Lay that Trumpet in Our Hands

by Susan Carol McCarthy

  Now, about the maids: It was a lifetime ago that Daddy joked to Luther about his personal spy ring, the circle of choir members who work as maids in the homes of area Klansmen. Before Marvin’s murder, the circle was mostly social. Afterwards, it turned political, seeking and sending information to Armetta, who in turn fed it to Mr. Harry Moore.

  Along the way, Armetta and Mr. Harry and his wife, Harriette, became friends. It was Armetta who invited the Moores into The Quarters and helped them register eligible adults to vote.

  Fueled by the Moores’ murder, it’s Armetta who convinced the ladies of the choir to fill in the blanks on the F.B.I.’s list of Klan members. It’s Armetta who expanded the circle to include several other maids from the Colored Town in Opalakee. “It’s Armetta,” Daddy assures Doto, “who’ll find out if Monday, March twenty-fourth is a Klan meeting night or not.”

  Luther argues strongly that he should be the one to go with Daddy. “Robert’s jus’ a boy. Ah know those groves like the back of mah hand.”

  “No, Luther,” Daddy argues back. “If you and I got caught, a Negro and a Yankee in Klan headquarters, neither of us would live to tell about it. With Robert, I can play the upset father and probably talk my way out of any trouble.”

  “Ah’m driving y’all then,” Luther insists. “Ah know jus’ where to let y’ off and the safest place to pick y’all up.”

  “And what if they run into you, alone in the middle of a white area in the dead of night? You’d never see daylight. This is a two-man job and you can’t be one of them. All I need is for you and Armetta to confirm that the twenty-fourth is clear.”

  Whatever objections my mother has to Daddy’s plan—I can tell she’s not the least bit happy about it—have been raised outside my hearing. Daddy’s resolved, a man on a mission. And Mother is real quiet, more Poker Faced than ever.

  It’s two days before Buddy’s tail wagging and the familiar tappety-tap-TAP on the back door tell us Luther has Daddy’s answer.

  The boys have left the table already and are plopped in front of the television laughing at Allen Funt’s Candid Camera show. I’m at the fridge, refilling our tea glasses, so I let Luther in.

  “Evenin’, Rootin’-Tootin’!”

  “Hey, Luther, pour you some tea?”

  “That’d be fine, real fine, thank you. Evenin’, MizLizbeth, Miz Doto. How y’all tonight?”

  “You’re in high spirits,” Daddy says and invites him to “have a seat” in Ren’s empty chair.

  “You bet Ah am! There are Grand Jury subpoenas showin’ up all over the place, at some of the finest homes and oldest names in Opalakee. The ladies say they ain’t never heard the blues sung so bad; the folks with the white robes hangin’ in their closets are whinin’ to beat the band. People callin’ each other back and forth, wantin’ to know what they s’posed to say, where they g’wan to stay, how long they g’wan to be gone, and how the hang did the Governor let this happen. Well, of course, they not sayin’ ‘hang,’ but Ah won’t repeat what they really sayin’ in front of the ladies.”

  Daddy nods. “Jim Jameson said the subpoenas’d be there.”

  “That he did and that they are,” Luther agrees. “And as long as we’re talkin’ ’bout what’s happenin’ where, looky here what Ah got.”

  Luther unbuttons his shirt pocket and pulls out a small, folded piece of paper. Carefully, he opens it to full letter size, laying it on the table in front of Daddy, smoothing out the creases with the flat of his hand. I peer over Daddy’s shoulder to see.

  It’s a flyer announcing a “Kounty-wide Klonverse,” inviting “all members of the Orange Kounty Klaverns of the Invisible Empire” to gather on the north shore of Lake Eola in Orlando, Friday night, March twenty-first—three nights from now!

  “Where in the world did you get this?”

  Luther looks at Daddy sideways. “You know, Mist’Warren, any laundress worth her salt checks the pockets of the dirty clothes before puttin’ things in the washer. Ah got four more just like it if you want extras.”

  “So, instead of the twenty-fourth, we’ll go in on the twenty-first. Luther, tell Armetta this is a Godsend!”

  “You got that right, Mist’Warren.” Luther’s smile is wide and golden. “Could be the first time the good Lawd sent word by way of a laundry chute!”

