Rings of Trust

by Kittie Howard

As David, Arlette, and Lucille got out of the Ford, Gerald rushed from the porch. “I didn’t tink da kids was comin’,” he said, his eyes on David’s forehead. “Mais, I figured da ladies would find a way to git here.”

  “We knows how to shoot,” Arlette said to his back.

  “Merci, pod-nah, fo’ yo hep,” David said to Gerald. He gave Arlette a cold look and headed for the house with Gerald. “Mr. Laurent tole me he’s hearin’ da Klan’s ridin’ wid ’bout twenty men tonight,” David said, voice low.

  Gerald glanced at Arlette and Lucille behind them. “W’at da hell’s da women’s doin’ here? You’s cooyôn, no.”

  “Merde, dey was carryin’ on, yellin’ me down like you’s not believin’. Afta dey run to da car, dere was no gittin’ dem out. I’s neva got to tell ’em nuttin’.”

  “How come dey’s doin’ stupid shit like dat?” Gerald asked.

  “Dey’s ’fraid dose veterans ain’t comin’.”

  “Dey’s gonna be here, pod-nah. Nobody’s lettin’ ya down.” Gerald inched closer. “Where’s da kids?”

  “Mr. Laurent was seein’ da argument comin’. He done took ’em to check on sumptin’ in da pasture.” After they climbed the porch steps, David propped the screen door open with his foot and unlocked the front door. Gerald returned to his rocker and sat with his rifle as Arlette and Lucille followed David inside.

  “Where’s you puttin’ us?” Arlette asked.

  “You’s safest in da dinin’ room,” David said and walked down the hall.

  “We’s not carin’ ’bout bein’ safe,” Arlette said.

  “I’s carin’.” David entered the dining room and selected two rifles from those beneath the window. “Keep da safety on. I dôn want no shootin’ ’less I says so.”

  “W’at ’bout da kitchen?” Arlette asked. “Why kan’t we stay dere?”

  “Two a da veterans will take care a da backyard,” David said.

  “Why? Da Klan’s ridin’ in da front,” Lucille said, a bite in her voice.

  “If you two’d listen once in a while, you’d be knowin’,” David said and glared at Arlette. “Dere might be a problem on da side of da Gerard’s house.”

  Arlette’s hand flew to her mouth. “Mais non,” she said and ran out of the dining room. The door to the bathroom slammed shut before David reached her.

  Lucille stood near the wall in the hall, a knowing look on her face, while David paced. “Beb, you’s goin’ back to Mr. Laurent’s,” he said when the door opened. “Dis is upsettin’ you too much.”

  “I’s fine.” Arlette averted his eyes. “I ain’t goin’ nowheres.”

  “Mais, I’s not fine,” Lucille said. “We’s had nuttin’ to eat since breakfast. I’s gonna mek some sandwiches fo’ us an’ dem veterans—if dey’s comin’.”

  David turned when the screen door opened. “I need to talk wid ya’,” Gerald said. He moved to the side of the porch when David stepped outside. “Good news. Afta you left, Jack Landry got t’rew to Mr. Laurent. Jack’s shut down his sawmill,” Gerald said, a wide smile on his face. “Mah wife juz come by an’ tole me, like Mr. Laurent axed.”

  “Sacre bleu,” David said. “Da Klan’s gotta be some mad.”

  “Yeah. Afta we kick ’em in da balls, dey ain’t gonna be able to fuck demselves.”

  David’s shoulders tensed. “A truck’s comin’. Git yo rifle,” he said and raced inside. With Louie’s Remington at his waist, he stood opposite Gerald on the porch steps.

  After the black truck stopped near David’s Ford, two men emerged, their hands in the air. “Don’t shoot. We’re here to hep,” the stocky one said.

  Gerald lowered his rifle. “Son uh a bitch. Look w’at da cat done dragged in.” He laid his rifle on the porch and walked down the steps. “Good seein’ ya, Chuck,” he said, shaking the proffered hand. “Id’s been a while. How’s yo daddy doin’?”

