“Maybe Dr. King should take oatmeal raisin cookies on his Civil Rights marches,” I say to Paris. “They sure won Hoot over.”
Paris laughs.
We walk west for several blocks and stop short of a rickety house near The Citadel, the military college of South Carolina. We hide in another set of bushes and watch Hoot’s uncle’s house like we are on a stakeout. A lawn ornament stands at the end of the driveway. It is a little colored man dressed up like a horse jockey. I think of how much trouble colored people would get into if they had little statues of white people in their yards.
While Hoot tries the key, Vel and I stand on the porch, and Paris waits behind the small garage a few feet away. My neck hurts from all the looking around to make sure nobody sees us. The door opens easily. As soon as we inch ourselves inside, the growling starts. It sounds like two saber-tooth tigers are trapped in the bedroom determined to get out. They sniff the crack under the door with so much force I am reminded of Hoover vacuum cleaners.
Vel’s eyes are as wide as the silver dollar-sized pancakes my mom makes sometimes. Vel has never liked dogs, even friendly ones, and these don’t sound the least bit friendly.
“I just can’t do this, Trudy.” Vel sounds like she might cry any second, even though she isn’t the type to cry.
Instead of being angry, I tell her to go home and wait for us. In a rush of pink, Vel dashes for the door.
With Vel gone, Paris and Hoot and I stand in the living room with our backs to the wall. A huge Confederate flag covers an entire wall in the living room. Over the television are two swords crisscrossed with “C.S.A.” carved into the blades. Next to that, in a glass case under the picture window, are Confederate pistols and rifles next to a whole collection of Confederate caps.
“This is like a museum,” I whisper.
“A Confederate museum,” Paris whispers back. He shudders, and I put a hand on his shoulder.
To the right of the television is a large photograph of Fort Sumter, the birthplace of the Civil War. A place nearly every school kid in South Carolina visits on field trips.
Meanwhile, the dogs get wilder by the second. Paris approaches the bedroom door and opens the paper bag containing the ribs. He waves one of them in front of the crack at the bottom of the door. The dogs stop growling and clawing and take deep sniffs of the ribs.
“Are you ready?” Paris says.
Hoot stands by Paris and reaches up to the top of the door-jamb. He finds another key that’s for the bedroom door. He slowly turns the key in the lock until we hear a loud click. Hearing the click, the dogs lurch at the door. Hoot holds it closed with two hands, a desperate look on his face.
My heart beats so loudly I can hear it in my ears.
“Open it on the count of three,” I say, thinking we can’t give up now.
The sniffing continues, like the dogs are going to sniff the floorboards right off the foundation.
I begin the countdown and debate whether to continue. What if it doesn’t work? What if the dogs go for our throats instead of the ribs? I should have told Nana Trueluck my plan so she could have talked me out of it. But it is too late to turn back now.
Paris stands behind Hoot, ready to throw the meat.
I yell “Three!” Courage and cowardice surge in equal amounts.
Hoot opens the door, and the dogs run out at the same time that Paris throws the meat across the living room floor toward the front door. When the dogs lunge for Miss Josie’s barbeque ribs, we rush into the bedroom and slam the door behind us.
Safely inside, the three of us lean against the wall. Deep claw marks are etched in the back of the door and puddles of drool are everywhere. After my heartbeat returns to normal, I realize the bedroom is a museum, too. The walls are covered with old photographs of Confederate generals who watch our every move. Thick curtains cover the only window making the room dark and musty. It looks more like a burial chamber than a bedroom.
For several seconds we are silent.
“This place is full of ghosts,” Paris says.
“Tell me about it,” I say. I tell Hoot to hurry up. I am ready to get out of here.
He tries to open the gun cabinet, but it is locked. “I don’t know where he keeps the key to this,” Hoot says. He feels around for a key on top of the chest and comes up with a handful of dust.
“You mean we needed a key for the gun cabinet, too?” I ask.
