The Governor’s Sons

by McKenzie, Maria

  “Kin to Ash’s what?” Lillian Ann asked impatiently.

  “His—girlfriend—the one that died.”

  “Girlfriend? ‘The one that died?’ What on earth are you talking about, Charlene?”

  Charlene forced a smile. “He mentioned her briefly once, before we were married. He was—very much in love with her—but…”

  Lillian Ann looked at Charlene oddly as she inhaled the last of her cigarette. “I don’t recall him being in love with a girl that died.” With each word, smoke escaped from her lips. She reminded Charlene of a painted dragon.

  “You don’t?” Charlene asked.

  Lillian Ann crossed her arms as though being challenged. “No.”

  “Well—maybe he met her while away at school.”

  “Perhaps,” Lillian Ann said, “but Joy Hope is a small town. Everyone would have known something about that. If he’d been so in love, I’m sure he would’ve brought her home to visit.”

  “Do you think it could have been a—a secret love?”

  “You mean—like a white trash girl—or a foreigner?” Lillian Ann replied snidely. “Oh, Charlene, who knows? So—Ash told you that he’d been in love—and the girl died?”

  “He didn’t really choose to tell me. But when we first met—I could tell something happened—that devastated him and caused some type of trauma. After I wouldn’t let the subject drop—he told me. Besides the bare facts, I don’t know anything else, and he doesn’t want to talk about it. I guess you could say curiosity’s gotten the better of me,” Charlene said, then thought to herself, along with the onset of menopause, insecurity about my marriage, and my fading looks.

  “Well…” Lillian Ann looked thoughtful for a moment. “You know, Charlene, now that you mention--a young girl dying—before he met you—I do remember something.”

  “What?” Charlene was eager to hear, but Lillian Ann didn’t say anything right away. Instead she smiled crookedly with one eyebrow raised.

  “There was a girl that worked for his family one summer.” Lillian Ann paused a bit longer than necessary. “She ended up dying the next year.”

  “Oh,” Charlene said uncomfortably.

  Lillian Ann leaned close to Charlene. Tobacco and alcohol laced her breath. “Talk was--she was raped—and died having the rapist’s child.”

  Charlene’s eyes widened. “That’s horrible.”

  “It was horrible, especially from what I remember hearing—from the Neegroes.”

  Charlene’s eyes widened, and she couldn’t speak for a moment. “So—the girl that died—the one—you’re talking about—was a Negro?”

  “Yes,” Lillian Ann sharply.

  “What was her name?”

  Lillian Ann laughed. “Charlene, that happened a million years ago. I can hardly recall the names of the temporary help that worked in my own home back then. But if I do remember—I’ll let you know.” Lillian Ann paused, gazing behind Charlene.

  Charlene glanced over her shoulder to see why. Ash was walking down the steps from the French doors.

  “There’s your husband,” Lillian Ann said. “He’s probably looking for you. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She left Charlene alone and walked in Ash’s direction.

  As Lillian Ann moved toward him, Charlene watched. Lillian Ann appeared to sway her broadly encased hips and thrust her shoulders back, perhaps in an effort to entice Ash with the large sagging bosom she’d piled into her all in one undergarment.

  “Your mother’s having a lovely party,” Charlene heard Lillian Ann say to Ash. “And I just had a lovely chat with your wife.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, Lillian Ann.” Ash was polite. “Now, go help yourself to some punch and lay off the alcohol.”

  Lillian Ann threw her head back and stalked off. Meanwhile, Ash headed for Charlene. He smiled while approaching her. “Here you are.”

  Charlene didn’t say anything, but only pursed her lips.

  “What’s wrong?” He squeezed her arm gently. “You look worried. Is everything okay?”

  Charlene quickly unknit her brows and tried to look pleasant. “I’m fine.” She nervously clasped her hands. “It’s—it’s nothing.”

  Ash lightly touched her cheek as he said, “I was wondering where you disappeared to.” He glanced back toward the house.

  Lillian Ann stood in the entranceway of the French doors. When she noticed Ash gazing in her vicinity, Charlene observed her hold tight to her young stud, as though trying to make Ash jealous. But Ash ignored Lillian Ann and turned back to his wife.

