“Now what?” my father says, heaving himself out of the truck.
“Daddy, Daddy, the Klan, a man . . . shot at us, shot me, just playing, ’gators! He—”
I’ve never, in my life, seen Ren so flustered.
“Hold on, now, what’s this all about?” Daddy’s looking over Ren’s head to lock eyes with Petey’s father.
“Warren, you would not b’lieve it!” Mr. Smith, who everyone calls Smitty, says. “These two boys been playin’ fine ’round here all afternoon. ’Bout a hour ago, they asked if they could run over to that ol’ sinkhole lake in the grove, you know the one with Mr. Casselton’s fishing camp on the landing in the middle? Well, they jus’ wanted to see if they could spot a ’gator or two. Climbed up the water tower to get a better look. Ren, tell your daddy what happened next.”
“We got up there, Daddy, and saw a whole bunch of men in white robes.” Ren’s face beneath the bandage is beet red, shiny with sweat. His voice has risen to a pitch like a girl’s.
“It was the Klan!” big-eyed Petey puts in.
“They were marching, three across,” Ren says, “down the big ramp and into the camp. They looked stupid in their pointy hats and all . . .”
“Like a bunch of fat ol’ ghosts,” Petey adds.
“Well, Petey and me . . .” Ren pauses to catch his breath. “We had us a couple pieces of irrigation pipe. We were just poking fun, making noises through the pipes. You know, like Woooooo!, like ghosts. Well, one of them started waving at us to stop.”
“Big white sleeves flappin’ like a crane.” Petey demonstrates.
“We should’ve stopped, Daddy, I know that, but he just looked so funny waving his arms at us . . . we started laughing.”
“And we just couldn’t stop!” Petey says earnestly.
“Another man came out and started shooting at us! I mean pointed both barrels right at us and shot! When something bounced off the water tower and hit me in the head, I thought I was going to die up there!” Ren’s hand flies to his heart, his chest heaves beneath his dirty T-shirt.
Petey’s father Smitty shakes his head. “I heard it from the house and went runnin’. I was so damn mad, Warren, I ran straight through the saw grass to get there.” He shows the slashes on his hands and arms from the razor-sharp grass. “Would’ve gone right in the middle of those guys if a big guard hadn’t stopped me with a sawed-off shotgun. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doin’?’ I yell at him. ‘Since when does the Klan take to shootin’ at a couple of kids?’ I was mad, I tell you! The guard . . . he says he’s sorry, says ‘There’s big stuff goin’ on and the Grand Dragon from Jacksonville’s in town. The boys are a little edgy,’ he says, ‘but they had no business shootin’ at children. Those kids were lucky,’ he tells me, ‘the guy who shot at ’em was loaded with bird shot, coulda been a whole lot worse with buckshot.’ ”
Daddy is silent. Then, gently lifting the edge of Ren’s bandage to inspect his head, he says, “Let me see, son.” Bloody red scrapes begin a hair outside my brother’s left eye. They run across his temple to just above the top of his ear.
“Smitty says if it’d been a little to the right, I might’ve lost an eye. I thought I was dead for sure,” Ren says gravely.
Daddy pulls him close, but says nothing.
“You’re telling me that fishing camp is the Klan’s head quarters?” he asks Smitty.
“Can you b’lieve it? Lived here a year and a half and never seen a thing. Usually meet at night, I guess. Today was somethin’ special, ’cause of the Grand Dragon and all.”
“Old Emmett’s going to be hearing from me on this.” Daddy’s voice tells me he is more than mad. He is furious.
When we get him home, Ren explains everything all over again to Mother and Doto. Mother’s eyes flit between Ren and Daddy. After Ren’s done telling his story, Mother wraps him in her arms and herds him off to the bathroom to clean and Mercurochrome his head. Mitchell, fascinated by Ren’s wounds, tags along after them. We can hear him pestering everyone with questions, punctuated by Mother’s “Hush now, Mitchell,” and Ren’s loud “Ooow, that hurts!”
