Story Behind the Haunting: The Allen House Suicide

"A constant companion of her mother her first thought was always of her." ("Mrs. Ladell A. Bonner," Advance Monticellonian, January 6, 1949.)

December 26, 1948

Ladell was soaking in steamy water in the six-foot tub in the master bathroom and had not felt this good, been this happy in weeks, maybe months. No, she decided. Years. Yes, years. She had not felt this good in years. Not even her sagging fifty-four-year-old flesh depressed her. Soon she would be free of it. Free. She felt so good she didn't even need a drink, and that was saying a lot because she had not lain in this tub sober in years.

That morning, at services at the First Presbyterian Church, Reverend Williams had talked of the promises of the coming new year, how everyone should evaluate his or her life and make resolutions to perform good acts for others, improve one's self, to let old conflicts die and to remember throughout the bleakness of January and February that March would bring new life.

Her birthday was in March, always a day or two into spring. She would be fifty-five. "Double nickels," Papa said. "I'll be double nickels next fall," he said at his last birthday party in September 1917. But then he died the next month. And the thought of Papa's slack, sightless face staring up at the cherubs in the dining-room ceiling as mourners filed past almost made her lose her happiness of the moment, but she pushed it away. No double nickels for me either, Papa. And she was buoyed by the thought, by her plan. So much better than the first plan. That disaster at Thanksgiving. A cold, rainy day. Her heart wasn't in it. She had tied a leather belt around the high clothes bar in her closet, but it had not been high enough. Her toes touched the floor, and when she tried to swing her whole body free, her toes kept returning to the floor, and her neck would not snap. She merely choked.

She gave it up after a few minutes, her neck bruised and her head pounding horribly. Mama wanted to know why she didn't eat turkey and dressing and sweet potatoes. Ladell croaked that she couldn't swallow, and Mama asked Dr. Price from across the street to come over, and he examined the marks on her neck and looked at her. "I can recommend a place with some very fine doctors where you can go for a rest, Mrs. Bonner. I think a rest would do you good." Ladell did her best to beam a radiant smile at him and not let the tears pour. She shook her head and croaked that Mama would never approve of such a "vacation."

Ladell realized now, the day after Christmas, that doing away with oneself needed enthusiasm, anticipation of the blissful escape, and celebration of one's new-found control over one's life. She touched her neck.

The hot water caressed her. She wiggled her toes, flexed the muscles of her thighs, stretched and sighed. She suddenly felt drowsy, and having escaped from the dark chamber in her heart where she kept him locked, Boyd drifted up from the steam with his blue eyes and bright toothy smile. Thirty-five years ago he kissed her neck, and she gasped, felt that she might faint.

"Oh, go away, Boyd," she muttered. "I'm through with you. Soon I won't have to think about you ever again."

She slid down in the tub, her head immersed now, and she looked up, the bead-board ceiling murky above her, spots of light winking on the surface of the water. Is this the way it would be? The world murky, a veil separating her from all? She hoped not. She closed her eyes. Blackness was what she desired. Nothingness. Freedom. Certainly not this pressure in her lungs. She sat up, water cascading from her hair and flesh, her mouth opening involuntarily as she gasped for air.

Trembling slightly, she stepped out of the tub, toweled off, looked in the mirror above the sink. Her hair was full of wet tangles now, her breasts puckered, like the ends of her fingers. She leaned toward herself, looked into her eyes. The years had changed everything else, but her eyes were the same. Boyd had told her she had beautiful eyes, dark eyes like a gypsy, he said. She was stupid enough to swoon to his words. Boyd was the gypsy. Never content with a place, a job, a woman. When she was a child, she thought adulthood would bring true happiness, but she could not have been more wrong. If she could have remained a child . . . . Pretty dresses, parties, car trips, train trips, Papa's doting. Papa had named a town for her, not for Lonnie, not for Lewie, not for Mama, not even for baby Walter. For her. How many girls had a town named for her?

Then Boyd came along. She was helping at Papa's hotel downtown, and Boyd was staying there--young and handsome and crude. He drank, he smoked. He worked with his hands, had rippling muscles in his forearms. Not like Lonnie's beau, Karl. Karl was smart but pale and soft. Who would marry first? Her or Lonnie? Ladell won that contest, too. Lonnie was older, but Ladell married Boyd the November before Lonnie's April wedding. A double ceremony was out of the question. For one thing, Karl looked down his long pointed nose at Boyd. Nobody liked Boyd. But Papa was not going to deny her anything. November 29, 1914. She was twenty. She could not have waited another day to be Boyd's wife. The very thought, the anticipation had taken her breath away.

