by Cat Winters
I nodded. “They got to him before you even drove down that road. They raised him off the ground by his neck—a mock lynching. A ‘necktie party.’ They told him to get out of town. His left arm hurt badly afterward, and he could scarcely breathe, and that’s why he tripped into the road in front of your car.”
Joe picked up his trousers from the ground. “He came out of nowhere.”
“You shouldn’t have been driving after drinking, Joe. Uncle Clyde said he’s ninety-five percent sure Daddy was already dying before you reached him—his heart was failing. But you shouldn’t have been out there like that.”
“I know.”
“It was stupid. You could have killed people.”
“I know.”
“I hate you for that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I hate you.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“I can’t fully forgive you.”
“I know.”
“But I don’t want you to die.” I wiped my hands on the sides of my dress. “Put your trousers on. We are not going to let a bunch of bigots put us in graves in the prime of our youth.”
Without a word, he bent over and stepped into his pant legs.
I picked up his shirt. “Where are the rest of your belongings?”
“I hid them inside your stable.” He buttoned up the pants.
“Come on.” I tossed his shirt at him. “Throw the sleeves over your arms, and let’s get going. You can button up later.”
He did as I asked, sliding his hands through the openings in the sleeves and shrugging his shoulders into the shirt.
We circled back around the inlet. My flooded shoes squeaked and slipped on dirt and mud, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to get out of those woods. I grabbed hold of a low branch and swung myself around the fir that marked the entrance to the shore of the main pond.
“Joe?” asked someone up ahead, from the opposite side of the shed.
I froze. Joe edged closer, but I put up a hand to stop him.
“Is that you?” asked the voice again—a familiar voice. A boy’s voice I’d known all my life, although it had deepened over time. Deepened and hardened.
I peeked back at Joe, and he mouthed the name Laurence.
Before I could duck back behind the fir, Laurence stepped around from the front of the shed.
His shoulders jerked when he saw me. “Hanalee?”
“Go back, go back!” I said to Joe, and we turned and dashed back around the inlet with our feet squelching through the mud.
Joe reached behind himself and grabbed my hand, and he hoisted me to higher ground above the slippery bank.
“Stop running!” called Laurence.
I glanced over my shoulder and spotted him brushing through the leaves no more than twenty feet behind us.
With my hand still in his, Joe darted us down another slope and around a bend. We circled so fast, my head spun, and before I knew what was happening, Joe was pulling me by his side on the ground behind a downed spruce, amid a patch of ferns that towered above us. We lay there and panted with our hands cupped over our mouths.
Laurence ran across a cluster of nearby leaves, and his feet came to a stop not far beyond our log.
“Joe?” he called out, and he sounded as though he were turning around a full three hundred and sixty degrees.
Joe lay behind me, his heart beating against my back. He tucked his arm around my waist, as though creating an extra barrier between Laurence and me.
“Hanalee?” called Laurence. “I don’t have a gun. You don’t have to hide.”
I willed every muscle in my body to remain still. Silent breaths escaped my nose, and I kept my mouth clamped shut out of fear of releasing an unintended gasp.
“Come on.” Laurence’s shoes trampled through the undergrowth beyond the log. “Stop hiding. I need to talk to you both.”
With a slow and cautious movement, Joe lifted his arm off my middle and eased his hand down the side of my thigh. I stiffened at first, then tried not to laugh, for his fingers tickled.
I peeked over my shoulder at him, my eyebrows raised, but he just shook his head and mouthed, Shh.
“You’ve got to get out of here—now,” said Laurence, still rustling through the nearby leaves and grasses. “The plan is to torture and terrify you, Joe.”
Joe grabbed hold of my skirt and lifted the hem past my knee, exposing the leather of my holster and the bulge of the pistol inside.
I nodded and reached down for the gun beneath the flap, but Joe took hold of the wooden grip first.
“Let me take care of this,” he whispered into my ear.
“You don’t know how to shoot,” I mouthed to him over my shoulder.
