Lay that Trumpet in Our Hands (14 page)

Chapter 27

Bloom time, which used to be my favorite time of year, is back. For most people, it’s the perfumed time of new beginnings. For me, it’s the anniversary of Marvin’s death. I am in gloom time. And, most certainly, not the girl I was last time the tangerine tree outside my window wore its band of Angel Blossoms. I can never be that girl again, so safe, so sure of everything and everyone. I long to feel that comfortable inside my skin, but I will never be
her
again.

It’s been one whole week since Daddy and Luther mailed Mr. Jameson’s envelope to his Orlando P.O. Box. I felt sure we’d have heard something by now. But as the days drag by, as the date Marvin died comes and goes with no hint of resolution, the nightmare I thought I’d outgrown returns.

I wake screaming. The run through the grove, the crowd on the hill, the flashing red lights are all the same. But this time, after I kick and claw my way to the front, after J. D. Bowman sees me and yells “Grab her, too!” because “She’s a Jew!,” the men in the circle yank me between them. Their faces, now familiar from the F.B.I. list, surround me, contorted in anger, eyes hard, teeth bared, as a hideously laughing J. D. Bowman raises a rattlesnake whip high above my head . . .

This night, Mother and Daddy are out for the evening. It’s Doto who hears me and holds me tight. Turning on the light, she sits down beside me and we talk quietly for some time, going over every awful detail of the dream.

“All right, then,” she says, “I have an idea. Will you wait here while I get you something?”

Within moments, she returns with the spare set of her special pink bedding. Together, we strip my mattress of its usual white cotton and remake it with my grandmother’s sheets, ordered just for her from Chicago’s Carter-Ferris-Mott. Slipping between them, I relish the silky pink softness, the scent of Ivory Snow, and I thank her with all my heart.

“I’m sure I’ll sleep perfectly fine now.”

She nods, cat-eye glasses winking in the light; then, lifting my chin between her fingers, she asks, “How come I never heard about this bad dream before?”

“Kept it to myself,” I say.

“Because?” she wants to know.

“Because Daddy’s got enough to worry about without taking me on, too.”

“And you figure you can fend for yourself?”

“Yes!” I shoot back, then, meeting her gaze, tack on a respectful “ma’am.”

“Oh, Reesa,” Doto says, “you, your father and me . . . we are cut from the same quarry, rock-hard and marble-headed.”

“Not at all like Mother,” I say.

Doto doesn’t like my tone and leans in so she can eye me more directly. “Your mother’s a different kind of strong than we are, young lady.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she says, “we McMahons are the stuff that mountains are made of. But your mother . . . well, your mother’s more like a river, which is stronger still. Do you understand?”

I don’t and tell her so.

“No, of course you don’t. You live in a state without a decent-sized mountain or river in sight. I’ll tell you what: Next spring, I’ll take you west with me to your uncle Harry’s. We’ll go to the Grand Canyon, and when you stand on the rim and see that sight carved out of solid rock by water and ice, you’ll know exactly what I mean. We’ll follow the Colorado River north. You’ll see how fresh water makes the difference between a livable valley and an impossible desert. Maybe then you’ll understand the kind of strength your mother has.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, needing to think about it.

“You’re lucky to have the parents you have, Reesa. Don’t you forget that,” she says, squeezing my hand in goodnight. “Do you want this light on or out?”

“Out,” I say. “I’ll be all right.”

“Of course you will,” my grandmother chuckles. “Sleep tight.”

Two days later, Mr. Jim Jameson of Ohio parks his brown Dodge on the side driveway, away from the prying eyes across the Trail, and spends an hour or so talking to Daddy in the back. At one point, Daddy leads him into the showroom to point up and out the side door, at the spot that can only be Emmett Casselton’s eagle’s nest, the windowed office high above the tanks of Mayflower Citrus on the other side of the road. When they’re finished, the two of them amble up to Mother and me at the front counter.

Mr. Jameson makes cheerful small talk, about the weather, the upcoming primary elections. Mother tells him she’s on the fence between Stevenson and Kefauver, if, of course, Stevenson ever gets off the fence to run.

Daddy’s a Kefauver man all the way. He relished the newspaper accounts of Kefauver’s Senate Crime Investigating Committee hearings in Miami. Just last year, Kefauver’s committee had a field day with Dade County Sheriff “Smiling Jimmy” Sullivan, who couldn’t quite explain how, during five years in office, his personal assets jumped $65,000 while his sheriff’s salary was never more than $12,000 a year!

“Believe me,” Mr. Jameson laughs, “I’ve a stack of files six feet high on that one.”

Kefauver’s committee also uncovered that William H. Johnston, one of the Governor’s cronies and a major state contractor, was a close associate of the Capone gang.

