Gone Too Long

by Lori Roy

  “And you need to slow down,” Warren says, running his hands along Imogene’s arms and taking a long, slow breath so she’ll do the same.

  Warren only moved to town about ten years ago, something not many people can say, because not many people move to Simmonsville, Georgia. Mills and prisons once fed the town, but they both dried up, and about the only jobs left are the ones that keep the town running, jobs like being a detective. Warren wears his light brown hair a little too long for most people’s taste around here, and he’s thickened up over the years for liking Southern cooking too much.

  “Had men looking all night,” he says, nodding his approval as Imogene’s breathing slows. “No sign of anyone at the house, or what’s left of it. Checking hospitals too. Got to tell you, it’s going to be pretty tough drumming up any sign of her or anybody else down there.”

  Imogene takes a few steps down the hall so they don’t wake the boy.

  Warren follows. “Boy still in there?” he says, nodding back toward the closed bedroom door.

  “Sleeping.” Out in the kitchen, the voices have grown louder. “Who’s that I’m hearing?”

  “Fellows here helping with the fire,” Warren says. “Jo Lynne’s feeding them.”

  “What fellows?” she says. When Warren doesn’t answer, she asks again. “What fellows, Warren?”

  Warren didn’t grow up with men like Daddy or Tim Robithan. He knows them from history books and case files, but he doesn’t know what they are or what they can do, not really. Truth is, Imogene barely knows. She’s heard their dangerous talk all her life, heard the calls for white pride, the warnings of a country overrun, the threats of a new day coming. She has stood in line next to it, sat beside it on a church pew, heard it spewed from the courthouse steps, but hearing it and seeing it, even living with it, aren’t the same as being the object of it. She can’t possibly know. Not really. And neither can Warren.

  There was a time when some folks in town figured the Knights would cease to exist. Ten years ago, they were limping along with nothing more than stragglers. But then things started to change. Imogene was so lost in her own grief, she may have missed when it began, but over the past year, they’ve come to stand taller. Membership has grown, many of them younger men to replace the ones who’ve died off. They’ve been propped up, emboldened, and they’re proud.

  “Don’t get upset. They just come to see to the fire, Immy.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Warren probably once overheard Mama call her that nickname, but him using it is too familiar. Him using it shows that he believes, or at least hopes, they mean something more to each other than just the few hours in bed they occasionally spend together.

  Warren raises a hand in apology. “They just come to help. Nobody’s causing any trouble.”

  “They sure as hell better be gone before Mama wakes up.”

  “I’m sure they will be,” Warren says, placing a hand on Imogene’s lower back to guide her down the hall and lifting his hands in another apology when she jerks away. “Come on out to the living room and talk with me. The fellows won’t trouble us.”

  Mostly, Imogene sleeps with Warren to torture Jo Lynne, because in her estimation he’s Imogene’s best chance at marriage. But Imogene has no intention of marrying him or anyone, or at least that’s what she tells herself because it’s easier than admitting Warren is the one man of all the men whom she could care for, already does care for. He’s thick through the chest and has dark eyes that have a way of looking sad, though he generally seems happy with life. Imogene especially likes how those eyes settle on her when she’s peeling off her clothes for him. And while she might seek him out on a Friday night after she’s had three rounds to fortify herself, the next morning, the caring for him is what leaves her feeling guilty and makes her promise herself to never see him again. The caring for him is what feels like a betrayal to Russell and Vaughn.

  “So,” Warren says when they’ve sat in the living room, him on the lounger, Imogene on the sofa. It’s exactly what he says when he sees her at a bar. There’s a question in that single word. So, you coming home with me? So, you going to stop hanging out in bars? So, you ever going to stop running away from me? “Tell me your story, then.”

  “It’s not a story,” she says. “I didn’t imagine what happened to me.”

  “Didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Go on, then.”

