Big Lies in a Small Town (ARC)

by Diane Chamberlain

  But Jesse said to head for his house. His family’s farm. I protested, but I had no better idea. Yet it seemed like a mistake. Wouldn’t they look for us at the Williams farm? I didn’t want to involve his family. His parents. I felt ashamed that I’d gotten their son into such a mess. But I followed his directions into the countryside and soon I was turning down the road that ran to his family’s house.

  His father came out of the barn, and Aunt Jewel came out of the house, little Nellie by her side. Nellie ran toward Jesse, flinging her arms around his waist. Jesse spoke to his aunt rather than his father.

  “We in trouble,” he said. “Anna and me.”

  His father’s eyes widened with fear or anger, I couldn’t tell which, and Jesse quickly set him straight before I had a chance to.

  “Ain’t what you thinkin’,” Jesse said quickly. He explained that the police thought we’d killed Martin. That he had to leave. That the Williams family had to let me stay with them. Hide me. Keep me safe.

  I wanted to tell him not to run away, that somehow this would all work out, but I knew he had to go. In that moment, I felt as though I might be safe, but he was in great danger. I felt the protection of the two adults standing next to me. Deep down, though, I knew a colored family was no protection at all. They couldn’t even protect themselves from the danger I was bringing to them.

  Jesse said he had to take my car, and I pressed the key into his hand. I wanted to say more—so much more—but he took off at a run toward my car. We watched him drive off in a cloud of dust, the bulky, crumpled mural blocking the side and rear windows. Where could he go that he would be safe?

  Nowhere, I thought, and I started to cry.

  Tears running down my cheeks, I looked from Mr. Williams’s startled face to Aunt Jewel’s. I sobbed, apologizing to them over and over again.

  Mr. Williams was angry. He said something about Jesse spending too much time with me, too little time working on the farm where he belonged.

  I wanted to say something about Jesse’s talent. How he shouldn’t be held back. But who was I to pass that sort of judgment when I’d thrown him into a mess that could hold him back for the rest of his life?

  Aunt Jewel put an arm around my shoulders and told me to come with her into the house. She called me “Sugar,” and I felt like a child as she led me inside. The house seemed empty and quiet and our footsteps echoed as we walked through the dining room where I’d shared a meal with the family not all that long ago, then up the stairs. I was glad no one seemed to be home.

  She led me into a small bedroom. A narrow bed was against one wall, a window next to the metal headboard. There was a wooden chair near the window, but no dresser or bureau in the room. A huge old chest stood at the foot of the bed.

  She told me we were in Nellie’s room. There was a mattress beneath Nellie’s bed that could be pulled out for me to sleep on. “The police less likely to look in a child’s room for a … for you,” she said, but added that she needed to think of a good hiding place for me in case they showed up. She asked if I thought they would, and I heard the first hint of worry in her voice.

  I just nodded. I couldn’t seem to find my voice.

  Aunt Jewel studied my face and I didn’t turn away. I needed to put my trust in her.

  “How far along are you?” she asked.

  Somehow she knew. I told her it wasn’t Jesse’s and she asked me whose it was.

  I told her everything then, struggling to keep my wits about me. I told her how Martin Drapple raped me. How I killed him with a hammer. I told her that Jesse hid his body and the hammer but the police found them, so they were after both of us now. I told her how sorry I was that I’d gotten Jesse in trouble.

  She pressed a hand over her mouth as I spoke, her dark eyes never leaving my face. I could tell I’d shocked her, and I didn’t think she was the sort to shock easily. Finally, she let out a long breath. She said that Jesse made the decision to help me, so that wasn’t my fault. Nobody made him do it, she said. That was small comfort to me, though. “And our Lord Jesus ain’t never gonna forgive me for this,” she said, “but I ain’t got no sympathy for a man who’d rough up a woman, and what that Mr. Drapple done to you went way beyond that, didn’t it?”

  I nodded. I felt grateful for her words—and somewhat vindicated by them as well—but that didn’t solve the predicament I was in.