“You know,” Daddy says, “Governor Warren was furious over that. He’s vowed he’ll never let Kefauver set foot in this state again.”

“Won’t that be interesting come primary time in May?” Mr. Jameson grins. “Though I should be
long
gone by then.”

“Are you really that close?”

“Oh, there’s some very interesting irons in the fire,” Mr. Jameson replies. “Things are heating up. People are getting nervous. I anticipate a fair amount of action in the next couple weeks.”

Chapter 28

That Friday, Ren goes home after school with his friend, Petey Smith, who lives out in the country, a few miles east of Mayflower.

Daddy and I are set to pick him up before supper, around five.

Since the County Dump is just a mile or so past Petey’s house, Daddy asks Robert to load up the truck with a bunch of stumps that’ve been cluttering our grove road for weeks. Daddy and I head out around four. At the Dump, the old Negro caretaker named Horatio Sykes ambles over and helps us unload. The dump
stinks
. Everywhere’s that sweet sickening stink of things rotting, dying or in full, dark earth decay. Daddy tells me to breathe through my mouth, but I still feel the sting of it in my throat.

Afterwards, we double back to pick up Ren. Petey’s house is deep in a grapefruit grove that belongs to Emmett Casselton. The blue and gold Casbah Groves signs glint at us from mile markers beside the road.

“Looks like old Emmett forgot to spray for leaf curl,” Daddy says, noting the brown-tipped leaves as our truck weaves and bumps down the narrow dirt road toward Petey’s house.

As we enter the clearing, Ren bolts out the screen door and into the yard. He’s waving his arms frantically for us to stop. He’s got a bandage around his head and Petey and his father hot on his heels.

“
Now
what?” my father says, heaving himself out of the truck.

“Daddy, Daddy, the Klan, a man . . .
shot
at us, shot
me
, just playing, ’
gators
! He—”

I’ve never, in my life, seen Ren so flustered.

“Hold on, now, what’s this all about?” Daddy’s looking over Ren’s head to lock eyes with Petey’s father.

“Warren, you would not b’lieve it!” Mr. Smith, who everyone calls Smitty, says. “These two boys been playin’ fine ’round here all afternoon. ’Bout a hour ago, they asked if they could run over to that ol’ sinkhole lake in the grove, you know the one with Mr. Casselton’s fishing camp on the landing in the middle? Well, they jus’ wanted to see if they could spot a ’gator or two. Climbed up the water tower to get a better look. Ren, tell your daddy what happened next.”

“We got up there, Daddy, and saw a whole bunch of men in white robes.” Ren’s face beneath the bandage is beet red, shiny with sweat. His voice has risen to a pitch like a girl’s.

“It was the Klan!” big-eyed Petey puts in.

“They were marching, three across,” Ren says, “down the big ramp and into the camp. They looked stupid in their pointy hats and all . . .”

“Like a bunch of fat ol’ ghosts,” Petey adds.

“Well, Petey and me . . .” Ren pauses to catch his breath. “We had us a couple pieces of irrigation pipe. We were just poking fun, making noises through the pipes. You know, like
Woooooo!,
like ghosts. Well, one of them started waving at us to stop.”

“Big white sleeves flappin’ like a crane.” Petey demonstrates.

“We should’ve stopped, Daddy, I
know
that, but he just looked so funny waving his arms at us . . . we started laughing.”

“And we just couldn’t stop!” Petey says earnestly.

“Another man came out and started
shooting
at us! I mean pointed both barrels right at us and
shot
! When something bounced off the water tower and hit me in the head, I thought I was going to
die
up there!” Ren’s hand flies to his heart, his chest heaves beneath his dirty T-shirt.

Petey’s father Smitty shakes his head. “I heard it from the house and went runnin’. I was so
damn
mad, Warren, I ran straight through the saw grass to get there.” He shows the slashes on his hands and arms from the razor-sharp grass. “Would’ve gone right in the middle of those guys if a big guard hadn’t stopped me with a sawed-off shotgun. ‘What the
hell
do you think you’re doin’?’ I yell at him. ‘Since when does the Klan take to shootin’ at a couple of kids?’ I was mad, I tell you! The guard . . . he says he’s sorry, says ‘There’s big stuff goin’ on and the Grand Dragon from Jacksonville’s in town. The boys are a little edgy,’ he says, ‘but they had no business shootin’ at children. Those kids were lucky,’ he tells me, ‘the guy who shot at ’em was loaded with bird shot, coulda been a whole lot worse with
buck
shot.’ ”

Daddy is silent. Then, gently lifting the edge of Ren’s bandage to inspect his head, he says, “Let me see, son.” Bloody red scrapes begin a hair outside my brother’s left eye. They run across his temple to just above the top of his ear.

