Tomb of the Unknown Racist

by Blanche Mccrary Boyd

  The woman I’d seen inspecting Nadine at the press conference was sitting on my wooden steps. She was wearing a white duster and dark glasses. Her car was parked in my spot. Claudia pulled up at the house next door. “What do we do?”

  I decided the woman wasn’t glaring and that only my nerves were making me think that, so I opened the car door. “Let’s go meet her.”

  The woman pulled off her dark glasses and stood up as we approached. “I think my brother has come back,” she said. “My brother, Joey.” Her sweating skin was rough, her small eyes sweet.

  “I saw you at the press conference,” I said. “I thought you were one of my problems,” I said.

  “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have told Joey about your car.”

  “Isn’t he a fugitive?”

  “He’s still a fugitive or something like that, but they don’t seem to bother him anymore. They might have to now, because of all this publicity. Messing with your car was kind of, well, you might say, off the reservation. But he probably didn’t do it himself.”

  Claudia stifled her laugh.

  “You call him Joey? I thought everyone called him Magnus,” I said.

  She said primly, “That is only his surname.”

  “You better come on in. It’s way too hot out here.”

  I kept the air conditioning turned high because I didn’t want to walk into a hot house, and the cost of electricity did not make my list of concerns. Claudia introduced herself to Joe Magnus’s sister, who, it turned out, was named Lily. She said that her sister’s name was Violet and that Violet lived in Minnesota. “She married a Yankee. Can you imagine living in a place like Minnesota?”

  I opened the fridge for three cans of Coke and handed one to each of them.

  “Jailhouse Rock” blared, and they both wheeled toward my phone, which featured a little statue of Elvis wiggling his hips and singing into a microphone. His tiny silver jacket had a tag explaining that the imperfections in the weave of raw silk were natural. His forelock fell across his forehead. The voice mail kicked on, and Joe Magnus’s voice filled the silence. “Hey, asshole, tell my fucking sister to pick up the fucking phone. Lily, I know you fucking went out there.”

  I picked it up myself. “Hey, asshole, where’s my fucking brother? Why aren’t you in fucking jail? Dead would be even better.”

  “I didn’t authorize trashing your car,” he said. “I saw it once, though. Bet you thought it was fucking cool. Not so cool now, are you, bitch?”

  “Listen, cuntsucker, you want to talk trash with me, we can do that. Are you coming to take a look at your boyfriend’s little monkey this afternoon or are you too chickenshit to show up?”

  “I’ll be represented,” he said.

  “You’ll be disappointed. Beecher’s made me cancel the viewing because of your stupid bomb threat. I guess you’ve graduated from making bombs that don’t work to throwing around threats.”

  Claudia and Lily had both moved around to stand where they were facing me. They were waving their arms, signaling no. Lily was saying, low-voiced, “Hang up, hang up,” and Claudia was saying in a low voice, “Fuck, fuck.”

  “I don’t make threats,” he said, and hung up.

  “What have you done?” Lily wailed while Claudia scribbled.

  10

  Lily Magnus Biggers was so undone by her brother’s phone call that she sat down in my black leather barber’s chair and babbled that she had never believed that “nigras” bore the mark of Cain or that the world was only six thousand years old. Her despair at speaking these heresies was visible. She said she loved Jesus and thought that intermarriage was wrong, but killing people had to be wrong too, and she’d seen the picture in the paper of that little girl, that sweetheart.

  She said that when Joey got expelled from Rivers High, their mother sent Lily and Violet to a church academy. It had only two classrooms, one for grades seven through ten, the other for eleven and twelve, and the principal’s office was in a trailer. But after he got involved with the pastor’s niece, Lily and Violet had to be homeschooled. She thought Christian academies must be a lot better now because Violet was sending her kids to one, but she and Vi didn’t know how to read or write very well, and she was sorry about that. “I can read ads in the newspapers, because they’ve got the pictures, and I can count money. I handle money fine. I was a cashier at Piggly Wiggly before I got married. I’d better leave now.” She stood up.

