Brotherhood

by Anne Westrick

  “Now, look. Accidents happen.”

  “It wasn’t no accident.”

  “Don’t go there, Henry. I said ‘accidents happen,’ and we’ll leave it at that.” He began to pace again.

  Granddaddy followed him across the room. Clip-thunk, clip-thunk. “I don’t like this, John.”

  The sheriff stopped at a tall smoke-glass window, turned, and frowned. “If your grandsons are going to run with the Klan, they need better bedsheets.”

  Granddaddy kneaded the thigh of his bad leg. His gaze fell to the floor. “I’m sorry. Shad ain’t had time to pull together something better. We’ll get on it right away.” He looked up. “But I don’t want another meeting like last night.”

  Shad tried to swallow. He felt sick and clenched his teeth, not wanting to believe what he was hearing. He looked from Granddaddy to the sheriff, and his thoughts blurred back to the Klan meeting—to the smoky roomful of ghost disguises. He wondered who else had been under those sheets.

  Sheriff Parker rubbed his temples. “Okay, boys, we need us a plan. You on foot? Tell you what. You find yourselves a bite to eat while I get O’Malley. Thelma’s Restaurant ain’t bad. I’ll be back in an hour.” The sheriff set a hat on his head, gave his trousers a tug up, and headed out the door.

  He rode off on the black mare while Shad walked with Granddaddy to Thelma’s—one block over at Broad Street. Shad’s head had begun to throb, and as they walked, he squeezed his eyes tightly and opened them again, hoping the hurt would subside. His thoughts had splattered like candle wax. He lamented how little sleep he’d gotten last night.

  They got to Broad, and there, running down the center of the street, was Richmond’s new trolley, pulled by four enormous chestnut-brown horses. Shad turned to Granddaddy. “Sir, can I—would it be all right if I just waited here a spell? I heard about this trolley car, but I ain’t seen it yet.”

  Granddaddy slapped him on the back and Shad felt the jolt from his forehead to his toes.

  “Sure. It’s fine, son. Fine. Wait in front of Thelma’s here.”

  While Granddaddy went inside, Shad plopped down in the shade of a small elm tree. He set his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. He tried to let go of the morning—the arrest, Rachel, the sheriff, everything. He told himself to think about the trolley and let his mind rest, ease the headache.

  Granddaddy brought him two heels from a warm loaf of brown bread, then headed back into Thelma’s.

  “Thank you, sir,” Shad called, not taking his eyes from the trolley. He ate and watched the trolley grow small in the distance. Broad Street stretched west for miles—all the way to Charlottesville, so people said. Shad knew Daddy had taken Broad Street the day he’d enlisted, and today Shad imagined him sitting on Mindy-girl, trotting along this very stretch of road.

  He took a deep breath and let his belly fill and tried to forget that Daddy was gone. Forget that Jeremiah had been arrested. Forget that Mama was beside herself, sitting home, craning her neck up Nine Mile Road, waiting on Shad to bring his brother back. But the more he tried, the clearer the images became. Even George Nelson came to mind, and he shuddered. No, he wouldn’t let himself think about George Nelson.

  He closed his eyes so tightly that bits of light shimmered in the blackness inside his head. He opened his eyes again, then shut them, opened them. What happened to George Nelson was bad, but with Jeremiah arrested, maybe this time the Yankees would hold him longer than one night. Then no one else would get hurt—and that meant Shad wouldn’t have to worry so much right now.

  Why, Jeremiah being locked up gave Shad a chance to catch his breath. The more he thought about it, the deeper he could breathe, and the next thing he knew, his lungs filled so full his ribs ached again from the bruising. He put a hand to his side, but instead of wincing with the ache, he smiled. For the first time that day, he allowed a smile to settle in, to ripple all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes.

  Jeremiah was locked up, and that wasn’t bad news at all.

  Then he felt Granddaddy pat his shoulder, and he knew it was time, and he let the smile fade.

  He and Granddaddy went back to the police station and met up with Sheriff Parker and Mr. O’Malley, the man who owned the saloon a block from Granddaddy’s shop. He was a big man—big as the sheriff—with reddish hair, bushy sideburns, and pale eyes, and he talked with a lisp that always made Shad wonder about Irish people and their funny accents.

