Brotherhood

by Anne Westrick

  “Let’s go.”

  They ran to the shack and Shad knocked slowly and firmly on the door. Thud. Thud. Thud. The wooden door was half rotten, and it gave a little with each knock. Shad heard rustling in the house and he knocked again. Thud. Thud.

  “Who dere?” a man’s voice called.

  Bubba kicked the door and it flew open. Even through the disguise, Shad caught the smell of fried onions and fish. Whooee, he thought, these coloreds ate a fine supper a few hours ago.

  “Help us,” Shad said deeply, making his voice quiver. “They done killed us at Cold Harbor and we is real thirsty. So thirsty. Help us, brother. Won’t you give us a drink?”

  He heard the shuffle of feet. Then more feet. A child’s voice. “What is it, Daddy?”

  Under his sheet, Shad put a hand over the smile on his face. Don’t laugh, he told himself, squeezing his cheeks. He tightened his jaw and said, “Thirsty. Thirsty.”

  He heard the hushed tones of a man’s voice telling the child, “Get back to bed.”

  “But Daddy, he’s thirsty.”

  “Lord,” said another voice—a woman. “Fetch a bucket of water, boy.”

  Shad moaned. He groaned. “Thirsty. Thirsty.” He stepped forward into the shack, looking for weapons like Clifton had told him to. But at first he couldn’t see a thing. Then a boy came through the back with a stick on fire, holding it up for light, not wielding it like a weapon. Shad didn’t see any weapons.

  The family cowered together, gasping at Bubba and Shad in their awful sheets. Stupid coloreds. It was obvious he and Bubba were only boys having a little fun. Shad counted four of them—a man, a woman, and two children. Then another boy came in, lugging a bucket, and the father put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Thirsty,” Shad said in his ghostliest voice. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t get the smile off his face. It occurred to him that whoever came up with the idea of KKK boys wearing old sheets—he was brilliant. This was too funny. The family couldn’t see his face. And after that swig of whiskey, Shad wasn’t even telling a lie. He was thirsty as could be.

  As planned, Bubba said nothing because he had the stutter that could give him away. He groaned and shuffled, tottering off-balance with one outstretched hand, and Shad knew that his other hand was holding tight to that goat bladder.

  The father took the bucket from the boy, set it on the packed dirt in the center of the little room, and backed up, arms outstretched to shield the family behind him.

  Bubba groaned and Shad picked up the bucket. Darn if it wasn’t so heavy the wire handle cut into his palm. He mumbled, “Thirsty,” and set it down again. Then he stooped low and wrapped his arms around the bucket. He lifted it—cold, wet metal—and leaned backward to get it high enough for Bubba to draw the water through a ryegrass straw and into the goat bladder. Bubba sucked on the straw to start the flow, then made happy moaning noises as the water ran from the bucket through the mouth hole in Bubba’s sheet to the hidden bladder.

  One of the children whispered, “He’s drinking the whole bucket, Daddy!”

  “Hush, chile.”

  Shad thanked the Lord that the bucket grew lighter as the bladder filled. Slippery as that bladder might be, Bubba was so strong, he could probably carry three buckets’ worth without breaking a sweat. Bubba kept on moaning, and the eyes of that colored family grew wider and wider. Shad bit his tongue to keep from bursting out laughing.

  When the bucket was almost empty, Bubba turned toward the door, and the ryegrass straw fell to the floor. Bubba leaned backward under the weight of the hidden bladder. He’d done such a good job of shuffling in that his shuffling out didn’t look any different.

  Shad tilted the bucket to the hole in the sheet where his mouth was and took a real drink. The water tasted fresh and cool after the whiskey. Some of the water splashed down the front of his sheet, but he didn’t pay it any mind. He set down the empty bucket and groaned. “Thank you. The spirits of Cold Harbor thank you kindly.”

  Then he and Bubba were out the door and across the field. Bubba waddled with the weight of the bladder, and both of them laughed without making a sound. Shad heard the door of the shack creak shut.

  Once they reached the train tracks, Bubba turned the bladder upside down and emptied it. Jeremiah slapped Bubba’s back, and Clifton slapped Shad’s, and they headed uphill, around the bend, through the trees toward the Mechanicsville road.