In the kitchen, Doto is fuming in Daddy’s face. “Jesus H. Christ, Warren!” Doto never swears; Daddy’s clearly as shocked by it as I am. “First these maniacs get away with murdering Marvin; then they run off Sal and Sophia. No doubt they had something to do with blowing up the poor Moores. And now, now, they’re taking potshots at our own flesh and blood? This is outrageous! Beyond barbaric! Are you going to do something about this? Because if you’re not, I AM!!!” Behind her cat-eye glasses, Doto’s ready to explode.
Mother appears in the kitchen doorway. “Now what?” she asks wearily.
Daddy’s become a boulder. Everything about him, his neck, his voice, is solid rock.
“Now, I tell Emmett Casselton what I think of men dressed in sheets shooting at children,” he says, stone-faced. “I also tell Mr. Jim Jameson that there’s going to be a little fireworks at the Opalakee Klan headquarters.”
“Warren, can we talk about this?” Mother pleads.
“We’ll talk later, Lizbeth,” he grits between his teeth.
“Right now, I have a couple calls to make.” My father, the human mountain, strides toward his office off the living room. I hear him firmly, deliberately close the door behind him.
“What’s he going to do?” I ask Mother. My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid she’ll hear it.
“Lizbeth,” Doto says, “the Klan has pushed Warren one step too far today. He’s got to push back.”
“But how?” I want to know, wishing I could stop the trembling in Mother’s hands, wanting the flutter in my stomach to fly away.
“I guess we have to wait and see,” Mother says, turning her face away from me. Doto motions for me to leave them alone.
In the living room, I find Ren where Mother left him, watching cartoons on the couch with Mitchell.
Mitchell jumps up when he sees me and, clutching his tummy, asks, “We going to eat soon, Reesa?”
Poor thing. In all the commotion over Ren, we’ve forgotten supper. “Run into the kitchen,” I tell him, “Doto will feed you.”
Ren remains slumped on the couch, his eyes glued to the TV screen. The bright orange streak of Mercurochrome on his head reminds me I should probably feel sorry for him. But what I really feel is mad.
“What in the Sam Hill were you thinking, Ren?” I hiss at him, deliberately standing between him and his show.
“Don’t want to talk about it.”
“Of course you don’t! Because it’s probably the dumbest damn thing you’ve ever done in your life! Standing on a water tower, yelling at the Klan. You heard what they did to Marvin, you know they killed the Moores. What did you think they’d do to you?”
“Nothing,” he mumbles. He’s refusing to look at me.
“Nothing? You mean you thought nothing, or they’d do nothing?”
“I thought we were safe.” He’s pouting.
“And where in tarnation did you get that idea?”
“I thought we were safe,” he says, meeting my eyes for the first time. “Because we’re white!” He hurls the words at my chest.
There it is. The ugly truth that had been circling ’round my stomach, creeping up my spine, sneaking around the edges of my mind. The bald fact that skin color—the paper-thin veil that made Marvin an easy target and gave Ren his air of invincibility—no longer matters. With the Klan’s attack on two white boys, the rules have abruptly changed; their evil is no longer limited to Negroes, Jews and Catholics. The Klan’s crossed its own hate line. Now, any of us, even children, can be targeted. It’s a dreadful thought. And I hold my brother completely responsible.
“This is all your fault!” I lash. “You’ve got Doto about to have a heart attack, Daddy on the phone saying God-knows-what to Mr. Casselton, and Mother worried out of her head! I hope you had your fun, Ren, because you’ve most certainly ruined everything for the rest of us!”
It was a mean and hateful thing to say. I aimed for his heart, and I could see by his face, I hit dead center. I’m glad and sorry at the same time. And, for the first time in my life, I am quite afraid.
Chapter 29
Nobody’s talking this morning. When Ren got up and Mother saw his head, its cluster of cuts round and ripe like a bunch of table grapes, his eye socket swollen like a small plum, she packed him in the car without a word and headed, we assume, to Doc Johnny’s. Doto’s carted Mitchell off to who-knows-where. And I’m left to help Daddy open up the showroom. Divide and conquer— it’s a sure sign the adults are upset with each other.
Daddy and I make the short drive to the packinghouse without talking. As we enter from the back, I’m the first one to see it—the brown Dodge parked outside.
“Somebody wants their orange juice awful early,” I say.
“Oh, I think he wants more than orange juice,” Daddy says as he unlocks and slides open the big front doors. “Agent Jameson, I presume?”
