After walking for what felt like an hour, she heard the unmistakable sound of a twig cracking beneath someone’s foot. She dropped low, squatting and slowing her breathing as she tried to find the source of the noise. Had one of those jerks from school spotted her heading into the woods and followed her so they could tease her again for her mistake? Would they pour soda on her and tell her to give it to her colored friends? Didn’t they know she didn’t have colored friends? She’d barely known a single one of them her whole life, but now the way people were acting you’d think she was out jumping rope and having cookies with them every day.
When she heard nothing for a minute she thought of standing, but something told her to stay put. Something in her gut just kept saying, Not yet. Don’t move yet. It’s not time. Then she heard it: a scream followed by a body bolting by her. It was a black girl moving so quickly she wasn’t paying attention to branches that were slapping her across the face. The girl’s foot caught on a log and she dropped to the ground with a thud that told Beatrice she’d likely had the wind knocked out of her. Chasing behind her was a familiar face. Simpson had his baseball bat slung over his shoulder as he closed the gap between him and the fallen girl. Beatrice could recognize him from a mile away. He had abnormally large brown eyes and his hair did this spikey, untamed thing, making him look far more interesting than he was.
“Stop,” Beatrice shouted, tossing herself between them before Simpson could reach the girl. His body slammed into hers, and they both toppled to the ground.
“What the hell are you doing out here, Beatrice?” Simpson barked, jumping to his feet and brushing the dirt off his tattered hand-me-down pants.
“I’m walking home,” she explained, turning toward the little girl and extending her hand to help her up. “Are you hurt?” she asked, looking the girl over once she was on her feet. She had her black hair parted in three different spots and pulled back into tight braids punctuated at the bottom with pink plastic clips. When she spoke Beatrice saw her smile had multiple holes where her baby teeth had fallen out. Her dress, which was now soiled, had matched the clips perfectly. It was trimmed with lace at the sleeves and hem, and Beatrice could tell it had been made with great care. Her round plump lips, framed perfectly by even plumper cheeks, were quivering with fear. Beatrice had never seen such pretty eyes before. They were rich and shiny like molasses and shimmered beneath the tears gathering in them. They seemed bottomless, and it made Beatrice want to lean in and examine them further. As the girl blinked nervously, Beatrice watched her long curled-up lashes catch some of the drops and hold them. The girl finally offered only a small, nearly imperceptible nod to Beatrice to let her know she was fine.
“Beatrice, what the hell? Are you really that thick? You didn’t learn anything from last month did you?” Simpson shoved Beatrice aside with a force unlike any of the playful teasing the two of them had done in the past. He was angry. “She needs to go on. Now.”
Shoving him back, Beatrice let all the fury that had been building in her over the last month show on her face. “She’s a little girl. You’re going to beat her with a bat?”
“I got lost,” the girl whimpered, dropping her head obediently like a dog to its master. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Her voice was quivering, and that only made Beatrice’s rage grow.
“God tells us to love everyone,” Beatrice countered with her chin held high. “She’s a lost little girl. She deserves mercy.”
“Shut up, Beatrice,” Simpson growled, looking over his shoulder and biting at his lip nervously.
“You can’t seriously think you should beat her with that bat because she got lost near your farm?” she shot back, eyeing Simpson’s hesitation. Surely if he was going to do it he’d have done it by now.
“You’re a retard, Beatrice. You must be. I know your mama and daddy can barely read and you don’t have no television, but how can you not know what’s going on in the world? It ain’t just about them anymore.” He gestured over to the little girl with the tip of the bat and sent her jumping nearly out of her skin. “They’re stringing up whites now, too. Shooting them. Burning them. White people out there marching with them, trying to get them the vote; they’re getting killed, too. You can’t help them. You ain’t supposed to.” Simpson dropped his bat to his side, but his face was twisted up and angry like he was trying to explain to a horse how to eat with a fork.
