The Undertaker's Assistant

by Amanda Skenandore

  Her conscience got the better of her, though. In the kitchen, she arranged the coffee on a tray along with the sugar bowl and creamer, then stalked across the courtyard, more careful of her footing this time, and up the stairs.

  “Damn it, James. You think I don’t read the papers?” Mr. Whitmark said, loud enough for Effie to hear from the steps. She paused on the mezzanine landing and listened.

  “I didn’t know how your Republican rag might spin it,” James said.

  “Spin it? You think the danger here is lost on us?”

  “Them. Lost on them. You’ve got to start distancing yourself from this.”

  A chair scraped across the floor.

  “Us, them, the point is I’m not blind to what’s going on. I know the resolve of the North is . . . wavering.”

  “Wavering? Those mangy radicals who seduced you to their cause have all but abandoned you. And it won’t just be wayward Negroes the Ku Klux comes after.”

  Mr. Whitmark laughed, a hard, bitter sound that prickled Effie’s skin. “You talk like they’re not one and the same—the Klan, your little White League, the Democrats.”

  “Now you’re just spouting Kellogg rhetoric.” James’s voice was calm, almost paternal. “You saw how the League behaved back when we took the statehouse. No unnecessary violence. And the Democratic ticket has pledged to uphold all the lawful rights granted the Negro after the War.”

  In the quiet that followed, Effie heard a soft rattle. The tray in her arms was shaking. She hurried up the remaining steps and slipped quietly into the parlor. Mr. Whitmark was standing by the far window, staring out at the street below. If he’d heard her enter, he made no show of it. She set the tray down on the lip of the tea table near where James sat, keeping her gaze downcast for fear that he might read from her face that she’d been listening. With one hand steadying the tray, she gathered up the newspapers cluttering the table.

  GRANT PARISH CASE DECISION SUSTAINED, one of the front-page headlines read. For a moment Effie stood paralyzed. She’d heard talk of the Supreme Court’s pending decision at the club meetings, remembered reading about the bloodshed at Grant Parish when she was yet living in Indiana. How enraged Samson would be at the news. And Mrs. Carrière, hadn’t someone said her husband was among those killed?

  She jogged her head and slid the tray to the center of the table.

  “Leave those,” James said. When she looked up at him, he pointed with his chin at the papers she’d cleared from the table.

  She set the papers on the side table, wishing she’d managed to read beyond the first few lines, and backed out of the room.

  “Thank you for the coffee,” James said.

  At this, Mr. Whitmark turned around. He looked at her, but his gaze was diffuse, as if she were a specter and he could see right through her to the wall. “Yes, thank you, Effie.”

  She heard the clink of coffee cups as she descended the stairs. Then James spoke again. “Listen, Georgie, now more than ever you’ve got to be reasonable. Carpetbagger rule is coming to an end. The South belongs to the South again.”

  Mr. Whitmark only harrumphed. She imagined him rubbing his knuckles and looking wistfully to the card table, where his bottles once stood.

  His brother continued. “You don’t have to be excluded from that. Colonel Randolph mightily appreciated the care you took with his son. He might even be willing to support your nomination to the club. Think of what that would do for the shop.”

  “Business is going fine.”

  “This isn’t just about your business, but your life. It’s not too late to marry, settle down. You work with the dead, know what a difference it is to have family left to mourn. Do you really want to meet your end alone?”

  Another pause, and Mr. Whitmark said, “I was a colonel too, you know. Funny how he can still wear the rank and I’ve got to slink around and hope no one remembers.”

  Effie left the remainder of the black fabric flapping in the courtyard and hurried down the street until she found a newsboy. The New Orleans Republican’s summation of the Grant Parish decision was unimpassioned and succinct. She read the entire article standing on the street corner in the span of a minute. A quick rifle through the pages revealed nothing more. She dropped the paper onto the newsboy’s stack and drifted back to the shop.

  She returned just as James descended the stairs. She tried to read in the clap of his footfalls whether he’d been successful in swaying Mr. Whitmark’s loyalties. Not a triumphant clap, she decided, but not a defeated one either.

