Authors: Duncan Whitehead
48 hours until St. Patrick’s Day
“Betty, Betty, where are my reading glasses? How many times have I told you not to touch my reading glasses? Good lord woman, why do you have to move things so I can never find them?”
Betty Jenkins bit her lip. She had arrived only minutes earlier from the grocery store, laden with bags of food in preparation for the arrival of Heidi’s son and daughter-in-law. She hadn’t touched Heidi’s reading glasses. They were sitting on the side table where Heidi had left them. They had been there all day.
“Miss Heidi, they are where you left them. Remember you were reading the newspaper earlier? They’re on the table, by your easy chair, just where you left them. I’ll fetch them for you.”
“That’s nonsense Betty!” shouted Heidi, “You moved them. Are you calling me senile? Why do you do this? Play these games? Are you doing this to deliberately infuriate me?”
Betty sighed, “I’m sorry. It was my mistake.”
But it wasn’t Betty’s mistake. The truth was that she working extra hard to help her employer, picking up dropped keys, discarded newspapers, and mentally noting where she had placed things, such as her glasses for example. Heidi was no longer the woman Betty had known for so many years. She was becoming increasingly irritable, bordering on the obnoxious. Betty guessed that her mental capacity was deteriorating with age, or maybe dementia was setting in, or even the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease. Betty hadn’t failed to notice how many hours the old woman spent staring into her neighbor’s yard. Her obsession with the movements of the mayor and his wife were not natural.
“You are lucky that you have a job, you do realize that?” said Heidi as Betty handed her the located reading glasses. “Now, where was I? That’s right, dinner. Tomorrow, when they arrive, I want you to make your fried chicken.”
Betty shook her head. The fried chicken was for this evening; they had already discussed this.
“I will eat ribs this evening. You did make ribs didn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I made you ribs.”
Heidi smiled. Of course Betty had made ribs, because Betty did what she was told and she knew her place. Betty was lucky, very lucky indeed. If things had been different, Betty would not have survived, none of
them
would have. There would have been a master race. And Heidi was a master. She was pure blood. Oh, Betty, thought Heidi, you have no idea. Heidi though had more important fish to fry that evening and chastising, bullying, and intimidating Betty could wait.
Meredith Keyes had gone too far. How dare she contact the press? How dare she threaten the park, Gordonston, and Heidi herself? Heidi returned to her study and, raising the newspaper more closely to her face, reread the badly written article, which had been printed on the fourth page of that day’s Savannah Morning News:
Heidi Launer and Cindy Mopper peered through the bars of the Iron Gate, clutching cell phones in one hand and their dogs’ leashes in the other. Outside the gate, mingling on the sidewalk, were about a dozen people, many with dogs, too.
None of them, Launer thought, had a right to enter Gordonston Park, and she told them as much.
The group challenged her right to bar them, and one Meredith Keyes pulled open the gate and strolled a few feet until she was under the lush canopy of the stately old oaks.
Launer and Keyes have argued before about this park. When Keyes entered, Launer quickly punched numbers into her phone to summon a Savannah-Chatham patrol officer. Keyes was gone in the few minutes it took an officer to arrive, much to Launer’s obvious annoyance. Five minutes later, Launer had called the mayor, the chief of police and the city manager.
It was one of the more dramatic encounters at the park but hardly the first. A few years ago, Gordonston was rocked by several murders, including the discovery of the body of Tom Hudd found buried in a shallow grave within the railings of the park. Then, we faced the tragic killing of Veronica Partridge, murdered by her crazed husband, and the still missing Doug Partridge, who remains the prime suspect in the murder of Tom Hudd. The same week of the murders, a sixty-two-year-old woman and Gordonston resident, Carla Zipp, died of poisoning under suspicious circumstances, though no one was ever arrested nor charged in that case. Additionally, an elderly man committed suicide and a decomposed body was discovered in a house by the side of the park. Things though, lately, had settled down. Until recently that is.
Ownership of Gordonston Park has been disputed and debated in the more than 80 years since Girl Scout founder, Juliette Gordon Low, set aside the estimated 7 acres, for what Gordonston residents believe was for their use.
This new drama involves insults, and a new inquiry by the Chatham County Tax Assessor’s Office that could possibly remove a tax exemption Gordonston residents have enjoyed for decades. Some Gordonston residents are so angered about “park crashers,” they are discussing hiring security guards or off-duty police officers to keep out trespassers.
Even the park’s name is disputed. Residents refer to it as Gordonston Park, but it is also called Juliette Low Park, or Brownie Park, in reference to young Girl Scouts by the thousands who used to camp there.
The latest feud is simmering between some Gordonston residents and a group in Twickenham, a neighborhood just north of Gwinnett Street.
Some of the more protective Gordonston residents insist that, when Low set aside the property, she meant it as a gift to the residents of Gordonston. They tell anyone who questions them that this is what the deed states.
Twickenham residents insist that someone as dedicated to her community as Low would not want to exclude anyone at a park.
Despite the “No trespassing, Residents Only” signs hung at the gates in recent years, some non-residents enter as they wish, even knowing that if they are spotted, a Gordonston resident will likely call the police.
“I haven’t found one suggestion, except for things the Gordonston Neighborhood Association has written to suggest that the park was meant only for the neighbors of Gordonston,” Keyes said. “These people have taken a very important part of Juliette Gordon Low’s history, and they’ve rewritten it.”
In her last will and testament, which she signed in October 1924, Low left detailed instructions about her final wishes.
She bequeathed her homes, forgave debts and — even down to the teaspoons in a silver service set — designated who would receive her household possessions. She took pains, too, to set aside the park property in the Gordonston community, which is named for her family.
