Stars of Alabama

by Sean Dietrich

  “Hey, know what?” Ruth said, breaking the silence. “If Lou were here, she’d be keeping us all warm.”

  Silence followed this remark.

  “No, she wouldn’t,” said Paul. “Old Lou’d be right in the middle, taking all our heat. Selfish thing thought the world circled around her.”

  Ruth scooted until she was seated in Eulah’s lap. Eulah wrapped her arms around her. And everyone became quiet. The only sound heard was sleepy breathing beneath the blankets.

  Vern whispered to Paul, “If someone find us, we gonna be in it, deep in it.”

  “Will they kill us?” added Ruth.

  “Hush,” said Paul. “Now quit that talk, Vern. You’re scaring the young’uns.”

  “But what if we get caught?” said Vern. “Breaking in like this. You know what they do to black folk out here close to Jay.”

  “Vern, hush,” said Paul. “Quit your worrying and let’s try to get some sleep. No use borrowing trouble.”

  “Good night, Mama,” said Reese.

  “Night, Miss Eulah,” said Vern.

  “Good night, Miss Eulah,” said Ruth.

  Paul kissed Eulah’s cheek and whispered, “Rest, sweetie. Just rest.”

  “I love you, Mama,” said Pete.

  * * *

  When Paul awoke to the sound of a radio in the service station, it startled him. It was the sound of a preacher hollering, interrupted by crowds cheering. The volume was low but audible. He turned to see Vern in the dark with his ear pressed against a wooden desktop radio.

  “What in the world?” Paul said. “Turn that thing off.”

  Vern looked at the radio and said, “It’s J. Wilbur.”

  “I don’t care if it’s the king of Siam, turn that thing off. Someone might hear.”

  Vern clicked off the small radio.

  Paul was still holding Eulah’s sleeping body. His arms were frozen around her. The rest of the family was still huddled around her too. Paul had been drifting in and out of sleep but fought it for as long as he could.

  “Vern,” Paul said, “I wish you’d go to sleep. You’re worrying me half to death, moving around like you is.”

  Vern said, “They’ll kill me if they find me. Be just like J. Wilbur say, be like judgment come down.”

  “Nobody’s judging nobody, Vern.”

  “They kill black folks here in Jay. Everybody know that. All dressed in white robes and stuff. They kill them just for coming through town. Hang ’em from a limb.”

  “Would you hush?”

  “If they catch me, I’s done.”

  Eulah coughed so hard it sounded like she ruptured a lung. She shivered beneath the blankets. Paul squeezed her tighter, but she still shook.

  “Listen to me, Vern, if we hear so much as a possum fart, just head for that door and get outta dodge. Simple as that.”

  “Where I go? We’s practically in Jay right now. They probably hang me right here. Maybe from that tree.”

  Vern looked toward the window again and let out a sigh. His eyes looked heavy.

  Paul was busy thinking of the next thing he would say but fell asleep by accident. It felt so good to nod off. He was low on sleep. During his short sleep, he managed to forget all about sadness, cold, and starvation. But it was short-lived.

  A sound woke him.

  It was the noise of Vern adjusting the knob on the radio and the static sound of preaching at a low volume. He could see Vern staring at the glowing radio dial. Paul almost told him to turn it off again.

  But then, it was J. Wilbur.

  * * *

  Paul was startled awake. When he opened his eyes, he heard a sound. A loud sound. A banging. He could see lantern lights outside the front window. He heard the sounds of dogs.

  “They gon’ kill me,” said Vern. His eyes were wide open, his nostrils flared. “They gon’ flat kill me.”

  Paul whispered, “Vern, get outta here.”

  Paul could see sweat forming on Vern’s forehead. The big black man touched his family. He touched sleeping Pete’s face and did the same with Ruth and the others.

  “Git,” said Paul.

  “Tell everyone I love ’em, Paul. Tell ’em for me.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Please tell ’em.”

  “Okay, fine, fine, I’ll tell ’em. Now go.”

