by Mary Gray
Setting the crane back on the pillow, Tansy cups our hands on our lap with a melancholy grace. I’m not sure which thread to unravel, so I start with an easy question. “Why are you so afraid of everyone outside?”
Somewhat lost in thought, she stares at our heavy skirt’s pleats. I almost think she hasn’t heard me, when, after a moment, she shifts our gaze a little to the right. “Half the town believes we killed our husband. The other half believes we killed him, but we qualify for an insanity plea.”
Wait ... “Everyone thinks we killed WT?”
Tansy snaps our head up with a startled thought. “Your friend, Francesca, doesn’t, I believe.”
And, I’m assuming, Calhoun and Dwayne. But Tansy knows about Francesca? How? A paring knife has begun hacking apart our insides. “So what’s stopping them from locking us up?”
“I told you. WT’s still alive. There’s never been a body.” Smoothing out our skirt, she adds, “Plus, Jesse Beauchamp and Zeb Calhoun struck a deal. You—we—get to stay outta prison as long as we stay tucked up in here, where Jesse can keep an eye on us and check in”—she trills our fingers in the air—“from time to time. In exchange, Calhoun gets to try n’ continue to examine us from afar when you go out every two weeks.”
“So you know that I visited Calhoun?” To think I’d thought I might have been sneaky. “He said that you had gone to visit him before. And that he helped us after I went to Boyd.”
Tansy’s voice deepens in warning. “Even the innocent have to make a deal or two with the devil in order to survive.”
“But Calhoun doesn’t seem all that bad ..." What exactly is she saying?
Tansy shoots me a warning look. “Let’s just pray that he continues to be that way.”
“What does that mean?”
Quick as a whip, Tansy pushes me onto the windowsill of our conscious mind. There must be something I can do to convince her to explain, but the ledge is wet, slippery. I do know that basically the whole town thinks I’m a killer, and Calhoun and Jesse are in league, but does that mean they’re also in the Klan? “Tansy, wai—”
“Don’t want to overload you.” With a pitying smile, she shoves me off the ledge, and I drop into an unending black space.
32
When I come to, I’m sprawled across the horsehair couch in the parlor, draped in a red and black dress covered in lace. Satin opera gloves house my fingers, and Hawkins is sprawled on my stomach, fast asleep.
I move an inch, and he locks his yellow eyes on me. Digging his paws into my stomach, he jumps off, his dainty claws catching the lace.
Black feathers have been strewn across the rug and hardwood almost like rose petals, lovingly placed. A cooked ... turkey? ... lies on a silver platter on the coffee table with perfectly browned skin and healthy amounts of pepper and parsley.
But Tansy couldn’t have bought that; she doesn’t go to town.
Unless ...
Black feathers. That isn’t a turkey.
A note on the coffee table has Tansy’s loopy writing where she’s written, “Bon Appétit!” Two wine glasses perch next to the platter, though one of the glasses has already been drained. Wonder what it is. Beet juice? I wouldn’t put it past Tansy to have found some beets in the root cellar and decided to play barmaid.
On a nearby chair lay my running clothes, folded in a neat pile, my sneakers on the rug just beneath.
I stand from the couch, knowing I have to find Francesca, whatever it takes. I should also make some time to stop by Grammy’s. Wonder what the chances are that she’s really figured out how to handle Jesse.
On the way to The Hair Lounge, I think what it must be like for Francesca to move here, completely clueless as to what people are capable of in Deep Creek. Though she’s probably felt a degree of discrimination everywhere. I hate that she’s had to deal with such hatred and ignorance. People can be so self-serving and ugly.
By the time I make it to the salon, the line’s out the front door and sprawled halfway down the street. The sharp hair chemical fumes draw me closer, and I veer around a self-standing chalkboard that says, “Half off eyebrow sculpting.”
Usually, Francesca’s stationed at the counter, but Hey, Sugar lady’s already standing at the front of the store, clutching her phone rigidly. “What are you doing here?” Tobacco wafts off her tunic, and, when she smiles, it seems she only has time to sometimes brush her teeth.