“Mr. McMahon,” Mr. Jameson says, reaching out his open window to shake Daddy’s hand. “Do I need to present my badge again?” he asks me as he enters the showroom.
“No, sir,” I say. It’s obvious he’s trying to keep things friendly.
“Mr. McMahon . . . may I call you Warren?”
Daddy nods, but says nothing. He’s a stone wall.
“I got your message very late last night, drove over from the coast first thing this morning. What’s all this about fireworks?”
“I thought you should know that the Opalakee Klan is about to get a taste of its own medicine,” Daddy says flat-out.
“What do you mean . . . medicine?” Mr. Jameson asks.
“The very same substance they administered to the Moores.”
“Dynamite? You’re going to dynamite the fishing camp?”
“Yes, I am,” Daddy says, locking his jaw.
“Hold on, Warren, our agents have appropriated pretty much all the dynamite in the county.” Mr. Jameson’s smile’s gone a little wobbly.
“Nobody’s appropriated mine!” Daddy tells him.
A noise in the back room startles the three of us. Mr. Jameson wheels around, as Daddy and I realize it’s only Robert, come as usual to sweep the floors and rake the gravel.
“Our employee, Robert Carmichael,” Daddy tells Mr. Jameson, nodding toward the back.
“Warren . . .” Mr. Jameson’s voice has totally dropped his friendly-fellow routine. “I have no business telling you this, but I’m going to . . . The U.S. Attorney General has agreed to convene a Grand Jury in Miami the first week of April. We’ll be presenting everything we have on the Opalakee Klan, its involvement in the deaths of the Moores, as well as the Gordon Klavern’s bombings in Miami.”
What about Marvin? I want to scream, my hands fisting so hard my fingers hurt.
“If you take any aggressive action now,” Mr. Jameson tells Daddy, “you could destroy our hopes of ever bringing these Crackers to justice. The subpoenas are already typed, and we’re set to deliver them on Monday.”
“They shot at my son, nearly took his eye out,” my father says, flint-faced.
“They’re fools, Warren. You want to know why the Grand Dragon’s in town? To try to calm them down. We’ve been all over these guys like stink on”—he glances in my direction— “feces. Some of them are worried about having their precious family names dragged into court, so they’ve quit, surrendered their robes and their dynamite and quit. The Opalakee Klan is going down. You can’t ruin this for us.”
“Nobody shoots at my children without retaliation.”
“You want to retaliate, Warren? I’ve got just the job for you.”
“What?” Daddy asks, eyeing Mr. Jameson.
“Since last time we talked, we’ve found an insider, an older gentleman who says there’s a hidden compartment inside the fishing camp building which could put nails in a whole lot of coffins. Membership records, treasurer’s books, things like that. That’s legal dynamite, Warren, a whole lot more powerful than the stuff you want to plant.”
“So why don’t you just go in and get it?”
“No judge in this county would give us a warrant. What we’re talking about here . . .” Mr. Jameson looks down at his shoe, then up. “Well, to be honest, what we’re talking about is illegal break-in and entry.”
“I’ll do it.”
Mr. Jameson doesn’t seem to understand.
“I was going in to plant some dynamite,” Daddy says quietly. “If you’re telling me I can’t do that, I have to do something.”
“Well, uh, we sort of see this as a two-man job. One to go in and find the stuff and one to stand watch.”
“I’ll go with you.” Robert emerges from the back. He’s carrying the push broom diagonally, like a rifle, in front of him.
“This is a man’s job, son,” Mr. Jameson tells him.
“ ’Scuse me, sir,” Robert says, blue eyes blazing. After all, he is seventeen. “The reason we moved here was to get away from the Klan in South Carolina. They practically killed my father because somebody confused him with some man dating a Klanner’s ex-wife. They beat him with a cat-o’-nine-tails and left him for dead right on our doorstep. I hate the Klan. If Mr. Mac needs me, I’m in.”
Mr. Jameson stares at Robert for a long second, we all do, then turns back to Daddy and lifts both hands, palms forward, in a way that I know means your call.
“How much time do we have?” Daddy asks him.
“Why?” Mr. Jameson asks.