  “Morning, Shad,” he said, and it came out Thad.

  “Sir,” said Shad with a nod.

  Mr. O’Malley and Sheriff Parker looked him over, then exchanged glances.

  Sheriff Parker gave the back of his neck a good rub. “Henry, we’ve been kicking this around, and it just don’t hold water. The thing is—” He paused, looking straight at Granddaddy while pointing sideways at Shad, his arm fully extended, his finger shaking. “We know Barrel Boy saw Shadrach, not Jeremiah, and we know them Yankees don’t know nothin’. They’re stupid as crayfish. But the piece we don’t understand is how the hell Barrel Boy knew Shadrach’s name.”

  Shad swallowed and looked at the floor. He wanted to crawl under the desk. If he hadn’t been so stupid at that brotherhood meeting, George Nelson never would have glimpsed his face.

  “Sit down, Shad,” said the sheriff. He pulled out the big oak chair beside the melted candle. “Now, fill us in, son. How did that pip-squeak know you?”

  Shad sat. Granddaddy lifted his chin, and Shad knew what the lift meant. Granddaddy wanted him to start talking. Go on—tell the sheriff. We’re all in the brotherhood together. You can talk here.

  But Shad couldn’t talk. He couldn’t tell them how that pip-squeak knew him. George Nelson. How could he tell what he knew about George Nelson when it was all so tied up with Rachel? No, he didn’t know how to explain anything.

  8

  Gin Rummy

  SHAD RUBBED HIS eyes and scratched his scalp. The scratching irritated the lice, making them race through his hair, and their racing made his head itch, so he scratched all the more. Then he fingered the tender lump at the spot where his head had hit the windowsill. “Um, I’m sorry. I’m a bit light-headed today. W-what was the question?”

  “You heard the sheriff,” said Granddaddy with a firm tone.

  Mr. O’Malley leaned in close. “How did he know you wath a Weaver?”

  “Just tell us what you know, son,” said Sheriff Parker.

  Shad wrapped his hands so tightly around the arms of the oak chair, his knuckles ached. “Yes, sir. Well, I was up at Widow Perkinson’s house to take measurements. Tailoring. She’d, uh, commissioned a dress and I needed to get the length, the waist, you know, sir?”

  “Go on.”

  “And this man arrived. And he had a suitcase. And he, uh—he and I met. Miz Perkinson introduced me as Weaver’s Fine Tailoring.”

  Sheriff Parker nodded. “I see. All right, then. And he had a suitcase, so he was fixin’ to stay awhile?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Carpetbagger,” said Mr. O’Malley, sneering.

  “And this was the little man with the big nose they brought to the brotherhood meeting last night?” asked Sheriff Parker.

  Shad looked at the floor. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything about the brotherhood meeting. He’d sworn to the Grand Cyclops he wouldn’t ever say a thing outside of a Klan meeting, and now he was outside, and he couldn’t bring himself to answer that question straight on.

  He felt Sheriff Parker pat his back, and he sensed that the sheriff understood. “That’s fine, son,” he said. “But tell me, would you describe George Nelson as a short man with a big nose?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you just saw him that one day at Miz Perkinson’s house?”

  Shad looked at his bare feet. He scratched his head some more. He let his head bob in a mo
tion like a nod, but not a nod, exactly. That one day? Yes, he’d seen him that one day, but other days, too. He couldn’t begin to tell them about all the days. Lord, what a fix he was in. He hadn’t ever lied to Granddaddy, but today—well, there was no way he could tell these men about all the days at the Perkinsons’. He mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Shad.” The sheriff shoved his large hands deep into his trouser pockets and moseyed toward the windows. “Henry, you must be proud o’ your grandson.”

  “He’s a good boy, John.”

  “He sure is.”

  “But we got uth a problem now, don’t we, John?” said Mr. O’Malley.

  Sheriff Parker drifted back to the desk and spit into the tobacco can. He tugged on his trousers, bringing them up an inch or two, shifting the belt around at his waist, tucking in his shirt. “Well, now, O’Malley, I believe you have a fine room there in the back of the saloon. Was that back room empty last night?”

  “Yeth, it wath, John. Thure wath.”

