Death in the Black Patch

by Wilson, Bruce;

  As if they had been waiting for her invitation, all five of them stood and pushed back their chairs. They each grabbed plates and bowls and carried them to the counter. After the others left the kitchen, Irene moved slowly around the table, pushing each chair up to it. When she got around to Wes, she put her lips close to his ear and whispered, “Pa, when it’s time for bed, will you tuck me in?”

  “Sure, honey. You just let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll come up.”

  Giggling, she hugged him around the neck and rushed out of the kitchen, her curly brown hair bouncing on her shoulders. Zora shifted Ruth to the other side of her lap, looked up at Wes and said, “What do you think is goin’ on with Anthie and the girl?”

  “If she’s the one who lives across the state line, he won’t get to see her as often as he wants to, that’s for sure. But if he wants to see her bad enough, he’ll find a way. I’m not so old I don’t remember how that works,” he said with a grin. “I recall tryin’ to find any way I could to see you at your granddaddy’s, and he wasn’t easy on me either.”

  “He sure wasn’t.” She sat quietly for a moment and then added, “But you kept comin’ back and kept tryin’ to convince him you were serious about me.”

  “I was, Zora. I still am.” They looked at each other across the length of the table, enveloped in a sweet silence. The sounds from the rest of the house seemed muted. Even the baby was quiet. For a moment, Zora saw Wes as he was twenty-five years earlier—a young man in love—and wondered if he was seeing her the same way. A crash from the other room interrupted the silence, shocking her a little.

  “Here,” she said, handing him the baby. “Take Ruthie in there and see if you can find out what got broken. I’ll clean up the kitchen and then maybe we can figure out how to get this family of ours settled down for the night.”

  Holding the baby in one arm, Wes put his other one around Zora and pulled her close to his side. He squeezed her to his chest and kissed the top of her head. He didn’t say anything, nor did he let her go. He just held her tightly. Zora’s heart stirred with a wonderful heat, and her face flushed. She slipped out of his arms and pushed him gently away. Looking up into his eyes through the moistness in her own, she said, “Sometimes you’re still that young man, Wes, and I’m glad, real glad.”

  This is one of the good days, she prayed silently as she watched him leave the kitchen. She wiped off the large table and then took a few minutes to wash the dishes and put them up on the shelves. Pouring the remaining coffee into her cup, she opened the door and stepped onto the porch. The happy sounds from the house and the gentle breeze gave her a sense of peace as she looked out into the night. With one free hand she curled a wisp of hair behind her ear and smiled. Wes’s tenderness and strength were both comforting and exciting. She’d loved him forever, and though their love was comfortable, the moments of excitement always seemed to surprise her. She’d wake up every morning hoping for days like this one. But she was always aware that a day could go bad and the sweet and tender moments would seem but memories.

  As she turned to go back into the kitchen, a quick flash of light from the woods across the road caught her eye. She stared into the darkness, trying to see it again, but nothing was there. Probably the moon reflecting in a dog’s eye, she thought and walked back into the house.

  * * *

  Hiding in the tree line fifty yards away, a lone man watched Zora enter the house. He took one more draw on the stub of his cigar, dropped it on the ground and crushed it out with his boot heel. Pulling himself up onto the back of his horse, he turned the beast into the open field behind the trees and headed off into the dark night.

  Chapter 2

  Sunday Morning, May 6

  An hour before sunup, Anthie stumbled out the door and headed toward the barn. The moon was partially hidden by some clouds and cast a soft light across the yard. The air was damp and the crickets were scratching out the same old song they always did. He had hardly slept all night, and like a man headed toward a firing squad, he took reluctant steps. When he reached the barn, he set the lantern down and used both hands to open the door just wide enough to get through.

  He crossed the hard-packed dirt floor and opened the stall, squeezing in beside the cow. The sounds and smells enveloping him were familiar, but didn’t bring him any pleasure. He could hear the skittering mice in the loft, and the odor of dung and hay and dust seemed to hang on him like a fog. Reluctantly, Anthie squatted down next to the cow and put the bucket under her udder. The beast shifted sideways and stomped her hooves a few times before finally settling down. Of all the chores Anthie had on the farm, milking the cow was the one he disliked most.

