Shivaree (2 page)

Ruby joined her will to that of the creature within her, and she heard the creak of the man’s leather-soled shoes as he crossed the room, drawing near her, near them. Again, the man opened her eyelids. The light overhead still shone too bright, but now he leaned over her in a way that shaded her eyes, so that she could make out his features. She would have expected his face to show fear, but instead, he looked down on her, beaming, an insipid schoolboy smile on his lips, his eyes warm and tender. He gazed on her as if he were in love.

She felt the thing within guiding his movements. His right hand reached out and brushed her temple, but her temple hadn’t been his intended target. He found the scalpel where it had fallen, and she heard two snips in quick succession as he undid the ends of the thread he’d used to secure her mouth, slipping his fingers inside and unraveling his careful handiwork.

He raised his hands, now both within her field of vision. He lingered, staring into her eyes as if asking permission, the sharp of the scalpel pressed against his left wrist.

Yes. Yes,
she thought, even though she wasn’t consciously sure what the thing within her desired. The man sucked in a breath as he traced the blade along the wrist, then turned it so the first few drops of blood fell onto her lips.

Ruby’s mind protested, saying that she should be disgusted by the taste of blood on her tongue, but that voice quickly faded. Joined with the entity, she found herself caught up in the rapture of feeling another’s life force feeding into her, warming her, renewing her strength. But in those first moments the entity had not yet been strong enough. The ecstasy she had been experiencing came crashing down around her, ripped away as their control over the source of the feast broke.

The man roused himself and cursed, seeming to believe he’d cut himself by accident, or at least trying to convince himself that was the case. He called out for Charlie and then turned his attention to wrapping his wrist.

“Clean her up,” he commanded as the door creaked open. “Clean her up and get her dressed. I need to get her boxed and out of here.”

ONE

September 6, 1953

The smell of smoke and creosote seeped through the broken windowpane. Glass lay strewn everywhere. A burning cross cast a glow over the yard and illuminated the men—four, no, five of them—with pointed white hoods pulled over their faces.

“Mama?” Joy’s small voice called out.

“You get on back to your bed,” Lucille whispered fiercely to her daughter. “No, stay back,” she ordered as the girl tried to come closer. “You will cut your feet. Now you do as I tell you.”

Coarse laughter, followed by a rock crashing through another of the window’s panes. “You go on, now, Lucille,” one of the men in white shouted. “You send that boy of yours out here to talk to us.”

She crept up to the side of the window, taking quick peeks through the broken glass, while making sure to keep out of range of any further projectiles. “What you want Willy for?” she called out. She heard a noise behind her and turned to see her twelve-year-old son standing wide-eyed and frightened in the doorway. “What you done, boy?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“I ain’t done nothin’, Mama,” Willy responded.

“You just send him out here, Lucille,” another of the men called. He sounded tired, like he had other places he’d rather be. Terrorizing her children was an inconvenience for him.

“Not till you tell me what you want with him.” Lucille tried to keep her voice level, but inside she was quaking. Her husband, Jesse, would have known how to handle these men. He would have gone out there and offered them a comical act like Stepin Fetchit. He would have disarmed them with his smile. Convinced them they’d be better off at home in their own beds, with their own wives. But the government had shipped Jesse home from Korea in a box and now everything—raising the children, feeding them, protecting them from the monsters in white who came after dark and desecrated the Lord’s own holy cross—had fallen on her.

“Lucille.” The first man’s voice pulled her back. “You send the boy out here. If he will stand and take his punishment like a man, we’ll go and leave you alone.” Lucille peered out the window again so she could take another glance at the men. One of them carried a bullwhip, she noticed. She
knew
these men. She recognized Bob McKee and Sam Jessel by their voices. Dowd Johnson, the one with the whip, she knew by his bulk. These three always traveled in a pack, so that meant the others were probably the Sleiger siblings, Walter and Wayne. One of their regular gang was missing. Probably guarding the back door. All the same, she’d pretend never to have laid eyes on any of them, as dispelling the myth of their anonymity would inevitably mean death for her and her children.

“But I ain’t done nothing, Mama,” Willy pleaded.