A scuffle breaks out from the door, and her husband emerges, big, brown mustache bouncing. The moment he sets his sights on me, his eyes narrow to slits while a pair of teens and an eighty-year old woman suddenly march through the door, barring the way.
I’ve got to get Francesca out of here—something about this doesn’t feel right.
Hey, Sugar lady draws closer to me as more people crowd in around us like sardines. A few murmurs break out across the group, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.
“You do realize how your choice in friends is problematic for us in Deep Creek.” Hey, Sugar lady’s breath is a biological weapon, making it very hard to concentrate. “Not that it matters, now that she ... ”
Goosebumps rise on the backs of my arms. What’s going on? Something’s on the floor behind her and—that better not be ...
My heart catches in my throat as I stagger to the right. Maybe it’s Jessica—or one of Francesca’s other colleagues—but, no, a beautiful, buxom form is just lying there like someone’s busted a knee.
Gorgeous, umber skin has never looked so flawless—except for the gaping hole that’s now in her hairline.
Blood pools onto my sneakers. And Francesca ... she doesn’t blink.
No. No ... I bite my tongue. Blink past the white spots floating in front of my eyes. I’ve got to get her—hold her—but someone’s holding me back while I scream, “Someone lift her to a chair or something!”
A fat piece of porcelain lies on the tile—almost like it’s the missing piece of Francesca’s head, but that isn’t the right material, and it’s covered in bright-red food coloring.
“Who did this?” I’m choking as the customer chairs spin about me.
“Does anyone know how much it’s going to cost me to replace that sink?” Wanda asks blandly.
“Such a terrible accident,” the eighty-year-old woman says, holding onto those two scraggly teens.
“Not to mention the stain,” one of the teens agrees.
I round on the trio, tears burning in my eyes. “What is wrong with you?” I lift a shaking hand to my friend. “She’s ... someone’s ..." Why can’t they see what I’m seeing?
“Truly, a terrible, terrible accident,” the eighty-year-old woman says again, and how can she believe that? That’s not how Francesca died!
“She was murdered,” I say, staring down the woman.
The woman’s white hair whooshes back as she flinches with fright.
But Hey, Sugar lady narrows her eyes at me like I belong in a padded room with a straitjacket and chains.
“Please, you have to listen to me.” My voice hitches, and I spin to explain this to everybody. “They did this.” I think of the Klan robe hanging in my closet. “I have proof! If you see it, I know you’ll believe!”
“Oh, sure.” Hey, Sugar lady rolls her eyes. “The ‘untouchable’ Gemma Coldiron Hardin. You still haven’t even confessed to what you did to WT.”
The eighty-year-old woman seems to have recovered from her fear. Her slight shoulders are bunching up as she jabs a crooked finger in my face. “Murderer!”
But she has to see that Francesca’s been the target. A target of the worst possible hate crime.
Only, the old woman’s teen escorts are closing in on me like they’re about to eat me for lunch. Hey, Sugar lady’s husband dials on his phone, like he’s calling the police.
He should call the police. But the only police I know in this town is Jesse.
The bell on the door chimes, and speak of the devil. A stocky man in a police uniform shuffles in, and Jesse r
olls back his shoulders while he rearranges the wad of chew in his left cheek.
Setting me in the crosshairs of his gaze, Jesse narrows his eyes, and I already know I’m in trouble.
I have to get out.
I have to get out.
“It was an accident,” Wanda says.
33
When I return home, Francesca’s blood splotches my shoes—giant, angry scratch marks from hungry beasts. Sure, I’m smearing blood on the rug in the parlor, but I don’t care. She’s dead.
Dead.
How could I be clueless enough to let Francesca die?
The only thing that makes sense is that someone in the Klan did it. Tears burn sharp as razors in my eyes. How could I put her in danger? How could I be so oblivious to what was going on in Deep Creek?
I pound the back of a parlor chair. “She’s dead!” Vulture feathers fly up from the breeze of my swing. “She’s dead ..." And they called it an accident, of all things.
