“I know they’s trouble. But I want to see what Mr. Jackson looks like. Then if I ever catch sight of him again, I can run away.”
“No. He’s a pure devil. He’s so mean that if they throwed him in the river, the water would boil.”
“Daddy, please. Won’t you drive me there and back? You can wait just down the road. Nothin’ will happen.”
Daddy seemed to collect himself then.
“Well, I reckon you’d be safe enough if I was right thar. What time’s the party?”
“At two o’clock on Saturday.”
“Your momma won’t like it.”
“Daddy, she won’t go against you. Now, can I go?”
“I reckon so.”
We said goodbye to Miss Cordelia on Friday, and told her we hoped she’d come back next summer. Then we all run home with our report cards. I felt so bad about Miss Cordelia that it was hard for me to be happy about my good marks.
The next afternoon, I dressed in my Sunday best. Mom buttoned me up and fixed the sash around the waist of my white lawn dress, grumbling all the while. Then she handed me my straw hat, told me not to lose my hair ribbon, and said goodbye. I took the handkerchief I had embroidered for Mattie and run out the door.
Daddy was a-waiting in the Tin Lizzie. It took a while to drive to Mattie’s house, and he warned me again to run away down the road if any trouble started.
Finally, we crawled up a long, steep track through the woods, and come out on another road. Mattie’s house was just around the bend. It was newer than ours, and fancier. There was a big front porch, and a large barn and car house in back.
Mattie and some other girls were waiting in the lane. Daddy tipped his hat and wished them good afternoon, before speaking to me again.
“I’ll be waitin’ right over yonder. Don’t be long. Them cows needs to be milked at half past four.”
“Thank you, Daddy. I’ll be along after the party. Goodbye.”
Then he drove away. A few minutes later the rest of the girls arrived, and the party began.
I stayed with Myrtle Taylor, Alice, and Lottie Ward for most of the afternoon.
Mattie was wearing the prettiest party dress any of us had ever laid eyes on. It was made of blue satin with a dropped waist and layers of ruffles in the skirt. Her shoes were black patent leather, and her blonde hair had been curled and tied with a blue ribbon.
Her granddaddy had given her a new game for her birthday. It was called croquet, and you played it by hitting wooden balls through yard wickets with mallets.
After we played it through twice, it was time for the refreshments. They were served on the shady porch, where two tables had been set with china plates and lemonade glasses.
Mr. Jackson’s wife took care of the serving. She looked to be older than Mom, but not old enough to be anyone’s grand-momma. She didn’t speak a word to any of us, except to say that when we finished our cake and lemonade, we could help ourselves to more if we wanted it. Then she went back inside, and never come out again.
Mattie was on her best behavior. She thanked everyone for her gifts, and seemed pleased with my offering. I was having a nice time, and it almost seemed like the mean Mattie had been a bad dream, until her granddaddy stomped out the front door.
We all froze like statues when he come out and lurched across the porch. His leg ended in a wooden stump that made a racket as he come at us, eyes a-blazing. Mattie was smiling like the cat that got the cream when Old Mr. Jackson let loose.
“You’uns think you’re right smart, don’t you?” His eyes glared as he hollered. “Girls ain’t got no bizzness with all that book learnin’, ‘specially ‘bout things that happened long ago. Mattie here, she don’t need no more schoolin’. She can read and write a letter. That’s all the book learnin’ any woman needs.”
I sat as still as a mouse, my cake half eaten on the plate. Myrtle was trying not to cry.
“And that teacher of your’n? I sent her packing. And don’t go pokin’ around tryin’ to find out how I done it. I have my ways. None of you’uns will ever know how I got it done, but she hightailed it back to her fancy house in Jefferson and she ain’t comin’ back here no more. Why, she don’t have a lick of sense, teachin’ that nonsense that sez all men were created equal. That ain’t so.
“Them Yankees already tried that on us. I lost this-here leg because of Northern Aggression. And I’ll be damned to hell if I let some city woman come around teachin’ such. Ain’t nothin’ ever going to change in these mountains.”