Lucille waved her hand at him in a downward motion. “Shhh!”

“But I ain’t,” the boy whispered.

“Lucille, don’t make us come in there to get him. If we gotta come drag him out, we won’t just whip him, we’ll string him up and burn that house of yours down around you. Now what’s it gonna be?”

A thousand thoughts rushed through her mind at once. There was a chance the back of the house had been left unguarded—it was their only chance. “You take Joy, and you see if they anybody in back. If they ain’t, you take her and you run. Don’t you stop till you get to Pastor Williams’s house, you hear me?”

“But what about you, Mama?” Willy’s eyes had flooded with tears.

“Do as I say,” she hissed at her son, knowing full well that these would most likely be the last words she ever said to him if he managed to escape with his sister. She had to keep the men engaged, give her children a chance to slip out unnoticed. She turned back to the window. “What you say my boy done?”

“He done took something what didn’t belong to him, that’s what he done.”

“That can’t be. My Willy, he ain’t a thief. I raised him better than that.”

“You calling us liars, Lucille?”

“Why, no, sir, I ain’t saying that at all. I’m just saying they’s been some kind of mistake.”

“No mistake. They was a witness.”

Lucille swallowed hard and stepped in front of the window. “I’m sure you are all good Christian men. You tell me what the boy took, and I’ll make right for it. I’m his mama. You let the blame of what he done fall on me.”

“You gonna do that, boy?” Dowd raised his head and yelled into the darkness. He flicked the whip out to its full length and lashed at the ground. “Are you gonna show that you a man? Or do you plan on shamin’ your daddy’s memory by letting your mama take your punishment for your sins?”

“No, sir,” Willy’s voice called out from the tree line. Lucille’s heart sunk at the sound of his voice. He’d managed to sneak past the men unnoticed, but he must have been too worried about her to flee.

“You run, Willy,” Lucille screamed and raced to the door, barely noticing the pain as a shard of the broken glass punctured her foot. She threw the front door open and ran out, but by then it was too late. All she could do was watch helplessly by the light of the burning cross as Willy walked toward the men, his whole body trembling as he stepped into the unholy glow. Lucille scanned the surroundings for Joy, relieved at least to see she’d had the sense to stay hidden.

“I ain’t taken nothing, Mister,” Willy said to the closest man. “Honest, I ain’t.”

“You bring that lying little sack of shit over here,” Dowd said to the Sleiger brothers, cracking his whip. “He’ll own up to it soon enough.” They advanced on the boy’s slight figure and dragged him over to Dowd. “Turn him around.” Dowd came closer and thrust his hand through the collar of Willy’s nightshirt, ripping it open down the back.

“No,” Lucille pleaded, falling to her hands and knees. “Please don’t hurt my boy. I’ll do anything. Use that thing on me, if you need to use it, but don’t hurt my boy, Mr. Johnson.” She’d no sooner said the name than she realized her error. Dowd turned to look at her and reached up to pull off his mask. He handed it to one of the Sleiger boys. “I will deal with you later,” he said, pointing at Lucille. “Hold him,” Dowd commanded, and Sam stepped up to assist the other Sleiger.

“Mama,” Willy yelped as his arms were pulled tight to each side, exposing the whole of his back. Dowd took a few steps rearward and brought the whip up, the leather whistling through the night air as he brought it down for the first lash. Lucille closed her eyes and sank to the ground. She could not bear to watch.

But there was nothing—no sound of the lash breaking open Willy’s skin, no cry of pain. Lucille opened her eyes to see that Dowd, and his whip, had inexplicably vanished.

A cry of terror came from just beyond the point where the light from the burning cross gave way to darkness. Dowd screamed again—for the screams were his, that was unmistakable—then there was silence.

“What the hell?” Sam shouted, loosening his grip on the boy enough for Willy to break free of him, though the other Sleiger still held him tight. The sound of footsteps beyond the circle of light was almost deafening in the astonished silence. Someone—
something
—was circling them.

She followed the sound with her eyes. A blur crossed her field of vision, followed by a shriek. This time she sprang up from the ground, taking advantage of the men’s surprise to pry Willy from Wayne Sleiger’s hands. He was too startled by what was happening to put up a fight. She pulled her son close. “Where’s your sister?” she whispered.