  As Imogene tells Warren about the boy, she takes in the men sipping coffee in Mama’s kitchen as they eat platefuls of Jo Lynne’s buttermilk biscuits and sausage gravy. There aren’t as many gathered as she feared when she was standing in the hallway and hearing only their voices. The men all know Imogene’s not real family. She’s not the product of a marriage. Not the product of love. Not even the product of consent. Poor woman, poor Lottie Rose, gave birth to a child forced on her against her will. No wonder her poor heart got broke. Everyone knows the story. And the way they look at Imogene, even now in her own home, is like she’s made of something less than they are, something that stinks and is rotting at its edges.

  While Imogene only knows a few of the men, they’re all familiar, and they’re all members of the Knights. Most have closely cropped hair, sideburns that cup their jowls, and a few have tattoos growing out of their collars. Soot covers their sleeves and most have black rings around their eyes from having worn goggles, and they’ve all tracked black ash through the kitchen. There’s a smell to them too. It’s smoke, soggy socks, and cigarette-stained fingers. There will be no hiding that they were here from Mama. It’s always been the rule, ever since Imogene can remember. Daddy’s men are never allowed inside.

  When it was Mama’s time to marry, she chose Edison Coulter, a man from Missouri who knew construction. He had no interest in the Klan or what its members believed, had never even met a Klansman before coming to Georgia. But when Grandpa Simmons finally accepted that he’d die one day and realized plans had to be made, he told Daddy he would carry on with the rental properties and with leading the Knights. It wasn’t so much the Klan’s message that attracted Daddy, not in the beginning. It was the promise of notoriety. That’s how Mama explained it. And then the camaraderie and the power he could garner in no other part of his life seduced him, and the Klan’s hatred soaked in until he believed. But Mama’s rules, the ones she learned from her mama, never changed, no matter what became of Daddy. She never let Klan business in the house. Jo Lynne and Eddie were still drawn in, but Imogene wasn’t a real Coulter. Daddy didn’t make a robe and hood for Imogene when she turned eight like he did for Eddie and Jo Lynne. He never hoisted Imogene onto his shoulders and took her to a lighting or a rally. Somehow, it never occurred to him that, even though Imogene wasn’t a Coulter, she was a Simmons.

  Holding up a finger to silence Warren, Imogene starts to stand so she can tell the men it’s time for them to get going. Mama will be out for breakfast anytime now, and Imogene doesn’t want her to see these men sitting in her kitchen and eating her food, and she doesn’t want them taking time away from Warren helping the boy and his mama. But instead of standing, Imogene stiffens and slides back into the cushions. Tim Robithan is leaning against the wall near the door, his arms crossed and one foot draped over the other as if he’s comfortable enough to stay a good long while. He meets Imogene’s eyes when he catches her staring at him. He smiles and tips his head in her direction.

  As it is every time she sees him, a numbness spreads from her fingers up her arms and settles in her chest. She’s thought on it, from time to time, the reason Tim sends such a shiver through her every time she sees him. He is nothing special. He’s average through the shoulders and chest, slightly slender through the neck, freshly shaved. It’s what’s in Tim’s blood. Even if, as far as Imogene knows, a man has yet to turn up strung between two pines, feet bound and a knife driven through his heart, in the years Tim’s been at Daddy’s side, it’s coming. It’s what Tim was born into, what he’s chosen to become. And the stench of it, that thing in T
im’s blood that is sure to make him one day string a man up and plant a knife in his heart, is enough to make Imogene always back away. Ever since she saw those watches in Tillie’s place, she’s been worrying what Tim Robithan might be up to, and now he’s right here in Mama’s kitchen and there’s a boy without a mama in Imogene’s bedroom.

  Chapter 27

  IMOGENE

  Today

  “What is it?” Warren says, shifting around to see what Imogene is looking at.

  Keeping her eyes on Tim Robithan, Imogene leans toward Warren so she can whisper. “Any of you get a call from Tillie yesterday? About some watches.”

  “Not that I know of,” Warren says, shaking his head. “What’s going on at Tillie’s?”

  “Later,” Imogene says.

  “Okay, then,” Warren says, leaning forward as if to touch the scratch on Imogene’s face. “The boy?”