Mattie rose from the table, and went to stand beside her granddaddy. He put his arm around her and nodded his head.
“You’uns get off my porch.”
We all jumped out of our seats. We wanted to run, but he towered above us, blocking our way to the steps. Then his blazing blue eyes fixed on me.
“Specially you, girl.” He glared and shook his finger at me. “Your daddy thinks he’s the law in these parts, don’t he? Well, he better watch hisself. No lawman is a match for me and mine. Now take yourself on down the road, and don’t come around no more. That goes for all of you’uns.”
He turned around without another word and lurched away. His wooden leg hit the floor and scraped along, making me cringe. We girls took off like the devil was after us, listening to Mattie’s laughter as we run away.
Daddy carried Lottie, Myrtle, and Lucy Spencer home, since they all lived out our way. He said not a word when he saw our faces, as we run toward the car like we’d seen a haint.
He didn’t speak a word about Mr. Jackson to me, either. I had learned my lesson, and there wasn’t any need. But later, after the harvest when November was upon us, he took me by surprise one Saturday afternoon, and asked if I wanted to go to town.
“Daddy, we went last week. Is Mom goin’ today?”
“No. We’re just goin’ to the general store. Your momma forgot the thread for the baby’s winter dress. Would you like to go again?”
“I reckon so, if Mom can spare me. I was supposed to churn.”
“She told me she’d see to the churnin’. Now be ready to go by three o’clock. Wear your hood and mittens. Hit’s cold out thar.”
We arrived in the little town closest to home around quarter till four, and parked a block away from the business section. Daddy wasn’t his usual self as we walked up the street in the grey November afternoon. He was quiet, and made sure to hold my hand as we went through what seemed to be a crowd.
“What’s goin’ on in town today?” I wondered. “It’s too early for Christmas festivities.”
“Hit ain’t nothin’ to celebrate. Let’s get the thread, and then you’ll see.”
We went into the store. Things seemed anxious, like people was on a hair-trigger, and I knew there was trouble a-coming. After we paid for the thread and headed back to the front of the store, the door opened, and there was Mattie. She stuck her nose in the air, and walked past Daddy and I like we were dirt. Her step grand-momma did the same.
I was afeared by that time. Still I kept quiet, as we went outside and walked back toward the car. People were lined up on both sides of the street, waiting.
When we come to the end of the crowd, Daddy stopped. Then he pointed down the street aways. “Watch and wait.” He looked at me sternly.
I shivered and pulled my hood up to hide my face, not even knowing why. That’s when I saw them. There were ghosts a-coming toward us. Daddy gripped my hand as we watched them pass. There were twenty men, dressed in white robes, their heads covered in peaked hoods. They held torches, flaring in the windy dimness. Not a one left his face uncovered; all were masked in white. And as the end of the parade was a-coming toward us, I noticed a tall, gaunt ghost. He was a-lurching along the street with his leg a-scraping. As he drew near, he looked straight at me, a-shaking his torch. And out of the mask blazed the evil eyes of Old Perry Jackson.
August 15, 1964
That’s the tale. I’m a-shivering this minute as I put down my pencil, remembering Old
Mr. Jackson. He was a terror and an evil man, but as far as I know, the law never got him.
He died in April of 1934. Calvin and I had already moved north. Daddy wrote us, and enclosed a note for my eyes only, saying that Perry Jackson was dead and buried. He had been riding horseback up in the hills. That’s how he got around.
Not a soul knew how it happened, but Perry didn’t come home one night. His son, who had come back to Ashe County in 1926, went out a-looking for him. He searched all night and didn’t find him. The next morning he come back, and saw Perry’s horse a-running through the hayfield. And when Mattie’s daddy rode closer, he could see that the horse was a-dragging a body along behind. It was his daddy. The family claimed it weren’t any accident; Perry’s good leg had been tied to the stirrup with a forty-foot rope.
