Brotherhood

by Anne Westrick

  “Aw, baby, come on now, Shad.”

  He stood behind a ladder-backed chair and set both hands on the top rung. Mama wanted to protect him from another day in a corner with a dunce cap. But he didn’t want her protection. “Mama, I—”

  “Some is meant for schooling and some not. Your tailoring is coming along fine.”

  “Look, Mama—”

  She reached for his arm. “I’m proud of you—ain’t I told you that? I’m proud how Sunday school learned you good, and you got your Bible memorized, and that’s all you need, baby.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Now, I ain’t ever learned my letters, and you can’t, neither, and baby—it’s okay. You gonna be okay without that book learning.”

  “But, Mama—”

  “Daddy was the reader in the family, wasn’t he? Daddy and Jeremiah—Lord, how the two of them can read! Could read. Daddy could.” She stammered and Shad saw a shadow cross her face. All of a sudden, Mama was so close to tears, Shad found himself twisting up on the inside, preparing to ease her into a chair. He hated how hard everything had become for Mama since Daddy died. Hated how he hadn’t been able to make it better for her.

  Shad held his breath and waited for the shadow to pass—waited for Mama to have a moment there—for air to move again before he refilled his lungs. “With all due respect, Mama, I think I can do it.”

  She shook her head. “Each of us, Shad—the good Lord meant each of us for something in this world, and He ain’t meant you for schooling. How I hate to see you run after something you ain’t meant to have, baby.”

  Shad’s gaze fell to Mama’s bare feet—she always went barefoot in the house. He wondered how old he’d been when Mama had given up on him. When had she first seen him as a simpleton? He thought maybe he should drop this talk like he’d dropped it so many times before. But today was different. Today he straightened and planted his feet firmly.

  “Let me try, Mama. I’ll get good schooling at Miz Elizabeth’s, and I’ve handled everything myself, so you don’t need to worry about it one bit. I ain’t gonna let it get in the way of tailoring. I’m gonna do short lessons at dawn at Miz Elizabeth’s, then do a chore or two for her—whatever she needs—and she agreed on chores being my tuition since she knows we can’t pay. And after lessons, I’ll stop by the shop, in case you need something from Granddaddy, and I’ll run our deliveries like always.”

  Mama shook her head. “I don’t know, baby.”

  He cringed. “Look, Mama—”

  “Don’t look me.”

  He dropped his gaze to the floor and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Mama. I’m tired. I need me a little shut-eye before dinner.”

  “Shut-eye? That’s sloth, pure and simple. It’s midafternoon. You sick? Don’t tell me you comin’ down with something.”

  Shad shook his head. He stood there, exhausted from lack of sleep, not wanting Mama to pick up on anything he was up to—the lie over the real arrangements at the Perkinsons’, running with the Klan at night. He didn’t want to talk with Mama anymore, and couldn’t find a way to explain himself.

  “Mama, I just need me a moment, okay?” He put two hands in the air and retreated to the bedroom. He fell onto the straw mattress and let his body fold in on itself. His ears shut down. His eyes shut down. He got a breath and then a bigger breath and his whole body shuddered, and he curled into a ball. He was so very tired. So much had happened over the past day and night that he couldn’t begin to sort it all out. He was changing in so many ways—growing up, becoming a man, making decisions for himself. But to Mama, he was a simpleton—always had been, always would be. A simple, stupid boy.

  15

  Letters

  SHAD HEARD Granddaddy laugh, and the sound seemed far away. He opened his eyes. The light was low.

  “Shad!” Jeremiah called. The bedroom door banged open. “Shad! Supper. Get your butt to the table, boy. Mama’s made a feast.”

  Shad rubbed his face. The skin on his cheek had mashed like the folds in the cotton ticking. The silk shirt had wrinkled to beat all.

  He got up, his posture slack, mind dulled by sleep. He went to the outhouse, then stopped at the well and splashed up. When the cold water hit his cheeks, it startled him—as unexpected as a dam break—releasing his thoughts like a flood. The Klan—joining up last night—the Perkinsons, the colored girls, that shed where coloreds got lessons, the eagerness of George Nelson, Mama’s disappointment in him. It all flooded his head and weighed him down, damp and heavy.

