The Governor's Sons (36 page)

“Do you feel guilty about that or something?
 
It wasn’t your fault.
 
Lots of people died young back then, like--
the girl you loved
—for instance.”
 
Charlene hesitated.
 
“And dying in childbirth still happens.”

Damn that Lillian Ann!
 
Ash cursed to himself.
 
Just what the hell else had she said?

“And your family couldn’t be responsible for her safety.
 
Lillian Ann said she was raped.”

RAPE.
 
That sound plunged through Ash like an ice pick.
 
It still hurt to hear the word in connection to Kitty, because of that damned story Thomas fabricated all those years ago.

“Kitty wasn’t raped!” Ash said before he could stop himself.

“She wasn’t?
 
But that’s what Lillian Ann said.”

“Lillian Ann was wrong,” Ash said defensively, perhaps a little too defensively.
 
How could he gloss things over?
 
He wondered.
 
On second thought, perhaps this was the perfect opportunity to tell Charlene.
 
But no—the timing was all wrong.
 
Charlene was already angry. Telling her now wouldn’t be a good idea.

“So tell me about what happened.”

“Well, Kitty was—Betty Jean Hall’s sister.
 
We—”

“You never told me she had a sister.”
 
Charlene’s tone was cold.

“It—never came up—I guess…” Ash trailed off.

“Alright—so, she was that Betty Jean Hall’s sister.
 
And—” Charlene prodded bluntly.

“And—we were all about the same age.
 
They were at the house almost every day that summer—we—got to know each other.
 
We were—we were—friends.”

“Friends?”
 
Charlene cried.

“Yeah, honey, friends.
 
No harm in that, right?”
 
Ash said quickly.
 
“And Kitty told me she was in love—and pregnant.
 
When she died—her family told everyone she’d been raped.
 
They rationalized that—rape—would be better than have everyone know she willingly…”

“Oh,” Charlene responded, then lay silently.
 
“Since she was—
your friend—
did she tell you who the father was?”

Ash’s heart beat wildly.
 
He hoped Charlene couldn’t feel its vibrations shaking the bed.
 
“No.”

A stiff silence hung between them for a few seconds.
 
Charlene didn’t pursue the issue any further.
 
Maybe she was afraid to, Ash thought.
 
He figured it was safe to talk now, and shift the course of the conversation.

“Look, Charlene, Harland’s a good man.
 
Betty Jean wouldn’t have raised a son to be any other way.
 
Now, let’s reverse the situation.”
 
Ash calculated that the motherhood angle would play on Charlene’s emotions.
 
“What if--we were the Negro family?
 
As a mother, wouldn’t you want some nice folks to help Gavin out in a difficult situation?
 
Like maybe--a white family with some clout--and guaranteed protection?”

Charlene didn’t say anything for several moments.
 
Finally, she blew out a breath.
 
“Oh, Ash, I suppose you’re right.
 
And I guess—I guess I could be wrong about Harland Hall.”

Ash kissed her.
 
This time Charlene didn’t pull away.
 
As Ash’s lips left hers, he said, “I love you.”
 
He began removing her nightgown.

   
“I love you, too,” Charlene said, while helping him slip off her thin silk negligee.

Gavin’s Mustang tore through the streets as he made his way to Libby’s apartment.
 
With the convertible top down, wind ripped through his sun streaked hair.
 
Gavin momentarily forgot his rage when he stopped at a red light.
 
An attractive redhead wearing a mini-skirt winked at him as she crossed the street.

Gavin lowered his sunglasses and gave a sly gaze in return.
 
But once the light turned green, he forgot the redhead and a fresh infusion of fury fueled his veins.
 
Gavin floored the accelerator and the engine roared.
 
Fragile dogwoods swayed precariously as he sped by.

The speed limit was thirty; he was going about sixty but didn’t care.
 
Dad had warned him not to get another speeding ticket or he’d take away the Mustang.
  
But now Gavin didn’t give a damn about his dad or his dad’s stupid threats.
 
It felt good to think like that.
 
So good he said it out loud. “I don’t give a damn about Dad!”

Gavin screeched to a halt at Libby’s apartment.
 
He didn’t leave the car immediately.
 
He needed to calm down.
 
Libby’s condition was too delicate for him to face her as mad as he was. She was still too broken up over Uncle Otis.
 
Besides, what he was angry about didn’t concern her.

Gavin grabbed the steering wheel.
 
Feeling the well of tears, he looked down, then tightly closed his eyes.
 
Gavin wouldn‘t allow himself cry.
 
He gripped the steering wheel harder as he fought the urge.
 
His eyes almost burned as squeezed them shut.

Finally, the tears were gone.
  
He’d willed them to go away.
 
Gavin inhaled, then let out a breath.
 
Crying was for sissies--real men never cried, at least according to Dad.
 
Damn his father!
 
Gavin released the wheel and opened his eyes.
 
Everything was blurry for a moment.
 
After his vision cleared he looked toward Libby’s red brick building.
 
She was expecting him.
 
She’d called at 9:00 to see if he could swing by sometime before his 12:00 lifeguard shift.

He was glad to visit and console her.
 
But today, he didn’t know how good he’d be at that.
 
Still hurting from Uncle Otis’s death, Gavin now nursed a fresh wound.
 
Dad’s words at the breakfast table had whacked through him like a machete, with not the force of one blow, but of several.

His father had informed the family that next week Harland Hall would be staying with them for a couple of days.
 
Dad, sounding like a pompous jackass, claimed to be doing a favor for Hall’s mother.
 
