It was not her own face looking back at her, but the face of a teenage colored girl in a plain, threadbare dress of gray covered with a dingy apron. It should have surprised Madge, but it didn’t. She merely stared at the face and knew the girl’s name was Harriet.
“I’s sorry for what I done to ya,” Harriet said apologetically. “You died of the sickness same as me. But I made a promise, and the good Lord is helping me keep it … through you. Don’t you worry, though. It’s me that’ll bear what’s coming. I’ll take it all. He can’t hurt me no more than he already has.”
“Why?” Madge asked, not comprehending but knowing deep down this was how things needed to be.
“Cause I made a promise.”
Harriet pulled a postcard out of the pocket of her apron, extended her hand through the glass, and placed it on the sink between them. The photograph on the front shocked and appalled Madge, but she’d heard of such things. Through the mirror, her eye caught streaks of bright light come down from a window behind Harriet. Madge reached down to pick up the postcard, and for just an instant their fingers touched, sending an icy-cold shock through her. Madge squinted her eyes with the pain of it, and her mind swirled as she pulled her empty hand back. When she looked again, she saw the card on the other side of the mirror in Harriet’s hand.
In an instant, Madge understood everything. She turned her head and looked at Heaven’s light streaming down behind her. Without a word, she turned, walked into it, and was gone.
Harriet turned away from the mirror and stared down at white hands. They were smooth, soft and nothing like any hand she’d ever touched before. She ran her tongue over someone else’s teeth and breathed air deeply into someone else’s lungs. A sad smile spread across her face, and she steadied herself for what was to come. Without another thought, she walked out of the ladies’ room and through the front doors of the building. She slipped the postcard into a postbox just outside and strode towards the waiting Cadillac like a soldier heading off to war.
Stephenson’s man, Earl Gentry, helped her into the car, and she could smell the whiskey on his breath. Gentry was an obese man, his gut spilling over his belt, and the cheap brown suit he wore was threadbare and spotted with food that hadn’t made it to his mouth. He was silent as he drove through the city, but Madge could feel the tension, like heat streaming off of the man, pouring into the back seat and wrapping itself around her. They arrived at Stephenson’s mansion and parked around the side of the house, between the back door and the four-bay garage.
Gentry nearly dragged her out of the car, forcing her through the back door roughly and shoving her into the kitchen. She rubbed her bruised arm as she met the steely gaze of Stephenson and the sidelong glances of two other men. Shorty, the regular chauffer, stood off to the side and looked at the floor when his eyes met Madge’s. He was small, almost puny, with slack shoulders and eyes weary with a lifetime of denigration. Earl Klink, a massive, brutish bodyguard, stood tall and had traces of malice and a brutal hunger in his eyes. Madge’s skin felt almost infected wherever he looked.
They’d all clearly been drinking. There was an empty bottle of illicit whiskey lying on its side on the kitchen counter. A full one sat next to it, and a half-full one was in Stephenson’s hand. His eyes were alight with drunken fury.
“Reject me, will you?” Stephenson hissed and took a pull from the bottle. “Do you have any idea who I am?” Stephenson reached out his hand, motioning for Gentry to hand her over. Gentry shoved hard, and Madge stumbled into Stephenson’s iron grasp. “I AM Indiana!” He glared down at her with a dragon’s eyes. He set the bottle down and slapped her, his fury carrying a lifetime of senseless rage with it. The force of it pushed her into Klink’s arms, and he slapped her across the other side of her face. She stumbled into Shorty who refused to meet her gaze and pushed her back towards Stephenson. Her face ached, and stars danced before her eyes.
“Please …” she whispered.
Stephenson’s face split into an evil sneer. “What you need is to loosen up a little.” He tightened his grip on her arm, forcing a yelp from her, and then thrust the open whiskey bottle into her mouth. It burned like nothing else she’d ever tasted before. Over and over, he repeated it—slaps and burning whiskey poured down a raw throat. Finally, she simply blacked out.