  “Why were you out here talking to that lush?”

  Charlene only smiled as she grabbed his arm and began walking. “It’s not important. Let’s us just go back inside.”

  ****

  Charlene tried to suppress a yawn as she spoke with Mikki on the sofa in the living room. It was near midnight, and the last of the guests were leaving. However, before Lillian Ann said her goodbyes, she asked to see Charlene, then steered her to a quiet corner in the large foyer. A new cigarette flared bright orange in the long black stem that dangled from her hot pink mouth.

  “Kitty,” Lillian Ann said.

  “Pardon me?” Charlene asked.

  Lillian Ann removed the cigarette from her lips and held it between brightly polished hot pink fingers. “Kitty. That was the Negro girl’s name.” A nasty gleam lit her reddened emerald eyes. “At least that’s what Ash called her.”

  “Oh,” Charlene said softly.

  “Why don’t you ask Ash about her? He can tell you more than I can, that is—if you care to know anything else.” Lillian Ann’s husband sauntered toward her and draped a white silk shawl around her shoulders.

  That beautiful hunk of beef cake was quite attentive to his meal ticket, Charlene thought, then scolded herself for being so catty.

  “Goodnight, Charlene,” Lillian Ann said.

  “Goodnight, Lillian Ann.” Charlene nodded toward Lillian Ann’s husband and said goodnight to him as well.

  Lillian Ann inhaled deeply from her cigarette. “Charlene, darling,” smoke rolled from her lips, “I just can’t tell you how nice it was to see you again—and I so enjoyed our chat.”

  Chapter 21

  The greasy smell of hamburgers and frozen French fries from dinner still lingered in the carriage house. Otis sipped on a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer and gazed over at Libby. She’d been fidgety all evening. Distracted, she’d hardly been able to eat anything. And now while they sat on the couch watching the late night movie, she couldn’t even focus on it. For the third time, Libby cleaned her glasses. But pretty soon, she’d probably start tearing into her cuticles again.

  It was the Organization, Otis suspected. Maybe she should pull out. The stress was getting to her. Of course, if he said this, she’d disagree, not to mention lose her temper, and he certainly didn’t want to make her angry.

  Whatever was going on probably involved another task for him. The tasks had been exciting. Libby appreciated his talent and he’d received praise from the Organization. Otis knew what he was doing was wrong—but he hadn’t hurt anyone. That’s how he’d tried to justify things to himself.

  “Otis,” Libby said, as she turned away from the T.V. to look at him.

  “Yes, honey.”

  “Do you mind if we turn the movie off?” Otis shook his head. “I can’t seem to pay attention, anyway,” Libby said, shutting off the television. Although smiling, Libby appeared uncomfortable. “Otis, you have such beautiful eyes; so trusting, so brown. Now, honey—you’ve done everything I’ve asked you to, and I appreciate that. But this time--what I need is a lot more than anything I’ve ever asked before.” She hesitated briefly. “Look—I--I won’t beat around the bush. I’m just gonna lay it out straight, darlin’.”

  Libby took a deep breath. “Our operatives told me that Harland Hall’s moving his office from Atlanta, to right here in Clarkstown.”

  So, Otis thought, that’s what’s got her all up in arms. “Well,
he’s quite the—uh--force to be reckoned with.” He smiled. “That is—I guess—anyway. Now, honey, just who is he exactly?”

  “You know who Martin Luther King, Jr. is, right?”

  Otis nodded. He could tell by Libby’s tone that she was annoyed.

  “Well, Hall is almost just as bad! He works right alongside King and organizes those damned so-called peaceful demonstrations and protest marches that stir up all kinds of trouble!”

  “Oh…so, he is somethin’, isn’t he?” Otis tried to sound as worked up as Libby.

  “Yeah--and he’s gotta be stopped.”

  “What can be done to stop him from moving here?”

  Libby looked at him intensely. “Otis—lots can be done once he gets here.”

  “So—once he’s here, we can scare him some, right? Do some things like we’ve been doing.”

