Brotherhood

by Anne Westrick

  Shad was standing at the door to the shed behind the Perkinson house, waiting, when he saw a little black face peek through the opening in the holly hedge. Then the face disappeared. A moment later, another face peeked through. It disappeared, too.

  Shad felt regret for a moment, thinking he should forget the whole arrangement. It had been crazy of him to think it might work. It wasn’t right—him being at the shed. He held his arms in tight, not wanting to touch anything. Get over it, Shad, he told himself. He shook his head, rattling it this way and that, reminding himself that he was here to learn to read, but darn if that devil didn’t grab on to his shoulder and knot up his muscles good and tight.

  Then he saw Eloise march through the opening in the hedge. He couldn’t see any little ones, but he was near certain they were behind her. Her skirt jerked from side to side, and she smiled. Quietly, she said, “Good morning. Miss Rachel tells us you’re teaching basic sewing today.”

  “Uh, yes’m. That’s right.”

  She set a hand on Shad’s arm and he flinched. “Don’t worry. The hedge is too high for neighbors to see you.”

  He ground his teeth. Was it obvious that he was nervous as all get-out? He heard a door creak and turned to see Rachel slip down Miss Elizabeth’s back steps—a good six or seven whitewashed wooden steps from the door into the yard. He looked from Eloise to Rachel and back again, and whispered, “You came up the alley. Don’t you live here?”

  “No, sir. What gave you that idea? I live just around the corner.”

  Shad blinked. Just because he’d met the girls together didn’t mean they lived in the same house. What a fool he was! In a split second he’d lost his credibility. How would these children respect him when he asked stupid questions like that?

  To learn from him, they’d need to respect him, but he knew no model to demand respect other than intimidation. He didn’t have it in him to bark the way Mr. Kechler barked at his slaves. Didn’t have it in him to hit anybody or bully them the way Jeremiah bullied him. His head spun.

  Then he heard children giggle. A little one dared to peek from behind Eloise’s skirt. “Is that the tailor?”

  Then another peeked out. And another. And another. One was so bold as to march forward and offer his hand. Shad shook it. The boy was the tallest of the children, his skin only as dark as finished maple. His eyes flickered brightly with a cleverness that took Shad in quickly. He was barefoot and wore a burlap sack not so different from Shad’s FEED AND SEED shirt.

  “I’m Nathaniel,” he said, “and Miss Rachel tells me I’m to make sure you know the alphabet. All twenty-six letters. And if’n you don’t, I’m-a teach you.”

  “Ah, you’ve already met Nathaniel,” said Rachel, coming up behind the boy and rubbing her open palm against his head. “And I see you’ve brought some things. Shall we begin with the tailoring lesson?”

  “Uh, yes’m,” Shad mumbled, and right away he wanted to kick himself. His answer should have been something bold. Of course! Or Certainly! Not a mumble.

  He watched as the children filed into the shed behind Eloise. Two, four, six, eight of them. Rachel gestured for him to follow the last one—Nathaniel—and Shad ducked through the doorway to keep from hitting his head. Rachel came in last and closed the door.

  Inside Shad smelled fresh-cut pine and laid his eyes on a rough-hewn table. Three long, low benches looked worse for wear—some rotting sections, a faint mildewy scent. He took a place on a bench by the east window, hoping the light there would be good enough for sewing.

  “Would you rather we do this outside?” asked Rachel. “Beautiful day.”

  Shad shook his head. No, even with the tall hedges, he couldn’t risk being seen.

  The littlest girl went up on tiptoes and down again. Up, down, up, down, her patched calico skirt swaying, her thumb in her mouth. Then she pulled the thumb free and announced, “He’s scared, Miss Rachel. Ain’t he?”

  “Isn’t, Maggie. Ain’t isn’t proper English. Say isn’t.”

  Maggie looked at Shad, her mouth suddenly down, her eyes wet. She reached for Eloise’s skirt, pulled in close, and stuck the thumb back in her mouth, never taking her eyes off Shad.

  Good Lord, he thought. He’d have liked a skirt to hide behind, too. He hoped Maggie couldn’t see the way his hands quivered. Hoped he could settle himself before he launched into the tailoring lesson.

