Cape Fear Rising

by Philip Gerard

  Maybe Rountree could distract him—the old fox was a fool for flattery. “Heard you at the Opera House, back when you were running for Congress.”

  “So long ago! And you still remember.” Waddell beamed. “That was something. Did you know that I spoke off the cuff that day?”

  “I had no idea.”

  “There wasn’t time, you see. The nomination had only come vacant the day before. But you must have been a mere boy!”

  Rountree had never thought of himself as a mere anything, but he nodded, remembering. It was the day he had decided to follow the law. “I was ten years old. You had five hundred people in the palm of your hand.”

  Waddell wagged a finger playfully. “Good people know the truth when they hear it. I was just the conduit.” He sat back, smiling, and finished his shrimp with careful, precise bites.

  To Rountree, Waddell was just a stage actor, too old to play the part he craved.

  He wolfed down his well-done steak and gulped three straight cups of coffee after it. The coffee made him flush, but he needed the jolt to get through a long afternoon of business. “Look, Colonel, we’ve still got two and a half months. We’ve got things to settle with the people in Raleigh.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Perhaps when the time is right.”

  “A man could be persuaded.”

  “Maybe a speech.” Rountree was slowly seeing the possibilities. They’d have to hold Waddell back for now, let things fall into place. “Let me think about it,” he said. When the time was exactly right, an old-fashioned barnburner might be just the thing.

  Rountree consulted his railroad watch—not fancy, just accurate. “I have a client, if you’ll excuse me.”

  At that moment, the waiter arrived with the check on a little silver tray. Rountree waited a beat for Waddell to reach for it. Waddell was a founding member of this club, and it was tradition for the senior man to host. But he patted his lips with his napkin and made no motion toward it. Rountree pasted the check to the table under his palm. With the other hand, he drew a fountain pen out of his pocket and unscrewed the cap one-handed—a trick he had picked up at Harvard—and scrawled his signature.

  As the colored boy held the door for Rountree, Waddell was ordering another glass of wine. The day was turning out very well indeed.

  The agent was waiting for Rountree at his office in the Allen Building. He never locked up during the lunch hour—that was the kind of city this was, the kind it would stay, if Rountree could help it. The agent got to his feet and smoothed his crumpled brown trousers. Rountree immediately went to his desk and unlocked it, not bothering to shake the man’s hand. This was business—you didn’t need to be friends for life.

  “We’ve located the item you requested,” the agent said. He fingered his straw hat nervously and wouldn’t look Rountree in the eye. “Only thing is—”

  “Yes?” Rountree was immediately alert. He’d half-expected this—these days, everybody tried to take advantage.

  “—the price has gone up,” the agent said quickly.

  Rountree retrieved the papers he was after from his top drawer, slammed it, then came around the desk and stood facing the agent. He didn’t have time for this foolishness. Rountree was taller and heavier, and the agent stepped back. “Your family business is in Kinston, am I right?”

  “You know it is.” Rountree had known the man’s daddy for fifteen years.

  “Kinston, that’s my backyard.” Rountree paused to let it sink in. “A contract is a contract. We will pay what we agreed.”

  “But there’s another party who wants it.”

  “I have your signature on a purchase order.” Rountree snapped the paper in his hand. “There’s a figure next to it.”

  “Prices change, Mr. Rountree. If it were up to me …”

  Rountree slipped a manila envelope from among the papers he had taken out of the drawer. He unwound the twine and opened it, then counted out fifteen hundred-dollar bills into the agent’s hand. “Take the loss,” he advised quietly.

  The agent’s eyes brightened. “Oh, I see. Well, we didn’t expect cash.”

  Rountree shrugged. “No sense in extra paper. How about the other items?”

  “All in stock—just a matter of sending them down from the factory in Connecticut.”

  “Thirteen dollars apiece.”

  The agent consulted his papers. “Right. Times two hundred and fifty.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Three thousand two hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “C.O.D.”

