The Governor’s Sons

by McKenzie, Maria

  “And…”

  Harland hesitated as he looked down. “And—I accept you as my father.”

  Ash’s eyes filled with tears. “I—I don’t know what to say.” He wiped his eyes. “I thought you might not—want me—to be…”

  Harland found his eyes brimming too. “I was tempted to walk away—but...”

  “I’m just--glad you’re giving me a chance.”

  Without further adieu, the two men stood and embraced.

  “Alright,” Ash said. That’s enough of that. First mission accomplished.”

  “The second, being acceptance of me by your family?” Harland said warily as they reseated themselves.

  “Yeah. Now, first of all, I want Gavin to like you. You’re his brother; I can’t have him hating you. But that racist propaganda he’s read probably poisoned his mind some. Charlene and I didn’t raise him that way, but we’ve gotta stop any brainwashing that’s already occurred. And—I admit, I’ve been doing a good bit of bragging about your accomplishments, and that’s made him jealous.”

  Harland leaned forward. “Sir, I don’t know what I can do to make him like me.”

  “He’ll start volunteering at your office soon. By being around you, and getting to know you—he can’t not like you.”

  “Governor, that sounds like wishful thinking on your part.”

  Ash ignored Harland’s comment. “And something else I want him to do is go to the next NAACP meeting with you. He can discuss the new park, pool and recreation center being built near the Negro business district. He can take questions, and show support and sympathy for the Civil Rights cause.”

  “Governor, if you don’t mind me saying, that also sounds like a good photo op.” Harland seemed skeptical.

  “I don’t want that.” Ash said. “I just want it kept quiet. If the Negro paper’s there, they can do a story, but I’m not gonna make Gavin’s presence public knowledge.”

  “Okay. So it’s not a photo op. But right now, it doesn’t sound like Gavin has any sympathy at all for Negroes, and it hardly sounds like he wants to support our Civil Rights cause.”

  Ash pursed his lips for a second and nodded his head. “He’ll learn.”

  “Now, Governor,” Harland said, “having Gavin volunteer and attend a meeting with me is all fine and good, but when are you gonna tell your family the truth about me? And do I have your word that you really even will?”

  Ash paused for a moment. “You doubt me?”

  Harland hesitated. “No.”

  “Good.” Ash looked keenly into Harland’s eyes. “You’re armed with information that could possibly topple my governorship—but I trust you. And I want you to trust me enough to believe that I will tell my family. But timing’s everything.”

  “So, what kind of time frame are we looking at?” Harland asked impatiently.

  “Soon—that’s all I can promise. But I can’t give you an exact day.”

  Chapter 32

  “ ‘There is no large city, in short, which does not have a large and po-potentially explosive Negro problem.’ ” Gavin closed Crisis in Black and White, then set the book down next to him. He sat on the bench at the foot of his bed, facing his father, who sat in the curve back chair opposite him.

  “That’s the end of chapter two.” Gavin tried not to smirk.

  “So,” Ash stood up, “you’ll start chapter three for me tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gavin groaned at his father’s command.

  “You don’t sound too enthusiastic,” Ash said sarcastically. “Reading a few pages out of there each night ought to help you learn to sympathize with Negroes and their Civil Rights cause.” Gavin rolled his eyes. “Now don’t you be doing any eye rolling with me! Did you look at those notes I gave you to prep for that NAACP meeting?”

  Gavin crossed his arms. “No.”

  Ash pointed his finger in Gavin’s face. “Look here, boy, you got plenty of time on your hands. Now, I expect you to do a practice presentation for me tomorrow night! And you better be completely prepared.” Ash started for the door. “If Harland tells me you do a good enough real presentation—I just might consider giving you back that Mustang,” he said, as he left Gavin’s room.

  Gavin sighed. He rose from the bench, then plopped down on the bed. It was almost 10 P.M. and he was about to go nuts. He’d been allowed a morning run for exercise, and then spent the rest of the day cooped up in his room. He’d spent his time listening to the radio, working out with dumbbells, and looking at car and sports magazines.

