Dark of the Moon

by Parrish, PJ

  “Louis,” she whispered. He looked up at her. She was clutching a pile of books. “I thought you were gone,” she said.

  He shook his head. “I’m staying, for a while at least.”

  A slow, shy smile spread across her face. He looked over at the desk. The old biddy was looking at them.

  Abby slid into a nearby chair, depositing her books on the table. “Tm so glad you decided to stay,” she said softly.

  “Abby—”

  “I know, I know,” she said quickly. “Don’t worry, I won’t throw myself at you again.” She smiled, mischievously. “At least not here.”

  When he didn’t smile back, she sighed and looked at the screen of the microfiche. “What are you reading?” she asked.

  “Just some old newspapers.”

  Abby leaned over him to read, her fragrant hair shielding her face. Louis leaned back in his chair, partly to put some distance between them and partly to stretch. He had been at it for three hours and had found nothing of any real use. He had no idea where to go next—except to Kelly himself. Maybe it was time to just confront the man with what he knew about the medallion, simply to see what his reaction was.

  After a moment, Abby sat back. When she looked at Louis, her eyes were serious. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

  He looked at the screen then back at her, frowning. “What?”

  “Are you looking for some reason to hate us?” she asked.

  Her directness startled him. “No,” he said slowly. “That’s not it at all.” He thought of Max at that moment, and about what Abby’s reaction would be if Max turned out to have had a part in the lynching. He had a vision of Max at the Christmas party and he wondered if Abby could see him as he was. Could any child really see his or her father clearly?

  Abby looked at him oddly, then reached over and switched off the machine. “Louis, let’s get out of here,” she said.

  He shook his head again, sitting forward. “I have to keep going.”

  “Why? What do you think you’ll find? More articles about how terrible we were?”

  “Abby, I don’t need newspaper articles to know that.” He switched the machine back on and the page fluttered back to life. Jesus, why was he snapping at her? She wasn’t the enemy. She hadn’t put a noose around some poor man’s neck.

  She stiffened, momentarily speechless. “That’s cruel, Louis Kincaid,” she said quietly.

  “Abby, look, I’m…” He paused. “Listen, you’d better leave. Please.”

  The hurt look in her eyes, mixed with the naivete and absolute incomprehension, was unnerving.

  “Is that why you don’t want to be with me?” she asked. “What?”

  “Because I’m white?” Jesus, he didn’t need this, not right now. “Why do you have to be a black man?” she said. “Why can’t you just be a man?”

  He stood up. “I’ve got to go,” he said slowly.

  “Louis—”

  He grabbed his jacket and walked away stiffly.

  Abby watched him hurry to the entrance. She wanted to follow him, but she wasn’t sure what to say. She sat back in the chair, angry, hurt and confused.

  “Abigail?”

  She looked up into the eyes of Mrs. Jenkins, the librarian.

  “Are you all right?” the old woman asked. “Was that man bothering you?”

  Abby straightened. “No, no, Mrs. Jenkins, he wasn’t. I’m okay, really I am.”

  The librarian looked at her dubiously, then smiled. “How’s your mother, dear?” she asked.

  “Fine,” Abby said, not returning the smile. “She’s fine. Thanks for asking, Mrs. Jenkins.”

  The old woman patted Abby’s shoulder then went back to the front desk. Abby sat back in the chair with a sigh. Her eyes drifted to the microfiche screen. The small headline floated up to her.

  UNIVERSITY ORDERED TO ADMIT NEGRO.

  She leaned forward and brought the page into focus, reading the story. There was a picture of a young black woman in a dark wool coat, carrying schoolbooks. She was a college coed, about the same age as herself. Abby stared at the photo of the young woman. What was it like, to be told you couldn’t have something you wanted, just because your skin was a certain color? She thought of her father in that moment, of their argument last night at dinner. He wanted her to quit school and come home. “That place is filling your head with stupid ideas,” he had told her. She had cried, pleading with him not to pull her out. He had finally consented to let her finish the semester. His final words echoed in her head. “Then it’s time for you to come home and settle down with some nice boy who’ll watch out for you.” Abby had looked across the dining table at her mother, hoping for support. But Grace had just sat there.