  Imogene pulls away, signaling that she’s fine, and shifts slightly in her chair so she can still see Tim. At the sound of the door onto the front porch opening, she startles. It’s Garland. He walks in, looking surprised to see so many people in the house. Dropping his jacket on one of the hooks just inside, he takes a seat at the table. And then, beginning with the wire and ending with her laying the boy in her bed, Imogene tells Warren everything.

  “Locks on the outside of the door?” Warren asks. “You’re sure?”

  Imogene nods as she glances up to see that Tim Robithan is still looking at her. He has a ring around his light hair where a hat was sitting, something he also took off before coming inside, and he’s wearing a collared shirt with both sleeves rolled up.

  “How can you be certain?” Warren asks. “About the locks, I mean.”

  “Because I unlocked them.”

  “And the kitchen door? There a lock on that too?”

  “Don’t know. It was open when I got there.”

  “Go on.”

  “The boy, he knew me by name.”

  Warren pulls back in his chair.

  “When he saw me. He knew my name. Said it to me. Knew I had red hair too.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I’m guessing Daddy told him.”

  Imogene leans forward in her seat to signal Jo Lynne it’s time for everyone to leave, but she doesn’t notice because she’s leaned over a man Imogene doesn’t recognize. With a tape measure, Jo Lynne is measuring the distance between his eyes. Shaking her head, Imogene falls back in her seat. They can go weeks, months even, without having the facts of Klan life flare up. Everyone gets busy with work, errands, cleaning house, and keeping up with the lawn. Long spans of time pass with no reminder, and Imogene, probably Mama too, is lulled into thinking, hoping, maybe it’s all going to go away. And then something like this happens. Jo Lynne is measuring that man for a hood.

  “I need you to focus, Imogene,” Warren says. “This is serious. We got a boy seems to have appeared out of nowhere.”

  “I’m plenty focused,” she says as a man who works at Larson’s Hardware near Tillie’s shop steps up to Tim Robithan and whispers in his ear. “And he didn’t appear out of nowhere. He appeared out of a locked basement. And he wasn’t living down there alone.”

  As the man continues whispering in Tim’s ear, Tim keeps on staring at Imogene in a way that makes her wonder now if one of those nights he sat down next to her at a bar, which happened more than once, she took him home with her and doesn’t remember. There were a few times when she woke in her own bed and was certain a man had been there beside her at some point but was gone by morning.

  “How do you know he wasn’t alone?” Warren asks.

  “A clothesline,” she says, shifting so she can’t see Tim, but his eyes on her are like a weight pressing on her neck and shoulders. “Clothes were hanging from it.”

  Warren scribbles something in his notepad and looks up when Imogene says nothing more.

  “The line was too tall for him. And the clothes were carefully hung.”

  “A woman’s doing,” Warren says, and Imogene nods.

  The man who was whispering to Tim rejoins the others at the table, but Tim doesn’t move. He’s not leaning against the wall anymore, one foot draped over the other. Instead, he’s standing straight, feet shoulder-width apart, hips forward in that way men stand when they’re bracing themselves.

  “And?” Warren says. “Imogene, what else did you see?”

  Instead of answering Warren, Imogene calls out to Jo Lynne. She’s finished measuring the man’s eyes and is popping corn muffins from a tin. When she looks up, Imogene taps at an imaginary watch on her wrist so Jo Lynne will know it’s time to get these men going. Jo Lynne nods and whispers in Garland’s ear.

  “You were saying?” Warren asks.

  “There were books,” Imogene says as a few men begin to push back their chairs to leave. “There was order to them. And carpet pieced together on the floor and a blanket draped over the back of a sofa and a tea towel. An embroidered tea towel. I know what I saw, Warren, am certain of it, and we need to be doing something.”

  “And you’re sure the boy said it was Edison keeping him down there?”

  “No.” It’s Jo Lynne, standing at the threshold where the kitchen meets the living room, an oven mitt in hand. “She is certain of no such thing.”

  Her voice is loud enough to make the men in the kitchen go silent, and even the ones already headed for the door stop and turn toward her.

  “That true?” Warren asks.

