No Daughter of the South

by Cynthia Webb

  Later, I left my hiding place under the bridge, and wandered over to the carnival grounds. I watched some of the baby beauty contests, bought some blue cotton candy. Didn’t need to stop at the guess your age and weight booth; construction workers in the city are always giving me personal evaluations, free of charge. I felt no need to try the rides. The roller coaster, the octopus, the scrambler. I guess my adrenaline glands had had enough workouts lately.

  I was turning away from a booth when I saw Terri. She noticed me in the same moment. Our eyes met, and she smiled in greeting, just as if she didn’t believe with all her heart that I was a sinner. That’s what I told her after we sat down at a picnic table with paper plates of fried catfish and grits and hushpuppies.

  “But I love you, Laurie Marie! God loves the sinners, each and every one of us, and it’s His love pouring through that you see in me.”

  “Right. Listen, Terri, are you going to the pageant?”

  “Sure I am. I never miss it.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  “Bother me?” She was genuinely puzzled. I had confused so many people since I’d arrived in town that I was beginning to feel that I spoke a foreign language.

  “You know, the whole racist nine yards.”

  She laughed and picked up a hushpuppy. “Honey, you think too much. My brother, now, he’d agree with you. He wouldn’t come within a mile of it unless he was carrying a sign and leading a demonstration. I just don’t think it’s worth worrying over. The audience doesn’t think about things like that; it’s just a story to them. My parents always said, don’t worry about seeing racism everywhere, you just worry about behaving your own little self, and letting the love of God shine through you. Everyone’s equal in God’s eyes. But I have to run now.”

  Now I was puzzled. “But, Terri, how are we gonna move towards that future you were talking about, you know, the kingdom of God on earth, unless we face the racism in our past, in this town, and in that stupid pageant?”

  But Terri had already gotten up and was throwing away her paper plate. She turned, and called, “Don’t forget. Jesus loves you and I love you,” and then she was gone, back into the crowd.

  A little later I saw Susan. She was taking a picture of Tom. He was going around on one of the little kiddie rides with the two youngest children. I watched them for a few moments. I’ll tell you this, for what it’s worth. They looked, at that moment, like a happy family. And she was right, you know. It was me that talked her into every one of those pranks in high school. All the while I was having myself a great time and it never occurred to me that she wasn’t. I had pressured her. I wanted her to be one way, and her father wanted her to be another, and, between the two of us, we’d nearly pulled her apart. Maybe life with dull Tommy was a big relief after that.

  I felt so distant from her then, as if they were a Martian family I was observing. All the people all around me felt alien. The whole town I’d spent so much time not thinking about for the past dozen years. I’d spent a lot of energy trying hard not to be a person from Port Mullet. Did I really, secretly, believe that people in the city were morally superior? Didn’t the sheer numbers of investment bankers, lawyers, and muggers in the city illustrate the insanity of that idea? And every day, the inhabitants of the city, sophisticated city dwellers, stepped around people living on the street. Maybe the real reason we chose a city so big, so immense, so crammed with humanity, is that we thought it excused each of us from personal responsibility. Maybe that’s really what I like about the city. Maybe I left Port Mullet so I wouldn’t have to see what I didn’t want to deal with, those very things that I had been confronting the last few days. Why had I ever thought that leaving made me superior to those who stayed and did nothing? Had I thought that absolved me from responsibility?

  There was a general movement in the crowd towards the little outdoor theatre at the edge of the park, over by the river. It was nearly time. I followed, pulled along by the energy of the crowd. Once there, I stepped aside, let the ones behind me climb up the bleachers. Instead, I stood over to one side, near a tree, waiting.