When Madge came to, she was lying on a bed somewhere in Stephenson’s house. Her body was numb from the alcohol, but she could feel his presence, as if she were sitting too close to a pot-bellied stove. She opened her eyes to see the dragon staring down at her, framed in a moonlit window. Its eyes glowed with a hatred that seemed boundless as they burned into her. She knew what was coming and would have dreaded it, but she’d been waiting for a long time, resolved to endure it all.
With Madge’s voice, Harriet Truth uttered a prophecy to the evil that prepared to inflict itself upon her. “The law will get their hands on you,” she said with an easy and stoic confidence.
Stephenson laughed mercilessly and boasted, “I am the law in Indiana.” And then it began. The dragon loosed its rage upon the lamb. It beat her first then bit into her again and again like a rabid animal. The rape lasted hours and was as filthy and bestial as a dog tearing into carrion. She never cried out, never gave the dragon any satisfaction, which only seemed to spur it on into further atrocities. Hours later, after it had been quiet, Stephenson’s men came in and found them both passed out.
Fear gripped them when they saw what the dragon had done.
Madge woke up to morning sunlight in a hotel room she didn’t recognize. Someone had dressed her in her torn, bloody clothes, and her whole body was alight with pain from the bruises and bites and rape. Stephenson wasn’t around, but the other three men were. It occurred to her that they couldn’t have gotten her into a hotel without someone saying something unless the Klan owned it.
She was utterly alone.
Klink, seeing that she was awake, turned to Shorty. “Watch her, runt,” he said with obvious venom. At first, Madge thought the big man’s disdain was meant for her, but Shorty winced at the word runt. “We have to figure out what to do next.” Klink opened the door and passed through it with Gentry close behind. The door closed quietly, and Madge looked into Shorty’s eyes.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, desperate pleading in her voice. Shorty remained silent, but she watched an internal conflict wax and wane upon his face. “Are you going to kill me?” Her tone was flat, fatalistic.
Shorty was silent for a few seconds, clearly pondering the question. “I’m not,” he said with a stoicism that kindled within Madge a glimmer of hope.
“So why are you doing this? They clearly despise you. Why work for such despicable men?”
“The Klan,” he started, and he closed his eyes and shook his head. “They took me in … made me one of … them.” She thought she saw moisture welling in his eyes. “Sometimes being part of something terrible is better than being alone.” Shorty turned to the mirror above the dresser and stared at his own face, a deadpan face except for eyes full of fear and a lifetime of regrets. “At least, that’s what you tell yourself.” Shorty wiped his eyes, sniffed once and then turned to stare at Madge. His eyes were now empty, caverns full of a cold distance that filled her with a twinge of pity for the man.
“Can I at least clean myself up? I need bandages and some … things … feminine things.”
The bedroom door opened and Klink stared in. Shorty turned towards the door and straightened his shoulders. “She needs bandages … and lady stuff….”
Klink gave him a dirty look and cast his eyes to where Madge lay. Perhaps for the first time, he realized what his master had done. There was no trace of sympathy, not a shred of decency, but he seemed to realize that one of two courses lay before him: kill her or let her go. He grunted an affirmation and glared at Shorty with the same loathing as before.
“Fine. But I’m going with you. We don’t want her getting away before w
e figure out how to handle this.” He turned his gaze back to Madge and narrowed his eyes as he stared at her. “You try to run and you’ll think what Stephenson did was a waltz compared to what I do to you. This whole area is Klan. They won’t lift a finger to help you. Understand me?”
Madge nodded.
“Then move your ass. Let’s get this over with.”
Klink followed them closely, like a vulture circling a wounded animal in the desert. Shorty ushered her out of the hotel to a Klan drugstore just around the corner. Bandages, alcohol, cotton balls, she gathered what she needed to clean herself up. As they drifted from one aisle to the next, she deftly snatched a box of mercury chloride tablets when Shorty was looking the other way. She paid for the goods, staring into the face of a clerk who wouldn’t meet her gaze.
Back at the hotel she retreated to the bathroom, cleaned herself up as best she could and stared into the mirror. It was Harriet’s face there in the glass, and none of the marks showed on her shining, dark skin. The time had come. She poured six of the mercury tablets into her hand, cupped her other hand under a running faucet and downed them, chasing them with cold water. All three men had stayed in the other room while she cleaned herself up. She went to the bed, laid down and waited.
