by Cat Winters
The Dry Dock.
Doc.
Dock.
Dr. Koning.
The Dry Dock restaurant.
“Oh, God.” My brain spun. “Which is it?”
Down below the floor of my bedroom, the front door closed, and voices trailed outside the house. I sprang over to my window and watched the Adders and Sheriff Rink mosey over to their respective automobiles, and my eyes smarted from the glare of the sun hitting the black metal of the vehicles. Uncle Clyde wandered behind them with his hands on his hips. He imparted a few last thoughts to the sheriff and Joe’s parents, but my window remained closed, and I couldn’t discern the words. The cars sparked to life with swift cranks of the handles below the grilles. The sheriff and the reverend climbed into their vehicles and steered them out of our driveway.
Mama’s footsteps sounded on the staircase beyond my closed door; still, I watched my stepfather shade his eyes from the sun and turn from the road toward the barrier of Douglas firs marking the entrance to the woods. My throat went dry.
“Don’t go looking for him,” I whispered against the glass pane. “Please . . . leave him alone.”
Another automobile pulled into our driveway from the highway—a second patrol car, helmed by Deputy Fortaine. The deputy turned off his motor and stepped out of the car while removing his cap. The short waves of his raven-black hair rippled in the wind.
Uncle Clyde headed over to him, and they both spoke with their arms folded across their chests. I wondered if the deputy’s last name truly was Fishstein. At the moment, he didn’t strike me as being Jewish or Catholic, for a person like that—someone caught outside the circle of normalcy in Elston—would certainly possess more sympathy for a boy in Joe’s predicament. He wouldn’t want to hunt him down the way he seemed to be doing, unless he was trying with all his might to overcompensate for his own differences.
From the wall behind the head of my bed emerged the sound of crying. I left my window and grabbed the box of toys and bullets from underneath the bed and crammed the Klan pamphlet down the right side.
The weeping continued.
I left my room with caution, unsure if my mother cried out of sorrow or anger, fearful of the fine line between sobbing and smacking. The floorboards of that old house of ours whined and sagged with my every step across the hallway, no matter how much I tried to make my feet move as though they were composed of feathers and air. I sidled over to the open doorway of the bedroom that my mother now shared with Uncle Clyde—a room larger than mine, wallpapered in a royal shade of blue, with a mahogany four-poster bed hogging most of the space. On the edge of the bed sat Mama, crying into a handkerchief. I eyed the wrinkled sheets and forbade myself envisioning her sleeping there with Uncle Clyde.
She lifted her face, revealing bloodshot eyes and a red-rimmed nose, all of which leaked. Her loose hair hung down to her waist like sheaves of dried wheat.
“I don’t want to ever again hear you telling a ghost tale about your father,” she said in a tone that socked me in the chest.
I clenched my teeth.
“And I want honesty, Hanalee. What did Joe tell you about Uncle Clyde and your father’s death?” Fear glinted in her eyes. The wall of love and support for her new husband must have weakened—I could hear the barrier thinning in the timbre of her voice.
“He said”—I shut the bedroom door behind me and willed my stepfather to stay outside with the deputy—“that aside from a busted leg and a sore arm, Daddy seemed just fine after he hit him with the car.” I tiptoed closer to her, still fearful of getting smacked. “When Uncle Clyde arrived, he made Joe stay out in the front room, and the next time Joe saw my father, Daddy was . . . gone . . . as if . . .” My lips shook, and the word I wanted to utter slipped back down my throat.
“As if what?” asked Mama.
I covered my mouth with my hand and spoke from behind my fingers. “Poisoned.”
My mother’s face whitened. Complex highways of green-blue veins manifested beneath her skin.
“Everyone shut Joe up at his trial,” I continued, “which led Joe to believe that people got paid to stop him from testifying. He believes that Uncle Clyde might be part of the KKK.”
A crooked little line cleaved the skin between Mama’s eyebrows. “Joe doesn’t know what the devil he’s talking about,” she said. “Uncle Clyde has promised me over and over that he’d do anything he could—even risk his own life—to keep you safe.”
