by Kim Johnson
There’s complete silence as each bite is finished. My mind is on everything Mrs. Evans said. Anger seeping in as I watch her, I decide I’d rather do the dishes than sit at the table any longer.
Dean follows me to help clear up.
“No, sit down,” Mama says. “You’re a guest.”
“You know I’ll be hearing the hawing over there if I don’t join her,” Dean jokes, then grabs a handful of plates.
“I’d be fine,” I say. “But since you’re offering, you’re washing and I’m drying.”
Before we get to the kitchen, a booming noise explodes outside.
A roaring thump follows, and a hard pop and crash.
I recoil, my hands covering my head as shattered glass shoots across the room. I’m stunned until I hit the ground, Dean hovering over me like a shield. The chaos is deafening. My world just exploded.
AMERIKKKA
Our front window is destroyed.
Unsteady, I get to my feet to check on everyone. Hold Corinne close. Still unsure what happened. Mama is covering her mouth, her eyes teary and wide.
I feel the temperature warm up, a crackling sound. I whip around to look out the busted windows.
Dean runs through the kitchen’s back door to go around the house while Steve goes through the front door. I’m stuck, staring. Confused why it’s so bright outside. Until I realize there’s a blazing cross, over ten feet tall, that’s staked into our dry grass. The flames are catching the ground on fire. Bright and flashing.
I cry out at the tall cross burning in our front yard. The fire is blazing; I look away. Shut my eyes, but the image of the cross stays even in darkness.
“Good Lord.” Mrs. Evans stands there, with shards of glass around her, fixated on the yard. My eyes lock on the brick on the ground, paper wrapped on with what must be rubber bands.
“Judy, you all right?” Mama wraps her arms around Mrs. Evans, since more of the glass hit her. Mrs. Evans’s face is as white as a ghost’s. She doesn’t speak, shaking, but shuffles along as Mama guides her, directing her closer to the kitchen while calling the police.
“Take Corinne upstairs, Tracy.” Mama waves her arm at me, and it breaks my gaze away from the glass-covered floor.
I head upstairs, ushering Corinne and leaving her door open. Grateful that her room is on the backside of the house. Corinne doesn’t speak; she goes silent, gripping one of her dolls. My adrenaline still up from the window blasting, but also at what this is doing to Corinne. She’s become numb to our nights evolving into terrifying disturbances. I worry about what this will do to her long-term.
“It’s gonna be all right.” I push her hair back.
Corinne nods. I look away, so she doesn’t know I’m afraid. I turn on her sleep noisemaker to drown the outside. Then leave.
On the porch, Mrs. Evans has a blanket wrapped around her, crying out that everyone needs to be careful. She’s shaking like they came for her, not us.
“You hurt? Any glass get you?” Mama tugs at my chin, checking my face. “How’s Corinne?”
“Shocked. This is too much for her, Mama.”
Mama nods. “Stay out here with them while I call the fire department. I’ll go check on her.”
Mr. Evans, Dean, and I stand behind the fiery cross, watching Steve hose it down. Our shadows elongating in the dark, hot night of Texas as the flames extinguish.
“See anyone?” I ask.
“They were gone by the time I got around,” Dean says.
“Where were the police?” I point down the street where they were parked for two weeks until now. “Is this what you meant when you said it was going to get ugly?”
Dean touches my back, shaking his head.
“I’m from Mississippi,” Steve says. “I’ve seen this before, but I didn’t expect it here. There’s definitely something bigger going on.”
My throat closes. I haven’t heard from Jamal in two days.
“What do we do?” I take a step closer to Steve.
“It means we’ve got more work to do. This something that happens around here often, Mr. Evans?”
Mr. Evans doesn’t answer right away. He watches the cross, then glances over at Mrs. Evans. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing as me. If Mrs. Evans considers this a part of stirring up trouble, or if it makes her realize that trouble was already here and we’re just trying to survive.
“Klan was here.” Mr. Evans hesitates. Like he wants me and Dean to leave so he can talk to Steve.
I’m not going anywhere.
“All this land from here to the Pike was seized twenty years ago by the FBI in a big bust. White supremacists had bought property and businesses so they could launder money in and out without the government knowing. Some lost property, money, and some went to jail.”
“Wait,” I say. “Daddy and Mr. Davidson were planning to build homes on land that had been owned by the Klan? Does my mama know?”
Mr. Evans doesn’t answer. I’m shocked. Why is this the first I’m hearing about it? All this time we’ve been looking at Daddy’s case all wrong. There could be more around Mr. Davidson choosing to do business with a Black man.
“Who could be involved?” Dean asks his dad.
“I don’t know.” Mr. Evans looks off in the distance. I think he’s avoiding eye contact, but then I hear the whirring sound of a fire truck and police cars.
With the sirens in the background, I rush to the house for the brick that broke the glass.
Dean follows. “Should you be touching that?”
“If we don’t read it, there’s no promise it’ll be shared with us,” I say.
I carefully pull off the rubber band with a napkin, brushing away any lingering glass, and read the note. Swallow hard as I take it in. The note flutters in my hand, and I almost drop it before Steve urges me to read it.