  It was the tail end of dusk. Night was just about to fall. The sun was down beyond the line of trees, live oaks between the theatre and the river. The sky was rose and crimson over the trees, and dark above and behind us. The colors were fading fast. I could hear the humming and buzzing of the insects around us. People were slapping at their arms and legs, leaving little smears and blotches of blood. The brush under the trees was alive with rustling noises. I thought of darting lizards, and snakes, both rattle and coral. I had learned to identify them as a kid, like everybody else. The sound of the rattle is frightening, I was taught, but the silent coral snake is more deadly. Behind the trees, in the dirty river water, swam cottonmouths while alligators floated, disguised as partially submerged logs, or lay buried in the thick mud, just waiting.

  Then it was completely dark. I was tired of self-examination, of soul-searching. I turned my irritation out to the crowd on the bleachers. The inhabitants of my home town seemed to me then to possess the heartless, mindless festivity of the audience at a lynching: their small talk as they waited for the performance, the way they slurped at the soft drinks and dug their hands into the greasy bags of popcorn, seemed to me ugly, crudely carnal.

  The taped music came over the sound system, the lights dimmed, then a small oval of light centered on the semicircular stage area. From the deep shadows at stage right came a tall, slightly-stooped man dressed as a Spanish priest. The audience was silent, waiting.

  In a moment the priest would enter, holding a scroll of parchment. He’d stand with his head bowed. This was the way the pageant always began. Then he would slowly unwind the scroll, and read the prologue.

  I knew what would happen next. I had seen it so many times. The priest, Father Hernandez, would tell how he had set out with the Spanish captain, Don Fernando, his son Philip, and niece, Theresa, along with a handful of soldiers. Then Father Hernandez would roll up the paper, the lights would dim, he would leave the stage. When the lights came back on, the priest and the children would be captives of the Indians. The captain and his soldiers would have all been massacred. The chief, bedazzled by Theresa’s European beauty, would adopt her as his daughter. Another noble family would take Philip as their son. Father Hernandez, by the grace of God, would convert the entire tribe to Christianity. They would become good Catholics and abandon human sacrifice.

  Theresa, renamed Tashima, would grow ever more beautiful and, of course, the braves would prefer her to the Indian maidens. As the chief’s daughter, she would be permitted to choose her own husband. The single young men would compete for her favors, but she would choose Philip, her kinsman. Together they would rule the tribe, after her adopted father’s death.

  A jealous, rejected brave, would enlist the medicine man in his cause. The medicine man, bitter that the priest had turned the people against his superstition and magic, would gossip among the population, spreading rumors. He would say that it was wrong for the people to turn against the old ways, and point out signs of the gods’ disapproval: illness, poor weather, bad fishing, and hunting. The ignorant Indians would believe the medicine man and turn against Tashima and Philip, imprisoning her and sacrificing him, then holding his pulsing heart before her horror-stricken eyes.

  At that very moment, a huge hurricane, the expression of the wrath of Father Hernandez’s God, would strike the village and destroy it completely with wind and rain. The grieving Tashima and Father Hernandez would be the only survivors. Tashima would die of a broken heart. The priest, sensing his own imminent death, would record their history on a scroll of paper, seal it in a bottle and leave it on the bank of the Tashimee River, before exiting.

  I had seen it so many times, and I could see it now in my memory. But I wouldn’t be there to see it enacted this time, to watch the story they had fabricated for themselves and for the tourists. The Indians had been gone for hundreds of years, and now the land was
completely tamed, the alligators fat on marshmallows, while here sat the Fiesta celebrants: a few descendants of the early settlers, some Italian families fresh from Queens, retired firemen from Detroit, and tourists on their way to Disney World.

  But I gasped as the priest came in—Forrest Miller. He lifted his head and began to unroll his scroll. That was when I turned and slipped away through the dark.

  I knew I was running out of time. I walked quickly over the uneven ground towards the river. I had expected to have to be careful, walking through the scrub in the dark. But I went easily, without a false step. Something in me knew the way. I had spent countless hours as a child playing there. The knowledge of every dip and marshy place, every tricky spot, was in my legs, and arms, and body, and some hidden part of my brain.

