According to Elijah’s story, I didn’t cry from the pain of the trap, but the kindness of Mrs. Vanderbilt and her daughter sent tears flowing down my cheeks.
Monday, June 30th: I have finished writing those entries that preceded Miss Nettles giving me this journal. I must report that the newspapers are filled with the story of the signing of the Treaty of Versailles. I did not know that this past Saturday, June 28, 1919, the very day Miss Nettles presented me this journal, would be of such worldwide significance. Perhaps it is an omen that my own writings will not be insignificant.
Today Dr. Lynch came to our house with what he called an extendable limb. The wooden leg is designed like a telescope. Dr. Lynch showed me how as I grow, the length of the leg can be adjusted. The wood is covered with leather, and more leather can be wrapped around it so that the thickness matches my real leg. Metal braces run on either side of my knee connecting the artificial limb to a sleeve that looks something like my mother’s corset. I lace it around my thigh to keep the top of the leg snug against my stump. Dr. Lynch says that will be the worst part for awhile, because the wound is still tender and the pressure of putting my weight down will be painful. He told the truth. When I tried to take a step, my tender skin felt like it was on fire, and Dr. Lynch caught me as I fell.
“You’re going to have to work hard,” he said. “We’ll take things slowly for the first few weeks. Once the wound has callused, you can concentrate on balance.” He removed the leg and held it up. “I promise you that you’ll have new bounce in your step. This limb came all the way from New York City. The foot is attached to springs, hinges, and rubber gaskets that enable the joint to mimic your ankle. Mrs. Vanderbilt gave strict instructions that I’m to monitor your progress and replace the limb whenever a mechanical improvement is developed or you outgrow it, even if you turn out to be seven feet tall.”
My father came to the door of my room and informed Dr. Lynch that Elijah and a crew of four workmen had arrived. I left the leg on the bed and used my crutches to walk to the back door.
Dr. Lynch pointed to an area of the yard. “Flat and shady would be nice, don’t you think, Henderson?”
“Nice for what?”
“To build parallel handrails. You’ll need a safe place to practice on that leg. That’s the way the veterans learn.”
Within an hour, Elijah and the others had finished what looked like two fences about three feet apart, three feet high, and twenty feet long. Back in the bedroom, Dr. Lynch re-attached the leg, and he and my father carried me to one end of the chute. Without a word, Elijah left his men and stood at the other. He fixed his eyes on me and nodded.
I lifted my weight on each smooth bar and lurched from side to side. Every step was like walking on hot coals the way Miss Nettles said the snake charmers in India do. The twenty feet seemed like a mile.
When I got to the end, my body was drenched in sweat. Elijah caught me, and then hoisted me on his shoulders. Everyone clapped. The pain in my leg disappeared.
Friday, July 4th: The holiday has been special but not just for the fireworks and festivities. Mother packed a picnic lunch and she, Father, and I drove to Pack Square. Before my injury we would have caught the streetcar at the corner, but Father feared the swell of the passengers would be too much for me and my crutches. I’m not ready to attempt a public outing with my artificial leg, although I have been able to walk the length of the backyard chute without touching the handrails.
Father dropped Mother and me as close to the center of the square as possible and then went to park the car behind Mr. Wolfe’s monuments. Mr. Wolfe and my father often work together serving burial needs for families. My father says Mr. Wolfe will probably have to give up the business since none of his children are following in his footsteps. His youngest son Tom is eighteen and studying at the University of North Carolina. Before he went away to school, Tom and I used to talk when I’d come with my father to look at monuments. Tom wants to write plays. Mr. Wolfe shakes his head and says there’s more money to be made in writing epitaphs on tombstones. But writing stories seems to me to be a wonderful thing as even my journal gives me pleasure in putting words on paper.
Because we arrived at the square early, we claimed seats at the base of the monument to Governor Vance. It’s a smaller version of the one in Washington D.C. for President Washington.