  Abby stared at the photo of Autherine Lucy. With a sigh, she idly scrolled the page forward. A familiar face rolled in front of her and she stopped.

  It was her mother. It was a photograph of her mother at the age of sixteen. Grace Ketcher had just won the 1955 Miss Magnolia Pageant. She was standing in the middle of twenty other young women, all wearing floor-length formal gowns. Her mother was wearing a banner and a crown and was holding a bouquet of roses. She had a beaming smile on her face.

  Abby stared at the picture in quiet awe. Her mother looked so beautiful and happy.

  A sudden notion seized her and she hit the print button on the machine. She would take the story home to her mother. She had seemed so distant lately, so sad; maybe the story would cheer her up.

  When the page came out of the machine, she folded the paper, put it in the pocket of her jeans and switched off the machine. She did not notice the small headline at the bottom of the page:

  COLORED BOY MISSING

  Chapter 17

  Abby paused at the top of the staircase. Music…piano music. Maybe it was the maid; she often played the radio when she cleaned. But then again, she always listened to the country station, never classical.

  Shifting the load of books in her arms, Abby went down the stairs to the library. She stopped abruptly at the entrance.

  Grace was seated at the piano. She was playing a melancholy tune that Abby did not recognize. Abby stared at her mother; she hadn’t seen her play for years. She never played when her father was around. But this afternoon, he had left abruptly and hadn’t returned. Who knew where he was? Abby sighed. It was Friday. He was probably out boozing, getting a head start on the weekend.

  Grace had her eyes closed, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. She was swaying slightly as she played, the setting sun filtering through the big bay window, turning her hair to gold. The sight of her mother like this was so unexpected, so lovely, that Abby felt tears sting her eyes. When was the last time she had seen her mother look like that?

  A distant memory pushed its way forward. It was that day— she had been only twelve—when the two of them had driven to Jackson to visit Aunt Ellie. The three of them had gone out shopping and there had been a street festival of some kind, with booths of food and artists selling their work.

  Grace had walked toward the festival, as if magically drawn there. Abby remembered feeling surprised; her mother never lingered in such places. Grace had walked up to a man who was playing the piano. “Days of Wine and Roses”—Abby remembered it clearly. Grace had stood at his side, as if mesmerized. He finished, and got up for a break. And then something even more extraordinary happened. Grace sat down at the piano, and in that perfect white linen dress and pristine white gloves, she had put her hands on the keyboard and played.

  She played “Moon River.” Abby remembered it so well. She had just seen the movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s on television and she remembered how sad Audrey Hepburn had been looking for that damn cat in the rain. Her mother never watched movies. Her mother never paid attention to popular songs. But she played “Moon River” that afternoon, sitting in the sunlight, played it like it was the saddest song on earth.

  The house fell silent. Grace had finished. She looked up, as if coming
out of a trance, and saw Abby standing at the library entrance.

  “Don’t stop,” Abby said. “Please.”

  Grace said nothing. She closed the keyboard and rose stiffly. She stared at Abby in such a way that Abby felt herself coloring, but she didn’t know why. She went quickly to the bookshelves and began replacing the books she had taken out last night in her search for the poem. She hesitated as she slipped the poetry book back in its place, thinking about Louis.

  He was leaving, and she was heartbroken. She was so confused, and desperately wanted to talk to someone about it. She wanted to talk to her mother. But she had long ago forgotten how. Something had happened to Grace years ago, the warmth driven out of her. And Abby was left with the feeling, especially lately, that if she pressed too hard, her mother would crack into a million pieces, like one of her precious Sevres porcelain dolls she collected.

  “Abigail, we have to talk.”

  The solemnity of Grace’s voice made Abby turn.

  “Where were you last night?” Grace asked.

  “I went for a drive.”