Willy nodded toward the well, where a shadowy movement betrayed the girl’s presence. “You get her to Pastor’s. You do as I say this time, or Joy’s blood is gonna be on your hands. You hear?” Willy nodded, and Lucille watched as he pulled off his ruined nightshirt and took off barefoot, dressed in nothing but his underpants. Soon, his shadow joined that of his sister. The two clasped hands and headed for the trees, in the direction of their pastor’s house.

Lucille wanted to chase after them; the pull of her heart should have been enough to cause her feet to move. But some force held her here. Something stronger than her own will, stronger than her own fear, demanded that she remain.

She watched till the last glimpse of Joy’s white gown disappeared into the growth, then Lucille turned back to the scene unfolding behind her. By the light of the burning cross, she now only counted three men. They had clustered together in a tight group. Walter, the taller of the Sleiger boys, the one who had been holding Dowd’s hood, had now disappeared. The remaining men unmasked themselves, trying to get a better view of the unseen predator circling them.

“What the hell is that thing?” McKee asked the others, his voice shaking.

“I couldn’t see nothing. I just felt it move past me,” Sam said in a hushed and cautious voice, circling the area, the cross at his back. “I think it done killed Dowd.”

Lucille had heard the sounds of a man dying in agony before. There was no question in her mind that Dowd was dead, maybe Walter too.

Wayne Sleiger looked panicked and was calling out his brother’s name in all directions. The other men stood perfectly still as they listened. No response came. A gust of wind rushed around the men, causing the flames on the cross to dance and sputter. As the remaining men tried to get their bearings, Lucille moved back toward her house, testing the invisible bounds she felt holding her, seeing how much play they would allow. “I say we get out of here,” she heard McKee say, his voice unsteady. “I refuse to stand here and let that thing, whatever it is, pick us off one by one.”

A woman’s deep, sultry laugh rang through the night.

“Miss Ruby?” Lucille whispered under her breath. The adrenaline that had failed her all along suddenly rushed up in her. Her heart beat in loud and painful thuds as she continued to edge back.

“What was that?” McKee asked, then he took note of Lucille’s movement. “Where the hell you think you goin’?”

Lucille froze, but before she could answer, there was another rush of wind, followed by a blur of movement and a loud snap. Then Bob McKee’s body lay on the ground before them, his head wrenched clean off his neck. In spite of the horror she’d already felt, there was something so unnatural about seeing McKee’s head roll over his once white but now bloodstained hood. Lucille wondered if it was all a dream. The moment stretched on for longer than it should have, as though time had slowed to molasses. She watched on, removed and dispassionate, as the remaining men succumbed to panic. Sam Jessel jumped away from the bouncing head only to bump up against the cross and set fire to his robes. He flailed around screaming, calling for help, but there was no help to come. Lucille turned away from the sight.

Lucille deafened her ears to the sound of Jessel’s cries. She felt the power that had held her here begin to loosen its grip. She started walking toward her house, for the first time favoring her wounded foot.

She ignored the sound of Wayne Sleiger as he screamed the Lord’s Prayer. His words were cut off after “thy will,” anyway. If Wayne called out for mercy before his death, Lucille didn’t hear it.

She went inside her house and pulled out the cardboard suitcase she’d used for her honeymoon. She didn’t have a car, and the stationmaster knew better than to sell her a ticket. A powerful man, a man who believed he owned her, Ruby’s own father had forbidden her to leave town. But while Lucille knew she’d never make it out of Conroy, Mississippi, she’d be damned if her babies lived and died here.

TWO

Willy shifted his weight, trying to find a place on Mrs. Jones’s lap where her bony knees wouldn’t poke him.

“Stop squirming,” the beanpole of a woman complained.

Willy’s mama looked back over her shoulder at him. “You sit still,” she said, her voice quiet and tired, but still firm enough to make him settle.

Pastor Williams’s Nash Suburban was built to provide a comfortable ride for five, maybe six if those passengers didn’t like pie.

