Zion (9 page)

He raised an eyebrow at the sex but said nothing to them. He found the sack on the floor and pulled it over to the light in the doorway and untied the top of it. He removed several paper bags that were filled with leaves and big stems. He crammed the bags into the sack and carried it into the kitchen.

Took gripped the knife in his hand where he was cutting garlic at the table. “How is it?”

James Luke threw the rucksack at him with all of his might, and the blow knocked vegetables off the table and onto the floor. The knife fell, too. And in a second, before Took could react, James Luke rushed him and started beating him upside the head with a pair of brass knuckles that he’d pulled from his back pocket. “Don’t lie to me you damned boon. Don’t you ever dare try to pass this shit off to me again. You said this was bud, but it’s ditch weed.” He beat Took with the brass knuckles and his fist, knocking the man down. As he lay on the floor, James Luke continued to swing.

Took’s mouth made a cruel gesture as if he could see his own death, the destiny of judgment, the sulfuric fires of everlasting torment, an abyss encroaching and surrounding his spirit like a band of fallen angels. He was terrified under the steady onslaught of the man’s heavy blows.

James Luke snatched up the butcher knife, but he hardly slowed the iron-clad fist. And Took’s screams did nothing to stop the attack.

The loud blows summoned the man and the woman from the bedroom. They emerged through the doorway, their naked bodies wrapped in sheets. Other men began to file into the front room from the porch. They watched, gawking, the intensity of James Luke’s rage surprising them, turning everyone into impotent witnesses.

He left the bag of dope. With one hand he grabbed the sharp butcher knife, and with the other he gathered Took’s shirt in his hand. He began to drag Took by the collar, pulling the sweat-covered body toward the open room, away from the kitchen as he attempted to crawl away to escape the rage.

“He lied to me, and he had it coming. I’m going to drag his black ass to the truck, and if any one of you as much as peeps, I’ll cut his throat and yours, too,” James Luke said, meaning every word of it.

The blacks gave him room, pushing to the sides and away from James Luke and Took. They watched as he pulled the semi-conscious man out the door to the porch and down the rickety wood steps and into the yard toward the Suburban.

From the porch, the onlookers stared at James Luke as he dragged his prey. There was an uncanny stillness and hatred in their eyes toward this spectacle, but a measure of unchained terror had set in. They were witnessing a one-man lynching of their friend by a monster. That’s how these onlookers would remember the event the rest of their lives. This was the ignoble wrath and consummated horror of an enraged white man against his enemies.

Once at the Suburban, James Luke let go of Took and opened the door. The black man fell flat on the ground. James Luke slung the butcher knife over the cab of the truck and into a briar thicket, and he pulled out his Colt .45 automatic from his truck seat and brandished it for the men on the porch to see. Then he started the big engine and drove away down the muddy lane.

There were times when Wesley could not comprehend his father’s decisions, which came to him like a slap in the face. He and his family had been saving so that he could attend USL and study architecture, but a good portion of the savings went toward the down payment on the Ford Maverick that he drove. Wesley was pleased to have missed the military draft being twenty years old with the war coming to an end. He could see the Vietnam conflict dying on the vine with a whimper instead of a roar. The draft was effectively ended, and because he was born in 1954, he was never really in line to go to Southeast Asia. The authority to induct anyone ended on June 30, 1973, and Wesley felt safe. The only drawback was that he wouldn’t have the GI Bill to pay for more college.

He needed the extra money from the job at the Claiborne House, not for the fall term but for the spring. He pondered it Monday night and was unable to sleep. So on Tuesday evening, while working on his summer school project at the Industrial Arts Shop on campus, he called Charity in an act of defiance against his father. He felt boxed in by Tom, and he didn’t like it at all.

Over the telephone, he apologized for his father’s actions, making up a tale about his father being on a strong medication for his blood pressure that affected his judgment. On and on, lie after lie, tall tale after tall tale.

Charity invited him to come over and bring his portfolio of work. They set a time of six o’clock on Wednesday. Nothing would make him happier than to get the project started, he said.

The excitement, the forbidden fruit, and the prospects of doing the work alone was a challenge. It almost made him too high to think at all. He could use the college’s shop—not the one at his father’s maintenance department, but the facility in the Industrial Arts Shop used for students and classes. He and his teachers were good friends, and he was on solid enough terms to do personal projects any time he wished, day or night. He was the only student in the program to have a staff key to the building.