  Effie resumed her brushing. She hurried from one cloth to the next, ignoring the dust that settled on her skin and eyelashes, anxious to be done and go . . . go where? The other women at Mrs. Neale’s would not have heard the news nor understand what she relayed. Effie wasn’t sure she fully grasped its significance. But it had been significant, for why else would Mr. Whitmark’s brother have come? She might go to Adeline, but likely her friend—if that’s what they were now—wouldn’t care. No, she must see Samson.

  * * *

  The Republican Office at 94 Camp Street was a three-story stone affair with arched windows and carved molding. She wasn’t sure if Samson or any of the others from the ward club would be here, but the halls of the statehouse were empty and she hadn’t any idea where else to look. Several young colored men lingered outside. A few of them smiled and doffed their hats as she climbed the stairs to the entry. Others, lost in conversation, didn’t look up. Words like scoundrels, abuse, injustice flew between them.

  The vast foyer was a hive of activity, boot heels clapping on the stone floor, voices pinging from the mosaic walls and high vaulted ceiling. A printing press hummed from some far-off workroom. Effie stepped to the side and scanned the faces for one she knew. Men of every sort were here—old and young, black, white, and every shade in between. The office doors on either side of the foyer stood open with men crowded about the jams. Boys, as young as five or six, scampered about delivering telegrams, letters, and parcels, paper-wrapped sandwiches, tins of steaming gumbo, even bottles of whiskey.

  Gaggles of men barely old enough to vote had overtaken the benches lined about the room, some sitting, some standing, some with their muddy boots propped upon the wooden bench tops. None she recognized, however. They blustered and argued, smacking their caps in their palms or throwing up their arms. When their eyes lit upon her, they quieted and straightened. More smiles.

  Effie checked that her bonnet hadn’t fallen askew or that she hadn’t spilled sodden coffee grounds down the front of her dress, then credited their curiosity to the paucity of women about. Indeed, she realized, almost none. Two white women—schoolteachers judging from their chalk-dusted skirts and ink-stained fingers—stood at a small reception desk in the corner, speaking with an attendant. A white-haired negress lumbered up the steps at the far end of the room. That was all.

  Effie half thought to follow the old woman, half thought to flee. The crowd, the din, the stares harried her already tender nerves. Then an arm coiled about her own.

  “Oh, Effie, est-ce vrai? Is it true? What have you heard?”

  It took Effie a moment to recognize Mrs. Carrière, so altered she appeared. A black bonnet restrained her frazzled hair; the bow at her neck hung loose and lopsided. Her eyes, ever shrewd and steady, fidgeted in their sockets like a madwoman’s.

  “I . . . er . . . just got here. I don’t know anything other than what was reported in the paper.”

  Effie tried to gently extricate her arm, but Mrs. Carrière’s grip held fast. She tugged Effie toward the stairs. Her other hand was clasped about Jonah’s, dragging him along too. When he looked up at Effie, his little face was grave.

  Upstairs, Mrs. Carrière hurried them to a large meeting room. Tall, multipaned windows lined two of the walls, their sashes raised high to invite a breeze. The outside air, however, did not oblige, and the room was stifling, redolent of sweat and charged with anger.

  Several men crowded around a long table. Jonah w
iggled free of Mrs. Carrière’s grasp and slipped into the horde. Most of the men at the table were white, though she did spy Mr. Rousseve and a few other light-skinned Creoles seated among them. Those pressed together at the periphery were black.

  Effie stood on her tiptoes, searching for Samson. She heard his sonorous voice before spotting him at the far end of the table, standing in a narrow gap between chairs. “We ought to be down at the jailhouse protesting the release of these murderers.”

  Several of those standing clapped and hurrahed at his comment.

  “So we can have a repeat here of what happened at Colfax?” one of the seated men said. Murmurs followed. A few nods.

  Mrs. Carrière’s grip tightened about Effie’s arm. Her face had the sallow undertone of the dead. Effie scanned the room for someplace to sit her down—a bench, a couch, a chair. But there was hardly room to stand let alone a spare seat. Perhaps the wide lip of the windowsill would suit, so long as Effie kept hold of her, lest she faint and fall backward to the street below. Fresh air would certainly do her good. Effie charted a path through the bodies to the nearest window, but then found herself tugged in the opposite direction. Mrs. Carrière bullied them through the crowd until they stood right behind those seated.