  Since the white supremacist literature was discovered in his room, his life had drastically changed. Today had been an off day from his new strenuous job, and he was thankful that he only had to give his blood, sweat and tears four days a week. He missed being a lifeguard and checking out all the cute chicks in their bikinis.

  Dad was making him work as a garbage man now. “Since you like reading garbage,” he’d said, “you can enjoy working in it, too.”

  But Gavin’s days off and weekends weren’t any fun. The Mustang had been taken away and he’d been grounded to his room for a month. And his room wasn’t nearly as groovy as it used to be. Dad confiscated his record player, eight track tape player and television. He even took away the Playboy, but he’d been merciful enough to leave the pinups on the wall.

  Since Gavin was so “interested in reading now,” according to his father, every night Dad was forcing Gavin to read aloud to him, a few pages from Crisis in Black and White. He thought that book would be a good tool, to help Gavin better understand the Negroes and their stupid Civil Rights problems. Although reading it was torture, Gavin somehow managed.

  I might as well be dead, Gavin thought. Was hating black people really worth all this? As he gazed at the ceiling, Gavin decided that he didn’t even have a reason to hate black people, not a real one, anyway.

  He’d never actually believed all that Communist pawn stuff about Negro Civil Rights leaders. And all that miscegenation mongrelization race mixing business was a crock. If you let your imagination run wild, or were smoking pot, you could kind of make it make sense. But even if it wasn’t right for a black guy to be with a white girl, fear of miscegenation never stopped a white guy from sleeping with a black girl.

  Gavin didn’t hold anything against the servants who worked in the Governor’s Mansion. They were all colored, and all friendly. Even though Celesta gave him the evil eye once in a while, he still liked her.

  How much garbage had Libby fed to Uncle Otis? Gavin wondered, and how much of it had Uncle Otis actually believed? Gavin suspected his uncle really didn’t believe any of it, but was just trying to please Libby.

  But why had they wanted to drag Gavin into the middle of things? Was that Libby’s idea? And was Libby really dangerous like his parents insisted she was? Dad suspected her of involvement in Uncle Otis’s murder, but Gavin didn’t want to believe that. Or maybe she’d fooled everybody, like Dad would say, by “pulling the wool over your eyes.”

  Although unsure of what to think about Libby, Gavin was sure that he still hated Harland Hall. Of course, he’d never really hated him enough to see him dead. That just sounded good to say in front of Libby. But Gavin still hated him a lot, and not just because he was a Negro.

  Gavin hated Harland Hall because of the way Dad treated him and talked about him. And now Dad wanted Gavin to be friends with the man. Gavin was being forced to volunteer at Hall’s office, and even go to a stupid NAACP Colored People’s meeting with the guy—and say something! Public speaking wasn’t a way to make him be friends with Harland Hall! Friends! Impossible--there couldn’t be anything worse than that.

  Then Gavin remembered his new life.

  Chapter 33

  It was just before seven in the evening, and Caldwell waited in his car about a hundred yards from the Manchester Bridge. The vinyl seat felt hot against his back. He’d placed the dynamite and strung the wires early in the morning before sunrise, so he wouldn’t be seen. Now it was almost tim
e.

  An Organization contact, who worked as a garbage man alongside Gavin Kroth, the Governor’s son, reported to Caldwell that Gavin would go to the next NAACP meeting with Harland Hall. Gavin had complained about the whole ordeal, and the contact learned that their point of departure would be from the Governor’s Mansion. This route would still include passing over the river. Just thinking about the upcoming excitement gave Caldwell chills. And he’d created a whole new scenario that would be even more exciting. Not only would Hall die, but he’d be seen as a lunatic, and a hypocrite, scorned in death.

  Caldwell would make the explosion look like Hall’s own doing with help from a violent faction of black radicals from up North. From evidence Caldwell had mailed to the police station this afternoon, including a typed suicide note with Hall’s forged signature, it would appear that Hall had so much hate for white people, that to avenge the death of Willie Cane’s family, he’d murder the Governor’s son. Because Hall was so consumed with hatred, he was willing to give his own life to make a political statement. Hall’s suicide mission would condemn any future Civil Rights efforts in the state. Caldwell licked his lips. It was such a delicious scheme.

