I thought it was my arm at first, a muscle spasm, but the trembling got stronger. I brought the blade down, and as I did, the vibrations became more than a tremble. The sword jerked me to my feet, pulling me out of that ravine as if the end of the blade was attached to an invisible cord.
I was running again, but this time I was just trying to keep up with the sword. It pulled me a little to the left, a little to the right. My legs felt like they were going to buckle. But I would not let go. I only had to think of Janey inside her coffin and it kept me going.
Finally, I burst out of Lee's Woods back onto the road, a good mile from my house. It was there that the sword stopped pulling me, the vibrations dying. When I looked where it was pointing, I saw, down a narrow gravel drive, the two-story white house that had once been part of the Hamstead plantation. The porch light was on, most of the windows dark, only a pale light coming from the kitchen window. A warm breeze stirred up dust along the road. Not a car in sight.
The Hamsteads had long ago sold off their land to one of the giant corporate farms, but the son, Bill Hamstead, who was the town's postman, still lived in the old plantation house. He was one of those white folks who always gave me a sideways glance, the kind of glance that made me burn with shame even though I didn't know why. Still, he was painfully shy, never saying a word to anybody, so I never would have thought him capable of anything out of the ordinary — much less what had been done to my sister.
But that's where the sword was pointing.
I crossed the road and walked down the Hamstead drive, the sword held in front of me. The gravel crunched under my shoes. The remnants of a white fence lay in tall weeds on either side, the boards chewed up by termites.
Nearing the house, I saw that there were at least a dozen cars parked by the crumbling barn. The house was hardly in better shape than the old fence, its paint flaking, the exposed wood rotting, many of the windows cracked and smeared with mud. Dead flies piled up on the bottom of the window frames. I stepped onto the porch. A board creaked and I froze.
But I remembered the Lady's words, that the sword would keep me invisible, and I crept forward.
With my sweaty hand, I opened the screen door — which had no screen mesh at all — and tried the doorknob. It turned freely. I pushed open the door and stepped into a dark hall, a threadbare red carpet beneath me, a small table off to one side with a black phone on top. A portrait of a smiling gray-haired woman sat next to the phone. The room stank of rotten milk and cat piss. What little light there was came from the kitchen down at the end of the hall, from the tiny oven light.
I was looking down that way when a man in a white robe and pointy white mask rounded the corner.
Fear froze me on the spot. I was plainly in his view and he was looking right at me, his eyes invisible through the dark ovals of his mask. I may have been born in a different age but I still knew the Klan. A white boy might see pictures of them in the history books and feel a mixture of morbid fascination and guilt, but a black boy only felt fear. And to see one in person for the first time, it was like meeting the devil himself.
My bladder felt like it was going to give way. He kept walking toward me, lifting his arm as if he meant to reach for me with his meaty hand.
I jumped to the side.
But he didn't turn. He kept reaching, grabbing the doorknob and peering outside.
"Anyone there?" he called.
When nobody answered, he closed the door and bolted it. I held my breath. He looked in my direction, and I thought, this is it, he's seen me, but without another word he headed back the way he came.
I crept after him.
In the kitchen, where the linoleum was peeling at the edges and the sink was piled high with food-encrusted dishes, he opened a door along the back. A hanging bulb within lit the concrete stairs down into the darkness. He headed down, closing the door behind him. I went to the door. When I no longer heard the creak of his footsteps, I turned the knob and eased open the door.
The air smelled dank and moldy. I heard him speaking below, his voice echoing a little as if he was in a cavernous room.
"Nobody there," he said.
"Door never shuts properly," I heard a man say, and I recognized him as Billy Hamstead. "You latch it?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"All right then. Let's get back to business."
A lot of voices chimed in then, talking about all the things that were wrong with the world. The answer always had something do with the black stain. The scourge of the niggers. Them coons all taking our jobs and going after our women. These blackies are just animals — animals that need to be put out of their misery. It's up to us to do it. It's God's plan.
Each time they said the word nigger, I thought about Janey. I thought about what they did to her.
Quietly as I could, I stepped onto the steps and closed the door behind me.
Slay the hatred . . . Slay the hatred . . . Slay the hatred . . .
I took the steps one at a time, trying to time then so that my foot came down when somebody was laughing or raising his voice. It was all men, at least fifteen or twenty by the sounds of it. Their voices echoed off the concrete walls.
My breathing came fast and shallow. When I rounded the corner, I saw them gathered in a circle, sitting on folding chairs, all of them dressed in the same ghostly white robes and masks except one — the man on the far side, a bigger, bulkier man who was dressed in a robe and mask that was scarlet instead of white. He was speaking, quoting scripture from the bible in his lap, and I knew by his shape and voice that the man was Billy Hamstead. It seemed strange to me, them wearing those robes when it must have been plain to them who each of them were.
I stood quite still, afraid they might notice me. Nobody turned or made any sudden movements. The flag of the Confederacy adorned one of the walls. Two exposed bulbs on the ceiling provided the only light. It took me a moment to notice the other thing on the wall, next to the flag — Janey's pink dress, hanging on a hook. It was speckled with blood. Her blood.
