The Secret of Magic

by Johnson, Deborah

  “Mr. Connelly, sir. You ever known me to lie?”

  The sheriff blushed. “I wasn’t talking about you in particular, Willie Willie. You know that. I was speaking in general.”

  “Miss Regina wouldn’t lie, neither.”

  The sheriff let that pass.

  Regina made a great show of fishing through the papers in her open briefcase. “But we do have new evidence. Mrs. Anna Dale Buchanan was on that bus, and she would be happy to testify. She—”

  “She didn’t actually see a thing,” interrupted the sheriff. “Don’t know nothing . . . anything . . .”

  “Well, maybe you should talk to her again. No one called on her to testify, not in front of the grand jury, and she’s free to do it,” said Regina. “Or maybe Mr. Duval could speak with her directly. That is if you don’t want to do it yourself.”

  “If Bed Duval did something like that,” said the sheriff, with a sigh perfectly pitched between patience and aggravation, “with folks riled up the way they are now, writing things on the side of Miss Mary Pickett Calhoun’s house and all—a veritable showplace—and flyers flung up all over town, disfiguring the trees . . . why, Bed could find himself not only losing the judgeship but recalled away from what he’s already built up. Those that can vote’ll make quick work of him for the good of the community. You best make up your mind to that cause he sure has. There’s not going to be any more investigating done, and there’s an end to it.”

  Regina said, “But there was another white woman on the bus. A widow with twin boys. She was mentioned in the court papers. I think her name was . . .”

  “You talking about the new Mrs. Johnny Ray Dean?” The sheriff knew the facts of his case, but they did not seem to make him look happy. “A used-to-be widow. She’s married herself to a bus driver now. From what I hear, he’s cousin to the Blodgett’s on his wife’s side. Now I hear the new Mrs. Dean is working herself; she’s a receptionist over at the Times Commercial. Moved herself up and her kids up with her; went from staying with her mama in a tiny three-room shotgun in Tupelo to living in a nice brick bungalow with a nice husband near here in New Hope. The sheriff’s sad smile said, You think she’s gonna be any help?

  Connelly shot a quick look at Willie Willie, who was sitting stiffly on one of Tom Raspberry’s wooden visitor’s chairs.

  Quietly, Regina said, “And I guess Manasseh Lacey . . .”

  “A little colored boy? Barely big enough to see out a bus window . . .” The sheriff let out a snort.

  “I’ve got something else.”

  A bit more attention, not much.

  Regina hurried on, telling him about the shirt Peach had given her, where Peach had found it, the stains around the missing button. She saw Willie Willie stiffen, pay close attention, but none of this mattered to the sheriff. Halfway through, he started shaking his head.

  “Means nothing,” he said. “Could be anything on the front of that shirt. And even if it is blood, what’s there connecting it with what happened to Joe Howard? Mr. Wynne—he’s young. Still sowing his wild oats, and—unfortunately—there’s sometimes lots of fighting goes along with that. Now, Regina, you’re a lawyer. You know what you got ain’t gonna work in any courtroom in the nation, let’s not even talk about here. Peach, with her shirt, she knows that, too. And probably a whole lot better than you do.”

  “I think we better listen to the offer,” said Tom quietly. It was the first time he’d said a word.

  A brief nod his way from the sheriff. “They want to put his name on the War Memorial. Right up there with all the other World War folks who didn’t come back—though actually Joe Howard did come back, in a manner of speaking. The White Citizens Council and the ladies . . . They plan to overlook all that. He’ll be the first Nigra writ on it, you know. Alphabetized, along with everybody else.”

  Regina shook her head. She couldn’t believe it. She opened her mouth, but it was Willie Willie who spoke.

  “But you knew Joe Howard. And you already know Wynne Blodgett killed him. You always known it.” He was looking right at Rand Connelly, this man he’d hunted with, this boy he’d shown through the woods. The others disappeared from the room, and it was just Rand and Willie Willie.