The mercury didn’t take long to send her into agonized contortions. It burned, and every ten or fifteen minutes another wave of pain doubled her over. At first the men thought she was faking it, trying to draw attention, but they knew they were safe in a Klan-owned hotel. She begged them to take her to a doctor, but it wasn’t until she started coughing up blood that their faces went pale, realizing they’d run out of time. Madge curled up into a ball, lying half in and out of consciousness, her eyes closed and her breathing short.
“We ain’t got no choice now,” Gentry said fearfully but with deadly resolve. All three men stood around the bed where Madge lay in agony. “Shorty, you’re gonna have to do it.”
Shorty stared at the fat man, looking him up and down. Madge saw perhaps just a glimmer of spine.
“I’m a Christian, Gentry … God fearing. I ain’t going to Hell for killing an innocent white woman, no matter what you or Stephenson says. You do it.”
Gentry turned to Klink. “That leaves you.”
“Go to Hell, Gentry. I’ve been in the joint, four years, and I’m not doing a lifer rap for anyone. Besides, all we gotta do is wait. She ain’t gonna last long.”
“Well, we can’t let her croak here,” Gentry said, rubbing the back of his pudgy head.
There was a pause as Klink and Gentry exchanged glances. During Madge’s assault, it had been the alcohol talking and given them backbone, but now they squeaked and squirmed like rats in a trap. It was Shorty that saved her in the end. She never did know why. Maybe it was a lifetime of abuse. Maybe he just had more humanity than the rest.
“Lemme take her home,” Shorty finally spoke up, “let her die with her family.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Klink asked.
“We can’t leave her here, and dropping her off to die someplace is the same as killing her, Klink. If we try and help her, we can tell the judge we did everything we could. She’s the one who took the pills, and you said yourself, she won’t last long. Even if she does say something, it’s our word against hers.”
Klink and Gentry both considered Shorty’s reasoning, cowardice winning in the end. Klink looked at Gentry who merely shrugged. “Yeah … I guess you’re right, runt.” Klink stared at Shorty and shook his head. “Take her.”
At noon, Shorty gathered up Madge’s unconscious body, put her in the car and drove her home to where only the Oberholtzer’s tenant, Mrs. Schultz, was present. He told the old woman that Madge had been in an automobile accident, and then he left in a rush without leaving his name, confident Madge would not live long.
But Madge didn’t die. A doctor was called and a story told … a story that spread.
It didn’t take long for the outrage and the arrests.
APRIL 13TH, 1925—INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA
Madge’s mother stared down into her daughter’s pallid, sweating face and prayed for a second miracle, this one seven years after the first. Back then it had been a week of hell, starting with a cough that quickly turned into thick, throat-tearing heaves full of yellow and green that threatened to shake her weak, feverish daughter to pieces. Madge had gotten caught up in the influenza epidemic of 1918 and ended up lying in that very same bed. Back then, the same doctor had said exactly the same thing as he said only a few hours ago: there was nothing more he could do, and the Oberholtzer’s should begin making final preparations.
Her mother remembered the moment of the miracle, like it was before her eyes once again. Madge hadn’t coughed for hours. Her cheeks glowed with the burning hue of deadly fever. Her breathing was thick and labored while her mother sat beside the bed and clutched her daughter’s hot, sweaty hand. Then Madge went into a fit of convulsions and fierce coughing, as if a devil were trying to rip its way out of her body. It subsided. Madge lay back in the bed, her face calm, and her chest still. Her mother screamed in despair and then felt the presence.
The curtains flickered, even though the midnight air was still. She felt a chill and sensed something at the foot of the bed. A shift of air brushed past her check, and Madge’s matted hair quivered across her forehead. Madge took in a long, sucking breath, her chest heaving once, followed by a long exhale, and then her breathing returned to normal. Her mother couldn’t believe her eyes. She laid her hand on Madge’s forehead and found the heat gone. Madge’s cheeks were losing the angry hue of fever. Madge opened her eyes the following morning, and everything went back to normal.
