There was a real crowd now. The men at the front were getting warmed up.
“Where’d you get them nice boots, boy?” came a voice thick with tobacco juice.
“Mr. Crane gave them to me, sir. When they didn’t fit his son anymore.”
“Tell the truth, now, you stole ’em, didn’t you? Stole them from the school? Stole ’em off one of our boys’ feet, didn’t you?”
“No, sir, I didn’t.”
“You calling me a liar?” the man asked.
“No, sir. I just think you’re mistaken.” Wash tried to keep his voice calm, but he felt his fear creeping in. The stories he’d heard from his father’s growing-up days in the country. All the ways a black man could die.
“He’s calling you a liar, Gary!” one of the other men at the front shouted. He stepped forward and sluiced a spray of black tobacco juice out of the side of his mouth. It landed hot and thick and wet on the side of Wash’s neck. He started to wipe it away, but the man shook his head. “Leave it be, nigger.”
A man with bright red hair and freckled arms unzipped his pants, shuffled closer, and grinned. Wash did not look down, but he felt the hot liquid soaking his pant legs and socks. “There!” the man said when he finished. “Now your shoes are real special, ain’t they?”
“Call your old man out,” someone called.
“Make him holler for the whole stinking family,” said another.
“They’re not home,” Wash said softly.
“You think we’re stupid? Every light in the whole damn house is burning, you smart-alecky bastard.”
“I’m telling you, sir, I believe that they are out.”
“Call them out here,” a big man growled. It was the same one who’d blocked his way when he’d tried to help Mr. Crane after the explosion. He radiated malice. “I told you we’d pay you a visit, didn’t I? Call them.”
“You tell him, Dalton!” someone yelled.
“Ma, Pa,” Wash called, his voice cracking. “Peggy. If you’re home, come out.” He started to turn toward the house, but one of the men jabbed his side with a shotgun.
“You just keep facin’ forward, pal. We’ll take care of the other Sambos.”
And then there were footsteps on the porch. The men sent Peggy and Rhoda to the side of the yard, but they made Jim stand with Wash.
“Let’s get down to business,” Dalton said. He stepped forward and tucked the barrel of his shotgun under Wash’s chin. “You blew up that school.”
“It was a gas leak that did it, sir,” Wash said.
“There you go contradicting me again.” He forced Wash’s chin up another inch. Pain shot down the back of Wash’s neck.
“We can stretch that liar’s neck of yours,” someone called.
“I’m just telling you what I know, sir. That’s all.” Wash had to talk around the pain.
“And you, what do you have to say for yourself, boy?” Dalton turned to Jim.
“There’s been a misunderstanding, is all I can say, Mr. Tatum.” Jim’s voice sounded small and afraid.
“Zane Gibbler got firsthand knowledge that you two was complaining about your nigger school ’fore it happened. Acting real jealous. Jealousy can make a body do crazy things.”
“Sir, we would never—”
“We know what your boy said that day. ‘It’d take an explosion to get their attention.’ Don’t deny it.”
A murmur ran through the crowd.
“Sir,” Wash stammered, “I never meant—you can’t think that—”
“It’s a marvel what you can think after you’ve picked up pieces of children and sorted them into piles.” Dalton edged even closer. “There’s a lot stranger things I could believe than that you and your nigger pa had a hand in this.” He turned to the rest of the men and asked, “Who here lost a child?”
More than half the men called out or raised a hand.
“Who wants justice?”
A shout went up.
Somebody hefted two heavy coils of rope into the space between the mob and Wash and his father.
“All right, let’s do this,” Dalton said.
BETO Beto lay in the bed of the truck, trembling. He could not move.
“Henry, where’s your boy?” he heard someone say.
Beto wished to be with Cari. Even in the ground. Anywhere but here. And then his father grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him over the side of the truck.
“You wanted to come,” he said. “Now get out here.”
Henry pushed Beto to the front and thrust him between Wally and another older boy from his school.
