Brotherhood

by Anne Westrick

  They crossed over Second Street, and lookee there. Yankees on patrol half a block toward Broad. A whole slew of them. Sheriff Parker shortened his stride, and darn if Shad didn’t walk right into him.

  “Watch where you’re going!” barked the sheriff, shoving Shad backward.

  Shad lost his balance. He stepped on a sharp stone and next thing he knew, he was hopping on one foot and grabbing Granddaddy’s shirt to stay upright. His ribs cried out in pain all over again. The spot where his head had hit the windowsill started throbbing.

  Every pair of eyes turned his way.

  Shad saw Sheriff Parker’s hand go to his holster.

  The Yankees’ hands went to their muskets.

  “Leth keep on walking,” said Mr. O’Malley real quiet.

  Sheriff Parker’s chest puffed up and his shoulders arched back.

  One of the Yankees made his chest big, too, but he was a boy—not much older than Shad. He coughed and took two steps forward. He and Sheriff Parker squinted at each other. People on foot who had thought to turn down Second Street saw the standoff and turned back.

  O’Malley whispered, “Leth not do nothing here, thir.”

  Seconds passed. Maybe a whole minute. Shad thought back to the time Jeremiah had held a staring contest with a bunch of Yankees, and now, here was Sheriff Parker doing the same. The sheriff didn’t move, so Granddaddy and Mr. O’Malley didn’t move, either.

  Shad fingered his sore ribs.

  The Yankees shifted their feet, hands on their muskets.

  Granddaddy whispered, “We got more important business than fussing with these trigger-happy boys.”

  Sheriff Parker nodded. He took his hand off his holster and waved it in the air. Then he folded all of his fingers but one into a fist. When Shad saw that one finger—his middle one—hanging over the street, puffing itself up for all the world to see, he felt proud all of a sudden. Proud to be one of the sheriff’s people. Proud to stand up to those damn Yankees. Proud to show them they didn’t belong on the streets of Richmond.

  Then the sheriff picked up his pace. Shad and Mr. O’Malley and Granddaddy scurried to catch up, and Shad heard the Yankees break into jeers and laughter.

  How he hated them! Mama was right about Yankees kicking the South when it was already down. Hadn’t that man kicked Shad this morning when Shad was already down? He’d kicked Shad square in the ribs, which wasn’t what Mama had meant, but yes, he had, and now Shad wished he’d knocked that man flat.

  Those Yankees didn’t belong in Richmond. Their presence here—why, they were the cause of his brother getting riled up. The cause of the Klan forming in the first place.

  If the Yankees hadn’t stationed themselves down here—if they had gone home and left Virginia alone after that war ended—why, Virginia would be fine. Virginia would have taken care of her own and handled her own problems. But instead, the Yankees stayed on, marching through the streets, wreaking havoc. Richmond didn’t need them. Virginia had paid a heavy price, and the war was over, and she did not deserve to be under martial law.

  Shad was proud to be part of the sheriff’s posse. As he marched along, he heard the Yankees laugh and felt their sneers on his back, and the more he thought about them, the angrier he got. Shad fingered the bruises on his ribs and the lump on his head, and after a spell, the decision he had to make wasn’t such a tough decision, after all.

  Yes, he’d played gin rummy last night. He’d had quite a night—had beat all those fine men and his brother to boot. Yes, Shadrach Alfriend Weaver could play a mean hand of gin rummy.

  Way on ahead up Nine Mile Road, Shad thought he could see Mama. Sure enough—that was Mama all right. She was barefoot, but even from this distance he could see a lightness in her step.

  Jeremiah picked up his pace. When Mama got close, Jeremiah opened his arms and she ran straight into them. He lifted her off the ground, and she cried happy tears.

  “It’s okay, Mama,” Jeremiah said, stroking her back. “It’s okay. They didn’t hurt me bad.”

  Mama’s face was filthy, and Shad stood there, watching as Jeremiah tried to rub off some of the dirt. He was tender with her, touching her slowly, but the smudges ran deep and refused to come off.

  “Baby,” said Mama. “My baby. They feed you?”

  “Naw.”

  “Come on, let’s get you some supper.”

