“You don’t have to say any more about it, Mama.” Willy was back by his mother’s side. His tears flowed freely and Ginny wondered how much he remembered from that night. Maybe he’d been told the story over the years and was just recalling those memories now.
No one had bothered to tell Ginny the details. Two guards had shown up at their house to tell Miriam her husband was dead. Ginny had been hiding in the dark kitchen while the guards spoke softly to her mama in the living room. They’d said Silas Barnes had been caught in the act of robbing a bar. Her father and several off-duty guards were there drinking beer after their shift had ended. They said Silas shot her daddy in cold blood.
Willy tried to place an arm around his mother, but she shrugged him away.
“Your daddy had his gun on Silas, so he didn’t see me,” she said. “But I had a shotgun, too. I intended to cut him down right there. I wasn’t even thinking what would become of my little boy. Then your daddy caught sight of me. He was going to kill me.”
“You shot him?” Ginny managed only a whisper.
“No,” she said, leveling her eyes at Ginny’s. “One of the other Klan members shot him in the back. I’m alive because someone had bad aim. But they blamed it on Silas. Guess they were protecting one of their own.”
“Why didn’t you tell someone?” Ginny asked.
“You think I didn’t want to?” Mrs. Barnes’s face twisted with rage. “Who was going to believe a black woman? I had a son to protect. They told me to keep quiet. They made sure I kept quiet.”
Ginny recoiled. She’d heard more than enough, things she could never unhear. So many lives were ruined because of her daddy’s heinous acts. She was looking at two of them, and their pain was almost too much to sit with.
“They done things to me worse than death, Miss Polk. Worse than death.” Mrs. Barnes stood and turned her back to Ginny. She traced a finger over a black and white photo sitting on a shelf on the far side of the room. A father holding his baby son, beaming with pride.
When Silas was in the electric chair, Ginny hadn’t noticed that he shared the same lazy eye his son had. But she recognized it in the photo now.
Willy coughed and both women turned their attention to him. “You need to go now, Miss Polk.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Ginny felt unsteady on her feet. She walked as a drunk person trying to appear sober. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m sorry about my daddy.”
Willy held the door open for her. She didn’t look back at him or his mother.
“I’m sorry ’bout both our daddies,” he said, and closed the door.
1938
A Choice Between Wrongs
Roscoe lay in the bottom of the pickup bed, his teeth rattling with every bump in the road. He put his arm behind his head to cushion it and tried to focus on the stars. Joe was next to him, leaned against the cab of the truck. He banged his fist on the back window whenever the men in the front seat started hooting and hollering.
“Don’t those bastards know anything about keeping quiet?” Joe took a draw on his cigarette. “Shit. You’d think the warden would know better.”
They’d swung by the guard barracks at midnight to rouse Roscoe from a deep sleep. He kicked and scratched as they dragged him through the dark hallways. Wally, one of the older guards at the prison, had punched him in the kidney to still him. When Roscoe collapsed in pain, the guard helped him up, whispering into his ear, “You’re coming with us, nigger lover.”
Roscoe toed the white bundle Joe had thrown at his feet. By the light of a full moon, it looked pale blue, as did the landscape around them. Trees and shrubs, fences and houses all took on a nightmarish hue. The world slept, unaware of the five men and their night run.
“I don’t want to be mixed up in this,” Roscoe said.
“Just go along with it.” Joe slapped his friend’s stomach, causing him to grunt. “That is, if you want to keep your job.”
Roscoe could think of little else except his job. He needed to stay close to Miriam, to protect her and Ginny when Joe’s drinking got out of control. He wasn’t in love with the woman, so the need to protect her puzzled him. In some ways, he was protecting Joe. Roscoe loved him. Sure, he wanted him to cut back on the drink and go back to being the friend he had been. But Roscoe also feared that Joe would reach a place beyond redemption if someone didn’t stop him. That had been a job in and of itself, and the sole reason Roscoe was even in that pickup bed.
God, how he wanted to leave the shit hole behind. But whenever those thoughts picked at Roscoe’s brain, his stomach clenched with defeat as it did now. He had nowhere else to go.
