Crow

by Barbara Wright

  “Evening, sir,” Mr. Hanson said. Fear crawled down my chest, restricting my breathing. Half a dozen Red Shirts stayed back by the tar barrel, passing around a jug.

  “Howdy, Reverend,” the lead man said, fingering the trigger on his rifle.

  They exchanged pleasantries. Hurry, I thought. Hurry and let’s get out of here. I didn’t have a watch, but I knew time was short. Mr. Hanson must have been thinking the same thing, for he said, “We’d best be on our way.”

  “If you’d be so kind as to give us the password, we’ll let you through.”

  “Certainly. It’s, it’s …”

  In his nervousness, he had forgotten.

  Terror squeezed my throat and prevented speech, but I could make primitive sounds. From the backseat, I growled. When Mr. Hanson and the two Red Shirts turned to look at me, I flapped my elbows like a chicken and started yapping like a little fice dog. A look of recognition passed over Mr. Hanson’s face.

  “What’s with the crazy coon?” the lead Red Shirt said.

  “Don’t worry, our houseboy’s a bit simple in the head, but he’s harmless,” Mr. Hanson said. For a religious man, he was quick with a fib.

  “What were you asking?” Mr. Hanson said. “Yes, the password. It’s Dog Wing.” He pronounced each word distinctly and slipped me a look by way of thanks. I felt proud that my pantomime had helped, and my heartbeat settled down a bit.

  “Very well.” The Red Shirt turned to Mr. Manly. “And you. How are you?”

  Mr. Manly tipped his hat and said, “Fine, thank you, sir.”

  “He talks funny,” the other Red Shirt said.

  I felt my insides seize up again. It was over. Mr. Manly’s voice had given him away. He looked white, but he sounded black. A crow in seagull feathers.

  Mr. Hanson was quick with a response. “I’m from Boston. People down here tell me I have a funny accent.” He might have been pale, but he was resourceful.

  “You’re one of them damn Yankees,” the Red Shirt said with suspicion. There was a moment of tense silence, broken by the sound of spit as he sent a squirt of brown tobacco juice onto the shell road. My thoughts bumped into each other in wild confusion as I realized that our downfall could hinge not on Mr. Manly’s race but on the Red Shirt’s hatred of a white Northerner.

  “What brought you down our way?” the other Red Shirt said.

  “It’s a beautiful part of the country. And such friendly people. It’s also excellent for my rheumatism.”

  The two militia men puffed up at the flattery, but just as I began to believe they would let us go, the first Red Shirt wrinkled his nose and said to his companion, “Do you smell something funny? Like …” He thought for a moment. “Like a privy?”

  I was surprised he could smell anything over the stench of alcohol. Then I remembered the tunnel—the reeking tunnel.

  To my surprise, I heard myself saying, “It ain’t the smell of stinkpots, is it? ’Cause I been emptying ’em out good all day.”

  I had never before made myself sound uneducated, not even when I worked in the okra fields, and I was glad Daddy wasn’t there to hear me. But the answer seemed to satisfy the Red Shirts, and they waved us through.

  Once we reached the sawmill and I showed them the back way, there were no more Red Shirts.

  We arrived at the train station north of town with only five minutes to spare and were just able to get Mr. Manly on the train. He thanked us and asked Mr. Hanson to tell his wife that he was safe and would contact her as soon as he could. Then he turned to me and said, “Moses, tell your daddy that I’m leaving the paper in his capable hands.” I took his extended hand, but I was too worn out to give him the kind of firm shake that would have made Daddy proud.

  It was after supper when I got home, and I was tired and hungry. Boo Nanny and Mama hugged me and made a fuss over me, hovering like two mother hens. “Honey, we been fretting ourselves silly,” Mama said.

  “I’m gone fix you up some supper,” Boo Nanny said.

  “Where have you been?” Daddy said. “Your mother and grandmother have been out of their heads with worry. I’ve been out walking the streets.”