  Shad watched Jeremiah slip an arm around Mama’s waist, half holding her up. He settled in behind them, Mama’s worn blue dress rubbing against Jeremiah’s britches, her mousy-brown hair hanging long and tangled, frayed thin like old silk.

  Shad breathed slowly now. The sun was hot overhead, and he felt tired. It was only early afternoon, but today had already been a long day. He’d done what Mama had wanted—he’d brought his brother home. The Yankees hadn’t had anything on Jeremiah other than the last words of a dying man, and they knew it. Pure hearsay. Those words couldn’t hold a candle to the alibis of so many fine, white, upstanding citizens.

  Shad pulled a long blade of grass and set it in his mouth. He kept his eyes peeled for threads, and sure enough, that blue piece of cloth was there—still caught in the brambles. He untangled it and slipped it into his pocket. He’d done a good job sewing the pocket. His FEED AND SEED shirt bulged there, chock-full of threads and cloth bits. With these and the pile of scrap cotton back at the house, even with all the pieces he’d taken to the Perkinsons’ shed, he still had enough to braid a new foot mat. He wished he’d stayed home working on a mat last night. Wished he could go back and do yesterday all over again.

  He had never meant to kill anybody, never meant to get caught up in something so wrong.

  “Thank you, Shad,” Mama called over her shoulder. “Thank you for bringing your brother home.”

  Shad sighed. He was an afterthought to Mama. It was always “Jeremiah this” and “Jeremiah that.” His brother, the favorite son. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Damn Yankees never would’ve fingered me if it wasn’t for him,” Jeremiah said with a snarl.

  Mama planted her feet in the dirt road and Shad stopped on a dime, sending another jolt of pain through his ribs.

  “What? You tellin’ me Shad got you arrested?”

  “No, Mama, no—I didn’t mean that. Meant he was just stupid.”

  “Well, what then? What did they charge you with?”

  “Wasn’t exactly a charge, Mama. Not exactly. They said it was an arrest, but, really, they done brought me in for questioning.”

  “Questioning about what?”

  “Well, seems there was a murder, Mama.”

  “Jeremiah Bradford Weaver! Murder? Lord!”

  “I didn’t do it, Mama. They questioned me and thought they had the right fellow, but I didn’t do it.”

  “Shad did it?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then who did?”

  “KKK, Mama. It was the Klan. But Shad and me—we wasn’t there. We was at O’Malley’s.”

  “Oh, my. My, my. I don’t know, boys. I just don’t know. Mercy!”

  “Look, Mama,” Jeremiah went on, “Shad ain’t got a good enough disguise.”

  “Well, then, we’ll get him a better one! Shadrach, why didn’t you tell me you needed a better disguise?”

  Shad opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  Mama stared. “Shad?”

  “I—uh . . .”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she scolded.

  Mama started walking again, and Shad watched Jeremiah lean into her ear, telling her about his ordeal with the Yankees.

  Shad slowed his pace and let them get a good distance ahead. It hit him that Mama hadn’t even flinched over him needing a disguise to run with the KKK.

  Shad’s head spun and he couldn’t get his thoughts to line up. The damn Yankees. The barrel. The fire. The gin rummy lie. Ge
orge Nelson—he’d been murdered last night. His teacher had died, for crying out loud! He was a funny little man, sure. But a good man. A little white man with a big nose.

  Would it have mattered if he’d been Negro? Well, no. Nobody would have batted an eye if he’d been Negro. Even Rachel had understood that it was more wrong that he’d been white.

  Rachel. For a spell there, he’d forgotten about Rachel. About her school. About Jeremiah’s plans to burn down the shed. Good Lord, Shad was so stupid! He’d gone and helped spring Jeremiah from jail, and now he wanted to kick himself. Everything was such a mess.

  Maybe Jeremiah would decide not to burn that shed. Now that the Klan had managed to kill the Yankee teacher, well, Jeremiah would leave the shed alone, wouldn’t he?

  A nightmare. That was it. Had to be a nightmare. Shad rattled his head. Wake me up, nightmare. Where had it all started? When he’d met Rachel? When he’d started those reading lessons? He’d wanted those lessons so badly.

  Dern it all. This town—Shad hated this town. There wasn’t anything right anymore. He hated Jeremiah and his friends. He hated the damn Yankees. He hated the Klan. He hated all the people who’d owned slaves and made Virginia fight over them. He hated the war.