  I followed the river to the bridge, climbed up the embankment, onto the sidewalk along Main Street. I hadn’t borrowed a car, because everybody in town knew everyone else’s and it might be remembered later. I knew I should walk, save my energy, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t wait any longer. I trotted, and I fought myself at every step to keep myself from going any faster. Quite apart from the consideration of avoiding fatigue, I was more likely to attract attention, running, and in boots, no less.

  But there was no one on these quiet residential streets to see me. Almost everyone was at the pageant, or the carnival, or one of the parties in honor of the Fiesta. Then I started to run flat out, my boots pounding against the pavement, the sound of my blood pounding in my ears.

  When I reached the corner to the Miller’s house, I slowed down. I turned at the service alley that went behind the houses. The air was heavy with a sweet, almost cloying scent. Was that honeysuckle? I wasn’t sure. I had spent so many warm nights at Susan’s house, but I didn’t remember this smell. And then I remembered, it had been twenty years. Twenty years is plenty of time for a small cutting to grow to a large plant, to cover a fence, to grow up a wall, to become the flourishing vine that could saturate the air with that overpowering scent.

  My body still remembered the way. I crossed the large back yard, filled with rose gardens, and fruit trees, and patios, without even thinking about it. I found myself at the back door. I didn’t remember pulling the key out of my pocket, but, somewhere along the way, I had. I looked at it for a moment, surprised, and then I slid it into the lock.

  It turned easily, so smoothly. I took one last look behind me, to be sure no one was watching. I couldn’t see anyone, but it was dark, and there were many trees, and dark, shadowed areas. Through the windows of the house across the back alley, I could see the strange blue flickering light of a TV.

  I slipped through the door, closed it behind me. For good measure, I locked it.

  I was standing in what Susan’s mother called the “garden room.” The floor was cool white ceramic tiles. A round table surrounded with white wicker chairs sat in front of the French doors, with a view of the rose garden. It could have appeared on the front cover of any house-decorating magazine.

  I stood there for a moment, searched inside myself for any second thoughts, and I didn’t find any. I might not learn the truth, it might be too late, the evidence might be gone. But this wasn’t about the past. I had to know about myself. Was I really willing to make every effort to confront the truth?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I went straight to Forrest’s study. First, I made sure the curtains were completely closed. Then I put a small table lamp on the floor before turning it on. I cursed myself for not thinking of a flashlight.

  The photograph albums were on the lower shelves, about two dozen of them. I sat down on the floor, and pulled them out at random, flipping through the pages. They were, just as Etta Mae had described them, monuments to Forrest’s vanity. A photo of Forrest shaking a politician’s hand, a yellowed newspaper clipping of the mayor naming the Little League field after its benefactor, Forrest Miller. At first I looked at each picture, but I soon got bored with the seemingly endless tributes to Forrest. I started skimming over each page quickly, then turning to the next. I was so intent on my search that I lost my awareness of my surroundings, and the danger, until I heard the unmistakable sound of the front door opening. I scrambled to my feet as fast I could and looked frantically around the room for a means of escape. I considered climbing out the window, but rejected it as too slow and too noisy.

  On a hunch, I went as quickly and quietly as I could to slide open the top desk drawer. Bingo—there was a gun. I picked it up carefully. I did know, of course, that pulling the trigger was the way to make the thing fire, but that was the extent of my knowledge. I had heard of a safety, but had no idea what it looked like or where I would find it. I didn’t know how to tell if the thing was loaded, either. Since I had no intention of shooting anyone anyway, I wrapped both my hands around the handle, fastidiously avoiding the trigger. I planned to rely only on its deterrent capacity, and that only if necessary. My favorite scenario would be to hide quietly, undiscovered, in the study until I could escape unnoticed—the use of the firearm never required.

  I dropped to my knees and crawled under the desk awkwardly, with the gun still in my hands. I made myself as small as possible, pressing my knees up against my wildly thumping heart. The footsteps were fairly light. I hoped it was Mrs. Miller out there. Explaining to her what I was doing there was going to be a little rough, but it seemed infinitely preferable to attempting the explanation with Forrest or one of his thugs.

