“Oh,” Charlene responded, then lay silently. “Since she was—your friend—did she tell you who the father was?”
Ash’s heart beat wildly. He hoped Charlene couldn’t feel its vibrations shaking the bed. “No.”
A stiff silence hung between them for a few seconds. Charlene didn’t pursue the issue any further. Maybe she was afraid to, Ash thought. He figured it was safe to talk now, and shift the course of the conversation.
“Look, Charlene, Harland’s a good man. Betty Jean wouldn’t have raised a son to be any other way. Now, let’s reverse the situation.” Ash calculated that the motherhood angle would play on Charlene’s emotions. “What if--we were the Negro family? As a mother, wouldn’t you want some nice folks to help Gavin out in a difficult situation? Like maybe--a white family with some clout--and guaranteed protection?”
Charlene didn’t say anything for several moments. Finally, she blew out a breath. “Oh, Ash, I suppose you’re right. And I guess—I guess I could be wrong about Harland Hall.”
Ash kissed her. This time Charlene didn’t pull away. As Ash’s lips left hers, he said, “I love you.” He began removing her nightgown.
“I love you, too,” Charlene said, while helping him slip off her thin silk negligee.
Chapter 23
Gavin’s Mustang tore through the streets as he made his way to Libby’s apartment. With the convertible top down, wind ripped through his sun streaked hair. Gavin momentarily forgot his rage when he stopped at a red light. An attractive redhead wearing a mini-skirt winked at him as she crossed the street.
Gavin lowered his sunglasses and gave a sly gaze in return. But once the light turned green, he forgot the redhead and a fresh infusion of fury fueled his veins. Gavin floored the accelerator and the engine roared. Fragile dogwoods swayed precariously as he sped by.
The speed limit was thirty; he was going about sixty but didn’t care. Dad had warned him not to get another speeding ticket or he’d take away the Mustang. But now Gavin didn’t give a damn about his dad or his dad’s stupid threats. It felt good to think like that. So good he said it out loud. “I don’t give a damn about Dad!”
Gavin screeched to a halt at Libby’s apartment. He didn’t leave the car immediately. He needed to calm down. Libby’s condition was too delicate for him to face her as mad as he was. She was still too broken up over Uncle Otis. Besides, what he was angry about didn’t concern her.
Gavin grabbed the steering wheel. Feeling the well of tears, he looked down, then tightly closed his eyes. Gavin wouldn‘t allow himself cry. He gripped the steering wheel harder as he fought the urge. His eyes almost burned as squeezed them shut.
Finally, the tears were gone. He’d willed them to go away. Gavin inhaled, then let out a breath. Crying was for sissies--real men never cried, at least according to Dad. Damn his father! Gavin released the wheel and opened his eyes. Everything was blurry for a moment. After his vision cleared he looked toward Libby’s red brick building. She was expecting him. She’d called at 9:00 to see if he could swing by sometime before his 12:00 lifeguard shift.
He was glad to visit and console her. But today, he didn’t know how good he’d be at that. Still hurting from Uncle Otis’s death, Gavin now nursed a fresh wound. Dad’s words at the breakfast table had whacked through him like a machete, with not the force of one blow, but of several.
His father had informed the family that next week Harland Hall would be staying with them for a couple of days. Dad, sounding like a pompous jackass, claimed to be doing a favor for Hall’s mother. She’d worked for Dad’s family a hundred years ago, or something. Knowing Dad, he probably just wanted to look good to the colored people. Even though this visit was supposed to be kept a secret for Hall’s protection, the word would get out, even if it wasn’t until after Hall left.
Nowadays, since the Negroes had the voting rights, or whatever, Dad was going after their votes for his party. Gavin was convinced that this was the main reason Dad was bending over backwards trying to get all those colored men released from jail.
Dad believed Hall, and those associated with him, had nothing to do with Uncle Otis’s murder. “Hall’s a good man,” Dad had said, “an upstanding citizen, a son any father would be proud of…” Those words, “a son any father would be proud of,” reverberated through Gavin’s mind with deafening clarity.