  I tried to imagine this woman, who looked butch to the bone, married to a man. “What’s your husband like? What does he do for a living?”

  She seemed confused. “He’s a bus driver for Greyhound. It’s a good job. With benefits. And he’s a Christian.”

  “You have children?”

  “We have a girl, Millie. She’s ten. She’s a sweetheart too.”

  When we left the cottage, I didn’t bother to lock the door. One of the few things I could remember about my father was him saying that locks only keep honest people out. I wasn’t supposed to drive Claudia’s rental car, but I did it anyway.

  “Cuntsucker?” Claudia said gingerly. I was trying not to drive too fast down the road that ran along the beach. The speed limit was twenty-five, and I was in enough trouble. “Is that term original with you?”

  “I don’t know, it just popped out of my mouth and I knew he would hate it. Where’s your famous Del Mead?”

  She giggled with a hint of what seemed like hysteria. “He’s working by phone.” She held up her mobile phone.

  “And you’re going to fill him in?”

  “Not yet, but I have to start doing it tonight. He’s in the air. I suppose you know how this kind of journalism works. I’ll get credit for the research.”

  “You think I should have one of those phones?”

  “How can you not already have one? And you need to get a security system for your house out here. Today. Get it right now.”

  “I don’t want to be any more reachable than I am, and those phones give me the creeps. My brain has enough problems. Anyway, what is there to steal from my place? If they burn me down, I get to rebuild brand new.”

  “You want to lose your Elvis phone? The cool chair? That original photo of Marilyn Monroe? Yes, I recognized it—it’s from her last shoot. Don’t you think rebuilding would be a lot of trouble? Not to mention, what if you happen to be there when it burns?”

  When I didn’t answer, she called ADT herself—“They’re the best”—and handed me the phone. I arranged an emergency installation for later that afternoon. The door, I explained, was unlocked, so maybe they could install some new locks too. I gave them Claudia’s number as a contact.

  On the way off the island and back into Charleston, I called Ed Blake at his house and left a message. “So, have you been officially fired yet? This is Claudia’s fancy mobile phone. Use this number to call me back. Also, get a new one of these things. I’ll have my own by tomorrow morning, but now I know I’m getting old. I remember party lines, where, like, eight families shared, and you could listen in on your neighbors. Your government pals listening to us were being retrograde.”

  After a silence, Claudia said, “You stake way too much on being tough and clever.”

  We were passing through the flat reaches of Mount Pleasant, and the bridges were now visible. “It’s an act,” I said.

  “I don’t think it’s an act,” Claudia said.

  Part of what was nerve-racking about the Grace Bridge was the lack of leeway. Railings came right up to the lanes on both sides, creating a chute. It was impossible to walk on the bridge, and two cars could barely fit side by side. “Here’s a quote for you when you get to do your big story, Claudia: ‘Charleston is where the Ashley and Cooper Rivers meet to form the Atlantic Ocean.’”

  “I get to do a big story?”

  “If I can swing it and we can get Del Mead off your back. You do keep surprising me. I was an asshole at twenty-eight.”

  We were going steeply down into the turn where the two span
s are anchored and the second span rises.

  “You’re still pretty much an asshole,” she said.

  I glanced at her profile. Nothing visually remarkable about this young woman. Short, probably ten pounds overweight. Face okay, not lovely. Hands stubby and nervous. “I know,” I said. “I don’t seem to be able to help it right now.”

  She did not look away from the bridge as we descended the first span, and I made the turn effortlessly. “Please keep looking ahead. Please,” she said. “Okay, you’re right. I can’t believe this bridge. I was struck sane when I found my mother hanging in the garage. Some people go crazy from trauma, but I got struck sane. And I do intend to be a writer, assuming I can stay sober. Not like your brother. I want to write about real things.”

  “What did she look like?”

