by Sarah Black
It was Mama Rose. “Deacon, baby, I need to speak to Rafael. It's important."
"Are you okay? You sound kind of upset."
"I am upset! The cops have just come and asked James to go down to the police station!"
"I'll go get him."
In the bedroom, Rafe was pulling on his jeans, no underwear. “What's wrong?"
"Mama Rose said the police asked James to come down to the police station."
Rafe pushed past him and picked up the phone. “What did they say, Mama?” Rafe listened for a few minutes, then he turned slowly and stared at Deke, leaning against the door to the kitchen. “He's down there now? Okay, I'm coming. I'm coming right now. I'll swing by and get into some clean clothes. You got me a nice shirt to wear for the police? Okay, and save that newspaper for me. I'll read it when I get there."
Rafe hung up the phone, looked at Deke like he wasn't sure he knew him. “Mama Rose said the police just wanted to officially confirm his alibi. Confirm it because Deke's story in this morning's paper accused Uncle Pete of murdering Leona. Made a good case for it, because everybody else has got an alibi, enough the police said they were going to wrap it up today."
Deke didn't say anything, and Rafe turned around without another word and went into the bedroom. He got dressed in silence, and three minutes later he was standing at the front door, shrugging into his still-damp jacket.
"Where are you going to be, Rafe?"
"I don't know, Deke. I'll let you know after I go get Uncle Jimmy.” And the door was closing silently behind him.
Deke couldn't move. He was staring blankly at the closed door, feeling something strange crushing his ribs when the telephone rang again. Deke picked it up.
"Hello, my young wolf."
"Dr. Faucett?"
"Yes, Deacon. I wanted to speak to you this morning, to let you know how much I respect your work. Beautifully written article in the paper. And I don't want you to take it personally, what's going to happen this morning."
"Sir? What's going to happen this morning?"
"I am going to save the reputation of one of the great men of the blues, who is unfortunately not here to defend himself. And I'm going to do it by destroying you.” Deke felt his belly turn to ice. “You're young, Deacon. And I see you as thriving on a challenge, so I don't feel too badly about this. Rafael loves those old men, and so do I, and it's Christmas, isn't it. What you don't understand, young wolf, is people like to see their demons. They like to know their monsters. They don't want someone good and familiar and beloved to turn out to be a killer of young girls. You make people uncomfortable with all your truth. Nobody wants it. But I like you, and I think Rafael is in love with you. I can surely see it in your face, that you're in love with him. So I wanted to take a moment before the hostilities begin to tell you that I like you, and I hope you aren't too badly hurt. Oh, and to welcome you to the family."
"Thank you,” Deke said, and the connection was broken.
* * * *
By the time Deke got into the paper, his stomach had tightened itself into a hard little nut of anxiety. Bruce was in his office already, on the phone, and he waved Deke in. The morning paper was sitting on his desk, and Deke picked it up. His article was on the bottom of the front page, titled Death at the Blues Angel.
Leona Washington was shot to death at the Blues Angel on Wednesday afternoon, and it appears that one of the giants of the blues, guitarist Blind Pete Watson, was her killer. But Leona's death wasn't the first, and it wasn't the last, and the roots of this crime stretch back to the rich black dirt and social injustice of southern Mississippi. On January 11, 1966, Vernon Dahmer Sr. died from burns and smoke inhalation after the Klan firebombed his house. His family was home, and asleep, when the cars pulled up...
"Yes, Ma'am, I understand. We'll stand by the story. There's nothing ... Yes, Ma'am. He's one of my finest young reporters. Yes, he's here with me. Impeccable credentials.” Bruce listened for some time more, then he closed his eyes, sighed, and rubbed hard across his forehead. “Down at the police station? Yes, Ma'am, we'll be there."
He put the phone down and looked up at Deke. “Deke, sit down. Let me tell you what's going on.” He hesitated, then stood up and poured a couple of cups of coffee from the pot in the corner of his office. “Deke, I got you involved in this and I feel terrible about what's happening."
"What is happening?"
