Little Si pushed open the screen and stepped out, walking over to stand beside his father. The chief studied the people grouped before him and realized that he didn't know a single one of them, not firsthand. He knew who they were but he'd never seen one of them in town, and he'd certainly never seen one of the men in his jail. But he had seen and did know Old Will Thatcher.
"Where's Will'am?"
"Inside," Big Si said. "He's 'sleep."
"What he doin' sleep this time of day?"
"He's old and he's sick."
"Go get him!"
For a frozen moment, nobody moved and Fordham thought he was going to have to shoot somebody. Then the boy turned and headed back into the house. The chief bent down and began unearthing the brightly colored plants blooming so neatly in the garden that abutted the house's stone foundation. He pulled them up and tossed them into the yard, roots and all. Under the broiling sun, they'd be dead in an hour. He aimed a kick at the stones in the foundation and shock waves traveled up his leg. This house was old and better built than those of all but the richest white people. The chief began to feel uneasy though he wasn't sure why. He knew better than to get worked up over anything Zeb Thatcher said or did, and the only reason he was here was because Zeb was, after all, one of the richest men in town. The chief liked his job and he wanted to keep it; therefore, he occasionally had to treat Zeb like the important citizen that he, in fact, was. It wasn't Zeb's irritation with high-living Colored folks, though, that caused Fordham's uneasiness. He looked again at the three people before him. Not one of them had moved since the boy went inside to get Old Will, and not one pair of eyes had looked directly at him, though he knew they knew every move he made. He thought he'd heard the girl's breath catch when he pulled up the flowers, but he could have been mistaken. And he thought the one standing in front of her had leaned slightly toward her at the same time, but he could have been wrong about that, too.
"What's your name, boy?" he asked him.
"Mack McGinnis Jr."
"I thought y'all was Thatchers over here," the chief said, casting around his mind for memory of McGinnises. Then it came to him. "You the one from over in Belle City, the one just now got married with this Thatcher girl." He looked at Ruthie. "Your Ma's the one who passed away a while back."
Ruthie nodded. "A year ago June."
He tried to recall what he'd heard, that there was something not quite right about it. "What carried her off?" he asked, but before she could answer, the boy came back out with Old William Thatcher, and if he hadn't been standing in the man's front yard, he never would have known who he was. The chief knew Thatcher was old—he was one of the few left from the slavery—but this man looked to be a hundred. The Will Thatcher he remembered had been tall and strong, built like a pecan tree.
Little Si, one arm around Uncle Will's waist and one of the old man's arms across his shoulders, all but carried him out. He hadn't wanted to wake up, and he still was groggy. The sun hurt his eyes and he had to work to get them focused, and when he did, he drew back. "I didn't do nothin'. I didn't do nothin'. I didn't do nothin'."
It was a high wail of terror that galvanized his family. Ruthie ran to him and helped her brother carry him back inside—and they literally carried him, for the old man was dead weight between them. At the same time, Big Si stepped off the porch, coming to stand beside Mack, so that the two of them faced the chief, and it was then that the chief knew what it was about these people that made him uneasy: They did not fear him. He'd given no permission for anybody to take the old man back inside the house, yet that's what they had done, without a single glance at him. And that girl, the look she gave him when he asked what it was that had carried her Ma off so quick and sudden: Nobody had ever looked at him like that so he didn't know what it meant. He knew only that it wasn't the kind of eyes that some young Colored girl ought to be turning on him. And these two standing in front of him, looking at him eye-to-eye, not a bit of fear in either one of them. If he shot them both dead right now, which he could do, the other ones still would not show him fear…but hate! That's what it was. If looks could kill, he'd be the one dead in the dirt. For once in his miserable life, Zeb Thatcher was right: These niggers had to be gotten rid of.
