Under a Dark Summer Sky

by Vanessa Lafaye

  He had waited until they were having dinner. Roy was in his cot, a milky smile on his plump cheeks. “What if I were to tell you,” Dwayne had asked, eyes intent on her face, “that I know who it is?”

  Noreen pushed the greens around her plate without much interest. She had become so thin, like she was trying to disappear. When did that happen? There never had been much to her, but her shape was almost gone. Her pale blond hair was lank and dull. She shrugged. “I’d say good for you.”

  “Henry Roberts,” he said, alert to any display of emotion on her face. He thought he saw her shoulders stiffen, but she gave nothing away. Frustration steamed like a geyser inside him, threatening to bring dinner up with it. “It’s him, isn’t it? Henry Roberts. Why don’t you just admit it?”

  “Why?” she had spat. “Why do you want to know so bad? What difference would it make? It won’t change anything, will it?”

  “I need to know. Why cain’t you understand that?” He threw his plate against the wall, where it shattered. Food slowly smeared a brownish track down the wall. “I need to know!”

  Wailing had erupted from Roy’s cot. Noreen went to pick him up. Dwayne had caught her by the wrist. “I can make you tell me,” he had said in a low voice. “You know I can.” His other hand had drawn back to strike. She had flinched and covered her face, but not before he recognized the shameful truth: months of beatings had not produced the result he wanted. Rage burned right to his fingertips. His hand had shaken with frustration, with the desire to connect with flesh, and then suddenly it was not Noreen in front of him but Hilda. He had seen her right there, her bloodied mouth and nose, her bruised and swollen eyes, the torn lobes where her earrings had been. Her battered lips had spoken the words that chilled his heart: For shame, for shame.

  He had dropped his hand, released Noreen’s wrist. She had scooped Roy into her arms, wiped his nose with her apron. “There, there, hush, baby boy, hush now. That just your…daddy. He cain’t help it.” Her gaze had flickered to Dwayne, and in that look, he had seen weary resignation and something else, which shamed him in all his physical strength: defiance.

  • • •

  “You okay, Uncle Dwayne?”

  Jimmy’s voice broke into his thoughts. He throttled the pickup toward the camp. Jimmy’s spare frame bounced with every bump in the road, one hand clamped on his cap. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  The search just has to produce a match, Dwayne thought. It stood to reason. He was determined to remain in control of the situation and not give Ronald and his friends an excuse for the kind of lawless violence that had taken place elsewhere in the state. In Daytona Beach, in Tampa, in Plant City, and Fort Lauderdale, even in the capital, Tallahassee, he had heard stories of how the mobs wrought their vengeance. The authorities seemed powerless to stop them. Or more likely, he thought, they just lacked the will to stop them. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let that happen here.

  So far, the lynchings had not traveled farther south than Miami, and he wanted to believe it could not happen in Heron Key. He had lived there all his life and knew the people to be basically decent, if prone to normal human weaknesses. Sure, they had their share of problems, but since the end of Prohibition, the town had enjoyed a peaceful time. Everyone left their doors unlocked at night, looked out for each other’s children. Rare incidents like the fight between Ike and Ronald at the barbecue could be put down to an excess of alcohol and bad blood. Few people in town owned anything valuable enough to attract real thieves.

  He thought again of the look on Noreen’s face when he had said Henry’s name. It made a lot of sense that an outsider had attacked Hilda.

  The camp came into sight around the bend. He gunned the engine.

  I’ll find you, if I have to take this entire camp to pieces.

  Chapter 14

  As Henry crept closer to the camp, he could see that something strange was going on. Although his time with Missy had made him later than he intended, it was far too early for the place to be so busy. A few stars still shone faintly over the ocean, ahead of the rapidly rising sun. Normally only the cook was up at this time, preparing the miserable slop he had the nerve to call breakfast. An unfamiliar pickup truck was parked inside the gate. The veterans stood in groggy groups outside their cabins, scratching and yawning like they had been pulled from their beds. Barefoot. Trent shouted orders in their faces, clipboard under his arm.