And Dad had looked right at Gavin when he’d said them. But he didn’t stop there. “Hall graduated number one in his class from Morehouse College, and was in the top ten of Harvard Law School’s graduating class. He played football and ran track and field. Not only a superior student, but a fine athlete, as well. That man hasn’t had nearly the advantages of you kids, and being a Negro hasn’t made his life easy, but look at what he’s achieved. A successful law career and now a Civil Rights leader. I may not agree with everything he says, but he’s a man to be admired.”
Dad said Gavin didn’t apply himself, that he was lazy. “But I try!” Gavin thought. “It just seems like the words don’t stay still on the page.” Dad never believed that reading made Gavin dizzy; Dad just claimed that that was an excuse not to try. But Gavin was an athlete to be envied, even though Dad hardly came to any of his sporting events, and he rarely praised him for his athletic achievements.
Dad hadn’t said that stuff about Harland Hall for JoBeth or Leigh Ann to hear. He’d said it to crush Gavin, and he’d succeeded. Dad had never been proud of him, Gavin thought, yet he carried on about that nigger like he was the greatest thing since sliced bread.
“Nigger,” it felt good to say that, too. Mom and Dad didn’t approve of that word. But people in the Organization did. Uncle Otis never said it, and neither did Libby while Otis was alive, but since he’d died, that was the only way she referred to colored people. And that was the only way Gavin would ever refer to Harland Hall. Damned if he’d be exalted to “Colored!”
Gavin climbed from the car. As he walked toward Libby’s building all he could think about was payback. Uncle Otis had loved him and been proud of him. Uncle Otis came to his baseball games, swim meets and track and field competitions. He’d praised every performance, even if Gavin had lost, and he’d been proud of every trophy and medal Gavin had won. And now he was gone—gone because of Harland Hall.
Gavin knew better than Dad. Hall’s people were the cause, maybe not Hall himself, but his associates. Hall could hide behind a veil of non-violence, but Gavin knew that was a lie. Hall would pay for what he did to Uncle Otis, and pay in a big way.
****
Although Libby lay propped in bed wearing a pink cotton bathrobe over her polka dot pajamas, the one room efficiency apartment was immaculate. The yellow bedspread was pulled back neatly, no dirty dishes filled the sink, and the blue Formica countertop was spotless. She hoped this wouldn’t arouse any suspicion in Gavin. A compulsive housekeeper, her surroundings hardly appeared as though she’d been in bed, prostrate with grief. She looked at two cigarette butts in an ashtray on her small white nightstand. “Pardon the mess.” Gavin looked distracted, and didn’t respond. Good, she thought. The lack of mess hadn’t registered with him.
“I’m glad you could come by again today, Gavin.” Libby looked at him sweetly. He’d pulled over a blue vinyl chair from the dinette set and sat near her bed. “Just having you around reminds me of Otis—and that makes me feel better.”
“I gotta make sure you’re alright.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Uncle Otis would want that.”
“I miss your uncle, honey. He took such good care of me.” Libby reached for a pink crochet covered box of Puffs. She pulled out a tissue and wiped her eyes. “That Harland Hall—he has to be punished for what his people did.” Gavin didn’t say anything. He sat hunched over studying his white high top Converse sneakers. “Gavin.” His eyes met hers. “Don’t you agree?”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that. But what can we do?”
Libby was silent for a moment. “What do you know about him coming here? You
told me once that your father has some sort of connection with him. He knows his mother—or something?”
“Yeah,” Gavin said quietly. “Dad’s helpin’ him out next week when he comes to town. He’ll be looking for an apartment and office. But guess what? That—nigger,” Gavin said with robust hatred, “is actually gonna stay at our house!”
Libby gasped. “A nigger? At the Governor’s Mansion?”
“Yeah, I still can’t believe it, myself. A real, live nigger!”
Libby smirked. “So—is he at least gonna stay with the hired help?”
“Noooo! He’s gonna stay in a guest room!”
Libby made a nasty face. “Well, once he leaves, the whole place ought to be fumigated! She glanced toward her plastic covered orange couch. “And before he comes, arrangements should be made to plastic coat all the furniture!” Libby shook her head. “How can your father open up the tax payer, government funded Governor’s Mansion to a nigger--and a murderer?”
