There’s a sort of sigh, a settling, on the other side of the desk. Looking at their young faces, Ruth senses something that prompts her to ask, “Taking the high road isn’t always easy. Was there any trouble?”
Eyes shift away from her toward the floor. The tall, skinny boy in the back, gaze earnest and intense behind thick glasses, says, “We set up the petition table inside the gym. Outside, somebody put up signs saying ‘Nigger Lovers Enter Here’.”
Ruth winces. “I wish somebody had called me.” Damn, another lost news photo!
The burly one beside him frowns. “We tore ’em down once we got wind they were there.”
“But, somebody put ’em back up this morning,” the earnest boy says.
“And, a few people,” the plaid and pleated brunette adds urgently, “got stones pitched at them for signing.”
Ruth grabs her pen. “Who? And who did the pitching?”
“Well, uh . . .” The spectacled boy in the back flushes.
“Actually, Brainiac here was one of ’em, but the guys who did it have been set straight, ma’am.”
“We did have sixty-two signatures.” Mary Lou resumes leadership. “But two kids came back, said we had to take their names off, on account of it might hurt their daddies’ businesses.”
Their faces, so bright and shining upon their arrival, flicker with disappointment. So young, Ruth thinks with a pang. “I want to thank you for bringing this in. You’ve done a brave and bold thing and I’m sure Time magazine will want to cover it.” We certainly will, she thinks.
“And, will you tell the Dares, too?” Mary Lou presses. “Let them know not everybody in this town is against them?”
“Of course. This should make their day,” Ruth says. “It’s certainly made mine.” Unbelievable. “Can I get a quick group shot of you kids holding the petition, please?”
FOR RUTH, the rest of the afternoon blurs in Friday’s hustle for Saturday’s edition. Gene in the darkroom grumbles over the last-minute inclusion of the teenagers’ photo. Walt the typesetter growls over the tight turnaround on a logo for Carolyn’s column and the ad for House of Linens. And at six o’clock, on her way out the door, Peggy, the receptionist, announces she’s not feeling well and will probably stay home tomorrow.
Ruth stands, key in hand, locking the front door behind Peggy, as the modern sedan purrs into the parking space out front. An older gentleman, distinguished, conservative suit, gets out, makes his stiff-jointed way toward her. Now what? she wonders, releasing the deadbolt.
“Mrs. Barrows? We’ve not met in person, but we’ve spoken on the phone. Dr. John Leighton, Clark Christian Academy.” He offers a bony, freckled hand.
“Of course. You referred me to the article by the Reverend Billy Graham. Thank you again. Please come in.”
Dr. Leighton places his hat, a brown, center-dent fedora, on the chair beside him and sits formally, hands clasped in his lap. “I enjoyed your story on the two Billys,” he tells her. “Men like Billy Hathaway are despicable—exploiting other people’s fears for their own profit. And I applaud your efforts to expose him.”
“Why, thank you . . .” Wish I could say the crowd of cancellations in my desk drawer agreed with you.
“Mrs. Barrows”—Dr. Leighton leans forward—“yesterday, I called Sheriff DeLuth to inform him that my school, which is a privately funded Christian institution, would welcome the Dare children into our midst.”
“Wonderful!” Ruth says in a rush.
“But, unfortunately . . .” Dr. Leighton holds up his hand to stop her. “the Sheriff informs me that, were I to do so, I could be subjecting the school to criminal charges.”
“What?!”
“For violating state laws on segregation. Which, of course, the Sheriff says, he would be duty-bound to prosecute.”
“Oh, Lord!” Kick Ass strikes again.
Dr. Leighton purses his lips, as if trying to rid his mouth of a bad taste. “Of course, I cannot, in good conscience, break the law. But . . .” Eyes solemn, he presses the fingertips of both hands together in a prayerful tent, “neither can I sit by while the minds of these children go unattended. I have discussed this matter with the leadership of my faculty. And I am here to offer the Dare family, through you, the voluntary services of two highly qualified tutors.”
“Tutors?” Brilliant!
“There are four children, I understand, in grades one, two, three, and five? The tutors, who teach at Clark Christian during the day, will come at night, twice a week, and instruct the children at home. In addition, we will provide all required books and materials.”
Ruth sits back. What a brilliant, goddamn beautiful idea!
