True Fires (25 page)

49

From the moment that Judge Woods pounded his gavel,
declarin’ for us, ’stead of aginst us,
Daniel noticed, everyone’s mood changed.
Like the sun comin’ onter the holler after a hard rain,
he thinks.

Except for Miss Lila’s clenched jaw at the sight of the Sheriff leaving the Courthouse, and her whispered suggestion to Pap that “You’d best keep an eye out,” there was nothing but smiles all around from Miz Ruth, Mister and Miz Meyers from the lumberyard, Mister Red, and the others from the prayer vigil.

After all the shaking of hands, the thumping of backs, and the heartfelt thank-yous to Mr. Marsh, they’d made their way to Pap’s truck where Uncle Will suggested a surprise stop at the Dairy Queen drive-in. Afterward, the girls, faces sticky from their cones, knowing they’ll be back in school again come Monday, chirped like spring birds all the way home.

This morning, when Aunt Lu discovered that some varmit got into her chicken coop and left a mess of broken eggshells, she laughed.
Laughed!
And, Pap, inspecting the paw prints outside the coop, grinned and said, “Well, Daniel, guess we’ll be havin’ your possum hunt tonight. Prob’ly taken up in some rabbit hole out-air in our field. Whyn’t you walk ’round today, see if you kin spy its den?”

THE GIRLS RUN OUT AHEAD OF HIM, in search of some lucky four-leaf clovers; Minna, as usual, bossing SaraFaye as to which way to go. Even ’Becca, still not much for talking, smiles at him on her way out into the field.

Daniel trails along after them, relishing the feel of his .22, looking forward to the night’s hunt with Pap. And, if that weren’t enough to make a boy’s heart fairly burst with high spirits,
here comes Ol’ Sampson trompin’ outta the woods with his
smoker, come to check the hives on this happy day.

“Hey, Sampson,” “Hey!” the cousins call. ’Becca adds a shy wave.

Sampson grins, tips his hat, then, bearing in on Daniel, adds, “Good day, heh?”

Daniel’s given up trying to understand how the Ol’ Seminole knows all that he knows. It
is
a good day, for one and all.

“Huntin’ somethin’?” the ancient black Indian asks, nodding toward Daniel’s rifle.

“Possum, tonight,” Daniel answers proudly. “Just sniffin’ out his hole today.”

Sampson is busy with the smoker and a match. Daniel smells the pine needles light, watches Sampson pump the bellows to release a stream of smoke, and begin to inspect the nearest hive. “Be back soon,” Daniel says and sets out himself, eyes to the ground.

On the far side of the field, he hears before he sees the heavy rumble of the Sheriff’s car, and, behind it, the Deputy’s pickup truck.
Bet they come for their sawhorses,
he thinks, as the Sheriff and his Deputy stop by the stack of two-by-fours on the edge of their road.

Intent on his own hole hunt, Daniel doesn’t see, till it’s too late, that the Sheriff’s walked out to where ’Becca sits alone, poking through the clover.

“Well, looky here,” the Sheriff drawls, hands on his hips, “if it ain’t the little pickaninny started all this mess.”

Daniel sees the Sheriff cock his head, sees ’Becca freeze in the big man’s shadow.

“Forgot your name, li’l troublemaker. What is it?” ’Becca looks up, soft brown eyes big as saucers, then quickly drops her chin. Daniel sees her skinny shoulders start to shake, sees her hand, with its small clutch of clover, reach up to wipe away a tear.

“I
said,
”—the Sheriff hauls ’Becca up by a single bony arm—“what’s your name, girl?”

“Leave her be,” Daniel yells, running toward them, holding his .22 in a two-handed grip.

“Whoa,” the Sheriff, thick fingers around ’Becca’s elbow, turns on Daniel, “two little Niggers for the price of one. Only asked her name, boy. But ’pears to me, girl’s acting uppity. You got any idea what we do with uppity Niggers ’round here?”

“Turn her loose,” Daniel says, his breath rasping, eyes boring into the big man’s face. Just below his breastbone, his right forefinger releases the .22’s safety, levers over into ready.

“Gonna shoot the Sheriff, boy?”—He parts his lips in a slow grin.—“All I want . . .”—He slips his free hand to his hip, unholsters his gun.—“. . . is this li’l girl’s nigger-nosed name.”—He pulls his pistol up and out—“C’mon, now,”— slides the barrel under ’Becca’s chin, raising it, forcing her to lift her smudged and terrified face. “I
said,
what’s your name, gal?”

Daniel’s heart hammers inside his chest. He lifts his rifle to eye level, braces his legs, takes aim. “Turn my sister loose, Sheriff.”

