by Cathy Gohlke
But it was all Celia could think about until the widow gave them each a nickel to spend at the general store, and then there wasn’t room for the two thoughts.
Later, pockets filled with candy, they began their walk home. If only we didn’t live down such a lonesome stretch. Celia kept watch along the sides of the road for Troy. Chester kept his slingshot at the ready.
By the time Celia and Chester reached home, it was nearly four o’clock. Their mama was not there, and that raised Celia’s worrywart, bringing all her thoughts back to home.
“She’s probably up to Garden’s Gate,” Chester moaned, hungry for more than candy. “Mama’s always up there anymore. We might as well go live there.”
“That’s the best idea you’ve had in a while. Let’s go tell her.”
“Wait, Celia—I just want Mama home, that’s all.”
But Celia was already out the door and on her way. She knew Chester would follow and that seemed a far sight better than sitting in the empty cabin all alone, wondering if Mama was all right, skittish that Troy might return.
Besides, Chester’s idea was a grand one—a solver of all their immediate problems. The joyful notion of living at Garden’s Gate with Miz Hyacinth and Miss Lill and their library full of wonderful books grew as Celia pounded the red dirt road.
Mama will appreciate saving the rent and all those steps between houses. She can cook one dinner every day instead of two. When she makes cookies for Miz Hyacinth and Miss Lill’s afternoon tea, she can tuck one or two away for me and Chester—like Janice Richards’s mother bakes for her kids. We’d be a bigger family—and we’d be safe from the likes of Troy Wishon till Daddy gets home, if he ever comes home.
Celia had it all worked out, so she wasn’t prepared for her mother’s reaction when she explained her bright idea.
“Have you lost your mind, Celia Percy? You’ve certainly lost your manners. We have our own home. This is Miz Hyacinth’s home and Miss Lilliana’s.”
“But they’re all alone. Don’t you think they’re wanting for company?”
“They’re company for one another—and family.”
“But you’re always here anymore, Mama. We have to come find you. If we lived here, that Troy Wishon wouldn’t be comin’ around, botherin’ you. He wouldn’t dare come to Miz Hyacinth’s house. There’s safety in numbers—that’s what you tell us. And besides, Miss Lill’s always inviting Chester and me for cookies and milk. I help out in the library and I could help—”
“Hush, Celia. They’ll hear you. You’re shaming me.”
A bell tinkled from the parlor.
“Can I go?” Celia begged.
“Reverend Willard is in talking with Miz Hyacinth. Run see what Miz Hyacinth wants—ask if they want tea, but don’t you dare say—”
“I won’t, Mama; I promise!” Celia tore from the room as much to avoid her mother’s chastising as to answer the bell.
She stopped just before entering the parlor. Reverend Willard’s back was to the door, but Miz Hyacinth sat in her chair by the window, as usual. Miz Hyacinth’s silver-white hair was brushed and curled, her dress neat and clean and pressed, her shoes polished to a spit shine. All that Celia noted in a moment and appreciated the change Miss Lill had brought to Miz Hyacinth. But the ashen cast to the older lady’s face wasn’t at all usual. Celia’d never seen anyone look that way, only ever read the phrase “bore the pallor of death,” but she was certain Miz Hyacinth did. And it caught her short.
“Celia? I can tell it’s you by your footsteps, dear. I’m glad you’re here. Come in. Reverend Willard and I were just talking about you. Come here, child.” Miz Hyacinth’s voice was weaker but still authoritative.
“Yes, ma’am.” Celia walked up to her chair and placed a hand on Miz Hyacinth’s arm. Miz Hyacinth covered Celia’s hand with her own. She nodded to Reverend Willard. He smiled, but the worry lines on his face were evident to Celia. She figured that worry was for Miz Hyacinth.
“I want you to tell me something, and I want you to tell me truly. Will you do that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. I’m asking you because I believe you will tell me the truth and not try to hide anything because you think you need to protect me. And I am going to tell you the truth because I believe you can accept it and act wisely upon it. Do we understand one another?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Celia glanced nervously at Reverend Willard, certain now she was wading into dangerous waters.