Daddy heard the story in Jefferson, at the sheriff’s office. But not a lawman in the county could be bothered to investigate the claim of murder. It wouldn’t have done any good, even if they wanted to; the man had been the cause of too many deaths to count, and had enemies all through Ashe County and beyond.
When young Mr. Jackson come to town, the sheriff put his feet up on his desk and took to reading the newspaper, while Mattie’s father made the charge that his daddy had been murdered. After reading the latest news on Bonnie and Clyde, the sheriff finally got around to answering young Mr. Jackson, and deemed it a case of accidental death. The judge agreed with the sheriff, and the law washed their hands of the Jackson family.
There’s one more thing of note. Old Mr. Jackson was right about Mattie. She didn’t need book learning. In late December, two months after the Klan marched through town, Mattie run off with a Klansman. After the parade, she and the Klukker got to talking. To make a long story short, Mattie had her first child in August of 1924. The baby was a girl, born with a harelip.
I suppose the Jackson family got what measure they were due. Like I wrote at the beginning... Decency is decency. And hate is hate.
About Daniella Bova
Daniella Bova is the author of The Storms Of Transformation Series, a near-future dystopia. Book One, Tears Of Paradox, and Book Two, The Notice, were both CLFA Book of the Year Nominees. Book Three, Cadáin’s Watch, will be published early in 2017.
@daniellabova
DaniellaBovaWriter
daniellabova.com
Dollars on the Nightstand
Bokerah Brumley
Yesterday
Highway 206
The cobalt farm truck rattled down the highway, boasting 1958 curves and the GMC step-sides of a carefully restored classic. Bill Barrett, or Dad as I knew him, staunchly refused to call the vehicle what it was, claiming he wasn’t old enough to own an antique automobile of any kind. “Blue is a classic,” he grumbled, referring to it by name.
The rain had been soaking the sandy, red soil for hours that morning, scenting the cool air. Our fall harvest wasn’t ready yet, but we had woken to promising yellow squash blooms, opening to greet the dappled morning sunlight. I had been helping Dad around the farm since the summer. A bad break-up had kicked my twenty-something tail straight back to the cedar-chip smell in the drafty stable, and I was enjoying the respite from brown-nosing in the corporate world.
That day, fifty-five miles per hour was fast enough to outrun a break-down or a flat on the balding used tires. Whenever either one caught us, he only laughed, preferring what he knew how to fix over some stupid smart-car. “Two bits and elbow grease,” he would say, shifting his straw hat, always managing to fix Blue up enough to get the job done and then get us home.
“What’s your lady’s name?” I stared out the passenger window, watching the wet scenery rush by. I had never been through the process before, even though I knew he visited her once a week. He wanted the good stuff in his life, but he just wasn’t ready to saddle himself with an old cow, not after Mom had passed on five years ago. Dad was the source of my ingrained and legendary stubborn streak, but maybe I could talk him into it via puppy-dog eyes and “pretty please with sugar on top.”
“Gail, leave it be.” Dad’s tone held a warning.
“Come on. Tell me.”
“We call her Bessie.” He announced from the other end of the bench seat. He scrubbed the growth on his chin and pressed down on the accelerator as he passed a horse and buggy on the right. We didn’t live in Amish country proper, but they had a small community a few miles from us. They were kind, hard-working folks, and we helped with barn raisings from time to time.
“Is that her real name?” I asked.
He shrugged and reached over to twist the radio dial, searching the AM band for somebody talking about important things. Mainstream media was the same as drinking from shit creek in Dad’s opinion. “What difference does it make? She gives me what I need, and then we all go on about our lives.”
“Worth asking.” I made a face at him, feigning the sassy brat-hood I paraded as a girl. “Conversation is beneficial to relationships.” He chuckled. I studied the crag-like cheek that faced me and the crevice around his mouth. Seemed like those lines got more profound each year.
Dad was a hard man, but he had been the best kind of daddy. He taught me the deep-seated value of striving. In his mind, happiness didn’t come any other way. It had taken me a little while to grab onto the truth of it.
