Brotherhood

by Anne Westrick

  Shad’s eyes caught Mr. Kechler’s and the man grinned. He didn’t say anything because he didn’t need to—the grin said it all. Mr. Kechler knew Shad knew that Mr. Kechler was the Grand Cyclops.

  32

  A New Disguise

  EARLY ON SATURDAY, Shad stopped by the chicken coop and found the first egg. “Peep, you have no idea how long we been waiting for this!”

  Peep cooed, and Shad rushed into the house, cupping the egg in both hands as if he’d found gold. Mama kissed it, then cracked the egg into a bowl and mixed it with flour and a pinch of salt and a handful of sugar and some milk that Kechler’s girl, Loretta, had dropped off yesterday. She’d dropped off bacon, too. Lord, what a feast!

  Mama cooked up the best griddle cakes they’d had since the war. When that bacon fat popped, darn if it didn’t make little grease spots on Mama’s blue sleeve. But she just pulled up quick on her apron and dabbed away the spots, all the while whistling “Dixie.”

  After they ate, Mama went to the outhouse. The second she was out the door, Jeremiah shoved Shad up against a wall and growled, “You owe me.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you never again mess up so bad them Yankees nab me, hear?”

  “Let go o’ me. You and Clifton—you the ones what tipped off the Klan ’bout that Yankee.”

  “I need a report by midweek, you hear?”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “I said, you hear?”

  “You think I’m deaf? I helped spring you from jail, didn’t I? You’re the hero. The Klan loves you. You ain’t got to prove yourself no more. After last night, we can all lay low for a little while.”

  Jeremiah slammed a palm flat on the table.

  Shad jumped.

  “Lay low?” Jeremiah bellowed. “That’s what them damn Yankees want—that we back off. You siding with them now, Shad? You a Yankee-lover?”

  “No—come on. I just meant—”

  “If they think a little jail time can slow us down, they got no clue. No clue how many of us there are. We gonna get ’em good. Now I said I want a head count. You hear me?”

  Shad shook his head. “You’re crazy, Jeremiah. Plumb crazy. What has got into you? What did them Yankees say to you?”

  Jeremiah made a twisted sort of laugh. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and opened it again, as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether to answer Shad’s question. Seconds passed before he finally let it out slowly . . . very slowly. “Poor white trash.”

  Shad narrowed his eyes. “What?”

  “The whole time I was in there, Shad—that’s what I had to listen to. ‘Poor white trash. Ignorant fool. Bigoted idiot.’ If my hands hadn’t been tied, I’d have flattened every one of them.”

  Shad swallowed.

  Jeremiah put his face so close to Shad’s, their noses nearly touched. He smelled of rancid grease. “Let me tell you, Shad—they messed with the wrong boy. Now, I need to know—how many coloreds are in the Perkinsons’ shed?”

  “You already killed the teacher. They ain’t got no school without a teacher.”

  “They got a shed. And when I’m finished, they ain’t gonna have no shed. Now I want to know exactly what time them coloreds go into that shed. What time in, and what time out, and how many of them.”

  Shad threw his hands in the air—backing away—washing his hands of this chore. But Jeremiah came at him, tilting his head and grabbing the front of Shad’s silk shirt, pulling him in so close, so fast, Shad’s nose slammed into Jeremiah’s forehead.

  “Wednesday,” said Jeremiah with a growl. “You get me answers by Wednesday.” With a shove he let go of the shirt, and Shad fell against the wall.

  The back door opened and Mama came in. Shad froze. Mama looked from him to Jeremiah.

  To Shad.

  To Jeremiah.

  “What the dickens,” said Mama. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” said Shad, turning away. The words “poor white trash” throbbed in his ears, and he bit his tongue so as not to let them slip.

  “Jeremiah,” said Mama, “if you’re staying home this morning, that front window’s jammed up. Ever since that heavy rain, I ain’t been able to close it proper. Can you fix that for me, son? Sand it down and whitewash it. Shad and me—we’re gonna work on a disguise. Ain’t that right, Shadrach?”

  “Uh, yes, ma’am.”