“Mrs. Barrows, I’d like you to reassure the parents that I will personally supervise the quality of instruction.”
“Your offer is wonderful. I’m sure they’ll be delighted. And much more receptive than our demented Sheriff.”
“We are a Christian institution, Mrs. Barrows. As I told Sheriff DeLuth: he, as a lawman, knows his duty; just as we, as Christians, know ours.”
After Dr. Leighton’s formal farewell, Ruth hears the mechanical grind rising to the rolling roar of the giant flatbed press in the back. Saturday’s edition was out of Hugh’s hands and into the capable grip of sweating, swearing pressman Joe Stephens.
Ruth sits, listening to the rhythm, like a heartbeat, of the press pumping ink onto newsprint. She smokes, sending gray rings spinning toward the ceiling. She surveys her desk: on her left, the still unclosable bottom drawer; on her right, Carolyn Ellis’s first “Blurbs from the Burbs”; and, in front of her, on top of the kids’ “We Care!” petition, Dr. Leighton’s card, which she’ll drive out to the Dares’ place first thing in the morning.
Jesus. Days of wondering if anybody’s listening, days of wishing someone would do something. And then this one. Ruth leans forward, presses the cream-colored button. “Hugh?” she calls into the interoffice speaker.
“Yep?” she hears his raspy, distracted voice yell over the rumble of the press.
“Can you come up front? We need to talk.”
36
Finally, after supper Saturday night, Pap agrees to walk out with Daniel and “take a look-see at them possum prints.”
“I hope they’re still there,” Daniel tells Pap as they make their way across the field, Pap holding the piney wood torch high above his head.
They are. But, once Pap gets a look at them, he squashes the idea of a hunt straightaway.
“This ’un here”—he points to the clearest print, with the toe like a hooked thumb on the side—“is her back foot. Ain’t a possum alive make a print that deep less’n she’s carryin’ five or six, mebbe more, younguns on her back. Cain’t hunt that possum till the younguns are grown and gone.”
Daniel is doubly disappointed. Not only is the hunt off, the pile of bee husks he’d told Pap about is gone.
“Them empty bee husks was right here, Pap. I swear it. A whole heap of ’em, sucked plum dry,” Daniel tells him, pointing to the spot where the husks used to be.
Pap grins in the torchlight. “I’m sure they was. But bees can be as persnickety ’bout their hive as any woman. Probably carried ’em off out inter the field somewheres.”
“What?”
“Ants the same way. Don’t bury their dead, jus’ carry ’em off someplace away from the livin’.”
“That true, Pap?”
Pap eyes Daniel and nods. “They’s gone, ain’t they?”
“But what’s to keep that possum from comin’ back, gettin’ into ever’ one of these hives?” the boy worries.
“Well, I’ll tell ye.” Pap drops a hand on Daniel’s shoulder, heads him back toward the clearing. “The first thing is plum laziness. That possum had to work all night to make a meal outta a bunch o’ bees. With all them mouths to feed, ye gotta b’lieve she’s lookin’ fer somethin’ easier—field mouse mebbe, or, since the rain softened things up, some big ol’ earthworms. The second thing is: tomorr’, ye gonna find y
oreself a camphor tree, pull off some branches, bring ’em out here and step on the leaves, crush ’em up a little, see? Then, sweep ye a wide circle round them hives. Possums don’t take to camphenated oil anymore’n people do.”
Daniel laughs, catching Pap’s joke. Mam thought camphenated oil cured everything. She was forever pestering them to “rub a li’l oirl” on Pap’s sore shoulder, Daniel’s cut foot, ’Becca’s runny nose. Pap, especially, hated the smell of it. “Get away from me! That stuff stinks to high heaven,” he used to tell her.
At the cabin, Daniel places the piney torch in an iron bucket by the steps, and the two of them sit in rockers, watching sparks sail up off the torch and into the dark clearing.
“Spent most of the day in the woods again, did ye?” Pap asks quietly.
“Yes. Sampson’s teachin’ me how to fish Indian style. I ain’t got the hang of it jus’ yet, but I will.”
“A boy b’longs in the woods. I b’lieve that.” Daniel hears the slow creak of Pap’s rocker, then a sudden stillness. “But, for the next couple weeks, I need you home with Lu and the girls.”
“Why?”
“There’s things goin’ on, boy, in town. Got nothin’ to do with us. And ever’thin’ to do with us. Could spell trouble.”