They held stones pulled up from the edge of Mrs. Fuller’s flower bed. “Here, pal,” Wally said with a false smile. “This one’s for you. You go first.”
Beto ignored the rock and looked down. His right hand was jammed deep into his pocket, his thumb flattened against his leg. His left arm hung limply. Sweat pricked his upper lip.
Then Henry grabbed his son’s chin and wrenched it upwards. “This,” Henry nodded at the crowd of pale men, “is our side.” He grabbed the rock from Wally and pushed it into Beto’s left hand.
Beto dropped it.
His father cursed and grabbed Beto’s arm. He hunched low and spoke into Beto’s ear. “Pick up the goddamn rock and throw it through a window. This ain’t a game, boy. Unless you want to be the one they’re pissing on next. Unless you want to be eating that goddamn cat for dinner tomorrow.”
Henry’s hand was heavy on his back, pushing him down to the ground. Beto felt his fingers close around the rock. And then he was standing again. Henry smiled a little and nodded. “Throw it.”
Beto could feel tears beginning to sting his eyes. His mouth formed the word “no,” but nothing came out.
He could not speak, could not even look at Wash. All those eyes.
Beto hurled the rock. Glass shattered, and the keys of the old upright piano jangled. He could hear Peggy crying. A rush of shame flooded him, and he ran.
◊ ◊ ◊
Beto knocked at the back door of the church. Then he knocked harder. At last Pastor Tom came to the door.
The preacher looked bewildered for a moment and then asked, “What is it?”
“Help,” Beto whispered.
THE GANG We knew the colored boy, sure. Some of us had exchanged greetings with him around the school grounds. All of us had seen him working for Mr. Crane.
It didn’t take long for the house to blaze. All that pretty trim burned bright and clean. A real torch. Some of us helped. Some of us didn’t. All of us who were there wondered what would be next.
When the windows were shattered and the fire was good and kindled and the boy and his father were black and blue on top of their blackness, Dalton scooped up the rope and looped a coil of it over each arm. He pointed up at the tall magnolia. In the light of the fire, the waxy leaves and thick branches stood out black.
“Nice tree you’ve got,” he said to the boy. “Can you see the future in that tree? Can you see it becoming real useful, real soon?”
Most of us had seen souvenir postcards in our daddies’ and granddaddies’ things. The mementos of lynchings. Trees hung with strangled fruit, smiling men standing to the side, proud of their work. Sometimes there were kids in the pictures, like it was a picnic.
None of us had seen the real thing. We did not feel prepared.
Then tires skidded to a halt behind the line of trucks and a car door slammed.
“What is this?” a voice called. A few of us recognized it immediately as a Sunday morning voice.
Pastor Tom elbowed his way to the front. “Burning a house? Beating these men?” He shook his head. “Will that bring our children back? Will it, brothers?” He stared at the men in front. He caught the eyes of those of us in the back.
“Maybe you’ve got a different line, pal,” Dalton Tatum said, “but I heard from my preacher that God meant blackness as a curse for the Tribe of Ham. Which I took to say, God don’t like niggers, neither.�
� He resettled the rope on his shoulders and cracked his knuckles.
“The Tribe of Ham has already been punished,” Pastor Tom started in. Then he was preaching, leaping from one Bible verse to the next.
We did not have much hope that scripture would stop this. Some of us didn’t know if we wanted it to, wanted to see how the idea might bloom.
The preacher kept trying. “Consider your actions! The hands that spill blood unjustly can never come clean.” He paused. “Henry!” he called. “Tell them. You know this boy! This isn’t right, brother. Didn’t he bring your kids out?”
Henry glowered at the pastor but remained silent.
“Listen.” Pastor Tom swept his eyes over the rest of the men. “This family is not responsible. The boy, neither. He helped at that school, he—”
“Don’t you make him out to be innocent,” a narrow-shouldered redheaded man shouted. “He made a threat!”
“Shit, this ain’t a Sunday school,” Dalton called. “Men, what do you say? We came here with a purpose!”