  “I tell you, Jeremiah,” said Clifton, “you got to be proud of your little brother now!”

  Jeremiah grunted. “Gimme back my sheet. Aw, Shad—you got it wet.”

  Shad pulled off the sheet, but he didn’t apologize. He laughed. He was full of himself tonight. What a crazy group this KKK was.

  Bubba started telling about the stupid coloreds in that little shack, and even with his stutter, or maybe because of it, the story went from scary funny to laugh-out-loud funny. He told about the children asking questions and the parents hushing them, and him leaning over backward trying to keep that bladder from slipping to the ground and bursting open. By the time they hit Venable Street, even Jeremiah had to hold his belly because all four of them were aching from sidesplitting guffaws.

  18

  Yankees on Patrol

  WHEN SHAD WOKE Tuesday morning, the sun was already up and the other side of the bed empty. He jumped from the straw mattress like a fire had been set beneath him. Lessons! He’d overslept. Darn those KKK boys and their funny pranks.

  He darted past Mama’s frown and the word cornbread on her lips. No time for breakfast. He ran to the outhouse, splashed at the well, then dashed up Nine Mile Road and Twenty-eighth Street. By the time he ducked into the shed behind the Perkinson house, his FEED AND SEED shirt was soaked through with sweat. His brow dripped like hot butter.

  The children looked up from their lessons with all manner of expression—surprise, confusion, alarm, and even relief that he’d returned. Their tailoring teacher hadn’t decided to quit.

  “You’re late,” said Rachel from the west window. She’d been leaning over Kitty’s slate, and she straightened at the sight of him.

  “I’m sorry. I—I’ll set out from home sooner.” He wiped his brow against the sleeve of his shirt, and when he felt the coarse fabric on his face, he realized that he’d put on the wrong shirt. He had planned to wear the fine white one to distinguish himself. But in his haste this morning—Lord, he wanted to kick himself.

  Rachel clucked her tongue.

  Maggie hopped up with the biscuit basket—one biscuit remained—and approached him, holding the basket aloft.

  “Now, Maggie,” said Rachel, “if Nathaniel were late, would you reward him with a biscuit?”

  Maggie hung her head.

  “Tell Mr. . . . Lourdaud our rule about breakfast.”

  Maggie shook her head and shifted the basket into the crook of one arm in order to free the other. Then she stuffed a thumb into her mouth. Children shifted their bottoms on pine planks. They twiddled fingers and kneaded the dirt floor with their toes.

  A bead of sweat dripped down Shad’s face, and he wiped it against his other sleeve. His chest heaved as he labored to catch his breath. He lifted both palms. “I said I was sorry.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you are,” said Rachel. “But it’s hardly cause for reward. Maggie?”

  The little girl slowly pulled the thumb from her mouth and set the basket on the pine plank. “You late. No breakfast.”

  Rachel pointed to the bench beside her—the one nearest the west window. “You and Nathaniel here. And since Nathaniel is your tutor this morning, I believe he deserves the extra biscuit. Kitty—let’s have you and Matthew over here . . .”

  She went on directing children to move around the shed, freeing up a space for Shad to sit beside Nathaniel, but the noise inside Shad’s head was so loud, he couldn’t hear her anymore. Rachel ha
d humiliated him in front of the children. She’d awarded his biscuit to Nathaniel.

  His hands became fists. He dragged his feet toward the bench, but in his mind he was returning to Miss Jenny’s corner, and his face flushed red. Children laughed and pointed fingers at him, and Miss Jenny set a dunce cap on his head.

  Then a hand gripped his elbow and he jerked, raising his arm to wallop the offender, when he saw it was Eloise. She was holding out a slate, and Nathaniel stood behind her with lumps of gray chalk.

  Shad blinked. Eloise? He blinked again. The sweet smell of honeysuckle drifted through the west window and the memories of Miss Jenny’s Sunday school class faded. He looked around. No one was laughing or pointing. The colored children had turned toward their own slates.

  For a moment he watched their little hands form letters and words and sentences. Then he sat where Rachel had directed and saw Nathaniel pop the last biscuit in his mouth. The boy stood over him, and Shad got the distinct feeling that Nathaniel liked that position—liked towering over Shad, looking down, knowing he possessed knowledge Shad did not.