  He slumped into a chair at the table. The day was fading, but enough light came through the window that they didn’t need a candle. Not yet. No use wasting a candle.

  Granddaddy bowed his head and Shad followed. “Come, Lord Jesus, our guest to be, and bless these gifts bestowed by Thee. Amen.” Shad noticed that Granddaddy had waxed his silvery mustache to a perfect handlebar, and shaved his chin clean. He still smelled of shaving lather.

  Shad glanced at Jeremiah, loudly slurping the rabbit stew. Jeremiah sat sideways at the table because his long legs didn’t fit underneath anymore. His back was rounded, and he leaned in, splaying his elbows wide, his dirty straw hair sticking every which way, his straggly goatee masking his chin.

  Shad set his eyes on his own bowl—a white ceramic one, chipped along the edge. He felt the slap of Granddaddy’s hand on his shoulder and jerked his head up.

  “You okay, son?” asked Granddaddy.

  “Fine, sir. I’m fine.”

  Granddaddy fingered the silk. “Mighty nice tailoring, but too big for you, boy. Where’d you get this shirt?”

  “Pass the parsnips there, please,” said Mama, a little louder than usual. Her eyes caught Shad’s and something told him not to point out the fine double stitching in the collar and cuffs. Mama went on, “And thank you for bringing the parsnips. Lordy me, we ain’t eaten this good in months. Pass ’em over to Shad, there.”

  Shad squirmed and lifted a spoon. He blew across the stew, trying to remember what was true and what wasn’t. “Miz Elizabeth, sir.”

  Granddaddy fingered the shirt a tad longer. Then he shoved a forkful of parsnips into his mouth. The bags under his eyes sank lower than usual today, and Shad knew it was because they’d run with the Klan. They were all tired. Shad could hardly believe he’d joined last night. It seemed like a month had passed between then and now.

  Jeremiah leaned toward Shad to feel the shirt, too. “What’s with the shirt? You getting all fancy, grown-up, ain’t you?”

  Shad swallowed. “Well, Miz Elizabeth made me wash at her well and put this on ’fore she let me in the house. I ’spect I smelled ripe.”

  Jeremiah hooted, and Shad let a smile come up on his face.

  “Didn’t you wash up this morning?” Mama asked.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Lord have mercy.”

  Jeremiah whistled. “Ignoramus.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Now, boys,” said Granddaddy, leaning back in his chair. “Now, now, now.”

  For a while, the family ate without talking. Mama had made the stew thick with flour and peas and a little bit of molasses—not a lot, but enough to flavor it up just fine. Shad slurped the last of his and pushed away from the table—the farther from everyone’s scrutiny, the better. He took up the work he’d yet to finish—the new pleats he was setting in Mr. Hanson’s trousers—and settled into the chair by the front window.

  Mama stood and lit the kerosene lamp, then set it beside Shad. When she went to stack the dirty bowls, Granddaddy said, “Adeline, it’s been a long day.” He patted the cane seat of her chair. “Leave those dishes be. We’ll tend to ’em later. Come set a spell.” He pulled out his pipe and a pouch of tobacco.

  From the corner of his eye, Shad saw the edges of Mama’s mouth rise. First smile on her face all day. She put the bo
wls on the cookstove and sat down, letting out a big old tired sigh like letting go of the whole day. “All righty. I’m-a put my feet up.”

  Granddaddy lit a match and sucked the flame into the bowl. Up came the sweet smell of tobacco with a hint of cherry. “Jeremiah, how’s that construction job going?”

  “Coloreds,” mumbled Jeremiah.

  “Come again, boy.”

  Shad rolled his eyes. Jeremiah’s story was always the same.

  “Granddaddy, sir—look, I tried. Me and Clifton, we stood in that pack and we craned our necks, and I know that foreman saw us, no question. But he up and pointed at a handful of coloreds, and that was that.”

  Mama shook her head. “My boy is strong as any colored boy. It ain’t right.”

  “Damn Yankees,” said Jeremiah.

  Granddaddy lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head—a posture that Shad understood to mean there was nothing Granddaddy could do about it. But it meant something else, too—that Granddaddy was disappointed Jeremiah hadn’t come to work at Weaver’s Fine Tailoring. “High time y’all moved to my shop.”

