The dogwood trees on the school property blew gently in the warm wind. It was mid-afternoon now, and Sy had sat underneath one of the dogwoods directly facing the school doors so that he could catch the students as soon as they came out. Rich brown leaves fell down around Sy as he took a swig of his cigarette, waiting patiently. He had learned to be patient sitting in those foxholes in France. A man had no choice but to sit and wait then – think about his life before it ended, as often did if one came out of the foxhole too soon before all was cleared by the patrol guards. His first night in the hole, he nearly went mad. He had been sitting in that hole on his knees for over 8 hours with no food, only water, alongside Private Brito, a few months before his brains would be splattered all over another foxhole trying to save a wounded friend.
Prior to the war, Sy was quick on the draw. Not patient at all, never liking having to wait for anything. It got him into a lot of trouble with his momma and his teachers. That night, he thought he’d heard someone advancing towards them and had stood up ready to shoot when a bullet clipped his left ear. Private Brito quickly snatched him back down into the hole. “You alright, Captain? You’s white as one of my momma’s linens,” he tried to tease, but Sy didn’t say a word. He stared at the blood that oozed down the palm of the hand that he had held to his grazed ear. He learned that day to respect patience.
Sy was deep in that memory as the sun glistened off the remaining dew left on the fallen leaves of the dogwood tree. He picked up one of the leaves, and put its stem in his mouth like a toothpick. He had long since finished his cigarette, having put it out in the fat trunk of the dogwood – his temporary pillow. A squirrel darted a few feet in front of him carrying one of red the berries of the dogwood tight in its jaws. That squirrel just wants what’s due him, said Sy to himself.
Just then, the doors of the school opened and two young Negro women in white nurse’s dresses came out of the building. Sy got the photo of Annie ready as they walked towards him deep in conversation, so much so that he frightened them when he interrupted them with, “Excuse me, but I am looking for anyone who knew Annie Hilks.” They clutched their purses to their bodies instinctively.
Sy was aware of the fact that they thought he was a thief or worse. “I am, ah, looking into her death. Did you know her?” and he showed them her picture.
The light-skinned, tall nursing student shook her head no, but the other girl said, “Yes, I knew her. We had a class together.” She pushed her thick rimmed glasses up on her nose with a long, skinny finger.
“Can I talk to you in private over here, please?” asked Sy pointing to a bench. She told her friend to wait for her and she walked over to the bench with Sy. The light-skinned nurse watched her fellow sister like a hawk.
“Poor Annie,” she began. “She was a nice girl.”
“Was she seeing anyone special?” Sy pressed.
The nursing student shook her head no. “Annie…Annie wasn’t serious about anyone right now. She had big plans to finish school and then go to New York to work up there.”
Sy proceeded cautiously. He did not want to reveal anything about Annie that might soil her reputation or memory. “Did Annie work?”
The nurse was quiet for a second as her eyes stared at the concrete. “There was one gentleman Annie said treated her nicer than anyone ever had. He told her he was going to marry her someday. She was real happy about that. She said…she said she could stop working if he did marry her. Look, I gotta go. We only have a few minutes on break and I gotta get a smoke.”
“Thank you,” Sy said as she quickly walked back to her hawkish friend. Sy sat on the bench for a few moments and rehashed what he had learned about Annie Hilks. Now, he needed to learn more about the other three women.
Chapter 11
While Sy looked into the lives of Annie Hilks, Sheritha Bills and Mary Pollard, Lena filed away some papers. She was preparing to type a letter for Sy when Sheriff Mason and Deputy Brody strolled into the office.
She tried to keep calm, but a visit by white police officers always meant bad news for Negroes. She rose slowly from her desk. “Good afternoon, Sheriff Mason. How may I help you?”
Sheriff Mason walked around the space chewing on tobacco while Deputy Brody stood uncomfortably at the door. He had taken off his hat, a lesson his momma had taught him to do when he entered a room with a lady present. It didn’t matter to him if that said lady was white or black. A lady was a lady, and Lena had taken notice of it. She smiled softly at the young man. He returned a smile in kind.