“He’s my problem. Let me take care of him.”
“No,” I squeaked, louder than I’d intended.
“Joe?” asked Laurence.
Joe flinched, and I managed to slide my hand under his and grab the pistol.
“Joe?” Laurence hopped on top of our log and gave a start when he saw us lying down in the ferns.
I jumped to my feet and pointed the pistol straight at him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Laurence raised his hands and stumbled backward off the log. “Put that down, Hanalee.”
Something ugly snapped inside me when he said my name. I climbed after him with the derringer aimed at his chest, and my finger hungered for the feel of a pulled trigger.
“Put the gun down.” Laurence backed into the base of a fir. “Put it down!”
“No! Not before you answer a question.”
“What question?”
My right thumb hesitated on the hammer. “Were you at the Dry Dock the night the Junior Order of Klansmen lynched my father?”
“Stop pointing the gun at me!”
“Were you there?”
Laurence looked away from me. “No.”
“Don’t lie to me.” I raised the pistol toward the center of his forehead, seeing the shine of perspiration there.
“C-c-come on.” Laurence’s hands trembled in the air. “P-p-put down the gun, Hanalee.”
“You taught me how to use this gun, Laurence. You taught me how to shoot with my aim dead-on, and you told me, ‘Don’t ever let them hurt you, Hanalee. Don’t ever let them make you feel small.’ Do you remember that?”
His lips turned a grayish shade of blue, but he managed a meager nod.
“Do you remember how you swore you wouldn’t let anyone hurt me or belittle me?”
“P-p-put—”
“Were you part of the group that tied a rope around my father’s neck and raised him off the ground?”
“No!” cried Laurence. “I swear, I wasn’t there.”
“I sure don’t remember seeing you in church that Christmas Eve.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“I don’t believe you; I didn’t see you.” I stepped two feet closer to my former friend—my beloved, blue-eyed boy who resembled Fleur so much it hurt my chest—and I shoved the gun against the skin above his eyes.
“Oh, God.” Laurence burst into tears and lowered his elbows.
“Hanalee, don’t!” yelled Joe behind me. “He’s telling the truth. He wasn’t part of the Klan that night.”
“I don’t believe that. I know I didn’t see him in church.”
“He wasn’t there,” said Joe. “I know—because he was with me.”
The pistol quaked, Laurence shook, and the entire world seemed to quiver and rumble and brace for a volcanic eruption. Joe’s words changed and re-formed and replayed in my brain before they made any sense.
He was with me.
The boy.
The other boy in the car.
Laurence.
I glanced back at Joe, my aim still centered on Laurence’s head. “He was with you that Christmas Eve? In the Model T?”
“Yes.” Joe nodded.
“But . . . the boy . . .” I shook my head, confused. “The boy from the party?”
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“I never went to any party.” Joe took a step forward. “It was just him and me, sharing a drink, finding a moment to spend together.”
“That’s a goddamned lie,” said Laurence, spitting as he spoke. “I know what you’re implying, Joe, but that wasn’t me. I’ve got a girl right now—Opal. Voluptuous, eager-to-please Opal.”
“You want to die by Hanalee’s hand, Laurie?” asked Joe, planting his right foot against a log with a fern growing out of the middle. “Or do you want to speak the truth?”
“I don’t engage in hanky-panky with other boys. I’m not some goddamned fairy.”
“You mean you don’t get caught engaging in hanky-panky with boys,” said Joe, “but you sure were eager to . . .” Joe stepped back and rubbed the back of his arm across his mouth, as if wiping away a remembered kiss. “I kept my mouth shut when the sheriff questioned me, Laurie. I protect the people I love. I don’t throw them to the wolves.”
My arm vibrated from the force of Laurence shaking on the other side of my gun.
“I don’t love boys, Joe,” he said. “That’s disgusting.”
Joe lifted his chin and swallowed, and his eyes filmed over with tears. “You sure didn’t act like it was disgusting when you kissed me.”