Wesley arrived at the oak-lined street a minute before six on Wednesday. He was conscientious like his father, even while he was secretly rebelling against his father’s rules. As much as he was a drafting student, he was also an art student, and he told himself that he was going to let his hair grow a little longer once he arrived in Lafayette, maybe sow some wild oats, have a good time, party a little in Cajun country, and as the French say,
Laissez le bon temps rouler!
He wanted the good times to roll in Acadiana.

He carried his big brown portfolio under his arm just like the last meeting, walking to the front steps of the big house, the same place he’d visited on Monday with his father. His heart beat irregularly, almost skipping beats. Dissent from the rules was a great motivator. He overcame his momentary fear and rang the doorbell.

The door opened. Charity Claiborne stood tall. She was buxom yet fit, elegant for a woman of her background, an unlettered vixen who got by on her sexual prowess and willingness to use it for gain. She exercised often, playing tennis at the country club near the little local airport, and she swam daily in the backyard pool, often nude. This evening, she wore a Japanese gown, which she’d bought tailored in Okinawa on her honeymoon with Dr. Claiborne several months earlier. The gown was tight around her hips and pelvis, and it made her look like a model in
Esquire
. Wesley read the magazine from time to time at the college library where his mother worked.

“Please come in,” Charity said. “I was watching from the window, waiting for you to get here. Did you circle the block to make it at six on the nose or do you have great timing?” she asked as a German cuckoo clock rang the hour in the living room.

“No, I just planned it right,” he said, stepping into the foyer.

She shut the door and stood near him beaming.

Wesley looked at a painting on the wall that resembled something by one of the Dutch masters, an oil painting of an aged man at a small table, his face long with a pronounced nose and a flamboyant wig. It was hung opposite of the front door and was framed in exquisite gold that seemed to be wrought iron or forged and covered with leaf.

“This is really nice,” Wesley said.

“Oh,” she said, touching the frame. “That is the portrait of the explorer Pierre Le Moyne, Sieur d’Iberville. He’s an ancestor on Dr. C.’s mother’s side.”

“That’s interesting,” he said.

She led him into the large formal living room. Wesley blushed slightly at the split in her dress showing her long legs. He thought it was funny that she referred to her husband as “Dr. C.” But then he realized what she meant—chiefly by the way she raised her eyebrows when she said “Dr. C.,” as if he was in the next room and busy with some important task or perhaps dying in a hospital bed or recently buried, as if he was under her nose and she was not at all pleased with it.

In the living room, she babbled about art pieces they owned, turning her head around to face him when she spoke. She pointed out pieces hanging on the walls as she bragged.

Wesley felt awkward. He wondered if she cared at all about the carpentry project. The woman asked him questions about his college major, his plans for the future, and what he carried inside the portfolio. When they walked into the informal den, which abutted a glass sun porch, she invited him to sit on the couch, a comfortable tan velour couch that overlooked the backyard. He bounced his foot and his leg unconsciously like the beat of a metronome on top of a piano.

She sat sideways watching his right leg bounce. Charity smiled. “Don’t be nervous, Wesley.”

He stilled his leg, embarrassed that she’d picked up on his anxiety.

The woman continued. “I would like the room to be fitted with adjustable bookshelves on all walls with cabinets on the bottom, something British-looking and fancy but not too fancy. Wood that’s stained dark. I want them to work with a sliding ladder like the one I saw on television once. The ladder rails should be near the ceiling and have wheels at the bottom to move it along. In fact, Dr. C. has ordered a ladder with a brass rail. It should be here by the end of the week. Dr. C’s still at Vanderbilt in Nashville and won’t be back until the early flight first thing in the morning,” she said, winking.

Wesley opened his portfolio and took out a black sketchpad and a pencil. He also had an aluminum tape measure. He showed Charity black and white photographs, 8x10s that he’d taken of projects, film he’d developed at school. Kitchen cabinets, bathroom cabinets, a desk, and a set of bunk beds built for a cousin in Packwood Corners. The photographs were interesting and artfully done for local work. Wesley was an accomplished photographer and could develop the photographs to his advantage. He could tell she liked the work.

