No Daughter of the South (24 page)

“Well, it won’t do to have all these good-looking men in the house with your wife, will it Tom?”

“Lord, no, that wouldn’t do at all.” None other than Susan’s husband, Tom, was with Forrest.

“Boys, I want to thank you for your assistance. You hurry, there might be some of that beer left down at the park.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Miller.” And the guys were out of there.

I walked into the hallway after them. They went out through the front door, except for the oldest and fattest. He went through the French doors in the breakfast room. I was pretty sure that he wasn’t leaving, that he was lurking out there in the dark.

Susan walked out of the study then, and stood beside her husband and her father. She looked like a little girl, ashamed and frightened.

“Hi there, Laurie. You sure are looking good after all these years.” Tom didn’t appear the least bit nonplussed by the situation. “Sorry we don’t have time to sit and talk over old times.”

I was speechless.

He took Susan’s arm. “We’ve got to be going on home now. Mrs. Miller is baby sitting and Susan doesn’t want to impose by keeping her too late.”

Susan looked up at him beseechingly. “Why don’t we drop Laurie off home on the way?”

Mr. Miller said, “No, no. You get home to my grand-babies. I’ll make sure Laurie gets home safely.”

“That’s right, honey,” said Tom, grasping Susan’s upper arm, “your daddy will take care of her.”

“I don’t want to leave her,” Susan said, almost begging.

“Don’t be silly,” Tom said sharply, and he opened the front door and pulled Susan out. She struggled to stay put, but it was no contest. He yanked her over the threshold, and then he yelped.

Forrest and I looked at each other in surprise.

“She bit me!” he yelled.

I laughed.

“Susan, what’s going on here?” Forrest demanded in the iciest, blackest, hardest voice I’d heard in my life.

She stood straight in the porch light. “I hadn’t finished saying good-bye,” she answered in a voice that was trying hard for dignity, but was shaky from her trembling. “I just wanted to remind Laurie that I’ll be giving her a call first thing in the morning. We’re going on a shopping spree. I’ll be holding you responsible, Daddy, if you forget your obligations as a host and keep Laurie up so late she gets over-tired.”

I’d never seen or heard a less threatening threat than the one Susan had just made, but her bravery still took my breath away.

Forrest grumbled, “I know my manners, child, you just worry about your own. And don’t go around biting your husband. Folks might say you’re crazy.”

Tom had her arm again, and was pulling her towards the car. I hated to think how Susan’s husband and father were going to make her pay for her little rebellion on my behalf.

Then Forrest stepped toward the door with his arm extended to close it. Suddenly, I couldn’t believe what was happening. It was a movie running in slow motion. It was swimming in cane syrup. It was one of those dreams you have, where you know you have to run, and you try and you try and you can’t.

Then, just before the front door closed, my panic shocked me into action and I threw myself towards it, screaming, “He’s going to kill me! He’s going to kill me!”

The door slammed shut, and Forrest Miller stood in front of it. I was all over him like a wild cat, scratching and biting and kicking. He pushed me away and I ran like hell, like fire, like I’d never run before, like I was made of running, like running was what I’d been born for. Headed for the back yard, for freedom, for life, for Sammy, for the girls.

As I grabbed the latch, I saw the dark silhouette through the glass doors. The big guy was waiting for me. I’d never get by him.

I whirled around and Forrest was right behind me. I thought, he’s going to kill me.

Forrest said, “Calm down. You never seemed the hysterical type before. I just want to talk to you.”

“Let me go.”

“I should think you would show a little gratitude. You broke into my home and I’m not even calling the police. The least you can do is have a little chat with me.”

I screamed as loud as I could, a long and wailing scream like a siren. It hurt my own ears. I was hoping—I was actually praying— that the neighbors would hear.

The big guy stepped in through the doors, grabbed me from behind, and clapped his hand over my mouth. I could barely breath, and he was so strong and big I couldn’t get any leeway to push or hit or struggle against him. Forrest just stood there in front of me, smiling.

