The Last Suppers

by Mandy Mikulencak

  “Well?” Ginny asked.

  Her mama blew a cloud of smoke in her direction. “Well, what? So you found out Roscoe was a Klansman.”

  Ginny raged against Miriam’s accusation. “This is Daddy’s, not Roscoe’s. I found it under a board in your old closet.”

  “What were you doing in the old house?” Miriam asked. “I figured that rickety place would have fallen in on itself by now.”

  She couldn’t have known Roscoe had given it new life and that Ginny lived there. If Ginny had shared that information—and she never would have—her mama’s spite would have poisoned the good in the gesture.

  Her mama’s indifference irritated and confused her. “It doesn’t matter how I found it, Mama. I want to know . . . I need to know—”

  “Need to know what, little girl?” Miriam interrupted. “That your Daddy really didn’t wear that robe? That he wasn’t a part of the Klan? Why aren’t you having this conversation with your boyfriend?”

  “Please leave Roscoe out of this.”

  “Why? He and your daddy both wore the hood in the old days. Hell, Roscoe might still.”

  Angry tears poured from Ginny. “You’re a lying bitch!”

  Miriam crossed the room in two strides and slapped her face. “I’ve had about all I’m going to take of your disrespect. You show up here only when you want something. And even then, can’t wait to get away. If you don’t like the answers you’re getting, go look somewhere else.”

  Ginny’s cheek stung like hornet fire, but her mother’s words stung equally. Her fury shocked Ginny into uncharacteristic silence. Sitting down at the kitchen table, Ginny cradled her face. She knew Miriam wasn’t lying, but how could she not rail against this unbearable truth? Her world was more than upside down and inside out. It was a mutated, unrecognizable version of itself. Within seconds, Ginny was homeless and motherless. Roscoe had abandoned her without even knowing it.

  “Ginny?” Miriam placed a cup of coffee in front of her daughter and sat down.

  “Huh?” Ginny looked at her through changed eyes and with a changed heart. A stranger was offering her coffee and she didn’t know how to act or what to say.

  “Stop acting so shocked. You’re going to be all right,” Miriam said.

  What would “all right” look like? Everything would be different as soon as Ginny left this house. Driving, eating, sleeping, breathing, working.

  Miriam was right when she said Ginny always hotfooted it out of her house once she got what she came for. And that’s what Ginny should’ve done. But here she was, unwilling to make a move or utter a sound. Her shaking hands gripped the coffee cup. She was able to take a few sips of the scalding liquid, which warmed her throat and stomach.

  “It didn’t make him a bad man, you know,” Miriam said.

  Whether she meant her husband or Roscoe didn’t matter. In Ginny’s eyes, it did make them bad men. She never bought the idea that the Klan was just a reflection of the times in which they lived. Plenty of men chose not to participate in the violence, even if they hated the colored. Hatred in one’s heart was different from the kind carried out in church burnings or lynchings.

  “How can you be so goddamned accepting?” Ginny implored. “Are you okay with what they do? The people they hurt are our neighbors.”

  Miriam’s doughy face was expressionless. “It is what it is. Don’t act like this is some big surprise. You’re the daughter of a prison guard and you’ve worked at Greenmount your whole adult life.”

  “And that’s supposed to mean what?”

  Now Miriam appeared mostly exasperated with Ginny. “Back in the day, it was a given that most prison personnel were in the Klan. I assumed it ran all the way up to the state corrections board. Probably still does.”

  “Did Daddy kill anyone?” Ginny offered up the question to a woman known for her uncanny ability to hurt her daughter, but Miriam was the only immediate link to that time.

  “We didn’t talk about those things,” her mama said. “Women stayed out of that business.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  Her laugh came out like a bark. “Ask? Like, ‘How was your evening, dear? Kill any niggers tonight?’”

  “Don’t be so ugly,” Ginny pleaded. “I want to know if you think he killed anyone.”

  “Of course, I do.” She said it so matter-of-factly, she might as well have slapped Ginny a second time. “The man had a vicious streak, and booze only gave him permission to act on it. I’m going to make us some eggs.”