***
Jonas was exhausted, and if he'd had some place to sleep, he'd have spent the night in Belle City instead of driving back home to Carrie's Crossing. A couple of times he'd caught himself falling asleep at the wheel, only to jerk awake and then find himself unable to keep his eyes open for longer than a minute or two. He tried reciting poetry out loud—Walt Whitman and Edgar Allan Poe—but he couldn't remember the words. He sang for a while, loudly and so off-key that he achieved the objective of keeping himself awake for the last mile of the trip home. He'd already decided that he wouldn't bother to unload the car, and he was so looking forward to falling into bed that the light from inside the warehouse building didn't register until he was out of the car and almost to the door. Then all of his senses went on full alert: There was light coming from inside, and he heard voices and smelled smoke. "Dadburnit," he muttered to himself. Zeb was here with his moonshine drinking cronies, probably playing cards. It would go on for hours, which meant he'd have to go to one of his sisters' houses to sleep or sleep in the car. "Dadburnit all to hell." He'd known that giving Zeb a key was a mistake, but he couldn't get around it—after all, the building did belong to the old man.
He looked around. He could sleep here on the porch but the mosquitoes would eat him alive, and he'd sweat to death inside the car. Besides, he was so loaded down with merchandise there barely was room for him to drive it, to say nothing of trying to stretch out to sleep. Maybe he could sneak inside without being heard and curl up in the space behind the bar. He was good at entering the back door late at night without being seen or heard, and so once inside, he pulled the door closed and stood still and silent to adjust his eyes and his breathing. He listened and at first did not recognize any of the voices he heard; these men were not Zeb's drinking cronies though they were drinking. He could smell the whiskey. He inched forward for a look and a closer listen and what he saw and heard caused his heart to hammer so hard in chest he was certain it could be heard. He was spying on a meeting of the Ku Klux Klan, and they were discussing their plan to seize William Thatcher's farm—tonight!—because he'd missed today's tax filing deadline. Jonas couldn't recognize faces because of the sheets, but he recognized voices: Zeb's, his brother-in-law Clem's, and Chief Fordham.
Jonas now was wide awake. He began slowly backing up. He hadn't wanted to be heard entering, and he most certainly did not want do be heard leaving. If he could open the door and get out—if he could get in the car and get it started. Instead, he ran, full out and as fast as he could, running on the hard, rutted road instead of cutting through the woods as he once would have done back when he was a child and afraid of being seen anywhere near the Thatcher's place. He no longer was a child, and he didn't care who saw him this night, though it was doubtful that anyone would. At almost midnight, nobody would be out on the road, and there were no streetlights in the Colored section for the same reason that the road was unpaved.
When he got to the Thatcher's he took a deep breath before climbing the steps to the porch. He'd only been to the front door of this house once—when Nellie died and he knew there was nobody inside. Tonight, there were people inside though the house was in total darkness. He took another breath and knocked. In seconds he heard footsteps approach the door and stop. "It's me, Jonas Thatcher," he whispered, and after a brief pause, the door opened.
"What is it you want here, Jonas?" Mack McGinnis stood in the doorway.
"I got something to say to Ruthie, Mack."
"My wife's not coming out in the dark to talk to you. And anyway, you got no business having anything to say to her."
"It's important."
"Then tell it to me."
They could have been twins, standing there staring at each other with their flat, unbl
inking gazes: They were the same height and they were built the same rangy, lean way; they wore the same denim pants, flannel work shirts and heavy brogans; they wore their hair cut close to the scalp, as much to deny lice a home as in defiance of any sartorial dictate. Because Mack had not lit a lantern when he opened the front door, and because the stingy half moon was hidden behind thick cloud banks, there was no light to reveal that one of the men was white and the other Colored, though the two of them knew that fact as well as they knew their own names.
"Y'all got to leave here tonight, Mack, you and Ruthie and her Pa and Old William. Pack what you can and get out, quick as you can."
"What in hell are you are talking about, Jonas? Pack and get out? Why—" Mack didn't finish the question because he knew the answer. There was only one reason that Colored people packed up and fled in the middle of night. "Why, Jonas? Dammit, why?" Confusion, anger, resentment or some combination of the three raised Mack's voice from its usual low rumble to a thunder clap so that Ruth heard it at the back of the house, and it frightened her because Mack did not raise his voice. She came running.