Then exactly a year to the day, Elliott Allen Bonner was born.

She stared at her fifty-four-year-old breasts. Maybe total darkness was not what she wanted. She would like to see Allen again--nobody had ever called him Elliott. Thank God, she hadn't named him Boyd Junior. By the end of that first year of marriage, the fire had already died. She and Boyd were living in Dumas, Arkansas, and there had been rumors of Boyd and a girl who worked in a cotton mill. Then there was the girl in Greenburg, Indiana, where they were living when Papa had his second heart attack. Then in Ft. Worth, Boyd wasn't always working on the oil rigs when he was away from their little rent house. If she asked where'd he'd been when he came in late at night, reeking of liquor and cheap perfume, a muscle in his jaw twitched, his eyes slit, and he simply gave her his lopsided grin.

But she now refused to dwell on those times. She was through with all that, finally through with her ruined adulthood. Freedom was ahead. She heard Mama and the servants downstairs preparing for another of Mama's parties. Not even the dread of old ladies descending on the house in a swarm could depress her today.

Mama had turned on the new record player. Bing Crosby's "White Christmas" floated up the main staircase.

*

By the time she dressed and fixed her hair, old ladies were cackling and clucking at the front door. Ladell heard old-lady voices gushing compliments in the foyer, old-lady voices chirping, old lady voices squealing, "How lovely! How lovely." Old-lady voices screeching, "Merry Christmas! Happy New Year!" One old lady voice: "How time flies!" Another old lady voice: "Where do the years go?" Ladelle knew where they went. She looked down at the bathtub drain.

Mama's old-lady voice: "My hip is much better. Dr. Price is such a darling. A darling. A savior."

Old lady murmuring overlaid by a scratchy 78: Eddie Canter.

Then the maid's voice: "Miss Ladell! Miss Ladell!"

Old lady voice: "Dell! Dell!"

"I'm coming!" Ladell called. But she was not ready to go down. She had been thinking of Allen. She took the stairs to the third floor and walked to the turret room. Boards lay across the rafters above her head. Allen had built a small table against the west wall of the turret. He and his friends would climb onto the table and then lift themselves up through an opening in the boards and into the turret tower. And there they were, inside their secret club house. She had often thought if she had been more nimble she would climb up there and hide. Once she had climbed up the ladder to the widow's walk, and Mama couldn't find her for nearly a whole day. The wind swirled around her, and she watched birds, and clouds roiled above. Ladell had looked down from there. She thought of taking the leap but was afraid of the instant of pain, the messy impact. And what if she merely mangled himself? As risky as hanging--the potential for failure.

Allen studied at this table, too, here in the third-story turret. Some of his school papers from Monticello High School still lay about. On the table, Allen had written in white paint his name and the names of two of his friends, along with the heading "Ye Olde Village Half Wits." And there was the date: "1/20/32." A monument to himself and his friends and youth. Allen was sixteen. Living with Mama. Ladell was in Memphis. Mama had told her to straighten out, to get hold of herself, to remember who she was, what family she came from--before she came home. Mama reminded her--as if she needed reminding--that she, Ladell Allen Bonner, was a divorcee and had an evil penchant for alcohol. Mama had waved her hands in the air, the loose flesh of her upper arms flapping: "I will not have my name connected with debauchery or the vile exaggerations that vicious gossips would surely put to it." And Mama was right. Ladelle had heard that some people claimed the hotel she managed in Memphis was actually a brothel.

Ladell ground her teeth, felt tears. She had missed much of Allen's growing up. By the time Mama let her come home, Allen was off to college. Then New York City. Twenty-eight years old and he was dead in New York City. The cold Yankee winter had killed him. And she could remember holding him to her breasts and praying he would be her salvation in a marriage to a husband who cheated with cotton-mill girls, waitresses, and maids. But that had been unfair of her--Allen could not save her and Boyd. It wasn't Allen's job. She felt someone behind her. She turned and there stood Allen. A slim boy staring at her with his dark eyes. She couldn't read his expression. "Are you angry, honey?" Then the apparition vanished. "I'm sorry. I'll see you soon, honey. I'll make it up to you. We'll be together for always." Tinny music--Ole Ang Syn--floated up through the floorboards.