  She asked again how far along I was, her gaze dropping to my belly behind the smock I was still wearing, and I told her about two months. She stood up and walked to the window and I guessed she was looking out at the road, watching for the police. She had to be nervous, but she didn’t show it. She was a midwife. I thought she must be used to things going terribly wrong.

  She asked me if I had anyplace else to go where the police wouldn’t be looking for me, and I shook my head. She let out a breath she must have been holding in, then said I would have to stay with them until the baby came.

  I was stunned by the thought. I couldn’t imagine staying with them for seven months. The police would look for me here. I’d put all of them in too much danger.

  “Jesse said to take care of you, so we gonna take care of you.”

  I felt weak with gratitude and relief. I longed to turn myself over to someone stronger, someone smarter than I felt at that moment.

  Then, Aunt Jewel told me to follow her into the hallway. She led me to a narrow closet. Pulling open the door, she revealed clothes hanging so tightly together they seemed to form a solid wall. I could smell mothballs. She told me that was where she and her cousins all hid when they were children. She reached through the wall of clothing. I heard something pop and above the hangers, I watched the rear wall give way, falling inward a few inches at an angle. Aunt Jewel told me to step into the space behind the wall to see if I would fit.

  I pushed my way through the sea of clothing. The false wall had opened a bit like a door, allowing me to squeeze through the opening and into a suffocatingly narrow, dark space I imagined was teeming with spiders and who knew what else.

  Aunt Jewel told me to push the wall back in place. I hesitated. I wanted to ask if she planned to leave me in the closet all the time, but thought better of expressing any doubt. Gulping, I pushed the wall back in place. Then I stood in the narrow pitch-black space, hardly able to breathe. Seconds passed and my breathing quickly grew shallow. Panicky, I tried to find a knob or something that would allow me to open the false wall again, but my hands felt only smooth wood. I called to Aunt Jewel, pounding my fist against the wall.

  The wall tilted inward again and I let out my breath. “Scary in there, ain’t it?” she said with a laugh. I asked if there was a way to open the wall from the inside on my own, thinking ahead. What if the police came and no one was home to let me out? They’d find my skeleton in the wall someday, generations from now.

  Aunt Jewel showed me how to dig my fingers into the edge of the door to pull it open again. She helped me step through the forest of clothing. She said finding me a hiding place was the easy part and I asked her what the hard part was.

  “Telling Abe and Agnes—Jesse’s mama and daddy—you’re stayin’ here for the next seven months,” she said.

  At that very moment, I heard the sound of voices coming from downstairs and my heart leaped into my throat. I reached for the knob of the closet, but Aunt Jewel set her hand on my wrist. She cocked her head to listen. It was just the family, she said. She told me to go back in Nellie’s room and stay there. She’d talk to them.

  So that is where I am right now. In Nellie’s room, sitting on her bed. From here, I can look out the window at the long straight dirt road leading up to the farm. I’m watching for a police car. Why haven’t they come yet? The only reason I can think of is that they’ve already caught Jesse. I hope that isn’t so. Would they torture him to tell them where I am? I can’t bear to think of what they’d do to him if they caught him. Please, God, keep him safe!

  And where are they looking for me?

 
I picture Karl going to Miss Myrtle’s house, asking her if she’s seen me. He’ll tell her I’m wanted for the murder of Martin Drapple and she won’t believe him. “Oh, that’s nonsense!” she’ll say. “Why, Anna wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

  And he’ll say, “She killed him with the claw end of a hammer.” He’ll tell her that she’s lucky to be rid of me. That I’m dangerous.

  I feel bad about that, imagining Miss Myrtle thinking of me as a danger.

  I think of my clothes and books, my perfume and rouge and everything else I left at her house. It’s likely I’ll never see any of it again. Other than my purse and the clothes on my back, the only thing I have with me is this journal.

  4 P.M.

  I guess a half hour or longer passed as I sat there alone in Nellie’s room, my eyes glued to the long driveway, waiting to see Karl’s car coming to take me away. I could no longer hear voices downstairs and wondered how Jesse’s parents had reacted to Aunt Jewel telling them that they now had a fugitive on their hands. I heard light, rapid footsteps on the stairs, and in a moment, Nellie burst into the room, pigtails bouncing.

