by Cathy Gohlke
“I’ll tell Ida Mae I want my box closed soon as she gets back in town. Oh, I wish she’d hurry up. How long does it take for babies to get born, anyhow?”
Jesse knew from experience that it wasn’t worth answering every one of Joe’s questions when he was drunk. They came in rapid-fire succession and then repeated, like a stuck Victrola recording. The best practice was to walk Joe around the perimeter of his house and up and down his lane in the cold, fresh air, then bring him in for steaming cups of coffee. By the time he’d repeated that three times, Joe was relatively sober—as sober as he ever was—with a powerful headache.
Tedious though this practice was, Jesse often learned things about his flock during Joe’s drunken bouts that he would not have otherwise heard.
“You know I like Olney Tate, don’t you, Preacher? I never done him no harm nor talked against him like some. And he never bothered me—no, he didn’t. He’s a good man. Was always good to Miz Hyacinth and I thought the world of her.”
“I appreciate that about you, Joe. You’re a fair man, by and large.”
“Yes, sir. I mean to be. But poor old Olney’s in for it, what with the night riders, don’t you know?”
Jesse’s heart constricted. “What have you heard?”
That set Joe on his guard. “Oh, I don’t know that I’ve heard nothing about Olney. But I might have heard something shady about that nephew of his—that Marshall fella.” He shook his head as Jesse kept him from stumbling down the plank step outside his house.
“Marshall’s a good worker, an honest young man. There should be no talk against him.”
“Well, I’m not saying there is, and I’m not saying there ain’t. All I know is that Ruby Lynne Wishon is knocked up and Ida Mae seen Marshall sniffin’ round her house. And Ida Mae’s daughter Pearl—you know Pearl?”
“Yes, I know Pearl.” Jesse’s dander was rising. Ida Mae’s gossiping tongue was running loose and wild once again and she wasn’t even here. He couldn’t count the number of fires he’d been forced to douse over the years from that undisciplined organ.
“Well, Pearl told me things have been disappearing from the store while Ida Mae’s been gone, and the only one she rightly suspects had motive and opportunity is Marshall. Now, ain’t that some piece of news, Preacher?”
It was news to Jesse. He was sick about Ruby Lynne’s pregnancy, and he could imagine any number of people in these times stealing a thing or two from Ida Mae’s store, but he couldn’t imagine Marshall being responsible for either.
“Preacher? Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Joe, I heard you. But I can vouch for Marshall’s character. He wouldn’t have done those things.”
“Don’t much matter. He’s colored.”
“Of course it matters! How can you say such a thing? That kind of gossip can get a body killed and you know it, Joe.”
“It weren’t me that said it, Reverend Willard, honest. It was Troy Wishon. Said he figured Marshall’s guilt is good as gospel. Who else’d it be, sniffin’ after Ruby Lynne after she took a shine to him, teachin’ him to read and such? And he was over to the store helpin’ Pearl with some work just before she discovered goods gone. Must have been a whole lot for her to notice. Fool boy.”
Jesse felt like punching Joe Earl. “You’re jumping to conclusions. You’re all jumping to unfounded conclusions!”
“Not me, Reverend. But folks is stirred up. Even Gladys Percy said one of her Thanksgiving pies went missing. You remember? How do you reckon that? That Marshall must be stealing just to steal—that’s how they do, you know. His aunt Mercy would’ve cooked up a dinner just as good. He’s not gone hungry. Now I reckon he’ll go hungry and more. They’ll see to it.”
“Who’ll see to it?” But Jesse knew.
“The night riders,” Joe whispered as Jesse walked the man to his chair, then closed his eyes to pray.
•••
Jesse determined to put a quick end to such talk. He’d no sooner gotten Joe settled than he made time double-quick up the road to Rhoan Wishon’s house.
Rhoan usually attended services on Sundays when he was in town, but Jesse didn’t consider him a regular and he’d missed last Sunday. Rhoan’s business, whatever it was, took him west to Asheville and east to Winston-Salem on a regular basis.