  “Of course.” The agent fidgeted. “May I ask, why do you need so many?”

  “No, you may not ask. When can we expect delivery on the main item?”

  “Four to five weeks. It will have to be assembled. May I ask, is there someone here who is trained, that is, who knows how, who can handle … ?”

  Rountree glared at him.

  “Of course. The rest you can have anytime,” the agent said.

  “Fine. L. B. Sasser will take delivery at his drugstore.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The agent was still fingering his hat, looking whipped, so Rountree clapped him on the shoulder and said, “I’ve got an edge on today—don’t pay it any mind. Tell your daddy I was asking for him, hear?” Rountree shook his hand heartily.

  “Yes, sir, thank you.” The agent let out his breath, stuck his straw hat on crooked, and left quickly.

  When the agent had gone, Rountree telephoned his wife, Meta, then telephoned Hugh MacRae to tell him the good news. But MacRae was at a luncheon appointment with his Yankee cousin. What the hell was he inviting down Yankee cousins for?

  For what was coming up, the fewer damn Yankees around, the better.

  Don’t get mad at all the white people because of the few who have forgotten…. In the first place, we ask in all seriousness who is there among the whole number that would make of himself a murderer for the sake of carrying an election, which, if it goes either way, must give white men office?

  Daily Record

  CHAPTER THREE

  Monday, August 15

  GRAY ELLEN JENKS WALKED from the Orton Hotel, where she and Sam had temporary lodgings, to the brownstone Hemenway School on Fifth near Chestnut. She had an appointment with superintendent Noble and a letter of introduction from Hugh MacRae. Sam had asked for it.

  She also had a manila folder full of references from principals and senior teachers. She’d been the darling of Northside School in Chicago—until Sam had fouled things up.

  Once again, their life had been pulled up by its roots, but now that she had been set down in this new, strange place, she might as well make the best of it. She had no intention of sitting around the house all day.

  “We have two white schools, Mrs. Jenks,” the superintendent told her. Noble spoke quietly, almost huskily. As he talked, he held his lapels like an amateur actor. He would have been uncommonly handsome but for his bad teeth. “This one and Union. May I get you a glass of tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Fine schools,” he continued, looking out the open casement window at the giant elms that made a tunnel of the street. He turned back to his polished oak desk, its top clear except for a porcelain inkwell. He flipped through her letters. “Impressive,” he said. “According to these, you must be a fine teacher. We’d be fortunate to engage you.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say.”

  “Not at all.” He lingered over the last reference, from Hugh MacRae. Then he handed the sheaf back to her. “Neither Hemenway nor Union, I’m afraid, has an opening.”

  “Oh. I was led to believe—”

  “Now, Mrs. Jenks.” He approached her, smiling. “The schools must remain above politics.”

  “Politics? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I’m genuinely sorry I can’t help you. Or Mr. MacRae. A man with such an interest in our schools.”

  “Mr. Noble, I really don’t think—”


  “Perhaps he can find a position for you at his mill. Or his bank.”

  She was beginning to understand. “Now, look—I’m not asking for any special favors.”

  “Mrs. Jenks,” he cautioned her, still smiling. “You’re new in this city. Don’t say anything you might regret.”

  She glared at him—if only he were angry, direct. “Look, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot.”

  He flung his arms wide. “I’m a magnanimous man, Mrs. Jenks. I accept your apology.”

  Apology? She said, “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

  “We have many local ladies who would be very good in the classroom, but we can’t hire them, either. There’s been a depression, you know.”

  “It’s not a hobby, Mr. Noble. Not something I do to amuse myself in my spare time. I’m a trained teacher, I’ve got experience. It’s my profession.”

  He smiled and held the door for her. “Yes, of course it is.”

  She turned to go but felt a soft hand on her arm. She faced him. He looked at her directly for the first time. He spoke more softly than ever. “A word of advice? Your high-handed attitude is going to put people off.”

