Brotherhood

by Anne Westrick

  “Can I feel the velvet?” Maggie held her little hand toward his, and her question brought Shad out of his confusion.

  “Uh, oh, yes, here. Pass this around. And this one.”

  He paused while the children fingered the fabrics, and when he raised his head, there was Rachel letting out a little puff of air. An enormous smile came up on her face and she lifted her shoulders in apology. Then she stood. “Thank you so much, Mr. Lourdaud, for showing the children these fabrics today. Will they be practicing their stitching this morning, or should we move on to reading lessons?”

  “Oh, stitching please, Miss Rachel,” cried Kitty. “Please.”

  Rachel raised her eyebrows at Shad.

  He swallowed. The way his role shifted in this classroom kept him always on his toes. “Yes,” he said, “I think they should practice their stitching.”

  “Perfect,” said Rachel.

  Shad fumbled through his sack of scraps—he’d brought a burlap one filled with leftover pieces of dress fabrics—and gave each child two pieces of matching cotton prints. Then he instructed them to hold the fabric right sides together and stitch a straight line up the middle. “A straight line makes a seam,” he said.

  For the rest of the morning, they took to the task, sharing the four needles, taking turns threading them and stitching. Rachel, Eloise, and Shad helped the children, and when each had finished sewing, Shad would get the child to fold the fabric open along the seam.

  For some, the results were like magic—the colorful side of fabric came up, the raw seam on the back side down. A boy named Thomas hadn’t put right sides together before stitching, so his looked funny. Matthew had decided to stitch a curved line instead of straight, and his fabric didn’t open correctly. Maggie got hers to work and was so pleased with herself that she twirled in a circle. “Look, Miss Rachel! Look what I made!”

  Shad winced at the uneven stitches but didn’t point them out. Practice and time would get them straight. For now, delight was spreading around the shed, and Shad reveled in being their hero for a day.

  “You got an iron here?” asked Shad.

  “Well, it’s inside,” said Rachel, gesturing toward the back of the Perkinson house.

  “My mama’s got her an iron,” said Maggie. “I can press ’em!”

  “You got to press ’em with the back side up, you got that?” said Shad. “Right side down, damp cloth on top, and hold it like this, see? That way you get the seam open.”

  “Yes, sir!” said Maggie, filling the word sir with so much pride, Shad laughed.

  Never in his dreams had he thought he’d enjoy teaching colored children! And the fact that Maggie’s mama would iron their practice pieces? Perfect. Every tailor knew the wonders of an iron—how pressing masked the imperfections. Weaver’s Fine Tailoring never delivered a finished piece without the magic of an iron on it first. But the children’s pieces—well, he couldn’t take them to his own house for ironing. Scraps with crooked and uneven stitches? When he was seven or eight, sure. But not at fourteen. He’d never be able to explain them to Mama.

  Today he was mighty happy that Maggie’s mama would take on the task of ironing. By the end of Wednesday’s lesson, he was mighty happy all the way around.

  On Thursday morning when it was time for reading lessons again, Shad’s doubts returned. Rachel divided the children into groups, putting Shad and Nathaniel at the west window to review the sounds that letters made. As Nathaniel wrote letters on their slate and Shad softly made the sounds—ah, ay, buh, cuh—he grew aware of each group’s quiet conversation. Rachel had pulled aside one boy, Gabriel, and Shad overheard her asking him why he’d been absent the past two days.

  The boy mumbled something.

  Rachel said, “What sort of spooks?”

  Shad’s ears perked up. He straightened his spine.

  “They come in the night, saying they was thirsty, and oh, Miss Rachel—it was awful.”

  Fuzz started in Shad’s ears.

  “Did they hurt you?” Rachel asked.

  “No, ma’am,” said Gabriel. “They—they—Lord, Miss Rachel, you should’ve seen how much they drunk. And I was too scared to leave the house. Just too scared.”

  Nathaniel rapped his knuckles on the slate. “You got to pay attention, Mr. Lourdaud.”

  “I—oh, I’m sorry. Right. Yes. D. The letter d what makes the sound duh.” His breath came hard. Settle, he told himself. Settle. That little boy—Gabriel—he’d been one of the children in the shack near the train tracks. The one with the stick on fire. Or, no—maybe he was the one who had carried the bucket inside.