  When I glanced at her, she was staring at me in a way I hope never to see on another person’s face again.

  We topped the second span. “Sorry. Really. The asshole thing.”

  “Her tongue protruded out of her mouth. Her face was dark red and blue. Shit had run down her legs.”

  “I’m so sorry, Claudia. I’m sorry for asking.”

  “My father is retired now. And I could have flown here without the Times helping me.”’

  “You mean you come from money?”

  “You make so many assumptions about people. Yes, I have a trust fund, enough to be a first-class drug addict, but not enough to buy beach property in Hawaii.”

  “You’d hate Hawaii.”

  “I did,” she said.

  “Claudia, I just don’t understand. Why did Ruby do this? I can’t grasp what she felt. I know she loved her children. Did she think they’d be resurrected?”

  “Here’s my theory,” Claudia said, sounding relieved as we left the bridge. “And if I do get to write a real story, you’ll see it there. I think sometimes events coalesce into a single moment, and in that particular moment a thing happens that only later seems inevitable. Ruby’s children dropped out of the world like a hole had been torn in a piece of fabric. But it wasn’t inevitable. If the people had been there to meet her like she expected, it wouldn’t have happened. If she had told anyone else about it, it wouldn’t have happened. Or even if the children had woken up, it might not have happened. Ruby made a choice, and then she covered the whole thing up by hitting herself in the head so hard she fractured her own skull.”

  “But given her history and my brother’s, doesn’t that seem like destiny? I hate that word, but I feel like we’re all being moved around by forces we don’t understand. My father believed that you’re born with a number on your back and that is the day you’ll die, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “Well, those are the two basic theories. Free will and predestination. Philosophy 101 at Brown.”

  “Children don’t have free will, Claudia.”

  We were safely riding down Cannon Street. “That’s because children aren’t people yet,” she said, “so they don’t have agency.”

  “Let me think about that. You mean they don’t have State Farm insurance?”

  “That’s what I mean,” she said. “That kind of remark.”

  11

  We barely had time to rearrange the toys. I didn’t want to throw the white angel away because that might be bad luck, so I set it behind the trash can. Claudia took a lot of pictures, including one of the hidden angel. “A junk camera,” she said. “I can’t believe they didn’t even send a photographer.”

  “Get a close-up of Lucia’s face. Get a shot of those cornrows.”

  Jimmy came into the room, agitated. “There must be thirty people out there already. Two policemen are here. They keep telling them we’re closed and that the viewing is canceled, but they’re not leaving.”

  “Good. I’m glad.”

  “Can you please ask them to leave, Ellen?”

  “Sorry, Jimmy. I hope you don’t have any other viewings being disrupted by this.”

  “You might have thought of that first, but luckily, no, we do not.”

  “I’m sorry I was so nasty to you before. It was ugly. It was wrong.”

  He didn’t reply but followed me down the discreet hallway. Our feet were soundless on the carpet. When we got to the big mahogany double doors, I said, “Jimmy, let them in. What harm can it do? There’s no other viewing happening right now. The police will keep order.”

  His face quivered. “I will not have my father’s business turned into a circus.” Claudia took a photograph of us standing like that at the door. “Stop,” he said, holding his hand in front of his face.

  “People want to see her,” I said. “They want to honor her. And you said there are only about thirty people.”

  “I’ve made commitments,” he said, his voice rising. “We cannot do this. What about the bomb threat?”

  “I don’t believe the bomb threat,” I said. “I think someone made that up. Who needed an excuse to cancel this? The police? The mayor’s office? The chamber of commerce?”

  “I am not a liar, Ellen.”

  “Jimmy, I don’t think you’re lying, but somebody else might be. Please let these folks in.”

  He stood there stubborn and red-faced while Claudia photographed us. I opened the door and stepped out.

  There was no crowd outside in the hot air, just several groups of people, mostly African Americans hanging about in twos and threes. A policeman, also black, was talking with two women who had a young child with them. I saw a white reporter from the Post who’d had the sense to arrive early. Everyone seemed to turn to me with one face.