  “Come on, cow, let go of your milk! I don’t have all mornin’ to spend out here with you.” Rubbing his hands together to warm them, Anthie reached for her distended teats. Squeezing and pulling them the way his father had taught him, he directed the steady streams of warm milk into the bucket.

  With his head resting on the cow’s flank, Anthie continued to squeeze and pull and worry. He had worked hard from sunup to sundown Saturday and went to bed right after supper, but all night long he tossed and turned. Even as tired as he was, sleep just wouldn’t come. Whenever he’d closed his eyes, he’d thought about Sudie—how she looked, how she smiled and the sweet sound of her voice. Every time he came up with a plan to go see her, he’d think of all the reasons his folks would disagree with him. Maybe I can borrow Uncle George’s horse, or I could walk; it’ll only take a couple of hours. When he’d finally run out of ideas, he realized it was time to milk the cow.

  “So here I am, cow,” he groaned. “You’re milked, I’m tired and I probably won’t get to see my girl.” He stood up, took the heavy pail out of the stall and closed the gate behind him as he headed toward the house.

  * * *

  By mid-morning, the hot sun had turned the air to sludge. The sagging branches on the trees provided little relief as Wes drove the wagon along the deeply rutted road. The clopping of the mule’s hooves on the packed dirt and the bouncing wagon did little to lift Anthie’s spirits. He didn’t much like going to church anyway, and after his sleepless night, he was even less in the mood for hymn-singing and the endless preaching of the minister. There was nobody he could talk to about Sudie or how he felt. His father teased him, Connie had his own girl problems and his ma would only tell him to wait until he grew up. I am grown up, he thought. I’m as tall as Pa is, and I’m nearly as strong as Connie.

  As soon as Wes pulled the brake on the wagon, the kids spilled out of the back like a busted bag of beans. Mary Lula came around to the front of the wagon and waited for her mother to hand down Ruthie. Connie, a twenty-year-old version of his pa, helped Zora down from her seat and then wandered toward the church building. Still not done with his chores, Anthie took an empty bucket out of the back and walked toward the well. After he’d filled it with water, he set it in front of the mule and then went to find Connie.

  As Zora watched Wes hobble the mule, she noticed something had changed. The warm, loving man she’d woken up with had become distant, his face hard, his eyes dark. “Are you comin’ in today?” she asked, but he didn’t answer right away.

  “Don’t know,” he finally said, his voice flat, distracted.

  “All right, Wesley, I’ll save you a seat,” she said to his back as he walked away. She headed toward the whitewashed church, thinking, It’s always like this with Wes on Sundays. There’s a distance between him and God. He’s a good man but he ain’t ever needed church.

  She lifted the hem of her long Sunday dress out of the dust as she covered the distance to the porch. Waving a fly away with her hand and with it her worries, she decided it was time to ask God about Wes. She walked into the building and up the center aisle to the pew where the family always sat. Sliding in, she left enough room for Wes on the aisle and sat down. Mary Lula was seated to her right, the baby in her lap
. She glanced at her mother expectantly, but Zora just shrugged.

  As the room began to fill, the preacher rose from his chair and stood silently behind his pulpit. Zora’s children scooted into the pew from the side aisle, and Connie wisely sat between Irene and John Stanley, whose energy hadn’t yet subsided. Anthie slumped into the last available spot. The noise level in the room dropped as mothers shushed their children and latecomers found places to sit. Even with the windows open, the room was warm. Rather than cooling the air, the sparse breeze carried dust and a few flies into the nearly silent building. The open space next to Zora seemed to shout out Wes’s absence.

  The preacher’s frayed coat sleeves slid down to his elbows as he raised his arms toward the ceiling. More by habit than by his direction, the congregation stood and picked up the tattered hymnbooks that were in the slots on the back of the pews.