  He didn’t shout, didn’t even really raise his voice, but the anger in it rustled through the proofs of the next issue of The Revere Fair Dealer that Tom Raspberry had pinned up on his wall. Rand Connelly turned scarlet, his face and neck alive with the bright flush of anger. Obviously hadn’t expected Willie Willie’s reaction. A black man talking like this to a Mississippi white. Now he glared over at Regina as if this new, no longer docile white-folks-pleasing Willie Willie were all her fault.

  “Hold on there now, just one little minute—”

  A knock cut Rand Connelly short. Another quick rap, and then a deputy poked his head through Tom’s office door. Once he spotted the sheriff he hurried over, his boots heavy on Tom Raspberry’s new wooden floor. The deputy whispered something to Rand and the sheriff nodded, looked over at the three Negroes, opened his mouth, shut it again.

  He turned to the deputy, “Tell Ray. I’ll get right there.”

  Only after the door closed again did he turn to the others. “Willie Willie, Tom—there’s a fire started up out there at Peach’s. I guess that old kerosene stove of hers blew like we all been saying it would for years. Jim here says it’s looking bad, threatens a good part of the east side of the forest. We can talk about all the rest of this later. I think we all ought to be getting ourselves on out there to help. Quick.”

  The men got up and followed the sheriff. At the door, Willie Willie turned back to Regina.

  “You get yourself on home now, Miss Regina. Stay inside. Close the door.”

  • • •

  REGINA SET OFF briskly for Calhoun Place and the cottage, but she had no intention of staying inside or closing any door. She was going out to Peach’s with the rest of them. She couldn’t wait here by herself, not knowing what was happening there. Maybe this was her fault. What she’d said to Wynne Blodgett about the shirt, about Peach. My God, a fire!

  Regina’s heart started to hammer, before she knew it she was running down the street. The Daimler would surely be at the house and the keys in it. She’d ask Mary Pickett if she could use it. Otherwise . . . well, she’d leave a note.

  On Main the street was clogged with traffic, black men and white men in all kinds of trucks and buckboards, in jitneys, and some few cars, all headed out toward that dense rimming of trees. She looked up and there was a truck pulled by two mules. It was almost on top of her before she saw it. A man screamed out from the cabin. She got away just in time.

  Fifth Street was where she started smelling wood burning. Regina looked toward the sky, and the first things she saw were the twin chimneys of Mary Pickett’s house, stark against a day sky that was purpling slowly to night. Between them, the moon shone faintly already—pale, full, and fat—like a dollop of cream on a mauve tablecloth. But beyond Calhoun Place she was sure she saw a feather of rising smoke, touching the tops of the tall, distant oaks, pluming around the mistletoe that was starting to bud out in the high, bare branches. That made her think even more of Willie Willie and of Peach, and she ran faster, as behind her a siren started its high keening wail.

  There were no cars in the drive that led up to Calhoun Place, none parked at the curb on Mary Pickett’s part of Third Avenue at all, not even the Daimler, which had not moved from its place at the side of the house since they’d got back from Anna Dale Buchanan’s. Regina quickly sketched out a new plan. Instead of driving, she’d change her clothes, go over to Main Street, and start walking. Chances were somebody would stop for her. This was the good part of living in what Mary Pickett called a “nice” town. Someone would stop. They’d shout out to her, ask her if she could do with a lift up. And if they didn’t, she’d just keep heading east.

  The door to
the cottage was slightly ajar. She stopped, listened, remembering the night she’d come back with Willie Willie from Peach’s, the way it had stood open then, the way the blue flyer had fluttered on it. But that had been nothing; this was nothing, too.

  Regina stepped in, halted, and for some reason she sniffed. Nothing on the air but the smoldering from outside, and around her the small downstairs room was quiet. She heard the ticking of the heavy Bakelite Westclox on the refrigerator in the kitchen, but no bird sang in the overhang of magnolia branches outside the front door. She thought about checking the shirt again but decided she’d do this on her way out. Maybe take it with her. Just in case.

  Regina hurried up the stairs to the bedroom, took off her pumps, pulled on brown-and-white saddle shoes and socks. She grabbed her beige sweater from the hook outside the bathroom door. In less than five minutes she was rocketing back down.