  Mama rummaged through a basket of fabric pieces. “I got some heavy gray cotton in here. Been meaning to sew you some new britches. You done outgrown those Willy Johnson hand-me-downs. They’re too short. And your bare feet—why, Granddaddy wants you to see Mr. Hanson this Thursday to fit you for a pair of boots.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Jeremiah ran a finger along the windowsill. “Mama, you finish that dress for the Perkinson girl yet?”

  “Just about, son. Got to add the lace trim. Then it needs ironing. Shad can deliver it up there Tuesday or Wednesday.”

  “Good,” said Jeremiah. “Good thing Weaver’s Fine Tailoring is keeping on good terms with the Perkinsons.”

  Mama folded her arms across her chest and tilted her head. “Well, now, you know your granddaddy and I ain’t seen eye to eye over the Perkinson business. And what with you telling me Miz Perkinson brought that carpetbagger to Richmond, well, I don’t know, son.”

  “I’m just saying, Mama. Just saying she’s got lots of connections. Lots of friends, and we don’t want to be on her bad side.”

  Shad bit his tongue.

  Mama said, “Well, Jeremiah—you said it—that woman looks down on me and I get to grinding my teeth every time she gives us a tailoring job. Shad—you gonna handle that delivery careful, now, ain’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he sure is,” said Jeremiah.

  Shad felt numb. He looked back and forth from Mama to Jeremiah. Then Mama got him to sit. She put a tin can on his head and began to take measurements.

  “Lord, Mama, I don’t need no rust in my hair. Got enough problems with lice.”

  “I’ll sew fabric around the can. You ain’t got to worry ’bout no rust. Now sit still. We’ll do some nitpicking later on today.” She threw the sheet over the can and Shad felt her measure for eyeholes. “I’m gonna sew the fake eyes up high, all right? How do you like that idea?”

  “Okay, mama,” he said. He didn’t have the strength to argue. The one thing he knew for sure was that with Mama doing the thread work, he was going to have one of the finest-made disguises in the whole Ku Klux Klan.

  Over the next few days, Shad was so beside himself, Mama kept him in bed. He ached all over—head pounding, innards rumbling. By Wednesday, he told Mama he felt better and could handle the delivery fine, but the truth was that over those days of lying in bed and trying to settle his stomach, he’d decided that he needed to warn Rachel. He didn’t know how he’d go about doing it, but he knew it had to be done.

  Mama asked him to pick up another bolt of fabric from Granddaddy, and he set out with the dress folded nicely in a clean burlap bag. He knew he should go to the Perkinsons’ first and unload the dress—it made sense to do the delivery before the pickup—but he was still working out what to say.

  Not only that, but the last thing he wanted was to run into the children—Maggie and Nathaniel and Kitty and the rest. He didn’t want to get anywhere near the Perkinsons’ house until long after morning lessons were done.

  When he pushed open the door to Weaver’s Fine Tailoring, it squeaked like always, and the little bell tinkled. He heard the start of the familiar clip-thunk, clip-thunk across the floorboards overhead, and he was upstairs before Granddaddy reached the top step. The room smelled of pine sap and yesterday’s fish.

  “Well, good morning, there, Shad. How’s your mother?”

  “Fine, she’s fine, sir.”

  “Yo
u okay?”

  Shad looked away. “Yeah. I mean, yessir, I’m okay.”

  “Shadrach, when are you and your mama and Jeremiah gonna move—” He stopped his regular litany and frowned. “Something on your mind, son?”

  Shoot. How did he know? Shad shook his head. Jeremiah had made Shad swear not to tell anybody anything.

  Granddaddy went back to his sewing machine, and Shad’s breath started up again. He looked around the room. Looked for signs of the Klan. Looked for something—anything—that would tell him Granddaddy wasn’t easy with the Klan. Something that would tell him he could spill the beans on Jeremiah.

  He watched as Granddaddy pressed a foot pedal, making a wheel turn on the devil machine. He listened to the spool of thread rattle and went in close to see the needle zoom up and down. Tiny stitches appeared in the fabric. Like magic.