“I bet it’s somewhere in this room,” Paris says. “Somewhere close.”
I turn on the overhead light, and the three of us look around the small room. We look in drawers and under the bed. The dogs have finished the ribs and now sniff at the bottom of the door like they would like to chomp on our ribs next. As they growl and claw, the door dances on its hinges. Then they begin to bark.
“That racket is enough to wake General Robert E. Lee from the dead,” Hoot says. To the side of the gun cabinet is a framed black and white photograph of a white-haired man with a beard, the general himself. A brass plate at the bottom gives his name.
“We’ve got to hurry,” Paris says, “With all this noise, the neighbors may call the police.”
The search for the key continues, except faster. I wish Nana Trueluck were here. I wish I’d confided in her and told her my plan. A plan that at this point appears doomed. We search on top of things, inside drawers, under the bed. All we find is a great big nothing. By now we have to yell at each other to hear over the dogs’ barking. We sit on the bed that is lumpy enough to have dead bodies under the mattress.
“What’s his most prized possession in this room?” Paris asks Hoot. “Sometimes people hide things there.”
Hoot looks at the photograph over his uncle’s bed. The engraved nameplate underneath says that it is a photograph of Nathan Bedford Forest. A black funeral ribbon is attached to the top right corner of the frame.
“He must really like that guy,” I say.
“Who is he?” Paris asks.
“Bedford Forest started the Klan,” Hoot says.
Paris shudders again.
Hoot stands on the bed and runs his fingers along the top of the frame, sneezing from the dust. He then takes the frame off the wall and turns it over. He smiles. The key to the gun cabinet is in an envelope taped to the back of the frame.
Hoot tosses the key to me, and I catch it easily. I test it in the keyhole, and it opens. Inside the gun cabinet are several rifles and shotguns. I have never seen so many weapons in one place, and I refuse to touch them. Some look new and some look very old. The old ones have C.S.A carved onto the barrels. I have no idea what the initials stand for, but it is not like I have time to look it up in a dictionary. At the bottom are two long drawers. I open the top drawer. It is full of boxes of different bullets. The second drawer is full of knives.
“Your uncle could fight the entire Civil War from his bedroom,” I say.
“That’s the whole point,” Hoot replies.
“There’s nothing here,” Paris says, rummaging through the knife drawer.
“There must be a list of members somewhere,” I say.
“What if he’s not the one who has the list,” Paris says.
He could be right. We are almost ready to give up again when Hoot finds a secret drawer behind the knives. He pulls out four sheets of yellowing paper with names and addresses written on them.
“Pay dirt,” Hoot says.
In the next second we hear sirens.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ida
The hairs stand on the back of my neck as though a hurricane is coming ashore. I remember Hurricane Gracie that swept in at the end of September 1959. Ted Senior and I lost the roof on our house, and our windows blew in. I have never gone through anything scarier. Except maybe this: Trudy is in trouble. I can feel it.
When we get home, Teddy goes into his room for his quiet time, albeit reluctantly. I look all over for Trudy, but she isn’t here. I will have to wait until she comes home to make sure she is okay. To distract
myself, I go into the kitchen to report to Abigail. She is baking early today and has a bigger order of apple pies than usual because of tomorrow being July Fourth. She asks about our time at the ice cream parlor and the playground, but I don’t mention that Teddy and I saw Madison there or that he kissed and held my hand. I wish sometimes that Abigail and I could share these intimacies. We are, after all, two grown women living in the same household. So far, all my attempts to connect in that way have failed.
“Can I help you cut apples?” I ask.
“I’ve got it handled,” she says, as if I am criticizing her preparedness.
“I’m sure you’ve got it handled. I just wanted to be useful.”
She glances at me as if to discern if I am telling the truth. Then she offers me a knife and cutting board.
“What is Trudy up to these days?” Abigail asks. “She’s barely been home.”
“Whatever it is, she hasn’t shared it with me,” I say, which seems to please her.