She’d worked for Dad’s family a hundred years ago, or something.
 
Knowing Dad, he probably just wanted to look good to the colored people.
 
Even though this visit was supposed to be kept a secret for Hall’s protection, the word would get out, even if it wasn’t until after Hall left.

Nowadays, since the Negroes had the voting rights, or whatever, Dad was going after their votes for his party.
 
Gavin was convinced that this was the main reason Dad was bending over backwards trying to get all those colored men released from jail.
 

Dad believed Hall, and those associated with him, had nothing to do with Uncle Otis’s murder.
 
“Hall’s a good man,” Dad had said, “an upstanding citizen, a son any father would be proud of…”
 
Those words, “a son any father would be proud of,” reverberated through Gavin’s mind with deafening clarity.

And Dad had looked right at Gavin when he’d said them.
 
But he didn’t stop there.
 
“Hall graduated number one in his class from Morehouse College, and was in the top ten of Harvard Law School’s graduating class.
 
He played football and ran track and field.
 
Not only a superior student, but a fine athlete, as well.
 
That man hasn’t had nearly the advantages of you kids, and being a Negro hasn’t made his life easy, but look at what he’s achieved.
 
A successful law career and now a Civil Rights leader.
 
I may not agree with everything he says, but he’s a man to be admired.”

Dad said Gavin didn’t apply himself, that he was lazy.
 
“But I try!” Gavin thought.
 
“It just seems like the words don’t stay still on the page.”
 
Dad never believed that reading made Gavin dizzy; Dad just claimed that that was an excuse not to try.
 
But Gavin was an athlete to be envied, even though Dad hardly came to any of his sporting events, and he rarely praised him for his athletic achievements.

Dad hadn’t said that stuff about Harland Hall for JoBeth or Leigh Ann to hear.
 
He’d said it to crush Gavin, and he’d succeeded.
 
Dad had never been proud of him, Gavin thought, yet he carried on about that nigger like he was the greatest thing since sliced bread.

“Nigger,” it felt good to say that, too.
 
Mom and Dad didn’t approve of that word.
 
But people in the Organization did.
 
Uncle Otis never said it, and neither did Libby while Otis was alive, but since he’d died, that was the only way she referred to colored people.
 
And that was the only way Gavin would ever refer to Harland Hall.
 
Damned if
he’d
be exalted to “Colored!”

Gavin climbed from the car.
 
As he walked toward Libby’s building all he could think about was payback.
 
Uncle Otis had loved him and been proud of him.
 
Uncle Otis came to his baseball games, swim meets and track and field competitions.
 
He’d praised every performance, even if Gavin had lost, and he’d been proud of every trophy and medal Gavin had won.
  
And now he was gone—gone because of Harland Hall.

Gavin knew better than Dad.
 
Hall’s people were the cause, maybe not Hall himself, but his associates.
 
Hall could hide behind a veil of non-violence, but Gavin knew that was a lie.
 
Hall would pay for what he did to Uncle Otis, and pay in a big way.

****

Although Libby lay propped in bed wearing a pink cotton bathrobe over her polka dot pajamas, the one room efficiency apartment was immaculate.
 
The yellow bedspread was pulled back neatly, no dirty dishes filled the sink, and the blue Formica countertop was spotless.
 
She hoped this wouldn’t arouse any suspicion in Gavin.
 
A compulsive housekeeper, her surroundings hardly appeared as though she’d been in bed, prostrate with grief.
 
She looked at two cigarette butts in an ashtray on her small white nightstand.
 
“Pardon the mess.”
 
Gavin looked distracted, and didn’t respond.
 
Good, she thought.
 
The lack of mess hadn’t registered with him.

“I’m glad you could come by again today, Gavin.”
 
Libby looked at him sweetly.
 
He’d pulled over a blue vinyl chair from the dinette set and sat near her bed.
 
“Just having you around reminds me of Otis—and that makes me feel better.”

“I gotta make sure you’re alright.” He ran a hand through his hair.
 
“Uncle Otis would want that.”

“I miss your uncle, honey.
 
He took such good care of me.” Libby reached for a pink crochet covered box of Puffs.
 
She pulled out a tissue and wiped her eyes.
 
“That Harland Hall—he has to be punished for what his people did.” Gavin didn’t say anything.
 
He sat hunched over studying his white high top Converse sneakers.
 
“Gavin.”
 
His eyes met hers.
 
“Don’t you agree?”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that.
 
But what can we do?”

Libby was silent for a moment.
 
“What do you know about him coming here?
 
You told me once that your father has some sort of connection with him.
 
He knows his mother—or something?”

“Yeah,” Gavin said quietly.
 
“Dad’s helpin’ him out next week when he comes to town.
 
He’ll be looking for an apartment and office.
 
But guess what?
 
That—
nigger
,” Gavin said with robust hatred, “is actually gonna stay at
our
house!”

Libby gasped. “A
nigger
?
 
At the Governor’s Mansion?”

“Yeah, I still can’t believe it, myself.
 
A real, live
nigger
!”

Libby smirked.
 
“So—is he at least gonna stay with the hired help?”

“Noooo! He’s gonna stay in a guest room!”

Libby made a nasty face.
 
“Well, once he leaves, the whole place ought to be fumigated!
 
She glanced toward her plastic covered orange couch. “And before he comes, arrangements should be made to plastic coat all the furniture!” Libby shook her head.
 
“How can your father open up the tax payer, government funded Governor’s Mansion to a
nigger
--and a
murderer
?”