ALSO BY PAT CUNNINGHAM DEVOTO
My Last Days as Roy Rogers
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
OUT OF THE NIGHT THAT COVERS ME. Copyright © 2001 by Pat Cunningham Devoto. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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ISBN: 978-0-7595-2130-8
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First eBook Edition: January 2001
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For Frances Freeman Jalet-Miller
PROLOGUE
IT was a time in the South shortly before the great upheaval. All the signs were there—as buds on a bush signal a great blossoming or huge rolling thunderclouds signal the storm—but if you have never seen the blossoming or felt the storm, it is impossible to know what announces its arrival.
CONTENTS
Prologue
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
The Bend
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
The Bend
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
The Bend
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
The Bend
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
The Bend
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
The Bend
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
The Bend
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
The Bend
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
PART TWO
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
The Bend
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
Lower Peach Tree
The Bend
The Lower Peach Tree Side
The Bend Side
10:00 A.M.–Lower Peach Tree Side
The Bend Side
The Lower Peach Tree Side
The Bend
Lower Peach Tree
The Bend
The Bend
Lower Peach Tree
The Bend
Lower Peach Tree
Author’s Note
Invictus
Acknowledgments
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
EARLIER in the day, a bright Alabama sun had called up the dew. By now, its shine gave shade to only one small space directly beneath the eaves of the depot. He stood in this shadow, staring out.
It sat before him as repulsive as anything he had ever seen, steam rising from its bottom as if it were relieving itself on the tracks. Sweat glistening on its gray-black body, then dripping off onto the crossties. Horrible grinding, clanking noises as it readjusted to its coupling harness. He felt nauseated by the sight.
Outwardly, he was desperate to appear unmoved. His eyes pretended calm study of the engine. His mouth was in a straight line of indifference, as if he were viewing the most ordinary of things. Only his fingers betrayed him. They shook as he pushed up the nosepiece on his glasses. He quickly clasped them behind his scrawny eight-year-old back.
Inside was another matter. Inside, his head was on fire with yelling. When she was alive, he had never even thought of raising his voice to her. Now his head constantly echoed with his yelling . . . idiot, idiot. It was the harshest word he knew. A classmate had called him that once, at school, in a game of kickball.
Since the newspapers he read never contained anything approaching bad language and since all the books his mother had ever bought him certainly never had any coarse words, and since he had very seldom played with children his own age, other than at school, he was not acquainted with anything more vulgar than idiot.
When she was alive, it had been her job to see that he was not tainted with any of that. In the winter, she would make sure that her only son, John Gallatin McMillan III, never left the house without coat, hat, gloves and galoshes, even on the mildest days. In the summer, especially during the summers when polio stalked the town, he had stayed in the basement with all his toys and books. She had converted the cellar to a playroom. It was cool down there and he was out of harm’s way. The maid brought down his dinner every day precisely at noon, a midafternoon snack at four, and when his mother came home, he was allowed to join her upstairs for supper. He had liked it down there. Staying inside all summer had not been unusual in his world. It had been ordinary, expected.
He had known other children casually, his next-door neighbor, the boy down the street. They played outside in the summer, and he felt vaguely sorry for them. They seemed not to have his intelligence, or perhaps they were burdened with mothers who didn’t care as much as his mother did. He was not saying that was the case, but perhaps it was.
His head turned slowly as he scanned the engine still squatting there before him. He took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. Then another, holding it in his lungs, hoping it would slow his heartbeat. Of course, it’s bound to be just fine . . . isn’t it? After all, Aunt Nelda is . . . you were her sister.
He tried to stand up straight and add some dignity to the cheap shorts and shirt Aunt Nelda had given him to wear. The baggy pants blossomed out around his spindly white legs. She had bought them for him the day after the funeral—had gone down to Harold’s and bought them. Everyone knew that only country people shopped at Harold’s. He should be wearing his dark blue suit. That’s what you wore on a train.
We rode on one once before, remember? You said it would be good for me to know about such things: how to ride on a train, what to tip the porters, what to do when you spent the night in a hotel. I was dressed properly then.
He felt a little better now. Just keep talking to her. Let’s see. Let’s see, it was the Tennesseean, out of Knoxville, bound for Memphis. You saved a whole year for that trip. Remember?
He gritted his teeth in disgust. She never answered him. No matter how much he talked, she never answered him, but he knew she was still there. He knew it was like the soldiers he had read about. They would have an arm or a leg blown off, and for days, even weeks after it happened, they could still feel the arm itching, the leg aching, the mother calling. He had heard her in his sleep calling to him, but not when he was awake. No matter, he knew she was still there, somewhere around him
—watching.