  “You asked me what I saw,” Imogene says, sliding forward to the edge of the sofa, her way of letting Warren know this conversation is about to end. “And I told you. That should be enough.”

  “What are you all up to in there?” one of the men still sitting at the table asks. Imogene’s seen him before. He’s one of the old-timers. That’s what Daddy would have called him. Someone who remembers how the world ought to be. “You set that fire, Immy Coulter? That why you’re here, Warren?”

  “Nothing for you to worry yourselves about,” Warren says.

  “Garland, you want to tell us what’s going on?”

  It’s Tim Robithan. Not moving from his spot, Tim is talking to Garland, who still sits at the kitchen table, but he’s staring at Imogene.

  “Just a little trouble Imogene got herself into,” Garland says, his chair legs squealing on the linoleum as he pushes away from the table. “Nothing to do with nothing.”

  “Police don’t come out at dawn to deal with nothing about nothing,” Tim says.

  “You ought to be worrying about yourself,” Imogene says to Tim, knowing as she says it she should be keeping her mouth closed.

  Mama’s always said to keep clear of Daddy’s men and their doings. You ain’t going to change nothing by spouting off. Just steer clear. But Imogene is tired and hungry and thirsty to the point she’s struggling to swallow and she can’t stop herself.

  “Warren, go on down and talk to Tillie at his shop,” Imogene says, standing from the sofa. “He’ll show you a couple watches he’s got down there what belong to Tim’s mama and daddy. Real expensive watches. Tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of watches, and he’ll tell you how Tim’s girlfriend come in there trying to sell them off as her own. Maybe you want to talk about that. Because what goes on at my mama’s house, it ain’t any of Tim Robithan’s concern.”

  In four steps, Tim is standing within arm’s reach of Imogene. His spicy cologne reaches her first and then the heat off his body. Warren jumps from his chair, stumbles as he goes to step in front of Tim, and Imogene stops him with a hand to his chest.

  “Garland, you hear me?” Tim says, staring at Imogene. His eyes start down near her waist and slide up to meet hers. “You think what goes on in this house is none of our concern?”

  “It ain’t for Garland to say,” Imogene says. She tries not to swallow because that’ll let on how much fear she’s feeling, but she can’t stop herself. The smell of Tim’s cologne is familiar. She’s smelled it on her pillows
and sheets before, on one of those mornings she woke to an empty bed, certain a man had been there. “This is Mama’s house. Not Garland’s.”

  “Back up, Tim,” Warren says, sliding a shoulder between Tim and Imogene. “Back up now.”

  “Warren’s being here’s got nothing to do with the property, fellows,” Garland says, coming up behind Tim and resting a hand on his shoulder. He’s smiling and trying to laugh off the tension. “Come on, now, let’s not have any trouble. Ain’t got nothing at all to do with the property.”

  “Garland? Jo Lynne?” Imogene says, as Tim holds up two hands to Warren and starts to back away. “You want to tell me why these men are in our mama’s house talking about our mama’s property?”

  Jo Lynne shakes her head the tiniest bit, most certainly telling Imogene she ought not be asking that question.

  “You all get on,” Warren says, corralling the men and walking them toward the door. Instead, they line up next to Tim.

  Imogene turns back to Jo Lynne, uncertain what to say next, when the kitchen door opens and Eddie stomps inside. As if they’re carrying on Daddy’s disappointment in Eddie, a few of the men shake their heads at the sight of him.

  Eddie scans the room, and when his eyes settle on the men sliding up alongside Tim Robithan, he must realize the trouble brewing is Klan business. He drops his jacket, crosses his arms, and leads with his chest, his way of trying to take over the room and Daddy’s position as head of the Knights.

  “Somebody care to tell me what’s going on here?” Eddie says.

  The room is silent. No one answers because no one cares what Eddie wants. They’re all waiting for Tim Robithan to speak.

  “They’re all just leaving,” Warren says.

  Eddie steps toward Warren. “Don’t think I asked you.”

  While Jo Lynne would be happy enough to see Imogene end up with Warren, Eddie doesn’t care for any sort of law enforcement, unless the law enforcement is a Knight.