Most mornings, other than Sunday, the car was already filled to its limits, its wood sides straining to contain the pastor’s wife, Willy’s mama, and four other ladies, three of them widows like his mama, one of whom liked to say she was a good as widowed, what with a bone-idle husband like the good Lord had given her. These women, like his mama, lived outside Conroy, but worked as maids in town. There was no bus that ran out that far, so Pastor Williams took it upon himself to make sure they would have transportation from their homes, some as far as five miles from Conroy, into town where they earned their living. Mrs. Williams, the pastor’s pleasant but ample wife, always rode along for propriety’s sake, sitting between the preacher and whichever of the women he picked up last that day.

“It’s too hot for my jacket,” Willy grumbled. His mama had dressed him and Joy in their best, Willy in a suit and tie, Joy in a frilly white dress with a blue cardigan. They’d worn the same outfits to Sunday school just yesterday. At church, he’d been roughhousing with Joe Turner till Mrs. Wiley, their Sunday school teacher, threatened to make them go out and cut a switch. They settled down right fast then.

Yesterday, he never imagined that today he’d be leaving home.

“You keep that jacket on,” his mama said. “Don’t you take that thing off till you up with your auntie, you hear me?”

“Yes’m,” he said. Last night, after she joined them at the pastor’s house, he’d watched as she undid the lining and slid an envelope inside before repairing the jacket. She’d told him the envelope held a letter for his auntie, and what money she had to help take care of them till she could send more. His mama said they’d only be away a couple of weeks, but he knew full well she’d put everything she’d set aside in that envelope.

Most mornings this time of year—at least since his daddy had been gone—Willy and Joy said good-bye to their mama, and waited for the pastor and his wife to come back and carry Willy to school, and then bring Joy back home with them. Willy wouldn’t be going to school today. He wouldn’t be going to school for a little while, his mama said, at least round here.

A bump in the road caused him to bounce on Mrs. Jones’s knee and hit his head on the roof. “Ow,” he said, rubbing the side of his head, though the blow hadn’t really hurt, and it had been the top of his head rather than the side. Mrs. Jones shifted her legs. “Why don’t you stop squirming,” he muttered.

A sharp “Willy” from his mother’s lips caused his mouth to clamp shut, but only for a moment. “Those men were lying. I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t see why we gotta go.”

“I know, baby,” his mama said. “I know they were, but you can’t talk about those men no more. You never saw them, and you don’t know what happened to them.”

But Willy had seen the men, and it puzzled him that the pastor didn’t get on his mama for telling him to lie. He waited until he figured Pastor Williams had time to say something, but the man kept quiet.

“Last night you said Miss Ruby killed them. I heard you say it, Mama.”

“Your mama was mistaken,” Pastor Williams’s voice boomed in answer. Then it softened. “Ruby Lowell is dead, and Ecclesiastes tells us that the dead sleep and know nothing, ‘neither have they any more a portion forever in anything that is done under the sun.’ That means Miss Lowell couldn’t have been there.” He paused. “No, your mama was just upset. Scared for you and your sister. She doesn’t really know what happened to those men, and neither do you, so you keep still about it like your mama told you.”

Willy felt like he’d been chastened, and for no good reason. He sulked for a few moments, then decided to ask what he really wanted to know. “How long we gotta be up north anyway?” He hadn’t wanted to, he didn’t want to act like a baby, but as he posed the question his voice caught in his throat and he started crying, setting Joy off wailing again.

Worse, his mama started crying, too. She tightened her grip on Joy, and patted his sister’s head. “Shhhhh, baby.”

“You gonna have a good time up visiting your auntie Hettie,” Mrs. Green said, patting his knee. “Ain’t that right, Lucille?”

“That’s right,” his mama said, her voice full of cheer. She pasted a big smile on her face, and used the back of her hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “I done told you, Auntie Hettie’s gonna love having you two for a visit. You are gonna like it up there, Mama promises. Auntie Hettie and Uncle Ernie live in an apartment in a real nice town.”

“What’s an apartment?” Joy’s question came out muffled, her head buried in their mama’s shoulder.