The Sheriff’s using the tip of his four-inch barrel to trace the outline of ’Becca’s nose, now shiny with tears, up one side and down the other. “Nose like this,” he says softly, “gotta have a name.”

Just below his bead, Daniel sees ’Becca trembling, white-eyed, as the Sheriff’s gunmetal caresses her face. He sees the Sheriff, too; smiling mouth beneath cold, cruel eyes. Those same eyes had singled him out in Miss Burch’s classroom, not as a boy but as something less—wings outside the duck blind, hooves in the woods, a silvery tail upstream—something to be hunted, trapped, slaughtered for sport. Daniel feels the hot blood of outrage, the searing flush of fear.
“Look after yer sister.”
He’d promised Mam.
Now that man had a .38 in ’Becca’s face . . .
refused to leave her, leave us, BE!

Bam! The Sheriff’s eyes flash surprise. Then, suddenly, his big bear’s body pitches forward, off his feet.

“NO!” Sampson, somehow beside him, howls and wrenches the .22 out of Daniel’s grip. “No, boy, no!”

“What the hell!” the Deputy shouts, scrambling up out of nowhere. “Sheriff?” He flops the big man over onto his back, recoils from the hole between the Sheriff’s eyes. “You crazy Nigger!” he yells. “You killed him!” He swoops up the Sheriff’s pistol, fires it, point-blank, at Sampson’s chest.

’Becca covers her ears, screams and screams.

Daniel cries out, drops to his knees in horror as Sampson crumples to the earth beside him. “Sampson,” he cries, flinging his arms around his friend. “Sampson!” he wails as a stain of dark blood blossoms onto the Ol’ Seminole’s chest. “
He
didn’t . . .” Daniel turns to tell the Deputy, but ancient black fingers grasp his shirt, yank him eye to eye.

“Don’t say it, Dan’l! Don’t! Live, you hear? LIVE!!” Sampson whispers with his final breath.

50

Lila stands, hand on the office door, and yells toward the kitchen. “Sissy!”

“Woo-hoo,” Sissy hollers back, her signal that she’ll be there in a minute.

Lila waits, eager to be done, until Sissy appears in front of her, wiping soapy hands on her apron. “Come in, would you please?” Lila steps aside to let her pass, then quietly closes the door.

“What is it, girl? Ah got pies ’bout ready to come outta the oven.”

“Sit down, please, Sissy,” Lila insists gently. She pats the arm of one of the leather chairs in front of the Judge’s desk, seats herself in the other.

“Well, jus’ for a minute or two,” Sissy says.

Lila leans forward. “We got somethin’ important to talk about.” She reaches to the file folder and flips it open.

Sissy’s eyes search Lila’s face.

“I’m done here, Sissy. Finished. Leavin’ for Washington this afternoon.” Got a couple things left to do today, and then I’m gone. For good.”

“But it’s Thanksgivin’ tomorrow. You can’t . . .” Lila’s look silences her.

“It shouldn’t surprise you to hear me say that none of this”—the sweep of Lila’s hand takes in the Judge’s office, his house, his groves surrounding it—“means anything to me. Truth is, I lost interest in all of it the day we got word Louis was dead. These papers”—she lays her hand on the file— “transfer everything to you.”

Sissy sits back like she’s seen a snake. “But, your mamma . . .”

“Will be more than taken care of,” Lila snaps sharply, then, seeing Sissy’s face, softens. “Look, what I’m giving you is a choice. You’re a wealthy woman now. You can stay or go, retire in style to East Town, or move to West Atlanta, or, frankly, any damn place you please.”

“But your . . .”

“I spoke with Doc Ellis. At the rate Mamma’s going, her liver’s not long for this world. She ought to be committed. But Daddy didn’t have the heart to do that, and neither do I. So Doc Ellis has agreed to arrange round-the-clock nurse care. And Paine Marsh will serve as her legal guardian.”

“But . . .”

“Paine’s fixed it. You asked me to come back and keep Kyle from gettin’ everythin’ whole hog. I did. And now, I’ve given it all to you. And there’s nothing, not one damn thing, anybody can do about that.”

“But she got a right . . .”

“No, Sissy, she doesn’t. Far as I’m concerned, she gave up her right the night she chose to do Louis and Lynette wrong all those years ago.”

Sissy’s eyes are troubled. “Law, Missy.” Her shoulders heave. “That was a terrible thing. You think doin’ this to your mamma, or to me, gonna make that right?”

“Nothin’ in the world can make what she and Kyle did to Louis right. I know that now,” Lila tells her quietly. “But, with Louis and Daddy gone, the only other person in this house I care about, or who truly cares about me, is you.”