  The footsteps stopped right outside the study door. I held my breath. The door opened slowly.

  “Hey, Laurie, you in here?” It was Susan.

  I tried to scramble out from under the desk, banging my back pretty good along the way.

  “Susan?”

  She stared at the gun in my hand which I put down on the desk slowly.

  “I was worried about you. I came to help.”

  “I love you, Susan.” I didn’t know why, but it seemed important to say that.

  She looked uncomfortable. “Me, too. Uh, Laurie…?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I didn’t tell you everything. I’m sorry. Don’t be mad. I was so ashamed.”

  She looked so unhappy and I felt so bad for what I’d done to her. She’d done the best she could to make a life for herself under difficult circumstances, and I’d popped back into it just to make things worse. “Ah, Susan, don’t be ashamed. It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. Look, I know all about your sister. About Billie.”

  “You do? I don’t even know all about Billie. But, Laurie, the photographs. They used to be in here.”

  “You knew all along? You’ve seen them?” That hadn’t occurred to me. I was dumfounded.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. I already said that.” She stopped, for a moment, and then shrugged. “You know, I tried hard not to think about it. Ever. Like if I didn’t think about it, then it didn’t happen.” Her expression started to break, the lines in her face sagging. “They all shot, at one time. So no one would know who did it. Then they mutilated his body. Then they threw him in the stream.” Her voice was expressionless, like she was reciting a verse in a language she didn’t understand.

  “How do you know all this?”

  She shrugged again. “I listened. When they thought I wasn’t around, or that I wasn’t paying attention. When I was a kid. When the men would get to drinking and talking. This was a big event to them—having their chance to kill a ‘nigger’ and get away with it. But then, things changed. By the time I was old enough to understand the implications, they didn’t talk about it anymore. You could tell ‘nigger’ jokes, sure, and be dead set against integration, but what they did would have been called murder by then, and investigated by the state police, even the FBI. The Klan had dwindled down to almost nothing around here. Momma was after Daddy to get out. They fought about it a lot. But I think they were really fighting about my sister. My mother hated my father for what he did to my sister, and she hated herself for not being able to s
ave her. But how could she save a daughter who did what Billie did?”

  She sat down on the edge of the couch and looked up at me, intently, as if desperate to convince me of something. “I didn’t really understand until I was a lot older. By then, I’d sneak in here and go through Daddy’s stuff. And when I was, I don’t know, eight, maybe, or nine, I saw the pictures. In a moment, I knew it. The whole thing. What happened. And at the same time, I didn’t believe it. I was a lot younger when I heard about that stuff, and maybe I’d misunderstood. Maybe it was my over-active imagination. And I closed the album and walked out of this room, and made myself forget it. I forced myself never to think about it. Because there was nothing I could do about it, and to live with it would just be too much. How could I live knowing my father was a monster when I have to eat Sunday dinner at his house every other week. He pays my husband’s salary. He’s my children’s grandfather.” She shook her head as though answering a question someone else had asked her.

  “I had enough to do, just to figure out how I could get to live my own life. Billie hadn’t gotten away with it, and I was determined to. But then I kept letting myself get carried away by your crazy ideas. Skinny dipping at Deer Key. Skipping school. Smoking pot in the girls’ room. Sometimes it felt really good. And sometimes, I couldn’t quit thinking that one false step, and I’d end up like Billie. I knew I had to get away from him, but if I kept doing it your way, I’d lose. I’d never get out, never get away from him.”

  She started sniffling. I put my arms around her. She pushed me away. “We don’t have time for this now. Let me show you where I think they are.”

  She got down on the floor and started looking at the albums, one after another. After she’d flipped through a half-dozen, she started to seem frantic.

  “You know,” I said, as gently as I could, “he may not have kept these particular pictures. Whatever else you have to say about your father, he’s not stupid.”