  Shad’s palms grew damp. Suddenly he was aware of the stench of his own underarms, and he pulled his arms tight to his sides.

  “You okay, Mr. Lourdaud?” asked Nathaniel.

  Shad heard Rachel’s voice. “Everything all right over there?”

  “Y-yes, fine,” Shad said. “Uh, hungrier than I thought this morning.” Shad tapped a finger to his forehead. “A tad light-headed yet. Uh, we’re fine.”

  Then the door opened and who should appear but George Nelson in his gray-green waistcoat. Every pair of eyes turned his way, and he bowed. “Delightful, delightful!” He tapped his fingertips together and beamed. “I’m thrilled to see such dedicated students.”

  Rachel stood and did introductions around the room, making a point to stress the name Mr. Lourdaud for George Nelson’s benefit, raising her brows to make sure he caught the ruse. The little man’s eyes widened on hearing the name, and he made a funny face. He blinked and stared at Shad, and Shad shrugged.

  Then Rachel said, “Children, Mr. Nelson is going to be my teacher at the Colored Normal School. Mine and Miss Eloise’s. And if you study hard and excel at your lessons, in a few years you’ll be attending the Colored Normal School, too.”

  “Excellent! Excellent. Thank you, Miss Rachel.” George Nelson bowed again. “Well, now, Lourdaud. Uh, quite creative, I must say.” He nodded at Shad. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have about thirty minutes before Mrs. Perkinson and I must attend to other matters. May I sit with these two boys for a bit?”

  “Yes, sir. Why, of course. Nathaniel, scoot over there, would you, please?”

  Nathaniel moved closer to Shad, and George Nelson plopped onto the bench. Nathaniel’s thigh touched Shad’s—the boy’s brown trousers against Shad’s Willy Johnson britches—and both of them tightened all over.

  “What have we here, boys?” asked George Nelson.

  Shad opened his mouth to answer, but Nathaniel beat him to it. “He knows his letters fine, sir, and now we’re working on the sounds the letters make.”

  Shad’s hands went into fists. He couldn’t think straight this morning. It wasn’t right for a colored boy to talk before he talked. What were Rachel and Eloise teaching these children? If they didn’t learn their place, well, then, what good was their learning?

  Shad frowned. He didn’t belong in this shed. Right, wrong, heads, tails—everything here was topsy-turvy. Did any of them even understand the risks he took to be here? Did they appreciate the dangers he faced? Good Lord, if his Klan brothers learned he was here, giving these children tailoring supplies and lessons, why, the Klan would have a field day with all of them.

  Shad’s thoughts raced so fast, he had to close his eyes. Settle, he told himself, but the devil on his shoulder buzzed loud enough to wake the dawn. After a spell he felt a poke, poke, poke on his forearm, and he opened his eyes. Nathaniel was trying to get his attention.

  “Mr. Lourdaud? Look at the slate here. Mr. Nelson wrote all these words for you. We’re doing words now, not letters.”

  Shad glanced at the slate, then around the room. Nathaniel had slid far enough from him that their thighs weren’t touching anymore. George Nelson had gotten up from their bench and was sitting by Eloise now, checking on the math lesson.

 
“This one, Mr. Lourdaud,” Nathaniel said. “Start with this one. Can you read it?”

  Shad took a deep breath and let his air out, and the buzzing in his ears lifted like morning fog. There were words on the slate in front of him. His reading lesson. He needed to pay attention and stop worrying about the Klan. Darn that brotherhood, messing him up this morning so he couldn’t get his letters straight. Letters. He was here to learn and he wanted this learning more than he wanted that brotherhood. Well, no, maybe the same as he wanted them. Reading and brotherhood—was it too much to ask for both?

  Shad looked at the slate. “Tat,” he said.

  “And this one?” prompted Nathaniel.

  Shad narrowed his eyes. “Tab. No. Tap. That’s tap, isn’t it?”

  “You had it right the first time. See, that’s a b, not a p.”

  Shad slouched and all his breath whooshed out the window. “Okay,” he said. “And the next one—that’s tad, right? It’s tad, not tap.”