“Yes, well”—I glanced again at their bed—“I’ve heard a man will promise just about anything in order to bed the woman he wants.”
Without warning, Mama jumped to her feet and slapped me across the face with a force that stung with a shock of heat. I reeled back and cradled my cheek in my hand.
“For the last time, did Joe Adder take away your virtue?” she asked. “Is that why you’re talking so filthy?”
“No.”
“Are you certain? You slept beside him—”
“I slept beside him in the woods, bundled in a blanket to keep from freezing, but that’s all. He kept me comfortable and warm because I didn’t want to sleep under the same roof as Clyde Koning.”
Mama’s hand dropped to her side. “You understand what I mean about your virtue, don’t you?”
“Joe Adder didn’t take away my virginity, Mama. I grew up around farm animals, for heaven’s sake. I know what you’re talking about, and Joe doesn’t want to do that sort of thing with me.”
“Then why did he try to elope with you?”
“Because no one else understands an outsider better than I.”
She closed her mouth and swallowed. “You’re not . . . you’re not going to run back into the woods and try to find him?”
“No! I keep telling everyone, he’s heading up to Washington.” I’d told the fib so often, I began to believe the lie myself. I even stared my mother straight in the eye when I said it.
Mama blinked, and her hazel eyes moistened again.
I switched my attention to the oak wardrobe that housed Uncle Clyde’s suits and dress shirts. “Will you help me look through Uncle Clyde’s belongings?”
She recoiled. “For what?”
“Klan regalia. A membership card.”
“Uncle Clyde is not a part of that organization. Even if he were, the Klan isn’t concerned about Negroes here in Oregon. For the most part they’re improving schools and roads.”
“Are you afraid to look?”
She raised her right hand to slap me again, and I closed my eyes and hunched my shoulders, bracing for pain.
Nothing struck me.
I peeled one eye open and found Mama’s outstretched palm frozen in midair. Her chin twitched.
“If I look”—she lowered her hand to her chest—“will you swear to never again speak of your stepfather this way?”
I rubbed the tender skin of my face and sorted out a suitable response.
“Hanalee?”
“All right. I’ll stop wanting to raid his belongings if I see for certain he’s not hiding anything that links him to that group.”
Mama trod to the closed bedroom door and put her ear to the wood.
“I last saw him outside,” I said, “speaking to Deputy Fortaine.”
“Deputy Fortaine?”
I nodded. “He pulled into our driveway shortly after the sheriff and the Adders left.”
She turned the lock with a solid click that seemed to echo through the house. “Stay right here”—she let go of the brass knob—“and let me know if you hear him.”
My chest warmed with gratitude over my mother’s helpfulness. I felt like a child again, when she and I were two peas in a pod. Daddy’s girls.
She snuck up to the wardrobe and, after inhaling a deep breath, opened the mighty oak doors with both hands. I stood upon restless legs and watched her rifle through dark trousers and white shirtsleeves with silent movements.
“May I help?” I asked.
“No.” She slid open his bottom drawer, filled wit
h socks and undergarments folded in neat piles, which she lifted with the care of a person trying not to wake a sleeping baby.
“What about that hatbox?” I pointed to a black-and-white box sitting on the flat surface on top of the wardrobe.
Mama lifted her face upward. “I honestly don’t think he could fit anything so large in that small of a container.”
“The box sits high enough that neither of us can reach it, though. What if he’s at least storing the hood in there? Or paperwork?”
“I’d need a stepladder, Hanalee.”
“How about the chair from your dressing table?” I jogged over to the padded ivory stool tucked beneath the vanity, where she powdered her face and arranged her hair every morning.
She came over to help me, and together we scooted the small piece of furniture below the wardrobe. The cabinet smelled like the doc—Mennen Shaving Cream combined with Lysol.
With cautious movements, Mama held the side of the cabinet for support, climbed atop the stool, and grabbed the hatbox. After both her feet landed safely back on the floor, I lifted the lid and peeked inside.
A hat sat within. A Pendleton wool cap, suitable for wintertime.
I sifted through the protective paper surrounding the plaid fabric.