Jesse had a pretty good idea of what kept Rhoan in the money—more money than anybody in town except the estate of Miz Hyacinth—and Rhoan’s wasn’t an industry he’d approve. But it was the industry that more men in the county depended on than not. Rhoan also, Jesse was fairly certain, ran the enterprise that had led to Fillmore Percy’s incarceration and the threat his family lived under.
Rhoan was just slamming the trunk of his oversize car when Jesse entered the drive.
“Rhoan! Good morning to you.” Jesse intended to keep the conversation positive as long as he could.
“More like afternoon, Reverend.”
“That it is.”
“What brings you out this way?” Rhoan hefted his chin and the belt at his waist, and Jesse wondered how a man who drank as much hooch as Rhoan was reported to down kept so trim.
“I’m worried about something, Rhoan, and hoping you can help me.”
Rhoan’s face softened, the guarded heft to his chin relaxing. “Do what I can.”
“Yes, I know you will.” Jesse wished the man would offer him a seat in the house and a cup of coffee to ease into the conversation, but that wasn’t Rhoan’s way. “I’ve heard talk that Troy is accusing Marshall of—”
“Of raping my girl. I told you. Knocked her up, Reverend. I didn’t want that word to get out, but you can’t keep something like that hid here.”
“No, you can’t keep a baby hidden, but I don’t believe Marshall is responsible. Has Ruby Lynne accused him?”
“She don’t say who, but she don’t deny it. That’s good enough for me. There’s nothing you need concern yourself with here, Reverend. It’s a matter will be taken care of.”
“That’s exactly what I am concerned about, Rhoan. Sentencing a man without proof or trial and taking the law into your own hands—or what the night riders consider the law.”
Rhoan’s jaw hardened. It wasn’t common to speak in broad daylight of the “night riders.” Talking of the Klan in hushed and respected—or feared—tones was enough.
“I know you’re concerned for Ruby Lynne. Any father would feel protective of his daughter and angry that someone had taken indecent and violent advantage of her. I don’t blame you in the least. I’m concerned for Ruby Lynne’s sake—for her health and well-being and that of her baby. I missed seeing her in church on Sunday. I hope she’ll come back, know that she’s welcome and no one at church is going to feel any differently toward her.” Jesse said the words, but he knew they weren’t entirely true. No Creek was no different from anywhere else in its desire to gossip and finger point, especially if it meant bringing a wealthier citizen or his family down to size.
“You believe that, Reverend?”
“It’s what ought to be. I’ll do all in my power to make certain it happens. Just as a man should not be accused without proof—just because his skin’s a different color. I’ll do all in my power to protect and stand for him, too. Marshall’s a fine young man, and you and your family have known Olney Tate all your life. There’s not a better man around. You’re barking up the wrong tree.” Reverend Willard hoped Rhoan felt some level of shame for what his father had done to Olney’s father.
Rhoan removed his cap and kneaded the back of his neck with strong fingers. “Ida Mae saw the boy round here. She told me.”
Jesse nearly swore.
“Who else could it be? You tell me that.”
Jesse could hardly believe Rhoan asked that question. Wasn’t it likely Rhoan himself—forgetful and mean as he could be when drunk?
“It wasn’t me, if you’re wonderin’ that. I don’t remember all I do when I been in the drink, but I swear I’d never do that.”
“I�
��m not accusing you, Rhoan, though there are some who might. You need to think on that.”
“I won’t. I say it’s that Marshall. He’s not from around here. You can’t be sure about him.”
“If it was Marshall, the baby’s color will be an indicator. You know that.”
Rhoan straightened but paused, considered. “Reckon so.”
“If that baby’s white, you need to look elsewhere. You need to wait before making such an accusation, and you need to get Troy to stop stirring up trouble.”
“Ha! I ain’t controlled Troy since he was nine years old.”
“You have influence over him. Accusing the wrong man will make it worse for everyone, including Ruby Lynne . . . and it could turn deadly. I count you an honorable man, Rhoan, and trust you to do the right thing by your daughter.”
Rhoan turned away so that Jesse could not see his face. After a few moments he said, “I swear, Reverend, sometimes it’s hard to know what that is.”