  I spoke quietly, but they heard me. “Beecher’s has decided to allow the viewing to begin now, even though it’s thirty minutes before the official opening. I want to express my gratitude to James Beecher Jr. for his cooperation in this matter.”

  I turned and attempted to open the massive mahogany door, then mimicked surprise that it was locked.

  “Please feel free to come forward and line up while I make the final arrangements with this nice policeman.”

  Everyone hesitated, looking from one to the other to decide what to do. Then the door opened, and Claudia stepped quickly outside. The door slammed shut behind her. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she whispered. “Every employee of Beecher’s has gathered. You’ve got a dozen white men in black suits standing right behind this door. Okay, one of them is black.” There was a trace of amusement in her eyes.

  “So listen,” I whispered, “are you still running that fancy recording pen?”

  She looked startled, then not. “Of course, but I wish the sound quality were better. How did you know it was a recorder?”

  “So what do you take the notes for?”

  We were hiss-whispering, which was hilarious in this context. “For settings. Expressions. Your Elvis phone. Lines that might not get caught.”

  The policeman, very dark and glistening, reached us. His uniform hung on him, and his eyes were so sad I wondered if he was sick. “I’m so sorry, Miss Burns. We can’t allow anyone in. It’s a direct order from the Public Safety’s office.”

  I turned and knocked hard on the door. “Jimmy! We’d like to come in now!”

  A photographer appeared by my side, his camera winking. A siren sounded, and police cars turned into each end of the street. While they cordoned off traffic, two TV cameramen suddenly appeared within ten feet of us.

  A policeman drenched in sweat approached. He was young and white and angry. He said I would have to come with him now.

  “You’re arresting me for having a funeral? I’m not going anywhere unless you’re going to arrest me. Why don’t you arrest this New York Times reporter too?” I turned to one of the video cameras. “An outrageous thing is happening here. The police have arrived to prevent the viewing of the remains of Lucia Burns Godchild, granddaughter of the notorious white supremacist Royce Burns, my very own brother. I hope every sane Charlestonian who can hear me will come down here right now. Beecher’s Fun
eral Parlor, on Rutledge Avenue.”

  I found out later that this invitation to the public was not sent out directly over the air, but local stations did interrupt their programming to say that a demonstration was forming in front of Beecher’s Funeral Home concerning the viewing of Lucia Burns Godchild, and that police had been called to the scene.

  Within minutes many young people, mostly white, began to glide in from side streets—dozens of them—and soon a real crowd grew as we watched. They were probably students from the College of Charleston and the Medical University, because many carried book bags. Scattered among them were men and women in white lab coats, nurses’ uniforms, and green scrubs, as if they had walked straight out of their offices and laboratories at the medical university and hospitals nearby. Estelle was one of them.

  She marched past everyone else, up the steps and under the awning. No one stopped her. Later she told me she just kept saying, “I’m her friend. Let me pass.” Her eyes were puffy. “You damn fool,” she said to me. “I’m here.”

  She turned and faced forward, and the three of us stood there side by side. “What now?” Claudia said, under her breath. She was holding her notebook in front of her, her pen poised but not moving.

  “I have no idea,” I said, trying to speak without moving my lips.

  Someone called out, “Let us in!” Others took up the cry, and soon a chant of “Let us in, let us in” began.

  Behind me the door opened, and Jimmy Beecher stepped out. “You are all welcome!” He opened both big doors and disappeared inside.

  The employees in their black funeral suits had formed a loose line to the entrance to the viewing room. They held their hands folded in front of their bodies, as if they were praying through their navels.

  Estelle took charge and began to wave folks forward. “Come right on in. There’s no problem. We are so glad you’re here. We are so glad you’ve come.” She turned and whispered in my ear, “I’m going to wring your neck like a chicken’s.”