  Libby bit into her upper lip. “We want to do more than scare him.”

  “Well, what can we do to just make him stay in Atlanta and not come here?”

  “We want him to come here! The Atlanta operatives want him out of Georgia. They don’t want his blood on their hands. The FBI’s closing in on them so they have to be careful.”

  “‘Blood on their hands?’”

  “He’s too powerful just to threaten!”

  “Libby, what are you trying to say?”

  “Harland Hall has got to be stopped—for good!”

  “Well look, honey—when I made those bombs and set ‘em off at the synagogue, the paper and the NAACP, they got results.”

  Libby banged her fist into the back of the couch. “Temporary results! No one was killed in those explosions, and the damage to the property was minimal! People quieted down for a few days—so what?!”

  Otis slightly edged away from her. “I’m not out to kill anybody.”

  “If he’s not killed,” Libby leaned close to him, “he could at least be maimed! That would shut him up. Otis, you can make a mail bomb. Blowing off his hands and face might be an even more powerful statement than killing him!”

  Otis stood from the couch. “Libby—you’re sounding like a lunatic!”

  She sprang to her feet to face him. “I am not a LU-NA-TIC! Otis, you’re playing with the big boys now, and they’re expecting me—us—to do this!”

  “Libby—I can’t go hurt somebody like that.”

  “Harland Hall isn’t just somebody!” She poked her bony finger into his chest. “He’s a puppet—a Communist pawn—and an evil tool of the Jews!” She continued poking him to punctuate each point. “He’s a threat—and one that’s hard to control. But worst of all, Otis, he’s nothing but a Negro! I’ve seen him interviewed on television more than once. He’s respected—people listen to him! The T.V. reporters treat him better than they’d ever treat you!”

  Otis took a few steps away from her. “Libby—I’m not gonna hurt him! You think it matters a hoot to me how I’d get treated by a T.V. reporter?”

  “Otis,” she sidled up to him, then seductively put her scrawny arms around him. As she kissed him, he almost lost his senses. “You like what I do for you,” she said softly and began unbuckling his belt. “We can do what you really like—right now. But you have to promise to help me.”

  “Libby…” Otis swallowed hard, as she unzipped his pants. He removed her hands when she tried to slip them inside, then backed away from her as though she’d turned into a water moccasin.

  “Libby,” Otis zipped his trousers quickly, “when I—I came on board—I made it clear—I wouldn’t hurt anybody. I—I haven’t changed my mind,” he stammered. “I can’t be a part of this anymore.”

  Libby’s eyes flashed angrily. “What!”

  “We can’t go turning into folks like that other group that killed Willie Cane and his wife and child.”

  “We are that group! We’re one and the same! I didn’t tell you because I thought I could make you to see things as clearly as I do!”

  “But—you didn’t have anything to do with those murders?”

  “No—I didn’t,” her tone was bitter. “But now I’ll have a chance to do something bigger! That incident was peanuts compared to killing Harland Hall!”

  Otis couldn’t believe what Libby was saying. He had to do something. Though all he could think of was turning himself in. Perhaps Ash could see that he was granted immunity for the information he’d provide. After all, his bombs hadn’t killed anybody. But even if he had to serve time, Otis thought, he deserved it. He’d have to suffer the consequences for his illegal actions.

  “Libby, I can’t go on doing this for you. I’m the Governor’s brother-in-law.”

  “He treats you like dirt! And he’s a traitor to States’ Rights! He deserves whatever misery the White Knights of Righteousness bring to his administration!”

  “Look, it’s no skin off my nose if Ash doesn’t think too highly of me—but he’s married to my sister—he’s Gavin’s father. And Libby—the colored people can’t help being colored. But we can’t go around killin’ ‘em!”

  “But we can put a stop to this whole Civil Rights movement!”

  “Who are we to play God, Libby? Does He want us runnin’ around killin’ Negroes because—”

  “You just don’t get it, do you?!”

  “Libby--”

  “I’ve known all along that you were nothing but an idiot, a useful idiot!”

  Her words cut like a white hot knife through his heart. Otis turned away from her and walked to the phone.