  He hated thinking on all the boys who grew up here and died. That big old war took Daddy away and Mama’s daddy and cousin Willy Johnson and Jimmy Turner’s brother, Bobby, and Miss Jenny’s daddy and three sons, Abel, Nate, and Thomas, and Mr. Hanson’s brother and his two boys and Mr. Kechler’s boys and Harrison Woodman and Custis Peabody and Eustace Turnbull and Elijah Wallace, and Shad thought if he kept naming names, the list would never end.

  31

  Keep the Cause Alive

  WHEN MAMA and Jeremiah got to the house, they stopped and turned and waited for Shad to catch up. Mama said, “Well, what in heaven’s name did you have on last night, Shadrach?”

  He looked at his feet. He didn’t know how to talk to her just now.

  “It was a little cloth with eyeholes,” said Jeremiah. “And that Yankee pip-squeak snatched the cloth off him. He saw Shad’s face and told people ‘the Weaver boy’ did it. That’s what he said. ‘The Weaver boy.’ Then he died, and good riddance to him. Of course them damn Yankees thought he meant me, not Shad.”

  “Shad?”

  He felt Mama’s eyes pierce his heart, but he had no words for her. He let his face go blank. Dumb and happy—was that what they called it? What good ol’ boys wanted everybody to think? Screw up the face. Shrug the shoulders. Let the world think he was dumb and happy when he knew full well he wasn’t either. But this way, Mama might leave him alone. Right now, all he wanted was to be left alone.

  Then he saw a bit of light come into Mama’s face, and it was odd the way her frown and the light crossed each other. Something had occurred to Mama, and she was trying to put two and two together. She turned to Jeremiah and said, “You told me you was at O’Malley’s.”

  “Yeah, well. Yes, ma’am. O’Malley’s.”

  “Now, look-a here. Your story don’t stack up.”

  Jeremiah wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Mama, you just remember the part about O’Malley’s, you hear?”

  “And what Yankee pip-squeak y’all talking about?”

  “The one Miz Perkinson brought down here to teach the coloreds,” said Jeremiah. “Ignorant carpetbagger.”

  “Oh, my, goodness gracious. I don’t know,” said Mama. “We certainly don’t need his kind here. But I just don’t know about you boys getting caught up in this. This ain’t right at all. I wish your daddy was here.”

  When she said “daddy,” her voice trembled. Next thing Shad knew, she was sniffling. Then she was all-out crying.

  “It’s too hard,” she said. Now she was bawling. She crumpled against Jeremiah’s chest. “Too hard raising you boys without your daddy.”

  “It’s okay, Mama,” said Jeremiah softly.

  “Murder ain’t okay. My boy getting arrested—it ain’t okay.” She choked on the words.

  “It’s okay, Mama,” Jeremiah said again. “I didn’t do it. Even Sheriff Parker spoke up for me. And Daddy—he’d be proud, Mama.”

  “Daddy,” she said faintly.

  “Proud we’re doing right by Virginia, Mama.”

  “Proud.” Her voice sounded to Shad like it was far, far away.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Jeremiah, stroking her back. “And you know, Daddy would be Klan, too, if he was here. He sacrificed himself for Virginia, didn’t he, Mama? We honor his sacrifice. We keep the cause alive. The Yankees are doing Virginia wrong, Mama. That pip-squeak—he didn’t belong here. Never should’ve come.”

  “Never should have,” agreed Mama. She sniffled and tried to get ahold of herself. “Daddy died a noble death, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And he’d turn over in his grave thinking on coloreds running for office and getting themselves elected.” Mama started bawling all over again.

  “It’s okay, Mama. Don’t you worry yourself on it. Klan ain’t gonna let that happen.”

  “Thank you, son. Thank you.” Mama breathed deep, and each breath brought a shudder. Shad watched her pull away from Jeremiah and wipe her face in her skirt.

  Then she turned to Shad with eyes so red and swollen, they looked like open wounds. “Shad,” she whispered. “Shadrach, I didn’t know you was Klan, son. You been growing into a man faster than I been keeping up.”

  Shad nodded.