"What is it, Mack? Who's here?" She peered around her husband despite his attempt to prevent it. "Jonas! What are you doing here this time of night?" She pushed open the screen door to look at him.
"He came to tell us to run."
"Run? Why?"
Mack put an around Ruth and drew her in close to him, noticed Jonas's reaction, and held her tighter. "Yeah. Why?"
"'Cause they're comin' to burn you out, that's why." He spit the words from his mouth and looked over his shoulder, as if "they" were imminent.
Mack and Ruthie looked at him, and Jonas watched their expressions change as they grasped the meaning of his words. Impossibly, they drew even closer together, each feeding off the other's anger and growing stronger. Jonas saw it happen, saw them strengthen. What he did not see—what he expected to see— was fear. If they were frightened, he realized that they'd never show him that feeling, and that made him sad, made him know for sure that he existed outside the reality of their world.
"I guess you know this 'cause it'll be your Pa and his sheet-wearin' friends who'll be coming to do the burning," Mack said.
"Why, Jonas?" Ruthie asked. "Why are you doing this?" The question was real.
"I'm not doing it. I'm the one risking life and limb to come over here and tell you about it, to give you a chance to get away."
"You want us to thank you?" Mack's anger frightened both Jonas and Ruthie, and both inched a little away from him.
"Why, Jonas?" Ruth asked again.
Jonas looked over his shoulder again, then back at Mack and Ruth. He blew a big burst of air from between his lips, then shook his head. "They know you missed the tax filing deadline today."
"Which means your no-count daddy can steal my land with the law on his side." Mack spit into the dirt, missing Jonas's feet by inches. "I'm not running from your daddy or anybody else, and you can ride on back over there and tell him I'll be waiting for him if he shows up on my land."
"No, Mack." Now Jonas saw a flicker of fear in Ruth. "We better go."
"I have not ever in my life run in fear from no crackers, Ruth. This land belongs to you—to your people. You can't just run off and leave it."
Tears filled up and spilled out of Ruth's eyes. She lifted her shoulders, first the right one, then the left, wiping her face on the shoulders of her dress; she kept her hands wrapped around her husband's arms. "We can't fight them and win. If we stay here, they'll kill us and take the land anyway. What good are we dead?" She released Mack's arms and put both hands on her belly.
Jonas noticed and knew immediately what the gesture meant. He wanted to say something but didn't know what, and even if he could have thought of something, they wouldn't want to hear it. Not now, tonight.
"We didn't miss the filing deadline today, Jonas," she said in the still, quiet way she had. Her hands still rested on her belly but her eyes held Jonas's, saw his confusion, and, with the slightest shake of her head, the kind of shake that people use to convey a feeling that words can't, she said, "The tax office closed early today. You didn't know that? When we got there after lunch time, when it was supposed to open back up, the place was locked up tight. A sign on the door said it was closed 'cause of an emergency. You didn't know that, Jonas?" But she could tell, even in the dark, that he hadn't known, and when he understood what had happened, he couldn't hide the shame and sorrow he felt. He also couldn't prevent the inevitable.
"They'll be coming about four-thirty, and they plan to come up through the woods 'stead of up the road. Y'all got plenty of time." Jonas turned away to leave.
Ruth's voice stopped him. "Jonas."
He turned back. "What, Ruth?"
"I don't blame you, and I thank you, once again, for being a friend."
Her words surprised him almost as much as the gentleness in her voice. She knew that it mattered to him that she held him blameless for this most recent transgression. But he knew that she couldn't forget that he was white any more than he could stop being what he was, any more than he could prevent things from being as they were. The state and county government offices were open in the morning for whites and in the afternoon for Colored—except if a white person decided to conduct business in the afternoon. Then the Colored would be required to leave. And if the office was closed early, without reason or notice—that's just how it was, how it always had been, how it most likely always would be. Nothing any of them could do about it. He nodded his head in thanks and walked slowly down the steps into the deep darkness, realizing suddenly that no dogs barked.