  Vern walked to the door and wedged his big body into the cold. In only seconds, he was gone. Dogs barked. Men shouted. A gunshot rang out. Then another. Then the place filled with icy air and the sounds of hollering men. Another gunshot echoed.

  It sounded like a scattergun. The noises woke the children.

  Paul leaned forward and talked straight into Pete’s ear. “Anything happens to me, I want you to do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “Go find Vern.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s right. Don’t stop looking until you find him. He can’t be on his own, not in these parts. They’ll kill him if they find him.”

  “What?”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  The voices got nearer and louder.

  “Take everyone to the front of the store,” said Paul. “Go wait behind that counter. Keep everyone outta sight, and keep ’em quiet.”

  Pete did as he was told. Reese, Ruth, and Pete gathered behind the store counter beneath the cigarette and cigar display.

  The door smashed in. Boots stomped on floorboards. Guns. Dogs. Shouting. Swearing men. Howling. The dark figures were aiming rifles at Paul, who was covering Eulah. They were screaming for him to move away from the woman.

  Hounds made baying noises. One man kicked Paul in the ribs. Then he kicked him in the thigh and jammed a rifle between his shoulder blades.

  Paul hollered over the sound of the dogs. “The woman, she’s sick.”

  The man shouted something again, pressing a rifle deeper into Paul’s cheek.

  “We’re friendly!” yelled Paul. “Don’t hurt the woman! She’s sick!”

  But these men were not interested in reasoning. One man crawled atop Paul and tore into him with both fists. Paul could feel the bones in his face being tested.

  Then a shot rang out.

  Then silence.

  The men stood against the wall.

  Paul checked his body and felt no wounds. He ran his hands along his shoulders and chest. He looked at Eulah and inspected her body. She was untouched too. Another gun pop.

  And another.

  “That kid shot me!” shouted one dark figure. “Shot me in the elbow!”

  Paul glanced toward the front of the store.

  Pete stood strong, pistol pressed against the head of a man with brown curly hair. Pete held the man in a choke hold, gun touching his temple. The man wore big eyes and a terrified face. The other men saw this, dropped their weapons, and raised their hands.

  “Who’s laughing now?” Pete said.

  Forty-One

  Mothers and Daughters

  Marigold touched Helen’s belly. The other girls marveled at Helen’s round stomach. Over the winter months, Helen had gradually quit participating in the day-to-day activities with men that took place at Cowikee’s.

  Motherhood, even in its early stages, was changing her. Often she wore happy looks that made her seem twenty years younger than she was. And the lines on her face seemed to disappear too. Her hair had more curl to it. Her skin had a healthy hue. She was new.

  Laughing Girl let her Indian eyes rest on Helen. “I have never seen Helen in such good spirits.” Laughing Girl’s long dark hair was braided behind her in a ponytail that stretched to her knees. She knelt beside Marigold and placed her hands beside Marigold’s.

  “I’m trying to feel,” said Marigold.

  “Feel what?” said Laughing Girl.

  “I don’t know. It’s sorta like saying hi.”

  Laughing Girl concentrated on her own hands. Her long braid coiled itself on the floor beside her. “What happens to your ha
nds?”

  A hush fell over the other girls. Marigold guessed they had all wanted to ask this same question but were too afraid.

  “I don’t know,” said Marigold. “I can’t control it.” She stood and wandered to the furnace. She positioned the wood in the potbelly stove using a stick. The log caught the rising flame and started to pop. It shot sparks outward like fireworks. She shut the iron door and sniffed the scent of fire. The smell of wood was one she liked. The strong odor of pine was one of her favorites.

  Laughing Girl didn’t press the matter. She only kept her hands on Helen’s tummy and closed her eyes. “I cannot feel anything with my hands.”

  “What’s Helen gonna do with a baby?” said Rachel.

  “Well, she won’t stay here,” said another girl. “Babies don’t belong in places like this.”

  “She’s gonna be happy,” said Marigold. “That’s what she’s gonna do with a baby. The rest will just work itself out.”

  “Well,” said one girl, “girls like us weren’t meant for birthing babies. I don’t think motherhood will suit her.”