  She was near tears, but she wasn’t about to let this little cock see her cry. “I’ll remember that.” She bustled out of the office, skirts swishing. The secretary gave her a look and breezed into the superintendent’s office behind her, and the door clicked shut. Gray Ellen dropped her letters. She stooped to pick them up and heard their voices behind the door.

  “What is it that makes those people so pushy?” Noble was saying.

  Us people? she wondered.

  He went on, “They’re always shoving their way to the front of the line.” He was talking loudly now. “They come down here, throwing their weight around—well, they’re just going to have to learn to pay their dues.”

  “She’s new,” the secretary said. “Give her time.”

  Noble said, “Well, I wouldn’t hire the good Lord himself if Hugh MacRae recommended him.” He banged something on the desk. “She probably got fired from her last job for moral turpitude.”

  Gray Ellen was flabbergasted. She took deep breaths to get control of herself. It was all she could do to restrain herself from marching back into that office.

  The secretary reappeared, startled to see her. “You still here?” Her voice was uncertain—she wasn’t sure how much Gray Ellen had overheard. She looked down at her desk, the neat stacks of papers.

  “Don’t worry, I’m on my way out. I guess I’ll try the other schools.”

  “The colored? They’re best left to their own people.”

  “I’m a teacher. My people are in the classroom.”

  Seven blocks away, at the Williston Colored School, the interview went better. “Do you have any local references?” John G. Norwood asked, after going through her letters of reference. He was polite but distracted. He kept checking his watch, as if he had another, more important meeting.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” she lied. She felt flushed and damp all over from the walk. She hoped it didn’t stay this hot down here all the time—the heat sapped her energy.

  “Never mind,” he said. He started to say something else but stopped himself. “We’ve lost two teachers this year to illness.” Then, after a moment’s reflection, he said, “I can’t promise anything. Folks frown on white ladies coming in here.” He hastened to add, “But you wouldn’t be the first.” He paused, seemed genuinely regretful. “I’m afraid the pay …”

  “I’m sure the salary will be satisfactory.”

  Norwood smiled. “Your attitude is commendable,” he said, then shook her hand heartily. His hand, she noticed, was slippery from perspiration.

  On her way out, she passed a delegation of black men, all young and well-dressed, heading for Norwood’s office. She recognized the preacher from the train—fair-skinned, with wavy, neatly combed hair. He was as light-skinned as Norwood. When he didn’t speak to her, she touched his arm. “Excuse me,” she said. “Don’t you remember? We met on the train.”

  He stared at her, a hard look, then his blue eyes softened. “You were the one,” he said.

  “Somebody had to do something,” she explained. She was vaguely proud of herself.

  “You should have let them throw me off,” he said in a mellifluous voice.

  “You wanted to provoke them? I don’t under—”

  “That’s right,” he said. “You don’t. That’s a good thing to remember.”

  “Come on, brother,” said one of the young men. “The man’s waiting.”

  The preacher never took his eyes off Gray Ellen.

  “At least tell me your name,” she said. “I’m—”

  “I know who you are,” he said in that same honey-dripping voice.

  “I have seen you before, in every city.” He raised a finger and smiled graciously. “But you don’t know who I am. You have no idea.”

  What in the world was this all about? The other men grinned at her. “That’s right,” they agreed. “Tell the woman the truth, preacher.”

  She was feeling bullied, the way the preacher must have felt on the train. Only, unlike him, she wasn’t trying to provoke anybody to do anything. She was just getting mad. “You must have a name.” She didn’t care any longer who this arrogant man was, but she wasn’t backing down. He smiled without showing any teeth, looking handsome and sly. “Never mind,” she said. “Forget it. What do I care?” She turned from him.

  “Mrs. Jenks,” he said quietly.

  She turned back, startled at the mention of her name.

  “I am Ivanhoe Grant, a preacher of the Lord.” He bowed ever so slightly from the waist.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’m very happy for you.” How fitting, she thought—named after a silly medieval character in a book and a whiskey-sotted Yankee general.