“Hey, buddy?” Joe asked. “You’ll take care of my gals if anything happens to me tonight, right?”
“Talk like that tells me you know this is wrong. All wrong.” Roscoe chewed the side of his thumb and spat a piece of skin into the darkness. He’d already bitten most of the nails on his right hand to the quick.
“Maybe the guys are right. You are some kind of nigger lover.” Joe laughed and flicked a finger at Roscoe’s ear a bit too hard.
Roscoe rose up and took a swing at the shadowy figure next to him. Because of the rocking of the truck, his fist only glanced off Joe’s chin, knocking the cigarette from his lips. Regaining his balance, Roscoe threw another punch, connecting with Joe’s shoulder.
Joe scrambled to his knees and managed to straddle Roscoe in a single move. He punched him squarely in the face just once, but with terrific force, then crabbed his way to the other side of the pickup bed.
“Don’t you fucking lay a hand on me again, buddy. I’ll kill you if you do.” A half-assed laugh followed Joe’s drunken threat. He rubbed his knuckles vigorously.
Roscoe touched his mangled nose. His fingers came away sticky with blood, its sheen almost black in the dim light. He let out a slow breath, trying to tamp down the rage. No, buddy, he thought, I may kill you first.
The truck slowed and pulled onto a dirt road lined with gum trees that blocked out the clear, starry skies. The engine rattled to a stop and the men in front jumped out. Jacked up on adrenaline and whiskey, they seemed unable to control their movements as they pulled the white robes over their heads. Joe tossed one to Roscoe and muttered, “Do it,” before a cone-shaped mask obscured his face.
Warden Gates handed Joe and Roscoe each a shotgun from the rack behind the seat. The other men checked their pistols before trotting to the lone house at the end of the road.
Roscoe’s gut cramped so bad he thought he might have to shit in the woods. He knew, though, that Joe and the others would think he was making off into the night. If it came down to it, crapping his pants was preferable to the beating they would give him.
He kept at Joe’s heels while Wally and the warden took the lead. Roscoe hadn’t noticed the torches the other two guards carried until they stopped in the yard to light them. A line of pointed shadows stretched toward the porch that wrapped around two sides of the house.
“Get out here, Silas,” Wally barked, then raised his shotgun in the air. The boom startled Roscoe. His sweaty grip on his own shotgun tightened.
“We know you got that pregnant white gal in there,” the warden shouted. “Come on out or we’ll burn you out.”
A tall, well-muscled man opened the front screen door, his hands raised. He wore a white sleeveless undershirt and loose pants that weren’t buttoned. Even by torchlight, Roscoe could see the slick sweat that covered his face and chest.
“Don’t want no trouble,” Silas yelled. “That girl had nowhere to go. She came to our church looking for help. My wife’s taking care of her.”
“Her daddy says different,” Joe called out. He shuffled his feet, causing his robe’s hem to flutter. Roscoe knew this nervous tick well, but he didn’t know who the girl was or how Joe knew her father.
“Girl’s daddy the one who got her in a bad way,” Silas countered. “She safe with us. Ain’t no harm come to her.”
“We don’t know what you
’re doing to her in there,” Joe shouted. “Could be keeping her against her will.”
“I’m a man of God. Why would I hurt that girl?”
Silas’s hands kept his hands raised, but they now shook. His grimace was almost unnoticeable. But Roscoe saw it. The set of his jaw said he was bracing himself. He knew that violence awaited. But neither he nor Roscoe knew what form it’d take.
The hood on Roscoe’s head was suffocating. The sweat from his hair and forehead stung his eyes. He poked two fingers through each eyehole to wipe it away. He willed himself not to blink; not to tear his attention away.
Joe inched toward the house, shotgun raised. He used the barrel to motion the others to do the same.
“Goddamn this,” Roscoe muttered.
“Keep your mouth shut, boy,” the warden warned.
“Let’s leave this man be,” he begged. “We have no business being here.”
As Joe and the other men turned their attention to Roscoe, they failed to notice the woman easing slowly around the corner of the side porch. Time slowed as Roscoe took in every detail of the ghostly figure: the long white gown she wore, her bare feet, the night kerchief she’d tied around her hair, the shotgun raised to her shoulder.