But Sheriff Mason was quite the contrary. He liked to scare Negro women – and men. He felt powerful when he could see that folks were scared of him. He finished looking around the office and then walked straight into Lena’s space. Towering a good two inches over her, his breath wreaking of chewed tobacco, he spit out, “Where’s your nigger boss?”
Lena had known men like Sheriff Mason all her life, and she tried her best to avoid them. But when confronted by one, she also refused to let them see how scared she truly was. So, squaring her shoulders, but being sure to keep her eyes downcast as was taught all Negroes if they wanted to stay alive in the South. “He’s out, sir.”
A snicker crawled across his face as he breathed down on Lena. “Out where, girl?” His hands were on his hips which were projected forward towards Lena. Deputy Brody cleared his throat.
Lena took a deep breath. “Doing some work, sir.”
“Now don’t play stupid with me, girl. I know what he’s been hired by them so-called businessmen - niggers, really – to do. If it were up to me, no one would give a damn ‘bout a bunch of nigger women dyin’.”
His cold brown eyes burrowed into the top of Lena’s head. Even if she could look at him right now, his hate was so palpable, she’d just as soon die on the spot as to give him her eyes. So, she simply responded to this white man as she’d been taught with, “Yes sir.” Her hands remained tightly at her side and her chin down.
Then suddenly, she felt a firm hand pull her chin up. She had no choice now but to look. “What’s your name, girl?”
Deputy Brody cleared his throat again in the background and Lena could also hear his feet shuffle. She couldn’t see him, though, to know for sure, as the sheriff’s large frame blocked her view of the young deputy who was clearly uncomfortable in the room. “Stop that damn shuffling, Brody!” he barked, still keeping his eyes firmly on Lena’s face.
“Lena Johnson. Mrs. Lena Johnson,” she mustered out of her mouth.
The sheriff’s eyes squinted hard at her, and then a twinkle of recollection came into his eyes. Lena held her breath. She knew what was coming next. “You that boxer’s wife, ain’t you? Amos Johnson,” he exclaimed. Lena nodded in affirmation.
“How that ugly nigger got a pretty girl like you is —“
“Is that all, Sheriff Mason?” demanded the heavy voice of Mrs. Perditia Jones from beside Deputy Brody.
Caught by surprise, the sheriff wheeled around to face Mrs. Jones who stood tall like a proud peacock in her black and white cloche hat with matching wrap coat. If he was mad before he came into Sy’s office, he was really a bull now. “This ain’t none of ya’ business!” he hollered at her.
Mrs. Jones came fully into the room without hesitation and stood squarely in front of the sheriff, laying her purse down with a thud onto Lena’s desk. Lena herself had slumped down into her chair drained of life, practically. “The womenfolk in the Ward are my business, Sheriff Mason, especially if the law ain’t tryin’ to protect them. Now, this is a respectable business that has not broken the law, and this here married woman is just doin’ her job. Has she done a fine job of it, sir?”
“Um, Sheriff Mason, we’ve got to head on over to Broad Street, sir, for that meeting, sir,” interjected Deputy Brody, his voice quivering.
Sheriff Mason shot Brody a hateful look, but then turned to Lena, ignoring Mrs. Jones, and smiled. “You just tell him, I’m watchin’ him.” And with that, he stormed out of the office.
Deputy Brody tipped his hat to the women and quickly followed the sheriff out.
“My, lawd! I didn’t think—“
“Oh, don’t you worry now, dear. Everything is just fine now,” Mrs. Jones said dismissively as she went to the sink and poured water into a glass and handed it to Lena.
“Thank you,” she replied after she took a drink of water. “He’s a scary man.”
Mrs. Jones shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. “He’s no more scary than any other man. They all think they can bully a woman just ‘cause she ain’t one of them. You just gotta show ‘em you ain’t afraid.”
“I tried to, but when I had to look him in the eyes, I saw …” and she shuddered as she recalled the look in Sheriff Mason’s eyes.
“He’s gone now, dear. I came by to get an update from Sy.”
“He went out to talk to some people about those poor women,” Lena explained.