  Ginny’s mind reeled at this nonchalance. Miriam pulled eggs from the icebox and a skillet from the cabinet next to the stove. She looked like an actress in some television program cooking breakfast for her normal family on a normal morning.

  “Scrambled or fried?” A freshly lit cigarette dangled from her mama’s lips, which had upturned just enough to make Ginny think it was a grin.

  Stumbling into the bathroom down the hall, Ginny vomited a burning, coffee-tinged bile.

  The smell of frying eggs made it impossible for Ginny’s stomach to right itself. She leaned back and pressed her cheek against the cool, porcelain tile of the bathroom wall. At some point since Ginny arrived, she’d kicked off her sandals. Her toenails needed clipping. Traces of the Vixen Red polish remained. She couldn’t imagine herself doing mundane tasks like clipping nails or scrubbing toilets or cooking breakfast ever again. Normal didn’t apply to anything now.

  Miriam came in and sat on the closed lid of the toilet. “Get it out of your system?”

  Ginny didn’t bother to answer. Retching couldn’t relieve her of the helplessness that took up residence in her gut. Her fear was that it would now grow like a tumor, uncontrolled until it consumed the whole of her.

  Her mama got up and left, but she wasn’t gone for long. When she returned, she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Ginny. She’d brought clippers, an emery board, and polish remover. The sight of Miriam working on Ginny’s toenails left her even more speechless than the earlier slap. At first, the tenderness was almost too much to bear and Ginny jerked with every touch. Her mind suddenly latched on to a memory of the two of them sitting on the front porch, doing each other’s nails. As a child, Ginny’s hands had been clumsy. More polish ended up on Miriam’s skin, yet she always praised Ginny for a fine job. Was Ginny’s mind playing tricks on her? Memories of her mama were usually a catalog of hurts and disappointments.

  “Why didn’t you leave him?” Ginny finally asked.

  “Same reason you won’t leave Roscoe,” Miriam said. “Love.”

  “Is that enough?”

  “Has to be, doesn’t it? You want some new polish or leave ’em bare?”

  Ginny nodded, which Miriam took as a yes for the polish. Soon the tiny nubs of nail were a bright shade of coral almost offensive to the eyes. Ginny wiggled her toes as she’d done as a child, inspecting the work.

  “Good?” her mama asked.

  “Thank you,” Ginny whispered.

  “Let’s eat those eggs.” Miriam pulled Ginny to her feet. “You’re still too skinny and I don’t need you fainting and ruining my Saturday.”

  * * *

  Miriam let Ginny wash the dishes, even though Ginny braced for the usual criticisms. You’re using too much dish soap. Is that water hot enough? Scrape the plates first or you’ll clog my drain.

  Ginny didn’t have to worry about the temperature of the dishwater today. She intentionally made it almost too hot to bear because it forced her to feel something. Physical pain seemed almost laughable compared to the ache in her heart.

  While Ginny washed, Miriam sat at the table with the morning paper, clipping coupons.

  “Please tell me you’re not heading back to the prison to give Roscoe hell,” she said. “You ought to cool off a bit first.”

  “Since when do you care about our relationship?” Ginny said, drying her hands.

  “Cut the crap. You’ve been with the man more than four years. I know by now that it’s serious.”r />
  “Then why do you always give me shit about him?” Ginny asked.

  “Any mother would want better for you,” Miriam said. “He’s almost twice your age and will probably never marry you. You’re not getting the kind of life I hoped you’d have.”

  Not once had Ginny ever dreamed of being a bride, unless she counted the times she wrote Douglas Fairbanks Jr. and asked him to wait for her until she turned fourteen. She didn’t fill a hope chest with kitchen items and linens, anticipating the day she’d have her own home, picket fence and all. In high school, Ginny went on a grand total of five dates, all with the same guy. She’d given him her virginity, which apparently meant there’d not be a sixth date because she was “that kind of girl.”

  “Did you have the life Grandma Nan wanted you to have?” Ginny asked.