Jesse pressed his hand onto Rhoan’s shoulder. “For all of us.”
Rhoan swiped his arm across his eyes. Jesse wondered, with mild surprise, if Rhoan Wishon had ever shed a tear. If he was shedding one for his daughter now, that was a good and hopeful sign.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
NEWS OF THE MOUNTING DEATH TOLL from the attacks in the Pacific and determination to help the county raise $4,000 for the Red Cross created a fervor in the No Creek General Store and Post Office like it hadn’t seen in years. The Journal-Patriot called for every American to contribute.
Celia listened to the store radio and to folks coming and going as she swept each afternoon, gaining little by little an understanding of where each family stood in terms of what their contribution to the war effort might be.
News of enlistments—in droves across the state—came by newspaper and radio. Mixtures of war excitement and fury at the Japanese and Germans and Italians lit the faces of every male casting their bravado across the store planks, all the while mothers and sweethearts pasted smiles beneath red-rimmed eyes and worry-wrinkled brows. Mixtures of fear and pride for their sons and husbands and sweethearts fueled talk of “sacrifices that must be made for our boys.”
To enlist now or wait for the draft was the debate in every household, some of them heated to the point of not speaking. Everybody Celia heard talk stood in favor of whupping Germany and Japan, but there was more to going off to war for family men. Each penny was counted twice, a whispered knowing among women in the community that a man going off to war couldn’t be counted on to spring plant or bring in the crop or pay the mortgage, no matter how noble his intentions or how he vowed to send home every penny he made. All the talk sparked memories and reminiscences of the last war—the Great War, the war meant to end all wars—and what that had meant for the women and children left at home.
The women of No Creek had lived with the specter of moonshine too long. Some feared what their men, far from home, might do with regular paychecks. When their families were out of sight, would they be out of mind, too?
“I never thought when President Roosevelt signed that Selective Training and Service Act last year that it would mean much—all our men and boys made to register for a draft.” Pearl Mae shook her head. “Who could take war here seriously? I surely didn’t—not till Pearl Harbor. Now it’s not about Europe so far away—it’s about us—every body and soul right here in the county.”
“It’s all people talk about. It’s nearly Christmas, but seems like everybody’s forgot this year,” Celia lamented.
“Well, that’s something I wish they wouldn’t forget. Between the pilfering and people so afraid to spend a dime for not knowing what’ll happen next, sales have dropped off. Mama’s not going to like this. No, she’ll not like it one bit.”
Celia knew her pilfering had best stop. Nothing had happened yet, but she worried sick over what might happen to Marshall if Pearl called in the Klan, even though they had no proof he was the thief. All the while she feared for the McHones, especially Charlene. She wondered if Clay might be drafted, and if he was, what would happen to Charlene and their baby? She also knew that Pearl Harbor and the draft were not the only things pressing the heart of one No Creek citizen—Doc Vishy.
Celia watched as Doc Vishy’s fingers fairly trembled when he withdrew the rolled-up newspaper and a scuffed-up envelope that looked like it’d traveled round the world and back from his post office box that afternoon. For all the years he’d lived in No Creek, Doc Vishy had written to folks in foreign countries and they’d written him back, but it had been a long while since he’d received a letter. He ordered his newspaper straight from New York City, where he used to live, no matter that it arrived days late.
If Celia wanted to know anything of the world beyond Asheville or what the radio told her, she asked Doc Vishy. Whenever he picked up his mail and paper, Celia made it a point to sweep the porch outside the store, hoping to catch a few words with her friend. This time, he stood on the porch beside her and tore the letter open straightaway. His breath caught and his eyes filled.
“Ghettos for Jews,” he whispered, pushing his fedora farther back on his head. “They’re all over Poland. Concentration camps in Germany take in more Jews and political prisoners every day. Pogroms crossing border after border. This madman, this Hitler, won’t rest until he’s eliminated every Jew from Europe. Then he’ll tackle the world. What is an ocean to him?” He didn’t seem to realize he’d not said goodbye, not ruffled Celia’s hair in greeting or parting as he’d done since they’d first become fast friends.