  “Oh, he’s ornery as eva,” Chuck said. “Glad yo daddy got in touch. We’re havin’ problems with the Klan in Denham Springs. They’re gettin’ too close to Baton Rouge. It’s time those boys got a taste of their own medicine.” Chuck gestured toward the tall, angular man approaching from the passenger’s side of the truck. “This is George. Invited him to join my practice when he graduated from LSU’s dental school last spring.”

  “Good meetin’ ya, George.” Gerald shook his hand “Appreciate you comin’.”

  “Folks call him Popsicle,” Chuck said with a good-natured laugh. “George melts when he’s in the sun. You shoulda seen him when we were at Parris Island. He drank water and peed like a fountain. Talk about a one-man cluster-fuck.”

  Gerald slapped Popsicle on the back and motioned for David to join them. “Dis is David Broussard, da Marine wid da Klan on his ass.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Popsicle said, shaking his hand.

  “Dôn gimme dat officer crap, Marine,” David said with a man’s-man handshake. “I was a lance corporal.”

  “Devil Dog, it’s not the rank,” Chuck said. “We know how you earned your Silver Star on Iwo. There’s no secrets in the Marine Corps, even if we’re not wearin’ the uniform now.”

  “Merde. Dere ain’t nuttin’ special ’bout me. I was juz doin’ mah job,” David said.

  Popsicle’s eyes rested on David’s banged-up forehead. “The Klan’s not getting’ away with beatin’ the crap outta you,” Popsicle said.

  “Da sheriff did dis. Meybe id’s da same as da Klan. Dôn know yet.” David’s eyes darted to the road. “Trucks comin’,” he said.

  “That’s your second fire team,” Chuck said. “We’ve got your back.”

  After Gerald introduced Mike, Joey, René, and Allen, the men hauled a variety of rifles, side arms, and boxes of ammunition into David’s house. They then backed the trucks into position. Two flanked David’s house. The third anchored the opening between Mr. Blanchard’s wooden fence and the Gerard’s house. David’s Ford remained longitudinally parked in front of the flowerbeds lining the walkway to his porch.

  With David at point, the men reconnoitered the nine-acre compound. “I’m hearin’ da Klan’s ridin’ wid ’bout twenty men,” David said as they evaluated the serpentine stretch of pine trees. “Two fire teams kan’t stop an overwhelmin’ force. Mais, we can scare da Klan ’way by creatin’ a ruckus wid our firepower. Da sheriff’s deputy in Cypress Point kan’t be stupid fo’ever, no.”

  René frowned. “Where’s Cypress Point?”

  “Id’s ’bout twenty miles down da road, a hole in da wall speed trap wid thirty or so people livin’ dere,” David said and pointed to his left. “Afta da last election, Sheriff Guidry put a deputy dere. Da kid didn’t mek id outta high school, but I found out he’s one a da sheriff’s cousins.”

  “If Alexandria’s sheriff did that, it would be all over the news.” Allen rubbed his stubbled chin. “I’m a reporter for our television station. Maybe I need to take a deeper look at what’s goin’ on here. We need to clean up our problems before the Federal government does it for us. This Civil Rights movement’s got real traction.”

  “Most a da people here are good, good people,” Gerald said, his voice defensive. “Id’s juz dat da families are mo’ like clans. We git da assholes dey dôn want, den dey vote fo’ dem ’cause dey’s family.”

  “That’s too fucked up fo’ me.” Chuck nodded at the pine trees. “Nothin’ can block those pines. Horses can get ’round anything in the driveway or on the lawn. Good call, sir, puttin’ the trucks where you did.” The men murmured their agreement.

  “Merci,” David said and coughed lightly. “I tink da Klan’s goal is to torch at least one house, probably mine, but dey’ll go fo’ da Gerard’s house if dey can’t git to mine. To do dat, da Klan’s gotta split ids men, wid one group comin’ up da driveway an’ da second group comin’ t’rew da pines near Blanchard’s fence.” He paused. “Da Klan knows we’re waitin’. Dey’s gonna come at us straight an’ swerve late to protect dere horses.”

