Time's Edge

by Rysa Walker

  Grant is watching Delia, too, clearly envious of how easy she makes it seem. When he catches me looking at him, he squares his shoulders, walks over to two of the men, and says something. One of the guys, who looks a few years older than Grant, glances at his watch, so I guess he’s telling Grant the time. After that, Grant just hangs out on the periphery, listening but not joining in.

  Every minute or so, a car approaches from the north and the conversation halts momentarily, picking back up as soon as everyone sees it’s a truck or some other vehicle that’s clearly not presidential.

  “Do you know if he even stops?” I ask Kiernan in a low voice.

  He shrugs and leans back against the fence post. “He’s been known to in the past, and it’s an election year. Not a presidential election, but FDR is headed to a speech right now where he’s going to ask people to vote against their incumbent senator in the primary, a fellow Democrat Roosevelt thinks is too conservative. So I think he’ll stop, if only for a few seconds. The real question is how close he stops to the intersection.”

  I raise an eyebrow, and he nods toward the group of white men. “Democrats in Georgia have a whites-only primary. Almost all registered voters are Democrats, so the primary is the real election—whoever wins there will win overall. I doubt any of the blacks will successfully cast a ballot. Roosevelt probably wishes that wasn’t the case, because he’s more popular with them than with the white guys.”

  I glance over at the other side of the street. A few other men and one woman are chatting with Abel. Looking around, I realize that she is the only woman on that side of the street, and there are no children running around beneath the trees. I can’t help but wonder whether simply showing up at a gathering like this is an act of rebellion and maybe considered a bit dangerous for women and children of color.

  “You said white guys. But these women can vote, right? For nearly two decades now.”

  “They can vote,” he says, “but most of them will vote as their men say. Owens makes out a list for his wife to take to the polls to be sure she doesn’t kill his vote.”

  I wrinkle my nose, not entirely happy with Kiernan’s choice for Martha’s foster dad. “How does he know Mrs. Owens doesn’t go into the ballot box and vote against everyone on that list?”

  Kiernan laughs. “She might. That’s probably why some men go into the ballot box with their wives.”

  “Is that even legal?”

  “Don’t know,” he says, shrugging. “But it doesn’t matter whether it’s legal if no one challen—”

  Kiernan stops and looks toward the highway. A large black convertible is slowing down. Even though I know this is a very different situation, I can’t help but feel a shiver of dread, thinking about my recent jump to Dallas—another convertible, another president.

  FDR is seated in the back. He waves to the group of men as the car passes, and the driver keeps rolling about ten yards, pulling to a halt in front of the women.

  Kiernan chuckles softly. “Nicely played. Both sides of the street can hear him, and he looks like he’s being a gentleman by stopping near the women.”

  The men drift closer to the car. One of them, a young guy with a suit jacket slung over his arm, moves a little faster than the others, trying to get in close so that he can snap some pictures. Grant follows, staying a few steps behind the guy with the camera. Delia has shifted a little closer to the car as well. The group that Abel was talking to remains on the other side of the street, but they’ve walked out of the trees, standing at the edge of the intersection to get a better view.

  Roosevelt isn’t wearing the trademark glasses I’m used to seeing in pictures, but the same wide smile is on his face. He tips his hat to the ladies, nods to both groups of men, and then begins speaking in the booming voice I remember from the “Day of Infamy” speech in history class, without the crackly static.

  “Friends, my driver tells me we’re a bit behind schedule, as we’re due in Barnesville at two o’clock, but I just wanted to stop and share a bit of good news. Most of you know I’ve considered Georgia my second home for some time now, but today I can finally tell you that I am officially a Georgia Bulldog.”

  During the last sentence, he grabs a different hat, a mortarboard, from the seat next to him and slaps it on his head, waving a rolled piece of paper in the air. There are a few polite chuckles and some scattered applause.