Until recently, it never occurred to me that Abigail might be jealous of my relationship with Trudy. Yet more and more it makes sense.
Then I remember something that Ted Junior told me before they got married. That Abigail and her mother were at constant odds. Even from a distance, I would call their relationship strained. Though Abigail’s family lives in Georgia, she rarely goes there. And the few times I have interacted with the “other” grandparents—at christenings and a couple of Thanksgivings—I remember thinking that Abigail was definitely the warmest member of her family. When around Abigail’s mother, I feel the need to put on a sweater. Her personality is chilly, at best. In fact, I made a comment to Ted Senior about how her mother reminded me of an iceberg, and with Abigail as an only child, she was doomed like the Titanic. Not the nicest thing to say, for sure, but unfortunately it felt true.
“You know, I was an only child, too,” I say. I do this sometimes. Say something out loud when I am actually having a conversation with myself.
“You’ve told me that before,” Abigail says, not inviting further comment.
She flours her rolling pin and rolls out the dough for six pies. I wish she would let me help her. I also wish she would show the tiniest bit of interest in me. That is all anyone wants. At least she is interested in what Trudy might be up to. Knowing Trudy, we have reason to be concerned. Is she hitchhiking to Mississippi to march with Martin Luther King Junior?
“I’m sure you have no need to worry about Trudy,” I say. The lie sticks in my throat, and I cough to dislodge it.
“Are we talking about the same child?” Abigail says, with a short laugh.
Before I have time to answer, Ted Junior walks into the kitchen.
“Why are you home so early?” Abigail asks.
“I needed a break,” he says.
He enters the kitchen, his suit coat tossed over one shoulder. Sweat pools in puddles under the arms of his white shirt. He takes off his navy-blue tie with a red stripe running through it and tosses it onto the kitchen table.
“We’ve been told to cancel vacations for policemen,” he says. “The governor has received word from the White House that all southern states should be on high alert for demonstrations on the Fourth.”
Abigail washes the flour from her hands and turns to face him. She asks if it is because of the Civil Rights Act.
He nods.
“Why did Johnson have to force that on us now?” she asks.
“We’re in the midst of another Civil War,” Ted Junior says. “We need this. Otherwise things will never get better.”
He gives me a quick hug and then gets himself a cola from the refrigerator and drinks it in several gulps. “Where’s Trudy and Teddy?” he asks.
“Teddy’s having quiet time, and your daughter is god-knows-where,” Abigail says.
Ever since the Columbia trip, Trudy has become Ted Junior’s daughter. She wants nothing to do with the independent part of Trudy, whereas I would take credit for it in an instant.
“Do you know what she’s up to?” he asks me.
“I don’t,” I say, which is the truth.
“I’m not sure I can deal with much more this summer.” He stands in front of the oscillating fan.
Every now and again I catch a glimpse of him as a boy. He was like Vel in terms of how much he read. He always had a book with him, yet he loved the outdoors, too. One summer he read Don Quixote and climbed live oaks like windmills. Another summer he created a nation of Lilliputians in the backyard with twigs, glue, and acorns.
“Will you talk to her?” he asks me. “Make sure she’s not taking down another flag or something?”
“I will,” I say, wishing I had thought of a way to talk to her this morning.
He kisses Abigail on the cheek. “I need to put on a clean shirt and get back,” he says to her. Even if I don’t entirely see the connection, the love in his eyes is real. I think of Madison and how his strawberry mustache tickled my hand.
I am too old for this, I tell myself. Then the hairs on my neck prickle again. I need to find Trudy and talk to her before it is too late.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Trudy
The dogs howl with the sirens and claw the floorboards like they are digging to China to reach us.
“Let’s get out of here!” I yell.
We slam the drawers and lock the gun cabinet. Then Hoot hands me the papers, and I put them in the elastic of my shorts. The pages are cool and crinkly. After Hoot hands me the key, I jump on the bed to return it to the back of the frame. Once I am off, Paris straightens the bedspread so it will look like nobody’s been there.