The Thatchers had always had dogs. Just as they'd always had mules to plow the acres of food they grew, though even in the dark he could see that the fields were barren. So much had changed. Everything had changed, and now there would be no more Ruthie and Little Si, no more Thatchers in Carrie's Crossing. No more Colored Thatchers. Then he pulled up short. There would be no more Colored in Carrie's Crossing at all. The plan he'd heard involved the Klan members splitting into groups with each one targeting one of the four remaining Colored farms in Carrie's Crossing, Zeb keeping this one for himself: Getting back his land, just like he said he would.
Jonas stepped onto the rutted road and almost fell as his foot sank into a deep rut. As he regained his balance, he had the thought that this road would be paved by next month this time. The sound of an automobile engine made him stop in his tracks. He stilled and listened. It was coming from behind that Thatcher house. He quickly switched directions and hurried up the road as it ran behind the house, and what he saw stunned him: A brand new motorcar backing out of the barn. He had, he realized, been listening for the clattery sound of a mule and cart. Ruthie and Mack had an automobile! Beau had told him that Mack's family was well-off, but he hadn't given much thought to what that meant. Now he knew. He crept closer to the side of the house. He couldn't see very much, but neither would he be seen, and he could hear some of what was said. What he heard first was Mack telling Ruth to wake up her Pa and Little Si, and he heard her footsteps as she scurried away. There was no light; the Thatchers, like Jonas himself, were as relaxed and comfortable in the darkness as in the daylight. He heard Ruthie knock and open a door. It wasn't house but the school building. Beau had told him that Mack had built and lived in the one-room school for Colored children, and he guessed that since their marriage, Mack and Ruthie lived in the main house and the Silases slept in the school house.
"I'll shoot dead the first one of 'em I see," an angry voice yelled, and Jonas knew that was Little Si, and his yell was followed by the sound of both barrels of his shotgun being loaded. As good a shot as his friend was, though, he was no match for half a dozen whiskey-fueled white men in sheets, and fear coursed through Jonas. He strained to hear more, willing the creatures of the night to hush the constant cacophony that defined their existence so that he could pick up a word or two. He heard feet running, heard the front door of the house open
and slam shut. He moved around the side of the house to stand beneath a window.
"How we gon' get all our things in one car?" Big Si asked, looking all around the room.
"We don't need to take much," Mack said. "Everything we need is waiting for us in Belle City."
After a moment of silence, Ruthie said, "That's true. Our house is almost finished. Pa, you and Si will live with us, and Uncle Will will live with Mr. First, and both houses have furniture and everything else."
"And you don't need to take clothes," Mack said. "These clothes we wear out here in the country, we won't need them in town."
It was quiet again. Then Little Si said, "Can we take all our books?"
"We can take the books," Mack said, "and get your wedding presents, Ruth. Then let's get Uncle Will up and get out of here."
Getting the old man up required all their effort and the better part of an hour. Ruthie finally made coffee, and when Uncle Will smelled it, he asked why she was cooking breakfast in the dark. Little Si lit a candle and Uncle Will gladly accepted a cup of his favorite brew. After the second cup, he was much less querulous and much more rational. His eyes narrowed to slits when they told him what was happening, and he shocked and surprised them all by slapping his thigh and cackling. "Ignorant old coot. He always said he'd get this land back. It took him a while, but he did what he said." Then Uncle Will said, "Y'all better get yourselves out the door 'fore Zeb and his sheets get here."
"You're coming with us," Ruthie said, beginning to weep at the stubborn look on the old man's face. "You have to, Uncle Will. We can't leave you here."
"This is my home, Little Miss Ruth."
He hadn't called her that in many years, and his words and the love they held caused her to choke on her tears in a way she hadn't since her Ma was killed. "Please, Uncle Will. Please come with us. We can't have a home without you." She dropped to her knees and put her head in his lap and wept. He stroked her head as he'd done when she was a child. Her husband, her father and her brother all watched, unable to do or say anything that would lessen her grief, and unwilling to say what they all knew must be said: It was time to leave this place.
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