The preacher’s shoulders sagged. We could feel the worst coming.
WASH As the men pushed Wash into the dark garden, the coarse weave of the rope made his neck itch. His body ached. There was a pulsing pain above his right eye. He felt teeth loose in his mouth, an ache in his jaw. He tried to think of Naomi. Mexico. Splitting wood for her, hauling water, planting a garden. He felt he had not fought hard enough for it, for that life.
Most of all, though, he felt that he had not held her long enough. Not nearly enough.
He lifted his face. Clouds covered the sky. There wasn’t a single star to wish on.
NAOMI Naomi sat on a fallen log by their tree, listening. The creaking of branches, the steady flow of the river, the quiet scramble of small animals foraging in the undergrowth. There was a faint rustle in a high pine nearby. A desperate squeak. Silence.
Some tiny creature caught in the talons of an owl. Maybe there was a moment of exhilaration before the terror set in. She thought of Cari and the children who had died. Launched in the air. Shattered and shredded.
The same thought came to her whole again and again: Cari is dead. I will never see Cari again. It seemed stupid and impossible and, at the same time, true.
Where was Wash? She plucked up patience. Wash would come. He always did.
She tried to think of what it would be like to ride the train to San Antonio. While they were there, maybe she could take Beto to see Abuelito and Abuelita and spend a few minutes with Fina. No, it would be better to write to them once they were settled in Mexico. They would find rooms in some village where no one would ask questions. She would sew and clean houses. Wash would build things and sell them in a market. On Saturdays, they would walk through the plaza with Beto, buy him paper cones of mango and papaya sprinkled with chili powder. And they would find a school for him, one with lots of books. In time, maybe Wash would build them a place to live. He could do so many things.
Wash did not come.
Naomi waited. Her fingers stroked the short, dense fringe of moss that grew across the top of the log. Just a few more minutes, she told herself. She had been so sure that he would be there. And then there were footsteps on the path and she drew in a breath.
It wasn’t Wash.
◊ ◊ ◊
Naomi crept down the bank, feeling for the familiar footholds and steadying herself with the thin branches of young trees. The air hummed with insects, and a cool breeze swept up from the river. She could not remember a darker night.
“Beto?” she called. Softly at first, then louder. “Beto?”
A sniffle was the only response. She followed the sounds to where he lay. She reached out a hand and found that his clothes were already caked with the sandy clay of the riverbed.
“What happened? Where’s Henry?”
When he did not reply, Naomi’s first impulse was to find the quickest way to send Beto back to the house. In case Wash did come. In case they could still have a few minutes alone. But Beto was shaking.
She extended her hands past him and found that they were close to the broad, flat stone where the twins often fished. Where, in fine weather, she and Wash sat studying. It was cold now, and the river seemed different, not a warm brown thing but a liquid darkness gliding past. The hair stood up on her neck.
Naomi climbed onto the stone and pulled Beto up beside her. She stroked his hair with her fingertips. When he sniffled again, she wiped his nose with the hem of her dress. Then she took his face into her hands. “¿Qué pasó?” she asked. “Puedes decirme. Go on.”
A long time passed, and still she could not get him to speak. She could not see his lips moving silently, forming the same word again and again.
“We have to go back to the house, Beto,” she said.
She felt him shake his head no, no, no. He curled himself into a tight knot on the rock. He moaned.
Suddenly she had an idea. She had never wanted to share the tree with the twins, but they wouldn’t be here much longer now. It made her feel safe; maybe it would work for him.
“Look, if I show you a secret, will you tell me what’s wrong?”
Beto did not reply, but he let her pull him up. She led him up the bank and walked him back along the path and into the woods.
“Hold on to my hand,” she said and she led him to the tree. She stepped inside and then guided him through the opening. “See? A secret place.” She reached up and lifted the Christmas ornament from its nail and placed it in Beto’s hands. “Look,” she said. “This is where Wash keeps his treasures.”
