by Cynthia Webb
I started laughing, then realized that I had put my hands up in the air without realizing it somewhere during the course of this. I put my hands down.
“I need to borrow a shirt, Daddy, is that okay?”
“You could have got shot, Baby Sister. What kind of fool did I raise, walking in people’s rooms in the middle of the night?”
“You just about shot your daughter, and I’m a fool? Thanks for the shirt.”
I picked it up off the carpet where I’d dropped it.
Momma said, “Wait a minute. What do you need a shirt for in the middle of the night?”
“I’m going out.”
“Do you have a date?” she asked, the hope painfully clear in her voice.
“No. I’m going all by myself.”
Momma sat up straighter in bed. “What kind of woman goes out by herself in the middle of the night? You’re up to no good. You’re looking for trouble, Baby Sister.”
I started for the door with the shirt clutched to my chest, still feeling shaky. “It’s only ten-thirty,” I said. “But you are definitely right about one thing. I am looking for trouble, and I aim to find it.”
I’m not going to tell you I wasn’t nervous driving through the night towards Highway 17. My stomach churned, and my palms were wet against the steering wheel. It’s ironic, I thought. I’m fearless in the most infamous neighborhoods of New York, but this little visit to subtropical suburbia was turning me into a nervous wreck. But I kept going, because I wanted to know exactly what sort of people I’d grown up with. If I’d failed to notice something this big when I was growing up, I didn’t want to miss it any longer.
I turned onto the highway. I really hoped that Walter had been putting me on. That the Klan didn’t really have rallies within sight of a major highway. Or, if they did, that there wasn’t one scheduled for this particular Friday night. But I hadn’t gone far before I spotted the glow from the fire, off to the right, set back a ways from the road.
There was only one turn-off in that direction. I pulled off the highway onto a narrow, oyster-shell road which wound through the pine scrub and palmetto. There were no street lights. I could not see farther ahead than the next curve, which was never very far.
I belatedly thought what a good idea it would have been to tell someone—Momma, Daddy, Seth, even Johnny—where I was going. That way, if my body showed up floating in Matthew Bayou the next day, at least someone would know who to blame.
Then I turned another curve, and there was a fence, with a gate crossing the road, and two men in white robes and pointy white hats at either side of the road. Beyond the fence, I could see a big field filled with cars parked in rows. Beyond was the large bonfire, and hundreds of people milling around it, silhouetted against the flames.
My throat was itchy. I licked with my dry tongue at my lips which were coated with a thick, bubble-gum pink lipstick of Momma’s I’d found in the bathroom. For some reason, I had thought it would help my disguise. I wondered if I could just pretend to the guards that I was lost, and get directions to the nearest bar. And then follow those directions.
The gatekeepers came up to either side of the car. They both carried flashlights. I didn’t see guns, but I strongly suspected they were carrying those, too.
The one on the driver’s side shined his light in my face. “This is a private party, Miss. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”
I was too scared to focus on his face under the silly white hat, but I got the menacing tone in his voice clear enough. I was about to launch into my story about how lost I was when the other one, on the passenger side, spoke.
“Wait a minute, George. I recognize this car. Belongs to Mr. Coldwater.” He walked around the front of the car to the driver’s side, bent down and peered at my face.
“Why I bet this is Coach Coldwater’s little girl. The one that lives up north somewhere with all those Yankees. That right? You Sydney Coldwater’s little girl?”
I sighed. One thing I truly appreciated about the impersonal streets of Manhattan was that I was never referred to as “Coach Coldwater’s little girl.”
“That right?” asked the first one. “Little Laurie Coldwater. How about that. You remember me, don’t you, Laurie?”
I looked at the fat, ugly redneck in the white costume. I had that same sick feeling I get in my stomach when I’m watching an old movie and there is a close-up of a huge Nazi flag and then the camera pulls back to show a plaza full of booted soldiers goose stepping as foreboding music grows louder and louder. No, I didn’t remember him. I could never have known this man.
