The Apostasy

by Ted Minkinow

  A stench somewhere between putrefied skunk carcass and stale tobacco spit made Hattie gag and throw open her eyes

  White man…and he’s getting close.

  And for the second time in less than half a week, a stranger frightened her.

  Less than twenty five yards separated Hattie from the stranger when she first felt—smelled—him and realized he was no vision concocted by her overwrought mind.

  “Never look a white man in the eye,” old Arthur reminded her time and again.

  But Arthur picked cotton for the man…first as a slave by law and next as a slave by sharecropping…by a more powerful even if unwritten southern law handed down from one generation of aristocracy to the next.

  “Specially if he’s a stranger,” Arthur would add.

  Doesn’t work that way anymore, Hattie’s mind argued back. Colored people own their own things now...mix right sometimes with white folks. Like my Jerome.

  “Don’t be looking that bull gator in the eye, Hattie Jackson,” Arthur’s voice remained unconvinced.

  So did Hattie. She lowered her gaze to the dirt road just ahead of her feet. As she shuffled along in the way of the old folks, the water forming in her eyes came from tears of shame…not for her race, but for herself.

  The stranger neared.

  “Get me some blackberries child.”

  Nana Sally pushed old Arthur out of Hattie’s mind and replaced his Uncle Tom warnings with an idea that might prove useful.

  “Fresh blackberries on the other side of the road and you and Jerome get hot pie tonight.”

  It made sense to Hattie. Just get to the other side of the road and the man would pass…two strangers with nothing in common, nothing to say to each other, two people sharing no more in life than a dirt road through the stained part of Alabama. She walked to the other side and from the top of the eye…He’s crossing too.

  If he’s not pretending then neither am I, thought Hattie and she raised her head to face him squarely. She sensed trouble and nobody within half a mile to help if something did come to pass. Now she understood how the honeysuckle lied with a sweet breath so willing to hide ugly truths of the things that went on when nobody was looking.

  But couldn’t that all be crazy thinking, she wondered. Couldn’t it be ole massuh Leland Graves is past his time…no room for him this century.

  “Sure there is,” said old Arthur. “Room for him anywhere folks get the upper hand.”

  Arthur’s echo still rung in Hattie’s mind when the man said “Stop.”

  Sixty years since Abe Lincoln freed her family and Hattie did what the man said to do…she stopped.

  “Whatcha doing walking out here alone and darkness falling on the hour?”

  The man looked about as mean as Leland Graves did arrogant. But mean like a rattlesnake…avoiding of people in general but willing to bite should the opportunity present itself. Oversized belly straining a homespun shirt—she thought only the old folks still wore homespun…and never the whites. She didn’t reply.

  “Hattie Jackson,” and he tipped the kind of grin you’d expect to get from an animal that fed on someone else’s kill.

  He knows my name? Hattie thought that should have bothered her more than it did. Maybe the encounter with the vulpine codger in Jerome’s store prepared her to expect the bogey man in every stranger.

  “Darkie doe pretty as you oughta take her salt closer to the big house.”

  The sun hurled waves of warmth toward the lonely dirt road—in a few hours it would clock out for the day—and Hattie felt heat of her own rise in her temples. Her Nana and father owned a good part of the land around here…purchased or bartered fair from those who traded their vote to the Reconstruction government to get it. And here she stood meek and submissive as a paid-for field hand.

  The way he said the word darkie…it woke anger lurking just below a fright that had a tight grip on her throat. Fear. The snaggle-toothed redneck wanted fear from Hattie…and she understood, always had when it came to folks like him. They fed on fear the same way a snake used anxiety to draw a bead. Panic wrestled anger for control…and anger won the first round.

  “Please move aside,” Hattie said as she took a step to move past Stink Man. No wide step was this either because Hattie’s anger ordered her to cut it close. It almost worked.

  Two beefy hands like paws belonging to an overweight bear suffering from the mange grabbed her arms and spun her. Round two to panic.

  2

  “Might be interesting,” said Leland Graves to the pine tree he leaned against below the road…on the Copper Gulch side. “Sure might be interesting,” he repeated as if to convince both himself and the pine that he ought to let what he saw unfolding above run its course. Interesting or not, he knew that in a few seconds the vassal would rip her apart…one of the many no-no’s mandated by the employee scrolls.