Mrs. Johnson looked closely at Lena who was still shaking a little. “Good. Now, you need to go on home, Miss Lena. Get your nerves back.”
“But I can’t. I have work to do!”
Mrs. Johnson looked around the office. “There is nothin’ that can’t wait until tomorrow. Leave him a note,” she suggested as she grabbed Lena’s coat from off the coat rack and handed it to her.
Lena reluctantly took it from the older woman. After putting it on, she quickly scribbled a note to Sy and laid it on his desk. The women walked to the door, locking it behind them as they left the office, a slight chill following closely behind them.
***
When Lena finally got home, the first thing she did was put some water in the kettle for some tea. Amos was clearly not home yet as the house was silent. Lena loved her little two bedroom house on North 21st Street in Church Hill. They lived in a working class neighborhood – as were many of the neighborhoods in the city of Richmond. She had decorated her little home with as much color and light as she could find. On the table by her favorite chair was the only photo she had of her mother in an old, gold frame. When she couldn’t sleep at night, she’d come and sit in her chair and talk to her mother.
Tonight would be no different as she settled into her chair with her cup of tea. She had changed into her favorite yellow dress and was going to spend the quiet time reading and talking to momma when Amos came barging through the front door.
The smell of hard liquor – moonshine – immediately invaded the little house. Lena hopped up from her chair and went to assist her husband, but the big man was in no mood for her help. “Leave me alone, biiiitchhh,” he slurred. Cold black eyes stared at her.
“Amos, let me help you—“ she had started to say when he grabbed her by the throat and threw her on the ground. Lena lay there stunned and gasping for air.
“Get up and make my fuckin’ din—ner!” he barked as he slumped over to their couch and fell on it like a dead dog.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she crawled over to her chair still holding her throat, and climbed up in it. She held her head; it felt like a bomb had exploded inside of it. She looked over at her husband. His clothes hung off of his body, his shirt scraping the floor. Drool slipped out of his mouth and onto the edge of the bright yellow sofa. Lena slowly stood up and walked over to him. Her 14”steel knitting needle lay in the yarn basket on the floor next to the couch where his head dangled.
Lena slowly reached for it, taking it carefully out of the ball of yarn it was wrapped in. She gathered her dress at her knees and slowly stood up, holding the long needle tightly in her right hand. Images of the years of senseless beatings danced around in her mind as she looked back and forth between Amos and the large needle. It’d be so easy to ram this needle in his neck, she thought. Her breathing started to labor. She couldn’t do it, and slowly she put the needle down.
Amos’ body twitched involuntarily scaring Lena as she thought he was about to get up. She threw the needle back into the basket as she backed up into her chair frozen in fear. But he didn’t get up. Still, it seemed like hours passed before she finally went into the kitchen to prepare dinner. She thought about Sy as she got out her pans.
Chapter 12
Fat, rain-filled clouds hovered in the skies above. He had taken the trolley up Broad Street to reach the cookie plant in time for the late shift workers to be heading out to lunch. As he stood on the trolley making its way up Broad Street, Sy had time to get a good look at his fellow Negroes shuffling along the streets. He noticed that the closer the trolley got to Second Street, the more confident his people seemed to walk. Their heads were held high and they walked with a small confidence. He could hear them laughing and teasing one another on the corner of Second and Broad, and even on First Street. It amazed him how a few blocks could make a difference in the demeanor and spirit of his people. Is this what he had fought for in the War, truly? A few blocks?
The trolley let him off a block or so away from his destination. As he walked, he thought about Mary Pollard. What would he learn about her today that could tie her murder to Annie? “They had to be connected somehow,” he murmured under his breath as he came to the steps of the cookie plant.
Sy had to be careful waiting outside of the cookie plant for the women to get off of work. The white owners often locked the factory doors to keep the women from leaving to take a break. The deaths of 146 people in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire of 1911 in New York did not deter them from keeping their employees locked in, plus, like the Italian and Jewish immigrants who had worked at the shirtwaist factory, they felt that the Negro women who worked for them were easily replaceable. So, the doors remained locked during working hours.