“Olivia, no!” Silas shouted, and lunged for her.
Joe whipped around, raising his gun in one fluid motion. Two blasts went off in quick succession. The blur of white robes disoriented Roscoe. The warden and two guards rushed the porch and overtook Silas and his screaming wife.
Roscoe’s gaze landed on Joe, who lay facedown, unmoving. The starkness of his white robe was marred by a dark spot whose edges grew until it was almost the size of a silver dollar. Roscoe knelt and rolled Joe onto his back. He wished he hadn’t. The gaping exit wound looked like used motor oil and hamburger meat. Roscoe’s stomach heaved as he fought for air.
He removed Joe’s hood first, then his own. He closed his eyes and found he could breathe again. The night air smelled sweet, of honeysuckle or gardenia. Almost strong enough to overpower the metallic pungency of the blood seeping from Joe’s body.
“I’m sorry,” Roscoe said, but those were words he didn’t mean. He felt only relief. A relief so huge that it overshadowed the chaos still erupting around him.
When someone called his name, it sounded tinny and distant. He turned just as the butt of a shotgun met his forehead.
* * *
Roscoe couldn’t tell how much time had passed when he came to. The rope around his wrists was secured to a tree branch so that his body arched unnaturally and his feet barely touched the ground. His face was caked in blood from the wound inflicted by the shotgun butt, yet every muscle pulsed in agony. He’d been beaten but good. Although one eye was swollen shut, Roscoe could make out his assailants. He worked with them every day. That included Warden Gates.
Now that he was awake, they continued the beating in between swigs of white lightning. His body spun on the rope with each punch. He prayed he’d lose consciousness again.
“You sack of shit,” the warden said. “Killing a fellow guard. And your best friend.”
Roscoe tried to speak, but his mutilated lips managed only a mumble.
“What’s that, you son of a bitch?” Gates asked. “I can’t hear you.”
“I was aiming for the woman,” Roscoe lied. “I was aiming for the woman.” The salt in his tears seared the torn parts of his face.
“I don’t believe him,” Wally shouted.
Roscoe spat fresh blood. He didn’t figure on dying this way or this young, but he wasn’t going to beg for mercy. “Let me down or finish me off.”
The warden motioned for Wally to cut the rope from the limb. Roscoe collapsed into a heap, his hands still bound.
He forgot there’d been a second shot. Had Joe or Silas’s wife fired? Talking was painful, but he had to know if other lives had been taken. “Are they dead?” Roscoe sputtered.
“The nigger and his woman? Nah, but they probably wish they were.” Gates squatted and spoke directly in Roscoe’s ear. “So, here’s what’s going to happen, Simms. We’re going to say that nigger killed Joe. You’re going to go along with it.”
The warden said no more. Roscoe expected him to follow up with a threat, but it was implied. Gates motioned two of the guards over and they threw him into the back of the truck like a sack of potatoes. They hadn’t bothered to untie him.
Joe’s body lay just inches from Roscoe’s face. He was thankful someone had closed the eyelids. Leaning his head back, he tried to imagine what his pummeled body would feel like at daybreak. He’d never been so thirsty. He just wanted water. God, just a little. Licking his lips caused a hot, red spike of pain. Blackness closed in once more until a muffled cry near the tailgate roused him. He eased himself up to get a better look. Silas lay motionless in a twisted, hog-tied lump, a burlap bag over his head.
Chapter 18
Ginny had always been told that Roscoe was with her daddy the night he was murdered. Yet, he’d sworn he never hurt anyone. If Mrs. Barnes’s story was true, then Roscoe stood by while Olivia was raped and beaten. For twenty-one years, he covered up the fact that one of the guards—not Silas—had killed her father. Worse, he let a man go to the electric chair rather than tell the truth. He had hurt someone. Several people, in fact, and she was just now realizing the full domino effect.
Emotional pain had a physical quality beyond the fatigue and headaches. It was something that invaded every one of her cells and changed their makeup. It was not alleviated by crying or screaming at the top of one’s lungs. She’d done both for two hours. At one point, an irrational fear overtook her. Perhaps God was punishing her for not believing in Him all along.
