Lay that Trumpet in Our Hands (13 page)

Chapter 25

To celebrate George Washington’s birthday (and show off her new swimming pool), May Carol Gar-net’s invited our entire seventh-grade class to a Pool Party at her house.

“I don’t want to go,” I tell Mother. “Just yesterday, I heard our teacher scolding the boys for playing
eeny-meeny-miny-mo, catch the
nigger by his toe, light the sticks and watch him
blow.
If they try that in front of me, I’ll have to hurt somebody,” I warn Daddy.

But my parents are insisting I attend the party. “It’s the entire class, so your absence could appear an affront, Reesa. Besides, Lucy Garnet will keep the boys in line. You’ll be fine,” they say. “Just go on and get along.”

When Doto drops me off at May Carol’s in Opalakee, she reminds me that Daddy and Luther will pick me up at three, on their way home from checking out a grove for sale, south of town.

May Carol’s house is a split-level, with wall-to-wall carpets and sliding glass doors. The pool’s what they call kidney-shaped with curved steps at one end and a big slide and diving board at the other. (Mr. Reed Garnet’s in real estate and does
real
well.)

Since it’s practically against the law to live in Florida and not know how to swim, most of us are good swimmers and divers, too. I join Joan Ellen Marks, who’s sitting on the side, feet dangling in the shallow end, watching the boys show off. Their goal, of course, is to leap off the diving board, wrap themselves into a “cannonball” and create a big enough splash to get the girls at our end wet. I don’t know the blond-headed boy climbing up the ladder.

I poke Joan Ellen. “Who’s that?”

“He’s May Carol’s cousin Randy, Randall Jefferson Holt the third, a real Georgia jackass.”

I love Joan Ellen. She’s the only girl I know who swears out loud and gets away with it. She gets it from her mother, who’s foul-mouthed but so funny about it and so well connected around town that nobody seems to care.

“Kind of favors her, don’t he?” says Lottie Ann Louis, meaning that Randy’s pointy features and pale skin tone’s a lot like his cousin’s.

Randy proves to be the king of cannonballs, splashing every single one of us.

“Told you, didn’t I?” Joan Ellen says as we peel off our cover-ups and spread them on the grass to dry in the sun.

Miz Lucy Garnet appears on the patio with a large platter of fried chicken. Behind her, a short, yellow-skinned woman uses pot holders to carry a pan of baked beans, long strips of bacon still sizzling on top.

“Anybody hungry?” Miz Lucy calls. “We got a bunch of Selma’s fried chicken here and, boy, is it good!”

Selma is the Garnets’ new maid, hired last spring to replace Armetta. Selma lives in Opalakee Colored Town, west of the train tracks that divide the white area and downtown businesses from the Negro community.

All the boys rush forward to the table where Miz Lucy’s placed the platter of chicken beside the heaping bowls of potato salad and cornbread and the stack of paper plates and napkins.

“Gentlemen, step back now. It’s ladies
first
at our house, as I’m
sure
it is at yours,” Miz Lucy chides the boys with a smile.

“Ain’t no ladies at
my
house,” Cousin Randy yells.

“No gentlemen, neither,” Joan Ellen tells him, grinning at me.

The boys shuffle to the end of the line which we girls have politely formed.

Filling my plate, I decide that fried chicken and bacon-topped baked beans are only two of the many differences between my family and that of my Opalakee classmates. My mother bakes, never fries, our chicken. Our beans are “Boston-style,” cooked in a round brown pot and served with round dark brown raisin bread instead of the buttery yellow cornbread Miz Lucy serves.

After lunch, May Carol and Miz Lucy organize a game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

Still enjoying her jackass joke, Joan Ellen looks from the game Donkey to Randy and asks “Which one?”

The boys win that game.

Next, we play Simon Says in the pool and, fortunately, we girls win that one. The tie-breaker game is a relay involving diving and swimming the length of the pool to hand off the baton to your team members at the opposite end. We put Lottie Ann, our best swimmer, last. Even though she narrowly beats out red-faced Randy, Miz Lucy calls it a tie.