  “No, I don’t believe so,” said the sheriff, and he drew out his words long and slow and heavy. “Not. Empty. At. All. No, gentlemen, there was a card game going on in that back room last night. Right there in your saloon, O’Malley. Shad, what card games do you know how to play?”

  “Sir?”

  “Card games, you heard me. Or don’t your mama let you play cards?”

  “Uh, yes, sir, she’s fine with us playing cards, long as it ain’t on Sunday.”

  “All right, then. Last night was Thursday. Thursday night into Friday, and we were playing a mean game of—what? You tell me, Shad. What do you play?”

  Shad narrowed his eyes, not understanding what the sheriff wanted.

  Granddaddy spoke up. “Gin rummy. Shad and Jeremiah and me—we sometimes kick back with a little gin rummy.”

  “Gin rummy it was, then,” said Sheriff Parker, and an enormous grin spread across his face. “And Shadrach here—he won the night. Got him a celebratory root beer. We played first to five hundred, you got that? Good job, boy. You play a mean hand of gin rummy. Let’s go.” He slapped Shad on the back. Hard.

  Then Shad and Granddaddy and Sheriff Parker and Mr. O’Malley set off walking. Shad’s ribs ached and his head hurt and his stomach churned with lies. He’d told more lies than a boy could track, and here was another one. Gin rummy.

  Shad felt Granddaddy’s arm circle his shoulders, then felt his mouth at his ear. “Okay, Shad, now listen up. It’s best if you say nothing at all, but if them Yankees ask, well, you remember that time you scooped up the whole discard pile? We couldn’t stop you playing out near every set in the deck. It was that kind of night. You got that?”

  Shad nodded. “Yes, sir.” But he wasn’t sure what he got and what he didn’t. Yes, he knew how to play gin rummy, but these men—even his very own granddaddy—were asking him to lie to the Yankees to get Jeremiah released. But if Jeremiah went free, why, no telling what he’d do next.

  Yes, telling. Shad tried to swallow, and the lump wouldn’t go down. He knew exactly what Jeremiah would do when he was free, and the thought made Shad sick. He wanted Jeremiah in jail. Forever. He couldn’t stand to think what Jeremiah might do if he got out. Not might. What he would do to Rachel and Maggie and Nathaniel and Eloise and all the rest. No, he couldn’t let Jeremiah hurt any of them, and especially not Rachel.

  9

  The S Word

  RACHEL. HE’D FIRST met her more than a month ago. Maybe it had been six weeks. Maybe seven. It was after he’d pledged allegiance to the brotherhood—the very day after, as a matter of fact.

  He thought back on that day—how he was headed home from Granddaddy’s, carrying a bolt of fabric and wearing the same clothes he had on today—the britches that used to belong to his cousin William Johnson Alfriend Nunnally, and the burlap-sack shirt with the letters FEED AND SEED stamped across and stuck in the seams. He’d sewn the shirt himself, and even added a pocket for collecting cloth scraps.

  He’d gotten to the corner of Seventeenth and Broad when he’d seen a swatch of red cloth snagged on a crack in some stones. It was a few inches’ worth, and he bent over, freed the cloth, and slipped it into his pocket.

  The day was hot, and he didn’t relish the thought of carrying the bolt up Church Hill. He felt mighty fine about joining up with a brotherhood, but running in the night meant he was plumb short on the shut-eye. He leaned against a maple tree, collecting his strength for the haul uphill, all the while looking down Broad toward the brick building that used to be Lumpkin’s jail—the site of many slave auctions. Now there were graveyards—more colored graves at the bottom of the Broad Street hill than anyone could count.

  That day he saw a few Negroes milling about. Two colored girls were coming up Broad Street, each holding a sack tucked into the crook of an elbow. They had scarves wrapped around their heads, and the cloth of their scarves matched their flower-print dresses.

  When they got to his corner, they stopped smack-dab in front of him. The taller of the two did a funny thing with her neck—stretching it as if to grow even taller—but her height didn’t hold a candle to Shad’s. She was about his age or a year older—it was hard to tell. She stood close to him—too close—and Shad felt uncomfortable. He tried to back up, but he was against a tree and couldn’t enlarge the distance.

  She pointed at his bolt of fabric and said, “Pray tell, why would you be carrying fine cotton prints from Atlanta?”