So there her mother sat and prayed for a second miracle, not the least bit guilty for the asking. A knock on the door brought Madge’s mother back to the present and all-too-real fear of losing her daughter.
“Come in,” she said, her voice sounding stronger than she felt.
A thin, clean-shaven man stepped in, removed a faded brown cap from short black hair and tucked the cap under his arm. “Mrs. Oberholtzer?” he asked. He wore a simple brown suit with worn elbows, and his black shoes were dusty and unpolished. He had a green bowtie that seemed to dance over his Adam’s apple when he spoke. He had a fountain pen tucked behind one ear.
Madge’s mother cast a questioning glance at the man.
“My name is Henry Walker,” he offered. “I take statements for the courts.”
Realization flashed into her eyes. “Mr. Walker! I’m so glad you’re here.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “The doctor says that we don’t have much time.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Oberholtzer.”
“She’s still asleep, but….”
“I’m awake, Mr. Walker.” Madge’s voice drifted up from the bed as if from a great distance.
“Miss Oberholtzer, I’m sorry I disturbed you, but I’ve come to take your official statement.” He paused, his eyes focusing on the gaunt, black-and-yellow bruised face that stuck out from the blankets. “I can come back later if you’re not up to this.”
“No. I’m afraid I don’t have much time.” She winced, and Walker watched an arm slide up from under the covers, push the blankets down and beckon him. He had to swallow when he saw the bruises and bite-marks that painted the white skin in a mottled pattern of tormenting abuse.
Henry turned to Mrs. Oberholtzer and saw tears rolling down her face.
“I’m sorry….” she started, closing her eyes, and turning her face away. “I can’t hear this again … it’s too….” Her body shuddered with sobs. She covered her face with one hand, grabbed the doorknob and rushed out of the room. Walker heard her burst into violent sobs as she ran down the hall. He swallowed again, pulled a small, black notebook out of his pocket, and sat in the chair next to Madge. He looked at her with tender eyes that recognized suffering and wanted to do something about it.
“How are you feeling?” he asked out of habit and then wanted to kick himse
lf for the stupidity of it. The embarrassment on his face gave him away.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Walker. It’s okay. How I feel isn’t important anymore. What is important is that you’re here. This is the last piece,” she said and tried to sigh. She got halfway through it, and her whole body winced with deep pain. The agony seemed to last for several heartbeats, and her face twisted into a grimace like something was tearing at her from the inside. “How about I just tell you what happened,” she managed when the pain abated slightly.
She began the tale.
He nodded, pulled the pen from behind his ear and started writing as she spoke. As her story unfolded, Walker found himself filling with fury and sorrow and even shame for being a man, for it was men who had committed such evil. Madge finished, wrapping up with his entrance into the room. She let out a long breath full of relief and despair and satisfaction, all impossibly mixed together, but genuine nonetheless.
“How did you endure it?” Walker asked finally, full of horrified sympathy.
“I knew what was coming from the moment he first grabbed me,” Madge said. Harriet had known what was coming from the first moment Madge Oberholtzer saw the fiery eyes of David Curtiss Stephenson. “I guess I just turned my back on it all while he did what he did … it was as if I wasn’t there.”
Life passed from Madge’s body that night, with her father looking down and her mother weeping while she held her daughter’s hand. The cries turned to a long, drawn-out wailing full of agonized sobs and screams of bereaved askance hurled at Heaven and He who ruled it with such apparent indifference.
SEPTEMBER 15TH, 1925—INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA
“Stephenson! You got mail!”
Convicted of second-degree murder, Stephenson sat in his cell with a blank stare on his face. All he could think of were the men, Klan, who had turned their backs on him. He thought of how he would roll them over and bring them down with him. A guard’s hand stuck through the bars and held out a postcard. Stephenson stiffly reached out, snatched it, and peered down at the photograph. The Hemphill dogwood image brought back memories that warmed him, and it was enough to put a smile on his face after months of frowns and scowls during the trial. He flipped it over. The smile disappeared, turning to agonized shock. The poem on the back was not as he remembered it.
Out Through the Attic Page 22