  “Good,” said Nathaniel. “Now you got it. Try the next set.”

  “Ban and pan.”

  “Uh-oh. The other way around, Mr. Lourdaud. Come on now, sir. You’re guessing instead of reading. Here, take it slow.”

  Guessing. Humph. It wasn’t right for this boy to correct him. Shad wanted to haul off and punch Nathaniel. He wanted—shoot. He rubbed at his temples. Reading was so hard.

  “Do the next one,” said Nathaniel.

  Shad studied the letters. He tilted his head. His brain wanted to blur the letters into the same form—any form—b, d, p. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the line going up on the right edge of one circle and down on the left edge of another. He strained to remember which was which, to separate them in his brain and not let them blur together. Such little details to track! He knew they had to be different, or George Nelson wouldn’t have written them side by side.

  He concentrated. The first was a d and the second a p. He thought of the sound that a d made, and the sound of a p. Slowly, he said, “Mad and map.”

  “Right! Now you got it, Mr. Lourdaud.”

  Shad shifted on the bench. He noticed his clenched hands, knuckles bleached with tension, and he made himself release them, finger by finger. He set his palms flat on his knees, rubbing his open hands against his Willy Johnson britches. He took a breath, and a damp pine scent came with it.

  Then Shad felt eyes on him, and the feeling made him raise his head slowly. He turned. There was George Nelson, sitting with Eloise’s group but watching Nathaniel and Shad. Darn if that little man hadn’t figured out exactly which letters Shad flipped around. That leprechaun had designed this lesson for him alone. For him.

  Shad’s eyes caught George Nelson’s and held them for a second. It was nothing short of crazy—two white people in a shed full of coloreds. Shad looked for something that would tell him that he and George Nelson shared the same thought—anything—a glimmer of understanding between two white people. But no, they didn’t see eye to eye. George Nelson’s face told Shad that he didn’t think this shed business was crazy in the least. It was his work. His calling. Lordy, if Jeremiah only knew, he’d—Shad blinked the thought away.

  He watched George Nelson turn back to Eloise’s math lesson, but just before he turned, Mr. Nelson brought the tips of his fingers together, making dull tapping noises, and his smile grew even bigger than his enormous nose.

  20

  Bending Low

  THAT THURSDAY night the Klan held another meeting, and it was crowded but slow. No new recruits. No crazy business. Boys wanted to sing some more, and the Grand Cyclops gave permission for the likes of “Dixie” and “Camptown Races.” There was a lot of talk about the dern Freedmen’s Bureau, the dern coloreds thinking too highly of themselves—that sort of thing. Dern this and dern that.

  After a song, one of the ghosts waved a hand high and commenced to thanking boys for their good work in protecting Confederate widows. Normally that sort of talk came from the Grand Cyclops, but tonight the voice was more rough than educated. It sounded familiar, but Shad was with Bubba in the back of the room, only half listening, and didn’t take it in.

  A smoky odor wafted around Bubba, and Shad wondered how Bubba would ever get the stench of those Tredegar furnaces out of his clothes. Would vinegar take it out? Baking soda, maybe. Lord, that smoke came on thick.

  Bubba elbowed him. “Who’s t-t-talkin’?”

  Shad went up on tiptoes and narrowed his eyes through the slits in his coarse muslin piece.

  “Y’all done good,” the ghost was saying, “and you should be proud o’ yourselves.” He turned, and Shad glimpsed the painted face on the gray sheet. Crooked Face. Shad scoffed.

  Bubba elbowed him again.

  Shad came down, leaning into Bubba’s ear. “Jeremiah.”

  Bubba nodded. “A-awful g-g-good sp-speaker.”

  Shad rolled his eyes, thankful no one could see his face.

  “You l-l-lucky he’s your b-b-brother.”

  “Lucky?” Shad whispered. “Naw. He picks on me all the time.”

  “Wish I had m-me a b-b-brother like him.”

  Shad took a deep breath. Now Jeremiah was talking about the value of brotherhood, of boys supporting one another. His voice was strong and clear. “It’s been real hard for my family ever since my daddy died, and I know every one of you boys lost somebody, too, and I just want to tell y’all how much you mean to me and my family.”

  “Hear! Hear!” ghosts shouted.