I bite the inside of my cheek, steady my shaky hands, then read it out loud.
NO MORE WHITE LIVES LOST AT THE HANDS OF A BEAUMONT. NEXT TIME IT’LL BE A BODY WE BURN.
—THE BROTHERHOOD
UNTHINKABLE
The world feels upside down, like I’ve been dropped—then left broken. Nevertheless, I need to flip that switch in my brain so I can believe these police officers are here to help.
I wish I could trust them automatically, but I can’t. History has a way of latching on to you. Like touching a hot stove—you only need to do it once before you know better.
When the police arrive, Mama waits by the door. Shaking. I meet her, wrapping my arms around her waist. I know she’s doing the same as me—putting her armor back on. I gaze up at her, then quickly look away. It hurts to see her forcing herself to be strong. Especially when Mrs. Evans was allowed to fall apart. Allowed to be human.
When I’m ready, I force myself to study Mama, because I need to learn that strength so I can pass it down, like a family recipe. An heirloom. A curse.
The officers walk toward us, black smoke and kindles of fire crackling behind them. Officer Clyde takes off his hat. I haven’t heard from him since my call earlier. He’s joined by two more officers and the firefighter crew. Beverly stands off to the side, her eyes huge. She pulls herself together and joins us. Relief pours through me.
“Ma’am,” Officer Clyde says with a sullen demeanor before he shakes Mama’s hand and introduces himself again.
“Officer Clyde.” Mama pauses. “Beverly.”
Bev’s face doesn’t show an immediate expression, but there’s a dazed look in her eye when she turns to the cross.
“We’ll take the cross down as soon as we can, Mrs. Beaumont,” Beverly says.
“Thank you, Bev,” Mama says. “How’s your mama doing?”
“She’s doing good, ma’am. I’ll tell her you asked about her.”
“Please do. Get the word
out to the church and folks in Crowning Heights,” Mama says firmly. It’s code for “the Black community better meet about this.” I already have a plan formed on getting the word out tonight.
I can understand those who stayed away from us because of the criminal cases we were dealing with, but a cross burning is serious business. One that holds stories of blood and death. We should all be worried.
“Tell me, boy, does trouble always follow you?” Officer Clyde says to Steve. “You’re new to town, correct?”
“Stephen Jones,” Steve checks him. “I haven’t been called a boy since I was ten years old.” He says boy with a little smile, but the veins in his throat are pulled tight. He’s pissed. Calling a Black man a boy has its own racist history and connotation. Steve ain’t having it. “And no, I’m not from around here.”
I study Officer Clyde. If he’s comfortable saying “boy” to Steve, then he won’t be helpful tonight or with Richard Brighton.
“Stephen,” Officer Clyde corrects himself. “Sorry about that. I thought that Stephen Jones was an old lawyer in the South.”
“My father.”
Mrs. Evans stands alongside us, but it’s like she’s not here. Like fear struck her the moment she dropped to the dining room floor. She’s shook in a different way from us.
Perhaps because she’s never had to walk in fear. Every day my senses are on alert, expecting something to happen. Sure, I’m shaken. Scared. Never imagined something like this could happen so close to home. But deep down this feeling is familiar. It runs through my veins, the blood from every generation before me passing down this fear, coded into my DNA.
Mrs. Evans tugs at her shirt like she’s about to have a heart attack. I know she needs help right now, but I don’t have sympathy for her. All of this is happening to my family. Not hers.
I nudge Dean, steer his attention to his mom. He goes to her and whispers in her ear. She looks out at the shattered glass like he’s not there. But he’s able to get her to sit down.
“What are we going to do about this?” Mr. Evans asks. “We can’t have people living in fear. This town is better than that.” He rubs his beard and shoots a meaningful glance at Mrs. Evans when he notices she’s seated on the porch.
I wonder what this will do to Steve’s office space.
“You’re right,” Mama says. “We should keep this quiet till we know more.”
“We’re not keeping quiet,” I say. “We need a community meeting. To keep people safe.”
I think Mama is about to protest, but she doesn’t.
“We’ll keep watch,” Officer Clyde says.
I point toward the police car. “You’ve been here up until tonight. What’s that all about?”
“Tracy,” Mama says.
“That’s quite all right,” Officer Clyde says. “Whoever did this must’ve been watching for an opportunity.”
“Why pull back in the first place?” Steve asks.
“It’s been two weeks. We don’t have the manpower to keep a detail here forever. Best bet if Jamal comes home, and you fine people encourage that b—” He pauses. “You encourage that young man of yours to turn himself in.”
“My brother wouldn’t hurt anyone,” I say.
“That’s what court cases are for,” Officer Clyde says. “Running don’t point to innocence, if you ask me.”
“Nobody—” I say.
“Let’s focus on their safety,” Steve says. “This is a serious threat to the Beaumont family.”
Officer Clyde studies Beverly, who’s inspecting the smoldering wooden cross. The note is now placed in a clear plastic evidence bag. Beverly takes a few photos. The irony of a cross being used for such a disgusting act sickens me.
“You haven’t updated me about my break-in. This could be the same guy,” Steve says. “We should be worried someone might be coming after the Beaumonts.”