Before I knew what was coming, Laurence shoved me aside. He lunged toward Joe and punched him in the face with a sickening crack that sent birds scattering out of the trees. Joe fell back and slammed to the ground. Laurence groaned and bent over at his waist, his right fist cradled in his left hand. I gasped and stepped closer and found a shock of bright red blood pouring from Joe’s nose. He covered his face with his fingers and rolled onto his side with his eyes squeezed shut. Both boys moaned in pain.
“Go home, Laurence.” I nodded in the direction of the Paulissens’ house. “Go soak your hand and calm down.”
“He’s a dead man.” Laurence backed away, still bent over with his fist tucked against his chest. “I was trying to help you, Joe, but you’re a dead man now.”
“Stop threatening him, and don’t you dare bruise Fleur’s arms ever again.” I clasped the derringer firmly in my right hand and aimed the barrel toward his brown shoes, debating if I should raise it toward his head again. “Do you hear me, Laurence?”
Laurence attempted to stand up straight. Strands of his blond hair hung down over his eyes, and the hand he cradled swelled and purpled.
“Go!” I cocked the hammer.
Laurence skidded backward through the ferns. “You’re crazy, Hanalee.”
“Go!”
He turned and hightailed it off into the trees.
CHAPTER 25
A VERY PALPABLE HIT
JOE REMAINED ON HIS SIDE WITH HIS hands clamped over his nose, blood streaming through his fingers. He groaned some more and brought his knees to his stomach.
I uncocked the derringer—my hands shaking, my heart racing—careful not to fire and draw more attention. “We’ve got to get you back to the stable.” I stuffed the pistol back into the holster on my thigh. “We’ve got to hide you.”
“Christ.” Joe winced and sucked air through his teeth. “I think he broke my nose.” He lifted his hands away from his face.
I cringed at the bleeding purple lump that used to be the bridge of his nose. More blood leaked from his nostrils and ran across his lips and his teeth. Every part of his head seemed to bleed.
“Oh, Joe,” I said.
“Is it bad?”
“If you can just get up and walk for a little while, I’ll make you comfortable in the stable.” I knelt down, wrapped my arm around his back, and brought him partway up to a sitting position. Drops of scarlet rained down on his partially buttoned blue shirt, but I ignored the gore and kept nudging him to stand. “Come on.” I gripped both his arms, lifting, hoisting. “It’s just a short walk.”
He helped lever himself off the ground, and we got him to his feet with his left arm dangling around my shoulders and his weight pressed against my right side. I stiffened my muscles and trudged forward, which inspired him to do the same.
We shuffled through the pine needles and fallen leaves with a swooshing racket. My eyes darted about the trees. I didn’t know if I was hearing just our footsteps alone or if Laurence and the other boys also crept across the forest floor. No animals seemed to stir. No birds or buzzing insects. It was simply Joe and me against other human beings.
We made it across the clearing in front of the shed and stood on the precipice of the slope to the creek.
“We’ve got to head down this embankment,” I said. “Do you think you can do it without falling?”
Joe tried to nod, but he ended up coughing up blood that spattered his shirt. “Oh, God!” he said when he saw the mess on his clothing.
“It’s probably just because your nose is bleeding. You’re swallowing your own blood.” I edged us both forward. “Come on.”
He fought to keep his balance and grew sturdier the closer we got to the bottom. My own feet slid on damp soil, but I quickly righted myself to keep from toppling both of us.
“I’m all right,” he said at the edge of the creek. He took his arm off me. “I can cross on my own.”
I held on to his back to check if he wobbled. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “My legs are fine. The pain’s in my face.”
“Let me go before you so I can help.” I stepped onto the first boulder and held out my hand for him.
He clasped my fingers and followed me across the path of rocks, while the water trickled and bubbled below our feet.
“You would have shot him, wouldn’t you?” he asked when we reached the other side. “If I didn’t tell you where he was that night, you would have killed him.”