Charity held these pictures in her long fingers and studied them with her bottom lip bit slightly and crimped in her teeth. “These are marvelous. How much was your father involved in building these?” she asked.

He’d expected the question. “My father is employed full-time at the junior college, and I work in our shop on all of the projects. I do it at least forty hours a week on top of school. It’s all my work. My old man helps, but I do the jobs from design to installation, and I can do your job from beginning to end and provide you with a finished product just like you want. I’m going to USL in Lafayette this fall to study architecture,” he said.

“You’re confident, Wesley. Maybe a little cocky. I’ll give you that much,” she said. “How much will you charge us?”

“I go by a simple formula. The cost of materials times two, plus ten percent. I assume you want oak. I’ll do a draft, get your approval, and then come back with two quotes on materials from hardware stores in town. That’ll give you the price based on the lowest material cost,” he said.

“Great. Oak is fine. Just stain it dark brown. How long will it take?”

“Well, I’ll have the rough sketch and quotes on materials within a few days. I’ll need about six weeks at the most if I’m working alone, start to finish for a good job, barring some kind of unforeseen problem. I’m taking my last class at Baxter State, an independent study course with Mr. C.J. Kirby, which won’t take much time. I’ll devote all of my waking hours exclusively to your project. Can I look at the room where you want the study built?”

“Absolutely. Follow me,” she said.

Wesley stood up, gathering his things and placed the photographs into the portfolio. He noticed her knee again, the fit and strong leg slipping out of the dress, and he tried not to stare as they walked to the study, down an open hallway across the room. She pushed down her dress where it rode high on her hips, the split on one side showing plenty of thigh.

The study had two chairs and a large roll top desk that appeared to Wesley like an expensive antique. There were a couple of pine book shelves that were crudely built and full of double stacked books. Other books sat in piles on the floor. He began to measure and write the dimensions of the area in his sketch pad. He asked Charity to hold the end of the tape measure. He took copious notes in his book. All the while, she was chatting about her ideas for the room.

When he was done with the measurements, Charity said she might want Wesley to draw up an additional plan for a new cabinet for a double washbasin in the master bedroom. She wanted a double instead of the single basin that was presently in the room. But her husband had not agreed on the bathroom renovation project yet, she said. She wanted a written plan to show Dr. Claiborne. This would help her persuade him to do more renovations on the old house.

Wesley followed Charity down the hall and up some stairs to the master bedroom. She turned on the light. He was a little unsure of the situation. For a moment, he almost regretted coming to the house in defiance of his father. He followed her deep into the bedroom where a queen-sized bed was made up with silver linen sheets and yellow pillows with frilly edges.

They stepped into the bathroom. It was at least three times larger than the bathroom at Wesley’s family home, the one he’d helped his father build onto the back of his parent’s bedroom. It had a porcelain vanity and wall-to-wall mirrors, an oversized tub and cabinets. He looked at it carefully, and got his sketchpad ready. His hand shook a little, nervous to be in the bedroom suite alone with the woman.

Charity said she had some good ideas for new cabinetry from Southern Living magazine, and she’d find the issue for him. Then she asked if he had a girlfriend and he said no. He answered directly and respectfully as possible but focused on making quick sketches and writing measurements in his pad.

When he finished looking over the room and doing a final check on his measurements, they walked back into the bedroom. She dimmed the lights. He was surprised and more than a little uncomfortable.

“How much will the bathroom project cost, and can we get a discount for both?” she asked.

“I’m not sure, but it won’t cost too much. I don’t think anyhow. You’re going to need to have a plumber to run the double pipe, which might cost a good bit. Plus the new washbasin and fixtures. I’ll quote you a fair price and stick to it. How about that?”

“Cool,” she said, putting her hand on his upper arm as they stood at the foot of the bed.

He nearly recoiled but stopped himself short.

She instantly took in his shock. Her face was radiant and warm with heat. “Please sit a minute, Wesley.” She was still holding his bicep. “I promise I won’t bite you. Relax. I just want to talk about our little project.”

“Ma’am, I think we’d better go downstairs, and I really need to go home.”

“Sure, we can do that, but don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ I’m hardly any older than you.” She let go of his arm, and they left the bedroom together.