“Oh, child, you got to lay this all by!”

“I will. I am. Fact is, soon as I let Mamma know what’s what, I’m shed of all this forever.”

“But, I ain’t ’bout to turn your mamma over to some strange nurses. You know that.” Sissy’s look is fierce.

“Oh, Sissy. In spite of all she’s said and done over all these years—Well, like I said, it’s entirely your choice.” Lila points at the papers. “Paine is expecting you this afternoon to go through all this. Franklin Dare has agreed to stay on, manage the groves. And you may or may not have a cattle herd that you’ll probably want to sell. Any other questions, any problems, just ask Paine. He’s a good man, Paine is.”

“Ah don’t care ’bout all that.”

“Not now maybe, but you will.” Lila digs in the pocket of her slacks, fishes out the truck keys. “I’d appreciate it, after I speak with Mamma, if you’d give me a ride to the airport?”

Sissy takes the keys, cradles them in her apron lap. Lila watches the feelings—
sorrow, concern, love, hope?
—that cross, like clouds, the familiar old face. Finally, her eyes brimming tears, Sissy looks up. “You
mean
this? This be the thing that’ll make you happy?”

“It’s a start,” Lila answers softly. Tenderly, she plants a kiss on Sissy’s dark, cinnamon-scented cheek.

Sissy stares at her, sadly. “Oh, girl.” She sighs. Her tone is resigned. Then, with a sudden wicked crinkling of crow’s feet, she suggests, “How ’bout we take the Cadillac instead?”

51

Mind racing, fingers flying, half-smoked Pall Mall hanging off her lower lip, Ruth is deep into the story of Sheriff DeLuth’s funeral, the coroner’s swift closing of the double-murder case, and the Governor’s dramatic announcement that, at the widow’s request, Fred Sykes has been named interim Sheriff until the next election.

Whatever possessed Birdilee DeLuth to ask that her husband’s
political rival become his replacement? Didn’t she claim, “Politics is
Kyle’s cup of tea, not mine”? What changed her mind? And what
prompted the Governor to grant such a thing?
Both had refused interviews. But, in the back of her brain, Ruth believes the answer lies in the additional odd elements she’s sworn an oath not to tell.

She recalls this morning’s phone call to the head of the Clark Christian Academy. Her purpose was to find a home for the nearly four hundred dollars she’d received from donors across the country on the Dare family’s behalf. “Franklin won’t take it,” she’d explained to Dr. Leighton. “I’d like to give it to you, to apply to the expenses of the children’s education.”

“I’ll be happy to deposit it in our school’s scholarship fund, but I must admit that tuition for all four of the Dare children has been fully funded.”

“By whom?” Ruth asked.

“In part, by a most generous endowment from Miss Lila Hightower,” Dr. Leighton had told her cautiously.

“In part? Who else, then?”

“Well, I’m not exactly at liberty to say.”

“Oh, please,” Ruth had pleaded, “I’ve worried over this family for weeks; lost almost a third of my business defending them against Sheriff DeLuth and the Klan. You must tell me!”

“It’s a most surprising source. If I do reveal it, you’ll have to promise it will go no further.”

“Off the record, you mean?”
Jesus, who could it be?

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

Ruth could hear the resolve in the old gentleman’s voice. “All right,” she’d agreed. “Who?”

“Just yesterday, Mrs. Birdilee DeLuth appeared at my office to inquire after the Dare children.”

“Birdilee DeLuth, the Sheriff’s—” Ruth had been dumb-struck.

“Widow. Yes. I was surprised myself. Mrs. DeLuth said she was concerned that the children had been traumatized by this fall’s events and by witnessing her husband’s demise. She wanted to make sure their future was secure, with a significant, anonymous contribution on their behalf.”

“And she handed you a big, fat check?”

“It was cash, actually, in small, well-used bills.”

“But how? Why?”

“All she’d say was, ‘Those poor children, this entire community, has suffered enough.’ ”

In the lobby, the receptionist’s voice cuts through Ruth’s musing on the mysteries of Birdilee DeLuth. “May I say who’s askin’, ma’am?”

“Hightower, Lila.”

“Oh, Miss Hightower, I didn’t . . . Sorry . . . Please, go right in!”

Ruth looks up, curious, as Lila fills the doorway, trim and broad-shouldered, in full W.A.C. uniform—auburn hair tucked primly under flat-topped, small-brimmed hat, khaki shirt, knotted tie, crisply tailored olive drab jacket, matching skirt.
So she owns a skirt after all!