  Caldwell still gloated over the suicide note he’d written. To make it sound genuine, he’d done a little research by reading one of Hall’s articles from a past issue of The Crier. For a colored boy, Hall sure knew a whole lot of fancy words. Still impressed by his craftiness, Caldwell silently recited a few lines from the note:

  I, Harland Hall, do administer to commit murder on Gavin Kroth as an attribute of revenge. Through this action, it will be seen that I persevere to avenge Willie Cane’s family. By committing suicide on myself, I will display my adherence to the white race.

  No one, Caldwell was convinced, would ever think those words weren’t written by Harland Hall himself.

  ****

  After Harland left his office, he headed to the Governor’s Mansion. From there, he and Gavin rode in an armed security car to the NAACP meeting location, Friendship Fellowship, a Negro church across the bridge.

  Harland glanced stiffly at Gavin, who sat next to him in the backseat. Probably the first time he’d been that close to a black person who wasn’t shining his shoes. “So,” Harland began to make small talk, “your dad said you practiced your presentation in front of him and did a good job.”

  “I think I did okay,” Gavin said.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “No! Why should I be?” Gavin answered defensively.

  Harland suppressed a smirk at the rich white child’s abrasive response. What a spoiled kid, Harland thought. In an attempt to cool him off, Harland asked, “Are you—pretty confident when it comes to public speaking?”

  “I can manage,” Gavin said coldly. “It’s something you gotta do sooner or later when you come from a political family.”

  Harland raised one eyebrow. In a condescending tone, he said. “I—uh—suppose so.” Harland rethought his behavior. He wouldn’t stoop to the kids’ level. Instead, he’d try to be civil for the remainder of the evening, no matter how much the brat got on his nerves.

  ****

  Caldwell sat in his car observing the traffic crossing over the bridge. According to the contact, the meeting would start at half past 7:00. Hall would arrive about 15 minutes early, while the majority of attendees wouldn’t get there until much later. Colored people were always late. The contact said they go by C.P. time. Caldwell learned that stood for Colored People’s Time.

  Traffic wasn’t too heavy now. It was after dinner and after rush hour. Caldwell didn’t want to have to blow up anybody besides Hall and the Governor’s son—and of course, the unlucky driver. Right now there weren’t any pedestrians on the bridge. Caldwell hadn’t seen anyone on foot for quite a while, but just then, he saw a young woman pushing a baby carriage. Slowly, she began walking across the bridge, seeming to enjoy a leisurely stroll.

  Caldwell glanced at his watch. She’d have plenty of time to get across and out of the way, as long as she didn’t dilly dally. A fast car sped by and that appeared to make her move a little more quickly. Caldwell didn’t like killing women, and he drew the line at killing kids. There was just something too sick about that. After a few minutes, the woman had safely crossed the bridge and was now out of sight. Caldwell was relieved. He had a job to do, and he’d have to do it, no matter what. But he’d have a hard time living with a baby’s death on his conscience.

  Caldwell gazed at the bridge beams. A one pound stick of dynamite could do the job, but he’d used four. Caldwell had secured them to the beams with duct tape near the mid-point of the bridge, which stretched about the length of a football field.

  For the explosion, Caldwell had decided on electric caps. Each dynamite stick was implanted with one and he’d detonate them using his car battery. He’d strung the necessary wires from the caps along the side of the bridge to his car. Caldwell would start his engine to detonate the explosion from where he was. He’d parked in an area partially camouflaged by trees.

  He climbed from the car, then opened the hood, to look like he was having car trouble. That would appear innocent enough, he thought. And he was wearing his glass eye, not his patch, so if anyone did notice him, he wouldn’t stand out like a--one eyed man. Caldwell laughed to himself, despite the slight discomfort of the artificial eye he rarely wore. He couldn’t wait. His hands itched with anticipation.