CHAPTER 2
AUNT Nelda grabbed his arm and pulled him on board the train, right into its bowels. Steam from underneath the stairs floated up around him as he was half-dragged up the steel steps. He held his breath so as not to breathe it in, all the while thinking himself into another place—trying to stem the panic. Oh yes, oh yes, I remember now. It was a lovely trip. We stayed at the Peabody. They had beautiful blue linens on all the tables in the dining room. You remarked on it. Her grip was so tight on his arm, it was pinching him. We, we watched the ducks march out of the lobby at four in the afternoon. What a lovely tradition, you said. What a lovely—Aunt Nelda was pushing him to their seats in the day coach with all the other people. He was so small for his age, it was easy for her to do that. We had a roomette, private and to ourselves, remember, remember? And the food, it was delicious. He stumbled over an errant foot in the aisle. She smiled and pointed him to his seat by the window, then began to re-count all the boxes and bags she had brought on board before going back outside to retrieve him.
He sat with his back ridged, his hands clasped in his lap, his legs dangling. He watched his thumbs. They were circling each other, pretending to be two dogs ready to pounce on each other in a fight to the death. The little dog circled the bigger dog slowly, slowly, until the little dog reached out and crushed the big dog to pieces in one quick motion.
Minutes later, the train lurched back and forth, then pulled forward out of the station. His heart was pounding in his chest. He was leaving the only place he had ever known, the only life he had ever known. He tried to concentrate on the inside of the train. He would not look out the window. He watched Aunt Nelda stuffing a shopping bag under her feet. Then she squirmed in between more boxes and bags that shared her place. His heart began to slow in its beat. Keep talking to her. Look how thrilled she is over all the stuff you left her. She was on the phone with the moving van people for over an hour last night. They said the big things would be shipped down in a week or two. I heard them talking: all of my books, all of my toys, all of your furniture.
The train whistle drifted past him; the sound of wheels on tracks fell into a cadence. I will not look out the window. I will not look out the window. I will not look out the window.
CHAPTER 3
THEY were a half-day into the journey when she had completely forgotten about him. It had been when they arrived in the Montgomery station around noon. She directed him to a bench inside the huge terminal and told him to sit there and not move until she came for him.
He had suggested that maybe they might think about eating dinner before she left him. He always had a proper sit-down meal every day. Remember our Miss Mama? She always baked hot biscuits for us. You would ask me what I had read in the newspaper that was of interest.
Aunt Nelda dug in her purse and produced just enough change for a Coke and a Baby Ruth. Then she rushed on off to make sure all her trunks and packages were transferred to the right train, the one headed down to south Alabama, down to Lower Peach Tree, her home.
Now he sat under the huge dome of the Montgomery station waiting room, eating his Baby Ruth one peanut at a time, making it last as long as he could, all the while being careful that bits of chocolate didn’t soil his new shirt.
He watched out the big doors that led to the station’s platforms, hoping to catch a glimpse of Aunt Nelda. All he saw were throngs of Negroes, boxes and suitcases in hand, laughing and smiling, passing by on their way to the colored waiting room. He brushed away a fly that was trying to have a drink of his Coke.
“You know what they say,” a voice said. “Niggers movin’ north, cotton movin’ west, ain’t nothin’ movin’ south.”
John turned, to see a man settling himself down on an upturned RC Cola crate. One of his legs was missing and that trouser leg was folded and pinned up against the back of his pants. He had put his crutches on the floor beside him. The man leaned his back against the station wall, looking at John. He jerked his head in the direction of the station doors. “That’s all that hustle and bustle goin’ on out there. Time for the two o’clock to Chicago.” The man fished down into a bag he carried with him and brought out a tin cup and some pencils. “Every colored worth his salt leavin’ to go on up north. Been doin’ it since I got back here.” He put the pencils in the cup and deposited it on the floor next to him. Then he began to tune his guitar.
John knew who he was. He had seen men like this in Bainbridge, disabled veterans from the war. The pencils would have I AM A VETERAN printed on them.
We always bought our pencils from Old Blind Willie when he sat outside Woolworth’s. Remember? You said it was in memory of my father. I wonder if he knows . . .
He called to the man. “Sir, do you know ‘Will the Circle Be Unbroken?’” . . . Old Willie used to play that—remember?
“You got money for the cup?” the man said, continuing to tune his guitar.