  Shad glanced behind him, thinking she must be talking to someone else. But there was no one there. He turned back to see the other girl’s eyes grow wide. Her skin was darker than her friend’s, and her nose looked like an Indian’s nose—like old pictures Shad had seen of Pocahontas and such. She shook her head and grabbed the arm of the too-close girl and pulled, turning her eyes to the gray-brick street. “Excuse us, sir. We need to go.”

  Shad breathed easier as the girls moved a few paces away. He hadn’t ever heard coloreds talk so fine. He tightened his hands around the bolt and straightened his back, showing his full height. “Who told you what I got here?”

  The one shook her sleeve free of the other. She laughed. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  He didn’t like her sassy tone. He threw his free hand in the air and deepened his voice. “You’re in my way. I’m tryin’ to see down the street there. Get on outta my way.”

  But she didn’t get on. She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at the bolt of fabric. “If you please, sir, I asked about the cloth.”

  Now she had him flustered. He pointed at the sack she carried. “What have you got there?”

  “Excuse me, sir, but where did you get a shipment from Atlanta?”

  “I never said nothing ’bout Atlanta.”

  “Right there. The bolt says, Pink dogwood floral, one hundred percent cotton, Frederick and Sons, Atlanta, Georgia.”

  He looked at the bolt. Sure enough, stamped on the brown-paper wrapping were letters. Lots of letters. He hadn’t tried to figure them out. But this girl had him tongue-tied—she could read without pause! Shad felt his face go hot. It wasn’t right that she could read better than he could. Wasn’t right that she could read at all. Wasn’t right that she was reaching for the bolt—that she was running her fingers along the stamped letters. Shad froze. She was nearly on his toes!

  Her friend tugged again. “Come on, Rachel, come on.”

  “Why, Eloise, just yesterday Miss Elizabeth was saying Abigail needed a new dress.” She pushed Eloise’s arm away. “Where are you going with this?”

  Shad didn’t like the way she asked him questions. Jeremiah had told him not to talk to coloreds. He’d said the United States government was fixing to send them back to Africa. He’d said Daddy would still be alive if rich people hadn’t ruined the country by hankering to get richer still and bringing slaves here so people had to fight over them. And now everybody had to live
with them until they got shipped back.

  Shad didn’t like talking with this rich-mouthed colored girl—not one bit. But he liked his work, and he was proud of Granddaddy’s shop, and he said, “Weaver’s Fine Tailoring.”

  “So you’re a tailor, then?”

  Was she mocking him? Her tone wasn’t like any he had ever heard. He didn’t know what to make of her and her fine-lady voice. He swallowed and tried to smirk like Jeremiah. He sputtered, “You two is stealing sacks of flour.”

  Eloise looked down and mumbled, “My apologies, sir. Come on, Rachel.”

  Shad held his face stern, but on the inside he was smiling to beat all. Both of these girls had called him “sir.”

  “Just wait a minute, Eloise,” said Rachel. She held out her sack with two hands. Held it right up to Shad’s face.

  He swung at the sack. But he had the bolt of cloth in his strong arm, and he swung with the other, and she was quick. She pulled the sack in. Then she held it up, and he swung again. And she pulled it in again. She laughed. She was making a game of it—holding the sack up, getting him to swing and miss. A funny little game.

  Shad laughed. Then he thought he shouldn’t have laughed. Shoot. He didn’t know how to handle this. Jeremiah would tell him he was soft. Namby-pamby. He’d say to keep coloreds in their place.

  Stupid girl, thought Shad. Who was she to play this little game with him? Who was she to speak to him with such a familiar tone? His mind raced with images of Mr. Kechler’s slaves—had he met this girl at Kechler’s plantation? He couldn’t place her there. The Shockoe Market? He couldn’t place her there, either. He didn’t think he’d met her before, and yet, here she was, chatting away like they were equals. Her eyes bored into him, and he shifted his weight.

  She said, “Read it.”

  He swung again.

  She giggled and shook her head. “Read it. It’s not flour. Read it.”

  He stopped swinging and looked at the letters. He couldn’t think straight with her staring at him. He could read some, but not well. The word on the sack began with an S. Right there and then, he couldn’t think of any S-words other than his name, and it wasn’t his name.