“Greg Johnson. Now you remember me, right?” he smiled with an eagerness that made me sick.
I did remember a Greg Johnson, a sweet, shy football player. Country boy. We laughed at him when he wore high-topped sneakers with a suit to the athletic-award banquet.
“Been out of town quite a while, haven’t you?” asked the other one. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll park her car. You two get reacquainted.”
I got out of the car, moving as if in a dream. My movements just didn’t seem to have weight. I realized I still had my car keys in my hand. I offered them awkwardly to the Klansman, trying not to touch his hand.
Greg walked me over to the fence. I could hear the voices of the crowd around the fire, but only vaguely, as if someone had the TV on in the next room.
Greg appeared to be thrilled to see me. He had married Greta Altman, he said. He took out his wallet to show me his children’s pictures. There were three boys. Teenagers. They were photos of them in their football uniforms, their helmets tucked under their arms. They all had short hair, and heavy faces and necks, and all three of them had a variation of their father’s sweet grin.
“I’m a lucky man. I’ll tell you that right now,” he said, with an ever shy pride.
I stretched my lips into a smile. It felt fake and nasty.
“Three good boys. All athletes. Not a one of them involved with drugs. Nothing like that. Fine boys.”
I remembered seeing Greg enjoy at least a joint or two at one party or another. There had been so many parties, but looking back, they blended into one, long endless night, with drugs and booze and stupid jokes and the waiting, always, the waiting. There was always someone who was supposed to show up with more beer, or some really good pot. Something that would make it all worthwhile.
“Do they drink beer?” I asked.
Greg laughed. “Sure they do. Boys’ll be boys you know. Long as they stay away from the drugs, I can’t complain.”
I thought of the boys Greg and I knew who had died in car accidents. I thought of the quarterback my junior year, a star with several impressive scholarship offers, who had lost an arm and his bright hopes after one particular drunken night.
But all I did was nod my head and try to focus on my investigation. So many things I felt I had to know. How long had this been going on? Why were they doing this? How much of the population of Port Mullet knew about it? I had to figure out a way to ask all these questions without making him suspicious.
The mosquitoes were biting pretty bad. I kept scratching at my wrists and neck. Greg noticed. “No mosquito trucks anymore,” he said. “They ought to bring them back. Remember when we were kids and there used to be those great fog-trucks?”
Suddenly, I did remember. I had completely forgotten those hot summer nights. How thrilled we were to hear the heavy roar of the truck in the distance, and smell its approach. We’d be playing barefoot in the street.
When the truck passed down the street, the kids would run behind it, just for the thrill of breathing in the heavy, smelly “mosquito fog.” Our skin would be coated with a layer of heavy oil.
Insecticide. Nobody ever called it that. But that’s what it was. “Poison” is another word we didn’t use. I didn’t want to think too much about it. About the effect on our little bodies of breathing in that stuff, year after year.
“Mosquito control and air conditioning, that’s what�
��s made this place. You ever think about it, Laurie? I mean this little town was nothing, nothing, when we were born here. But every year, a few more people, then a few more, then by the time we were in high school, this place had become something. Some old timers complain about it, but hell, I say, most of those old timers got rich in real estate. If not for the newcomers, they’d still be mullet fishermen, living in shacks. It’s mosquito control and air conditioning that made this place what it is today.” Apparently the economic boom had been good to Greg. “Come on, Laurie, I’ll show you around. Lots of folks here haven’t seen you in a long, long time.”
I followed him, almost numb from the shock that this was really happening. The atmosphere was like that of a big barbecue. There appeared to be a family section way on the other side of the field, where the wives and children were gathered. On the near side, it looked like any gathering of men, drinking beer, telling jokes. Greg said that the main event would be later, an inspirational speech by some Klan big-shot.