Celia watched him limp down the post office steps and up the hill toward his house. He looked older, more tired than she’d seen him since he’d moved to No Creek. For two years, ever since he’d saved Chester’s life, his steps had lightened through helping to relieve the suffering of locals, glad of their acceptance. Even if sometimes they begrudged the “foreigner” and “that Jew man,” they called for him when someone was sick beyond home remedies or in case of a bad accident. But lately, what with news of the war and the Klan all stirred up, it was as if the clock had been turned back on Doc Vishy—closer to the suspicion he’d endured when he’d first come to No Creek. Folks appeared more standoffish, less eager to have him treat them.
Celia didn’t know what ghettos were, or concentration camps, but she knew from the doc himself about the pogroms that had killed his wife and children in Europe years before he’d come to No Creek. He’d told her that he’d not been able to do a thing to save them, and that had grieved him to the point of despair and refusal to use his gifts and knowledge of healing until the night Chester’s life hung in the balance.
Now she knew he worried for longtime friends and distant relatives in Europe that he’d mentioned from time to time.
As terrified as he was for Jewish friends abroad, Celia’s fear for her friend crept closer to home as anti-Jewish sentiment raised its ugly head and crept through the hills around them—all the while local KKK members sharpened their talons against coloreds and Catholics—folks said they were mostly Italian anyway, weren’t they?—and Jews.
Doc Vishy dared not share his worries in the general store, but Celia knew he would spread the New York newspaper across his table the moment he returned home and devour every word, finding more information than columns of the local Patriot provided.
Celia had nearly finished sweeping the porch when Troy Wishon sauntered up the steps, ignoring her. She followed the door’s bell jingle into the store.
“What can I do for you, Troy?” Pearl smiled, her eyes bright as Christmas tree bulbs. Celia knew Pearl nurtured a yearning for Troy, no matter that he was five years younger and never cast glances at any one of the Mae girls.
“Need me a length of rope.”
“Rope? Got some in the back. Want to help me get it?” She smiled all the brighter. “Those coils are mighty heavy.”
“Don’t reckon I’ll need a full length for this job. Twenty, thirty feet’ll do. Just cut me
off a piece. I’ll wait right here, take advantage of your nice warm stove.”
The light left Pearl’s eyes. She lifted her chin as if the likes of Troy Wishon never mattered a whit and walked briskly to the back storeroom. Celia swept dust from the corners into the far aisle.
Pearl returned with the rope wound and bound into one tight coil. “Don’t know what you can do with that. Rhoan always buys the full length.”
“Don’t need so much for a tree.”
“A tree?” Pearl frowned. “You got a lightning-struck tree you’re tying up?”
Troy laughed. “That’s a good one. Got some fellas comin’ over from the next county. We’ll be stringing something up, all right, but a tree’s not what we got in mind.” He winked and plunked his money down, then snickered his way out of the store.
Pearl’s eyes went wide. Celia swallowed, forgetting her pile of dirt.
“You best go on home now, Celia. It’ll be dark soon and your mama’ll be worried.”
“I’m not done.”
“Done enough. I’m afraid there might be trouble.”
“What did Troy mean—what’s he gonna string up, and what fellas?”
“I don’t know a thing, and neither do you, but I don’t like the sounds of it. You go on home now. I’m closing up early. I don’t want any part of whatever’s comin’ down the pike.”
“Should we call Sheriff Wilkins?”
“He’ll be knee-deep in it for all I guess.” Pearl crossed the floor in three long strides and grabbed the broom from Celia. “Tell your mama to lock the doors and windows. Go on now. Don’t make me swat you out the door with this.”
•••
Dusk had gathered by the time Celia, breathless from running, swung open the back door at Garden’s Gate. Miss Lill was bent over the kitchen table, spreading something across it.
Celia’s mother stood with her palm on her cheek. “I swan. The whole town wondered what became of that. Old Mr. Belvidere vowed somebody stole it. Wherever did you find it?”
Celia crept in between the two. She dropped her schoolbooks to the floor as her heart slammed against her chest. Spread across the kitchen table was a white robe and hood—full Klan regalia.