Up there like a shrine.
"And so it is," Billy said, closing the bible and looking up at those gathered around him. "And so it is that the black stain must be wiped from the earth. We took that girl last week for her blasphemy, and we shall take two this week. Then it will be four the next. And eight. And sixteen. And then they will know what is coming, a purge that doubles with each week, a tidal wave that will send them scurrying into the shadows like the rats that they are. Do I have your agreement, brothers?"
"Aye," the men in the room said at once.
All the while, I kept looking at Janey's dress, feeling the rage inside me boil. Any man who has known this kind of anger never forgets it. It is the killing rage and it robs you of all your reason and your doubts. These men had killed Janey. They had killed Janey and they were planning on killing again.
They were talking again, planning, but I was deaf to their words. I stepped forward, into the circle, raising the blade above my head.
I stepped in front of Billy Hamstead, him still not seeing me. I was going to split him right down the middle.
I gritted my teeth and pulled back the blade a little more, readying myself for the blow.
The Lady had warned that I would face my dark moment. Slay down the hatred, she had said, and the tide would turn and my life would enfold in greatness. Hesitate . . . and this country would plunge back into darkness. It was my chance to forever purge the Earth of such evil. I had to have the courage to act.
Slay the hatred . . . Slay the hatred . . . Slay the hatred . . .
And then, with the blade poised above my head, all the men unaware of what was about to happen, I realized something. The men were full of hate, yes, but wasn't I as well? If I gave into my hatred, it would surely bring me vengeance, and it would surely bring me a dark satisfaction, but would it really stop such evil from spreading?
Hatred only bred more hatred. If I slaughtered them, wouldn't it only add fire to their cause?
Still, I hesitated, because I didn't know if this was what the Lady had meant. Maybe I was supposed to have this moment of doubt, and then accept the burden of guilt that came from using such power.
The anger was still there. It would feel so good to give into it.
I wanted to give into it.
Then I thought about Lee.
I thought about how he lay down his sword in those woods. I thought about how it must have felt, carrying all that hate for all those years, a hate mixed with pride and foolishness that drove thousands to their bloody deaths. I thought about all that and I realized why Lee didn't really surrender at Appomattox. He couldn't. A moment of true surrender was a solitary thing.
He surrendered when he gave up his sword.
I made my choice.
I turned from the men and walked away. They were still talking, the hate rising and falling in their voices like the swell of an ocean tide, but I didn't look back. I crept up the stairs, through the kitchen, into the hall.
I picked up the phone and dialed for an emergency. When the dispatcher came on, I told them the men who killed Janey Coleman were at Billy Hamstead's place. I told them somebody better come quick or they were going to get away. There was even evidence, I said. A dress, stained with the girl's blood. Then, while she was still talking, I hung up.
I opened the door and stepped onto the rotting porch, not bothering to close the door. I crossed the road and into the trees, standing in the shadows of old gnarled oaks with the sword held in front of me as if I was some kind of Roman sentry, the cool metal touching my nose.
It wasn't long until I saw the police cars coming up the hill — and I was glad that they had been smart enough not to turn on their sirens.
Three cars pulled up and six police officers rushed inside. I waited for a long time, waited until I saw the men in their robes dragged out in handcuffs, their faces revealed, looking like whipped boys every single one of them. I waited until I saw one of the officers come out with Janey's dress in a plastic bag.
Then I turned and headed for home, the sword growing heavier in my hand.
* * * * *
" . . . and for once when black folks where involved," I said, finishing the story, "the courts came down the right way and put them away for life. You probably heard that part from your Mama. Now and then, I wonder how different things might be today if I had made a different choice. It's easy to say you always know you made the right decision. But you don't. There's always doubt. Only a fool lives without doubt."
My grandson stared at me. His video game sat on his lap, his thumbs still on the buttons, but he'd never looked down once I began my story. His baggy pants and blazer were the same color as his skin, a light creamy brown. It wasn't much of a suit but it was the nicest I'd seen him dress. He was about the same age I was when I met the Lady.
We were the only two people in the room, both of us sitting on the white couch. The gray light of winter filled the windows, windows bordered with gold curtains. There were muted voices in the hall, a murmur of many people, but inside it was so quiet I could hear my own labored breathing.
"What happened to the sword?" he asked.
"Oh, I buried it in the woods, just as Lee did. Its power is gone now, I'm sure of that. It was for me alone." I leaned forward. "Listen, you have to promise not to tell anybody about this. I haven't told anybody but your grandmother, God rest her soul, and I don't think she believed me. I don't blame her. You promise?"
"Okay."
"You gotta promise."
"I promise."
I wanted to say more to him, but then the door opened and his mother appeared, decked out in her black dress and white pearls, her skin like finely polished obsidian. Two young men in dark suits were with her.
"Ready?" she said.
I nodded, rising to my feet, smoothing the wrinkles in my own suit. It was a fine suit, to be sure, fit for a king, though I didn't fill it out the way I once did. Age had its privileges and its price.
My grandson rose. "But why — um, why did you tell me?" he asked.