Greg showed me around. A lot of people knew me, or rather, knew of me. To some people, I was introduced as, “You know, Seth Coldwater’s little sister.” To more, it was, “This is Coach Coldwater’s little girl.” One of them answered, “Well, how about that, now. I didn’t know Coach had a daughter. Those four boys, now everyone knows about them. Your daddy’s a fine man,” he said. “Fine man. We’ve had a winning team for more years than any school around here. We beat them all, even the big city schools from Tampa and St. Pete. Those teams full of those big nigger boys, not a white one in uniform. Coach Coldwater fields a winning team every year, and he does it with more white boys than black.” There was a murmur of approval from all around.
I turned away, and, there in front of me, was Forrest Miller, Mr. Miller, the man I had once so admired.
Chapter Eight
Surprise and annoyance flickered across Forrest Miller’s face. It was gone in a moment.
He greeted me warmly. The men around me quieted right down. Forrest and the younger, bigger man at his side appeared to be objects of reverence. After some greeting and remarks to the men, Forrest pulled the man with him to the side and spoke quietly in his ear. Then he turned back to the rest of us.
“George,” he began, indicating the man with him, “why don’t you buy this young lady a soda, and then see her to her car. Wouldn’t do now, would it, for us to leave a pretty doe alone with a bunch of big-antlered bucks like this crew, would it?”
There were appreciative chuckles around the group. Greg said it sure was nice to see me again, and Greta would be calling me about a visit to their place. I smiled and waved as I left.
George walked behind me, but was clearly in control of my direction. His hand on my arm, gentle but firm, told me where to go. With that kind of style, I figured he’d be a hell of a slow dancer.
There was a grill set up, and a table where hamburgers and hot-dogs and fixings were sold. Beside that was another folding table holding soft drinks. He bought me a coke. Before I could drink any of it, he led me over to the parking lot.
We found Momma’s car. I leaned back against the door on the driver’s side, and sipped at my soda. I was feeling cramped and confused. I wanted to feel spunky and in-their-faces. I wanted to be free. I wanted Manhattan. I wanted Sammy. I wanted to go home. But I didn’t want to be made to leave before I found what I had come for. I had to find out what I could about these people, my childhood neighbors. I’d always thought I was Port Mullet’s most hostile critic, but I’d never, in my most vitriolic moments, imagined this. A thriving Klan.
Maybe I’d started a search for Sammy’s past, but now I needed to find my own, too. I’d thought it didn’t matter, not since I’d moved to the city, anyway. Every other person you run into in Manhattan has come there to make a complete break with the past. To be someone they couldn’t be in their hometown.
I thought the only vestige I carried was my accent. But I had also carried with me the things I had been blind to, the things I had missed. It’s like when you’re at a party and you’re smiling and having a good time and thinking, boy am I sexy. And the whole time you’ve got a big gob of spinach stuck in your teeth.
I had felt the flush of shame the minute I’d seen Forrest. Yeah, I knew what it said about me. I’d misjudged him, all right. Me, the self-proclaimed cynic and iconoclast, and rebel, so suspicious of authority and privilege. I’d let his money and taste pull the wool over my eyes. He had actually been my fantasy father, though. In the time it took to walk away from the crowd with George and settle against the car, I was over that. Lesson learned. I just hoped I could keep the moral firmly in mind.
George took out a cigar and went through an elaborate routine of lighting it. He didn’t ask, “Mind if I smoke?” until it was lit.
“Not at all,” I said. “Mind if I indulge, too?”
He smiled at me, a superior smile, and I reached into his inside jacket pocket, and took my time finding a cigar. As I pulled my hand out, I brushed it slowly across his shirt, right above his belt.
I mimicked his action in lighting the cigar as closely as I could, then drew on it. It was foul and nasty, and immediately made me slightly nauseated, and very light-headed. But I would be damned if I was going to let him see that.
“So,” I said, trying not to cough.