Francesca and I were friends, and I didn’t even know her last name. Who is going to do my hair from now on? And how is that one of the first questions that crosses my mind? She said her husband and daughter got a house because of WT, but now they’re missing and she’s dead.
I shouldn’t have ever asked Francesca to do my hair. I probably shouldn’t have ever confided to her that Hardin is my last name.
Spinning, I grab the first thing that I come into contact with—a metal and brass canon paperweight. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I toss it to the Civil War-era bone china where it chips away a good quarter of a plate.
That didn’t do enough damage, so I grab an empty teacup and hurl it into the fireplace.
The saucer goes next as pure, raw rage washes over me in a tidal wave. To think that the Klan is here, and I just let Tansy hole us up and blindly take over the reins.
A candlestick joins the saucer in the fireplace, and my hands tremble while I remember how that isn’t a candlestick but a girandole—another stupid fact from all the tours I did in D.C.
I’m just about to grab a framed self portrait of Tansy with one of her cats, when my other half flops up from her frilly, mental bed, fully awake. “You need not let out your frustrations on my artwork, G.”
I grab the portrait anyway.
She snarls, and I guess it really is important to her, so I let her set it back on the mantel where it clatters, nearly falling
“They killed her,” I say, sinking onto the coffee table next to the roast vulture meat.
What gets me is, I don’t even know if Francesca tried to tell me about the Klan. She told me people here aren’t what they seem, but I was too busy obsessing over my own issues to see what she was saying. Did she even have any other clients? How could I not notice?
Perching on the edge of her bed, Tansy mimics the way I’m sitting. In quiet solidarity, she doesn’t say a single word while she waits for me to steady my breathing. Mattress springs coil as she leans forward, and I get the impression that she wants to give me a hug, but she holds back. Not exactly sure how that would work, anyway.
Groaning, Tansy says, “I knew it was only a matter of time before we saw a casualty from The Knights.”
The ... ? “Don’t you dare call them that.” There’s nothing about them that even remotely warrants them being called “knights.”
“Sorry.” Tansy mentally tucks her legs up beneath her skirts. “That’s just their name. Ironic, isn’t it? The ‘True Knights’ of Deep Creek.”
I’m going to puke. Give me a sword, and I’ll impale something. My hands feel so broken and useless—anything I touch dies.
Tansy purrs, “We can call them ‘the Klan,’ if you like ..."
All of this is so crazy. She’s crazy. I pull at our hair. “I don’t want to call them anything!”
“Yes, Gemma, I understand that. But this”—she gestures about the disordered room—“is our reality. Despicable hate groups and antiquated secret societies. Why else do you think I prefer to hide?”
I really wouldn’t mind hurling her precious portrait into the fireplace. “Tansy, we have nothing to fear. We. Are. White.”
“People of other ethnicities are not the only ones who have reason to fear, G. Anyone could die who crosses the big names.”
I think of how Jesse arrived at the exact moment when I tried to convince the town that Francesca was murdered. How deathly calm he looked. Scary. How he would like nothing better than to lock me away.
“You and I both know that the color of Francesca’s skin is the reason why she died. I saw the robe. That’s what they do. They hurt innocent, good people—no matter who you or I are. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”
In a futile attempt at comfort, Tansy pats the closest of our two knees. “No, no. You’re right.”
“Yet you’re not even surprised that it’s happened. I can’t believe I didn’t run to Francesca the minute I found that robe.”
Tansy settles one of our hands on the table. “Handling such matters is not our responsibility. It’s why we need to stay here, safe—”
“WE SHOULD HAVE TRIED TO WARN HER IF WE THOUGHT MURDER WAS EVEN A POSSIBLITY!” I punch the platter on the table, nearly sending the roasted vulture flying. Pacing over the rug, I say, “This is what they do.” I hate this detached, numb feeling crawling over our body. “Just sit around for innocent people to move in—and harass and possibly kill them.” I hunch over, ready to lose whatever food Tansy last ate.