He settled on the least static-y talk station and a show on permaculture something-or-other. We rode on like that, agreeable in the quiet.
Fifteen minutes later, he tapped the blinker. “Now behave,” he said, as though I was ten again instead of twenty-something. “Don’t ask too many questions. The less you know the better.”
“I’m not a kid.” I didn’t have my smartphone to do the math, Dad couldn’t stand them. I never kept track of my age. I was old enough to be legal for everything. As long as I flashed a bit of plastic with my birthdate on it, that’s all that mattered.
“You’re twenty-six,” he said, as though he could read my mind. He moved the shifter on the column.
“That pretty much equals: Not. A. Kid.”
“You’re MY kid.”
“Hmph,” I said, glancing around the driveway we had parked in. On the other side of a white picket fence, a stone path led to a small cottage. Flowers still bloomed on the front porch. “Bessie lives here?” I drew out the fake name, privately impressed with the place.
“Forget you saw it.” The muscles flexed in his jaw. I pulled on the door handle, but he stopped me with a hand on my forearm. “I’m serious, Gail. It’s against the law.”
I gave him a look, studying his icy blue eyes. “I know, Dad. I’ve got it.”
He let go with a nod. “Shouldn’t have brought you along.”
“Maybe I want to meet this rogue-farm warrior.” Maybe I wanted to meet the woman Dad had gone on and on about since I had been home, and I wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. But I didn’t say that part out loud.
Dad mashed his hat down on his head, climbed out of the truck, and sauntered to the front door. He wore the birthday present I got him last year—a brown Carhartt coat. He never wanted anything that wasn’t useful.
A double-braided woman answered the door, clothed in a flannel, button-down shirt, jeans cinched on her waist, and boots complete with scuffed toes. She smiled and dipped her chin, tucking a strand of her sandy blond hair behind her ear.
Oh, she definitely has the hots for my Dad. I glanced at the sexagenarian. He probably doesn’t realize it yet.
Dad pointed back toward me and Blue, so I climbed out and gave a little wave. Her eyes darted to me and widened, but she followed Dad back to his truck.
“Gail, this is Mary.” Dad waved between us and grimaced. “Mary, this is Gail.”
Enjoying Dad’s discomfort, I took the hand Mary offered and shook it, appreciating the lack of polish and the feel of callouses across the inside of her palm. Age had just started showing in her face, but not in that weird, stretched Hollywood way. She was real. Mary would suit him, if he eve
r got around to asking her out on a date.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, and I meant it. No matter how much I loved my mother, five years was long enough alone. She grinned and her green eyes sparkled. I could see why she caught Dad’s eye.
Mary wiped her hands on her thighs. Maybe she was nervous about meeting me. “Let me get your stuff,” she said and disappeared inside.
“Gail, take this in and drop it on the table.” Dad pushed a ten-spot into my hand.
“Like on the nightstand? Isn’t that a bit red-light district, Dad?” I bit my lip, pretending to be horrified and trying to keep the smile from breaking through. It wasn’t often that I got Dad to blush, but he did. The color crept up beneath his collar, over his face, and he cleared his throat. I guess he caught the twitch at the corner of my mouth.
“Brat,” he said. His expression relaxed, and he pushed me toward Mary’s house.
On the porch, I passed her coming out, carrying a brown paper bag with two hands. She winked but didn’t say anything.
I wiped my feet, pulled on the screen door, and stepped over the threshold. A butcher-block island took up the white-washed cottage kitchen. It was covered with half-chopped celery and carrots, and something tantalizing simmered on the antique stove. A fire blazed in the hearth. I dropped the wrinkled bill on the table and turned to leave.
At the door, I peered through the screen. Dad said something and made her laugh.
I like this lady, Dad. Don’t screw it up.
Later, we were back on the bouncy bench seat with the paper bag situated between us. “So did you ask her out?”
Dad sort of snort-choked and then sputtered. “What? Why would I do that?”
“I’m not blind, Dad. Are you?”
Freedom's Light: Short Stories Page 8