  A sense of confusion washed over Shad, and he doubted the arrangements he’d made. Tailoring in exchange for lessons—what on earth had he been thinking? The lessons were supposed to come from George Nelson by way of Rachel. But here was a colored boy fixing to tutor him. A little boy! It wasn’t right at all.

  He started to stand—to go—but felt a hand on his shoulder, patting him gently, easing his shame. “Only the first lesson or two,” Rachel said, as if she’d read his thoughts. “Nathaniel can help Mr. Nelson and me understand exactly where you are in terms of reading. Then we’ll decide on the appropriate level of instruction.”

  Her eyes twinkled and he couldn’t read her expression. He watched her wipe her hand against her apron, wiping away the sweat from his FEED AND SEED shirt.

  “Eloise, would you mind getting Mr. Lourdaud some water from the well? He’s awfully overheated this morning.”

  After Tuesday lessons, Shad walked alone down Twenty-eighth Street, and if any of the residents of Church Hill had seen him, they’d surely have noticed the swagger in his step. Rachel had smiled when Nathaniel gave his report: Mr. Lourdaud knew all of his letters!

  Shad had beamed. Truth to tell, he knew his alphabet fine. Especially when the letters were presented in the same order as the ABC song—the one with a “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” tune. He’d had no problem identifying the letters as Nathaniel wrote them, uppercase and lower. He’d memorized his letters years ago. Now, if Nathaniel had presented them out of order with the upper- and lowercases mixed up, the report might have taken a different turn. But today, he was a star pupil in Miss Rachel’s classroom, and for Shad, it was all that mattered.

  As he walked toward Granddaddy’s shop, hungry but happy, Shad worked out a way to wake on time. Without a rooster to signal dawn and with church bells too faint out Nine Mile Road to rouse him, he’d have to ask Mama for help. Most mornings by the time Shad arose, Mama had already said prayers and stoked the cook fire and put in a few stitches by lantern light. If he asked her to wake him, she’d expect him to join her for prayers. Ugh. He supposed he could do that—supposed getting to Libby Hill on time was worth a few amens.

  He was working out the details in his head when he crossed Grace Street and saw ahead of him, at the corner of Twenty-eighth and Broad Streets . . . Jeremiah. So much for his brother getting a day job.

  Shad dragged his feet, trying to remember what he’d said and not said. Lessons from Miss Elizabeth. Doing a chore such as chopping wood. That chore would be his fallback if ever he needed to account for his time. Lord, he thought, stoking a lie was a chore in itself. He picked up his pace.

  Jeremiah was wearing the boots he’d gotten from Mr. Hanson last year. They were fine boots—fitted for him alone—much better than the blister-rubbing things Mama had scrounged up over the years. Shad knew his own boot-wearing days would be coming soon since his feet had stopped growing, but for now, he was happy to go barefoot. Happy not to rub blisters.

  Jeremiah held a large red clay pot that was sprouting long, thin leaves. As Shad got closer, he could see tall stalks with green buds between the leaves.

  “Hey, there,” called Shad.

  Jeremiah ignored him. He was staring down Broad Street toward St. John’s Church, and when Shad reached the intersection, he saw why. Darn if there weren’t Yankees on patrol down that way. They were stopped only ten or fifteen paces off, their backs toward Jeremiah. One was having a smoke.

  Shad froze. Those Yankees didn’t belong in Richmond and they knew it. Ever since the war had ended, they’d been skulking around in their blue uniforms, watching townsfolk skitter like mice from a tomcat. Look at that. Today people were coming along Broad and crossing to the far side so as not to brush elbows with those blue boys. Nobody wanted to give them an excuse to use their muskets.

  Jeremiah shifted his grip on the pot.

  Shad whispered, “Easy, now.”

  Jeremiah lifted his shoulders and puffed up his chest, and without even looking at Shad, shoved the flowerpot in his face. Shad wrapped both arms around it, and its weight surprised him. He leaned for balance, bent his knees, took a step back. The greens tickled his nose and he sneezed.

  The Yankees looked their way.

  Shoot, thought Shad. Rule number one with Yankees on patrol was “Don’t draw attention.” One of them lifted his chin and snickered.

  Jeremiah’s hands went into fists. He didn’t check for his knife, but Shad knew he was thinking on it—knew he kept it in his boots.