  “You came home after twelve. Where were you?”

  Abby averted her eyes. “Nowhere.”

  Grace went to one of the green wingback chairs and sat down, arranging her blue silk gown around her legs. “Sit down, please,” she said.

  Abby was taken aback by her mother’s odd tone. “Okay,” she said cautiously, sitting down in the matching chair.

  “Sometimes we do things because we feel it to be right,” Grace began in a slow, deliberate voice. “Or we may do something without thinking about how it can affect others. But in reality, we end up causing more pain than we could ever imagine.”

  “I don’t understand,” Abby said.

  Grace’s blue eyes focused on Abby. “We must be careful not to let our emotions get the best of us, not to do anything before we understand each and every consequence.”

  Abby stiffened. Her mother knew about Louis.

  “Abigail,” Grace said. “Do you have something you want to tell me?”

  Yes, yes, I do… I need to talk to you, the voice inside Abby whispered. But the censuring look on her mother’s face kept her silent. She and Louis had done nothing to be ashamed of, but it was obvious her mother thought otherwise.

  Abby got up and went to the window. “No,” she said quietly. She stuck her hands in the pocket of her slacks. Her fingers found the piece of paper there. She pulled it out, unfolded it and looked at the photograph of her mother as a teenager. She glanced back at Grace, who was still looking at her, with an odd, slightly sad expression.

  “Mother,” Abby said, going back to her. “I found this yesterday. I thought you might like it.”

  Grace took it gingerly, staring at it for a moment. “Where did you get this?” she asked, looking up.

  “From the library. I thought—”

  Grace crumpled the paper.

  “Why’d you do that?” Abby said.

  “That was a long time ago.”

  Abby was confused. “Can I have it back, then? I’d like to keep it.”

  Grace rose abruptly and tossed it toward the fire. It hit an andiron and bounced to the hearth, and Abby sprang after it.

  “Mother, what’s wrong?”

  “Abigail, I know what you’ve been doing with Detective Kincaid.”

  Abby let Grace’s words hang in the air. Slowly, she refolded the paper and put it back in her pocket. She sat back on the carpet, looking up at her mother.

  “What?” she said calmly. “What exactly is it you think I’m doing?”

  “How could you?” Grace said. “How could you be so, so…”

  “What? Irresponsible? Immature?” Abby countered. “That’s what you’ve always told me I am.”

  “No, no,” Grace said, shaking her head. “How could you be so inconsiderate?”

  Abby gave a small bitter laugh. “Inconsiderate? Of who? You? Is that all that’s bothering you. Mother? You’re worried about what your friends might think about me and Louis?”

  Grace winced slightly at Louis’s name. “You’re being stubborn,” she said.

  Abby got to her feet, shaking her head. “Stubborn? Just because for once I’m trying to think for myself?” Damn, she didn’t want this to happen. She didn’t want to fight with her mother. But Grace had no right to accuse her of anything, and no right at all to look down on Louis.

  “Abigail, even if you do not understand, he should.”

  “Oh, he does. Mother,” she said quietly.

  “Then leave it be. You have no idea what you’re doing.”

  “But I’m not doing anything!” Abby said, raising her voice. She turned away. “God, I can’t believe this.”

  “Abigail, look at me,” Grace said evenly. “You don’t understand how disastrous this can be. For God’s sake, he’s a black man!”

  “So what?” Abby spun around and she regretted the words as soon as they came out of her mouth. “At least he doesn’t hit me.”

  Grace drew back, as if slapped. “How dare you judge me,” she said angrily.

  Tears welled in Abby’s eyes. “I’m not judging. Mother, but I don’t understand! You let him hit you, and then you tell me I can’t be with a good man, a man who’s done nothing but be kind to me!”

  Abby stopped, frozen by her mother’s shattered face. She closed her eyes, her shoulders drooping. She hadn’t meant to hurt her. She had wanted to talk to her, to tell her about Louis and her feelings for him. “Mother…” she said softly.