“What are you looking for?” asked Mama.
“I don’t know—a membership card, a list of names, anything.”
A knock on the door startled the box out of our hands. The hat dropped onto my toes, and the paper flitted to the ground like an autumn leaf.
“Greta?” Uncle Clyde rattled the knob and shook the door. “Why is this door locked?”
“I’m . . .” Mama blanched. “Hanalee’s in here. We’re talking. Just . . . wait downstairs for a few minutes.”
She picked up the box from the floor, and I grabbed the overturned cap, finding nothing but a receipt from the Meier & Frank department store in downtown Portland.
“What’s that?” whispered Mama.
“Just a receipt.”
“See? There’s nothing here.”
“Is everything all right in there?” called Uncle Clyde.
Mama shoved the cap into the box and covered the lid. “We’re just talking, Clyde. Go downstairs.”
We both held our breath. Beyond the door, Uncle Clyde’s feet descended the staircase, the steps groaning.
“Does anything strike you as dangerous about the Dry Dock?” I asked in the quietest voice I could muster.
Mama straightened her neck. “The Dock?”
I shrank back. “Why’d you call it that?”
“That was the restaurant’s original name, before the state went dry and the Franklins stopped selling liquor there.” Mama climbed back up on the stool and shoved the hatbox into place. Dust filtered down from the top of the wardrobe, tickling my nose.
I sneezed twice in a row and had to take a breath. “They’re hosting a pancake breakfast”—I rubbed the tip of my nose—“for a group called the Junior Order of Klansmen.”
“I told you”—she climbed off the stool—“you don’t need to worry about the Klan around here. If I sensed danger, I’d be the first to warn you.”
“Are you positive Uncle Clyde’s not a part of them?”
“I swear, he’s not.” She clasped my hands and pulled me toward her. “Stop doubting him, Hanalee. He loves you, and I love you.”
I curled my lips inside my mouth and squished them hard together, fighting down the urge for tears.
“Go get washed up.” She squeezed my fingers. “Change into fresh clothes. I’ll take you to that picnic, if only to try to bring some regularity back into our lives.”
“All right.” I sniffed.
“And wear something bright. Nothing dark and mournful.” She brushed a curl out of my eyes. “It is time to move onward, as the reverend and Uncle Clyde said.” She kissed my cheek, and her breath caught near my ear. “I know it’s hard, Hanalee. I know you miss your father more than anything. I understand why you might have thought you saw his ghost. But we have to let him go.”
“All right,” I said again.
She lowered her hand from my head, and I left the room, the smell of the pines and the earth—and Joe and escape—still lingering in my hair.
METHODIST YOUTH PICNIC, WASHINGTON COUNTY, OREGON, CIRCA 1920s
CHAPTER 15
WHO IS’T THAT CAN INFORM ME?
DRESSED IN A YELLOW SKIRT AND WHITE blouse that spoke of sunshine and innocence, I rode behind my mother and Uncle Clyde in the back of my stepfather’s four-door Buick sedan. My straw hat sat beside me on the plush seat, and my emerald ring sparkled in the rays of light shining through the open windows. I looked nothing at all like a girl who had slept on a blanket in the forest with a young man no one wanted around.
Mama kept turning in her seat and checking on me, as though she feared she’d find me gone again.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said over and over, and I steeled myself against potholes in the road and the sight of Uncle Clyde’s head bobbing about on his neck in front of me.
On the way into town, we passed Elston’s two restaurants—the Dry Dock and Ginger’s—which were separated by an oak tree with a sturdy trunk and crooked branches covered in leaves. The establishments flashed by as blurs of wood-paneled walls and redbrick chimneys, and a stab of dread, as quick as lightning, tore through my stomach.
We reached the strip of brick buildings that made up downtown, the tallest structure being the Lincoln Hotel at the far end, which stood three stories high and boasted a marble statue of “Honest Abe” out front, amid the rhododendrons. The owners claimed to be related to our sixteenth president, but I always wondered if they possessed any verifiable proof of that story. Tall tales and exaggerations seemed to be a staple in Elston.