  Once the applause ends, he takes the hat off and continues in a more serious tone. “I’d also be remiss in an election year if I did not remind all of you that even though our nation has come a long way in the past few years, much remains to be done. You have a perfect right to choose any candidate you wish, but because Georgia has been good enough to call me her adopted son and because for many years I have regarded Georgia as my ‘other state,’ I feel no hesitation in telling you what I would do if I could vote in the senatorial primary next month. I hope you’ll join me in supporting United States Attorney Lawrence Camp.”

  There’s some scattered grumbling, and several men start asking questions, but Roosevelt waves them away. “Senator George is a good friend of mine, but there are issues on which we disagree. I did not come to this lightly. I’ll discuss it in more detail at Barnesville, and I’m sure it will be in your papers. All I ask is that you consider my recommendation and keep the welfare of the nation in the forefront as you decide. And now, we must go, or we’ll keep the good people in Barnesville waiting. I hope to see you all again soon!”

  With that, the convertible pulls away and continues down the highway.

  I expect the women near us to start gathering up the kids for a quick departure, given that the day is hot and it’s lunchtime. But Roosevelt apparently dropped something of a bombshell, because the chatter closer to the road is getting heated. The women are quiet and seem a little on edge.

  All I pick up are snippets—one guy says FDR is a “damn fool Yankee,” and someone else says, “He don’t know doodley-squat about Georgia.”

  The man with the camera says something I can’t hear to the guy next to him, the beefy middle-aged guy who just made the “doodley-squat” comment. Doodley-Squat takes offense and jabs a forefinger into Camera Guy’s shoulder. Camera Guy shoves him back, a lot harder than I would have guessed, given his slight build, and Doodley-Squat stumbles a few feet backward into Grant and another younger guy. The shoulder of the road is a bit higher than the ground where the rest of us stand, and both Doodley-Squat and Grant lose their balance, crashing into several of the women, including the one holding the fussy toddler.

  None of the women are hurt, but the toddler starts crying again.

  Delia tries to help Grant up, but before he can grab her hand, she’s shoved to the side by Doodley-Squat, who, for no apparent reason, seems to have decided Grant was to blame for his fall. Or maybe he’s just lashing out at the nearest unfamiliar face. He grabs Grant by the collar and jerks him to his feet.

  Grant’s eyes widen, and the blood drains from his face until it’s only a shade darker than the white of his shirt.

  “Boy, you need to watch where you’re goin’, don’tcha?”

  Grant opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

  The girl holding the baby—which is, amazingly, still asleep—says, “We’re okay, Daddy. He didn’t mean no harm.”

  That remark earns the girl a foul look. She bites her lip and takes a few steps back toward the fence, hugging the baby closer to her chest.

  Several of the men move closer, joking and elbowing each other, which makes me suspect that Doodley-Squat’s short temper is a local source of amusement. Camera Guy says, “Put him down, Willis. Ain’t his fault you can’t walk and chew gum at the same time. You’re the one who pushed him into them girls in the first place, so maybe you oughta do the apologizing.”

  “You might wanna stay out of this, Phillips, unless you’d like to eat that camera of yours. I don’t know why this little shit tripped me . . .”

  One of the other men clears his throa
t. “Watch the language, Willis.”

  I expect this Willis guy to let go of Grant and turn on the other guy, but he just twists Grant’s collar a little harder. I don’t think Grant is actually choking, but his face begins to go from pale to pink, and he claws at Willis’s hand.

  “Mr. Willis,” Delia says, “he didn’t mean any harm. We’re just passing through and heard the president might stop here. If you’ll just let him go, I’m certain he’d be happy to apologize to your daughter and these other ladies.”

  Grant is trying to nod, but Willis’s hammy fist is in the way, so the best he can manage is to bump his chin against it a couple of times.

  Willis looks over at Delia, and a slow smile spreads over his face, as though he’s noticing her for the first time. His eyes travel from head to toe, lingering at strategic points along the way. Delia blushes, and I can see her jaw twitch slightly before she pastes on a nervous smile and steps forward.