  The seventy-two hours between Luther’s arrival with the flyer and Daddy and Robert’s March twenty-first “invasion” of the fishing camp pass me in a blur. The days at school roller-coaster in and out of crazy. Although our teacher, Mrs. Loreen Finney, promised last September, “I won’t put up with any foolishness,” she’s still having trouble controlling the boys in our class. Most seem bent on seeing who can get sent to the principal’s office first, ahead of the others. The nights make my stomach churn, as Daddy, Luther and Robert sit on the front porch suggesting, rejecting and arguing over details of The Plan.

  At last, late Thursday, March twentieth, everything finally seems set. The ladies of the C.I.A. have confirmed that most all the Opalakee Klan members are committed to attending “the Rally in Orlando” the next night. The flyer outlines the meeting time “from eight o’clock until midnight,” so The Plan is this:

  At nine P.M., Luther will stop by the Dump to see his old friend Horatio Sykes, Negro caretaker there. Together, they’ll unlock the Dump’s little-used back gate. At nine-thirty Daddy and Robert will enter the back gate, park Daddy’s truck behind the shed, and climb through the barbed-wire fence into the grove closest to the camp.

  As Daddy and Robert approach the fishing camp from the south side, Luther and his friend, driving Horatio’s truck, will cruise into the driveway on the north side of the camp and make sure there are no vehicles parked on the property. (Horatio often picks up trash at the camp and is certain they’ll be safe.) If everything looks good, at ten o’clock, Luther will flash a single “go” sign with a flashlight across the lake toward the ridge where Daddy and Robert will be waiting.

  Daddy and Robert will wade across the small lake which, Horatio swears, is no more than four feet deep in the center. The wide rim of razor-sharp saw grass on each side prohibits any kind of hike-in entry. They’ll enter the camp’s main building from its blind side.

  Once there, Robert will stand guard by the front door while Daddy looks for the hidden compartment. The Plan allows for twenty minutes of search time; they must be out of the camp no later than ten-thirty, wade back across the lake, get through the grove, return to the truck and be home by eleven, at the latest.

  On the face of it, everything makes sense to me except one part. For thirteen years, I’ve begged my father to swim with us in any number of lakes around here. Not once, not ever, has he done it.

  “Swimming pools and oceans are fine, Roo,” he’s always said, “but ever since the polio I just can’t bring myself to get wet in a Florida lake.”

  “So why are you willing to wade through this one?” I want to know.

  “This is different, Roo,” he tells me, calm as calm can be. “This is war.”

  Chapter 31

  Early Friday night, Doto herds the boys out of the house for dinner and a movie, a new Gene Autry, The Singing Cowboy, Western. As planned, I stay home to keep Mother company.

  At 8:14, Daddy and Robert sit at the table, dressed in old dark-colored clothes and shoes, ready to go. Mother’s silent. I’m tightrope anxious and trying hard not to show it.

  Mother and I jump at the sound of Luther’s knock. Letting him in, I’m surprised to see him dressed in a white shirt, dark tie and suit, as if for church. Behind him, Armetta in a navy blue dress carries a fat canvas bag by its cloth handles.

  “Brother Luther, welcome,” Daddy hails him. “You, too, Armetta?”

  “Luther and I thought y’all could use a little company while the men are out gallivantin’.” Armetta’s eyes are on Mother. “Were we wrong?”

  “Not at all. Thank you,” Mother tells her and I can see she’s grateful. “I appreciate you thinking of
us.”

  “Thinkin’ of myself, too. Waitin’s hard work, unless you have comp’ny to distract you.” Her comment conjures up something Luther told Daddy the night Marvin was missing. “Armetta’s about worried herself to death,” he’d said. I want to hug her for being here.

  “Luther, how come you’re dressed like that?” I have to ask.

  “Well, y’see, Roo,” he says, enjoying himself, “mah friend Horatio at the Dump has a sort of bad reputation, mainly ’cause he likes to cook up a li’l moonshine now and then. A lot of people might find it hard to b’lieve a churchgoin’ man like mahself would visit a man like Horatio, unless, of course, it was to witness to him about his terrible evil ways. Horatio and Ah decided it’d be best, for his reputation and for mine, if Ah played the part of Brother Luther tonight. Got mah Bible in the car and everythin’. If we get caught at the lake or if anybody asks any questions, Ah might have to claim that Brother Horatio has seen the light and wants t’ be baptized there and then!”