  “We get to sleep in the same room!” she said, her huge eyes twinkling. She is so adorable. I’d felt drawn to her when I met her before and I’m even more so now. I tried to act like everything is fine as I talked to her. I didn’t want to frighten her. I told her I would try not to take up too much space in her room and she said she didn’t care, that she liked sharing.

  She bounced a little on the bed. She pointed to my journal on my lap and asked me what it was. I explained that it’s like a diary, then realized she probably had no idea what a diary was. “It’s where you can write down your thoughts, just for yourself. So you can keep them to yourself,” I said. “No one else should read them.”

  She leaned over and lifted the pages a bit, just enough to see my writing. She told me I wrote “that funny way. Where the letters get all hooked together.”

  I explained the difference between printing and cursive writing, and she said she was going to learn how to write that way. She said her daddy doesn’t know how to read or write except for signing his name. “Mama can read good. Aunt Jewel and Dodie and Jesse … they can do all of it ’cause they got more learnin’.”

  I said something about learning being very important, but my gaze was once more out the window. Then Nellie said she would never want to have a journal, and when I asked her why not she said, “I like everybody to know what I’m thinkin’!” She hopped off the bed and twirled in a circle and I laughed, but then I felt worried that she might share my whereabouts with someone. I told her how important it was that it stay a secret that I was living with her family, and she reassured me that she understood, pressing a finger to her lips.

  Just at that moment, I heard voices downstairs. Abe’s. Aunt Jewel’s. And Karl? I gasped. In the few seconds I’d let my guard down, he must have come up the driveway.

  I whispered to Nellie that the police were downstairs and got quickly to my feet. I grabbed this journal and my purse and carefully opened Nellie’s bedroom door, ready to rush to the closet and its false wall, but I could see onto the living room floor at the bottom of the stairs in front of me. I could see the lower legs and shiny shoes of two policemen and the dusty shoes of a man who had to be Jesse’s father.

  Nellie saw what I saw. She gave me one brief look of panic, those big dark eyes of hers even bigger. Then she shut the door again, quietly, and flung open the lid of the big chest at the foot of her bed. She began tossing its contents—clothing, toys, stuffed animals—on the floor, while I watched, my heart thumping. “Get in!” she commanded.

  I took no time to think about it. Clutching my purse and journal, I climbed into the chest and Nellie closed the lid. I had to fold myself in two to fit. I heard muffled voices from somewhere in the house and then I heard what I was certain was Nellie’s door opening.

  “Hey, girlie,” a male voice said. It wasn’t Karl’s voice. I thought of the roly-poly policeman who’d come with Karl to the warehouse that one time. Was it him? He asked Nellie if she’d seen a “white gal” around the farm. Nellie answered, oh so politely, that “no, sir, I ain’t seen no white gal.”

  There were a few noises. The scuff of shoes on the wood floor, maybe. Inside the chest, I could hear myself breathing.

  “You’re a messy little child, ain’t you?” the policeman said. “Your mama let you throw your clothes and such all over the room like this?”

  Nellie said something about cleaning the room up real soon.

  I heard heavy footsteps coming closer. I felt a pressure against the chest and pictured Nellie leaning protectively against the lid. Don’t be too obvious, Nellie, I thought to myself.

  “What you got on under that pretty little dress of yours?” he asked.

  I was horrified! My hands tightened around my journal.

  “Bloomers,” Nellie said, calm as you please. “And you better git.”

  “Oh, I better git, huh? Or what? What do you think you could do to me?” I was certain it was Roly-Poly now. I hated him. I had my hands on the lid ready to break out of the chest if that boor laid a finger on Nellie. I could have sworn I heard her rapid breathing above me.

  But just then, another male voice called out for “Barney,” which I guess is Roly-Poly’s first name. Was it Karl? I couldn’t tell. But he said that I wasn’t there and to “quit horsing around with that nigger” and come downstairs.