  “Motherhood is not supposed to suit people,” said Laughing Girl. “It is a natural thing, like going to the bathroom. Everyone knows how to go to the bathroom.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Rachel. “How would you know?”

  “I just know.”

  Marigold stood beside the window, watching the snow fall. White tufts drifted toward the ground. All the girls were excited by the snow. It was such a rare and beautiful thing in this part of the world. It had been snowing all winter long, off and on, and it had become a minor obsession among them all.

  “You ever seen snow before this winter?” Rachel asked Laughing Girl.

  “No,” Laughing Girl said. “I have only heard people talk about it.”

  Another girl said, “I didn’t know it was really this white.”

  Helen kept her eyes closed but opened her mouth to speak in a low voice. “This is nothing. In Chattanooga, I seen a blizzard once.”

  “Chattanooga? You’ve been to Chattanooga?” Rachel said.

  “It is where she came from,” said Laughing Girl.

  Helen went on. “One Christmas I remember I had to parade around town right through the snow. I was wearing a tasseled dress. We were keeping company with rich men who needed a trophy on their arm.”

  “Tassels?” Rachel said. “Oh, aren’t you lucky.”

  “Shiny too,” said Helen. “With glitter on the chest.”

  “Never seen a dress made of glitter,” Rachel said.

  “Neither have I,” said Laughing Girl.

  “The blizzard kept everyone inside for days. We were miserable.”

  “I wonder what glitter dresses cost,” said Rachel.

  “I think I would look good in glitter and tassels,” said another.

  “I was so young,” said Helen.

  The girls got quiet.

  Marigold touched Helen’s stomach again. She closed her eyes. She concentrated on the feelings that moved through her hand, up her arm, and into her heart. And she felt something. She felt the little boy. Smiling.

  “There you are,” said Marigold.

  “You can see him?” said Helen.

  “Yep, he’s smiling at me.”

  “Tell him I love him.”

  “He knows,” said Marigold.

  Forty-Two

  The Root of All

  It was midnight. Coot stepped on the shovel. It sank into the soft earth behind the outhouse. Judy stood guard beside the wooden latrine, holding her distended belly.

  Over the winter months, Judy had gone from being flat-stomached to fully pregnant. When the spring came, Judy’s dresses had become too small on her body and her face had gotten puffy. People began to talk. They called her terrible things, and she’d become a mockery.

  A breathtakingly beautiful mockery.

  “Couldn’t you have picked somewhere less disgusting to bury it?” whispered Judy. “I think I’m gonna vomit.”

  “Disgusting was the whole idea,” said Coot.

  “Well, hurry up. I can hardly stand the smell. It’s making me sick.”

  “Just tell me if you hear anyone coming.”

  “I’m nauseous.”

  “Keep your voice down and keep watching.”

  Coot didn’t remember burying the box so deep, but he was at least three feet into the earth and still saw no sign of it. This worried him. Someone might have stolen the money. He tried not to entertain this idea. He had worked up a sweat from digging. Spring mornings were warm and humid. He removed his shirt so that he was wearing only his undershirt. He dug two more feet downward.

  “Geez, how deep did you bury it?” said Judy. “All the way to China?”

  He wondered to himself about what he would do once he found the money. Where would they go? What would they do? It was a mixture of excitement and sadness for him. Judy had agreed to let Coot take care of her, but it was only because she had nowhere else to turn. Nobody wanted a woman who carried a bastard. She knew this. He knew this. And it didn’t make her love him. He knew that too.

  “Wait,” she said.

  Coot stopped digging.

  She held her hand up. “I think someone’s coming.”

  “What?”

  She shushed him.

  A slamming screen door. Footsteps in the grass. Coot wiped sweat from his dripping forehead and squinted in the dark. It was Danny Terrance, stumbling out the back door, unbuttoning his overalls.

  Judy hid behind the outhouse, standing next to Coot, plugging her nose. She kept close to him, pressing her body against his. He held her tight. It was the closest she’d ever been to him.