  He straightened his back and squared his shoulders. The children formed a circle around him. His tongue felt thick.

  Another girl asked, “What’s your name?”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but Rachel held up a hand, cutting him off. “Kitty, no names this morning. We have a special arrangement with this tailor, and it’s best if you not learn his real name. You may call him Mr. . . .” She paused, frowning in search of possibilities. Then her face brightened. “Lourdaud. It’s French. Please say it for me once. Lourdaud.”

  “Lourdaud,” the children recited.

  Shad looked at the floor. Rachel was protecting him. He felt overwhelmed with stupidity and, at the same time, incredibly grateful.

  When he brought his head up, the children were staring, waiting for him to begin. Rachel stood behind them so they couldn’t see what Shad saw—couldn’t see her wink.

  Rachel winked at him!

  It was the tiniest of movements, barely perceptible, and for a split second, he didn’t quite believe he’d seen it. A tingle went through him, head to toe. He could have sworn she was laughing at him.

  Then, abruptly, her look shifted and seemed to say, You can do this. This time when the devil buzzed so loudly he thought his eardrums would burst, he didn’t try to shake the buzz away. It wasn’t right—his smiling at her winking. But that smile just came on up with a mind of its own.

  She nodded and raised her eyebrows—an expression that begged him to get on with it. Begin the lesson!

  In that moment he’d have given anything to possess her sense of authority. How could a freed slave stand so strong and think so highly of herself while he struggled to find the slightest bit of confidence?

  He took a deep breath and reached into his sack for the cloth and needles. Scanning the eager faces, he said, “Raise your hand if you’ve ever used a needle like one of these.”

  Two hours later, Shad’s taste buds were singing on Rachel’s butter-sweet biscuits, and the lesson was going well. Very well. The children were taking turns, and one—Kitty—had gotten the feel of the needle quickly. She had run many fine stitches, in a straight line. The others would need more practice. Lots more. But it was a start.

  Shad saw Rachel come up behind Nathaniel and set her hands on his shoulders. He was probably the oldest of the children—nine or ten, Shad thought—and Rachel clearly relied on him to set an example. She’d ask him to read something aloud to the group, or fetch biscuits from the kitchen, or walk Maggie to the privy and check it first for snakes.

  Rachel announced, “Time to stop. What do you say to our guest?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lourdaud,” came a chorus of voices.

  Shad waited for her to say it was his turn now—reading lessons.

  “Set the sewing supplies here,” she said. “And look around before you go. Leave the schoolroom spotless, please.”

  Nathaniel rose immediately and the others followed suit, scurrying about, picking threads off the dirt floor, brushing off the benches. Shad frowned and pointed a finger at his chest.

  “Tomorrow, Mr. . . . Lourdaud. First thing tomorrow, letters.”

  “I want to sew,” said Maggie.

  “Reading tomorrow,” said Rachel firmly. “Now, get along or you’ll be late for chores.”

  “Mr. Lourdaud’s angry with you, Miss Rachel.”

  Shad rolled his eyes. Earlier the child had announced that Shad was scared. And now angry. He glared at her, and she cowered behind Rachel.


  “He’ll get over it,” said Rachel.

  Shad opened his mouth, ready to argue his case, but Nathaniel had appeared beside Maggie, and his eyes bored into Shad. His hands formed fists. He was maybe two-thirds Shad’s height, but his stance said he was fixing for a fight.

  For heaven’s sake, back off, boy, Shad thought. Clearly, Nathaniel wanted to protect Maggie and Rachel. But Shad hadn’t planned to hurt them. The boy was overreacting.

  Nathaniel’s mouth curled in a near snarl, and Shad half expected him to show his teeth like a mistreated dog. If the boy came at him, Shad would flatten him in a second. Even the thought that Nathaniel might come at him—it was crazy. He was colored. Surely he knew his place.

  “Now, now,” said Rachel. “No one is angry. We’re simply out of time for today.” Then she patted Nathaniel’s back. “I’m counting on you, young man. The alphabet for Mr. Lourdaud tomorrow, yes?”

  The boy released his fists and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Shad breathed deeply. Why, watching Rachel work the room was a lesson in itself. She turned to him, and he couldn’t help but smile.