Since it’s ten ’til three and Daddy’s due soon, I get out of the pool, visit the bathroom, grab my sun-dried cover-up from the lawn, and hunt for May Carol and Miz Lucy to thank them for inviting me. They’re not in the pool area or the kitchen, where I see Selma and thank her for the delicious fried chicken.

“Thank you, honey,” she says. “You’re that McMahon girl, aren’t you, from Mayflower? Your family helped out Armetta after she left here?”

“I think my parents would say that Armetta helped
us
; but, yes, I’m Reesa McMahon. Pleased to meet you,” I say.

“Pleased to meet
you
, Reesa! You see much of Armetta and her husband Luther?”

“Well, actually, Luther and my father are picking me up any minute, which is why I was looking for May Carol, to say goodbye.”

“I b’lieve you’ll find Miss May Carol and her mamma in the back bedroom. And, Reesa . . .”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Would you ask Luther to have Armetta give me a call?”

“I’ll tell him as soon as I see him. Thanks again for the chicken. Bye!”

Racing down the hall, I hear Miz Lucy lecturing May Carol loudly, something about “conduct unbecoming a lady” and then the sound of a stinging slap. I rap loudly on the door and, without opening it, make my goodbye quick. “May Carol, it’s Reesa! I’m going now; thanks for inviting me!”

“You’re welcome, honey,” Miz Lucy calls back, in a voice like sugar.

I turn and walk quickly down the hall, thankful for yet another difference between my mother and May Carol’s.

Passing through the living room on my way out the door, I hear that Cousin Randy’s organized the boys into a pool game like one I’ve played with my Chicago cousins. It involves one shut-eyed person calling out the word “Marco” while the others, trying to keep from getting caught, call back “Polo!” The big difference, however, is that shut-eyed Randy is calling out “Nigga!” and the others are calling back “Massa?”

Jackass is right
, I decide, remembering Joan Ellen’s words, and feeling my blood boil. Through the dining room, I see Selma in the kitchen—
no doubt she’s hearing him, too
—and all of a sudden, as a loud “Nigga!” bursts through the house, this is
more
than I can
stand
!

A large green watermelon on the kitchen counter gives me an idea. I tear through the dining room, rush into the kitchen, scaring Selma, and say, “Knife! Grab the biggest knife you can find and follow me!”

Lunging out onto the patio, I yell, “Randall Jackass Holt the third, think
fast
!” and hurl the big melon straight at his stupid chest. It lands, just inches in front of him, with a huge splash that shocks him silly. On reflex, he scoops it up and now stands cradling it like a baby, glaring up at me from mid-pool.

For the briefest moment, I glare back, then smile real sweetly and say, with my best fake simper, “Miz Lucy says it’s time for the seed-spitting contest out back. She’s put Selma in charge of cutting and wants you to carry it out for her, please.” “Bye, now,” I call to the girls on the lawn and to Selma who, giant knife in hand, grins back at me, eyes very bright.

On the drive home, I tell Daddy and Luther all about it.

“Lawdy, you a bold little Rooster,” Luther tells me. “Wonder where you got
that
from?”

“She’s her grandmother’s granddaughter, I’m afraid.” Daddy shakes his head.

Luther chuckles. “Wait’ll Ah tell Armetta. Better yet, think Ah’ll let Selma tell her.”

“Boy, can
she
cook,” I tell him. “Selma’s was the best fried chicken I’ve ever had.”

“Uh-oh, you turning Southern Belle on us?” Daddy teases.

“No, sir, not if that’s what Miz Lucy’s trying to make May Carol.”

“You
know
,” Luther says, raising his eyebrows, “Armetta could tell some
tales
’bout Miz Lucy . . . that woman is
high
strung
!”

“I sure wouldn’t want to cross her,” my father agrees.

“Oh, she’d pull your hair out, for
sure
,” Luther tells him.

Daddy’s chuckling as he turns to back the truck up to the packinghouse platform, but all of a sudden, his look changes. “What do we have here?” I hear him ask under his breath.

