by Cynthia Webb
She didn’t look up. She pulled out a few more albums, looked through them quickly, shoved them back on the shelves. Then she pulled out a beautiful, leather-bound one, looked at the cover, and handed it to me with an awful smile.
I took it out of her hands, and I was surprised that my own were shaking. You think you want to know something, and then you see that you really don’t. But I took it from her anyway, and sat back, cross-legged on the floor. I opened the heavy covers slowly. I turned each page slowly.
Susan got impatient. She reached over and starting flipping quickly through the pages. Then suddenly, she stopped. She got up on her knees and studied the page before her for a moment. Then she sighed, sat back down, waved her hand over the page.
It was pretty dark, and I guess my eyes aren’t as good as Susan’s, because I had to take the album over to the lamp to really be able to see. I wanted the truth to be clear. Putting the album down on the floor in the circle of light made by the lamp, I crouched over the page. There were five pictures. Two in the top row, and two in the bottom, and one right in the middle of the page. They were black and white. The one in the middle was a bound, mutilated body hanging limp against a stake. The body was recognizably human only because of the clothes, and the hands. I was thankful the photograph was not in color, but black and white was plenty bad enough.
The other four were shots of the crowd standing around the body. Those appeared to have been taken after the shooting and before the mutilation. Every man had a gun in his arm or at his side. Some men were in all the photographs, and some were only in one. I had no way of knowing whether every man involved had been photographed. The first thing I did was study every face. The one I was looking for wasn’t there, and I sat back on my heels for a moment, immensely relieved. My father was not in any of the pictures. I had looked, and I was sure of that. Some of the faces had been vaguely familiar, and, if I studied them again, I would probably recognize them as younger versions of men I had known all my life. Two I had recognized immediately. Mr. Johnson, the pharmacist, was one. And Mr. Berry, Johnny’s father, was another.
I sat up again to lean into the light, and continued studying the photographs.
“You’re right to do this,” Susan said. “The Klan’s getting so big again, much bigger and better organized than it ever was before. And they’re smarter now. They even have a public relations consultant.” She was sitting right beside me, and she ran the flat palm of her hand across the top edge of the album page. “I’m glad you’re doing this.”
I was still studying the photographs. “Susan, did he ever... abuse… you or Billie?”
I was shocked at her bitter laughter. “Not the way you mean. I was spanked as a little kid, sure, but nothing you’d call a beating. And he never tried anything sexual with me. I don’t know if he tried anything with Billie, of course. I have no way to know. But don’t you see, Laurie, he didn’t have to beat us. He had complete power. He controlled us completely, and, if we were crazy enough to disobey, he could have us thrown in the looney bin. He didn’t have to rape us. It was clear our bodies were his to control anyway. That’s what killed him about me getting pregnant. I’d had sex without his permission. But then, of course, I was in Tom’s power, and Tom was in my father’s. So...”
I heard something right then, and I could tell Susan heard it, too. Two cars. They pulled up. One in the front driveway, one in the back alley. The engines were turned off. Car doors opened, and slammed shut. Voices and footsteps outside.
I hurriedly pulled the photographs off the page, and shoved them under a couch cushion. Susan hadn’t moved. I whispered, “Maybe you can crawl out your old bedroom window.”
It was too late. The front and the back doors were opened, and they were tramping through the house. With my one last calm thought, I pulled open the door to Forrest’s bathroom and pushed Susan in. “This is silly,” she protested. “This is my parents’ house.”
“Humor me,” I whispered as forcefully as I could.
I closed the bathroom door. Just a few seconds later, the study door was pushed open. A group of men I’d never seen before was standing there. I want to say that they were big, ugly, stupid looking men. That’s the picture I have in my mind when I think about it. But it’s not true. They looked like everyone else. Just five regular guys. One of them yelled to let the others know they had found me.
“We found the intruder in here,” is actually what one of the guys said.
“Intruder? Is that what I am?” I said. “Then why don’t you call the cops?” Then I smiled, tried hard to smile cute and sweet and nonthreatening.
The one that appeared to be the leader said, “That’s up to Mr. Miller. He’s the lawful owner. We’re just going to keep an eye on you until he gets here.”
“Well, in that case,” I said. “I’ll call the cops.” I moved toward the phone. One of the guys stepped forward, unplugged the phone from the wall, and stood there with the cord in his hand.
“No, Ma’am. You won’t. This is Mr. Miller’s phone and you don’t have his permission to use it.”
“Then I’m out of here. See you guys later.” I took a couple of studiously nonchalant steps towards the door. One guy stepped in front of the door, wouldn’t let me pass.
“You can’t keep me here,” I said. “This is imprisonment. You’re not the police. You have to call the police, or let me go.”
“Who are you to tell us what to do? You broke into someone else’s house, and you’re talking to us about your rights? Forget it. Wait here, and work it out with Mr. Miller.”
Susan’s voice behind me said, “She didn’t break in. She’s my guest.”
I turned around. She was standing in the open door to the bathroom, holding herself every inch the daughter of the most powerful man in town.
“Excuse us, Mrs. Dalman, we didn’t know you were here.”