  Henry circled around to the swampy latrine side to consider how to rejoin his men. He had planned to slip back into the cabin the same way he left, but that would not be possible now. He managed to catch Jeb’s eye as he craned his skinny neck. He mimed an attack of stomach cramps. Jed blinked; he understood. Then Henry waited on the boards over the filthy mud for his opportunity.

  The deputy sheriff made his way from cabin to cabin, trailed by a young, red-haired man. At each stop, Red lifted the men’s boots, one pair at a time, so the deputy could examine them, each time referring to a small piece of paper. This made no sense to Henry, but he guessed it was something to do with the attack on Missus Kincaid.

  He was unsurprised that suspicion had fallen on the veterans. It was entirely predictable for a small place like Heron Key to close ranks against the outsiders. He had seen it many times in his travels across the country. Doors were slammed, curtains pulled shut, children tucked protectively behind their parents’ legs. Still, it saddened him. While the veterans did little to endear themselves to the townspeople and included some characters even he was wary of, it was not beyond the realms of possibility that someone from the town was responsible for the attack. The veterans, he felt, deserved the same treatment as the townspeople: no better and no worse.

  The deputy arrived at Henry’s cabin, the last to be inspected. Trent consulted his clipboard. His voice carried over to where Henry waited by the latrines.

  “Where’s Roberts?” he barked, eyes swiveling to take in the parade ground.

  “In the john, Boss,” said Jeb. “He a sick man, on account of the crap we had for dinner last night.” He shrugged. “Crap in, crap out.”

  Lemuel snickered, silenced by a look from Trent.

  “That right, Boss,” said Franklin loudly. “He could shit through the eye of a needle right about now.”

  The resulting hilarity continued while Henry strolled over to join them, very obviously doing up his pants and trying to look drained. Trent regarded him closely. “How long you been in there?”

  “Hours, Boss, I reckon,” said Henry with a weary sigh. “Was woken in the night by a terrible rumbling. Thought it was an earthquake in my stomach.”

  Murmurs of sympathy rippled through the assembled men.

  “Boots, Roberts,” said the deputy. “Off.”

  Henry handed the smelly footwear to Red, who wrinkled his nose and held it at arm’s length for the deputy to inspect. He studied them for a long moment, compared them to his piece of paper, before he finally said with a note of disappointment in his voice, “Clear.”

  Hands on hips, the deputy surveyed the scene like it had done him some kind of personal injury. His eyes wandered across every sleepy, unshaven face and every building while the men waited and the temperature rose. Full morning sun broke over the camp. It filled out the shadows and reflected off a shaving mirror left by the water pump, which sent a shard of light right across the side of Henry’s cabin.

  “Mr. Deputy, sir,” said Two-Step. “I think if you were to look over there—”

  Trent barked, “Did anyone ask for your opinion?”

  “No, let him speak,” said the deputy.

  “Well,” said Two-Step, “I saw Mr. Roberts hide something over there.” He pointed to the side of the cabin. He had the expression of a satisfied spider, enjoying the fly’s struggles too much to bite just yet.

  Henry caught his eye and thought, People see what they want to see. Payback.

  Instantly th
e deputy straightened, alert as a gun dog with a scent. He strode over to the cabin and tugged at a lump that stuck out from under the wall. Then he stood to reveal a T-shirt covered in brown stains. It was the shirt Henry had worn to butcher the gator before the barbecue. That gator never existed, as far as anyone knew in town, and he was determined it should stay that way, for Missy’s sake.

  “Whose is this?” asked the Deputy.

  Jeb sent Henry a warning glance, which he ignored. “Mine, Deputy,” he said. “It mine.”

  “These stains look like blood to me.”

  “That’s because they are,” said Henry, his tone level.

  Two-Step offered, “Just like I said, Deputy: seek and ye shall find.”

  “You can shut up now,” said the deputy.

  Jeb’s narrowed eyes flashed with alarm.