A man, a stranger, is standing on our platform. He’s medium-built, with the untanned look of someone who spends his days indoors. He’s dressed for business in a white shirt, dark pants, and a tie that’s been loosened in the afternoon heat. In his hands is a notebook and he’s watching our truck.

Chapter 26

Mother, spotting us from the showroom, appears tense-faced on the platform. As we pile out, she says, “Warren, this is James Jameson from the F.B.I.”

“Warren McMahon,” my father tells him, extending his hand. “This is my daughter, Marie, and our friend, Luther Cully.”

“Jim Jameson, sir, in the flesh, as requested.”

“Excuse me,” Mother says, “I’ve got customers in the showroom.”

Mr. Jameson smiles at Mother and says, “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Reesa?” Mother says, meaning I’m to come with her.

“I’ll be right there,” I tell her, stalling for time.

“Mr. Jameson, my assistant, here,” Daddy says, nodding to me, “doesn’t let me talk to law enforcement without seeing some identification.”

“I heard about that. Miss McMahon, my badge,” he tells me, not smiling, and flips open the black wallet from his back pocket. “And here’s my card,” he adds.

I examine his badge and the small white rectangle. “Says here he’s official, Daddy.”

“Where’s he from?” Daddy asks, catching my eye.

Daddy heard it, too.
Mr. Jameson’s accent—the shape of his vowels especially—is a revelation, and a relief.

“Well,” I say, “his address is Orlando, but he sounds like Ohio to
me.
”

“Cleveland,” Mr. Jameson nods.

“Can we talk to him, then?” Daddy asks me.

“Fine by me,” I tell him.
Ohio
, I think,
is a definite step up
from those other two agents who were here before
. We have many long-time customers from Ohio. Mother loves them because “they order early and their checks are always good. Ohioans,” she always says, “are as
good
as
gold
.”

“Well, thank
you
, ma’am,” Mr. Jameson tells me, very serious. “Okay to sit here?” he asks Daddy, pointing to the bench by the washer’s big water tank. “Can Mr. Cully join us, too?”

Daddy and Luther nod, grab chairs and sit, facing the agent on the bench.

“Your deputy staying?” Mr. Jameson asks, meaning me.

Daddy studies me a moment. Then he says, “Reesa, your mother’s expecting you in the showroom.”

I leave them real reluctantly and walk slowly around the waxer’s large metal hood that runs sideways to the washer, six feet high and eight feet long. On the far side, I can hear their voices through the hood’s air vent. If I peer through the vent, I can just see Daddy’s and Luther’s profiles through the other air vent on the opposite side.

“Mr. McMahon, Mr. Cully, I’m here to tell you that you have friends in high places,” Mr. Jameson of Ohio says, rustling his papers.

“Really? Who would that be?” Daddy asks.

“Well, let’s start with my boss, Mr. Hoover. And while we’re at it, let’s add a Mr. Thurgood Marshall of New York City.”

“Okay . . .”

“And, Mr. Cully, you’re the father of Marvin Cully, shot and killed last March?”

“Yes, sir.” Luther sounds nervous. He glances at Daddy.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Cully, you’re not in any trouble. In fact, truth be told,
I’m
the one in trouble,” Mr. Jameson tells him.

“What do you mean?” Daddy asks. Luther stays silent.

“Well, as you know, two people were assassinated, by dynamite, over six weeks ago. So far, my elite corps of crackerjack agents have produced precious little evidence, and not a lot of suspects. Mr. Hoover is, shall we say, not happy; particularly since Mr. Truman of the White House, Mr. Marshall of the N.A.A.C.P., assorted influential people from the Civil Rights Congress, the Anti-Defamation League of B’nai B’rith, and the Florida Board of Tourism are all breathing down his neck.”

“Is that so?” my father says mildly.

“Believe me, it is very much
so,
” Mr. Jameson says.

“What’s this have to do with us?” Daddy asks him.