I struggled with everything in me. The big man didn’t budge, didn’t even seem to notice. Within minutes, I was completely exhausted. I collapsed against my captor, deciding to rest and think of a new plan.

Forrest spoke then. “Jesus H. Christ, you’re crazy. We won’t hurt you. We’re not in the business of hurting women. He’s going to move his hand. If you scream again, we’ll just let you go, and you’ll never hear what I’ve got to say.”

Let me go! They weren’t going to murder me! For one second, I thought about getting the hell out of there as soon as the monster let me loose. Then I thought about the photographs. I could tell Johnny about them and he could get a warrant and come look for them. But by the time he got here, Forrest would have found where I’d hidden them. It wouldn’t be hard. The album was still on the floor in Forrest’s study, open to the page where I’d ripped them out.

Maybe I could still figure out some way to get the pictures out of there with me.

“Laurie,” Forrest said in a patient voice, “as always, I admire your spunk. But you’re barking up the wrong tree. There’s no story here. You think you know something, but you really don’t. You have no way of knowing how things were then. And you don’t seem to appreciate who will get hurt if you keep on with this. Members of your own family, for instance.”

“My father wasn’t involved in this,” I spat at him.

He smiled at me. “You have no way of knowing that. But this whole conversation is theoretical, because nothing happened. Except a nigger got drunk and drowned. But have it your way. Assume that something did happen. What makes you think your father wasn’t involved?”

I didn’t answer.

Forrest smiled.

I couldn’t stand it. “He’s not in the pictures!”

His smile didn’t change, not one little bit. “So what does that prove? Supposing something happened, and supposing there were pictures, there’s still no reason to suppose everyone present that night cared to pose for the pictures. Some folks are camera-shy, you know.”

I stared at him. He went on. “This is all theoretical, you understand. Let’s suppose that some men didn’t have balls enough to do what had to be done. But they knew all about it, and never turned anyone in. And stayed here, lived here, didn’t leave town. I’d say that was an admission on their part that the dirty job was necessary, wouldn’t you?”

I started to interrupt, but he kept talking.

“And let’s suppose some more. Suppose every man brought a gun that night and there were better than thirty men. But suppose the night ended with less than a dozen holes in the nigger? What does that lead us to suppose? That maybe some men came without ammunition, knowing from the beginning that they didn’t intend to shoot? Maybe so.

“But would they be more or less responsible than the men who came with their weapons loaded? Since they let the others think they were shooting, too? Aren’t they the truly despicable men, more so than the ones who actually shot, who thought they were doing a necessary and a painful task, defending their wives, their daughters?

“Do you think it could have been easy for these men? Keep in mind that these are the same men that sat in the pews of the First Baptist Church and the Riverside Methodist the very next Sunday morning. Who confront their souls’ salvation every week. Unlike you, who I doubt has ever given your own soul a thought.

“And suppose some men came prepared with ammunition, but faltered at the last moment? Chickened out? When it was their turn, when their groups were called, they stepped forward and aimed, but never fired. What about their guilt?

“And finally, suppose that some of the men there that night had had relations with Belinda. Suppose that one of them had been the first. Whoever he was, after he took her, she was finished. It was that first step that eventually led to the nigger full of holes, and Belinda lost to me. What do you suppose about that man’s guilt? Nothing is as simple as you seem to believe, Laurie Marie.

“While you’re supposing, honey, think about this. If you keep on this way, it’s your own family that will be hurt. You’re going to end up making them the laughing stock of the town, running around half-cocked, making crazy accusations like this. And if I catch you trespassing on my property again, I’m afraid I’m going to have to call the police, in spite of our long friendship. Now, as I don’t see a car outside, would you like for me to give you a ride home?”