“You got me,” Gavin said. “But Dad wants to keep the whole visit a secret. The guy won’t be moving to Clarkstown for good until the beginning of next month.”
Libby bit her upper lip. Her deadline to eliminate Hall was by the end of that month. “Well, Gavin--you be the eyes and ears for the Organization while that nigger’s under your roof, okay?”
She couldn’t let on that the Organization wanted to kill Harland Hall. Even though Gavin appeared to hate Hall, and had recently started saying “nigger” enthusiastically, he might react like Otis. And Libby believed Gavin too important a tool to jeopardize.
“So, what do you want me to do?”
“Just let me know what his plans are. Maybe monitor his movements. Get as much information as you can, especially when Hall talks to your dad. And I’ll want to know where his office and apartment are, and exactly when he’ll be moving in.”
“Okay. But then what? I mean, after he’s here for good.”
Libby sat quietly for a few seconds. “What do you think should be done? What would give you satisfaction?”
Gavin only hesitated for a moment. “Seeing him dead.”
Surprised, Libby sat up from her pillows. “Do you—” Almost giddy, she caught herself, then leaned back calmly and cleared her throat. “Do you really mean that?” Gavin said nothing. “Do you really mean that?” Libby repeated.
“I don’t know.” Gavin sighed. “A part of me does, but not just because of Uncle Otis.” Libby waited for him to continue. “When Dad told us Hall was gonna stay in our house—I got really mad. But then he just went on and on about what a great guy he is; top of his class at Harvard and all that crap. It’s like Dad said those things just to show me what a disappointment I am. ‘Here’s Harland Hall,’ he says, ‘a Negro without half the advantages of my kids and look how he’s turned out.’ Dad said Hall wouldn’t risk his reputation to have somebody killed.” Gavin seethed. “But if Hall comes around here, with things like they are now, he might just get his ass killed. And I won’t care one bit.”
“Well—the Organization just wants to uh—shut him up.” Libby tried to feel out Gavin a little more. “Scare him—so he won’t talk.”
Gavin’s eyes peered keenly into Libby’s. “I think he ought to keep on talking. There are a lot of nutcases out there that want to see him dead.”
Libby kept herself from grimacing. She hated being referred to as a nutcase. “You’re right, Gavin,” she said calmly.
“As far as I’m concerned,” Gavin continued, “I don’t think we should scare him. He can make all the noise he wants and keep on stirring up trouble—then somebody’s bound to blow him away.”
Chapter 24
Ash paced nervously around the private drawing room. Gazing at the elegant décor, he wondered what Harland would think of the grandeur of the Governor’s Mansion. The room was pale green, its walls decorated with oil paintings depicting civil war battles and portraits of civil war heroes. A marble bust of Robert E. Lee held a place of honor in one corner of the room, while the opposite corner paid homage to the state’s first governor, Enoch Upchurch, also immortalized in stone.
An ornate brass chandelier with six large frosted glass globes hung from above. Tall windows were adorned with dark green velvet drapes, tied back with gold tassels. Over the polished hardwood floor lay a large Oriental carpet woven in an intricate floral pattern of red, green, beige and gold. The Chippendale sofa, covered in a needlepoint design of muted pastel tones, sat near a matching set of gold silk damask Chippendale armchairs.
From the way Harland sounded on the phone, Ash doubted that staying in the Governor’s Mansion would be an intimidating experience for him. Nevertheless, Ash thought, Harland would be the first Negro to stay in the Governor’s Mansion as a guest. And Ash was the first Governor to have a Negro child. He corrected himself—acknowledged Negro child.
Ash looked at the oil portrait of his family over the marble mantle; the only piece of contemporary art in the room. He and Charlene, along with the kids, looked every inch a Governor’s family. Just when Ash would tell them the truth about Harland Hall was uncertain. He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from wringing them.
Ash’s mind wandered to his last phone conversation with Harland. Winning the argument with him hadn’t been easy. Prior to that exchange, Ash had believed everything was in place for Harland to have a brief stay at the Governor’s Mansion while he sought a residence and office space in Clarkstown. But when Ash called to finalize the plan of his arrival and other arrangements, Harland informed him that he’d prefer to handle things himself. Getting the Governor involved in his affairs, Harland believed, wouldn’t be a good idea.