  Luckily, around 7:10, there were no other cars near the bridge except for a large black Oldsmobile. It was a government car. Caldwell had seen it or others like it, coming and going from the Governor’s Mansion. The countdown was on. As the car sped on to the bridge, Caldwell readied himself for the explosion. When the car had traveled about a third of the way, Caldwell started his engine to detonate. Nothing happened.

  This wasn’t the time for a hangfire! Caldwell was on the verge of panic. The Organization wouldn’t tolerate an explosive failure. He figured there was either too much current or a short in the wire. The car was now beyond the midpoint. Time was of the essence, and once again, Caldwell tried to detonate.

  ****

  As the large black car rolled over the bridge, Gavin tugged at the knot in his tie. “I hate wearing these.”

  “Yeah.” Harland glanced at his watch. “I’m hoping folks will be on time tonight. I’ve promoted your visit.” Harland smiled.

  To Gavin, it seemed like Harland was trying to ease the tension between them, so Gavin gave a slight smile in return. He might as well be nice, since he’d be stuck with the guy—along with a bunch of other colored people—for the next couple hours.

  “Negroes want to hear what you have to say,” Harland continued, “especially the young ladies. They say you’re pretty cute for a white boy.”

  When Gavin felt his cheeks flush, Harland laughed.

  But suddenly, there was a loud explosion. The blast blew out the car windows, showering the interior of the vehicle with glass. The driver lost control. The car spun wildly, screeching on the pavement. Everything happened so fast, Harland and Gavin had no time to react. The Oldsmobile was catapulted over the side of the bridge and crashed into the river a few stories below. Once they hit the water, there was no sign of the driver, but Gavin and Harland managed to escape through the windowless openings.

  ****

  Caldwell left his car after detonating the dynamite. He watched as the Oldsmobile hit the water, disappointed that his explosion hadn’t achieved the magnitude of greatness he’d expected.

  “Damn it.” Caldwell swore softly. The dynamite was somehow defective, and not all of it had blown up. And to Caldwell’s dismay, far off in the river, he saw the boy—alive. Well, alive for now, anyway. With the look of the current, he’d likely drown. Caldwell didn’t have time to stick around and see if Hall survived. He knew the place would be swarming with cops pretty soon, and he had to get away. But first Caldwell wanted to remove the undetonated dynamite. He prided himself on never leaving a trace of evidence behind
on a job.

  No cars were near the bridge, but he heard a police siren far away. For now, the coast was clear. Caldwell quickly made his way up the hill and through the trees from where he’d parked his car. As he ran toward the middle of the bridge, his gut told him instead to flee the scene and leave the explosives behind, but he ignored it. Caldwell grabbed at the first dynamite stick he reached. When he began cutting through the duct tape with a pocket knife, he heard a sharp sizzle.

  “Oh, sh—”

  Over the roaring river, Gavin heard another explosion off in the distance. The river’s current was rough, but Gavin was a strong swimmer, unafraid, and determined not to die. His mind raced as he was infused with the unquenchable quest to survive. As the cool water sloshed loudly around him, he was able to rid himself of his jacket and shoes. Gavin knew not to fight a strong current, but to swim with it. When he saw Harland struggling to stay afloat, he swam aggressively in his direction to save him.

  “Harland,” he yelled strongly, over the thrashing current, “Stay calm!” When Gavin reached him, he said, “Hands on my shoulders--spread your legs!” Harland did as he was told. With Harland holding his shoulders Gavin leaned back and began swimming a heads up breast stroke downstream with the current.

  Harland coughed. “You gotta know--”

  Gavin was breathing hard.“What?’

  “Your dad…”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s my dad, too,” Harland gasped.

  For Gavin, no other emotion registered besides survival. His strokes were broad and strong. “We’re gonna make it.”

  But all of a sudden, they went through a hydraulic, a churning spot in the river that tore them apart. Although Harland was visible one moment, by the next, he’d disappeared underwater. Gavin tried frantically to find him, but when he did, Harland was face down in the river. Quickly, Gavin swam toward him and grabbed his shoulders. Spinning him around, Gavin positioned himself beneath Harland. While holding him across the chest with one arm, he allowed Harland to ride on his hip. With his free arm, Gavin swam sidestroke with the current.