  “I hope you planned to leave the tailoring supplies here. These needles are extras the school might keep, yes?” And without giving him time to answer, she said, “Thank you so much. The school appreciates your generosity. Now, off with you! All of you. Eloise and I have our own appointments today. We’ll see you tomorrow bright and early.” And she brushed everyone out the door.

  Shad shielded his eyes from the sun. Children ran off in twos and threes, disappearing through the opening in the hedge. A chicken cooed from the henhouse.

  Nathaniel paused, waiting and watching as the others got away, safe and sound. He made sure to be the last to leave—the last but for Shad. Nathaniel’s eyes seemed to read Shad through and through. He took in every twitch of Shad’s fingers, every bead of sweat down his cheeks.

  Now that Shad thought about it, that colored boy had been sizing him up all morning. Shad hadn’t paid any mind to his tailoring. Was that his problem—that Kitty had outsewn him and Shad had praised her and not him? He had no idea. No, he couldn’t read Nathaniel at all.

  17

  Whiskey

  AFTER LESSONS, SHAD dallied along shop windows in Church Hill and took his good time getting home. Let Mama think he was running errands to pay for Miss Elizabeth’s tutoring. It would give him more time to get his story straight—to think on how tutoring might have gone if he’d actually gotten tutoring—the front room, the crimson settee, the hardwood floors, and Miss Elizabeth’s high expectations. He wouldn’t grow beholden to a Yankee-lover, because he’d stay on top of errands. Never a debt owed.

  Yes, he thought, I can do this. And one day, once he’d learned to read, he’d convince Jeremiah to give him his share of the Weaver’s Fine Tailoring business. When the time came, he’d be ready. Yes, it was all going well.

  Later that night—Monday, May 20—even more went well. Shad had a real good night with the Klan—his second brotherhood meeting. He brought along a coarse piece of muslin for his disguise. He’d cut two eyeholes in it, and that was good enough. Lots of the KKK boys had long ghost costumes, but some only had hoods or masks or whatnot like Shad—enough to cover their faces, and that was the point.

  Two new fellows joined up, and the brotherhood put them through the same crazy ceremony they’d put Shad through—the giftie business and the donkey ears on their heads. Shad felt good being on the other side, already a brother and all.

  Shad didn’t know the new boys. Bubba said they’d come from Highland Springs, just up the road a piece. How they’d found the Klan meeting, Shad didn’t know. But they seemed like fine fellows, a bit older than Jeremiah and Clifton. The fact that they were older meant they’d made it through the war and back again. They might have been twenty, or at the most thirty, and it struck Shad how he rarely saw boys who were twenty- or thirtysomething. All the boys of a certain age had gone away to fight for freedom from Northern aggression, and for the most part, they’d never come back.

  After the two new boys got initiated, one of them launched into singing “Dixie.” He just up and started singing, and Shad saw the Grand Cyclops raise a hand to stop him. Shad sensed the Cyclops wanted to keep from riling up the meeting or taking attention away from himself, or some such thing. But then the Cyclops lowered his hand, giving permission to everybody, and darn if Shad didn’t lose himself in that chorus—the part that went “In Dixie land I’ll take my stand, to live and die in Dixie.” He lost himself thinking about his daddy. How his daddy died for Dixie. But he didn’t get to die in Dixie. He died far, far away.

  Next thing Shad knew, he missed his daddy bad. He wished Daddy could have joined the Klan, too. He thought Daddy would’ve hankered for this group. After all, the most important part was taking care of Mama—it was protecting Confederate widows. Daddy would have been proud of Shad for joining, and thinking about it made Shad feel awful proud of himself.

  When they emptied out of the meeting, the moon was near full. Tonight Bubba and Shad had a job to do—a job the Grand Cyclops had explained to them before the proper meeting began. Someone had overheard a freedman gathering support for a colored candidate for city council. The Cyclops wanted Shad and Bubba to have a little fun with that man’s family—just spook them a tad. Jeremiah and Clifton would show them which house.