  Good Lord, Shad thought. Here it comes. Ever since word of Daddy’s death, Granddaddy had urged Jeremiah to apprentice and Mama to move to town. But Jeremiah didn’t want a label of tailor tacked onto his forehead, and Mama didn’t want to move.

  Not only had Mama never taken to the hustle-bustle of the city on account of growing up on a farm, but she laid on another reason, and she laid it on thick. She claimed that out Nine Mile Road, she felt Daddy in the walls and saw him in the fields.

  Long before the war, Daddy had arranged to rent these two acres and the little house, and he’d paid rent every month until the day he’d enlisted and ridden off on Mindy-girl. Ever since that day, Mr. Kechler had let the Weavers live on his property without asking for a dime. And ever since, Mama swore Daddy was still living in this little white house, and she couldn’t bear to leave him behind.

  On some days she out and out refused to believe that he’d died. She’d say she needed to wait for him—that he was going to walk through the front door and join them for supper.

  It happened sometimes—happened that men who were long thought dead plumb up and appeared on doorsteps. And they weren’t ghosts! Men returned in the flesh, saying the news had been mistaken. They appeared without their horses or muskets or anything. They returned looking like skeletons because of how hard the journey back home had been. But at least they came home.

  Shad sometimes felt the same way Mama did—sometimes felt a sadness that seemed more than he could bear. Tonight he glanced at the door, waiting. If he wished it hard enough, would Daddy come home? He sighed. No, he had to stop fooling himself. They’d gotten a letter and Jeremiah had sat Mama down in a chair and read it out loud. Then they’d all cried. Even Jeremiah.

  He and Jeremiah and Granddaddy didn’t have it in them to set Mama straight, to tell her again and again, He ain’t here, Mama. He done died at Gettysburg. No sense making her cry.

  Tonight Jeremiah pushed his chair from the table and it scraped a new ridge in the dirt floor. He stood and pulled on his goatee and planted his feet wide. “Due respect, sir, but we been over this before.”

  Mama shifted and the cane chair creaked. “Let’s not get into that. Now, Shadrach, tell ’em what you told me today.”

  Shad froze. It was one thing to change the subject and another to put him on the spot.

  Jeremiah wheeled around and plopped back into his chair, his knees pointing at Shad like mounted shotguns. “What did I miss?”

  “Shad’s taking on something he probably shouldn’t,” said Mama.

  Shad pushed his needle through the trousers and kept his eyes low.

  “Fill us in here, Shad. We’re family,” said Granddaddy.

  “Uh,” said Shad, “well, see, turns out maybe I got a problem with my letters.”

  “Well, ain’t that news,” said Jeremiah with a scoff.

  “No, I mean—it’s different. Like maybe I flip ’em around or something.”

  “Letters? You want to talk letters?” Jeremiah tipped his chair onto its back legs and laughed. “Oh, I got letters for you.”

  Granddaddy grunted, and Shad lifted his head in time to see his eyes go slant. “Not now, son.”

  Jeremiah smirked. “Come on, Granddaddy, sir. We got us some good letters.”

  Granddaddy shook his head and Shad could tell he was fixing to say something, but Jeremiah beat him to the punch.

  “K-K-K,” said Jeremiah proudly. “Ku Klux Klan.”

  “Oh, you good ol’ boys,” said Mama.

  “K-K-K, Shad. Them’s all the letters you ever need to know.”

  Granddaddy coughed. He got up, marched to the window, and sent a wad of spit into the breeze.

  Shad straightened, feeling proud to be part of the brotherhood. But he felt tight inside. Mama was sitting right there. Jeremiah wasn’t supposed to say anything outside of KKK meetings. He’d best keep the subject off the Klan. “Well, I asked for lessons today. Readin’ lessons in exchange for chores.”

  Granddaddy raised his eyebrows. “You don’t say?”

  “From that Yankee-lover?” asked Jeremiah.

  Mama shook her head. “I done tried to explain to him this afternoon—how ain’t nothin’ good to come of it.”

  Jeremiah pointed at Shad. “You gonna do chores and get nothin’ in return. You can’t read.”

  Shad bit the inside of his lip. Lord, everybody was tired and on edge. He watched Granddaddy’s fingers tighten around his pipe. He raised one shoulder. “No harm in trying.”