&
nbsp; “Meybe the Klan’s got flamethrowers, like what we used durin’ the War,” Popsicle said.

  David shook his head. “Dey’s illegal. Dôn see how anybody coulda got one back.”

  “I’ve got an M1903 Springfield rifle with a Weaver telescopic sight,” Popsicle said. “It’s in a case in your living room. I won’t have a problem takin’ a horse out ’tween the eyes.”

  Mike faced the skinny veteran with an earnest face. “You’re a sniper?”

  “Yeah, bein’ a sniper got me off a Tarawa Terrace alive. All I gotta do now is survive law school.”

  “Holy shit,” David said. “Dat place was hell on earth.”

  “I got lucky.” Popsicle’s expression deepened. “If I make it as a lawyer, I’m settin’ up a scholarship foundation fo’ kids to go to LSU.”

  “Marine, you’ve got a chair in mah law firm waitin’ fo’ you,” Mike said.

  “Thanks, Devil Dog,” Popsicle said, dropping his eyes. “Appreciate it.”

  David’s light cough broke the silence that followed. “Let’s walk da rest a da place, grab a sandwich in da kitchen, an’ organize da weapons,” he said. An hour and a half later, the group moved from David’s shed to his house’s back steps. David checked his watch. “Id’s 6:00. We’ve got ’bout two hours befo’ dusk takes ova. Let’s git dat bite to eat.”

  “Arlette’s upstairs,” Lucille said in Cajun French when David entered the kitchen. “She finally fell asleep. Don’t wake her up. Her stomach’s upset. She can’t keep any food down.” With her eyes straight ahead, Lucille waited for the men to file in behind David. “I’s Lucille, da neighbor,” she said in English. “David’s wife is upstairs ’cause she’s feelin’ po’ly. Hep yo’self to dem ham sandwiches an’ da milk on da table. I’s gonna git da Coca-Cola from da ice box juz in case you’s t’irsty, t’irsty.”

  While the men stood around the table, devouring sandwiches and joshing each other, David opened the bottles Lucille passed to him. “Arlette must have some kind a bug layin’ her low,” he said in Cajun French.

  “Yeah, she’s got a bug. It’s getting bigger and bigger,” Lucille said in Cajun French.

  David crossed to the kitchen table and reached for a sandwich. “You know da rules. Nobody kin shoot to kill,” he said between bites. “Go fo’ trippin’ up da horses. A fallen rider ain’t gonna mess wid ya. Da bastard’s gonna run fo’ da pine trees like a scalded dog.” He took a second sandwich from the plate. “Da Klan’s probably gonna burn one a dem crosses on da lawn,” he said, his hand in the air with the sandwich. “Dôn do nuttin’. Dey’s tryin’ to sucker you in. ’Member, we’re playin’ a game a chicken wid da Klan’s rules. We ain’t go no choice,” he said and bit into his sandwich.

  “I know how that goes,” Mike said. “I see it in the courtroom all the time. If the authorities you’ve got here retaliate with trumped-up charges, I’ll run ’em in circles with legal maneuvers. You’re in the same judicial district. I know what to do.”

  Popsicle finished his third glass of milk and reached for a bottle of Coca-Cola. “Did you say Franneaux’s the name of the asshole livin’ ’cross the road?”

  “Yeah, dat’s his name,” David said.

  “After I drill holes in his two front teeth, everything Franneaux says will sound like ‘ssheet,’” Popsicle said.

  When the laughter faded, David faced the men. “Any questions ’bout w’at ev’rybody’s supposed to do?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure ’bout a couple a tings,” Gerald said. “Mais, I didn’t understand some of da military talk when we were outside.” He shrugged apologetically. “I was neva in da military. Da recruiter didn’t like mah flat feet.”