“Reverend Pierce told Reverend Willard that he and several members of his congregation found crosses burning in their yards Monday night. I want to know, was there a cross set on fire in your yard?”
Celia felt her eyes go wide. She’d never seen a cross burning, but she’d heard plenty—when grown-ups thought she wasn’t listening—about the Klan setting crosses alight. She’d even seen Klansmen holding torches and marching down by the railroad platform once. “No, ma’am,” she answered truthfully. “Why would anybody do that?” But Celia knew why, even as she asked the question, and she knew, deep in her soul, that she might have been the cause.
“To scare some people away from using the library, I presume. To keep the library for themselves, perhaps, or more likely just to frighten folks because they believe they can.”
Celia thought that through. “You think they’ll set a cross burning in our yard because I invited Reverend Pierce and his church here?” She swallowed what felt like hot coals. Could the Klan have found out about Miss Lill and Ruby Lynne helping Marshall read? “Did they hurt anybody?”
“Only their spirits for now, but Reverend Willard and Reverend Pierce and I are concerned they might not stop there.”
“Reverend Pierce is very concerned for his people,” Reverend Willard spoke up. “You’re sure nothing bad happened at your house? No one has threatened you in any way?”
Celia swallowed. She’d thought of little else since Troy Wishon’s midnight visit. But her mother had made her promise not to say anything—about anything—to Miz Hyacinth. She knew who could, though. “Maybe you’d best talk to Chester.”
“Chester? Reverend Willard and I are talking to you, Celia.”
“I’m not supposed to talk about who came or what happened or anything at all.”
Miz Hyacinth breathed deeply. “I see. Mama’s orders?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And what else did Mama order?”
“I’m to ask if you and Reverend Willard want tea.”
Miz Hyacinth smiled. “We do, and some of that delicious shortbread your mama baked this morning, thank you. And please say that I want Chester to bring us the shortbread. Tell him we’ll share.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Celia scooted through the door, sure she’d dodged bullets but not sure she wouldn’t get in trouble anyway.
Chester delivered the shortbread, Mama brought the teapot, and Celia carried the tray with sugar and cream.
“I need to get back to the kitchen and finish up, Miz Hyacinth. Are you and Reverend Willard certain these children aren’t bothering you?”
Celia looked down innocently and humbly, certain if she raised brown orbs to her mother, they’d give her away.
“We’ll enjoy them, Gladys, and we have shortbread to share.”
Celia’s mother didn’t look convinced, but she dried her already-dry hands on her apron, gave Celia and Chester a warning glance Celia caught from the corner of her eye, and turned to the kitchen.
Miz Hyacinth plied Chester with thistle-imprinted shortbread—Celia’s favorite because of the pretty design—before Reverend Willard asked his questions, smiling all the while.
“Chester, I understand you had visitors to your house last night.”
Chester looked like he’d swallowed cardboard. He looked desperately to Celia for direction, but she looked away.
“Is that right, Chester?” Miz Hyacinth asked. “Did you have visitors?”
He nodded, but Celia knew Miz Hyacinth couldn’t see that. “
He nodded yes, Miz Hyacinth.”
“Is that so? How many?”
Chester frowned and held up one finger.
“Can you speak up, Chester? I couldn’t hear you.”
“Just one.”
“One?” Reverend Willard set his teacup down. “And who was that?”
Chester looked so miserable Celia felt sorry for him. “Mama didn’t say you couldn’t say. She just said I couldn’t say.”
That seemed to relieve Chester a little. “Troy Wishon.” He leaned forward and whispered, “He was dead drunk and scary.”
“Troy Wishon,” Miz Hyacinth mused. “He and that brother of his are both—both drinkers.”
But drinkers was not what she’d been about to say, Celia was certain.
“Did Troy Wishon say anything, Chester?” Reverend Willard laid his hand on Chester’s shoulder.
Chester set his shortbread down and for the first time Celia saw his crumb-sprinkled chin quiver in rage. “He scared Mama and Celia and said he’d come back if . . .”
“If what?”
