my very last day.

And then with that, she closed her eyes and leaned back to take a rest. I scrambled for my laptop to search for facts. George Parker was born in Salem in 1866. He and his brothers formed Parker Brothers an American toy and game manufacturer and in 1935 they bought the rights to the game Monopoly. The company closed in 2009 – the building torn down making way for very expensive condos. St. Joseph’s Church and School in Salem was built in 1873 to accommodate the French immigrants coming from Canada to work in the factories and mills. It closed in 2004 and now is home to affordable housing. I couldn’t find any details about the news of the day. It seems this one dead body mystery is still alive today.