The only way Ash had convinced Harland to change his mind was by using Betty Jean as a trump card. Ash felt almost ashamed resorting to a ploy like that, but it worked, and it was actually true. Ash had told Harland that he’d be endangering his mother’s health by making her sick with worry. Worry was detrimental to good health, and what man, who truly loved his mother, would make her worry unnecessarily?
Now, to Ash’s relief, Harland would be safe and his mother, happy. Betty Jean had called Ash more than once to voice her concerns about her “baby” moving to Clarkstown, and asked that Ash provide some sort of security. Of course, she’d never mentioned this to Harland. “He wouldn’t hear of it,” she’d told Ash.
Ash stopped at the window and gazed out. It was a sunny day with hardly a cloud in the sky. A car had been sent to Atlanta first thing in the morning to pick up Harland. Now late afternoon, he’d be arriving at any moment. Ash had come home early to meet Harland, and today’s timing was perfect. The kids didn’t get home from their summer jobs until around 6:00, and Charlene was on her way to meet with Libby.
Ash wanted to be alone upon his first seeing Harland. If Charlene had been with her husband, she would have been suspicious about the way Ash was acting. Ash wiped his hands on his pants; if nothing else, Charlene would’ve said something about his sweaty palms.
Ash wondered how her visit with Libby would turn out. The girl was finally allowing Charlene a chance to talk with her. Libby claimed that now, although still devastated, she was no longer so distraught she couldn’t get out of bed.
Ash wasn’t buying any of her crap, and was convinced she was pulling some sort of shenanigans. As far as he was concerned, Libby was somehow involved in Otis’s murder, but Ash couldn’t determine a motive. What he did suspect was that Otis had unknowingly allowed himself to be used for something.
Ash patted his forehead with a white monogrammed handkerchief. He’d talk with Libby sometime next week, after Harland’s departure, and then compare notes with Charlene. Ash had never trusted Libby. Now Otis was dead because of her and now, before Harland even moved to town, she was trying to destroy him. Ash wouldn’t let her do that Betty Jean’s baby--my baby, Ash thought.
Ash began pacing again. He felt an uneasy fluttering in his stomach, what Mother would call butterflies. Butterflies, Ash reflected,
didn’t sound too manly. Moments later, he peered through the window again, just in time to see the driver pull up in front of the mansion. Now the butterflies churned. Ash found himself pleased to believe that they’d transformed into locusts—a much manlier insect.
Ash watched, as the driver stepped out and opened the back door for Harland. Ash had told him to treat Harland as he would any dignitary, even if Harland refused to be treated as such. Ash saw Harland, a tall man in a gray suit, alight from the back. Harland faced opposite the window so Ash couldn’t see his face, but just as Harland began to turn, the locusts in Ash’s stomach began performing deadly maneuvers. Ash couldn’t stand at the window a moment longer. He rushed down the hall to the powder room, then locked the door before vomiting into the commode.
****
“Oh, honey!” Charlene greeted Libby as Libby opened her apartment door. “You poor thing.” The two embraced. But Libby stiffened upon seeing a strange man in a dark suit next to Charlene in the hallway. “Oh, don’t mind him.” Charlene introduced them. “He’s my security guard.”
Ash had insisted she take an armed guard to Libby’s. He’d begun to suspect her as dangerous, and he’d instructed Gavin to stay away from her all together. But this was ridiculous to Charlene. Ash was paranoid. Libby probably didn’t weigh over a hundred pounds and wouldn’t hurt a flea. “He’ll just wait out here in the hall while we visit.”
“Fine,” Libby said in a tight voice. After showing Charlene in, Libby quickly shut the door. She led Charlene to her small dining area, then offered her a seat at the dinette table.
“Well—I—um made us some snicker doodles—and a pot of tea.” She sounded nervous to Charlene. “But you’ll—uh—have to excuse the mess.” Libby nodded toward some clothes thrown over the back of her couch, then sat down.
The Governor’s Sons Page 23