  They were supposed to pretend to be dead bodies risen from the Cold Harbor battlefield because they hadn’t been buried proper. One of the Klansmen had given Bubba an animal bladder—a large one that maybe had come from a goat. Bubba held the bladder under his sheet, waiting to fill it. Really, the whole thing was silly—just boys being silly.

  Truth to tell, Shad felt tight over the plan, but he wasn’t going to say anything. He walked beside Bubba, following Jeremiah and Clifton. The Mechanicsville road stretched long and straight in front of them. Bubba wore a sheet over gray wool trousers and work boots. He smelled of smoke and grease. He was the luckiest boy Shad knew—lucky because his daddy came home from the war and got his job back. He got Bubba a job, too. Together they worked all day at Tredegar Iron, feeding scraps into massive ovens and reshaping heavy molten lumps into fence posts and gates and railroad ties.

  Bubba was stocky and strong—fourteen like Shad, but shorter and a real workhorse. Years ago they’d made fast friends in Miss Jenny’s dunce-cap corner—Shad, the problem reader, and Bubba, the stutterer. Tonight as they walked together up the Mechanicsville road, Shad was glad for the friendship—glad that since he’d agreed to do this crazy spook-a-family business, at least he’d have Bubba by his side.

  Up ahead, all of a sudden, Jeremiah and Clifton stopped in the road and tossed off their sheets. Shad and Bubba stopped, too. Jeremiah pulled a flask from his britches, took a swig, and offered it to Bubba.

  “N-n-naw,” said Bubba. “N-not now.”

  “Pete’s sake, Bubba,” said Clifton. He grabbed the flask from Jeremiah and took a swallow. He rattled his head. Then he laughed and shouted, “Whooo, yeah!”

  Shad watched Bubba shake his ghost head. Then Clifton offered Shad the flask, and Shad thought, Me? He pulled the muslin cloth off his head and reached for the flask. Yes, him. He was a Klan brother now—one of the boys.

  He leaned into the bottle, and the whiskey smell made his eyes smart.

  He heard Bubba mumble, “No, no,” and he said, “It’s okay, Bubba.” Shad closed his eyes and took a huge swallow.

  Fire! Wet fire. He threw his head sideways. He spit and coughed and his tongue went numb.

  Bubba slapped him on the back and Shad doubled over. He felt Jeremiah snatch the flask away and heard his brother laugh and laugh. Then Bubba seemed to be all-out trembling, and it came to Shad that he was laughing, too.

  “It ain’t funny!” Shad yelled.

  Bubba hooted to beat all. “Aw, Sh-Shad, you g-got to s-s-see you
rself.”

  Shad shrugged his arm away and marched up the road. He took deep gulps of air, swallowing the dank bog smell, the sweet chestnut. He watched fireflies drift around him. Creepers rubbed their wings together in all manner of racket. A strong feeling hit him—he could lift an ox. This prank they were doing tonight—it was nothing.

  “Where’s this house?” Shad yelled.

  “Keep it down,” barked Jeremiah. He and Clifton stopped for Bubba and Shad to catch up. “It ain’t far. Just down that way.”

  They turned off the Mechanicsville road onto one that went downhill and around a bend to the train tracks. Past the tracks lay a field with so much mist rising up, it looked like steam. Past the field Shad could make out a few shacks in the moonlit dark. Old slave quarters.

  They climbed over the tracks and Jeremiah stopped. “Here,” he said, handing Shad his ghost costume. “You can’t go in there with that stupid little cloth.”

  “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” He traded his cloth for Jeremiah’s sheet. It surprised him that Jeremiah had even thought twice about the cloth. Him offering to switch disguises—it wasn’t like Jeremiah to be considerate.

  Shad threw the sheet over his head and twisted it around until he found the eyeholes. The sheet fell past his knees. Sure enough, now he looked like a ghost ought to look.

  “I don’t want nobody messing this up, you hear?” said Jeremiah. “I got to report back to the Cyclops.”

  “Go to the first house there,” said Clifton. “The one closest to us. You got that? And if they come out with rocks or clubs or whatever, you hightail it back over here, okay?”

  Shad nodded. Rocks or clubs—he could handle them, no problem. It was something how he didn’t feel his innards twisting up anymore. That whiskey sure was something. “You ready, Bubba?”

  “R-r-ready.”