"That was our publisher on the phone. There is going to be a press conference today, in about an hour, and Dr. Faucett of the Smithsonian is going to refute two key pieces of evidence you used in your article. He's going to say Blind Pete was with him when the girl was killed, being interviewed for his book, that history of the blues he's writing. He claims he has tapes of the interviews."
"He's lying,” Deke said. “Blind Pete wasn't with him. And tapes can be made any time."
"He's also going to say that Rafael told the police he was in the room with you when Blind Pete made this alleged confession and he didn't hear it."
"Bruce ... that's true. Rafe was over by the window. He said he didn't hear anything."
Bruce sighed and closed his eyes. “Jesus, Deke. We're in trouble here."
"I don't understand, Bruce. How are we in trouble? You mean the paper? I'm in trouble. I mean, he may never speak to me again. You should have seen the look he gave me when he left my place this morning. But what..."
"Dr. Faucett, that fuck-head twist, is going to propose that Leona's killing was done by the Klan, revenge over Rafe's attack on Sam Bowers last summer. And he's going to say we had evidence of this involvement by the Klan, and the paper decided to cover it up. That ... you are probably in the pay of the Klan."
Deke fell back in the chair. This was a gut-punch worse than he was expecting. “Elroy?"
"Sure to be.” Bruce was putting his suit jacket on. “You look nice today, Deke. Very professional, very upright. It's a good day for you to be publicly accused of collaborating with the Ku Klux Klan."
"Bruce, does Rafe know ... What does Rafe know? Does he know what they're going to say about me?"
Bruce shook his head. “I don't know, Deke. My guess is he'll stand behind his people, his old men."
"Even when he knows they're lying?"
Bruce gave him a long, serious look. “You can't help who you fall in love with, Deke. I've been in love with Anne Hurt my whole life. You think I would have chosen that?"
They drove into a nightmare. Perry had rallied a nice mix of protesters, black and white together. “Nice,” Bruce said. “He must have gathered up all his students who aren't home for the holidays, dragged them out here. Let's keep our fingers crossed we don't have a riot.” They were carrying signs that said Keep the Klan in Mississippi and Justice for Leona and Free Blind Pete, and Buffalo Springfield was singing about battle lines being drawn over some speakers set up on the street. Beads and bare feet, half of them stoned, weaving in and out of the traffic, and the police were ignoring the reefer being openly passed. They had a puppet dressed in a hasty Klan robe, a bedsheet with charcoal eyes and mouth, lynched and hanging from a tree. It looked to Deke like someone had tried to set it on fire, but it hadn't burned very well, leaving the edges blackened and scorched.
The Police Chief was already speaking by the time Bruce and Deke got close enough to hear what he was saying. “No charges of murder will be filed against Pete Watson by this department.” Right, well, he is dead. “Mr. Watson's alibi has been confirmed by two sources. He could not possibly have murdered Leona Washington."
"That's Blue Otis and Perry Faucett, and they're both lying, whiskey-drinking dogs."
"Also, the information regarding the alleged confession of Mr. Watson to a newspaper reporter has been discounted. Another witness present in the room at the same time has been able to confirm that no confession was made."
About then, James Hurt walked out of the police station, standing straight and looking very shaky and proud, flanked by Rafe and Perry. The crowd went
wild, screaming and cheering and waving their joints and their signs. Did they think this was Blind Pete, escaped from the clutches of the police? Deke was so disgusted with this piece of theater that he turned and started pushing his way through the crowd. “Bruce, I've got to get out of here."
A kid stepped in his path, a boy-hippie with an itchy looking beard and striped pants that were smeared with mud. The pupils of his eyes were huge and black, and he was holding a Coke bottle with a piece of rag stuffed in the neck. “Hey, man. Don't go yet. We got to show these pigs and their establishment cock-suckers that..."
Perry was at the microphone. “...and we need an explanation from Mr. Bruce Charters and his reporter Deacon Davis on why they and their newspaper would ignore evidence of Klan involvement in this girl's death, instead chose to falsely implicate one of the Great Legends of the Blues, Pete Watson. The obvious conclusion was Blind Pete Watson was targeted by the Post because he was black, and too old and ill to defend himself. The Klan has money, and resources, even up here in our nation's capital. Could they have paid off..."