  “Perhaps I’ve misjudged you,” he said sweetly.

  She almost believed him. “Never mind. I’ll just try to pick up the pieces of my shattered life and move on.”

  He laughed—a big, sonorous laugh. As soon as he laughed, against all better judgment, she found herself liking him. She had the uneasy sense that he had somehow been testing her, and now she had passed. He seemed to relax, but she was still agitated. This morning, everybody around her seemed to be talking in riddles, and she resented it—it was like hearing every second word of a question and being expected to come up with a good answer. She felt rattled and out of control, teased, but for what purpose? Everybody was saying something other than what they meant.

  She had to get out of there, back to her rooms.

  “Perhaps we’ll meet again, Gray Ellen,” he said. How did he know her first name, and what right had he to be so familiar?

  “I doubt it,” she said.

  He kept smiling. “You got to be where you live,” he said gently. “It’s a small town.”

  Yes, she thought, heading for the air—and getting smaller every minute. Behind her, she could hear laughter and the shuffling of feet, then the careful shutting of a heavy door.

  The Reverend Ivanhoe Grant and his ten companions crowded into John Norwood’s office. Norwood was an alderman, a member of the school board, and one of the twenty most influential Negroes in town. He hobnobbed with Dr. Silas Wright, mayor, Benjamin Keith, the importer, and Sheriff George Z. French—all white men. They trusted his advice. He sat on the executive committee of the Republican party.

  Norwood held up a copy of the Daily Record. His coat was off, his tie was undone, hanging in two limp ribbons from his unbuttoned celluloid collar. His shirtsleeves were rolled up on his thin forearms. “What in the hell does Manly think he’s doing?” Norwood was angry. For years, he’d worked to bring the races together. Much of the time, that had meant compromising, giving up on little things to win bigger things.

  “Telling the truth, brother,” Preacher Grant said.

  “You’re not from around here.”

  “I was born here,” Grant
said. “I have only come back.”

  “Well, I never heard of your people. Heard all about you in Tennessee, though.”

  Grant smiled and bowed his head. “The Lord’s will be done.”

  “The Lord’s will shot down five black workingmen.” It had been the familiar pattern: a rabble-rousing speech by a white man, an indignant meeting of blacks, more speeches and threats. All just talk until Grant showed up and goaded a few young men into action. Then in came the local thugs and the sheriff’s deputies to quell the “Negro uprising.”

  Grant sat on the edge of Norwood’s desk. He opened his hands like wings and softly flapped them in the air. “There is change in the air.”

  “That what brought you back—the smell of trouble?”

  Grant’s hands fluttered, his voice took on an incantatory tone.

  “Can you feel the change in the air, brothers? Can you feel it?”

  They murmured assent. They didn’t sound too sure. “The time has come for the New Jerusalem.”

  “Amen,” somebody said softly.

  “Oh, don’t get started,” Norwood said.

  “The time has come for the black man to walk in the sunlight with his head held high.”

  “Amen,” said several in unison.

  With an elegant, sweeping gesture of his right hand, Grant wiped the sweat off his forehead. The hand kept going and raised itself into the air, fist blinking into five outstretched fingers. His palm was white as a fish belly. “The hour has come for the black man to walk in the sunlight with his head held high and his eyes open wide.” His inflection was rising, the voice taking on resonance and power.

  “Praise Jesus.”

  His left hand aimed like an arrow at the cracked ceiling, toward heaven. “The hour has come for the black man to walk in the sunlight with his head held high and his eyes open wide and a rifle in his hands!”

  “Tell the truth!”

  “Walk in the sunlight with the Lord!”

  “Head up high!”

  “Mmm, mmm!”

  Ivanhoe Grant was off the desk now, poised on the balls of his feet in the semicircle of listeners, his hands gripping an imaginary rifle. The hot little room rang with his words. “The hour has come for the black man to walk in the sunlight with his head held high and his eyes open wide and a rifle in his hands and his finger on the trigger!”