  She stops in midstride as Willis’s smile disappears and he grabs the front of Grant’s shirt with his other hand. “I don’t know who you people think you are, but—”

  Camera Guy—Phillips, I guess—grabs Willis’s right arm, the one twisting Grant’s collar, and at about the same time, Grant pulls his foot back and kicks Willis in the knee. Willis drops Grant and pulls back his left arm, probably intending to punch Phillips and then finish dealing with Grant.

  I don’t think Willis intended for his elbow to connect with Delia’s nose. I’m not sure he cared one way or the other that it did, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t planned. Willis even looks a little surprised at the crunch when his elbow hits her face, slowing down his punch long enough for Phillips to duck out of the way.

  Delia’s hands fly to her face. I think she would have dropped to the ground, but Abel is behind her. He grabs her under the elbows and steadies her, and then he takes a step toward Willis. I didn’t see Abel approaching, but the look on his face is pretty much the polar opposite of the downcast eyes and shy demeanor he wore in Athens.

  Abel’s jaw is clenched, his body a tightly wrapped coil, but his voice is polite, almost deferential. “I think you owe Miss Delia an apology, sir.”

  Willis stares at him and then spits on the ground about an inch from Abel’s foot. “And I don’t give a damn what you think, nigger.”

  Panic flashes into Delia’s eyes, and she pulls her hands away from her nose so that she can grab Abel’s arm. Unfortunately, there’s blood on her hands, and I don’t know if it’s the offensive word that makes him take that first menacing step toward Willis or the sight of his wife’s face, the lower half covered in blood, her nose smashed and bent to the side at an odd angle.

  Abel doesn’t throw the first punch, but he definitely throws the second one. And I think he may have thrown the third one, too.

  ∞19∞

  Willis is down, and for a moment, I think he’s out. Then he stumbles to his feet, just as a second guy jumps in to take a swing at Abel. I start to run forward, but Kiernan grabs my arm, pulling me back.

  “Kate, no. You really think we can take all of them?”

  “No, but I don’t think all of them are going to join in. They were laughing at that Willis guy—”

  “Until Abel punched back, yeah.”

  I scan the crowd and see that he’s right. Their expressions have changed. No one is laughing anymore. They look angry, for the most part. I’d like to believe they’re all angry at Willis for smashing Delia’s nose, and some of them may be. I think Phillips, the guy with the camera, and a few of the other men fall into that group, and maybe half of the women.

  But most of the women aren’t staying. The mother with the fussy toddler grabs two of the older kids by the fence. She hands the little one to the oldest and says, “Y’all take Timmy and get in the car. I’ll be there in a minute.” The girl nods. The boy looks like he wants to argue, but he snaps his mouth shut when he catches his mom’s expression.

  The other side of the street is now empty, with the exception of the sole woman in the group and the man who took the cigarette from Abel. They’re still watching, but they’re standing inside the doors of their car, ready to make a quick departure if necessary.

  Two guys grab Abel’s arms. They’re having a tough time holding him, until a third guy grabs his shirt collar and yanks it backward. Delia and Grant try to pull them off Abel.

  “Get your hands off of him!” Delia shrieks. “Abel!”

  Then Grant takes a punch to the chest, stumbling backward.

  Kiernan curses softly, shaking his head like he knows he’s going to regret his next move. “Get Delia to the car. I’m going to see if I can help Abel.”

  I take off, running around the edge of the spectators, and grab Grant’s arm.

  “I’m with CHRONOS. Let’s get Delia to the car.”

  He just stares at me for a second, his jaw hanging.

  “Now!” I say, holding up the medallion and tugging the leather cover down a fraction of an inch so that he can see the glow.

  That snaps him into action. Grant turns out to be quite impressive when he has direct orders to follow. He runs forward and spins Delia around, then bends down so that his head is almost level with her waist, flinging her over his shoulder in one swift motion. Delia doesn’t go peacefully, but he has a solid grip on her legs.

  I run alongside, glancing back over my shoulder at the crowd once we reach the road. Things don’t look like they’re settling down. If anything, they’re getting worse.

  “Can you get Delia to the car and keep her there?”

  “Yeah,” Grant says, although he looks a little doubtful.