  “I helped Mr. Manly escape,” I said, smiling broadly.

  “You what?” His voice cracked, and a look of confusion came over him.

  I thought he would be impressed by my bravery, so I was taken aback when, after I recounted my adventure, he erupted, “Have you taken leave of your senses? What were you thinking?”

  I’d expected to be treated as a hero, and here he was dressing me down.

  “But what … what … I thought … I wanted to help.…” I was dangerously close to blubbering.

  “That’s the stupidest idea I ever heard of. What was going on in there?” he said, tapping his temple with his index finger.

  More than being a coward, the thing I feared above all else was being stupid. In that, I was my father’s son.

  “Go to the parlor. We need to talk.”

  I didn’t want to leave Mama and Boo Nanny, but I followed his instructions. He sat in a chair facing me.

  “Do you know what a lynching is?” he said.

  “Of course,” I said, trying to save face. I remembered being at the dinner table several months before when he said something about a mob developing a mind of its own and punishing men for crimes they didn’t commit. But what did that have to do with Mr. Manly? He clearly did the thing he was accused of—writing the editorial that got white men so stirred up. That afternoon, I had been scared of getting caught by the Red Shirts, but I hadn’t considered what might have happened after that.

  “You were not using your head.” He glared at me, trembling with rage.

  I stared right back, not quite ready to take him on, but not ready to back off, either. I had made my stand, and I couldn’t let on that I didn’t know what lynching was, for then he would know I’d been lying. Humiliated at my ignorance, I was also furious at him. If lynching was so important, why hadn’t he told me about it? He could have given me a book on it. He could have sat me down and explained the whole thing. But lynching, like sex, fell into the category of things adults stopped talking about when children entered the room.

  In an act of insolence I knew I would regret, I said, “I don’t care what you think. Mr. Manly needed help, and I helped him.”

  “How dare you talk back to me like that!” Daddy lunged at me, and for a minute I thought he was going to hit me. But he stopped himself and slumped back in the chair and lowered his head in his hands. “I need to calm down. Now leave me be.”

  I went to my room, and he stomped off to the backyard. Through the closed window, I could hear the whack of an ax and the crack of splitting wood. He didn’t like to do physical work and he hated this chore above all others, so I knew how upset he must be.

  Before long, Mama came in and said, “Go see your daddy by the woodpile.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, baby, you do.”

  I trudged slowly, one foot in front of the other, to the far end of the yard, not knowing whether to expect a whipping or a lecture. Daddy continued working while I stood silently by the hickory stump. Pieces of split wood lay scattered about on the sand. After a few more passes with the ax, he set the tool aside, brushed off the stump, and sat down, catching his breath.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said. He wiped sweat and bits of wood from his face, leaving traces at his temple.

  I waited for him to continue.

  “When you told me what you had done, I immediately thought of all the things that could have happened. You could have gotten caught up in a lynch mob. The Red Shirts might have detained you. There could have been a chase, and an accident with the carriage. Suddenly it came to me: I might have lost you. And that undid me.”

  “But nothing happened. I’m fine. Here I am.”

  “Yes, I know. But in that moment, I realized I had failed you.”

  “Failed how?” He was acting peculiar, and that bothere
d me.

  “There’s a lot more ugliness out there than I’ve led you to believe, and I haven’t prepared you for it. I saw this clearly when you told me about Mr. Manly’s escape. You didn’t realize the danger you were in, and because of that, I could very well have lost you. And I would have had no one to blame but myself. I’ve been naive. I’ve taught you to live in a world I wanted to exist, not one that actually does.”

  I didn’t like all this talk about failure and mistakes. I wanted the old Daddy back, the one who was wise and sure of himself and knew what to do. Always.