  “I’ll walk wid you an’ Chuck to da Gerard’s house,” David said. “Anybody else?” After a respectful silence, David stood near the entrance to the hallway. “Grab yo gear in da dinin’ room, check w’at you prepositioned in da front rooms, an’ git to yo hide sites.” David slapped each man on the back and thanked him as he entered the hall.

  “Where’s Arlette sleeping?” David asked Lucille in Cajun French when the kitchen emptied.

  “In the guest bedroom,” Lucille replied in the same language. “I’ll wake her up in a few minutes.”

  “I want both of you to stay on the floor in the kitchen, where Jacob slept.”

  “I understand.”

  “If I see a rider heading for the house with a torch, I’ll get off two rounds to warn you.” He paused. “My Remington makes a different sound. You’ll know.

  “Don’t worry. If I smell smoke, we’ll run out the back door to the shed.” Lucille hesitated. “I’m sorry we wouldn’t get out of the car. We shouldn’t be here.”

  “I’ll kill anyone who comes near you and Arlette,” David said and rushed from the kitchen. After he retrieved his Colt in the dining room and stuck the pistol in his jeans’ waist, he grabbed his ammo bag. He eyed his cache in the living room and followed the last veteran onto the porch. As the screen door slammed shut, he reached for his Remington on the porch floor behind the white rocker.

  René and Allen went to the truck to the left of David’s house while Joey and Mike positioned themselves on the right, in the space next to Lucille’s house. Popsicle leaned against the side of David’s longitudinally parked Ford sedan. “Take care a mah babies, will ya?” David handed him the Remington and the Colt. “I’ll be right back.”

  “No problem, sir.” Popsicle smiled at the Colt but whistled at the 12-gauge Remington Wingmaster shotgun.

  “Sorry, pod-nah,” David said, his hand on Gerald’s shoulder. “You were noddin’ like you understood da lingo.”

  “I did—when we were in da group,” Gerald said with a hollow laugh.

  “Everybody’s scared shitless the first time,” Chuck said.

  “Gerald’s daddy was a point shooter durin’ da Great War an’ showed him how to shoot,” David said to Chuck as they walked toward Lucille’s house. “Gerald’s gonna know w’at to do. He’s got da eye an’ da instinct.” David stopped and pointed toward the pine trees. “One group a riders must git ’cross da drainage runnin’ alongside da road. Id makes sense fo’ dem to do dat in front a Blanchard’s place, den maneuver t’rew da trees out front. Da Klan’s not comin’ out in a straight line, but dey’s gonna git in one. Dat’s when da group comin’ up da driveway will cut ’cross da lawn an’ give ’em da torches.”

  A wide grin spread across Gerald’s face. “Da first group kan’t come t’rew da pine trees wid torches an’ rifles. Da group comin’ up da driveway kan’t swerve in front a da houses ’cause most a dem is right-handed.”

  “Dat’s right, pod-nah,” David said with a smile. “And dat’s where yo point shootin’ comes in handy. Da mo’ horses dat stumble da betta, yeah. No sense killin’ a good horse fo’ nuttin’. Mais, we’ve gotta hold our fire as long as we kin. I dôn want da Klan haulin’ us into court for killin’ a horse, like dey did with da Gremillion brodders. You know how dose boys ’most lost dere farm payin’ for a lawya?”

  Gerald nodded yes. “How come da ladies is in yo house? Da Gerard’s house looks safer, no?”

  “Mais non. Id’s da worst house. If da riders dôn come t’rew da pine trees, meybe dey’ll come from da farm road on Blanchard’s place. Dey kin torch da Gerard’s house an’ git da hell out too fast fo’ us to stop ’em.” David pointed toward Lucille’s house. “Da middle house is da second most dangerous. If da Klan torches dat house, dere’s no shed fo’ da ladies to hide in.”

  “Why do you think the Klan will torch your house?” Chuck asked.

  “Jacob slept in mah house. He’s nine years old. He’s black.” David said. “Da Klan wants to teach me a lesson.”

  Chapter Ten

  Marigolds