  She was on the bottom step when she heard the first growl. It was so low she almost missed it, almost thought that it was part of the general quiet stream of noise that seeped in all the time from outside, a car’s engine, maybe. Except there had been no noise coming in from outside. Regina stopped, listened. When she turned toward the kitchen, she knew exactly what she’d see. Wynne Blodgett’s hunting dog. Devil black. Eyes cold as stone. She had no doubt at all why this animal was here.

  “I’ll make you sorry.”

  If his dog was here, Wynne could be here with him. Hiding in the kitchen. Or even upstairs, where he could have seen her switch out of her clothes. Wynne could be anywhere. With his cousins. Planning something. Ready—always ready—to sow more wild oats.

  But it was the dog she had to think about now. He had somehow edged into the small living room, was halfway into it now. She thought he must have come in from the kitchen. His body looked loose enough, no tension in it, but even city-bred Regina knew he was poised for the spring. And his eyes . . . a wild animal’s eyes, with no remorse in them. Now that he’d gotten her attention, the dog did not growl again. He sat there motionless, just like he’d sat in the front yard of The Folly, but with his mouth slightly ajar so that now, she could not miss the feral baring of his sharp canine teeth.

  Very slowly, Regina pulled her eyes away from him, looked around at her options. She was a good four feet from the door, on a landing, at an angle. The dog was less than five feet away now. Again, she hadn’t seen him move, but if she moved, he’d be on her. The only thing between them was the wood slats of the stairway. Nothing to him. Something he could bound over in one easy leap.

  Another low growl.

  She made up her mind. The only way out was the way she’d come in. She must have moved even as the thought registered, because she’d eased down the last step, was reaching for the doorknob—and it was so close, barely two feet away—when he lunged. And he bit.

  Regina screamed.

  Over and over again, he lifted her forearm in his teeth, shook his head back and forth with it in there like he was playing with a bone, and maybe he was. All on the arm that she’d thrown over her face. Teeth cracking in, pulling slowly out, and worse when they did come out. Because she knew another bite was coming, and another. And another. Pain so deep she couldn’t locate it on her body anymore, just had to let it shriek out from within.

  She was screaming so hard that at first she thought the shot was just another thing erupting from her own mouth. Thought the blood flooding over her was her blood. Thought the body slumping over her was her own body, dead.

  “Oh, God.” It was Mary Pickett’s voice, breathless and shaky as an old lady’s.

  “Oh, God,” said Mary Pickett’s strange new voice again.

  But the hands that lifted that dog’s body off her were sure, and they were strong. And the feet that clattered into the kitchen hit hard on the floor.

  “He’s dead. I killed him. I heard you when I drove up. In the driveway, I heard it. The dog, and then you . . . I’d been out to the forest. I had my rifle.”

  Mary Pickett was babbling, but the cup of water she held out was cool, and it felt good.

  “Got to stop the blood. Got to get that sweater off you. Such a pretty sweater it was. I saw it that first day. The one we both had alike. Got to get burdock root for that wound. That’s what Willie Willie would put on it. That, and sage. Must be sage in the kitchen. Got to call Dr. Sherrod. Oh, heavens, he’ll be out in the forest . . . Peach’s already dead, but how will he know? Willie Willie will know, though, and I got to get him.”

  Mary Pickett moved quickly. She lifted up her skirt, ripped off a piece of her slip, wrapped it around Regina’s arm, all the time talking.

  “Got to . . .”

  “Got to . . .”

  “Got to . . .”

  Got to run, Collie!

  Got to fly, Jack!

  Got to hide Booker

  Way deep in the forest.

  Before it’s too late.

  17.

  In the night, when she woke up, Regina thought she saw Mary Pickett still with her. There was a thin patter of rain falling on the tin porch over the cottage columns and the determined sound of squirrels under the roof settling in for the night. But it was Mary Pickett she was most aware of, or thought she was aware of. To the end of her life, Regina would never be able to tell. Because there was Mary Pickett, sitting on the edge of her bed, on the edge of Willie Willie’s bed. Mary Pickett right there in the cottage, a place so near but one she’d never actually been in before. Regina lay there, unconscious and conscious, hearing or maybe not hearing, feeling safe again, her eyes closed.