  Grace was staring vacantly at the fire. Abby leaned back against the shelves.

  “Your father won’t stand for this,” Grace said quietly.

  Abby wiped her face. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” she said softly. “Why can’t you believe that? Louis wouldn’t—”

  “Don’t do this, Abigail,” Grace interrupted. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

  Abby shook her head. “You just don’t understand.” She turned and started out of the library.

  Grace watched her daughter go up the stairs, her pale blue eyes desolate as a November sky. “I understand more than you think,” she said softly.

  Louis wiped his hands on his pants and stepped back to look at his work. The clay bust was back in one piece again, albeit with long ugly cracks running across its cheeks and chin. Louis put the cap back on the Elmer’s glue and tilted his head to look at the bust’s face.

  “Hello, stranger,” he said.

  Bessie came up to his open door at that moment. “Louis, who you talkin’ to?”

  Louis grinned. “I don’t know, Bessie.”

  Bessie came into the room and stared at the head. “That your dead man?”

  Louis nodded, sliding into a chair and resting his elbows on his knees. Bessie came up and touched the top of the clay head. “Sorry, sorry thing. Making this head kind of brings him alive, don’t it?”

  Louis nodded. “It makes him harder to forget.”

  “Louis,” Bessie said, facing him. “I’m glad you stayin’ on for a while longer. It’d be right fittin’ if you stayed for good.”

  “One day at a time, Bessie.”

  “I understand. Sleep good, Louis.”

  “’Night, Bessie.”

  Louis heard the door to Bessie’s room close. Louis went to his bed and lay down, arms folded under his head, listening to the night sounds of the house. A police siren wailed faintly in the distance. Probably Junior chasing a speeder. A short while later, he heard Bessie’s usual snoring.

  He was just dozing off when he heard the phone ring and he jumped to the hall to grab it before it woke Bessie up. His heart beat faster in anticipation of another call from the mystery man. But it was only Mike calling from the station.

  “Louis? That you?”

  “Yeah, Mike, what’s up?”

  “Hold on, got another call.”

  Louis sighed, summoning patience.

  “Yo, I’m back,” Mike said. “Sheriff said to call you. The
y need some help at the jewelry store.”

  Damn, he didn’t want to deal with this routine shit right now.

  “Can’t Junior handle it?”

  “Sheriff says git you, so I’m gittin’ you.”

  “All right, what happened?”

  “There was a prowler report out near Cotton Town.”

  “What does that have to do with the jewelry store?”

  “Nothing, I reckon. But that’s where they were comin’ from.”

  Louis felt his jaw tighten. “Mike, what are you talking about?”

  “The squad cars, that’s where they were comin’ back from when the call came in. This here thing at the jewelry store looks like a burglar', but we don’t know yet. Somebody called it in.”

  “Did the alarm go off?” Louis asked.

  “No, somebody heard the shot.”

  “Dammit, Mike, make some sense here for me. What shot?”

  “The shot that done killed George Harvey.”

  Louis looked up at the black moonless sky, then back to the front door of Black Pool Jewelers. The front door, its lower glass panel smashed, was propped open while deputies went in and out. As Louis watched, they brought the body out, strapped to a stretcher, covered with a blanket. They loaded it into the ambulance and slammed the door.

  Louis had already been inside. The store was a mess, a glass case smashed and a bunch of gold jewelry strewn around. The cash-register drawer was open and empty, but the large safe in the back was apparently untouched. Louis looked up and down the deserted block. He doubted there had been any witnesses. The store was situated on a side street, well off the main square, and besides, no one hung around downtown Black Pool late at night. The town rolled up its sidewalks after dark.

  Louis looked back in the store, where deputies were taking photos and lifting prints. It had to be an amateur job. A pro would have known that George Harvey put the expensive stuff in the safe every night and wouldn’t have bothered with a handful of gold chains. A pro would have known that the place had an alarm. Something was not right. Louis frowned. It was things like this that made him feel inexperienced, even stupid, at this detective stuff.