By the time she reached Boucherville, Ginny was surprised that she felt very little emotion. Her body seemed featherlight as if she purged the heaviness of grief the entire drive back from New Orleans. Her headache had been replaced by a slight dizziness, something akin to the blood rush a child might feel hanging upside down on a tree limb or swinging too high on a swing set.
She could only think of two places to go: the prison or her mother’s. Dot was likely to provide comfort and a voice of reason. But perhaps Ginny needed Miriam more. Her mama would relish helping Ginny hold on to her anger. It was such an active emotion compared to sadness. Fueled by anger, she could imagine being propelled forward. Toward what, she did not know.
Both options, though, required energy she didn’t have. A third option emerged: sleep over at the warden’s residence. Eugenia had offered her a bed on several occasions, especially after late-night parties when Ginny worked well past midnight cleaning up the kitchen.
She passed through the prison’s main gate around five. Dot would have supper prepared for the inmates by then, so Ginny didn’t bother stopping to check in on her. After all, Dot handled most every aspect of the kitchen now that Ginny worked for the warden and his wife. And Dot had hired her grandniece, Bertie, to help. The young girl was eager, tripping over Dot’s feet throughout the day, seeking her approval. And she could bake a mean biscuit.
Ginny left a note on Dot’s door at the women’s barracks to let her know she was sleeping at the residence. Her excuse was that Mrs. Levy needed her early in the morning and it was just easier to stay there. She slipped a nightgown, toothbrush, and change of clothes into a bag before leaving.
Driving up to the freshly painted home, with its lush green lawn and blooming crepe myrtle, was like stepping onto a movie set. Eugenia had worked magic to create a space that could make you feel you left the prison behind once you parked on the gray crushed gravel.
With the setting sun in her eyes, Ginny almost didn’t notice the warden sitting on the front porch.
“Good evening, sir,” she said.
“Let’s dispense with the sir business,” he said, jovially. “I’m off the clock.”
It was five-thirty. The warden was rarely home before seven.
“I thought I might have a word with Mrs. Levy.” Ginny eye
d the glass of iced tea the warden was gulping. Her throat constricted. She couldn’t wait to drink something—anything—after the long drive.
“The missus is in New Orleans for the night. She’s seeing an old friend and having dinner,” he said. “I thought I’d kick off early and enjoy the peace and quiet.”
Ginny understood exactly what he meant. Mrs. Levy filled the house with her constant chatter and hummingbird movements, seguing without transition to the next topic. Ginny had taken to ignoring her until Mrs. Levy repeated a question. That was the only way Ginny could determine if Eugenia was talking just to hear herself talk or if she had a real request.
Seeing as how the woman was still Ginny’s boss, she didn’t think it proper to commiserate with the warden about his wife’s nagging.
“Join me for some iced tea?” He motioned to the full pitcher on the wicker table near his chair.
Normally, Ginny would decline, but her chapped lips and pasty tongue made the decision for her. She nodded her thanks and sat in a wicker rocker. The view out toward the prison compound was colorless and depressing. She’d just as soon go stand out in the driveway and stare back at the house. At least she wouldn’t be out there long.
“You’re gussied up today, Miss Polk,” he said. “Not a workday, I presume.”
She looked at the gloves on her hands. Ginny couldn’t remember putting them back on when she left Mrs. Barnes and Willy. Suddenly, she felt self-conscious and tugged at the skirt of her dress. It was one that Mrs. Levy had purchased for her in case she decided to start going to church on Sunday mornings. It was the first time she’d worn it.
“Your wife gave me the day off to visit someone in New Orleans. I thought I better clean up a bit.”
“Well, you ladies should have driven together,” he said. “Although, I know the value in having some time apart from Eugenia.”
Ginny didn’t know what to make of the good mood and jokes. Outside of “good morning” and “good evening,” they’d really only had two conversations and those were about the last suppers: the first being that they were no longer allowed; the second being that she’d have to cook one for Jasper Sires.
The Last Suppers Page 21