Lifting our hands, Tansy presses them into the skin on our forehead and rubs them all the way down our face. “Look, we’re in no position to take down the Klan. I would like to. Stopping them would be a fabulous idea, but we already have a target on our backs, what with how they think you killed WT.”
“But I didn’t do that!” I snatch a horseshoe bookend from the fireplace mantel and toss it into a tabletop clock tower. They both fly back and smash into a curio cabinet, making a terrible clang. Though maybe, considering what WT might have done, maybe getting him out of the picture is somewhat ... justified? No. No, no, no. That’s not who I am. I don’t kill people. I would never take anybody’s life.
“Ah, but you’re afraid of the avalanche!” I trill my fingers in the air, mocking Tansy’s self-absorbed worry. “Heaven forbid we ever stand up for something.”
Tansy mentally scoots back. “Look, G, I’m sorry.” Reaching up, she seizes our left fist and forces it down with our right. “Would you like me to play you some music?” She nods to a stringed instrument in the corner. “I’ve been givin’ myself harp lessons and think I may have finally mastered La bohème.”
I’ll head-butt her into the wall if it means she’ll stop living in a fantasy. But I guess it would be stupid to knock her out right when she’s in a sympathetic enough mood to share more about our history. “Is Calhoun one of the leaders?”
Startled, Tansy lifts our chin, half-nodding.
“Beauchamp?”
Cracking an eye half-closed, she nods a second time.
“And where, exactly, on the totem pole is WT?”
She lifts our head higher, higher—all the way toward the ceiling.
“So you’re saying he’s at the top.”
“I’m not sayin’ anything, G. You have to figure out these things.”
A loud BOOM outside the door tells me that an agitated tourist—or townsperson—has come to play. And they’re bearing weapons. Great.
I dig our hands again into our hair. “They killed Francesca to teach me a lesson. They’re acting like”—I fight back a gag—“reserving our town for only white people is a matter of principle or something.” I had no idea they’d follow me home. They’re probably the same people who left the graffiti.
A brick or a rock bounces off the board covering the window in the very room where Tansy and I are standing, and we stagger a step back.
“GOLD DIGGER!” a crazed woman roars, her husky voice sounding an awful lot like Hey, Sugar lady’s.
“Conspiracy theorist!” her husband wails. “Pointin’ fingers at everybody else when you’re the only murderer in Deep Creek!”
Glass shatters from a window somewhere in the house, and someone just spouted off a racial slur I will never repeat.
Tansy winces. “Evil does have a way of catching on where it’s invited.”
“I didn’t invite them!”
“I’m just sayin’ it spreads like wildfire, my sweet.”
All I know is, I hate him. I hate WT. How could I have ever had feelings for a person who inspires so much hate?
“YA BETTER TURN YOURSELF IN!” Olly Joliffe’s oily voice screams as someone out there lobs a rock through what must be one of the half-moon stained glass windows in the library. Whoops and catcalls curl from every direction.
“Beauchamp’s been keepin’ your cell empty!”
A gravelly voice roars, “You should be livin’ up to the Hardin legacy!”
“If Edgar saw how you turned out, he’d be rollin’ in his grave!”
More shouts ricochet from the walls while another gunshot rocks the very foundation of the estate.
Tansy marches to a cupboard and pulls out an old, rusted pile of padlocks and chains.
“Where did you get those?”
“WT’s great-granddaddy.” Tansy sounds way too cheerful. “He used them on his slaves.”
I fight back another gag when she pulls a second pile of chains from another cupboard. I gave plenty of tours of plantation homes back east, but I never had to handle chains.
“I can deadbolt the front door,” Tansy says, “but I need you to climb up to the second floor. Don’t want anybody else slippin’ in through the upstairs window, like Dwayne.”
I can feel the blood leaving my face. “Tansy, how many members of the Klan live in this town?”
She kicks the curio cabinet closed before giving our head a firm shake. “It’s hard to say. These townies really like their secrets, don’t they?”
I do not think Tansy’s and my definition of “townies” is the same.
“You have to remember, WT was very popular with the rich and poor, alike. They look up to him, one of the many reasons bein’ that he was always generous with his money.”