Gordonston’s 80 acres — now bordered by Gwinnett Street, Goebel Avenue, Skidaway Road and Pennsylvania Avenue — had been her parents’ farmland. She and her siblings subdivided the property, but Low wanted part of it preserved to honor their mother and father.
In three paragraphs, she outlines that $6,000 will be left to trustees to pay for upkeep of the park. The principal was not to be touched, but any earnings from it are to be used for maintenance and upkeep.
In recent years, the Gordonston Neighborhood Association, led by Mrs. Launer and assisted by her friend and also a long-time Gordonston resident, Cindy Mopper, has taken a tougher stance against all visitors. The problem began about 10 years ago, when young people were entering at night. Police advised the association to post warnings so that officers would have legal grounds to remove trespassers, according to Launer herself.
“I understand why these outsiders want to be part of our community. But they are not,” said Launer. “It is as simple as that. I do not want these people encroaching in my park, nor do others. People should know their place. There are consequences…there are always consequences.”
Launer and Keyes are key players in the dispute.
Launer claims Keyes allowed unruly dogs to run loose in the park. Keyes says Launer was nasty from the beginning. Both claim the other was first to start the name-calling and insults.
About three months ago, Keyes claims the eighty-nine-year-old Launer threatened her with violence. Launer denies the accusation, calling it preposterous.
“She is acting like a Nazi,” said Keyes, “It’s as if she wants to rule the place. Who made her in charge of a public area?”
Keyes, in response to Launer’s stance created The Twickenham Dog Walking Club, encouraging her dog-owning friends and neighbors to use the park. She has even gone so far as to post on social media and invite strangers to use the park, claiming that it belongs to everyone in Savannah.
Coincidentally, right across the street from the park is the home of Mayor Elliott Miller. Despite calls to his office late last night, there has been no official comment on the situation from either the mayor, the Savannah Police Department, or any other city official.
That silence pleases Keyes, who stated, “The fact that not one person, including the Mayor, who lives close by to the disputed park, or any official representative of the City of Savannah has made any comment, is a good sign for my group. Without a doubt I am positive that the ‘Residents Only’ and ‘Private Property’ signs will be removed shortly. It is only a matter of time.
Heidi was furious. She threw the newspaper angrily to the ground. The girl had gone too far this time. Heidi could feel her heart pumping and was flush with anger. She was shaking. The only person who had caused her this much tension in the past had been Elliott Miller. And where was he in all this? No quote. No rushing to her defense. Not even to the defense of Gordonston? Typical of cowards like
them.
Thelma would be have been furious if she was still alive. It was their park. Cindy had made the comment that it was probably Kelly’s fault that Elliott had said and done nothing. She didn’t have the same passion as the original members of The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club. Heidi had agreed, and been intrigued when Cindy had told her that Kelly would ‘soon be getting the shock of her life.’
The newspaper had accurately reported the previous day’s events. Heidi and Cindy had been walking Walter, Paddy, and Fuchsl in the park when they noticed Meredith Keyes, along with her so-called Dog Walking Club approaching the park’s east gate, opposite Elliott’s home. She warned Meredith not to enter, mutual insults had been exchanged, and Heidi had called the police. Apparently, the Twickenham group, and others, had been encroaching into the park for a while. However, yesterday had been the first time that Heidi and Cindy had caught them red handed.
“Betty, Betty, come in here, fetch me a sweet tea,” screamed Heidi, whose mood was growing fouler by the minute. Who did these people think they were? How dare they? Meredith Keyes needed to tread carefully, or she could find herself in the park for all eternity. All it would take would be a phone call.
“Here you are,” said Betty politely, as she handed Heidi her tea before bending over to retrieve the discarded newspaper.
“What is this?” said Heidi staring at the glass, inspecting it as if it were a fine object of art.
“Tea, sweet tea.”
“If I wanted sweet tea, I would have asked for sweet tea. I asked for lemonade. What is wrong with you Betty?” Heidi knew what she was doing. She was asserting her authority. She was letting the help know exactly where she stood. Heidi was letting Betty Jenkins know that she was her superior, and better than her. If she couldn’t fight Meredith Keyes that evening, she would take it out on Betty.
“I’m sorry, I must have misheard,” replied Betty, who knew that she had not misheard a word.
“Take it away,” demanded Heidi, “I am going upstairs, so do not disturb me. I want to be alone.”
Betty Jenkins inhaled sharply. She was angry. No one had ever talked down to her in this way before, even growing up as a child when not everything was as equal as it was meant to be. Betty returned to the kitchen and her cooking.
Heidi reached the top of the stairs and fumbled in her pocket for the key to her private room. At least there, she could be alone. She could be with her memories, maybe even seek inspiration, and devise a plan of action. What would
he
have done? He would have struck back quickly and decisively. He would never have tolerated the likes of Meredith Keyes and her rag-tag group of misfits and mongrel dogs.
Thirty minutes later, after browsing through her artifacts and watching old movie reels, reading her collection of propaganda, and finally saluting the flag, Heidi felt revitalized. She felt young, ready to fight back. She
was
superior. It was her right to police the park, and it was her duty to deal with that horrible girl. It was also her right to have Elliott killed…and it was her right to speak to Betty Jenkins any way she wanted to.
Heidi locked the door, proceeded to the top of the stairs, and called for Betty.
Betty rolled her eyes, her hands covered in flour. What did she want now? There was always something, and Betty was reaching her breaking point.
“Betty,” said Heidi as her housekeeper reached the second floor of the spacious and elegant home. “I’ve noticed that you have not dusted here today. Look,” said Heidi as she ran her hand over the bannister, “Dust. It is filthy. Come on, buck up! Everyone can be replaced, you do know that? There are hundreds of ‘Bettys’ out there who would jump at the chance to work for me.”