She nodded her head, graciously accepting his apology. “This is my old friend, Laurie Marie Coldwater.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said one of the younger boys. “We know who she is. Coach Coldwater’s little girl.” I was both taller and older than he was.
“Well then, I’ll see you gentlemen to the front door, unless you’d like a cold drink. I’m sorry that you were troubled for no reason.” She was walking to the door. The man blocking it stood to one side to let her by. But no one made any move to follow her.
Susan looked back at them, puzzlement on her face.
“We can’t leave, Ma’am. We have to wait here for Mr. Miller, just like he said.”
Susan was trying not to show that she recognized her complete lack of power, but her face was white. “I’m going to have to ask you for that phone so I can make a call.”
“No, Ma’am. I’m sorry.” The kid talking did look sorry. “You can go wherever you want to make a phone call. But you can’t use the phone here.”
The look on Susan’s face was empty and lonely and defeated. Being the daughter of the most powerful man in town didn’t help much when he was the one she was up against.
We were all just standing there, in deadlock, when another car pulled up in the driveway. A car door opened, and then another. Two car doors shut.
Footsteps came up the driveway, and then the front door opened. One of the guys stepped around Susan to greet the newcomers in the foyer.
We heard Forrest Miller’s hearty voice. “So, boys, you catch a fox in the henhouse?”
All the men laughed. I didn’t think it was so funny.
“No, sir, Mr. Miller. Nothing so interesting. I’m sorry to say we have been annoying your daughter and her friend.”
“Well, it won’t do to have all these good-looking men in the house with your wife, will it Tom?”
“Lord, no, that wouldn’t do at all.” None other than Susan’s husband, Tom, was with Forrest.
“Boys, I want to thank you for your assistance. You hurry, there might be some of that beer left down at the park.”
“Yes, sir, Mr
. Miller.” And the guys were out of there.
I walked into the hallway after them. They went out through the front door, except for the oldest and fattest. He went through the French doors in the breakfast room. I was pretty sure that he wasn’t leaving, that he was lurking out there in the dark.
Susan walked out of the study then, and stood beside her husband and her father. She looked like a little girl, ashamed and frightened.
“Hi there, Laurie. You sure are looking good after all these years.” Tom didn’t appear the least bit nonplussed by the situation. “Sorry we don’t have time to sit and talk over old times.”
I was speechless.
He took Susan’s arm. “We’ve got to be going on home now. Mrs. Miller is baby sitting and Susan doesn’t want to impose by keeping her too late.”
Susan looked up at him beseechingly. “Why don’t we drop Laurie off home on the way?”
Mr. Miller said, “No, no. You get home to my grand-babies. I’ll make sure Laurie gets home safely.”
“That’s right, honey,” said Tom, grasping Susan’s upper arm, “your daddy will take care of her.”
“I don’t want to leave her,” Susan said, almost begging.
“Don’t be silly,” Tom said sharply, and he opened the front door and pulled Susan out. She struggled to stay put, but it was no contest. He yanked her over the threshold, and then he yelped.
Forrest and I looked at each other in surprise.
“She bit me!” he yelled.
I laughed.
“Susan, what’s going on here?” Forrest demanded in the iciest, blackest, hardest voice I’d heard in my life.
She stood straight in the porch light. “I hadn’t finished saying good-bye,” she answered in a voice that was trying hard for dignity, but was shaky from her trembling. “I just wanted to remind Laurie that I’ll be giving her a call first thing in the morning. We’re going on a shopping spree. I’ll be holding you responsible, Daddy, if you forget your obligations as a host and keep Laurie up so late she gets over-tired.”
I’d never seen or heard a less threatening threat than the one Susan had just made, but her bravery still took my breath away.
Forrest grumbled, “I know my manners, child, you just worry about your own. And don’t go around biting your husband. Folks might say you’re crazy.”
Tom had her arm again, and was pulling her towards the car. I hated to think how Susan’s husband and father were going to make her pay for her little rebellion on my behalf.
Then Forrest stepped toward the door with his arm extended to close it. Suddenly, I couldn’t believe what was happening. It was a movie running in slow motion. It was swimming in cane syrup. It was one of those dreams you have, where you know you have to run, and you try and you try and you can’t.
Then, just before the front door closed, my panic shocked me into action and I threw myself towards it, screaming, “He’s going to kill me! He’s going to kill me!”
The door slammed shut, and Forrest Miller stood in front of it. I was all over him like a wild cat, scratching and biting and kicking. He pushed me away and I ran like hell, like fire, like I’d never run before, like I was made of running, like running was what I’d been born for. Headed for the back yard, for freedom, for life, for Sammy, for the girls.
Chapter Twenty-Two
As I grabbed the latch, I saw the dark silhouette through the glass doors. The big guy was waiting for me. I’d never get by him.
I whirled around and Forrest was right behind me. I thought, he’s going to kill me.
Forrest said, “Calm down. You never seemed the hysterical type before. I just want to talk to you.”
“Let me go.”
“I should think you would show a little gratitude. You broke into my home and I’m not even calling the police. The least you can do is have a little chat with me.”
I screamed as loud as I could, a long and wailing scream like a siren. It hurt my own ears. I was hoping—I was actually praying— that the neighbors would hear.