Deke stopped pushing his way through the crowd, turned around and locked eyes with Rafe. He couldn't read his face, but he didn't see any remorse. He didn't see any sign that Rafe was bothered, standing straight up next to a man who was lying, destroying his lover. And doing it so easily that of course it sounded like the truth. His chest felt hollow, as empty as the grave.
Bruce was right behind him. “Come on. Let's get...” He sounded lost for a moment, like he didn't know what to do now. “Let's go get some breakfast. The lynch mob can give us a half-hour to eat."
* * * *
Deke got back to his apartment about midnight, after a full day of being interviewed by the paper's lawyers, and the police, and sitting next to Bruce in meetings where they never spoke, just had to sit there and listen while the blowhards stormed around, ranting and raving and getting their views on record. Everything, up in flames. He'd watched his life burn to the ground, couldn't do anything about it. The first thing he saw when he walked in, exhausted, was Rafe's guitar leaning against the end of the couch. The apartment smelled like oranges still, and there was a single Sweet Clementine sitting on top of the stack of books on the coffee table.
He turned around and walked out. Deke didn't know what he planned to do when he got to the Blues Angel, or even why he was going there. He needed a family, just for tonight. Sally-Rose opened the door for him. She put her arms around him and held him tight. “Oh, baby, I'm so sorry. You better go in there and see Rafael. He's a mess."
Rafe was up on the stage, sitting in his chair and playing Blind Pete's guitar, tears tracking down his face, but when he saw Deke standing there, he put the instrument down and flew across the room and into his arms.
"Tell me you still love me.” He was shaking, couldn't hardly speak, put his arms around Deke's waist to hold himself upright. Deke reached for his shoulders like he didn't know whether to hold him or shake him.
"Why did you go straight to love? Why didn't you ask me if I was mad at you, so I could tell you why I'm mad at you? You stood right up there and let Perry tell the world the Klan had paid me off. And you knew it was bullshit."
"Perry told a couple of hundred stoned hippies, and what did you do? The front page of the fucking newspaper? You printed the worst thing I've ever done on the front page of the paper. You made me a white man from Miss'ippi with a bullwhip in my hand. You said it was all my fault, all this mess, all this killing, my fault."
Deke shook him hard, shook him until his head snapped back on his slender neck, then pulled him roughly into his arms. Rafe put his face down on Deke's chest and cried.
"No, I didn't. Stop it! You're so ready to take the blame, like Jesus Christ about to climb up on the cross. Just stop it. I can't take anymore, not today.” His voice sounded on the verge of something hysterical, even to himself. And he reached down for Rafe, pulled him closer, strong arms around him, warm mouth moving down his neck, across his face, across his eyes. “I can't fight with you. I just want to drag you into the dark and make you mine again.” He felt a shiver go through Rafe's belly, and his hands were strong, pulling them close. “Do you still love me?"
"I still love you. Did you lose your job, Deke?” Rafe looked like hell, his eyes bruised and haunted.
"Yeah. I did."
"Oh, God, I knew it. Deke, please. Please."
"Hush now.” Deke put his arms around him, rocked him until they were both quiet, then tilted his chin up and kissed him again. He tasted like salt, tears. “Okay. We're okay. I cleaned out a drawer for your jeans. There's a little space in the medicine cabinet for your razor. The guitar is already there. Leave everything else behind. Just come."
Mama Rose burst into tears behind him, ran out of the room. Deke watched her go, and that's when he noticed all the suitcases next to the bar. “Where's everybody going?"
"Me and Uncle Jimmy, we're taking Blind Pete home to be buried. And I got to make arrangements for Leona."
Deke closed his eyes. “Rafe, no..."
"We have to, Deke. I have to. It was my fault he was up here. Everything that's happened, you can trace it back to what I did last summer. You know that. I can't let him be buried up here with strangers, Deke. I need to take him home, let him be buried in his own dirt. You understand?"