As she was walking back to the staircase, her eye caught an old photo album on the floor. She picked it up, opened it. Picture of Papa in his bearskin coat. Mama young in a high collar. Pictures of Lonnie as a baby, Lewie as baby. Poor Lewie. Dead the same year as Allen: 1944.

A picture of herself as a baby. She turned it over. The inscription said, "Miss Ladelle. 1894." She turned the photo again and stared at that baby she had been. Thick cardboard, studio photo. Naked but for a diaper. Sitting up. A smile. All of life ahead. Another fifty-three years. She dropped the photo album but held onto the photo of herself. She looked back at the turret room, saw Allen standing there again. "I don't blame you for hating me." She tore the photo of herself in half length-wise, flung the pieces across the attic, then proceeded down the stairs.

*

"Dell! . . . Dell! . . . " the old ladies gushed, chortled, and exclaimed. "Dell! . . . You look so lovely! . . . Dell! . . . . Dell, is that a new dress? It's soooo red. Merry Christmas. Happy New Year, Dell! Dell, wasn't Reverend Williams just so . . . so inspiring this morning? Don't you think?"

"Yes. Inspiring."

"Mrs. Allen, you're so fortunate to have Ladell to take care of you."

"Yes. I can always depend on my Dell."

"So sweet."

"Such a blessing."

"Dell waited on me hand and foot when I broke my hip."

"She's an angel."

"Show us your wings, Dell."

A crescendo of old-lady laughter.

"Can you believe it's almost a new year, Dell?"

Ladell opened her mouth to speak but Mama barged in as usual: "I can't believe it's going to be 1949. Seems like it should still be 1899. I have to remind myself of the year every morning."

Old-lady nods, murmurs.

Old-lady breath in her face. Ham. Boiled eggs. Warm tea. "Dell, dear, have you done something with your hair?"

"I just washed it."

"It looks lovely."

"I'm thinking of cutting it all off."

"Pardon?"

"I'm thinking of cutting it all off. I think I would like to be bald."

Gapping mouths.

Then old-lady cackling.

Smiling, Ladell said, "Excuse me. I believe I will prepare myself a plate of hor'dourves."

She had loved the parties when she was young. Aunt Mamie would fix her hair and adorn her from head to toe in ribbons and bows. Her dresses were lacey and her shoes tapped on the wood floors. Aunt Mamie. Gone now for fifteen years. Papa gone over thirty. Grandmother gone nearly twenty-five. Lewie and Allen gone for nearly five.

Oh, God, she wished it were 1899. To be five years old again. To ride on Papa's shoulders. To pet his bear-skin coat. To touch his bushy mustache, to feel its tickle when he kissed her.

Soon. Soon. Anything, everything would be possible soon. Free. Who knew? Maybe it would not be darkness but light, a light that led a person back in time. Maybe Heaven was your favorite moment . . . lived for eternity.

Mama: "A glass of punch, Dell?"

"Yes."

A new rush of old-lady arrivals: "Mrs. Allen! Mrs. Allen! Caddye! Caddye! Merry Christmas! Happy New Year! Caddye! You look so well! Oh, there's Dell. Hi, Dell. Hello, Dear! Happy New Year. Where are you going? Where is she going?"

Mama: "Dell, honey, where are you going?"

"I have a bit of a headache. I'm going to take my plate and drink upstairs. I'll be fine in a little while, Mama."

"Don't be rude, Dell. We have guests."

"I'll be fine soon, Mama."

Mama came close, her old-lady breath in Ladell's face, her voice low, her stained dentures clicking: "I can't entertain all these people by myself."

"I need to go--"

More arrivals: "Caddye! Happy New Year! Caddye! Caddye! Mrs. Allen. How do you do? Hi, Dell. Leaving?"

"Ascending," she said from the stairs.

*

Her room adjoined Mama's so that she could help Mama get up in the morning, get undressed at night, use the bathroom in the middle of the night, respond to calls for water, for a pill, for a light turned on or turned off, the heat turned on or off, a window opened or closed . . . .