  The deputy stepped closer. “You mind telling me, Mister Roberts, what activity you were engaged in when you got covered in blood?”

  There was something in the man’s eyes, in his voice, that cut right through Henry. It was the hint of triumph, like he had proved some kind of point. He had found what he was looking for; everyone could sleep safe in their beds now. In the country of the damned, a stained T-shirt was the flag. But he could not bring himself to cooperate, especially if it implicated Missy. “I do, as it happens.”

  “You do what?” Trent glowered.

  Franklin’s one eye registered apprehension. Lemuel bit his lip. Jeb whispered, “You gone crazy?”

  “Mind, Boss,” said Henry calmly. “I mind. It ain’t the deputy’s concern. It ain’t her—Missus Kincaid’s blood on the shirt.”

  “Then tell us,” demanded Trent, so close to Henry’s face that he could see every pore, smell the odors of stale tobacco and beer. “Whose blood is it?”

  “No, Mr. Watts. I…respectfully decline.”

  “I’ve had enough of this vaudeville routine,” the deputy said and cuffed Henry’s hands together. “I’m arresting you on suspicion of grievous bodily harm on the person of Hilda Kincaid.”

  “But, Uncle Dwayne,” said Red, anxiously shifting from foot to foot. “We didn’t find no match to the boot print. Don’t that mean—”

  “Shut up, Jimmy, and get in the truck,” said the deputy.

  • • •

  Mama arrived at Doc’s later that morning. He had begun the process of changing Hilda’s dressings. The roses from Lionel had started to look sorry for themselves, so she gave them fresh water and replaced the jar on the bedside table.

  “There you go, Missus Kincaid,” she said. To Doc, “Can she hear us?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe, some of the time. She’s been mumbling but I can’t make it out.” He tossed the bloodied bandages aside and took the clean ones from Mama. She washed a bad cut on Hilda’s forehead.

  “How she doing?” Mama asked. She could detect no change, no flicker of waking.

  “Well, there’s no infection,” he said with a tired creak in his voice.

  Mama had helped out at Doc’s since he came back from the war. They understood each other after long years together. They had plastered broken bones, sat up with sick children, and eased the passing of the dying together. She knew that the bruises that flowered into extravagant yellows, reds, and purples were part of normal healing. Of more concern was this unbroken sleep. The wounds were clean, already trying to close, but the brain lagged behind.

  “I’m not happy about her blood pressure,” he said.

  Indeed Mama thought the eyes looked more swollen than the day before. “You sending her to the hospital?”

  He removed his glasses, polished the lenses on his shirt. “Not yet. She’s still too weak. In this condition, the trip could…do more damage. We’ll give the drugs another day to work and then see how things look.”

  Mama spied the cot in the back room. So Doc had taken to sleeping in the office. This was not a good sign, nor was the slightly fevered redness around his eyes. “Doc, you been eatin’?”

  “People have been very kind,” he said distractedly, “as you can see.”

  His desk was piled with plates and dishes, mostly full of food. Flies were making a meal of what looked like smoked mullet. With no icebox, the food was not fit to eat.

  “Doc, you got to take better care of yourself, or else how you gonna take care of her?” she asked sternly.

  He blinked behind the smeared lenses of his glasses, as if he did not understand her words.

  She took the bandages out of his hands. “Now, look here,” she said. “This is what we gonna do. I’m gonna finish this up while you lie down and rest.” He started to protest, but she held up a hand. “Then I’m gonna get rid of this rotten food and bring you some fresh. And then,” she said in her no-nonsense voice, “I’m gonna sit here and watch you eat it, every bit.” He was the only white person she would ever talk to like this.

  He did not resist as she led him to the back room. Just then, there was a knock, and a cheery “Hello? Anybody home?” came from the screened door.

  Dolores Mason glowed in her white tennis dress. She entered with a glass-domed plate on which sat a magnificent pineapple upside-down cake. Mama recognized it as Missy’s specialty. “Just brought you something to keep body and soul together,” trilled Dolores. “Morning, Mama.”