  Somewhere during Luther’s explanation, I realize everybody at the table’s grinning but Mother and me. Armetta reaches over and pats my hand. “It’s okay, honey, the Lord’s got a sense of humor jus’ like anybody else. Even King Solomon did a li’l play-actin’ . . . for a good cause.”

  Luther looks down at his watch. “Y’all got 8:25?” he asks. As Daddy and Robert check their wrists, I eye the time on the kitchen clock above the stove.

  “Ah b’lieve,” Luther says, “we could do with a word of prayer b’fore we go.”

  “I think so, too, Luther,” Daddy agrees. “Please.”

  “All right, then.” Luther spreads his palms out to me on his right and Daddy on his left. Wordlessly, we join hands around the table and bow our heads. Luther’s hand on my left is strong and calloused, his grip firm. Armetta’s hand, on my right, is velvety, smooth and comforting.

  “Lawd,” Luther says, low and respectful,

  “You been watchin’ over us for a long time,

  from our first breath to this one.

  You know our hearts , Lawd.

  And, You know we have no hope

  of accomplishin’ our task tonight

  without Your help.

  We feel , Lawd, like old Joshua, when You took him

  to the great walls of Jericho and told him

  to let Your trumpets blow.

  Blow those trumpets, You said,

  and the great walls of Jericho will come tumblin’ down.

  Old Joshua b’lieved You, Lawd, and so do we.

  We ask You tonight:

  Lay that trumpet in our hands.

  We all know our part, Lawd, and we gonna do the best we can,

  But it’s Mist’Warren and young Robert here

  who need Your help the most.

  Guide they steps, Lawd.

  Protect they path.

  Show them the way to the secret hidin’ place and, Lawd,

  Lay that trumpet in they hands.

  Give it to ’em, Lawd, then bring ’em home , safe and sound.

  We thank You for the help

  and for the hope that fills our hearts tonight.

  We bless You for the privilege of doin’ this in Your name.

  And we praise You, Lawd, tonight and forever.

  Amen and thank God.”

  I hear my parents and Armetta echo Luther’s “Amen,” and both Luther and Armetta squeeze my hands before letting go.

  “Well,” Luther says, standing, “Ah best be goin’. Watch for the light on the lake at ten. Lord willin’ and the Klan don’t rise, Ah’ll see y’all back here at ’leven o’clock.”

  Beside me, I hear Armetta suck in a soft breath as Luther leaves. Daddy and Robert, with thirty minutes to kill, decide to walk out and see him off, check the gear on the truck one last time.

  Just before nine, they come back inside. Their goodbyes seem ordinary—Robert’s, a shy wave around the table, Daddy’s, a quick kiss for Mother and a confident “be right back” for Armetta and me—as if they were headed to the hardware store instead of into the very heart of the Klan’s secret headquarters. As if life, as we know it, doesn’t hang in the balance of what happens out there tonight. My chest feels clenched like a fist, like I’m sucking breath through a straw.

  As the screen door slams shut behind them, Armetta lifts her canvas bag up onto the table.

  “Reesa, Ah got somethin’ you might be interested in. Know what this is?” She’s holding a plastic container with a large brown glob inside.

  “No’m,” I tell her, straining to hear Daddy’s pickup drive away.

  “Well, with a little baking, this is a batch of my world-famous snicker doodles. You think you could find us a cookie sheet, maybe set the oven to three hundred an’ fifty degrees?”

  As I search for and set out the cookie sheets, I feel suddenly chilled. In all the debates over tonight’s plan, nobody’s dared mention the real danger Daddy’s walking into. What if the fishing camp isn’t empty? What if somebody sees Daddy’s truck driving into the Dump? What if they recognize Luther’s car, too, and put two and two together? Everybody knows Daddy and Luther are friends.

  My hands, fiddling with the cover on the cookie dough, feel thick and stupid, like I’ve forgotten how to move. Armetta reaches over and covers them, warming me like a fire.

  “MizLizbeth, I brought my sewing box along. I know with all these chil’ren, you must have some clothes that need mendin’, socks that need darnin’. If you’d like to help Reesa with the snicker doodles, I’ll be happy to sit right here and do a little mendin’ for you.”