  “Let us sing praises to the Lord!” the old man said. “Everyone turn to ‘Bringing in the Sheaves.’” Soon his reedy voice was joined by those of the people as they sang the familiar hymn. Most didn’t need the books, but they held them out just the same.

  Although she often found comfort in singing hymns, Zora was distracted by the empty space next to her, and the words of the song brought little solace. She sensed Mary Lula’s tentative glances in her direction and felt her daughter’s tension as well. Wes had seemed happy the past few days, and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t figure out why he was so withdrawn this morning. He and the boys had made good progress in the fields; even Anthie had focused on doing a good job. There had been no talk about troubles with tobacco prices, and she was sure that Wes hadn’t been drinking. A gentle nudge from Mary Lula interrupted her thoughts, and she realized she was still standing even though the song had ended. Hoping that no one had noticed, Zora sat down quickly, her cheeks reddened. The preacher began a loud prayer beseeching God to touch the hearts of the lost souls in the congregation. Anyone watching Zora would have thought she was praying, but her mind and heart weren’t focused on God. She was worried about Wes.

  While the preacher droned on with his prayer, Zora’s uneasiness grew. She could hear nothing but the thoughts in her head. When Wes slipped into the seat next to her, she flinched as if she had been awakened from a nap. Her heart pounding, she turned toward him, hoping to see a smile. But Wes wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t looking at her either. Even though his eyes were closed, Zora knew that he wasn’t praying. His face looked hard, cold, and the muscles in his clenched jaw stood out like knots. A little frightened, she reached out to hold his hand, seeking the warmth and softness she knew lay below the hard calluses. At her touch, he clenched his hands into fists, and she pulled back, afraid of whatever was going on inside him. She couldn’t tell if it was anger or fear. She wanted to comfort him, to put her arms around him and tell him everything would be all right. She knew she should be praying for him, but she couldn’t control the thoughts that filled her head, let alone talk to God. Instead, she sat in the pew, as close to him as she dared, and soundlessly said his name over and over.

  * * *

  “Anthie, you take your ma home,” said Wes as they stood near the wagon. “I’ve got some things I need to do.” Connie had already helped his mother onto the wagon seat, and the others were getting settled in the back. Zora turned toward her husband, hoping for an explanation, but Wes was staring down the rutted road. After a moment, he turned back toward his family.

  “Go on, now, get on home,” he said to Anthie, but he was looking at Zora. “I’ll be there later.” His eyes were dark, and the look of hardness hadn’t left him. He stood in the churchyard, rigid as a fence post, offering them no explanation, no comfort, waiting for them to start the five-mile trip to the farm.

  “Get, mule,” said Anthie as he flicked the reins. The animal snorted and tugged, and the wagon pulled away. The children in the back of the wagon watched their pa until the trees blocked their view. No one spoke, but all of them were distressed, wondering what was wrong. Zora sat erect, staring straight ahead. Anthie thought he saw tears on her cheeks reflecting the afternoon sun, but he wasn’t sure. In the back of the wagon, Mary Lula held the baby close to her chest, while the others grew pensive, each wondering what had turned a good day into a troubled one.

  * * *

  Wes’s broad shoulders sagged a little as he stood in the churchyard for a few minutes, watching his family leave. He paid no attention to the other families as they turned their wagons onto the dirt road. From the front door of the church, the skinny preacher watched Wes for a moment and then turned back inside. Wes shoved his hands into the pockets of his overalls, took a deep breath of the dusty air and walked out to the road. He paused once more before turning right and then walked toward the farm he’d seen during the ride to church. He didn’t really want to talk to the man who lived there, but he knew he had to, that it was a matter of survival for himself and his family.

  Wes had seen the black man standing at the edge of his tobacco field, or at least what had been his tobacco field. From the wagon seat, it had appeared to Wes that most of the five or so acres had been trampled. The newly set plants were no longer in neat rows, and the furrows themselves were beaten down nearly flat. Wes’s first thought had been that a tornado had come through the farm. But there had been no storm, at least not one made of wind and rain and hail. As he plodded on toward the farm he knew that the storm had been men, men with masks. Why would anyone destroy this man’s crop? he wondered. He’s just a sharecropper, and his little bit of tobacco won’t make much difference in the problems between the farmer’s Association and the Tobacco Company Trust.