  “Best investment I ever made,” said Granddaddy. “Now, what’s in that sack there, son?”

  “The dress Mama sewed for Miss Abigail. I’m headed up that way to deliver it, and I just stopped by here for a new bolt of cloth. Mama said you had a new one?”

  Granddaddy jerked his chin toward a bolt by the back wall.

  “Sir, uh, you got anything else you need delivered to the Perkinsons?”

  Granddaddy shook his head. He pumped the foot pedal and the machine whirred. Then he mumbled, “Don’t know why Miz Perkinson needed no Yankee teacher up there.”

  Shad chewed on the inside of his mouth, wondering what Granddaddy knew and didn’t know about everything the Klan had planned.

  “Shadrach, what ever happened with you and that tutoring business?”

  “Uh, well, I ain’t been up there since that man died.”

  “Crying shame.”

  “Yes, sir, crying shame.”

  Granddaddy lifted his foot from the pedal, and Shad listened as the wheel stopped turning, the machine stopped whirring, the spool stopped rattling, the needle stopped its frantic up-down-up. Granddaddy pushed his chair back and it screeched on the floorboards. He sighed and crossed his arms over his black vest. “Schooling coloreds. Ain’t nothing good to come of it.”

  “Yes, sir—them coloreds. Jeremiah was asking where Miz Perkinson schools ’em.”

  “Jeremiah?”

  “Uh, yes, sir.” There—he’d done it. He’d found a way to sneak Jeremiah into his words, and now he waited. He watched Granddaddy closely. Sure enough, Granddaddy tensed up. It was a tension nobody else would notice. But Shad was looking for it. And it was there. A flutter across his face. A twitch of his arm.

  “What’s Jeremiah want?”

  Now Shad was tongue-tied.

  “Shad?”

  “Uh, yes, sir. Jeremiah—he . . . uh.”

  He watched Granddaddy lean forward, hands on knees—watched him push himself up. Granddaddy came in close to Shad’s ear and lowered his voice. “Is the Klan planning something?”

  Shad nodded slowly.

  Granddaddy started pacing the room. Clip-thunk, clip-thunk. He took both hands to his head and sent his fingers through his hair. He rubbed his face. Dropped his head into his hands. Picked his head up. Dropped it again.

  “Lord, have mercy,” he said. “Miz Perkinson and her kind keep our family in business. Don’t Kechler know that?” He slammed a hand on the sewing table.

  Shad waited. He knew Granddaddy wasn’t really asking a question. He was just talking.

  Shad felt tight all over. He’d come today with a hunch that his granddaddy wasn’t easy about Klan business, and he was right. He needed Granddaddy to know that things were going on, but he was getting good at keeping his mouth shut.

  33

  A Warning

  ALL THE WAY up Church Hill, Shad worked out in his mind what he’d say. The last time he’d seen Rachel—Friday—shoot, he felt sick thinking about what he’d done.

  He didn’t know what had come over him that day. He shouldn’t have hurt her, and he needed to apologize again, and lordy, what a mess this was.

  But right now, even more important than an apology, Shad needed to warn her. If Jeremiah found out what Shad planned, he would kill Shad. If Jeremiah and Clifton and Mr. Kechler and Sheriff Parker found out, they would—Shad rattled his head. He couldn’t think about them. No, he couldn’t let them make decisions for him. Not anymore.

  When he got to the Perkinsons’, Shad heard piano music and knew that Rachel was home. He set the bolt of fabric on the steps and paused to take in the letters on the brown wrapping. He looked slowly at them and sounded them out. Calico, blue, one hundred percent cotton, Frederick & Sons, Atlanta, Georgia.

  Shad breathed deeply. He could read. He wasn’t quick, but he knew how to try. He could sort out letters that used to befuddle him. He smiled. Thank you, Mr. Nelson, he thought. Thank you ever so much.

  Shad left the fabric on the step, straightened his long legs and skinny torso, and looked at the knocker—the molded brass lion’s head. He reached for it and stopped. He remembered George Nelson rat-a-tat-tatting and couldn’t bring himself to touch it.