“No place in this town is home to me, “ I snapped. “I don’t live here anymore.” I was angry beyond bearing. I would almost rather he had killed me than to stand there and hear Forrest tell me calmly that they were going to get away with it and there was nothing I could do. And for me to stand there and listen, and realize the truth of what he said.

I’d write an article for
The Rag
, spill everything I knew about Forrest, every nasty, sordid, cruel detail. Since I had no proof, Forrest could sue me, and win. And he would find a way to make it look like my father was involved, I knew he would. If my story were believed, every man of a certain age in town would be smeared with the taint of a racial murder, but I’d never be sure who was guilty, and who was not. No respectable magazine would print it without solid proof, but I was willing to bet that Jerry would. To me it sounded like the sort of romantic gesture—going down in magnificent flames for a lost, but just, cause—that Jerry had been looking for ever since he got thrown out of Dalton.

I told Forrest that I’d take him up on his offer of a ride. We walked to the front door. When we reached it, I asked if I could use the bathroom. Forrest nodded, of course. I sauntered down the hall towards the bathroom, and then, when I reached the study, dashed in the door. I planned to grab the photographs and get out of the house however I could. Kicking them both in the balls, if it took that.

Okay, so I overestimated my abilities there.

I had just grabbed for the cushion when the big guy grabbed me and Forrest picked up the photos. I kicked and screamed with everything in me, but he just laid me out on the couch, held my arms with one hand and my legs with the other. I screamed louder and spit at him, but I might as well have been screaming in a hurricane and spitting in the Gulf.

Forrest tore the photographs into little pieces and put them in a little heap in the fireplace. Then he turned, and opened a drawer in his desk. As he did, he noticed his gun lying on top where I’d left it. He laughed and picked it up. “So you were playing with my firearm. I bet you don’t even know how to use it.”

I admitted as to how he was right.

“If you think you can behave now, I’ll let you up.”

I said I thought I could behave. The big guy let me up, but he kept a close eye on me as he moved toward the door and stood there with his arms folded.

I sat up on the couch, smoothed my hair, and grasped at that old crutch of mine. Sex as a weapon. I unbuttoned a button on my blouse. Forrest stood there watching me, still smiling. Then he turned back to the drawer he was looking through.

“You know,” I said, “I’ve always wanted to touch your gun.” So it wasn’t subtle. I knew he’d know what I was up to, but I hoped he’d be so sure of himself that he’d want to play.

He looked up at me, poker faced, “Found them,” he said, picking up a box of matches. “Is that right?” he asked. “You’d like to touch my gun?”

“Could I, please?” I asked.

He picked it up off the desk top and walked over to me. He sat down right beside me, his thigh against me. He held out the gun. I stroked it suggestively. He smiled, the way he’d been smiling all night, and I looked at his long yellow teeth and mentally flagellated myself for ever admiring the man. I glanced over at the big guy. He was still standing there, but he seemed to be enjoying the game.

“Tell me, how does the safety work?” I purred.

Forrest grinned, and the big guy was laughing. “You think I can’t see what you’re up to?” he said “But you can’t shoot me, Laurie. First, you’re not that kind of girl. Second, you don’t want to spend time in prison. Just because you’ve got some ass-backward theory, you still don’t have to go shoot a man in his own house. Here, I’ll take off the safety and hand it to you. That’s how sure I am you aren’t going to do something stupid.”

He handed me the gun. Then he turned, kneeled before the fireplace, and struck a match.

“Stop!” I screamed, half-crazy with impotent anger. “Stop right now or I’ll shoot you!”

He put the match to the little pile of paper. “No, you won’t.”

“Yes I will!” I screamed, holding the gun out with both hands, trying my best to point it in his direction, but my arms were shaking.

The big guy dove at me. I went down on the floor, the gun still in my hands. From far off, I heard a shot and I felt something jump in my hand. There were two surprised yells, and some swearing. I don’t know if I dropped the gun, or if it was taken from me. I just shut my eyes.