In the trembling light of the fading piney torch, Daniel sees Pap’s hawk nose, his scowling brow, in profile. “What things, Pap?”
“Accordin’ to Miz Barrows, there’s people in town want y’all back in their school. And, there’s people who don’t. Bunch of high-school kids signed a paper sayin’ they’s on our side. Bunch of Klanners painted up the newspaper office, killed their dog, sayin’ they ain’t. Accordin’ to Miss Lila, there’s a lawyer down at the Courthouse wants to take the school board to court. In the meantime, Miz Barrows is bringin’ out some teachers from a private school Monday night, catch ye and the girls up on yore lessons. The worst of it is, there’s an election come Tuesday to see if that Sheriff DeLuth gets to stay Sheriff or not.”
“Mebbe they’ll vote ’im out, Pap.”
“Well . . .”—Daniel sees the match, hears the suck and flare of Pap’s pipe. Pap takes a long pull. Beneath his nose, the tamped-down tobac glows crackly red—“ef they vote ’im out, Sheriff’s likely to rare up ugly, like a bear throwed out of his den. And, ef they vote ’im in, he could jus’ as easy bloat wild, like a b’ar hog gone crazy on gooseberries. Either way, could be bad.”
“But, me and Sampson are—”
“Not now, Daniel.” Pap sucks hard again. There’s no mistaking his father’s steely resolve. Daniel’s heart sinks.
“What d’you want me to do, Pap?” he asks.
“I want ye here for Lu and the girls when Will and I ain’t,” Pap replies, eyeing Daniel through the rising, meandering vine of pipe smoke. “I want ye to unwrap yore twenty-two and my shotgun, and clean ’em up good. I bought some new shells today, we’ll keep ’em at the ready. I don’t aim for ye to do any shootin’, boy. But I do want ye keepin’ an eye out.”
Daniel feels the weight of his father’s request fall, like a whole cupboardful of coverlets, across his own bony shoulders. He hangs his head. “All right, Pap,” he says, his voice and his hopes gone hollow.
She Who Decides is unspeakably relieved.
Just days after the disaster of the clawed intruder, the Young One, the favored of He Who Provides, arrives to cleanse the colony’s grounds of the intruder’s lingering scent.
The Young One’s action, She knows, destroys the markings that might otherwise invite additional trespass. In their stead, he creates a powerful, repellent moat; its scent a soothing balm to Her fearful, grieving kin.
The children are safe, She assures the Old Ones. We are all now safe, She tells the rest, many of whom counseled flight against the fear of another ruinous fight.
We stay, She Who Decides pronounces. We weather the Winter and trust Spring’s promise. And we watch, She decrees, that the Young One who comes daily to o fer his protection, is protected as well, within the free range of our shared ground.
37
As the Reverend Tommy Childs begins to read the names from the pulpit of the First Baptist Church, K. A. DeLuth bows his head and tries to look pious. But, inside he’s grinning from ear to ear. As far as this election game goes, it’s a helluva fourth quarter.
“Bobby Reid, Lois Ann Allen . . .”
This week alone, there’d been that crazy old coot runs the Christian reform school outside of town. We’ll welcome them Niggers in our midst, the old coot says. Over my lily white dead ass! Set him straight, didn’t I?
“. . . Getz, Mary Lou Meyers, Janet . . .”
That fat bastard Cantrell instigating these kids in Youth Group— Youth Group!—to get up their “We Care!” petition. Spreadin’ that bleedin’-heart bullshit all over the high school. Could’ve arrested the whole lot of ’em for pollution of county property, if I’d known about it.
“. . . Charles Patterson, Gwen Moore . . .”
Need to have Miss Emily down at the post office give Cantrell’s mail the once-over. I’ll lay five to a dime he’s a member of what?—the Progressive Party, the Civil Rights Congress? Probably subscribes to The Daily Worker, or some such shit. His ass is grass.
“. . . Charlotte Stone, Dottie . . .”
Course, that little twat Ruth Barrows had to air it all out in Time magazine. Their covers are always red, ain’t they? The idea of seeing my name inside a Red wrapper makes me wanna puke. But, like the Judge always said, good or bad, publicity’s still publicity.
“. . . Lee, Joan Marie Cuozzo . . .”