“Well, I’d planned to go the next moonless night, which, according to the calendar, is eight days from now.”
“You’ve got that, but not much more. We need to have all the evidence in hand as soon as possible.”
“Do I call you when I have it?” Daddy wants to know.
“No. No calls. Let me get you something from the car.” Mr. Jameson strides to the Dodge and pulls out a stiff flat canvas bag, about the size of a TV tray. When he hands it to Daddy, I see the mailing label is addressed to the P.O. box in Orlando.
“I don’t know how much postage you’ll need, but there’s a twenty inside to cover it. Send it first class, okay?”
“Right, as if I’m going to break into Klan headquarters and send whatever I find by parcel post?” Daddy shoots back.
“I am, uh, authorized to pay you two hundred fifty dollars for your trouble,” Mr. Jameson says.
“I don’t want your money,” Daddy tells him right away. “The only thing I do want is your word that you’ll strike any mention of my name, or Luther’s, or young Robert’s here, from your files.”
Mr. Jameson nods. “Warren . . . if you get caught, I never heard of you. If you live, make sure your attorney packs the jury with tenderhearted parents of boys your son’s age.”
“I’m way ahead of you.” Daddy’s extending his hand. “Will we see you again?”
“Only in the funny papers,” Mr. Jameson says, returning his grip. Then, “You’re doing us a tremendous service, you know.”
“Let’s hope so,” Daddy answers.
“Pleasure to see you again, young lady,” Mr. Jameson tells me. “Stay out of trouble, young man.” He cocks and points his fingers like a gun at Robert, then walks out into the sun.
The months of hand-holding and head-ducking are over. The weeks of waiting for someone to do something are done. My father has finally found his way into the fight.
He turns, signaling to Robert to follow him up the stairs and onto the platform. I’m left in the still-dark showroom to turn on the lights, unlock the cash register, and deal with the tornado of feelings—pride, relief, terror—whirling around me.
Outside, off one of the big specimen trees planted by the drive to impress the tourists, an overripe grapefruit falls to the sand. The sound’s like a heavy fist hitting flesh.
Chapter 30
Daddy’s decision to help the F.B.I. sparks off a slew of other choices: He, Mother and Doto choose not t
o demand a police investigation of Ren’s shooting (“The Constable was probably standing there in his sheets when it happened, anyway,” Doto sneers); not to discuss the details of the shooting outside our family (“I’ve told Petey the same thing,” Smitty says, “after I spoke my piece with Mr. Casselton.” “Who is, after all, his landlord,” Daddy reminds Mother); not to disclose his F.B.I. plans to Ren and Mitchell (“They’re too young,” Mother says, “and they know way too much already”); and, finally, to ask Armetta and the maids for help.
The decision to keep the source of Ren’s injury a family secret hits the boys hardest. Ren was hoping for some center-of-town showdown between Daddy and the Klan, like in High Noon with Gary Cooper, Ren’s favorite actor. And Mitchell remains mesmerized by the mechanics of the “bad guy’s bird shot” bouncing off the metal water tower to hit Ren in the head.
“I saw the very same thing on Hopalong Cassidy!” he insists, till I want to throttle him.
The day after Daddy agreed to help Mr. Jameson is a Sunday.
I’ve got Mitchell by the hand on our way into Sunday school when eagle-eyed Miss Maybelle intercepts us with “Where’s my hero this morning?” (That’s what she calls Ren ever since he rescued her from the rattler.)
“He got shot!” Mitchell blurts out.
“No, no, caught, Mitchell, Ren got caught by a branch climbing up the big live oak out back. Scraped his head from here to here,” I show her, all the while squeezing Mitchell’s hand, hard.
“Swoll up like a balloon,” Mitchell says, finally getting into it.
“Purple as a plum,” I say as Miss Maybelle continues to give me the eye.
“Goin’ to miss school tomorrow?” she wants to know.
“Maybe a day or two,” I tell her. “But Doc Johnny says he’ll be good as new by next weekend.”
Later that afternoon, it’s Mother who has to run interference with a concerned Miss Maybelle. “He’s sound asleep,” Mother tells her at our front door, accepting a plate piled high with “feel-better brownies.”
Lay that Trumpet in Our Hands Page 16