“We’re operating in a bit of a vacuum here. Although your state’s assorted departments of law enforcement promised ‘full and complete cooperation,’ they’ve done nearly nothing to help us get to the bottom of anything. In spite of that, we have some extremely compelling reasons to believe that the Opalakee Klan has direct knowledge about the murders of Mr. and Mrs. Moore. The problem is, we have no inside sources. According to Mr. Marshall, you have a very clear handle on things around here, Mr. McMahon. I don’t suppose you’d consider joining the Klan for us?”

“Me? A Klanner? Mr. Jameson, I’m a Yankee, for starters, and a man who speaks his mind pretty clearly. Even if they’d
have
me, which they wouldn’t, I couldn’t do it. It would take me—what d’you think, Luther—three, maybe four, minutes to blow my cover?”

“I figured you might say that. But here’s the
real
reason I’ve come . . . Mr. Marshall says that between you and Mr. Cully, you have a circle of friends who, let’s see, how’d he say it, ‘would put the F.B.I and the C.I.A. to shame.’ ”

In my narrow view, I see Luther stiffen. At his side, Daddy shoots him a quick look, then turns back to face Mr. Jameson, who says, “What I’d like to ask you is this . . . I have a list of names we believe to be members of the Opalakee Klan, cross-referenced from several other sources. What I’d like you to do, and you don’t have to say yes or no this minute . . . what I’d like you to do is look over this list and have your circle of friends look over it, too, and simply cross off anyone who’s not a known Klan member. Of course, if you see any glaring omissions, and you’d like to add a name or two, that would be fine. But at this point I’m merely looking to delete anybody who’s not a Klan member. Is that something you might be willing to do to help us catch young Cully’s and the Moores’ killers?”

“
If
we agree to look at your list, Mr. Jameson, what happens to it when we’re done with it?” Daddy’s tone is careful, not saying yes or no.

“Well, I’ve thought about that. I’ve placed two pieces of paper in this envelope.” I hear the rustle of more papers. “The first sheet is the list we’ve been discussing. The second is a short summary of an event that occurred last August fourth. A high-speed chase between a black Chrysler and three pickup trucks. Did you see it?”

“Didn’t everybody?” Daddy replies.

“The second sheet merely describes the incident. You may write in any comments you deem appropriate. As you can see,” Jameson says, handing the envelope to Daddy, “it’s already stamped and addressed to Mr. James J. Smith—that’s me—at P.O. Box 12 in Orlando. All you have to do is look things over, make your comments, then seal it and mail it as soon as you can.”

Daddy turns again to face Luther. Slowly, without moving, Daddy raises an eyebrow and, it appears, Luther drops his chin in a nod.

“We’ll take a look,” Daddy says, standing up. Luther and Mr. Jameson stand, too.

“And mail it?” Mr. Jameson asks.

“I’ll deliver it myself into the hands of our lovely postmistress,” I hear Daddy promise as I duck hastily out the side door and into the showroom.

After Mr. Jameson leaves, Daddy and Luther want to tell Mother what happened. But she stops them.

“Why,” she wants to know, “didn’t you send Reesa down here with me?”

“I did,” he says.

“Well, she wasn’t here,” Mother tells him. All three adults turn their eyes on me.

Uh-oh
, I think. I was hoping she hadn’t noticed.

“But . . .” Daddy’s stare is turning to a glare.

“But little Miss Big Ears stood on the other side of the waxer spying on you and the F.B.I.,” Mother says in that tone that will brook no excuses.

“Well, why not?” I say, blistered by her calling me Little Miss anything! “It’s about time Mr. James Jameson showed up. And what could he possibly say that would be any worse than what I’ve seen or heard already? I saw what the Klan did to Marvin, same as you. I heard that deputy in Mount Laura tell how it happened. I heard him say how, if Mr. Reed Garnet hadn’t shown up late, Marvin might still be alive. And
I’m
the one who had to go make nice at the Garnets’ house this very afternoon! It’s not fair for you to treat me like a baby. I’m
not
one—not anymore!”

I realize, when I finish, that I’ve embarrassed Luther, who’s now studying his shoes, and I feel bad about that. Daddy’s looking at me with admiring eyes, but Mother’s face stays a blank.

“She makes a good point,” Daddy says softly, but in that way that leaves everything up to Mother.