I pulled hard on Joe’s hand and sped us past the deer trail leading to the Paulissens’ house. “It terrifies me to think how much I wanted to shoot him.”
“I think you made him piss his pants.”
“I did?”
Joe half snickered, half groaned. “I think so.”
“Well, let’s hope so. If he’s hurrying to change his underwear, that’ll give us time to get out of these woods.”
We broke into a trot, for the thought of Laurence gathering up his friends infused my legs with power. I kept my pace slow enough for Joe yet fast enough to stay safe.
I squeezed down on his hand. “We’re almost there.”
Sunlight from beyond the woods shone across the pinecones and needles scattered on the trail ahead of us. The air warmed. Home awaited just a short way ahead.
“We’ve got to stay behind the tree line and head to the other end of the yard,” I said. “My mother’s cleaning out the basement, as far as I know. I don’t want her peeking out a window and catching us.”
Joe nodded, his teeth clenched against the pain.
We made it through the section of woods that bordered the property behind our open land. I forced us to stop and listen for footsteps, and then we knelt down and darted through the rows of berry bushes to the stable waiting to our left.
Once inside the small outbuilding, I found Joe’s belongings stashed beneath his blanket in a dark corner.
“Here, let’s get you comfortable.” I spread the brown cloth across a pile of hay and helped ease him down to the ground.
The makeshift mattress crunched beneath his back. His head lay at an uncomfortable-looking angle with no pillow behind it, and he closed his eyes and struggled to catch his breath. Blood stained his nose, his lips, his chin, his shirt . . .
“I know this probably isn’t helping you feel a whole lot better”—I plumped up the hay under his head—“but I’ll fetch you a pillow . . . and some oil for the lantern. I’ll take good care of you.”
“No.” He took hold of my left wrist and opened his eyes. “Go back to the house. Don’t come out here again.”
I sank back on my heels. “I beg your pardon?”
“Someone will see you. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here. I don’t want a
nyone trailing you and hurting you.”
“You need ice and bandages. I could get Dr. Koning—”
“No!” He squeezed my wrist. “I still don’t trust him, Hanalee.”
“Joe . . .” I wrapped my free hand around his cold fingers. “I have to tell you something.”
“What?”
“That oak tree at the Dry Dock . . .” My eyes burned. “The one they used . . . for . . .”
Joe nodded in understanding.
“Someone carves the names of certain people on it,” I said. “People who don’t quite belong. And they seem to cross off the names once a person leaves town. Like Mrs. Downs.” I pressed my fingers tighter around him. “And my father.”
“Is your name on that tree?” he asked, his voice deep, protective.
“Mine. Mama’s. Yours. Deputy Fortaine’s.” I swallowed. “And Clyde Koning’s.”
He slipped his fingers out of mine and lowered his hand to his chest.
I dug through the carpetbag and tugged out a white undershirt. “This morning Uncle Clyde admitted to me that he, indeed, lied in court.” I dabbed the shirt against Joe’s red nostrils with the softest touch I could manage. “When he was in your room with my father, Daddy told him about the near lynching.”
Joe maneuvered himself up to a sitting position with his shoulders curled forward. “Here, let me do that,” he said, and he took the shirt and swabbed his bloody nose on his own. His eyelids fluttered at each brush of the cloth against his skin.
“I should fetch you ice,” I said.
“What did Dr. Koning do with that information?” he asked, still wincing from the dabbing. “How did he go from hearing about a near lynching to accusing me of manslaughter, without one mention of the Ku Klux Klan, in court?”
“Uncle Clyde said he went straight to Sheriff Rink and told him what he saw on my father . . . the marks . . . the marks on his . . .” I held the sides of my throat and crossed my legs beneath me. My mouth refused to utter another syllable, for the words I’d planned to say contained edges sharp and jagged. I closed my eyes and rested my head in the palms of my hands.
Joe stayed beside me without saying a word. He just waited, breathing in a gentle rhythm while he wiped the blood from his lips and chin. A warm breeze nosed through the rafters above our heads.