For our escape, Hoot unlocks the window and pushes it wide open. I put one leg out and am about to leap before I realize that I am at least six feet from the ground. But if I don’t jump, I have got some major explaining to do to the police, as well as my parents.
“You can do it, Trudy.” Paris’ words push me from behind. “Keep your knees bent and roll when you fall.”
Has Paris been talking to Teddy? The sirens get louder and our options are running out. I follow his instructions and jump. Then I stumble into a roll with an oomph. For several seconds I stay on the ground to make sure I am okay and all my limbs still work. Then I get up and wipe the dirt from my shorts before securing the papers again. Energy tingles through me and in that instant I understand my brother a little better.
Paris jumps next and rolls just like he told me to. He stands with his hands on his hips like he is part of the Flying Wallendas, too. If I had time, I’d applaud.
Hoot has one leg out of the window preparing to jump when I yell for him to stop. “Hoot, we need to put the dogs back into the bedroom,” I say. “We have to make it look like we haven’t been here.”
With obvious reluctance, he turns and goes back inside.
Paris drags a rusty metal lawn chair over to the window, and we stand on it so we can see inside the room. Hoot stands by the door, wiping sweat from his forehead, his hand on the doorknob.
“We’ll distract them as soon as you let them in,” I call to Hoot.
The sirens sound like they are three or four blocks away.
Paris yells at him to hurry.
Hoot looks up at the ceiling as though to say a final prayer. Then he opens the door and runs toward the window. The dogs charge after him and go right for Hoot’s ankles. He screams.
To distract the dogs, Paris and I begin to pound on the window and howl as loud as we can. One of the dogs stops and looks at us, her head turned sideways. When Hoot reaches the window, he dives straight through, head first. Paris and I have to duck out of the way so he doesn’t crash into us.
I slam the window shut. The wild barking is suddenly muffled. Dog slobber covers the glass. The sirens stop mid-scream in front of the house.
Paris leads the way through a thick hedge that pokes at us. Then we run down the alley behind the houses. Hoot limps as he runs. When we are finally far enough away, we stop to look at Hoot’s ankl
es. Both are covered with bite marks and blood, enough to make me wish I had my dad’s first-aid kit.
Hoot sticks a finger in a hole of his ratty undershirt and tears off a piece to make a bandage. He insists he is okay.
“You got them?” he asks me.
I lift my shirt enough to reveal the folded papers. Papers with all the names and addresses of the rock-throwers and cross-burners in Charleston and Dorchester Counties.
“Now what do we do?” I ask.
The three of us exchange looks. We haven’t thought this far ahead. Like the rebel flag incident, we never actually thought we would pull it off. But we have.
“I’ll talk to Nana Trueluck and ask her what we should do,” I say.
“Well, I’m done,” Hoot says. “You asked me to get the names, and I got you the names.”
“Sorry about your ankles,” Paris says to Hoot.
Hoot shrugs it off. “It’s not that bad,” he says. He seems more concerned about other things. “Do you two swear on a stack of Bibles that you will never tell a soul where you got that list?”
“I swear,” Paris says.
“I swear, too,” I say.
“You better be telling the truth,” he says, “or I’ll end up like one of those barbeque ribs.”
We do a quick pinkie swear, and Hoot limps off down the alley.
Paris and I turn in the direction of my house and do our usual routine of pretending we don’t know each other, him following twenty yards behind and on the other side of the road to throw people off. We are getting good at walking this way—together but apart.
When we arrive at my house, I pass Nana Trueluck’s car in the side driveway and go through the gate into the backyard. A few minutes later Paris does the same. No one can see us in our backyard. But I tell Paris to hide in my treehouse anyway, while I go into the house to get Nana Trueluck. He hesitates at the tree.
Trueluck Summer Page 20