Pack Square filled rapidly. The mood was jubilant, given the treaty signed in Paris only days ago. A banner proclaiming “Welcome Home” had been hoisted over the entrance to the courthouse. Although none of the soldiers in Europe at the signing of the treaty could have returned this quickly, anticipation of victorious homecomings was on everyone’s mind.
In the square, veterans strolled in the uniforms of their wars. I saw cars with the windshield sign “Men in Service Welcome to Ride” unloading passengers at the edge of the square. I suspected some of the soldiers were from the Kenilworth Inn—a fancy hotel above Biltmore Village that was taken over by the military and renamed “General Hospital 12.” Men walked through the crowd in uniforms from the Spanish-American War and there was a scattering of blue and gray from the War Between The States, or as Mr. Galloway calls it The War of Northern Aggression. These elderly men may have fought on different sides of the Mason-Dixon Line, but they saluted each other in a union of pride that their grandchildren had won The Great War.
Father found us before the band began to play and the dignitaries further warmed the summer air with their long-winded speeches. No matter. I enjoyed every minute.
We returned home late in the afternoon and discovered Elijah and his mule waiting at our backdoor. He removed his leather hat from his head and nodded to Mother and me. “Afternoon, Mrs. Youngblood. Henderson.” He turned to my father. “May I trouble you for a word?”
Father gave a quick look to my mother and something unspoken flowed between them.
“Mr. Elijah, would you like to come inside?” Mother asked. “We have some sassafras in the ice box that’s nice and cool.”
“No, ma’am. I’d best keep an eye on Junebug.” Elijah cupped his hand over the muzzle of his mule. “But don’t you stand out here in the sun on my account.”
We were in the shade, but Mother understood Elijah had man talk on his mind. I wanted to hear what Elijah had to say so I fixed my eyes on him so hard that I saw nothing else.
My father said, “Henderson,” in that way that meant I was to follow Mother into the house.
“The boy won’t bother me none and what I got to ask won’t pose no mind to one who’s endured the likes he has.”
Father said nothing, and I raised myself as high on my crutches as I could to be part of the man talk.
Elijah put his hat back on his head. “I need some burying help.”
Now I did pull my eyes off Elijah because I had to see Father. Asheville had Griffins, a Negro funeral home just like they had Negro churches so that everybody kept to their own kind. I’d never seen a burying done any other way.
Father pursed his lips at the very idea. “What kind of help?”
“My uncle Hannable passed over in Cincinnati. He’d gone there from East St. Louis.” Elijah added that comment as if it meant something special.
Father nodded.
“He’s coming by train to Biltmore Village, but I’d like to carry him the rest of the way so his kinfolk can pay their respects.”
“Carry him where?” Father asked.
“The family plot north of Gainesville.”
Father’s mouth dropped open. “Gainesville, Georgia?”
“Yes, sir. That’s why I need motorized transport. Too far for Junebug and a wagon, and Griffins don’t have no vehicle much better.” He licked his lips and I saw sweat running down his temples. “I’ve done asked about a Gainesville funeral home coming up here since it’s a two-way trip no matter how you skin it.”
“A white funeral home?” Father asked.
“No Negro funeral home down there has a motor hearse either.” Elijah se
t his lips tight across his teeth and when he spoke again, his mouth hardly moved. “The Gainesville funeral home told me they didn’t want no nigger business.” Elijah’s eyes dropped to the ground. “We could let out early before sunrise. No one would have to know.”
Father’s face turned red and I thought he can’t get angry at Elijah. What else is the poor man supposed to do? And we owed him. I owed him.
“If we leave before sunrise it’ll be because we want an early start on the journey,” Father said, “not because of the color of your uncle’s skin.”
Elijah’s face relaxed. “I’ll be paying you, Mr. Youngblood. This ain’t no charity case.”
Father cut his eyes to me and to the shortened leg of my pants tied in a knot where my shinbone used to be. “Don’t worry about it.”