The big guy stepped in through the doors, grabbed me from behind, and clapped his hand over my mouth. I could barely breath, and he was so strong and big I couldn’t get any leeway to push or hit or struggle against him. Forrest just stood there in front of me, smiling.
I struggled with everything in me. The big man didn’t budge, didn’t even seem to notice. Within minutes, I was completely exhausted. I collapsed against my captor, deciding to rest and think of a new plan.
Forrest spoke then. “Jesus H. Christ, you’re crazy. We won’t hurt you. We’re not in the business of hurting women. He’s going to move his hand. If you scream again, we’ll just let you go, and you’ll never hear what I’ve got to say.”
Let me go! They weren’t going to murder me! For one second, I thought about getting the hell out of there as soon as the monster let me loose. Then I thought about the photographs. I could tell Johnny about them and he could get a warrant and come look for them. But by the time he got here, Forrest would have found where I’d hidden them. It wouldn’t be hard. The album was still on the floor in Forrest’s study, open to the page where I’d ripped them out.
Maybe I could still figure out some way to get the pictures out of there with me.
“Laurie,” Forrest said in a patient voice, “as always, I admire your spunk. But you’re barking up the wrong tree. There’s no story here. You think you know something, but you really don’t. You have no way of knowing how things were then. And you don’t seem to appreciate who will get hurt if you keep on with this. Members of your own family, for instance.”
“My father wasn’t involved in this,” I spat at him.
He smiled at me. “You have no way of knowing that. But this whole conversation is theoretical, because nothing happened. Except a nigger got drunk and drowned. But have it your way. Assume that something did happen. What makes you think your father wasn’t involved?”
I didn’t answer.
Forrest smiled.
I couldn’t stand it. “He’s not in the pictures!”
His smile didn’t change, not one little bit. “So what does that prove? Supposing something happened, and supposing there were pictures, there’s still no reason to suppose everyone present that night cared to pose for the pictures. Some folks are camera-shy, you know.”
I stared at him. He went on. “This is all theoretical, you understand. Let’s suppose that some men didn’t have balls enough to do what had to be done. But they knew all about it, and never turned anyone in. And stayed here, lived here, didn’t leave town. I’d say that was an admission on their part that the dirty job was necessary, wouldn’t you?”
I started to interrupt, but he kept talking.
“And let’s suppose some more. Suppose every man brought a gun that night and there were better than thirty men. But suppose the night ended with less than a dozen holes in the nigger? What does that lead us to suppose? That maybe some men came without ammunition, knowing from the beginning that they didn’t intend to shoot? Maybe so.
“But would they be more or less responsible than the men who came with their weapons loaded? Since they let the others think they were shooting, too? Aren’t they the truly despicable men, more so than the ones who actually shot, who thought they were doing a necessary and a painful task, defending their wives, their daughters?
“Do you think it could have been easy for these men? Keep in mind that these are the same men that sat in the pews of the First Baptist Church and the Riverside Methodist the very next Sunday morning. Who confront their souls’ salvation every week. Unlike you, who I doubt has ever given your own soul a thought.
“And suppose some men came prepared with ammunition, but faltered at the last moment? Chickened out? When it was their turn, when their groups were called, they stepped forward and aimed, but never fired. What about their guilt?
“And finally, suppose that some of the men there that night had had relations with Belinda. Suppose that one of them
had been the first. Whoever he was, after he took her, she was finished. It was that first step that eventually led to the nigger full of holes, and Belinda lost to me. What do you suppose about that man’s guilt? Nothing is as simple as you seem to believe, Laurie Marie.
“While you’re supposing, honey, think about this. If you keep on this way, it’s your own family that will be hurt. You’re going to end up making them the laughing stock of the town, running around half-cocked, making crazy accusations like this. And if I catch you trespassing on my property again, I’m afraid I’m going to have to call the police, in spite of our long friendship. Now, as I don’t see a car outside, would you like for me to give you a ride home?”
“No place in this town is home to me, “ I snapped. “I don’t live here anymore.” I was angry beyond bearing. I would almost rather he had killed me than to stand there and hear Forrest tell me calmly that they were going to get away with it and there was nothing I could do. And for me to stand there and listen, and realize the truth of what he said.
I’d write an article for The Rag, spill everything I knew about Forrest, every nasty, sordid, cruel detail. Since I had no proof, Forrest could sue me, and win. And he would find a way to make it look like my father was involved, I knew he would. If my story were believed, every man of a certain age in town would be smeared with the taint of a racial murder, but I’d never be sure who was guilty, and who was not. No respectable magazine would print it without solid proof, but I was willing to bet that Jerry would. To me it sounded like the sort of romantic gesture—going down in magnificent flames for a lost, but just, cause—that Jerry had been looking for ever since he got thrown out of Dalton.
I told Forrest that I’d take him up on his offer of a ride. We walked to the front door. When we reached it, I asked if I could use the bathroom. Forrest nodded, of course. I sauntered down the hall towards the bathroom, and then, when I reached the study, dashed in the door. I planned to grab the photographs and get out of the house however I could. Kicking them both in the balls, if it took that.