Have to hand it to Fred Sykes. He and his wife, three kids, bunch of Realtors, Jaycees, handing out free trick-or-treat bags to the station wagons downtown. “Your Future Sheriff Wishes You a Safe and Happy Halloween!” Probably had ’em printed up at the Towncrier ’s print shop. Lila wastin’ the Judge’s money like that. Bet the ol’ man’s turnin’ over in his grave.
“. . . Louise Hewitson, Angela Stout . . .”
Back of the treat bags, Sykes and his wife and kids make a pretty picture. But, it don’t beat mine on Ol’ Blue. Clive Cunningham says it reminds him of Roy fuckin’ Rogers on Trigger, and you can’t get more American than that!
“. . . Elizabeth Finneran, Joanne . . .”
Halloween on a Friday night! Goddamn Niggers went crazy with their numbers. Biggest haul I can remember. Have to call Hallwelle in Houston on Monday, tell ’im I’m ready for another bull. Gray one, this time. Spice things up a little.
“. . . Anne Knickerbocker, Marty . . .”
Barbecue at the Cattlemen’s Club went great yesterday. Like Clive said, “Sykes’ll take a few of the new subdivisions up north, but the rest of the county knows what’s what. You can eyewash it all you want, but the Sheriff’s job is to keep the Niggers in their place. And Kick Ass knows how.”
“. . . Blye Phillips, Karen O’Rourke . . .”
The topper was Clive’s wife. Standin’ up there sayin’ somethin’ should be done about these poor misguided kids, the sixty who signed the petition, listed on the front page of the Barrows’ Saturday rag. It was Sarah Cunningham’s idea to call all the Baptist preachers in the county, create a public prayer list, announce their names from the pulpit, ask the Good Lord to show them and their parents the error of their ways. That it wasn’t Christian to question God’s divine plan, or the established state laws on racial segregation.
“. . . Don Hardy, Vicky Newell . . .”
In the pew beside him, Birdilee reaches over and squeezes his hand, hard, and gives him a dirty look. Had he chuckled out loud? Sorry, darlin’, his eyes tell her, then return to the high-gloss shine on his Sunday boots. Course Birdilee didn’t much like Sarah Cunningham’s plan. “Aren’t these kids entitled to free speech?” she said, or some such nonsense. We all had a good laugh over that one!
DeLuth shifts position in his seat, rearranges his pants’ seam to the center of his knee. After this election, think I�
��ll take ol’ Clive’s advice, hire a deputy, maybe two. Yeah. One white, one Nigger. So nobody can accuse Sheriff K. A. DeLuth of being less than fair-minded. Hope I run into Fred Sykes downtown today. Have to tell ’im, “You are three and out, buddy. This game was a blowout ’fore you even suited up.”
38
Tuesday morning, Lila’s in the kitchen, sharing a second cup of coffee with Sissy, when sounds from the second floor suggest that the Lady Violet is on the move.
“What’s she up to?” Lila asks Sissy.
“Lawd knows. Reckon she decided to get outta bed?”
“I sure hope not.” As if there’s not enough going on today already. Lila locks her jaw.
“ ’S election day, ain’t it? Mebbe she g’wan to do her patriotic duty.”
“If I find out she’s votin’ for Kyle DeLuth, I’ll wring her neck!”
“Awww, c’mon now, Missy,” Sissy cackles. “She don’t like the Sheriff any more than she did the Judge.”
“Then why the hell did she stick with ’em both all these years?”
Sissy eyes Lila sideways. “Your mamma ain’t like you, girl. She need somebody to stick to.”
“Right. Like a black widow needs her web.”
“It’s true, girl. The Lawd give her two feet, but she ain’t never learned how to stand on ’em.”
“Stand on what?” Violet asks, pushing her way through the kitchen’s swinging door. She’s dressed in a lavender suit that appears a tad tight across her belly; plus heavy powder, bright lipstick, and an overdose of Violettes de Nice perfume.
“Two feet? One’s own ground? Principle?” Lila taunts.
“Who we talkin’ ’bout?” Violet wants to know. At the counter, she picks up a leftover piece of bacon from its serving plate, holds it between two fingers, pinky elevated, as delicately as a canapé.
“You, Mamma.”
Violet takes a bite. Eyeing Lila, she retorts, “Spiders eat their young.”
“So far,” her daughter says softly, “you’re one for two.”
True Fires Page 18