“I don’t get it. Why does everyone hate them so much?” Beatrice demanded, balling her fists together and stomping her foot in frustration. “I’m tired of being dumb about all this stuff. I want to know.”
“It’s complicated,” Simpson replied as he brushed his hand over his dark brown hair. She saw gold flecks in his eyes that had previously been masked by a fierce anger, and they now caught the light that filtered down through the trees.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Beatrice said with a shake in her own voice now. She was exhausted. Sick of feeling tired and stupid.
“You don’t have to do a damn thing and you’re mighty lucky for that,” Simpson explained with an edge back in his voice. “No one is looking to you to do anything. No one is handing you a white hood. You’re a girl, all you gotta do is keep your mouth shut and stay out of the way. Count yourself lucky for that and go on home.”
“I ain’t gonna let you hurt her. You’ll have to hurt me too. There ain’t no way I’m going home knowing you’re gonna beat on her.” Beatrice stuck out her chin defiantly. Surely this was different than the man on Main Street she’d tried to help. Her father couldn’t possible agree that this little girl, who’d accidently gotten lost, should be beaten by a boy so much larger than she was. The situations were completely different, and she tried to convince herself that she was doing the right thing.
Simpson drew in a deep breath as though he was trying to calm his temper. “You don’t know what you’re doing, Beatrice. This ain’t kid shit anymore. We ain’t horsing around in the schoolyard. The world isn’t what you think it is. You have a choice to make. We all do. People don’t want any kind of mixing with colored folks. They’re willing to do anything to keep that from happening. And you’re either with them or you’re dead. That’s your choice.”
“I ain’t leaving her. You wanna hit me with that thing, then go ahead.” Beatrice closed her eyes, blocked the girl with her body, and braced for impact.
Gritting his teeth and growling, he leaned in close to Beatrice’s face. “You know damn well I ain’t gonna do that. But it ain’t me you gotta worry about. There’s four other boys and two of my brothers just a half mile behind me, and they won’t think twice about it.”
Looking past his shoulder, genuine fear began to set in. She’d known Simpson all her life. He’d be unlikely to really raise a hand to her, but these other boys wouldn’t.
“Run, Beatrice. This is the one and only time I’ll ever cover for you. You pull shit like this again, and I won’t stand in anyone’s way. Just take her with you and run.” Simpson lifted his bat and used it to point in the direction they should head.
Her legs didn’t instantly respond as she thought they would. Instead she froze for a moment until he barked at her again, “Run!”
Latching onto the girl’s hand, she spun away from Simpson and headed toward the west side of Edenville. She ignored the pain of whipping branches and the pinch of a cramp in her side. Nothing would slow her down, for any pain she was feeling would be dulled in comparison to what would happen if they were caught.
“I know where I am now,” the girl mustered through exhausted breaths. “My house is just over that hill.” She tugged Beatrice’s arm and, knowing there was an end in sight, felt a much-needed burst of energy. As their tired feet pounded the dirt, they came to the edge of the woods and stood atop a hill. Beatrice looked down over the gully and realized where she was. This was the west side of Edenville. This was where she was never supposed to venture too. Every story she’d ever heard about the place began circling her mind like v
ultures. Sprinkled across the grassless field and blocked by overgrown trees were dozens and dozens of shacks. The dirt road that led into the ravine was only wide enough for one car, and deep holes had been cut in it by rain that raced down toward the shacks. There were no real roads that led up to each place, just paths created from multiple passes over the mud.
All the shacks looked like they were fighting gravity and a few had lost, caving in on themselves like a loaf of bread that hadn’t had enough time in the oven. Beat up trucks and old furniture littered the open spaces. Fences that were missing full sections did their best to divide each property and give the façade of privacy.
The entire place was sad. That was the best way Beatrice could describe it. It made her feel sad. There were no vibrant colors; everything was the dingy brown-gray of weathered wood or the burnt copper of rust. No flowers bloomed in window boxes; the windows barely looked like they could hold themselves in place. A few skinny dogs roamed and a few skinnier kids chased them.