“Smitty says if it’d been a little to the right, I might’ve lost an eye. I thought I was dead for
sure
,” Ren says gravely.

Daddy pulls him close, but says nothing.

“You’re telling me that fishing camp is the Klan’s
head
quarters?” he asks Smitty.

“Can you b’lieve it? Lived here a year and a half and never seen a thing. Usually meet at night, I guess. Today was somethin’ special, ’cause of the Grand Dragon and all.”

“Old Emmett’s going to be hearing from me on this.” Daddy’s voice tells me he is more than
mad.
He is
furious
.

When we get him home, Ren explains everything all over again to Mother and Doto. Mother’s eyes flit between Ren and Daddy. After Ren’s done telling his story, Mother wraps him in her arms and herds him off to the bathroom to clean and Mercurochrome his head. Mitchell, fascinated by Ren’s wounds, tags along after them. We can hear him pestering everyone with questions, punctuated by Mother’s “Hush now, Mitchell,” and Ren’s loud “Ooow, that hurts!”

In the kitchen, Doto is fuming in Daddy’s face. “Jesus H. Christ, Warren!”
Doto never swears; Daddy’s clearly as shocked by
it as I am.
“First these maniacs get away with
murdering
Marvin; then they run off Sal and Sophia. No doubt they had
something
to do with blowing up the poor Moores. And now,
now
, they’re taking potshots at our own flesh and blood? This is outrageous! Beyond barbaric! Are you going to
do something
about this? Because if
you’re
not,
I AM!!!
” Behind her cat-eye glasses, Doto’s ready to explode.

Mother appears in the kitchen doorway. “Now what?” she asks wearily.

Daddy’s become a boulder. Everything about him, his neck, his voice, is solid rock.

“Now, I tell Emmett Casselton what I think of men dressed in sheets shooting at children,” he says, stone-faced. “I also tell Mr. Jim Jameson that there’s going to be a little fireworks at the Opalakee Klan headquarters.”

“Warren, can we talk about this?” Mother pleads.

“We’ll talk
later
, Lizbeth,” he grits between his teeth.

“Right now, I have a couple calls to make.” My father, the human mountain, strides toward his office off the living room. I hear him firmly, deliberately close the door behind him.

“What’s he going to
do
?” I ask Mother. My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid she’ll hear it.

“Lizbeth,” Doto says, “the Klan has pushed Warren one step too far today. He’s
got
to push back.”

“But
how
?” I want to know, wishing I could stop the trembling in Mother’s hands, wanting the flutter in my stomach to fly away.

“I guess we have to wait and see,” Mother says, turning her face away from me. Doto motions for me to leave them alone.

In the living room, I find Ren where Mother left him, watching cartoons on the couch with Mitchell.

Mitchell jumps up when he sees me and, clutching his tummy, asks, “We going to eat soon, Reesa?”

Poor thing. In all the commotion over Ren, we’ve forgotten supper. “Run into the kitchen,” I tell him, “Doto will feed you.”

Ren remains slumped on the couch, his eyes glued to the TV screen. The bright orange streak of Mercurochrome on his head reminds me I should probably feel sorry for him. But what I really feel is
mad
.

“What in the Sam Hill were you thinking, Ren?” I hiss at him, deliberately standing between him and his show.

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course you don’t! Because it’s probably the dumbest damn thing you’ve ever done in your life! Standing on a water tower, yelling at the Klan. You heard what they did to Marvin, you know they killed the Moores. What did you think they’d do to you?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles. He’s refusing to look at me.

“Nothing? You mean you
thought
nothing, or they’d
do
nothing?”

“I thought we were safe.” He’s pouting.

“And where in tarnation did you get that idea?”

“I thought we were safe,” he says, meeting my eyes for the first time. “Because we’re
white
!” He hurls the words at my chest.

There it is. The ugly truth that had been circling ’round my stomach, creeping up my spine, sneaking around the edges of my mind. The bald fact that skin color—the paper-thin veil that made Marvin an easy target and gave Ren his air of invincibility—no longer matters. With the Klan’s attack on two white boys, the rules have abruptly changed; their evil is no longer limited to Negroes, Jews and Catholics. The Klan’s crossed its own hate line. Now,
any
of us, even
children
, can be targeted. It’s a dreadful thought. And I hold my brother completely responsible.

“This is all your fault!” I lash. “You’ve got Doto about to have a
heart attack
, Daddy on the phone saying
God-knows-what
to Mr. Casselton, and Mother worried out of her head! I hope you had your fun, Ren, because you’ve most certainly ruined
everything
for the
rest
of us!”

It was a mean and hateful thing to say. I aimed for his heart, and I could see by his face, I hit dead center. I’m glad and sorry at the same time. And, for the first time in my life, I am quite afraid.