  “There, there,” crooned Mary Pickett or the dream Mary Pickett. It didn’t matter. Regina knew whoever was sitting here with her was someone warm, someone safe. Because Willie Willie was sitting there, too.

  “She’ll be fine. Doc Sherrod said you did good by her—putting on that burdock right away. Drawing out the poison. She’ll bear watching, and they might have to do the rabies. Wynne Blodgett, though . . . At least he’s the kind would keep his dog clean.”

  “You think he did it?” Again, Mary Pickett’s faint whisper.

  “I know he did it. Dog’s not gonna come up here, let his own self into the house. Mr. Wynne kept that animal under close watch.” There was a pause. Regina heard rain sheeting harder on the roof, but the squirrels in the attic seemed to have quieted. “He’s the one killed Peach, too.”

  No argument, no defense. Only silence now from Mary Pickett.

  It was Willie Willie who went on.

  “I taught all those folks, most of them when they were little more than little. They walked out with me into the forest. Bed Duval and Rand Connelly, sometimes their daddies with them. Your daddy came. And Jackie Earle Blodgett came, too, at least sometimes. Early on. So they all knew what they were seeing. A blind man could have followed Wynne and those no-account friends of his and his cousin kinfolks, and not even Jackie Earle, his own daddy’s that blind. He was right there with us, the whole town was, when we found Peach.

  “There was three of them. It was easy tracking three different kinds of boot leather touching the ground. Jackie Earle’s Buick Wynne’s always going around in . . . No other car here’s got wheels that big. Out there—why, they splashed kerosene all around the house and that little out-back kitchen, threw on a match so the whole thing burned up even. No more burn on the kitchen than there was on the house, and there would have been—if it was the kitchen gone up first. Beer bottles everywhere. Pabst Blue Ribbon. And Mason jars full of that hooch they brew. It was like Wynne wanted folks to know it was him. Dared them to know it and be damned.”

  His voice broke. For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Regina didn’t know how long it lasted, then Willie Willie again: “They tied her to one of old Miss Lindleigh’s best chairs. Thing is, Wynne always hated Peach. Never was scared of him. Peach would stand right on up to him, and he knew it. Hated her all
his young life. I just don’t know what it was exactly that set him off now. Why he’d come for Peach. Why he’d come for Miss Regina.”

  But Regina knew. The shirt. Wynne thought Peach had the shirt.

  She tried to struggle up, but nothing on her moved, she could only listen. She thought Mary Pickett would start in about The Folly, about how Regina had slugged Wynne, how hopelessly silly and stupid she’d been and a failure. But Mary Pickett just sat there. She didn’t say a word.

  “They all know who set that fire. I saw them—all of them, starting with that timeworn Forrest Duval, and going right on down to the boys, the little twelve-year-olds come out there with the men to help out—all of them looked over at Jack Blodgett quick like. They’re thinking, He got to get his boy out of here or there’s gonna be trouble. Maybe he’s gone too far now, killin’ an old lady like that. You could read it on their faces, how they wanted to sweep Wynne under a rug someplace, hide him away. Pretend, We only dealing with Nigras here and we got our ways and our laws, so it’s not really a problem. But most of these are pretty good people, and inside, down there deep in the dark where they keep things like Wynne Blodgett . . . why, down there what he’s done is eatin’ ’em up.”

  “But there must be some proof. You got to get proof.” Mary Pickett was herself again, bossy and in charge.

  “You can get all the proof you want to, Miss Mary Pickett,” Willie Willie said slowly. “They don’t want to see it . . . proof’s never enough. Not when folks turn scared. And they are scared, frightened what they been hiding from gonna jump out and bite them.”

  In the corner of the room, just behind his shadow and Mary Pickett’s, were those three Magic children. Even through her shut-tight eyelids, Regina saw them quite clearly. And their eyes were wide open. Their hands clamped tight over their mouths.

  They were staring at Willie Willie and shaking their heads.