“He didn’t do this,” Officer Clyde says.
“How can you be certain?” I ask. “He could be dangerous.”
“Because he’s in our custody right now for questioning. Sheriff Brighton called him as soon as he got word that’s who we were looking for.”
Steve and I study each other. This must be news to Steve also.
“Is there a reason we weren’t called?” I ask.
“I planned to update you in the morning. Then when I received word about this”—Officer Clyde points at the cross—“I made sure to aid Officer Ridges.”
“If it wasn’t him,” Steve says, “we should be worried more people are involved.”
“This won’t happen again.” Officer Clyde puts his hat on as he gets closer to inspect the damage with Beverly.
“How can you promise that?” Mr. Evans asks.
“We don’t have Klan out here, probably some kids playing a joke—”
“This isn’t a joke,” I say. “You should check for prints. Look into this.”
“I plan to.” Beverly gives me a quick glance. “I’ve turned in Angela’s phone I found out by the Pike.”
I nod at the cover story she must have made up for me.
“There might be other suspects at least for a cross burning like this,” Beverly says.
The same suspects floated to me, knowing that Richard Brighton was under arrest but his minions were free to take action like this.
“I’ll take some nights watching the house.” Beverly walks toward us.
“Not sure if we have the budget for that.” Officer Clyde follows Beverly back to us.
“Seems to me you certainly had the budget to have someone watch the house for Jamal,” Steve says.
Officer Clyde takes his hat off again and puts it to his side.
“I’ll see if I can get overtime approved by the sheriff for tonight in case someone thinks about coming back. But you might want to stay away until things calm down.”
“Thank you, Officer Clyde,” Mama says.
Officer Clyde helps the firefighters put up the particle board we use during hurricanes over our broken window.
I take photos of the cross so I don’t feel helpless, then move closer to the windows, but I can’t get the image of the burning cross out of my mind. If it wasn’t Richard Brighton, then who?
TAKING CHANCES
The house is nearly silent by midnight. The only other sounds are the soft click of Steve on his computer before he shuts it down and goes upstairs to Jamal’s room. Mama’s letting him sleep here for the night. It took some planning after the police left, but Pastor Jenkins from church agreed to help lead a meeting tomorrow evening at the community center where I hold my workshops.
Dean and I pace by the large kitchen window, hiding behind its pitch-blackness. Instead of the smell of Mama’s kitchen, I’m overtaken by a damp, smoky smell that’s seeped through the broken window. A stain that will be more than charred black grass outside.
I check my cell, watch the online confirmations for tomorrow’s community meeting grow with each refresh. Hoping for a text from Jamal, but nothing. I send a few messages to Tasha, who’s freaking out. Then text Quincy last, because I know he’ll hear about it from Beverly.
I grab a glass of water at the sink, letting the water overrun before I notice how long I’ve been standing here.
My phone beeps and Dean glances over. Instinctually, I turn it over in case it’s Jamal. Just another text from Tasha.
Come stay at my house. Bring Corinne and your mama.
Maybe tomorrow. Steve Jones is staying in Jamal’s room. Bev is watching out.
This is scary. Stay safe.
I will. Love you.
Same.
I tuck my phone in my pocket. Dean eases his arms cautiously around my shoulders, resting his head on top of mine. The clock ticking in the background reminds me that Dean will have to leave soon. I�
�m at least grateful that the uneasy feeling that was churning inside me, the one that screamed in fear but was overpowered by the need to be brave, has finally calmed down, like a smooth ocean wave after high tide. Rocky and shaky, but softening up with each faltering wave.
Air catches on my neck from Dean’s even-patterned breathing as I sort through how to solve this all.
“When I saw Richard Brighton, I looked into his car while he was in another building. He had flyers recruiting white folks. Like he’s rallying a hate group. Then this cross burning. Hear anything more from school?”
“No. You know people don’t talk to me. Do you think Chris did this?”
“Who else? Before, when we didn’t know who Richard was, it was between him and Chris, but now that we know it’s his uncle, there’s no other obvious suspects.”
Dean takes another heavy breath, resting his chin on my shoulder now. “We won’t find out tonight. Don’t let it control you.”
Tears escape. They travel down my cheek, and it’s getting too difficult to breathe normally.
Dean holds me. He touches my face, tracing his thumbs down to my neck and then back along my cheek. I watch him, knowing I won’t have to speak. I don’t want him to pull away. He has a glint in his eye, watching me. Tears are now pouring out. His thumbs can’t keep up, so he stops. The next tear trails down my face, and Dean kisses it away, then another.
I press into him as if I’m melting in his arms. He leans in to kiss me, and I don’t stop him.
His lips are gentle, soft. He kisses me again, and this time I respond. Careful to not go too far, not to risk one of us pulling away. Making up for all the moments we’d never had the courage, never had the chance, never sure if our feelings for each other would be returned.
Upstairs there’s a creaking noise, followed by a door opening, and we jump apart.
“It’s midnight. Your mom’s probably making sure I get back like I promised…”
“I know.” I hold back an embarrassed smile. “I’ll walk you to the door.”