  He turned and sat on the top step. Then he put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. If he walked to the overlook, he’d be able to see down the hill to the James River and the canal and the train tracks. For a moment, he thought maybe everything would be easier if he threw himself in front of a train. Maybe he should—

  Shad heard the door open behind him and he jumped. The music grew louder.

  “Mr. Weaver,” said Caroline. Her heavy eyes fell on his silk shirt and went down his new gray britches to his bare feet. Without moving her head, she glanced from side to side. Then her eyes paused on the burlap sack. After a moment they lifted to his face. “I didn’t think we’d see you here again.”

  Shad held up the sack and cleared his throat. “Uh, the dress for Miss Abigail.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course.”

  He waited for her to take the sack, but she didn’t. She stared. The piano went on and on. After a spell, she said, “I don’t think it’s right for you to be here.”

  Shad coughed. She was right—it wasn’t right for him to be there. Wasn’t anything right in Richmond anymore. If he started talking about all the things that weren’t right, he might never stop. Don’t get me started, he thought.

  He looked at his feet. Then he picked up his head and said, “I’m real sorry about everything what’s happened.”

  “Just a minute,” she said. And she closed the door.

  Shad twisted the top of the sack into a knot. He was sure Caroline was getting Miss Elizabeth. As much as he wanted to run away, he knew he had to face her. Had to get it over with—had to let Miss Elizabeth scold him up one side and down the other.

  A few minutes later, Caroline returned, and she was alone. Shad let out his breath. The piano kept playing and playing, and Shad knew Rachel was there in the front room.

  He and Caroline exchanged goods—the dress for a sack of foodstuffs. He nodded and she nodded, and she went to close the door, but he said, “May I have a word with Miz Rachel, please?”

  “Humph.” Caroline closed the door in his face and the music got soft again. Then in the middle of a song, he heard the piano stop—just stop. Shad’s ears strained to finish the tune, but he didn’t know it. He couldn’t end it.

  The door opened.

  He saw Rachel’s bare feet—brown on top and lighter around the edges. He slowly lifted his head. She wore a black cotton dress, gathered at the waist. A mourning dress. Her mouth was a flat line. She didn’t invite him in.

  “Mr. . . . Lourdaud, you have some gall to show your face on this property.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Why did you need to see me? My mother said you asked for me.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Caroline.”

  “Oh, I didn’t—”

  “W
hy would you? Why should my family be together when every other colored family is scattered across the South?”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I just—”

  Shad saw her hand move to the doorknob, ready to slam the door in his face. But she didn’t slam it. She stared. “Your brother got away with it, didn’t he? George Nelson was my teacher. Mine. And Eloise’s.”

  “I’m sorry, Rachel.” He felt her eyes bore a hole in his heart.

  “And the irony of it is that the school—the children—they asked for you this morning. And yesterday. And the day before that. And Friday, too. All those days of tailoring lessons they were looking forward to, and you didn’t come.”

  Shad shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

  “Look, Mr. . . . Lourdaud. I don’t know as I’ll ever forgive and I certainly won’t forget, but let me tell you something. I am going to move on. I have a duty to my students, and they are asking about the tailoring. They don’t feel Mr. Nelson’s absence. They feel yours.”

  Shad kept his eyes on his feet. He deserved this tongue-lashing. Deserved every word.

  “All of my students have known worse to happen to their own Negro brothers and fathers and mothers and cousins than what happened to George Nelson.”

  “Look, I—Rachel—” Shad brought his head up and for the first time let his eyes settle on hers. “I came here to warn you. You got to leave town. Go. Just go.”

  “What? Speak up, for heaven’s sake.”

  Shad took a step backward so as not to stand too close. Then he leaned forward and whispered. “They plan to torch the shed.”

  “What about the shed? I can’t hear you.”

  His throat tightened and wouldn’t let him get the words out. He came in close and swallowed. He whispered, “The Klan means to torch your school. You got to warn the children. Leave town for a few days. It ain’t safe for you here.”

  She whispered back. “The Freedmen’s Bureau supports schools for Negroes. The Klan can’t burn our schools.”