When I opened them, Forrest was on the floor cussing and groaning, holding his thigh. There was blood pooling on the carpet.

I jumped up and ran to the fireplace only to find a small, gray heap of ashes on the red brick.

The big guy had the phone, calling for an ambulance. He hung up hurriedly and went over to look at Forrest’s leg. Forrest was still cursing. They ignored me. I picked up the phone and called the only local number I knew by heart. I called my Momma. Loud and clear I told her she’d better hurry on over as I watched Forrest’s man applying pressure with a cushion to stop the bleeding.

First there was the sound of a car engine so revved up it sounded like a rocket coming down the street. Then a squeal of rubber as it swung into the driveway. A car door opened before the engine was off. Just about the time the front door burst open, I heard the sirens. Momma got there first, with Johnny a close second. She came into that study door like the Marines. For a moment I was wondering how I was going to explain what had happened.

Turned out I didn’t need an explanation. It was enough for Momma that her daughter had found it necessary to shoot Forrest Miller. She lit into him, cussing him up one way and down the next. Problem was, apparently Momma hadn’t had much experience with those words. She had the general rhythm and vocabulary right, but something was wrong in the translation. “You fuck-damned-shit piece! God asshole you mother!”

I burst out laughing. Forrest got this look on his face like Momma’s diction was hurting him more than his leg.

When Johnny burst through the door, his gun in hand, he looked from me, hysterical with laughter, to my mother spouting twisted obscenities, to Forrest still writhing on the floor.

The rest of it went by fast forward. Forrest Miller claimed I’d broken into his house, was discovered by some of his friends, and when he’d tried to settle the matter quietly with me, I’d taken his gun from his own desk and shot him. The big guy said it had happened exactly like that. Then the ambulance arrived and took Forrest away. Johnny sent Momma home, too.

Then he sent a couple of officers over to the Dalman house to get Tom and Susan’s statements. I didn’t want to think about what Susan would be forced to say to back up Forrest and Tom.

I showed Johnny the tiny pile of ashes in the fireplace. I showed him the blank spots in the photo album filled with pictures of Klan rallies. I told him what I’d seen, and who I had recognized. Then I asked him, without any real hope, if he’d be able to get Forrest for murder.

Johnny shook his head. “Laurie, who got shot here tonight?”

I looked at him. “Forrest Miller.”

“That’s right. And where did he get shot?”

“In the leg.”

“In his own
study
. And who shot him?”

“Me.”

“So who is the most likely person to be charged with anything here?”

I sat in dumb silence for a few moments. I already knew this, but had been fighting not to admit it to myself. “But he planned and organized a man’s murder.”

“How are you going to prove it? The pictures are gone. No one’s going to testify. Assuming anyone did talk, he would be testifying to attempted murder himself.”

“You could offer immunity in exchange for testimony.”

“But why would anyone do that? I don’t have any evidence to hold over anyone. So why would anyone implicate himself in this?”

“Sammy’s mother could testify.”

“She has no real evidence.”

“Susan…?”

“Do you really think she’d testify against her own father?”

I sat there quietly for a long time. After awhile, Johnny put his arm around my shoulders. I leaned my head against him, and then I found myself crying. We just sat there like that, for a long time. Every now and then, one of the other officers would stick his head in the door and Johnny would motion him away. And I just kept crying.

I don’t cry much, as a rule, but I had been making up for lost time ever since I arrived in Port Mullet. Right then, I cried for Elijah Wilson, and for Billie. I cried for Sammy, growing up without a daddy. And for Etta Mae and Sapphire, spending their lives in their father’s power. And for Susan, who, despite all her plans, still lived as a prisoner. I cried for my own daddy, who couldn’t make peace with having a daughter who inherited his own lusty spirit, who insisted on the rights he thought were the privileges that came to him and his sons as a result of their maleness. And for Momma, who had struggled with me so because she had been afraid that I’d end up like Billie.