  “So it’s true? They’re releasing those murderous devils?” she said over the mutterings. “Mon Dieu! Hundreds dead and they walk free?”

  The room quieted. Those seated at the table turned to look at her. Just as quickly they looked away—down at their manicured hands, pressed trousers, and polished shoes. Even Samson took sudden notice of the floor.

  After a silence as stifling as the heat, Mr. Rousseve said, “Mo chagren, Marie. I’m sorry.”

  Mrs. Carrière swallowed. She clenched her jaw and blinked back the tears building in her eyes. Again Effie searched out the nearest window, but the body beside her was steady, unwavering.

  “So what now?” Mrs. Carrière managed after a moment.

  “That’s what we’re here to determine,” the man at the head of the table said. He was a thin, soft-spoken man, with hooded eyes and a broad nose. She’d not seen him at Adeline’s petite fête, but likely he was of the same set, a gens de couleur. Unlike Mr. Rousseve, however, who oozed self-importance, this man bore a cordial disposition, solemn but warm. “It’s clear we cannot rely upon the Federal courts for justice. The state has sole purview of crimes committed by her citizens now.”

  “What’s to stop the White Leaguers from runnin’ out the rightfully elected sheriffs and putting in men of their own, ones who don’t care a grain about the Negro and won’t arrest nobody?” someone in the crowd asked.

  “They’re already doing that in East Baton Rouge,” Samson said. “The sheriff, the parish judge, the tax collector were all forced to flee under threat of violence.”

  “And in Feliciana,” said another man.

  “And St. Helena!” came a voice across the room.

  “Governor Kellogg”—the man at the head of the table raised his voice to be heard above the rising din—“Governor Kellogg has drafted a letter to address the recent disorder in East Baton Rouge.”

  Samson snorted. “It’ll take more than words to stop these buckras.”

  “And he authorized a posse comitatus should they not reinstate the officers and prosecute those responsible for their removal.”

  “They had an entire militia in Grant Parish! Little good it did them,” Samson said.

  Effie glanced askew at Mrs. Carrière and saw her flinch at the mention of the massacre. Her slender arm remained intertwined with Effie’s like a beanstalk about a pole.

  Several men among the crowd harrumphed in agreement. Others gave a stomp, sending a tremor through the floorboards that traveled from the soles of Effie’s feet clear to the top of her head.

  “We can’t change what happened at Colfax,” came a familiar steady voice. “And it looks like we won’t have the satisfaction of justice no time soon. But we can work to stop future bloodshed.”

  A few more grunts and stomps. Effie saw Tom moving forward through the crowd. Little Jonah hung about his neck, as if to get a better view of the events. Once they were front and center, Jonah climbed down and plopped cross-legged beside him on the floor.

  “Marie and all them who lost beloveds that day have our deepest and lasting sympathy.” Tom bowed slightly in their direction, and Mrs. Carrière nodded back. “But we gotta fight not with weapons, but with the vote.” He banged his cane atop the floor. “That’s the only way we can get officers of the law who’ll be sympathetic to our cause.”

  “Hear, hear!” several men rejoined. Even Effie found her head bobbing in agreement.

  “What good is it to elect such men if we haven’t the power to enforce their rule?” Samson said, the fire and earnestness in his voice swaying Effie as surely as Tom’s logic. His eyes met hers for the flash of a moment, sending a flush through her body as delicious and unnerving as Sunday’s champagne.

  “That’s what we have the Federal Army for,” Tom said.

  Mr. Rousseve lit a cigar. “Oui, but we can’t rely on them forever.”

  “Hell! We can’t rely on them at all,” Samson said, eliciting a short but loud round of laughter.

  “Ça alors. I can’t do this,” Mrs. Carrière whispered as her body sagged against Effie. These men didn’t seem any closer to a decision than when they’d first arrived.

  Effie looked at Samson, willing the thrill of one more glance, but his attention stayed with those at the table. She turned back to Mrs. Carrière. “Let me take you home.”