  “Okay. I’ll be back.”

  Delia claws at me and misses as I run past. She’s still screaming for them to let Abel go, her screams interspersed with a rather impressive string of profanity aimed at Grant and me for pulling her away.

  I catch a brief glimpse of Kiernan at the far side of the crowd as I get closer. From the way his head whips backward, I think he’s just taken a punch.

  I can’t see Abel, so I push between two broad-shouldered guys to get in closer. That’s when Willis, who has apparently realized he can’t beat Abel in a fair fight, pulls a knife.

  There’s a collective whoosh of breath from the crowd, and most of them take a step back. Willis charges at Abel, knife raised. Abel dodges to the left, then swipes his right leg outward, causing Willis to stumble. Before Willis can regain his balance, Abel crashes into him. They both land on the ground, wrestling for the knife. Abel finally latches onto Willis’s forearm, pushing the hand holding the knife out to one side.

  Willis’s hand is mere inches from my foot, so I stomp his fingers as hard as I can. He lets out a roar, but before I can see whether he dropped the knife, there’s a chuckle from one of the men behind me and someone yanks me backward, out of the circle.

  I hear the dull thud of fists pounding and then the sharp crack of a gunshot.

  “All right, that’s it. It’s over.” The voice comes from the other side of the circle, near the back.

  Someone else on that side says, “Mitchell, you ain’t wearin’ no uniform, and this ain’t no traffic offense, so why don’t you go on home?”

  A few people laugh, and then there’s another shot, and one of the men who was next to Phillips earlier pushes forward. His face is thin, with deep-set eyes that scan the crowd. “Don’t nobody in the middle move. The rest of you, get on back.”

  A few of the men trade glances, like they’re debating whether to obey. Finally, one guy steps back, and the rest of them follow, several of them grumbling as they go.

  Kiernan’s arm is paused in midpunch. Blood pours from a cut on his cheek. His knuckles are smeared with even more blood, but from the looks of the guy in front of him, some of that isn’t Kiernan’s.

  Mitchell, the man with the gun, nods at two guys on the periphery. “Carlton, Briggs—y’all grab the Negro and put him in the back of my truck. There’s some rope back there. Tie his han
ds and feet.” They step forward and take Abel, who is barely conscious, from the guys who were holding him down so that Willis could punch him.

  “Willis, you gonna go peacefully down to the jail, or you gonna fight me? ’Cause we can do this either way. Entirely up to you.”

  Willis is bent over, clutching his right thigh. His pants leg is drenched in blood, and the knife, bloodied as well, is in the dirt at his feet. He spits on the ground, and there’s blood in that, too. “If you mean do I want to press charges, then the answer is hell, yes. But it’d be a whole lot easier if you’d just go on home, Mitchell, or write some traffic tickets or whatever it is you’re s’posed to do and let us handle this matter.”

  “Well, that ain’t happenin’,” Mitchell says amiably. “Come on, Willis. You know as well as I do that the sheriff ain’t gonna let you string that boy up, ’specially when you started the whole thing and pulled the knife.”

  Willis and several others protest that point, but Mitchell holds up his hand. “Save it for Judge Cramer.” He nods toward the guys who were holding Abel’s arms during the fight. “I ain’t got room for all of you in my truck, so I’m gonna hold the two of you responsible for seein’ to it that your uncle is at the jailhouse by the time I get there. And y’all don’t go wanderin’ off, ’cause we’re gonna need statements from both of you, too.”

  Willis leans against one of the younger guys, muttering something about jurisdiction as they go off toward the cars. Mitchell watches them for a couple of seconds and then turns and motions toward Kiernan. “What’s your name, son?”

  Kiernan looks over at me and then back at Mitchell. “Dunne, sir. Kiernan Dunne.”

  “You two boys go get in my truck. Jody, you get up front. Dunne, you’re in the back. I’ll be there in a minute.” He turns back to the people milling around. “The rest of y’all, go home. I know who was here, and I’ll pass that along to the sheriff. If he needs information from any of you, he’ll be in touch.”