  Mother looks at Armetta’s face, searching, I think, for the words she’d like to say. Her hazel eyes are wet-rimmed with feelings.

  “It’s all right, MizLizbeth. I’m an old hand at passin’ time. Could you bring me that mendin’ please?” Armetta says softly, opening her sewing box.

  Just after ten, the cookies are done. Mother pours cold milk all around. As we sit down to sample our still-warm efforts, Armetta tells me she was my age when her Mississippi grandmother taught her the recipe.

  “Have you always lived in Mayflower?” I ask her.

  “Oh, no, chil’, I was born and raised in Ocoee.”

  “Ocoee! There aren’t any Negroes in Ocoee.”

  “Not now, but there used to be a whole community, like The Quarters here in Mayflower, only bigger.”

  “What happened to it, Armetta?” Mother asks.

  “Election Day 1920 happened, and a man named Mose Norman, our neighbor, drove downtown to vote,” she says, leaning forward, her eyes and voice calling us into careful attention. “The local Klan was mostly Dixiecrat and they were worried that day because most Negroes were votin’ Republican.

  “The Klan showed up at the polls and started pushin’ and shovin’ our people away. Well, Mose Norman got hit and that made him mad. Mose drove over to O’landah to complain to a lawyer man, Mr. Cheney.

  “Mr. Cheney told him to drive back and write down the names of anyone interferin’ with the vote, and anyone else who got turned away. Long story short, it turned into a mob scene and that night, the Klan showed up and set fire to our houses.”

  “I remember hearing about this,” Mother says. “Didn’t the locals call it the Ocoee Riot?”

  “Oh, they called it a lot of things, not much of it true.” Armetta eyes her mending.

  “Late that night,” she continues, “there was a big gun battle at the home of July Perry, who lived in the middle of his own orange grove. At the time, he was the most influential Negro in town. Now, July Perry hadn’t done a thing but the Klan came after him jus’ the same, said he was hidin’ Mose Norman in the house. ’Course, by that time, old Mose was long gone.

  “When July Perry asked to see a search warrant, the Klan opened fire. July Perry tried to scare ’em off by showin’ ’em his high-powered rifle, but it didn’t help. When two white men attacked his daughter, he shot ’em. Sheriff tried to haul him into jail, but the mob lynche
d July Perry, on the big oak tree outside his house.”

  “Armetta!” Mother exclaims. I hear the tremble in her voice and know she’s thinking of Daddy.

  “The rest of us jus’ scattered, scared outta our wits by burnin’ crosses and flamin’ houses. For a couple hours, my family—Mamma, Daddy and the six of us kids—hid out in a orange grove, listenin’ to the sound of gunfire and people yellin’ and cryin’ in the streets. Then my daddy decided it was safe to move and we started walking. It was pitch -dark that night. Most of us had been asleep in our beds when the trouble came, so we were barefoot. We walked all night, through the palmetto flats outside Ocoee, through the piney woods around Lake Opalakee, then finally, just before sunrise, we made it to Mayflower, where our cousins took us in.”

  “How old were you?” I ask.

  “A year less than you, honey.” Armetta’s eyes glow like embers. She seems at once both here and back there walking barefoot through the pitch-dark wood. “You remember Selma, works at the Garnet house now?” she asks me.

  “Yes,” I say, nodding her on.

  “Her people were in Ocoee, and they went to Opalakee. Others went to Kissimmee or to Eatonville outside O’landah, wherever they had fam’ly or friends. All in all, ’bout fifty people died that night, includin’ my best friend, Jolily Johnson.” She stops, then says, “But nobody never did anythin’ about it. The F.B.I. came into town later, took statements from all the white men involved, didn’t even bother talkin’ to a single Negro.”

  “But what about your things, your property?” Mother asks.

  “Nobody ever went back. At first, we were scared to. Later on, we just didn’t want to.” Armetta picks up her needle, pulling thoughtfully at the thread. “We keep in touch, though,” she says, her face softening as if she’d remembered something pleasant. “Matter of fact, a bunch of us get together fairly reg’lar, not to dwell on what we lost, mind you. But to remember they’s some things can’t nobody take away, no matter what.”

  My eyes stray up to check the clock. Mother sits staring at the plate of fresh-baked cookies, untouched between us.