  “Mornin’, Missus Mason.” Mama never had much to do with the country club set, but she heard often from Missy that Dolores Mason seemed to get younger every year. Her skin was clear, just touched with a honeyed brown from the sun. Her arms were lean and sinewy. Missy said she ate very little, mostly vegetables and some fish, but smoked like a chimney. Meanwhile, George Mason seemed to be aging faster than normal. He was a nice enough man when sober, Mama heard, which wasn’t often.

  Dolores handed the plate to Mama and stood next to the bed. “Oh, Hilda,” she said as she leaned over her face. “You poor thing. What did they do to you?” Hilda stirred. Her eyes trembled behind their lids, and her hands twitched slightly. “How is she, Doc? Has she said anything?”

  “Nothing I can make out,” he answered. “We have to be patient.”

  Mama observed Dolores closely. The woman was no friend of Hilda’s. Everyone knew that and the reason behind it. So why was she there? To make herself feel better about the whole thing with Mr. Kincaid? Mama smiled to herself. In some ways, poor old Hilda had gotten one over on the svelte young woman who had so publicly stolen her husband. Hilda was now the center of everyone’s attention, which was the spot that Dolores usually had all to herself.

  “You poor man,” Dolores said, laying a manicured hand on Doc’s arm. “You look done in. You must get some rest. Take him home, Mama. I’ll sit here with Hilda while you’re gone.”

  “I—” he began.

  “Honestly,” Dolores said, “it’s no trouble. At a time like this, we must all put aside our personal…feelings and pull together.” She smiled, showing her neat, small white teeth.

  “I’m not leaving, but thanks all the same,” said Doc.

  “Me neither,” said Mama.

  Dolores looked from one to the other, smile fixed firmly in place. Then, with a shrug, she picked up her pocketbook and said, “Well, all right then, suit yourselves. I’m always here for you,” she said and gave Doc’s hand a squeeze.

  The screen door smacked closed behind her. Doc slumped into a chair. “What just happened?”

  Mama shook her head. “You been run over by the Dolores Express.”

  • • •

  Back at the police station, Dwayne had begun to fill in the forms for Henry’s arrest. They had come in through the back door, but even so, several people had seen Henry in his truck and would draw their own conclusions. It would not be long before the news spread. He needed to take advantage of this period of calm to extract the information from Henry. I’ve got you, Roberts, and yo
u’re going to pay, for everything you’ve done. And I mean everything.

  Henry sat in a corner of the cell, apparently unconcerned, as if he were waiting for a bus. He had said nothing on the way back in the truck, which put Dwayne on his guard. Innocent people—and many guilty ones—were always quick to tell you all about it, in his experience. Henry’s silence was disturbing. It was not normal. Jimmy, by contrast, had chattered nervously for the whole way back, until Dwayne had threatened to make him walk to town.

  Jimmy led Henry to sit across from Dwayne at his desk.

  “Mister Roberts, you understand the nature of the charge against you?” Dwayne asked formally.

  “I do.”

  That flat, confident stare again. It unnerved Dwayne. “And what do you have to say in your defense?”

  “It wasn’t me. I wasn’t there.” Henry paused. “And I trust in American justice.”

  Dwayne studied Henry for a moment. He was cool and collected where he should be stammering with fear—a black man, accused of battering a white woman, on the edge of Florida’s lynch belt. Dwayne could not fathom it, any of it. This annoyed him. “Where were you after the barbecue at two in the morning?”

  “Asleep in my bunk, in a cabin surrounded by my men, who will all vouch for me.” Henry sat back and folded his arms, like he was the one in charge.

  “Of course they will,” said Dwayne, making some notes on the form. Suspect was cooperative but full of himself. “Now it’s time to tell me about the shirt. Where did the blood come from?”

  “It’s nothing to do with Missus Kincaid,” he said, “and for that reason, I respectfully decline to say.”

  “Whoever attacked Hilda would have been soaked in blood,” Dwayne said, leaning forward. He held the T-shirt close to Henry’s face. “They would look, in fact, just like this.”