  “Hell, no,” Miriam said. “She called your daddy’s family poor white trash even though we didn’t have a penny more ourselves. And when he started working at the prison, I didn’t think I’d hear the end of it.”

  After she and Miriam had moved into town, her grandmother never once disparaged Ginny’s father in her presence. Had her mama really endured criticisms as harsh as the ones she doled out to Ginny?

  “I don’t remember Grandma saying an unkind word about Daddy,” Ginny said.

  “Why would she? After Joe’s murder, she felt the problem went away.”

  Ginny’s recollection of her grandma Nan was that of a soft, overweight woman who hugged so fiercely the air left your lungs in one swoosh. Nan powdered her silver hair instead of washing it regularly, and thus smelled more heavily of talcum than perfume. Her purse was always fair game to pillage, the spoils being hard candies, pennies, hairpins, and shopping lists.

  “Surely, she wasn’t that hateful,” Ginny said, wanting to protect the fragile memories of her grandmother.

  “After your daddy’s funeral, when all the guests had left the house and we were cleaning up, she took my hand and said, ‘When you look back, you’ll see that man’s passing was the luckiest day of your life.’”

  Ginny’s heart seemed to miss a beat. The strongest urge was to hug her mother, to tell her she was sorry. But sorry for what? Ginny was part of a multigenerational chain of disappointments. If she decided to have children, it wasn’t a certainty she’d be a kind and loving mother herself.

  “I can throw that away for you.” Miriam pointed to the Klan robe.

  “No.”

  “No? Why on earth keep it?”

  Ginny mulled over her knee-jerk response. The robe was something physical she wanted to show Roscoe. Something that could bolster her resolve. Without even thinking it through, she’d already decided to leave him.

  Chapter 13

  Ginny turned her car onto Highway 61 and drove without a destination in mind. At least she was moving, doing something other than foundering in her grief. Yes, grief was the only way to describe it. Roscoe was dead to her, as was the hope that they would have a future together. She couldn’t picture working at the prison anymore; that part of her life was stolen, too.

  Occasionally, she swiped at the tears clouding her vision, but didn’t care if she saw the road clearly or not. She was suffocating, both from the knowledge that Roscoe had been, or still was, part of the Klan, and that there was no going back to how things were before the discovery of the robe and hood.

  She wondered how her feelings differed from those who physically lost a loved one. Did they feel their lives were over? Who or what could they blame? Ginny didn’t know where to direct her anger. Miriam had done nothing but confirm the truth. Roscoe had only lied by omission. No. She was angry with herself. Mostly for thinking happiness was within her reach. Her parents certainly proved that happiness had nothing to do with love. Miriam had never been happy, but said she stayed in her marriage for love. Ginny didn’t think she had what it took to overlook something so huge just because she loved Roscoe. Her greatest fear, of course, was that he had hurt people—maybe killed people—and yet could appear the gentle man she thought he was.

  Lost in thought, she hardly noticed the merge onto Highway 425. An hour had passed since she left her mama’s house and she now found herself in the sleepy town of Ferriday. Ginny hadn’t been able to eat the eggs her mama had made. A piercing headache taunted her that she’d waited too long to eat. She pulled to the curb in front of a small diner whose window advertised a blue-plate special.

  Sitting at the counter, Ginny was aware of the other patrons and their stares. The mirror behind the soda machine told her why. Her unbrushed hair was frightful. Her dress was nothing but a plain cotton frock suitable for housework, but not public display, and she’d pulled on her loafers without stockings or socks. She hadn’t been headed anywhere but her mama’s, so she paid no mind to how she dressed.

  “Morning, miss.” The man behind the counter poured her a cup of coffee she hadn’t ordered. “Lunch service won’t start for ten minutes, but I can make an exception.”

  His kind eyes were welcome considering how self-conscious she felt.

  “I appreciate that,” she said. “What’s good?”

  “Since I own this place, I better say everything is good, but I’d highly recommend the meatloaf today.” He winked and motioned for a waitress to join them.

  “Betty, take care of Miss . . .”