  “What are you doing?” Libby asked, alarmed.

  Otis said nothing as he reached for the phone.

  “You can’t!” she shouted.

  Otis turned toward her, only to find himself looking down the barrel of a small caliber revolver. A loud blast was the last thing he heard. The bullet lodged right between his eyes.

  ****

  Libby watched as Otis’s lumbering body teetered backward and hit the floor with a loud thud. Blood streamed from the back exit wound creating a red river around his head. After shoving the gun back into her thigh holster, Libby quickly surveyed her surroundings. She’d dispose of the gun and holster later. Right now she had to deal with the crime scene.

  No one would have heard the gunshot at the big house. Leona was off because Otis’s parents had gone out of town for the weekend. They wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. The mansion sat secluded, away from the neighbors. Anyone who could’ve heard it might’ve thought it was a car backfiring.

  Despite the absence of Mr. and Mrs. Stokes, Libby still had to work fast. She didn’t want too much time to pass until calling the police.

  Otis’s place was always a mess, but to make it look even worse, Libby overturned a chair and water stained coffee table. She then grabbed a pair of scissors from Otis’s worktable. After poking a hole in her plaid skirt, she tore the fabric with her hands.

  Before Libby notified the authorities, she’d have to call Operations Headquarters. She’d need a pay phone for that. Although Libby didn’t think Otis’s phone was tapped, she couldn’t be sure. The closest phone booth was a five minute drive away. She reached for her purse, but then thought better of it.

  Having time to grab her car keys wouldn’t be a realistic scenario for the story she was formulating. She collected a few coins from a glass jar of change on an end table, and shoved them into her pocket. For a dramatic touch, she threw the jar to the floor. It shattered into a hundred shards, scattering copper and silver all over the floor. Then she kicked over the table.

  Libby glanced at her watch. If she set out on foot, and ran at least part of the way, she could reach the pay phone in about 20 minutes. She’d make up some excuse for not stopping at a nearby residence.

  Libby peered over at Otis’s body. Blood stained his face and oozed all around him saturating the light blue carpet, turning it to a deep maroon. Good riddance, Libby thought, as she bolted from the carriage house.

  ****

  No stars were visible in the sky, and the warm air f
elt thick and muggy. It was well past midnight and no one was around to see her. Winded, Libby’s running had decreased to a fast paced walk after only a few minutes. Using her skirt, Libby wiped fingerprints from the gun as she approached the Coleridge River. While crossing the Manchester Bridge above it, she tossed the gun and holster over the edge. Using the light of the street lamps along the bridge, she watched the gun sink, and the current carry away the holster.

  After she’d crossed the bridge and traveled a while longer, the park wasn’t too far away. Libby could see the large lit clock and ornamental night lamps in it a short distance ahead. She tried to run the last several yards, but shortness of breath she blamed on smoking, caused her to walk. Once Libby got there, she stopped to grab a stick that lay on the ground, then swiped it across her arms and legs to create some scratch marks before throwing it aside.

  By the time Libby reached the pay phone, she was sweating and out of breath. She shut herself in the booth then dug frantically in her pocket for a dime. Her hand shook as she fumbled for the slot. Upon hearing the tone, she hesitated before dialing Operations Headquarters.

  After two rings, the raspy voice answered. “Yes.”

  “It’s me.”

  There was a slight pause. “Yes, Libby. What kind of progress are you making?”

  “I have a problem.”

  “What is it?”

  “I had to eliminate the brother-in-law.”

  “Why?” Number One sounded enraged. “He was our best way in for this job!”

  “But he was gonna turn me in! What choice did I have? Look, I don’t have much time. I have to call the police!”

  “With a story?”

  “Yes!”

  Another brief pause. “Sounds like you might need help killing Harland Hall.”

  “I don’t need any help! I prostituted myself to that shmuck for over a year and I just killed him because he was onto us!”

  “It was your choice to be a whore, and if you hadn’t been so inept at handling things you wouldn’t have had to kill him! I’ll have to send in Caldwell.”

  “I don’t need Caldwell! I can do this! I can use the boy.”