“I’m not sure. He kept saying things to Mama about Daddy bein’ gone and about Celia bein’ a nearly growed girl and how they must be lonesome with Daddy gone. I didn’t like it.”
“No, I’m sure you didn’t. That should never have happened, Chester. You were right to tell us.” Reverend Willard looked more worried than ever.
“Mama doesn’t want us talkin’ about it.”
“Your mama’s very brave.”
“She don’t have a gun, but she has a frying pan and a hammer. She sat up by us all night, one in each hand.”
“You’ve a good, good mama.” Miz Hyacinth looked paler yet.
“I do. Mama says there’s safety in numbers.”
“Your mama’s right. You and Celia and your mama stick together, and if ever any of you need help, come and get me.” Reverend Willard leaned down to look in Chester’s eyes. “I’ll come right away, day or night—anytime.”
Chester nodded. Celia knew he believed Reverend Willard, and she knew Reverend Willard meant what he’d said. But some things, she knew, even Reverend Willard couldn’t stop.
Chapter Twenty-Two
REVEREND PIERCE HAD NOT CONFIDED in me Tuesday morning when we’d walked from the general store. I was so preoccupied with Gerald’s threats and the great relief that he’d left No Creek and then the significance of the Scriptures Reverend Pierce quoted that I hadn’t pressed. After tutoring Marshall on Wednesday, I’d spent most of Thursday in Winston-Salem, following Aunt Hyacinth’s suggestion that I pick up some early readers for the library and the children of Saints Delight. I was without local news until I returned on the train that afternoon and ran into Reverend Willard, just leaving Garden’s Gate.
He shared his worries for Reverend Pierce’s flock, for the church, for Gladys and her children.
“It’s like something out of a novel,” I fumed. “I can’t imagine how terrifying those cross burnings must be or how frightening that was for Gladys and the children.”
“Cross burnings are only the beginning. I don’t know where this might lead. Maybe it’s just to terrorize—horror enough . . .” Reverend Willard kneaded the back of his neck. “Right now I’m more worried about Gladys and the children—out there alone in that cabin. The Wishons are mostly talk and bluster until they’re drunk, but they can be mean then and carry on without restraint. The problem is, they’re drunk far too often.”
I believed all that Reverend Willard said. Gladys and the children must be scared half to death to go home. As far as the KKK and their cross burnings meant to terrorize, I could barely imagine. I’d only seen a person in Klan regalia once, in a photograph in the Philadelphia newspaper. It had seemed outrageous and looked silly, if garish, at the time.
I ridiculed the notion of grown men parading around in white robes and pointy hats as Aunt Hyacinth and I talked it over in the late afternoon. She made certain I never ridiculed them again.
“You know nothing of the Klan, Lilliana. You don’t know their self-righteousness or their hatred or the wicked things they’ve done. Right here in No Creek not twenty years ago they tarred and feathered a white man who dared to take the witness stand in defense of a colored man arrested for raping a white woman. His defender was with the accused at the time the woman claimed it happened. He testified that the woman lied in anger after the colored man had not removed his hat in her presence, not shown her the respect she demanded. He openly defended the accused man as to what happened that day, but everyone in No Creek knew there was more to the story.
“That colored man had worked the fields for the woman’s family. She’d flirted shamelessly with him so even the neighbors saw, but he’d refused to go near her and she couldn’t stand that. The Klan formed a mob and pulled that poor man out of jail, then hung him by the neck until he was dead—and they did it slowly. Then they tarred and feathered his white defender; the man died of his burns.”
I could barely fathom such a thing, but Aunt Hyacinth wasn’t finished.
“They beat and hanged Olney Tate’s father to death not fifteen years ago for daring to bid against Rhoan and Troy Wishon’s father for a prime piece of tobacco land gone to auction—land that I’m sure should have been his anyway, though I could never prove it. They invented some story about him having stolen the money—money he’d saved all his life, an inheritance from his daddy. It was Wishon jealousy and greed—that’s what did it, and I’m ashamed to say . . . Never mind.” Aunt Hyacinth’s voice rose and trembled with the tellings. “He was fifty-six years old and should have died an old man in his bed.”