Just past the heart of the town, we heard the horns of the local brass band blaring “You’re a Grand Old Flag.” I braced myself for the upcoming barrage of socializing that made my head swim on even normal Julys. Every year Elston held the Independence Day picnic on the lawn in front of our forty-year-old church—the type of church one would find on a Christmas card, complete with a steeple and paint as white as heaven itself, minus a few scuffs from stray baseballs and leaky droppings from the birds that nested in the eaves. Even the townsfolk who attended the church over in Bentley, plus the folks who dared to declare themselves Catholics or atheists, migrated to our Fourth of July festivities. If any actual Jewish folks resided in Elston or Bentley, aside from the aforementioned deputy, they’d probably come puttering over in their automobiles, too.
Uncle Clyde pulled the Buick next to a line of parked cars that gleamed in the sunlight in a patch of dirt. From my backseat window I spied the fair citizens of Elston, clad in red, white, and blue, crowded together on blankets in the lush green grass, hopping about in potato-sack races, and stuffing their mouths full of food. The brass band—all men in white linen suits—trumpeted away on the steps of the church, their cheeks puffed wide, their faces flushed and shiny. They looked as though they might already smell a bit sour.
Uncle Clyde popped his car door open and hurried around to Mama’s side to help her with her door. Mama handed my stepfather a basketful of roasted ham, fresh fruit, and sugar cookies and stepped out of the vehicle.
“Thank you, Clyde.” She brushed her left hand across the sleeve of his coat, and they leaned in close to each other, as if about to kiss, but Uncle Clyde stopped and turned his sights to me.
“Aren’t you getting out?” he asked. He stepped toward me and opened my door.
I folded the rim of my hat with a satisfying crunch of the straw, and I remembered how the sheriff had asked Uncle Clyde and Mama to take me to the picnic to serve as bait for Joe.
In the Creole story about the prince whom a wizard turned into a fish, the girl’s father killed the fish to keep his daughter from visiting him by the river. He forced her to cook the fish. And then he ate him.
“Hanalee.” Mama set her hand on
the crook of Uncle Clyde’s arm again. “Are you all right?”
I shoved my hat onto my head and slid off the seat. The soles of my sandals thudded against the dirt, and the ground coughed up a cloud of dust. “I’m just dandy.”
Mama frowned.
The three of us entered the picnic grounds, my mother walking in the middle and Uncle Clyde on her right side, still carrying the basket. From beneath the brim of my hat, I glanced around for signs of Fleur but didn’t see her or her mother and brother.
“Greta . . . Dr. Koning,” called Mrs. Adder, coming our way with two glasses of lemonade. “Oh, I’m so glad you came, despite all.” She squinted into the sunlight and stopped a few feet in front of us. “There’s no sign of Joe yet.”
Mama and Uncle Clyde glanced at each other with weary eyes, as if they had both tired of speaking about the preacher’s son for the day.
“I’m sorry.” Uncle Clyde placed his hand on Mama’s back. “I hope he’s safe.”
“Thank you. I do, too.” Mrs. Adder’s gaze flitted toward me for the briefest of moments. She gave a strained smile and then continued onward, toward an area occupied by Joe’s six brothers and sisters—all well-dressed children, younger than he, with hair ranging from caramel-brown to Joe’s darker walnut shade. The weight of an absence settled over me again. The Adders struck me as a jigsaw puzzle with a missing piece. A multi-angled, not-quite-the-same-shape-as-the-others piece that they tried to cover by squishing closer together on their picnic blanket.
Mama and Uncle Clyde walked faster than me, so I ended up trekking behind them through the obstacles of blankets and families, including the Witten twins’ parents, who were dressed in Sunday-best attire and didn’t seem at all like people with sons who carried around knives and gin. Faces shifted my way. Glances settled upon me, no doubt because of the inevitable spread of rumors about Joe and me, but also due to the fact that most people stopped and stared whenever I made an appearance in town.
“Will I ever stop sticking out like a sore thumb?” I remembered asking Daddy one morning on our walk home from buying seeds at the farm-supply store. I only came up to his ribs at the time, so I must not have been much more than seven or eight.