“Oh, Reesa, when I was your age”—she shakes her head sadly—“it was the middle of the Depression. I worried every single day that my father would lose his job and we’d wind up in the soup lines. My mother told me not to worry, that worrying was her job, that children should have fun, and I should be carefree. But I worried anyway. So I guess it wouldn’t help for me to tell you the same thing. I’m just sorry we didn’t do a better job protecting you from all this. And for the record,” she says, “you’re not full grown, just more than halfway.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say with as much earnestness as I can muster, considering Daddy’s winking at me behind her back.

At his suggestion, the four of us go into the office off the empty showroom. It’s late in the afternoon and doubtful that we’ll have any more customers today. As we gather ’round his desk, Daddy opens Mr. Jameson’s envelope, pulls out two sheets of paper, and sets them side by side on his blotter.

Luther responds to the first one with a low whistle.

Daddy was right
, I think,
when he told Mr. Marshall that a
list of Opalakee Klan members would read like the local social register.
Most of the two dozen or so names are all too familiar.

Across the desk, Mother’s eyes meet Daddy’s. For the first time in a long time, the curtain of her composure parts. In her face, I see fear and the flare of resistance, like a little flame leaping up.

“You agreed to do this?” she asks him carefully.

Daddy’s jaw juts. “We both did,” he tells her, nodding in Luther’s direction.

Her eyes drift back to the paper on the desk. She stands very still, then looks back up at Daddy. His face is firm, his eyes steady. With the slightest shake of her head, she registers her worry and retreats from a fight. The curtain drops, closing us out again. Closing herself in?

Don’t worry
, I itch to tell her, but it’s clear she will.
Besides, we can’t back out now. This is important! Mr. Marshall himself sent Mr. Jameson our way. Mr. Marshall and the F.B.I.
wouldn’t put Daddy, Luther and the maids in any danger, would
they?

The list is arranged alphabetically. As Daddy and Luther pore over it, the most obvious omission is at the top. With a ballpoint pen, Daddy adds:
Bowman, J.D.

“How the hell did they miss
him
?” he wonders aloud.

Exactly what I was thinking.

Beside the name of Casselton, Emmett are the initials E.C.

“For Exalted Cyklops. The big cheese,” Daddy explains to me.

The second change is further down. There are three entries with the same last name, a prominent father and his two sons. Daddy crosses off the younger son’s name. He lives down the road from us and is a deacon in our church, always has a roll of Life Savers in his pocket in case somebody gets a coughing attack. His father and older brother live further south and attend Opalakee First Baptist.

“I’ve had many conversations with him,” Daddy tells Luther. “He’s a good Christian and absolutely against the Klan’s tactics. Even told me once that the rest of the family kid him about it, calling him ‘medium rare.’ ”

“What’s that mean?” I’ve never heard the term applied to a person before.

“That’s their way of saying he’s soft and a little pink, meaning Communist.”

“He’s a
Communist
?” I ask quickly, balking at the idea.

“Of course not,” Mother says. “It’s just their way of insulting him because he’s chosen not to join the Klan.”

The second sheet is a lot more interesting. At the top, the title says “Attempted Abduction, 8/4/51.” A paragraph about the Big Chase follows. Below that are four numbered sections.

The first section is about the Chrysler New Yorker and the four people who were in it—two N.A.A.C.P. attorneys and two Northern reporters.

The other numbered sections contain descriptions of each of the three pickups. All three sections say “occupants,” followed by blank lines. There is a question mark at the beginning of each line. All three truck sections have an area marked “vehicle owner.” Two of the three have the owner’s name filled in correctly. (We aren’t the
only
ones who know an Emmett Casselton Casbah Groves truck when we see one, even with the name covered up.) In the section for the big black Ford pickup, the “vehicle owner” line is blank with another question mark. Daddy fills in the name:
J. D. Bowman
.

“That’s it for us, Luther,” he says, carefully replacing the two pages into the envelope and handing it over. “The rest is up to the ladies of your C.I.A.”

Luther takes the envelope and nods. “Looks like there’ll be a special choir practice after church tomorrow.”