She put her plate of hor'dourves on the night table next to her bed and took her glass of punch to the closet. On the shelf, she took down the box marked "Mercury Cyanide." The contents looked like sugar. She loved sugar, loved sweets. She needed alcohol--had to have it--but she loved sweets. She poured some of the granules from the box into her punch. Surely, it would work quickly. It had to. It was cyanide. She replaced the box on the shelf. She took down a bottle of sherry and poured a good helping into her punch. Now this was punch. She smiled at the mixture, the granules dissolving in an upward spiral mingling with the sherry. She went to the fireplace and set her glass and plate of hor'dourves on the mantle. She looked at herself in the mirror above the mantle as she ate. So old. But once you were dead, you had no age. You could be young again. That was her hope, her desire.

An explosion of old-lady laughter burst from downstairs. Or just free, shrouded in blackness.

She sipped her punch. Not bad. In a while Mama would send one of the hired-servants-for-the-day up to fetch her. Oh, what that person would find! Mama's precious party would be one to remember. Could she ever have a party again? The old woman had had enough parties.

She went to her bed and sat down. She smiled, lay back against her headboard, lifted the glass of cyanide-and-sherry-laced punch, drained the glass. Free of Mama. Free of this life surrounded by old ladies. No son. No husband. No dear Papa. No Aunt Mamie. Just old ladies with their gossip and wrinkles and sour breath.

*

She had not counted on the searing pain in her lungs, the struggle to breath, and the convulsions. She had counted on it being over quickly. She began vomiting, and there seemed no end to it.

Someone came into the room. A hazy figure. A muffled voice. It was as though Ladell were immersed in the bathtub again--that veil had descended. Someone had come to save her from drowning, reaching for her. She felt a hot hand. She pulled away, jerking, twisting. She was not going to take the hand. Go away! But she couldn't speak.

Then a crowd. A swarm of dark, blurred figures. Her lungs burned. Her head felt swollen.

Dell! Mrs. Bonner! Mrs. Bonner! Dell! We've called for Doctor Price.

Her entire body felt cold, except for her burning lungs. The horrific cramping. Her bowels let loose. A worse mess than jumping from the widow's walk.

A large hand touched her arm. A gray figure hovered. Dell, the man said. What have you done?

Pain washed over her, then receded. The convulsions diminished. She felt in control again, for a moment. Then it all started over. Her throat burned.

Mrs. Bonner! What have you done?

*

January 2, 1949

Mack Wilson Hospital

North Main Street

Monticello, AR

Oh, go away, Mama. Go away, Dr. Price. Go away, Reverend Williams. Go away, go away, go away.

"It won't be much longer, Mrs. Allen."

"I believe in miracles, Dr. Price. Don't you believe in miracles?"

Shut up, Mama. You pinned her hip, Dr. Price. Could you not have pinned her mouth, too?

"The poison is burning her up from the inside, Mrs. Allen. There is nothing we can do. Except ease her pain. That's what the morphine is for."

"You believe in miracles, don't you, Reverend Williams?"

"Of course, Mrs. Allen. Of course, I do. But . . . well, everything is God's will."

Who's there? Oh, it's you. Why are you here, Boyd? Go away. I'm through with you. I don't think of you. You didn't ruin my life. You didn't ruin my life. You didn't ruin my life. Not any more. Don't give me that smile, Boyd. Save it for one of your whores.

"What did you say, Dell? What did you say? What did she say, doctor?"

Whores.

"We've given her a high dosage of morphine, Mrs. Allen. Don't expect her to be coherent."

I will never take you back, Boyd. Now, move. Allen is here. Come here, baby. Just walk right through your father. He doesn't count. That's it. Come here. Come here.

"What is it, Dell? Mama is here. Mama is here."

Oh, sit down, Mama. You know you shouldn't be standing so much with your hip. Don't get so close. Old-lady breath. Give your hip a rest. Come here, Allen. Give your mommy a hug. That's it.

"I think the time has come."

"No, Dr. Price. I don't believe that."

Don't start your crying, Mama.

"Now, now, Mrs. Allen. Let's say a prayer together."

"Not you, too. I wish Reverend Healy were here. Why does everybody have to die?"

"They live on with Christ."

"I know, I know, but I can't lose another of my girls. Lewie. Now Ladell. No, I don't believe God would do this to me."

Shut up, Mama. And move. Papa is here. Papa, I've missed you so much. Papa, do you remember Allen? Of course. Of course, you do.

"Nurse, please note the time. It's precisely eight p.m."

What, Papa? Yes. Yes, Papa. Home. Yes, I want to go home. Come, Allen. We're all going home.