  “It’s Polk. Ginny Polk,” she said. “I’ll have the meatloaf, an extra roll, and a slice of whatever pie is the freshest.”

  The waitress smiled. “A big appetite for a tiny gal. I like that.”

  Ginny was astonished that food held any appeal, but the smells of the diner were intoxicating. Simmering soups and gravies, freshly baked breads, roasted and pan-fried meats. She imagined sitting there for a few hours, just breathing in the comfort only food could provide her. Earlier, in the car, she’d envisioned her life in some sort of limbo without eating or sleeping or interacting with other human beings. Maybe she expected to have to retreat to a safe place in her mind as she’d done after the incident with Samuel. But here she was, talking and living and surviving.

  When her food arrived, she dug into it with ferocity. To hell with the diners who stared. She’d never see them again.

  Betty refilled her coffee cup and set down a small plate with two rolls on it.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you okay?” The waitress’s voice was low. No one else at the counter could hear.

  “Okay?”

  “Well, you look a little worse for the wear,” she said. “And we don’t see many young girls out on their own. I saw you drive up in that car by yourself.”

  Young girls.

  “Well, I didn’t get much sleep. I haven’t eaten in more than twenty-four hours. And this morning, I got some of the worst news of my life,” Ginny said, stifling a small burp. “I believe I’m doing all right considering.”

  “Considering,” Betty echoed.

  “And, I’m twenty-nine,” Ginny added. “I could show you my license, if you like.”

  The waitress laughed, deep and long. “I’ll take your word for it. Holler at me when you want that pie. The rhubarb is the best, but the cherry is a close second.”

  Ginny’s breathing had slowed considerably since entering the diner, and her mind no longer twisted with the what-ifs and whys that tortured her earlier. The calm was at once discomforting and luxurious. She focused on her meal and the conversations she could hear around her.

  A few stools over, two older men were having a spirited discussion on who caught the largest bass the previous weekend at Catahoula Lake.

  Catahoula. Roscoe’s thinking spot. The one place he retreated when life got unwieldy.

  When she visited Samuel’s family in Jonesville, she saw signs to the lake on Highway 84. It was less than an hour’s drive away from the diner.

  “Betty? Can I get the pie and these rolls to go?” Ginny asked.

  * * *

  Those times Roscoe said he was heading to Catahoula Lake, Ginny
knew he really meant the Little River, which fed into the 30,000-acre, saucer-shaped sump. The river always teemed with fish, even when lake levels plummeted in late summer. He’d described his special spot over and over again and how to access it from a dirt road that meandered until it reached a hairpin bend in the river. He had said that even though the road was marked, he rarely saw anyone else at the fishing spot he so prized.

  Ginny pulled the car well off the dirt path and under a copse of river birch. She was surprised to find a beat-up Ford pickup parked several yards away, hidden mostly by the wide trunks of the bald cypress trees at the water’s edge.

  Grabbing the paper sack that held the buttered rolls and rhubarb pie, she made her way to the river. To her right and farther down the bank stood a black man, ancient as the trees sheltering him. He grappled with a tangled fishing line. She nodded and smiled, and he returned the greeting.

  The ground was too saturated for her to sit. Ginny felt awkward, standing there with sack in hand. She looked both up and down the river, not really searching for anything, but wondering why she thought it had been a good idea to have come. As she turned to go, the old man waved her over.

  “Name’s Crawford.” He had a mouthful of large, straight teeth as white as the hair on his head. His smile overwhelmed all other features.

  “Ginny,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “I’d shake, but my hands smell of bait,” he said. “Nice to meet you anyways.”

  An awkward silence settled over them until he said, “You got bait in that there bag?”

  She looked down at her hand. Juices from the pie had soaked through the bag’s bottom. “This? No. Just some leftovers from lunch. I’d be happy to share if you’d be willing to sit a spell on your tailgate.”

  He grabbed his fishing pole and a tin pail that held his tackle. “Lead the way, miss.”

  Crawford pulled the tailgate down and swiped his handkerchief across it before motioning for her to sit. He retrieved from the front seat a red-checked dish towel wrapped around a sandwich.