"Why do you have to go? Can't you let James...” Rafe shook his head and didn't say anything else, just held him until James came into the room, loaded the suitcases in the car, and Rafe pulled away and left him, going back to Mississippi.
* * * *
Christmas morning, and Deke got his coffee and his Sweet Clementine and crawled back into bed. He curled up, the blanket soft on his legs, tucked the pillow Rafe had slept on up against his chest. He was waiting, and it felt strange, formal and quiet, like sitting alone in a temple. Bruce had told him to be patient, give it a few days. The paper had to seem to respond appropriately to the allegations. He thought they would probably hire Deke back quietly after the holiday. Deke had unplugged the phone. The calls and threats had gotten ugly. Bruce was probably dealing with worse at the paper.
Deke was waiting for Rafe, waiting to see if Mississippi would suck him in, suck him down into that rich, black earth, or if he'd pull free of it all, the history, the obligations, and come back up north, just be a young man studying the guitar, playing blues and flamenco, learning to be with a lover.
He peeled the orange and ate it, drank his coffee, let the Christmas smells fill his small apartment. He was going to buy himself a pair of jeans, he decided. Rafe wore jeans all the time. Deke had never seen him in anything else and they looked comfortable. Deke had always thought of them as overalls, rough working man's clothes. But maybe it was time for him to loosen up a bit. He'd go down to Sears and Roebuck and see what they had.
About noon he went down to the Blues Angel and helped Mama Rose carry some food up to the church. She must have been baking for days. The kitchen was covered in pies, sweet potato, apple, mince, cherry crumble, and a delicious looking peach cobbler.
"You're coming with me for Christmas dinner,” she said, and he drove her Ford Fairlane a couple of blocks to the Holy Trinity church.
The church ladies apparently didn't pay attention to the news, or else they refused on principal to believe anything they heard on TV. No one seemed to know who he was, or care. He helped the other men put the long tables together and haul in chairs, spread snowy white tablecloths across, and put little Christmas candles sitting in plastic holly wreaths smack in the center of each one.
Mama Rose stopped serving and ate with him, because they both knew he would eat alone, and she prayed to Jesus for him and Rafe, that they would find happiness, and Deke leaned over his plate, smelled collards and spoonbread, potatoes and gravy, and he prayed, too, for the same thing.
She was tired, and her feet were swollen. They didn't stay to help clean up. Some of the ladies, she confided, did not cook, did not bake, and they were responsible
for the clean-up. She fell asleep in the car on the short drive home, and Deke wondered for the first time how old she was. Surely not as old as the old men? She was up here alone, it seemed. Where were her children?
Back at the Blues Angel she went upstairs to get out of her Christmas girdle, which was killing her ribs, came back down to the kitchen in a chenille bathrobe and scuffs. She seemed to take for granted that Deke would stay and watch Walter Cronkite with her, and so he did.
She fixed him a snack of an open-faced hot turkey sandwich with giblet gravy and mashed potatoes, and she set it on his lap on a TV tray. “I know we should go to the table like civilized people,” she said, sitting down in her recliner and pulling her own tray onto her lap, “but I sure love my TV tray when I'm home in the evenings."
"Where are your children, Mama Rose?"
"Well, my son James, he's with the Army over in Germany, and Michael, he's my oldest, he's still on the old farm outside Hattiesburg. He was born a farmer, that boy. I had two little girls, but they both died when they was little. They're up with the angels now.” She looked at his plate. “You ready for your pie? You haven't hardly started on your sandwich."
"I'm going to have to roll home through the streets like a beach ball, my stomach's gonna be so full. Listen, can I ask you something, Mama Rose? I promise it's just between you and me."
"No, baby, you don't have to ask. Of course Blind Pete killed that girl. We all knew it, except maybe Rafe. Pete, he always had a mean streak. He was real loyal to his people, his family, but you sure didn't want to get on his bad side. And he knew how sick he was getting. I don't think Pete meant for Rafe to find the body, though. He sure did love his boy."