  Mama reached up to his shoulder and patted him. “My, my, but you’ve grown. Thank you, Shad, for bringing Jeremiah home. I was beside myself all day thinking on you boys. Just beside myself. Come on. Let’s get you some supper. Then I’ll see what fabric I’ve got. Shad, if you’re gonna go running with them boys in the night, you need a disguise what covers you head to toe.”

  She gave Shad a final pat and went inside, mumbling, “Let’s get us some supper.”

  Shad watched the door slam shut behind her, and he listened to it rattle in the frame.

  Jeremiah went around back and Shad sat in the dirt, stewing over last night’s ugliness. Granddaddy had lied. And Sheriff Parker. And Shad. And Mr. O’Malley—Shad heard him say it. He’d told that roomful of blue uniforms, “Yes, sir, the boys was at my place.” And because of his lisp it came out, “Yethir, the boyth wath at my plathe.”

  Then Shad felt the ground rumble. He got a rush in his heart like this morning when the Yankees had come bang-bang-banging their way into the house. He heard galloping. He hopped up and looked down the road. Sure enough—it was a horse. But not a posse, thank God.

  Shad put up a hand to shield the sun. Was that Mr. Kechler? Well, shoot. It was. Since when did Mr. Kechler come out their way? He had to want something. Why didn’t he send his colored girl, Loretta, if he wanted something?

  Jeremiah came around the side of the house. Mama stepped out front.

  “Well, hello there!” called Mr. Kechler as he rode up.

  Shad hadn’t seen him in months, and didn’t remember him as friendly. Mr. Kechler was a stern man. A serious man—a businessman who had lost so much in the war, well, nobody had lost more than Mr. Kechler. Before the war he’d owned sixty-seven slaves and hundreds of acres of fields. He’d produced as much tobacco as France could buy and as much cotton as England and Massachusetts could spin. Then the war started and of course his two boys signed up. Then one of them died at Chancellorsville and the other at Fredericksburg. And if that wasn’t enough, why, the Yankees came through and made off with his horses and fed his cows to their army. All his cows. Imagine that. Then his slaves went free and his beard and mustache turned from dark brown to ice gray.

  Today he rode up on a fine white stallion, and that meant he had to be making money again. He patted the horse’s neck and slid down his flank. He reached out a hand to Jeremiah, and when Jeremiah went to shake it,
Mr. Kechler pulled him into a hug. They were both tall—both over six feet—but Jeremiah was thin and Mr. Kechler was not. His fine brown tweed vest curved over a paunch. A gold chain looped out of one vest pocket.

  “So good to see you, my boy. I heard you’d been arrested and released, and I just wanted to stop by and check on you and your family.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’m fine.”

  Mr. Kechler nodded toward Shad and Mama. “Mrs. Weaver, I’m so sorry there was some sort of misunderstanding about your son. I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again.” His voice was deep and rich. He was the best-educated man this side of town. Shad had heard tell he’d been first in his class at the College of William & Mary.

  Mama nodded. “It’s right kind of you to stop by.”

  “Shadrach—you have grown a heap this year. You’re the spitting image of your father, do you know that?”

  “So I’m told, sir.”

  “Your mama is lucky to have you boys looking after her. The greatest blessings in the world are sons like you. I know your mother is proud.”

  Shad saw his mama blush. Her eyes got wet and he thought she was going to bawl again. But she didn’t. She sniffled the tears back and a smile came up. She said, “As proud as the day is long.”

  “Amen, Mrs. Weaver. And the days are long this time of year. Amen. Sometimes our responsibilities are hard to bear.” He went on like a politician throwing words at a crowd. “And it pains me to think of you and women like you, widowed by Northern aggression, living at the mercy of Yankee militias who storm our streets and terrorize our citizens. I rejoice in the commitment these fine boys feel to Virginia, and I’m honored the Weaver family is living on my property.”

  Shad felt a calm come over him as Mr. Kechler spoke. Shad’s knees got soft and his feet held tight to the packed dirt. His heart stilled. Mr. Kechler was not going to ask for rent they couldn’t pay. He wasn’t asking for anything. He’d come with glad tidings—with blessings like Shad had never heard from him before.

  Suddenly Shad knew something more than the calm he felt. Something about the voice. Shad had heard that rich, educated voice in the middle of other voices. In the middle of commotion and sweaty bodies. In the middle of a room, coming out from under a sheet.