“Is this where you live?” Beatrice asked, raining pity down like a waterfall on this poor child.
“That one there,” the girl answered with a big smile. “We live in one of the nice ones with the good windows and a sturdy porch. We’ll have to run fast; we’re tucked away real good behind those trees so no one should see you—but just in case.”
It was the nicest shack, but that was like being the best pup in a bad litter. Its dirt front yard looked well kept, no garbage was strewn across it. It was tucked away, and more private, but that was the extent of its luxuries.
As they took off in a sprint down the steep hill, Beatrice felt as though she were flying, and not in a good way. Racing toward this unfamiliar and new world felt out of her control.
“Alma Mae, where on God’s green earth have you been? You had me as worried as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.” The woman’s voice came echoing from the porch. It was brash, but when they grew closer Beatrice could see her face was soft as she opened her arms wide. The little girl plowed right into her and buried her face in her chest. Beatrice felt suddenly out of place as they all stood on the front step in silence.
Staring down at her shoes, she kicked at a pebble and contemplated just turning around and going home. But the stitch in her side was still aching.
“I got lost, Mama. There was this boy with a baseball bat, but this girl, she saved me,” Alma explained through tears.
“Saved you?” the broad-shouldered woman asked as she looked Beatrice from head to toe appraisingly. Her face was round like her daughter, her arms thick and chocolate colored. Nothing about her was petite, but somehow she was still incredibly feminine. It was in the curve of her hips and the fullness of her mouth. Her hair was pinned back with much care, leaving perfectly sculpted waves framing her face. Even with an apron on, a broom in her hand, and mud-covered boots, she looked elegant.
She was larger than Beatrice’s own meek mother in every way. Her voice was louder. Her dress was more colorful, and her presence could be felt even when she was silent.
“She told that boy she wasn’t going to let him beat me. Then she grabbed my hand, and we ran the whole way here,” Alma explained, her words coming quickly and plowing into each other.
“Girl, did you make sure they weren’t following you? Are they coming this way?” the woman asked nervously, clutching her daughter tightly.
The fear that spread across her face made Beatrice’s heart skip a beat. It wasn’t often that a grown-up in her life showed any kind of true alarm. It was wholly unsettling.
“They didn’t, Mama. I watched. No one’s coming.” Alma spoke into her mother’s shoulder, clearly not ready to let go. “We ran so fast, Mama.”
“That’s good, girl. You gotta be fast. Now come on in the house so I can clean up those little cuts on your face,” the woman instructed as she brushed her thumb across her daughter’s cheek.
“What about her?” Alma asked, pointing over at Beatrice who was still feeling as though she were intruding.
“Go on home,” the woman said, almost as a question.
“She needs a drink or something first. She just ran near-on two miles. Plus those boys might still be out there,” Alma insisted, looking at her mother as though she were being unreasonable.
“You know full well she can’t be coming in our house,” the woman replied with a choked out laugh. “I’m grateful for what she did, but it don’t work like that.”
“Ain’t it worse for her to be standing out here where anyone can see her? Seems like inside at least her white skin ain’t catching the sun and glowing for everyone to see. We’ve got the most private house here, but should we count on that?”
Beatrice looked down at her arms and then up at the sun as though she had some kind of magic reflecting power she didn’t know about.
“Don’t be smart,” the woman scolded, swatting gently at her daughter’s backside as she reluctantly waved Beatrice to come in the house.
Beatrice hesitated only a second then looked around and hurried herself in the front door of the dirt-floor shack. She’d never been in a house without a real floor before. The place was old, and the kitchen didn’t have a single updated appliance in it. The stove was wood-burning and clunky looking. The icebox wasn’t even electric, which meant they still had ice delivered to them. She didn’t know anyone who was still doing that. The beams of the roof were exposed and barely looked like it could keep rain out if needed. How could anyone live like this, she wondered.