Elijah took a step forward. “I’m sincere about that. We’re doing business here. You’ll be put out enough. We’ll need to go by way of Greenville and I figure we’ll stop in Liberty where my sister’s people can feed us and pay their respects. Ain’t no other place you and me can eat together.”
My father took a deep breath. I knew he’d made up his mind.
“When’s the coffin arriving?” he asked.
“Tonight.”
“Anything else has to be done?”
“No. The undertaker in Cincinnati did everything. Some folk I know will help load the coffin at the depot and we’ll bring it here whenever you tell us.”
The next day was Saturday and I knew my father didn’t want to travel on the Lord’s Day.
Elijah must have figured that too. “We could load up tonight and set off early in the morning. If the weather holds, we could be back before nightfall. You tell me what chores you were planning to do tomorrow and I’ll see that they’re done.”
Father shook his head as if it were the craziest thing he’d ever heard. “All right. You can put the body in the hearse. But that train out of Cincinnati is always late so if you need to stay over use the sleeping porch on the side. We’d better head out around four. It’ll be a good sixteen hours, round trip.”
“Thank you, Mr. Youngblood.” Elijah buried his hand in his pocket and pulled out a wadded red bandana. He unknotted a leather thong tying the four corners together. A roll of greenbacks lay in the center of his palm.
My father shook his head again. “You can pay me something when we get back.”
“No, sir. You’ll need to fill that hearse with gasoline tonight and a couple extra cans in case we run dry before the stations open.” Elijah smiled. “Unless you got that Ford engine tuned for moonshine.”
Father laughed and took a couple bills. I laughed too. Mountaineers were always telling revenuers their corn squeezin’s were for fuel, not drinking, even though most of them didn’t have automobiles.
“What’ll you do with your mule?” Father asked.
“I’ll see if Mr. Galloway will keep her. If not, one of the men who helps load the coffin can take her tonight.” Elijah stuffed his money back in his pocket without retying the bandana and then held out his hand. Father shook it.
I didn’t ask if I could go with them. That way Father couldn’t tell me no. I wasn’t keen on sleeping in the hearse with a dead man, but I figured after the coffin was loaded, no one would look to make sure the occupant hadn’t left. By the time Father discovered I was a stowaway, we’d be down the mountain and too far along our way.
Saturday, July 5th: I heard the clock in the parlor strike two. Elijah and his helpers had loaded the coffin in the hearse a little after midnight because the Cincinnati train had been late as Father predicted. For nearly two hours I lay on my bed unable to sleep and with the clock chimes still echoing through the house, I slipped from beneath the sheet fully dressed. By the light of the half moon shining through my window, I wrote a note for Mother telling her I’d gone to Georgia. I didn’t want her to worry. Then I affixed my artificial leg, grabbed the pillowcase I’d stuffed with a change of clothes and a heel of bread from the pie safe, and used my crutches to ease out the kitchen door.
In the distance, I heard a dog howl. Close by, I heard the steady snores of Elijah coming from around the corner of the house. He had accepted Father’s offer to sleep on the side porch and I took comfort that if the dog didn’t wake him, my climb into the back of the hearse probably wouldn’t either.
The double doors were latched but unlocked. I realized the problem immediately. Getting into the hearse would be easy, but how could I secure the doors once I was inside? No one built a hearse expecting the rider to get out.
The locking mechanism was a bolt that dropped into a clasp rather than slid into place. I lifted it free and opened the doors. A thin layer of clouds had shrouded the moon and in the dim light, I saw a rough pine coffin strapped down to the floorboards. Elijah’s uncle must have been a good-sized man because the coffin seemed larger than standard and the hearse was weighted down several inches. With little play in the springs, I knew the bumps and jolts of the rough roads would jar me every mile of the journey.