  When he arrived at the lane that led to the farmhouse, Wes stopped. The man was no longer outside staring at the destruction, and his absence allowed Wes to get a closer look. There were only a few untouched plants, and these would never yield enough tobacco to sell. Wes looked both directions along the road and, seeing no one, looked toward the weather-beaten house. What he was doing was unacceptable and would have been frowned upon by everyone he knew. White men did not make calls on black men. The government might have ended slavery in the war, but they didn’t end three hundred years of custom. Even if Wes didn’t like the way these people were treated, he knew he had to at least act the same as his friends and his neighbors did toward them. Yet Wes needed to talk to the man and find out what had happened; he didn’t care what anyone thought.

  Wes turned from the destruction and walked up the sagging steps to the door of the house. After looking around again to see if he was being watched, he knocked twice on the door. He could feel his heart beating, but told himself it was because of the quick walk from the church. That’s probably why my hands are sweating too, he thought. There was no response, so he reached to knock again, when the door opened and the dark face of a man a few years older than Wes peered out at him. The sunlight on the porch bled into the darkened room. In the gray shadow, Wes could see the man’s hand clutching the barrel of an old shotgun.

  “What you want?”

  “I ain’t here to cause you any trouble, mister. I’m a farmer just like you, but I need to ask you somethin’.” Wes sensed the man’s pent up anger.

  “Ask me somethin’ about what?”

  “Let’s talk out there in the yard. I don’t wanna disturb your family.” Wes’s solemn face didn’t reveal the hint of fear he felt about the gun.

  The black man turned away from Wes for a moment. He leaned the gun against the wall, reached for his hat and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind him. He glanced at Wes for only a second before he dropped his eyes, a custom he hated but one he knew was still expected. Wes turned from him and walked off the porch toward the field, stopping when he reached what was left of the first plowed row. When he turned and looked at the man’s face, he saw someone who knew hard work and sorrow. For a moment Wes felt that the only difference between himself and the farmer was the color of their sk
in.

  “I’m Wes Wilson. I’ve got a farm on the other side of Lynnville.” Wes started to reach his hand forward to shake hands, but realizing it would be an awkward gesture for both of them, he quickly shoved it into his pocket.

  “Jackson,” said the man. He risked looking into Wes’s eyes and, seeing no anger or arrogance, added, “Joseph Jackson.”

  With genuine curiosity and a good deal more respect than Jackson would have expected, Wes asked, “When did this happen, Jackson?”

  “Night before last,” Jackson said as he kicked at a clump of dirt and then sat down on his haunches. “Don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

  “I’ve got to ask you this,” said Wes, “and I mean no disrespect.” He paused as he tried to come up with the right words. “Was it the Klan or the Association Night Riders?”

  Jackson didn’t respond right away. Wes even considered asking him again, but then Jackson mumbled, “Is there a difference?”

  “Have any of the boys from the Association been around talkin’ to you about your crop?”

  Looking up at Wes, Jackson said, “Mr. Wilson, I’m not sure who I can trust anymore, so let me ask you a question first. Are you one of the Association boys? Or are you a hillbilly just like me?” Without waiting for an answer, Jackson scooped up some of the dirt from the mound in front of him and then stood up slowly. He held his cupped hands in front of Wes and then showed him. “See this salt? The Klan don’t salt fields like this.” He turned his hands over and let the dirt fall back to the ground. “It ain’t right,” he said. “I’ve got a family to take care of.”

  He stood silently, searching it seemed, for a way to start his story. “We ain’t got a clock, but it must’ve been after midnight. I heard a dog howlin’ down the road, but that ain’t strange, so I didn’t worry too much about it.” Jackson started walking into the field and Wes followed.