Beto spoke then. A single word. Not even. A terrible sound. “Wash,” he said. “Wash. Wash. Wash.”
Naomi shivered. Her mind flooded with images of hurt. Wash in a car accident. Wash fallen into a grave, his ankle twisted. Wash delirious with fever in a strange bed.
“What is it?” she asked, gripping Beto’s hand tight in hers.
“Wash,” he said.
She gave Beto a shake. “It’s going to be okay.” She wrapped Beto in the blanket they kept there. She shook him again. “Wait here. Do not leave, entiendes?”
“Wash,” he said again. “Wash.”
She could still hear the hollow rustle of his words as she squeezed back out through the opening and rushed up the path toward Egypt Town.
NAOMI She thought she understood when she saw the flames. Wash’s house. The car. The shed. A terrible loss. But then in the light from the burning house she saw something nailed to the trunk of the huge magnolia tree. Crude black letters on a white board. LIKE FATHER LIKE SON.
So many shadows. But she knew what she saw when she looked up into the branches and among the waxy dark leaves and the enormous buds like closed white fists.
Even through her tears, she knew what she saw. Two dark forms, swaying. Hung.
Father like son.
She ran back through the woods. She did not care if she ripped her good dress or tripped or fell. She wanted to fall. Not just to the ground but deeper. Into a darkness that would go on and on and never end. Make a shovel of her grief. So many losses.
But she kept running. Because there was still Beto.
He lay curled in a small heap of blanket inside the tree. She folded her body around him. Rocked and rocked. Mumbled, “Yo te tengo a ti, yo te tengo.” She held him, but she could not put anything right. There would be no comfort for them, not now.
There was only sleep.
They slept the sleep of those who wish never to wake up. They slept the sleep of brokenness and heartache. Pain sucking so hard at their spirits that they could not imagine a tomorrow. Did not want to imagine it.
◊ ◊ ◊
Naomi opened her eyes. It was still dark out and even darker inside the tree. Her skin was damp with sweat at all the places where Beto lay curled against her, roasting her with the heat of his small body. And there was the weight of her heart.
She felt the knowledge of what she’d seen settle back over her.
But she had dreamed Wash’s footsteps on the path, Wash’s hand on her cheek. Then she felt it again, the hand from her dream. She heard his voice. She did not answer because you do not answer voices in your head. Or ghosts.
“Naomi? Wake up.”
It was his voice again.
She tried on the knowledge. Just in case.
Wash. Still alive.
Her heart refused to remember the body swaying under the magnolia.
She pulled free of Beto. He stirred but did not wake up. And then she exploded out of the tree and into Wash’s arms.
He winced and took her hands in his. “Easy,” he said. She trembled. She had hurt him. Ghosts did not feel pain.
“You’re alive,” she whispered. “I thought ... I saw...” She touched him gently now. “You’re alive,” she said again. His flinches told her where he hurt, which was all over.
“I was going to leave you a note. But you’re here so...” He drew in a sharp breath. “We’ve got big trouble.”
“I know,” she said. “I saw the house, the car. And ... I thought it was you, I thought I saw...” She swallowed the words. “But in the tree ... who did they get?”
Her hands were on his face, and she felt something like a smile. “Nobody, thanks to your preacher friend. He shook them up just enough. They strung up our scarecrows. We got a bad beating, that’s all. But we have to go.”
She thought back to her moments in the Fullers’ yard. In her shock, she had not seen what was missing from the garden. She only saw the flames, the horrible sign.
She gave herself over to this new knowledge: no one had died tonight. She did not owe his life to somebody else’s death. She pulled his mouth down to hers, wanting only to taste him but mostly tasting the blood on his lips.
He kissed her quickly and then pulled back. “Pa’s getting a car from Mr. Mason. I had thought ... well...” he hesitated. “Come with me. But it’s got to be now. Right now. We’ll send for Beto somehow.”
“He’s here,” Naomi said. “He came running here. He must have been there tonight.”
Out of Darkness Page 29