“I’m Winnie. This here is my daughter, Alma. What’s your name?” Pouring out a glass of water from a pitcher that sat on the crooked kitchen table, Winnie eyed Beatrice again.
“My name is Beatrice, but I hate that name,” she admitted for the first time out loud. No one had listened to her in so long she had forgotten anyone might actually care what she thought. “It’s my grandmother’s name, and she was a mean old coot. Who wants to be named after somebody mean?”
“Ha,” Winnie hollered. “Well ain’t that the truth. So why not shorten it a bit. You could be Bea. Or Betty. I had a cousin named Betty, she was sweet as a peach pie.”
“I could be named after her.” Beatrice smiled, but it slipped off her face when Winnie slammed her hand down on the table with a loud laugh.
“I can see the resemblance,” she jested. “Now, Betty, tell me what in the world you were doing standing between my baby girl and a baseball bat? Don’t you know any better?”
“I’m starting to think I might be dumb or something. Everyone keeps telling me how the world is and how I’m supposed to act and feel and stuff, but I don’t. It keeps confusing me and I keep getting everyone all mad.” Betty felt tears dripping down her cheeks. Maybe she was just tired from the running, but really it was her heart that felt tired. She didn’t bother crying when the girls at school cut her straps on her jumper. She didn’t cry when her mother kept sending her to bed earlier and earlier every night. But here she couldn’t help it.
“Girl, why are you crying? Don’t be doing all that in here. You’ll turn our dirt floor to mud,” Winnie joked, but it was clear by the look in her large round eyes she felt bad for Betty.
She blinked away the tears and stared at Winnie, taking in the differences in her features. Winnie’s nose was flat and wide, her nostrils flaring when she let out her hardy laugh. Her teeth were pearly white and when she flashed them her whole face lit up. “I’m sorry,” Beatrice sniffled, trying to wipe the tears away. But they just kept coming, as did her confessions. “I’m just so lonely. Ever since last month nobody will talk to me. And if they do it’s just to call me names and shove me around. My own kin thinks there’s something wrong with me, so there must be. I keep getting told one thing and doing another. I never should have given that man that soda, but he was so hurt.”
“That was you?” Alma asked, her dark molasses eyes going wide. “You’re the little girl who helped Amos after they beat him?”
“No,” Winnie said
, shaking her head in disbelief. “You must be joking with me here.”
“I saw him lying there all beat up, and I just thought about what I learned at church. I thought God would want me to help him. But now everyone is telling me you ain’t really people so God doesn’t care about you the same way.” Betty spoke with flailing arms as she paced around the tiny old kitchen trying to get it all off her chest.
“We is too,” Alma bit back angrily. “God loves me just fine.”
“Hush your mouth, child. It isn’t her fault that’s what they teach her. How’s she supposed to know if that’s all she ever hears?” Winnie reminded her daughter.
Betty was nearly sobbing now, her wet eyes darting around the room as she tried to gather her thoughts. “So if God does care about you then I’m supposed to. The Bible says that clear as day. But I’m supposed to honor my mother and father, too; the Bible says that. My daddy says you’re dirty. That you’re dumb folks who don’t deserve the same things we have. If they let you vote then you’ll take over the country and muck it all up. I don’t think I want that to happen either. How am I supposed to know what to do?”
“You are a dumb-dumb,” Alma said, balling her hands into fists, looking ready for a fight. She’d been the one to insist Betty come in, and now it looked like she was ready to toss her out. This was the problem with the world as far as Betty could see it. No one made any sense to her. They all changed their minds too quickly.
“Alma, shut your lips. Let the girl get it all out,” Winnie demanded as she shot her hand up and halted her daughter from saying another word.
“Simpson, the boy with the baseball bat. I’ve known him since we were in diapers. Now it’s like I don’t know him at all. My daddy, I thought he was just in this club or something, and now I’m hearing all this stuff about who the Klan is.”
Flowers in the Snow Page 4