“Well, it’s like a house, but it’s like a whole bunch of houses put together.” His mama shifted Joy so that she could see her face. “You are gonna have a whole bunch of kids your age to play with. A whole bunch of new friends.”

From what Willy could see of his sister, she seemed unconvinced, her eyes wide, but her mouth pinched in tight. “Why can’t you go with us?” Joy asked again. Even Willy had lost count of how many times, but he kept quiet. He, like his sister, hoped his mama would have a change of heart.

“I done told you, baby. The Judge, he can’t get along without your mama. But it ain’t gonna be for long. You two will be home before you know it, and complaining that you got to stay here with your tired old mama, rather than visit your fancy new friends up north.”

Joy stretched up, looking over their mama’s shoulder directly into his eyes. He knew his mama was fibbing, so he turned his head to watch out the window.

“What’s the town called again?” Mrs. Green asked, sounding like she’d be excited to be going in Willy’s place.

“Highwood,” his mama said, “and Hettie works for a real nice family real close to there in a place called Lake Forest. Don’t that sound nice?” his mama asked, but didn’t wait for a reply. “Auntie Hettie said they’s a lake there bigger than you’ve ever seen, right behind the house where she works.”

“Why, that sounds real nice,” Mrs. Green said. She patted his knee again, causing him to look at her. “Real nice.”

“I’ve been up to that area,” the pastor called back to Willy. “You like snow, don’t you? I remember your mama telling us how excited you were the first time you saw it.” He paused. “Up there, you’re gonna see snow piled up almost as high as you,” he said and laughed.

“What are they gonna do for coats?” his mama asked, sitting up straighter, and clasping Joy even tighter. It worried him that he could hear the worry in her voice. “It’s gonna get real cold up there soon, and Willy done outgrew the coat he wore last winter. I didn’t even think . . .”

“The good Lord is gonna provide,” Pastor Williams interrupted her. “You just have faith. We’ll pass the plate this Sunday, see to it your sister can buy good, sturdy ones for them.” The pastor’s promise seemed to make Willy’s mama relax. She slid back down, and commenced to rocking his sister like she was a real baby, not the six-year-old she was. She might not be a baby, but she was still too little to realize they were gonna be gone a lot longer than their mama was letting on. Willy wished he couldn’t tell his mama was lying to them either.

As they drove past, Willy’s eyes were drawn to a couple of people walking along the side of the road. He turned to look at them, as they in turn followed the passing car with their gaze. A skinny white boy in a plaid shirt and blue jeans, followed a few feet behind by an old woman, limp gray hair hanging pretty much down to her waist.

“She the one sending those letters?” Mrs. Williams asked, and Willy turned back to see the preacher’s wife staring over her shoulder at the two they’d just passed.

The pastor nodded without ever taking his eyes off the road. “That’s what we reckon. The scripture quoted was spelled correctly. Everything else was spelled phonetically, like the words were being guessed at.”

“What letters are these?” Mrs. Marshall asked, piping up for the first time.

“Nothing at all, sister,” Pastor Williams said. “Just the ramblings of an uneducated zealot more interested in watching the end of the world than making it a place Jesus would be proud of. Every church within twenty miles of Conroy, white and black, got one. Some written by hand, some carbon copies. But they’re just a bunch of nonsense, really.”

“What did these letters say?” Mrs. Marshall pressed the reverend.

Mrs. Williams looked back and shook her head. “Our Lucille doesn’t want to hear any of this now. And it isn’t really appropriate for the children to hear.”

“I want to know,” Willy said, curious only because the details had been labeled unsuitable for him to receive.

“Mrs. Williams said no,” his mama said, this time turning back so she could trace a finger along his cheek. Something about that gesture frightened Willy. It didn’t feel like a “watch your mouth,” it felt like a good-bye.

“Suffice it to say,” the pastor said, “she spoke of end times and quoted Exodus 12:22. You can look that up for yourself, sister, when you get home tonight.”

“I can look it up right now,” Mrs. Marshall said, tugging a well-worn black leather-bound Bible from her large purse. Willy watched as she flipped open to the passage, and read silently to herself. “Hmmm . . .” she said, closing the book and returning it to the bag.