“Yes,” said George. “Exactly. So.” It was clear that George fancied himself a Southerner along Forrest Miller’s aristocratic lines, instead of the good old boy mode that appeared popular among most of the crowd at this event.
He didn’t say anything else. Just stood there smoking his cigar, looking me up and down. We smoked our cigars in silence. I was trying to figure out how I could get a conversation going quick, so I would have an excuse to keep the cigar out of my mouth. Also, I was planning to get some information out of this guy.
I had an idea. I took my cigar and very deliberately placed it on the hood of the car, carefully balancing it so that the ash end hung over the edge. Then I reached out and took his cigar from him and put it in my mouth, trying not to gag. After a moment, I removed it slowly, and placed it back in his mouth.
I’ll give him this. He didn’t crack. Just raised his eyebrows. “Gee, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m afraid it might be a bit wet.” I licked my lips.
Then I unbuttoned the top button of my father’s shirt and rubbed my hand into my cleavage (such as it is). “These mosquitoes. I’m getting eaten alive.”
He didn’t make a move. I was impressed. “Would you like to go someplace quiet and… chat?” I asked finally.
“Why don’t we get in your car?” he said. “Get away from the mosquitoes. You go ahead and get in. I’ll be right back.”
I was nervous getting into the car with him, but I figured nothing could happen that I couldn’t handle, not with hundreds of people ten yards away. He wouldn’t want to be embarrassed in front of this crowd.
I was hoping that I could distract him with his desire and get some answers from him. I had no intention of actually having sex with him, that’s for sure.
He got in on the passenger side with a flask of bourbon. I smiled. He passed it to me. I drank, then handed it back.
“Come a little closer, sweet thing,” he said.
Now I really smiled. “In a minute,” I said. “First I want to talk.”
“No, darling. You’ve been awful inviting, and it wasn’t to a lecture.”
“I want you to talk.”
“You want me to tell you what I want to do to you?”
I sighed inwardly. Another jerk who thought his dirty thoughts were fascinating. I seriously doubted whether there was a single imaginative, creative, or original act on his list.
Outwardly I scooted a little closer, still keeping the parking brake between us. I reached over and rearranged my backpack, which was on the floor on the passenger side, between his feet.
“Should I call you George or Mister...?” I asked, trying to distract him from what I was doing.
/> “You can call me anything you want,” he said.
Good. Finally. Between the booze and the come-ons, he was starting to melt.
“I was so surprised to run into a sophisticated guy like you here,” I said.
“And we were surprised you came to visit us.” He reached his arm around me and pulled me across the parking brake onto the bucket seat with him. Needless to say, it was crowded. “But very pleasantly surprised.”
I thought I had him then. I could start asking him questions about the Klan and he’d answer them all, just in the hopes of getting to stick his little wee-wee in me. Then I’d figure out some way to get away before it came to that.
He tried to kiss me, and I thought for a moment I could go along with it. After all the things I’ve done, and all the people I’ve done them with, what’s one more kiss?
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear it. I pulled my face away. He let me go. I was relieved, and was trying to figure out what to do next.
He was quick for such a large man. And I wasn’t the only one who’d been planning ahead. He had pushed his seat back down and climbed on top of me before I realized what was happening.
I struggled against him and reached out one hand for the handle. It didn’t open. He’d locked the door. I reached for the lock, and he grabbed my hand. He held it with the other one over my head. I tried to arch my back, but he was too heavy. I tried to kick, but my legs were pinned down.
He yanked open the shirt and ripped my bra. I tried to bite him. He slapped me hard across my face. I tasted blood.
He was working on my belt buckle. I took a deep breath and then started screaming. He put his hands around my throat and throttled me some, and then he hit my head against the seat back a few times. Just hard enough. He knew what he was doing.
“Shut up. You scream once more and I’ll call Forrest. He’ll hold you down while I fuck you and then I’ll let him have sloppy seconds. If you just want to do this once, shut up.”