  “I raised you in the belief that what it took to succeed in life was the same thing that it took to be a good man: honesty and hard work, courage and curiosity, loyalty and patriotism. But we’re up against something I don’t understand and don’t know how to adapt to. I’ve sheltered you from it, and in the process have made you more vulnerable.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The intractability of hate,” he said.

  Challenge word. I gave him a cockeyed look, and he explained: “It means something that’s hard to control or cure. That certainly applies to hate, I’m finding out.”

  At last we were on familiar ground: words and their definitions.

  He was back, the Daddy I knew, the one who would do anything in the world for me. I was tired of all this adult talk and saw an opening.

  “Can I get a dog?” I said.

  TEN

  The night before the election, I had trouble getting to sleep, wondering what the next day would bring. I got up in the dark and crouched at my window, but the magnolia tree in our side yard blocked everything but the flames that shot up from the barrel of burning pitch at the corner. The sounds of yelling and off-key singing and the stinky smell of tar kept me up long after I returned to bed, but sometime in the night, I fell asleep.

  Election day dawned, a perfect autumn morning, with gulls crying in the clear blue sky. The streets felt lazy, like a Sunday, with few people about, except for the militias.

  I was instructed to stay home from school, and this time I did not protest. I had already tested the patience of my family too much with Mr. Manly’s escape. Besides, I was scared.

  If Daddy was scared, he didn’t let on. He was out of the house early to vote before going to the Record.

  Boo Nanny and I huddled inside all day. It was the waiting that was the worst. We waited as Mama walked to work. We waited while Daddy was out and about covering the elections. We waited for a knock on the door that would bring bad news.

  Boo Nanny simmered a concoction of dried roots and herbs on the stove—to calm nerves, she said, but it only agitated me. The steam fogged the windows and filled the room with the most stomach-wrenching smell. There was no way to escape the odor, since I was confined to the kitchen. Our house sat on a corner lot, and the rooms that faced Fifth and Bladen Streets were susceptible to stray gunfire. It was a miserable day, and I couldn’t wait for it to end.

  That night Daddy got back late, after putting the Record to bed. We crowded around, eager to hear what had happened. He sat down, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. His eyes were bloodshot.

  “There was no violence. The voting went on without incident. The Democrats won a resounding victory, but they won it fair and square.”

  “You thinks our folk gone walk past these armed paddy rollers to vote? That’s what you call fair?” Boo Nanny said.

  “Next time, we’ll just have to work harder,” he sighed. But he was not yet ready to abandon his optimism. “At any rate, the Republicans still control the mayor, the chief of police, and the aldermen. We aren’t up for reelection until next spring.”

  The morning after the election, the streets were quiet. Daddy decided that I could go to school, but he insisted on walking with me to make sure I was safe. His work and my school were in the same direction.

  We reached the corner of Seventh and Market, where Daddy normally peeled off to go to his office, but he continued down Market. “I’ll walk with you all the way,” Daddy said.

  “You don’t need to do that,” I said, alarmed. I didn’t want my classmates to think I was like the first graders whose parents brought them to school.

  “I can use the exercise.”

  Because we were early, no one was on the playground when we arrived. I quickly bid Daddy good-bye and scampered through the front door before anyone could see us.

  At school, things were back to normal, and no one talked about the election. After class, I came straight home and was surprised to find Daddy in the kitchen, reading the Messenger. The headline read: “Negroism Defunct.”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. It was so strange to find Daddy home at this hour.

  “A businessman named Mr. Williams asked to see me. He didn’t want to come by my place of work, so I agreed to meet him here.”

  When a knock came at the door, I answered it. Mr. Williams was a slight, middle-aged man with eyebrows so light, it looked as if he had no eyebrows at all. He stood at the door with his hat in his hand. I introduced myself and shook his hand. He was definitely not a person of character, I decided, because he had a limp handshake and refused to look me in the eye.

  I invited him inside, but he wanted to stay on the porch, even though it was chilly.