  The snickering Yankee made his chest big, too. His eyes locked on Jeremiah’s. He coughed. He and Jeremiah squinted at each other, and people on foot made a wide circle around them. A carriage stopped in the middle of the gray-brick road, and Broad Street got quiet as curfew.

  The Yankee let go of his smoke and moved a hand to his musket. Tobacco paper hung at his lip.

  Shad braced himself. “Don’t start nothing.”

  Seconds passed. Maybe a whole minute. Jeremiah stared, unmoving, not even so much as blinking. People peered from second-story windows. They hid behind bushes. They watched from safe distances. Shad knew Jeremiah thought they were a bunch of cowards. But they were an audience. He loved an audience.

  Then Jeremiah shouted, “Beautiful day for a stroll in a free society, ain’t it, gentlemen? Won’t you join us?”

  The crowd cheered. Jeremiah smiled, waving his hand and nodding his head as if to say thank you to the people. It was nothing. Pure bravado.

  The carriage driver cracked a whip and his horse jolted forward. People emerged from alleyways between houses and went on with their errands.

  The Yankees shifted their feet. One pulled off his cap to scratch at stringy yellow hair. The squinting one took a drag on his smoke.

  Jeremiah laughed and strode down Twenty-eighth Street, his head high. Then he called over his shoulder to Shad. “Hurry up!”

  “I ain’t your pack mule.” The long leaves tickled Shad’s face and he sneezed again.

  Jeremiah stopped, and when Shad reached him, he took the pot and hoisted it up on one shoulder. “Mama’s gonna love these daylilies.”

  “Where’d you get ’em?”

  But Jeremiah didn’t answer. He strutted toward home, whistling “Oh! Susanna” and leaning toward the sun as if its only purpose in the sky was to shine on him alone.

  Shad headed for Granddaddy’s, all the while thinking it was just like Jeremiah to stand up to those Yankees. Just like him to work some deal and come home with flowers for Mama. Only seventeen and so bold, so cocksure of himself. He made everything look so easy.

  19

  Stitching Seams

  ON WEDNESDAY morning, Shad arrived at the shed on time, dressed in the white silk shirt and his Willy Johnson britches, breakfast in his belly, a sack of fabric
scraps in hand, and Mama’s amens behind him. From the east window, he showed the children differences in types of fabric—how the fronts and backs were the same on some, but how for others, the colors were brighter on one side, the weave of the grain prettier or the sheen shinier. He had swatches of print cotton and plain linen, and had even found a small swatch of velvet for them to pass around.

  “This is called the nap of the fabric,” he said, running a hand up and down a four-inch square of dark green velvet. “See how it looks different when I hold it this way . . . then this way?” He let the sun catch the nap, and the children marveled at the hue—how the green seemed to change before their eyes.

  “If you get lucky enough that someone hires you to sew a fine set of velvet draperies, you have to line up the fabric just so. You can’t have one panel face up and one down, or that person ain’t gonna pay you ’cause it’ll look like you used two different bolts of velvet when it was the exact same, only one panel was upside down.”

  “Isn’t, Mr. Lourdaud,” said Rachel.

  He stopped with his hand in the air. Her interruption made him lose the train of his speech. “Beg pardon?”

  “Isn’t. You said ‘ain’t,’ but ‘ain’t’ isn’t a word.”

  He lowered his hand and tilted his head. Very slowly, he said it again. “Beg pardon?”

  “It’s slang, Mr. Lourdaud.”

  He frowned. Rachel was sitting behind the children, and when all of them turned their heads toward her, she threw her hands in the air. “Oh, my, I’m sorry. Forgive me, Mr. Lourdaud, I’ve interrupted your lesson, and I didn’t mean to do that. Continue. Please continue. We can talk about it later.”

  The children turned back toward Shad, but now he felt flustered. Doubts over the whole tailoring-reading lesson arrangement rushed into his head. He fingered the swatches of fabric, trying to pick up where he’d left off, finding himself more confused than humiliated. Had he come here to learn fine-lady speak? No, not at all. He wanted to read, but he didn’t need to learn how to put on airs. Isn’t versus ain’t—they were simply patterns of speech. He hadn’t asked her to correct his speech! She was turning their arrangement into something it wasn’t.