He was smoking another cigarette under another dogwood tree when several Negro women quickly exited the factory. It was lunchtime for the late shift and many women were rushing home to feed their children and themselves, if they had time. Sy put out his cigar on the tree and approached some of the ladies, careful to hold his hat in his hands suggesting harmlessness. He cleared his throat, “Excuse me. I don’t mean to bother any of you, but did anyone know Mary Pollard…the girl that was killed a few weeks ago?”
Two of the women kept their heads down and continued to walk briskly home as a cold wind had suddenly descended upon Richmond from the North. But one, a four feet, five inches tall dark-skinned woman with large egg-shaped eyes stopped to answer Sy’s question. “Ask Mena. She worked next to her,” her small, squeaky voice uttered.
“How will I know who she is?” Sy asked.
“You can’t miss Mena,” the little bird woman said with a small, knowing smile on her face. “She’ll be right out soon,” and she too quickly scurried away.
Sy put his fedora hat on, and then placed his hands in his rain coat pocket and leaned on a fence in front of the factory to wait for this Mena that he would know. Just then, a woman with long flowing black hair past her shoulders and upper back, wearing a bright red flapper dress with a hemline up to the knees and a pair of black moderately high Mary Janes came out of the doors of the cookie factory. She was smoking a cigarette and looked around her in contempt. This has to be Mena, Sy said to himself.
He approached her slowly and carefully as this woman looked dangerous in more ways than one. “Miss Mena, may I have a word with you?” he asked softly.
Sy was surprised to see another pair of cool green eyes staring coldly back at him. He had never met a Negro woman with the same color eyes as him. He caught himself staring at her and quickly lowered his eyes. She was a mulatto who had not found her destiny yet and she resented it. It was written all over her body which leaned angrily on her left hip that her life was not what she was willing to accept. “Who you?” an even colder voice asked.
“Someone told me that you worked next to Mary Pollard, the young girl who was killed a few weeks ago. Can you tell me anything about her?”
“Why should I talk about her? Don’t you want to know about me, daddy?” And a slithery smile brushed across her lips as she dropped her cigarette on the ground and
put out its flame with her Mary Janes. She had stomped on it like the men she destroyed who came into her life: ruthlessly.
“I’m investigating her death,” Sy explained and then waited.
“Uh-huh! She was too young to be on her own. I been on my own since I was twelve.” Her eyes challenged Sy to say something to comfort her, but he had no words for her. He had met many women like Mena in his travels and he knew she was too dangerous for his world right now. She’d destroy him, to be sure, so he kept quiet and kept his hands in his pockets, waiting for her to talk more about Mary.
Mena got the hint. This was a man she’d like to have, but he would not be easy to get. He was oddly handsome with his crooked nose, but his green eyes showed no emotions like hers, so she gave up – for now. Besides, he was a drunk and poor. She could tell by the smell of bourbon on his breath and the worn out shoes on his feet. “Whatcha wanna know ‘bout her? She was only here a week, so I don’t know much.”
“Did she have a man friend?”
Mena glared at Sy. “Like I said, she was too young…and she was a farm girl. They don’t know nothin’ ‘bout handlin’ no man.” Her eyes challenged Sy again to say something soothing to her, but he again refused to. She sucked in her breath and rolled her eyes toward the heavens. “I gotta go, Mister—“
“Sy Sanford,” he offered.
She glared at him. “I needs to eat before I go back in that hell. Is that all you wanna know?”
She had started to walk away, but Sy blocked her path. “Yes. Did she have any friends to speak of?”
“All she ever talked ‘bout was how she loved flowers and clean air. She said she loved to walk in the park and just breathe. It reminded her of home…in Caroline County. Said she was gonna go home as soon as she’d saved up enough money.”
For a second, Sy thought he saw Mena’s face soften at the mention of the word home, but when she looked up at him, her eyes were cold and empty again. “Thank you, Mena. You’ve been helpful.” She just nodded her head, looked him up and down in disregard, and strutted away as if she had no concept of time.
Murder on Second Street: The Jackson Ward Murders (Sy Sanford Series Book 1) Page 7