I laid my crutches along the left side of the coffin and tossed my pillowcase on the right. I fished my folding knife out of my pocket and then pulled myself inside. The hinges were stiff enough that when the first door closed it stayed shut. I adjusted the drop bolt on the other door so that it hung at an angle over the edge. Then I opened my knife until the blade was perpendicular to the handle, turning it into a hook. I snagged the bolt in the crook of the knife and pulled the door closed. I slipped the blade down the narrow seam until the bolt caught in the clasp. In the blackness, I felt like I was inside a coffin with a coffin. I re-pocketed my knife, crawled back to my pillow case, and lay down. Within a few minutes, I fell asleep.
The squeak of the car door woke me. I nearly cried out before I realized where I was. Father said, “Turn her over,” and I heard the crank and then the engine coughed to life. Another sound filled the air: heavy rain pounding on the wooden roof of the hearse. The clouds that had veiled the moon must have been a gathering storm. Going down the mountain in a torrential downpour was an invitation to disaster. If Father missed a turn or hit a washout, the hearse would become my coffin.
Elijah climbed in beside my father. The Model T backfired once in protest and then lurched forward. I was on my way.
Without a clock I could only watch the thin gap between the doors for any—
Nakayla called from the bedroom, “Peters just pulled up. We’d better get down there before he touches anything.”
I marked my place in the journal with the inside flap of the dust jacket as Nakayla came down the hall. “This kid had quite a vocabulary. Hard to believe he’s only twelve. Shows how bad our education system has gotten in ninety years.”
“I thought so too,” she said. “How far did you get?”
“The hearse just started down the mountain.”
“You can finish it after our little chat with the law.” She opened the door.
“Wait,” I said. “Get a bottle of root beer.”
“You still thirsty?”
“No. An attitude adjustment for Peters. How can a man stayed pissed off if you hand him a root beer?”
Nakayla smiled. “I can tell you’re a cheap date.”
Chapter Six
“Stay here. I’ll get the car.” Nakayla started down the front steps of the Kenilworth.
“No. I’ll walk.”
She turned around. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’ve got you to lean on, don’t I?”
Her perfect teeth sparkled in the sunlight. “Of course. But I suspect you’re a pretty independent guy, Chief Warrant Officer Blackman.”
Nakayla understood me. I didn’t want the police detective to see her go for her car and then chauffeur me across the parking lot. We began walking, Nakayla holding back to match my pace.
“And don’t tell Peters about the journal,” I said. “He’ll take it in as evidence.”
“He’ll need to know sometime.”
“Not till after I’ve finished reading it. And I want to look at the files on the table. Your sister had them out for a reason.”
“Maybe some of the files are missing,” Nakayla said. “I plan to give Armitage a list.”
“Maybe. But whoever broke in pulled books off the shelves even though the files were in plain sight. I think your first instinct was right. They wanted the journal.”
Detective Peters had parked his unmarked Crown Vic behind Tikima’s Avalon. He was bending over the rear tire, probably collecting a specimen of the sandy soil I’d discovered. We were about thirty yards away when he stood up. He must have been six feet tall and thin as a bayonet blade. He was at least fifteen years older than me but his hair didn’t have a hint of gray. It was the same sandy-brown color as my own, and with the weight I’d lost in the hospital, I could have passed as his younger brother. He wore a lightweight blue suit and white shirt with a paler blue tie knotted around the unbuttoned shirt collar. Peters could have been a Public Defender or a Clerk of Court—he had the off-the-sale-rack wardrobe that met the minimum standards—except the heavy black shoes branded him as a cop. You can tell a lot about a person from their shoes, and Peters was looking at mine.
I saw his expression change. He’d arrived pissed off, ready to put me in my place. As I lumbered toward him like an arthritic bear, he looked momentarily confused, then pissed off again. Except now he was pissed that he couldn’t chomp down on me. Picking on cripples hadn’t made for promotions since Nazi Germany. I had a leg up on him and I saw no reason not to kick him with it.
I extended my hand carrying the root beer. “Here, Officer Peters. I thought the mountains were supposed to be cool.”
He took a sip and relaxed. “Pretty good. Thanks.” He leaned back against the Avalon, then remembered it was evidence and rocked forward on the balls of his feet.
Blackman's Coffin Page 6