  I heard the footsteps recede, then the bedroom door slammed shut.

  “They gone, Miss Anna!” Nellie raised the lid. “They—”

  I quickly hushed her, looking toward the closed bedroom door, praying they hadn’t heard her.

  “They gone,” she whispered this time. “You safe.”

  I stepped out of the chest and pulled her to me. Hugged her tight. I told her what an incredibly brave girl she was. I thanked her for saving my life. I believe she truly did.

  Monday, May 27, 1940

  At lunch today, I asked how I could help out around the house while I’m staying on the Williams farm. They call lunch “dinner.” I’ve come to realize that if I have a question to ask anyone in the family, “dinner” is the best time to ask it. In the three days I’ve been here, I’ve eaten breakfast alone, unable to get up at the crack of dawn like everyone else. At the first sign of light, they are up and out, gathering eggs and feeding animals and doing whatever else needs to be done out there. This was Jesse’s life. There is a void here without him and no one says it to me, but I imagine everyone has to work much harder without him here. I worry they blame me. Why shouldn’t they? There is no one else to blame.

  The first night here, I weepily told them everything. I said how sorry I was for putting them in danger. I offered to turn myself in, and I meant it. They are taking such a risk and I wanted to give them a chance to back out of helping me. They are not happy about having me here—well, except for Nellie, whose ignorance of what is truly going on helps maintain her sunny disposition—but they all know Jesse is in grave danger and they conspire to keep me hidden in the hope I will never be questioned by the police and that will somehow keep Jesse safe. Only Jesse’s father is not really in agreement, but the women—Jesse’s mother and Aunt Jewel and nineteen-year-old Dodie—override him. Only Aunt Jewel treats me warmly, though. I can tell that Jesse’s mother and Dodie think I’m the cause of his problems. Of course, they are right.

  Aunt Jewel is very kind, but I think she sees me as a project. I am a project for her. I won’t be having this baby at a hospital, that is for certain. She’ll have to deliver it here. And then what? I can’t live here with my baby. She says it’s too early to worry about it, so I’m taking her advice and trying to put the baby at the back of my mind for now.

  Mr. and Mrs. Williams exchanged a look when I asked how I could help. So far, I have done little other than clean up after myself and try to help a bit with cooking, although to be honest, I feel lost in their kitchen. I’m accustomed to get
ting my groceries at the market. I have never killed a chicken, butchered a hog, ground meat, canned a single vegetable, picked lettuce from a garden, and God knows, I’ll never know how to cook those stinky collards that seem to be on the stove all day long.

  Mr. Williams said it would be too dangerous for me to do anything outside where I could be seen, so I offered to clean the house, nearly giggling at the thought, wondering just how many colored families had a white maid. I suggested I do the sweeping and dusting and bed making. The wringer-washer is out in the open on the porch, so doing the laundry is probably unwise. I offered to wash the dishes. “Whatever needs doing, I’m happy to do it,” I said.

  Mrs. Williams asked me if I can stitch. I wasn’t quite sure what she meant.

  “Sew,” she said impatiently. I’m not sure if her impatience comes from my presence or if this is the way she always is.

  I told her I can sew, that I’ve made many of my own clothes, and she said they have plenty of mending to keep me busy.

  So, this afternoon I swept the downstairs rooms and dusted furniture, waiting for my first sewing assignment. It’s not much, but it feels good to be paying something back to these people.

  Saturday, June 22, 1940

  Four weeks have passed since Jesse and I fled the warehouse, and for the first time, there is no mention of us in the Chowan Herald. Mr. Williams picks up the newspaper each Saturday when he goes into town to sell his eggs and melons and I don’t know what else, and I’ve gotten in the habit of reading the paper the moment he returns to the house. Since the paper comes out on Thursday, the news is always a bit stale, but it’s all we have to go on. Mr. Williams doesn’t read, and I feel touched when Mrs. Williams reads him the Bible lesson and the other articles that might interest him. At first I wondered what it would be like to have a husband so uneducated that he can’t read, but he is such a hard worker and good provider, that I don’t think Mrs. Williams cares a bit.