  Mama tapped her fingers on the pine table. “I don’t know. Them Perkinsons—I don’t want Shad up there more than he has to. Deliveries is enough. They’re Yankee-born, and breeding don’t hold a candle to blood. That Perkinson family money come from Massachusetts.”

  Granddaddy cleared his throat. “Well, Adeline, you got to give Parks Perkinson credit. He died for the Confederacy.”

  “He’s still Yankee.”

  “Let it go, Adeline. If Miz Elizabeth wants to spend her family money on our business, and if Shad wants to try a new teacher, it’s all good.”

  “I don’t want to be beholden to her.”

  “And you ain’t,” said Granddaddy. “You ain’t.”

  “What’s she doing giving a silk shirt to my boy?”

  “Now, Adeline, she don’t need them fine shirts no more.”

  Jeremiah stood and crossed his arms over his chest, and all eyes turned to him. With authority, he said, “What Mama is saying is that Miz Perkinson looks down on us, and Mama don’t want no more of it.”

  Mama set her shoulders back and folded her hands in her lap. “You said it right. Thank you, son.”

  “I tell you,” Jeremiah went on, “every time I see one of them bluecoats, it’s all I can do to keep from reaching for my knife.”

  “Amen, son. Ain’t I taught you never to kick a boy when he’s down? Well, that’s exactly what them Yankees are doing to us right now. They got us down. Licked us good. And now they’re taxing the living daylights out of us. What in God’s good name are we supposed to pay with? They done burned everything.”

  Jeremiah pointed a finger at Granddaddy. “They say we’re one country again, proud to be united, but it ain’t true. Them Yankees hate us bad.”

  Granddaddy sighed so loudly, Shad reckoned an incoming storm wouldn’t have drowned him out. Granddaddy ran his tongue around his lips and rubbed a hand through his hair. “Business is business, and they got a good account with us.”

  “Now we ain’t hurtin’ that account,” said Mama. “We’re just saying.”

  Granddaddy’s gaze fell to the floor. “I’m mighty tired. I’d best be heading back to Shockoe ’fore pitch-dark.” He moseyed away from the window and set his chair square to the table. “Than
k you for dinner, Adeline. Good to see you, boys.”

  Then Mama set one hand in the crook of his elbow and her other hand patted his arm, and she walked him out the door. They stood for a spell and their voices got low. Jeremiah grunted, then shuffled off to bed.

  Shad craned his neck to overhear the conversation out front, but he couldn’t catch any of it. He was too tired. He’d gotten some shut-eye before dinner, but with his belly full now, he felt his eyelids grow heavy. Too much had happened in too short a time, and too much lay on his mind. He couldn’t afford to jumble his thoughts and slip and say something he shouldn’t. Best to rest up. No telling when the brotherhood would call another meeting.

  He set aside Mr. Hanson’s trousers and headed to the outhouse, and by the time he got back, he could hear Jeremiah snoring on his side of the straw mattress. It sure had been a long, long day.

  16

  Devil on His Shoulder

  CRACK OF DAWN Monday morning, Nine Mile Road and most of the low-lying areas lay under a white fog blanket. As Shad headed up Church Hill, he marveled at the way the fog disappeared quick as hot breath on a cold day. The air at Libby Hill was crystal clear, and he watched the sky turn from white to pink, orange, and blue, all in a matter of minutes.

  Shad had decided that a tailoring lesson called for a finely tailored shirt, so he’d put on the silk one. He’d slipped from the house a few minutes behind Jeremiah and before Mama had a chance to comment on the shirt. He didn’t want either of them breathing down his neck this morning.

  He went up Twenty-eighth Street and down the alley that separated the backyards of the houses on Franklin and Grace Streets. He carried a sack of tailoring supplies—scraps of cotton, a spool of thread, four sewing needles. And on his shoulder, he carried a devil, buzzing like a mosquito, saying, “You’re gonna get caught.” He slapped around his ears but couldn’t make the buzzing stop.

  Lordy, if someone saw him take the alley instead of the front door, he didn’t have one cotton-picking notion how he’d explain it. Lesson with Miss Elizabeth, he’d say. And they’d know full well—it was only coloreds who went in through the back. He’d have to give this lie more thought.