His mother looked confused, but I wasn't about to explain. "I wanted somebody else to know," I said. "I'm old, you know. And I think it fits the occasion, me telling you."
There were more questions on his face, but I patted him on the shoulder and walked into the hall. There were people in suits along the way, and when they saw me, they fell silent. A few of them grasped my arm and whispered to me.
"Mister President," they said.
"President Coleman, good to see you, sir," said others.
It was always nice to hear folks refer to me this way, even though I'd been out of the that grand house on Pennsylvania Avenue for many years. I shuffled down another corridor, somebody at my elbow, and glancing their way I saw it was one of the secret service men who'd been so kind to wait in the hall when I said I wanted a few moments with my grandson.
I walked through a pair of metal double doors onto a stage. There was a podium waiting, lit by a spotlight in much the same way the moon had illuminated that stump where Lee's sword had lain so long ago. As I approached, a ripple of applause rose. As I got nearer, squinting into the darkness, I could just make out their faces, like shiny coins at the bottom of a wishing well — some dark, some light, some every shade in between. There was a microphone.
I thought about Janey.
I thought about Lee.
I thought about how it felt to slay the hatred.
"Two hundred years ago on this very day," I began, "Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation . . ."
All My Invisible Friends
Danny was definitely my favorite. This is not something you admit to children, of course. There are no favorites — or at least there shouldn't be — among parents and child psychologists. But I would be lying if I said Danny wasn't my favorite. He was my favorite the moment he walked into my oak-paneled office, sandy bangs blocking his watery blue eyes, and flashed me a buck-toothed smile. It may have been that smile. It may have been that I knew everything he had been through in his six short years and I still believed that smile was authentic. You get pretty good at reading smiles in my line of work and Danny had one that jacked you straight into his heart.
That's why, six months after I met him, it was so hard to tell him I couldn't be his therapist any more.
"But why?" Danny asked.
The grandfather clock read three minutes to five. I had deliberately waited until the end of our session to break the news. Danny slouched on the blue bean bag chair across from me, legs outstretched. The snow once lodged in the treads of his tennis shoes — brand new Nikes, a birthday present from his foster parents — had turned into a puddle on my hardwood floor. The setting sun breaking through the blinds to our right filled the room with a warm orange glow. Pulled up next to him was another bean bag chair, this one for his invisible friend, Nick.
I swallowed. I knew it was going to be difficult breaking the news, but I didn't think I would have had a coal-sized lump in my throat. The question was there in his voice even though he hadn't said the words: Did I do something wrong?
"It has nothing to do with you," I explained. "It's me. I just . . . need a break for a little while."
Danny looked glum. He didn't often look glum, and it was an odd expression to see on his face. He glanced at the empty bean bag chair, then back at me. "Nick wants to know if it's cause your wife dying," he said.
The question, and how plainly it was put, made me feel a pang of grief. There were things I told my children and then there were things I withheld. I had told Danny I was married, that my wife was a child psychologist like myself, and that we had no children of our own. I had not told him how June had been battling brain cancer the last two years, or how she had finally succumbed to it two months earlier. I had not told him how it felt to be alone at the dinner table night after night, or how I sometimes broke into fit of helpless sobbing at something so trivial as finding a pink sock behind the cou
ch.
Even a month earlier, his comment may have caused me to feel a surge of anger, but that was mostly gone. What was left was a hollowed out place inside of me and a depression that had only deepened with each passing week.
I leaned back in my swivel chair, the springs squeaking. Nick had been with Danny since I started with him, and I knew it was no cause for concern. Most children let them go by his age, but then, most children hadn't been through what Danny had been through. "Who told Nick this?" I asked. My voice had gone dry.
"Nobody," he said. He pointed at my cluttered desk. I never sat behind it when I was in session. I had found it was one barrier I could easily dispense with.
"You don't have the picture on your desk no more," he said. "The beach one. The picture of your wife. So Nick tells me to ask Phil if you are okay and Phil says your wife pass way. I saw this long time ago but I didn't say. I know you feel sad, Dr. Tom. It's okay to feel sad, like you always say." He leaned forward, hugging his bony knees. He liked to wear shorts even in cold weather. "You can talk to an adult doctor and they can make you better and then you can come back and talk to me again."
He nodded at me as if he had given me all the advice I needed, and now it was up to me to follow it. You can think you've mustered all the necessary defenses, all the protections you need to prevent the onslaught of grief from overwhelming you, and then in an instant they're thrown aside and you're roiling in the storm again. All it took was a kid who had lost his father to a car wreck and his mother to a drug addiction — but for some reason could still occasionally smile — to cast me back into the sea.
"Well . . . " I said, trying to find my barriers again. "Well . . . You're — I mean, Nick is very perceptive, Danny. Very perceptive. Um . . . Phil is right. June passed away."
"And you're sad?"
"Yes."
"But you'll get better."
"Yes. Yes, I'll get better. I . . . It'll just take some time." I smiled, trying to sound more confident in this answer than I really was. "I just don't think I'm a very good therapist until I deal with some of these things. And I think you deserve the very best."
Strange Ghosts Page 2