“Blessed are they who hunger and thirst after righteousness!” Lila sweeps in, sets a good-size cardboard box in the middle of Ruth’s desk. “For they shall inherit the dirt!”

“Good God . . .” Ruth bolts up. Her forgotten cigarette teeters on her lip. She grabs it, stabs it dead in the ashtray, and does a broad double take on Lila’s gold oak leaves. “You’re a—”

Lila grins. “Major, ma’am.”

“Jesus! Off to the V.F.W.? Give the local boys a thrill?”

“Airport, actually.” Lila’s eyes brighten to the point of sparkle. “Back to the Capital.”

Ruth’s attention is drawn, like a magnet, to the cardboard box between them. “What’s all this?”

“As I recall, you said you enjoyed diggin’ in the dirt. There’s enough here”—Lila opens the box lid—“to keep you in mud pies for a month of Sundays.”

The box is crammed with manila file folders. Ruth scans the tabs, some typed, some hand-scrawled with the names of a number of county and state luminaries.

Lila continues. “The Judge had the goods on every bad boy around, here and in Tallahassee. Kept him on top of the heap for years. I figure these’ll help you keep Clive Cunningham and the rest of his crew in line. In case they try to stir up another hornet’s nest.”

Ruth feels her fingers itch, actually tingle, in anticipation of digging through Judge How-High’s secret files. (Although, she remembers, she’s promised Hugh to “lay off the controversial stuff for a while.”) She smiles widely. “So, the prodigal daughter got what she came for?” she asks.

Lila squints out the window. It’s a brilliant day, the sky a sharp, clear blue after the early-morning rain. Ruth notices, for the first time, the shiny Cadillac out front, with the tiny brown woman behind the wheel.

“I believe I did, Ruth. I found out the truth.” Lila’s eyes dart back to Ruth’s. “The bare, unvarnished truth about a whole lot of things. And the funny thing is, it’s left me feeling . . .
free,
finally free of stuff I’ve been carryin’ ’round for years.”
Fire
and ice.
Ruth remembers her first impression of the striking Miss Hightower.
But this Lila’s lost her polar ice cap, she’s practically aglow with warmth and something else—purpose?

“Congratulations.” Ruth reaches out her hand; Lila returns her grip, firm, businesslike. “So you’re off to rattle the Joint Chiefs?”

“No.” Lila looks down, brushes invisible lint off her sleeve. “Something else, I think,” she says quietly, “out of uniform.”

What? Why? When?
Ruth wants to ask but Lila’s face— private, pained—stops her. Lila wavers, closed lips pressed tight against her teeth.
As if she’s searching for words, or deciding
whether to share a confidence.
A sudden resolve softens her. She looks up. “Oh, hell, Ruth, I’ve got a shot at something, something pretty big, in H.E.W.”

“Secretary Hobby’s staff ? Terrific!”

“Of course, it’s only an interview at this point. But I do have a bit of an in.”

“They’ll be lucky to have you.”

“So,”—Lila favors Ruth with a wry smile—“if this thing works out, I’ll take on the monkeys’ backsides in Washington— try to knock ’em into building more and better schools instead of bombs—and you’ll keep the local
illegitimus
in line?” This time, it’s Lila who extends her hand across the desk.

This time, Ruth notes, Lila’s clasp is personal, her palm surprisingly warm. In it, Ruth feels the quick, searing sense of impending loss.

“Give the bastards hell,” Lila tells her softly.

“Deal,” Ruth says, wondering, not for the first time,
Where’s
the goddamn good in good-bye?

It is a day of mourning. The Old Ones and She
Who Decides such things decreed it. But, long
before Her word came ’round, they knew it was
to be.

At break of day, the Young One comes respectfully, bearing smoke. And, for hours on end, he
toils alone, refusing the help of all who o fer.

At last, when his solitary task is done, the
others come, bearing the body to its resting place
in the sacred center of the Colony’s circle.

There are words and a song and a prayer in
his language, then, once again, at the Young
One’s insistence, the others leave and he toils
alone. At last, when He Who Provides is finally
at rest, the Young One erects a wooden symbol,
crossed bars bearing, at the joint, the Colony’s
own sacred six-sided shape.

Among them, the Young One stands, weeping. Wiping tears, he stops to consider his
palms. “God’s Eye,” he whispers in the language
they cannot hear. “Means—” He struggles with
memory. “Means—honor the Most High. And—”
The Colony falls silent. “And protect the Least
Low,” He says, in movements they recognize,
have prayerfully watched for. At last, the dance
begins, the hum of rejoicing. He Who Provides
has provided them an Heir.