As they drew nearer to town, a wall of fog enveloped them, making it impossible for Willy to pick out most of the familiar landmarks. They rode on, no one speaking, till the car passed a nearly concealed sign that Willy knew to read “Welcome to Conroy,” even though he couldn’t make out the letters today.

It was his mother who broke the silence that had fallen over them. “You’d better let us out a good distance from the station, Pastor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lucille,” he said, “I’m taking you and the children to the station. Gonna make sure they get off all right.”

Willy could see Mrs. Williams’s shoulders tense.

“I can’t let you do that, Pastor. If the Judge finds out you knew about my kids leaving . . .” She stopped short, and her face turned ashen. “We should’ve gone to the station in Tupelo, or maybe Muscle Shoals. What if the man at the station recognizes the children? What if he won’t sell us tickets?” she said, her voice coming out in a higher pitch, her words coming more quickly.

“Pull over here,” Mrs. Green commanded with an authority Willy had never heard before in her voice. From his perch on Mrs. Jones’s lap, Willy could see Mrs. Williams reach over and gently place a hand on her husband’s forearm. He turned his head, giving her a quick glance, and eased the car to the side of the road. He shifted the gear to park and killed the engine.

The pastor climbed out, then circled around the back of the car, opening the front door—Willy’s mama’s door—first, and then Willy’s. Willy slid off Mrs. Jones’s lap, and stood watching as his mama tried to pass Joy to the pastor so that she could more easily get out of the car. Joy refused to be handed over, tightening her arms around their mama’s neck.

The pastor stepped back, out of the way, and Willy’s mama shifted her feet to the ground. “It’s okay, baby,” she said to Joy. “Mama’s got you.” She placed her hand on top of the girl’s head to keep it from getting bumped as they exited the car, and stood, turning and facing Willy with a smile. She shifted Joy into one arm, and motioned Willy forward with the other. He took a couple of uncertain steps toward her, knowing that if he didn’t slow all this down, soon he’d be missing her. When he reached her side, she wrapped her free arm around his shoulders and pulled him into her. “You getting so big,” she said as if she’d hadn’t noticed his growth before. “You gonna be taller than me when . . .” She fell silent.

“Help me out, Mary,” he heard Mrs. Green say, and craned his neck to see Mrs. Jones offering a hand to the older lady. Mrs. Green slid out of the car, and ambled toward them, moving slowly. “My hip is acting up again,” she said rubbing her side. When she got to them, she grasped Willy by the shoulders and pulled him back from his mama. “You all go on now, Pastor,” she called out to their companions. “I’m gonna take care of this. Make sure these children get to go on this special trip.” Willy turned to see her beaming down on him.

Mrs. Jones slid back into the car without another word, closing the door behind her, but Pastor Williams hesitated. “Are you sure about this, sister?”

“Course I’m sure,” she said, releasing Willy and waving her hands to shoo the pastor away. “That white man who sells the tickets, he knows you, ’cause folk around here are worried about what you up to in ‘that church.’ He knows Lucille ’cause the Judge told him he’d better recognize her. But an old woman like me and a couple of Negro children? Even if he bothers to take a look at us, he’s ain’t gonna look at us twice.”

Pastor Williams nodded, then went and opened the trunk, pulling out the case their mama had packed for them and a tin he’d seen Mrs. Williams fill with cold chicken and biscuits drizzled with molasses. He handed Willy the tin, and set the case by their mama’s feet. He squatted down so he looked Willy straight in the eye. “You need to be a man for your mama, and keep an eye on that little sister of yours. Don’t you let her out of your sight, not for one second. You see to it you two get up to your auntie’s place safe. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Willy said, feeling a weight fall on his shoulders.

The pastor rose and then leaned in to place a kiss on Joy’s cheek. “You do what your brother tells you.”

“No,” Joy said, and buried her face back in their mama’s shoulder.

The pastor placed a hand on Joy’s back. “You do what your brother tells you,” he repeated, though this time it was clear that his words were a command, not a request. He cast Willy one last look, then went back to the car, firing it up and pulling away. Within moments, its taillights faded into the fog.