John shook his head no and looked away, pretending the embarrassment had not caused his face to burn red. Whenever we traveled, you always gave me pennies to give beggars, remember? You said it was our responsibility.
It was a gigantic train station, with a ceiling so high, it made him liken all the people to roaches scurrying around on its marble floor. The wall the man leaned against rose high into the air, then arched to form a ceiling of tile and glass. There were porters hauling boxes, men and women walking fast to catch trains, babies crying, and, on top of it all, an announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker system calling out, every few minutes, train tracks and destinations. He told himself that it would have scared any person, no matter how smart, if he was seeing it for the first time. And besides that, this was not his first time. There had been the Memphis station. It was probably just as big, or bigger. He couldn’t remember. He looked down at his feet swinging free, not touching the station floor. He was on one of the hundreds of benches that lined the waiting room. She had said for him not to move from that very spot. After a time, he stretched out on the wooden bench, eyes watching the ceiling. Chords from the veteran’s guitar swirled around in his head, then floated up, to bounce off the ceiling and return. It sounded like a symphony of guitars. He drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER 4
WHEN he woke up, it was midafternoon by the station clock that was posted high on the wall. The veteran had taken his guitar and wood crate and left. Long streaks of dusty sunlight were lined from the tall station windows down to the floor. He lay there blowing his breath into the dust that swirled through the sunlight and then back into the shadows. There was that much to do.
Fewer people were in the station now, but still he didn’t see Aunt Nelda. The announcer was saying that a train was leaving in a few minutes from track three. He got up and inched over to the door to look out, all the time keeping an eye on his sitting place. Out on the station platform, an old colored man in a rumpled blue uniform was sweeping cigarette butts. A few straggling people were boarding the train as it sat there steaming and hissing, a bull ready to charge.
He thought he could see her down at the end of the platform, talking to a porter. He yelled to her. “Aunt Nelda, may I come?” She didn’t seem to hear him. He tried again. She still didn’t look up.
Maybe she doesn’t want to hear me. Have you thought of that? Of course you wouldn’t, but I did. I thought of it.
She appeared to give the porter money and then got on board. The train bell was clanging. The porter shouted a last call. John took a few steps more toward the cars as they began to move. Then he ran almost to the end of the platform before he jumped on the moving car he thought was Aunt Nelda’s.
He stood holding on to the handrails, breathing hard, hoping he had done the right thing. The train was moving faster and faster now out into the late afternoon of Montgomery. Buildings were passing as in a movie, colors blurring, as the cars picked up speed.
“Well, son, looks like you made it just in time.” John jumped, not knowing anyone else had seen him. A huge m
an in a blue uniform was looking down at him. He was so big, John had to hold his head back to see past the blue uniform into the black face.
“My . . . my aunt is on this train . . . maybe.”
“You better hope she is, boy, ’cause if she ain’t, you headed to Mobile all by yourself.”
A lump formed in his throat. “I’m supposed to be going to Lower Peach Tree. I—did I get on the wrong train?” Despite all his efforts to control it, water glazed his eyes.
“Don’t worry, you in the right place. This here train stops at Lower Peach Tree by way of Mobile. We’ll find your auntie.” The train was up to speed now, rattling along, each car holding tight to the other in a line of perhaps twelve. Five or six passenger cars, a club car and a dining car, a mail car filled with letters and packages to be dropped off along the way to Mobile.
The porter pulled on the door of the coach car and stepped inside. “What’s she look like?”
John followed. “She’s tall and thin and has frizzy blond hair that kind of bongs out,” he said, holding his hands out around his head to describe it. “She has a small yellow hat to match her yellow dress.” John stretched his neck, trying to see his aunt. “It’s linen, and you know how that wrinkles.”
The colored man turned his head to take a second look at John. “No, can’t say as I do.”
John continued without notice. “And, and also, she bites her lower lip when she’s nervous. It’s quite a noticeable habit.”
The colored man laughed out loud. It was a big, unhappy sound. “Don’t you go describin’ her like that to her face or she’ll sure enough leave you at the next stop.”
John would not hear that. “The only other thing is, she has lots of trunks and things with her.”
“Oh, now I know who you talkin’ ’bout. That lady done been messin’ with us all afternoon, makin’ sure none of her things is left behind or stole. I done told her, ‘Don’t nobody steal on my train.’” He pulled John around in front of him and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder to guide him down the aisle. “You got a hill to climb with that woman, boy. Come on, she’s down in that next car, toward the end, so she can be near all them trunks and boxes of hers.”
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