  Jeremiah went on. “If it wasn’t for this fine brotherhood and all you fine men, I don’t know how I’d get along.”

  “Amen, brother.”

  “’Preciate it. That’s all from me.”

  The crowd broke into applause. Bubba whistled and Shad clapped his hands high over his head. Leave it to Jeremiah—he always knew the perfect thing to say.

  When the meeting ended, everybody spilled out feeling right brotherly and proud. Shad, Bubba, Jeremiah, and Clifton left together, pulling off their disguises once they got a quarter mile up the road. The night was humid. An occasional bat swooped by them, picking off mosquitoes. Then an animal scurried by and Shad jumped. Skunk? Woodchuck? Possum? Too dark to tell. A bad omen, he thought, but he didn’t want the others to see him get the creeps, so he marched forward, swinging his arms, his hands fisted in fake confidence.

  Shad got to thinking about Jeremiah’s traps snaring critters for supper, and that was a fine thought. But not skunks. Jeremiah had caught one once, and the house had stunk for a month after. Stunk worse than Bubba. But possum and woodchuck? Shad smiled. Possum was fatty, and woodchuck—tough as tough could get. But when Mama simmered it real long and slow, woodchuck made for darn good eating, especially with collards and cabbage. Better on day two or three than fresh-caught.

  Thinking on supper, Shad rubbed his FEED AND SEED shirt and patted his tummy. Stew thoughts could get a boy hungry right fast. He was looking forward to getting back and rummaging for leftovers. Then he’d get some shut-eye and wake to Mama baking up spoon bread. Yum.

  By the time they got to Venable Street, Shad was lost in thoughts on good eating. He started to turn left toward home, but Jeremiah said, “Hey, let’s have us some fun. Come on.”

  Clifton laughed and picked up his pace.

  Bubba shrugged. “Yeah, o-o-okay.”

  Shad hesitated. His version of fun and Jeremiah’s never lined up. He didn’t want to scare the likes of Gabriel anymore. Didn’t want to run into any of the children he’d teach tomorrow morning. But explaining his qualms was worse than swallowing them. He let out his breath and turned with the boys.

  They headed downhill. Shad slipped on his muslin cloth again, and it trapped his breath, warm and wet in front of his face.

  Venable Street led them to the north side of Shockoe Valley, the low-lying Seventeenth Street with its mishmash of houses—fre
edmen’s homes—a few brick, mostly wood. Living along Seventeenth were carpenters, masons, tanners, farmhands, ironworkers, and the like. Shad never ran deliveries to this area, and he didn’t know it well, but he wasn’t so ignorant as to think a group of white boys could get by without being noticed. Clearly, Jeremiah had the same thought, and he stopped to put on his disguise.

  “Let’s just go for a stroll, that’s all,” said Jeremiah. “No nothing. Let’s just walk, okay, boys?”

  So they walked. Shad in his FEED AND SEED shirt with the muslin cloth over his face, and Bubba with only a mask, too. Jeremiah and Clifton wore their dunce caps covered in gray sheets with faces painted high.

  They walked. And walked. If any of the freedmen could see the shadowy figures, they never let on, never stirred. Shad thought it wasn’t so bad—this walking. They could walk Seventeenth Street if they wanted to. Walk and listen to the racket of the night insects—their own cadence, steady as a heartbeat.

  When they got to Broad Street, Jeremiah stopped, and Shad felt relieved that they’d done nothing but walk. Nothing had happened.

  Uphill to the west stretched Richmond proper, where gas streetlamps twinkled, making their own starlight. Here at the bottom of the hill near the old slave graveyards, there were no streetlamps. No candles. No one with a lantern or torch. Just creepers chirping the night away and bullfrogs calling from the lowest spot of all—the place where Sixteenth Street should have been, but a creek trickled instead.

  It was more swampland than creek—easy soil for burying bodies. Shad figured those bodies would stay buried right fine—at least they would as long as the James River didn’t flood. Problem was that sometimes she flooded right much. And then what? Did all those slave bones wash up from the deep? Why, in a flood the James would send water right up the creek. Shad frowned. Or no, he thought, the water would come down the creek. Either way, that water would lift those bodies to the surface. Thinking on it made him shiver.