  They heard the sound of Danny fertilizing the grass. He coughed a few times, sniffed, then cleared his nose. Coot noted how very well hydrated Danny Terrance seemed to be. It sounded like he was letting go of the Chattahoochee River.

  The stream of water stopped. Then silence.

  “Hey, who’s out there?” said Danny.

  Judy’s eyes became big. Coot could see the whites of her eyes in the dark. She pressed a hand over Coot’s mouth. “Sshhh,” she whispered.

  “Hey,” said Danny. “I can hear you. Who’s out here?”

  Coot tried to think of something to do, but nothing was coming to mind. He was too preoccupied with the smell of the outhouse.

  “Hey,” said Danny. “I can see you two out there. Who is that?”

  Judy grabbed Coot’s hand and led him from behind the outhouse in one swift movement. When they were in Danny’s full view, she pulled Coot into her and kissed him right on the mouth. She kissed Coot so hard it felt like his head was going to pop off his neck and drift right into the pearly gates.

  It was the first time a woman had ever kissed him.

  Coot kept his eyes open. Her eyes were open too. Their noses were smashed together. Behind Judy, he could see Danny in the dark, watching.

  Danny let out a single laugh. It was a demeaning laugh. “Don’t you have any pride, Coot? That girl’s nothing but trouble.”

  Coot tried to open his mouth to speak, but he was too busy trying to remember whether his name was actually Coot.

  Judy answered, “If you keep standing there, watching us like that, I’m gonna charge you admission.”

  Danny waved them off and walked away, saying, “You could do a lot better, Coot. A lot better.”

  In a matter of seconds, Coot was holding a shovel and digging again. The blood had rushed into his head and was making his face feel hot. He imagined Judy walking a church aisle, wearing white. He imagined living with her in a cabin on a hill with a family of children running around his feet while he read a Sears and Roebuck catalog, smoking a pipe.

  His shovel hit something unforgiving.

  “I found it,” he said.

  He dug the tin box out of the earth with his bare hands. The box was rusted orange and brown. He wedged the lid off using the blade of the shovel. There it was. A ro
ll of cash, tucked inside a rubber hot water bottle, unaffected by the years.

  Judy looked at the money with an open mouth. “How much is it?”

  “Enough.”

  “How long have you been hiding this?”

  “A long time.”

  She grabbed the wad of cash and held it in her hands. Her eyes sparkled. Her face was glowing. “Coot, I didn’t think you had this much. We’re rich. Rich.”

  Coot started filling the hole with dirt. Judy pressed the cash against her chest, even though it soiled her clothes. She held a solemn look. “Sorry if I shocked you earlier,” she said. “I mean, kissing you like that . . .”

  Coot kept shoveling. His mouth was still numb from the throes of unbridled passion. He was working on a marriage proposal that was eloquent but succinct.

  “I just didn’t know what else to do, you know?” she went on. “I improvised. That was all.”

  “It’s okay, Judy.”

  “I mean, it’s not like you and I are . . .”

  Coot stopped with the shovel and looked at her.

  “Coot,” she said with sympathy in her voice. “I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I ain’t your girl or nothing.”

  The quiet passed between them. Coot wanted to crawl into the tiny hole behind the foul-smelling outhouse and live the rest of his days there until he died from the stink.

  “’Course I know that,” he said.

  “Good,” she said. “Just as long as you understand.”

  She turned to walk inside.

  She took the box with her.

  Forty-Three

  Lost and Found

  Paul stood over a mound of dirt holding his hat. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It would’ve made the girls cry even harder. He wanted them to feel strength, not tears.

  Pete was staring at the grave marker. Two sticks of pine, tied together to form a cross. Vern rested his hand on Pete’s shoulder. “We all with you, boy. We all with you.”

  But Pete said nothing. He only stared.

  He had become a man in only a few days. It happened to every boy sooner or later. Sooner for some. But never had Paul seen a child do it with such bravery. Pete had defended his family, pistol in his hand. Some men wouldn’t be that courageous. Pete had wounded a man, threatened a slew of others, then shot at their car when it sped away. He was a man now.