  They shuffled through the crowd and out of the room. While the cool hallway air invigorated Effie, Mrs. Carrière’s step remained sluggish, her hold about Effie’s arm fierce. She led Mrs. Carrière down the stairs, across the busy foyer, and out to the street. Evening shadows shaded the road, creeping up the brick facades of the buildings opposite them. She steered Mrs. Carrière upriver and they walked in silence.

  They’d shuffled along three blocks before Mrs. Carrière raised her head and stopped. She looked right, left, right, then back over her shoulder. “Non, this isn’t right. We’ve gone the wrong way.”

  “Don’t you live in ward two?”

  She shook her head. “Faubourg Marigny.”

  Effie bit down on her tongue and turned them around the way they’d come. “Where in the Marigny?”

  “Umm . . . Rue Dauphine. Two blocks beyond Esplanade.”

  They walked again without speaking, arm in arm, Effie navigating them through the waves of workers heading home from the business district. Mrs. Carrière scuffed along like a yarn doll, her slight form offering no direction or resistance.

  “Why don’t you attend club meetings in your own ward?” Effie asked when they’d made it across bustling Canal Street. For once it was a relief to be in the French Quarter, no one elbowing past in a hurry.

  “I did live in ward two, for a time.”

  “On account of your husband?” Today, of all days, Effie ought to take Adeline’s advice and keep quiet, but the question slipped out before she could check it.

  “Oui.” Mrs. Carrière raised her head, her gaze passing over Effie and fixing upon some distant spot above the slate roofs and stucco chimneys. Her eyes, though red-rimmed and bloodshot, were dry. Thankfully they remained so, despite Effie’s question. “We met not far from here. On Chartres. His master hired him out as a stonecutter. He was one of the best in the city, his services in such demand that—”

  “He was a slave? But you—”

  “No, I wasn’t. And the law strictly forbade association between us free people and those yet in bondage.” Her lips wobbled, almost reaching a smile. “We didn’t care, though. Youth predisposed us to recklessness, I suppose. And love . . . well, love turns even the best of us on our heads.”

  Effie stumbled over an uneven row of pavers. Why wasn’t any part of this cursed city flat? Mrs. Carrière trod on smoothly, for a moment baring Effie’s weight instead of the ot
her way around.

  “We married in secret and saved to buy his freedom. But even when we had enough, his master—ce bâtard—refused.”

  The vinegar in her voice saved Effie from having to work out the translation. “What did you do?”

  “We made plans to flee North, but the War saved us the trouble.”

  The War. Hadn’t it changed everything? And yet seemingly so little.

  “What was your husband doing in Grant Parish?”

  “He had a few friends who settled there after the War. Went as soon as he heard about the trouble. Not to fight but to help work out a compromise. Both parties claimed to have won the sheriff’s seat in the election and Samuel thought . . . well, he’d always been an optimist. But things had progressed too far by the time he arrived and . . .” She freed her arm from Effie’s and sobbed into her hands.

  Dusk had fallen and lamps were being lit. Enough twilight remained, however, to see the dispassionate stares of passersby, heading to the theater or gambling house or dance hall. Effie stood a moment, dumbfounded as to what to do. She’d never been good in the face of such overwhelming emotion. The dead, after all, gave up nothing. The living, the mourning, that was always Captain Kinyon’s or Mr. Whitmark’s charge.

  She glanced around and pulled Mrs. Carrière to the lee of an open carriageway.

  “Bon Dieu, Effie. He burned alive in that courthouse! And the men responsible wiggle free from punishment.” She clawed about in her purse, then gave up and wiped her nose on her sleeve before Effie could offer her hankie. “God may have his vengeance when they die, but what of me? Don’t we deserve some small measure of earthly justice for all they’ve done to us?”

  Effie swallowed, unable to reply. All she could think to do was run, to pull free of Mrs. Carrière and flee into the night. Her calves twitched at the ready. Her brain charted the fastest course back to her dark, quiet room. But her overlarge feet remained planted. She raised her arms, not pushing Mrs. Carrière away, but drawing her close, until her wet cheek rested against Effie’s breast.