“What did the police do?”
“The police? The sheriff, who turned a blind eye, is likely a Klansman himself.”
“So that’s why Olney’s skittish about coming into the house, why he worries so about every little thing Ida Mae says . . . why Marshall is afraid for his uncle to learn he’s come for reading help. And Ruby Lynne . . .” It all made sense now.
“I’m certain that’s why Olney chose to dig the widow’s well the day our library opened. He didn’t want to be here or to allow Marshall here in the house with whites, even though I’d asked him myself to come and be our guest that day. I doubt he liked it that Mercy and the children came, but she so craves learning for her children. He’ll help me with anything I need or ask, but he won’t mix outside this house.”
I shook my head. I’d never heard of such things in Philadelphia. I’d read about troubles in the South, but they hadn’t affected me. I’d hardly known any colored people, other than Sarah. Why was that? Sarah was like family in my book. I’d realized too late that while she’d acted as family to me, my family—my father, who possessed the means—had done nothing for her outside of employment. “You say that happened fifteen years ago. Surely they don’t do those things now. This is 1941.”
“Cross burnings are warnings—intimidation to keep people ‘in their place.’ Right now they’re stirring the pot. Once the Klan gets worked up and going, it’s like a fire; it smolders and smokes, looking for a place to vent, until it explodes. It’s that venting, that explosion that worries me.”
“Then why didn’t they burn a cross here? This is where we welcomed everyone, where everyone ‘mixed.’ If they considered it anyone’s fault, it should be mine.”
Aunt Hyacinth sighed. “I’m why. I’ve never explained that to you and I know I should. Still, it doesn’t mean it won’t happen. For the moment I’m more worried about Gladys and the children. I’m worried about you being alone here after I’m gone. It’s not good for a woman to be alone, especially one the Klan has their eye on.”
If community respect for Aunt Hyacinth kept us both safe, I didn’t see what we had to fear. “They don’t know anything about me. I’m a stranger to them.”
“In their minds you’re a dangerous stranger, Lilliana—someone trying to change the way they’ve always done things. Opening the library and welcoming coloreds and whites on the sa
me day is inconceivable to them. Separating from your husband for any reason at all is scandalous in their eyes. They claim to be Christians and strong supporters of their families. They won’t want their wives to think such a stand as yours is tolerated, no matter the cause. I hate to say it but they don’t consider wife beating a reason to leave a marriage. They’ve forgotten or don’t know what God says about oppressors. I shudder to think how many of them do it behind closed doors, drunk or sober.”
I gritted my teeth. I wouldn’t go back to a life of shouting and beatings and intimidation from Gerald because the Klan believed I should. “From what Reverend Willard told me about Troy Wishon, it’s Gladys who needs protection right now. How long until her husband is released from prison?”
“Six months, give or take. I’m not sure what will happen between them once he’s released. She doesn’t speak of it.”
“What would you think of inviting Gladys and the children to live here until then?”
Aunt Hyacinth’s cheeks wreathed in smiles. “I hoped you’d say that. Wouldn’t it be grand to have children in the house? They’d be such helpers, too. We could have our own chickens again—not just the leftover strays that roost in the trees. Maybe even a milk cow. Celia’s just the one to take them on.”
I didn’t know why we hadn’t thought of it sooner. By making Garden’s Gate their home, Gladys and the children would surely be safer, and with them here, Gerald would be less likely to push his way in. It would be good to have Gladys’s company and steady hand, and Aunt Hyacinth was right: the cheerfulness of Celia and Chester was nothing short of contagious. “Do you want to invite her, or should I?”
“I think it’s best that it come from you, and I second the invitation—as long as you’re sure. It’s an arrangement you may or may not wish to continue after I’m gone. I want to be certain that you’re entirely comfortable with it. We mustn’t go forward if you feel any hesitation. First and foremost, this is your home, my dear.”
I closed my eyes, thankful Aunt Hyacinth couldn’t see me in that moment. “Please stop talking about not being here—”