  “Please come into the parlor,” I said, knowing that Mama would be mortified at the condition of the front porch. Leaves had collected there, as if it were an abandoned house, since Boo Nanny and Mama had avoided being outside for the two weeks leading up to the election.

  Daddy came out to the porch and shook Mr. Williams’s hand. “What can I help you with?” Daddy said.

  Mr. Williams glanced around, as if expecting someone to pop out from behind a door or spring from behind a chair.

  I sat down and felt leaves crush against my backside. Daddy didn’t ask me to leave as I thought he would.

  Mr. Williams took a seat on the edge of the rocker, causing it to tilt forward. He put his hat on his knees and cleared his throat. “A group of concerned citizens, the Committee of Twenty-Five, has been appalled by the growing violence that has overtaken our city. We feel that something must be done about it.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Daddy said. “You look uncomfortable. Wouldn’t you prefer the swing?”

  “No, I’m fine here,” he said, and looked as if he’d lost his place, like someone interrupted in the middle of a memorized poem who must return to the beginning to be able to recite it all the way through.

  “Now, I know you love our great city and want to do what is best,” he continued.

  Daddy nodded and kept looking at him as the man shifted his weight, causing the floor to creak.

  “Well, I—that is to say, the Committee of Twenty-Five—felt that, in light of the threat of violence …”

  “These concerned citizens—this Committee of Twenty-Five, as you say—who might they be?”

  Mr. Williams rattled off a list of names.

  “This afternoon, I received notice that I was to attend a meeting at six-thirty tonight at the Cape Fear Club. Is this organized by the same group?”

  He nodded.

  “So these concerned citizens you named—I believe they’re all white, am I right? What exactly is it that they’re concerned about?”

  “We must do something to calm the city. It is our responsibility as community leaders.”

  “And who elected this so-called committee? Were their names on the ballot yesterday?”

  “No. They’re civic leaders. The backbone of the community. The men who make things work. They were chosen by a group of citizens who gathered at the county courthouse this morning.”

  “I see,” Daddy said. “And were there any Negroes in this group?”

  Mr. Williams ignored the question and continued. “I appeal to your good citizenship. You are an articulate spokesman, a pillar of the colored community. I know you’ll be willing to do the right thing. That’s why I volunteered to co
me talk with you. If you care about our Port City, then you’ll agree with me that we need to start with a new government, a clean slate.”

  “I believe yesterday’s election achieved that.”

  “But that was for state and county offices. We need a fresh start with a new slate for city government.”

  “And how might that be achieved?”

  “With your cooperation.”

  Daddy stared at Mr. Williams in disbelief. “Wait a minute. Are you asking me to resign as alderman?” he said.

  “Believe me when I say prejudice has nothing to do with this. It is not a question of color. We’ve also requested the mayor, the chief of police, and the …”

  “And anyone who is favorable to our race,” Daddy said. “In other words, you’re asking all the democratically elected city representatives to voluntarily give up their jobs because a self-appointed group of white Democrats determined that it is best for the city?”

  “It’s for the good of your people as well.”

  Daddy stood up. “I’ll ask you nicely to please leave now.” When he was about to explode, Daddy kept control of his voice but could be really, really scary. I know. I almost felt sorry for Mr. Williams.

  The white man shifted in his seat. “Now don’t get upset. All I’m asking is that you consider what’s best for Wilmington. We must do something to restore peace and harmony. It’s bad for business. It’s bad for the reputation of our city.”

  “Maybe you should have thought of that before you launched this despicable white supremacy campaign. You can’t preach hate and then shirk responsibility for the way hate is manifested.”

  “My, you seem angry.”

  “Angry? I’d say that’s a fair appraisal. The Democrats won the state and county elections at the ballot box, fair and square, though I’m beginning to question how fair the elections actually were. But what you’re proposing, what you’re asking me to do, is completely different. You’re asking me to participate in a coup d’état,” Daddy said.

  Challenge word. I would have to look that one up later.