  Not that Leland Graves minded spitting on the rules every now and then. But rending them? A little more than he bargained on. He planned on sowing some confusion, knocking hope down a level or two for the two women.

  “What do you mean which two women?” he asked nobody.

  The tree remained mute. Perhaps a little more detail would loosen the pine’s tongue. “Sally Jackson…Hattie Jackson…right?”

  Leland Graves waited for a response and after a few seconds he nodded as if the pine made a decent point.

  “Of course Jackson Brewton,” said Leland Graves, “but see Sally Jackson—and now Hattie Jackson—and how the orbs glow pure.”

  “A third?” Leland Graves asked? “Jerome Washington?”

  When nothing came from the tree Leland Graves tapped it with the silver end of his walking stick. “I said tell me, man.”

  Ensuing silence infuriated Leland Graves so he touched the tree, this time with his bare hand. It died, but no secretions emerged for collection so Leland Graves returned to happier thoughts.

  Take Sally and Hattie Jackson at once? He’d blow the quota out of the water.

  The dead pine tree refused to help…could not give an opinion one way or the other. Still, thought Leland Graves, Opportunity to experiment… And thoughts of exploring the Great Unsigned Contract’s frontier made Leland Graves smile.

  The most delicious aspect of the non-document: not only was the contract not signed, it also had no form…wasn’t etched anywhere. The old masters sketched out the boundaries through trial and error. And oh what the creditor did when error could be found. Mad swine drowned in the sea. Nostalgia pangs gave birth to the decision. His thoughts carried the order and the vassal responded.

  3

  Hattie faced the slob, her chest pressing the blubber of his belly. The man let his hands slide a bit and they brushed her breasts. Hattie screamed. She struggled. Her arms ached…she swallowed vomit that rose in indignant response to the man’s stench. He pulled her closer…raised her until her face nearly touched his.

  What she saw in his eyes made the vomit rise again…this time with no restraint. It splattered against his nose, covered his mouth, and ran down his cheeks and onto Hattie’s chest.

  “That’s right, Missy,” he said. “Show old Rufus your respects.”

  Hattie could only manage to stare into a face that surely belonged to a decomposing jackal sent from hell. She would have yelled for her mother…but her mother was no Mama and long gone from Hattie’s life.

  “Nana!” she screamed. “Nana!”

  The man straightened as if hit by a bolt of lightning. His grip tightened, and Hattie thought her bones would snap if things went any further. Without a word of explanation he released her and when her feet touched ground unprepared legs nearly crumpled in surprise.

  Hattie did not take a moment to catch her breath…no time to wipe away vomit. As soon as her legs stabilized she sprinted like a jackrabbit pulled free of a snare. She wasn’t sure how long it would take to get to Nana’s house in a dead run but she knew she was about to find out.

  “Don’t pine none f
or old Rufus,” she heard the man call. “No need for pining at all.”

  Chest heaving, heart pounding, legs and elbows cutting air around her into small eddies…and Hattie could still hear every word as if spoken into her ear.

  “Old Rufus be seeing you again real soon,” he said. “You and that boy what runs that store.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Monday, July 16, 10:33 am, Brewton-Brunson House

  1

  Tom showed Cassandra to a guest bedroom upstairs.

  Wow! she thought.

  “You have a ladder for this bed?” The sleigh bed looked about one hundred and fifty years old and the mattresses, At least four feet to the floor, she thought.

  Tom smiled. “I can give you boost,” he said.

  Cassandra stood quiet for a few seconds…through a half-smile she said, “I hope there’s no pea under there because I need to get some sleep.”

  Both laughed.

  “Really, though,” she said, “all this is so beautiful.” Cassandra took in the antiques: the empire bureau and chest of drawers and an early Victorian-era roll-top desk.

  “Beautiful,” she repeated. “Is the floor original?”

  “Sure is,” said Tom. “Heart of pine…installed a hundred and seventy five years ago...when the house was built. That rug,” he said, indicating the red Persian rug that covered most of the room; “is almost as old.”

  Interesting enough, but Cassandra did not usually talk Home and Garden TV. Something stood in the room between Tom and her…something unseen but tangible enough to make her nervous…the big pink elephant that wondered “What next?”

  Is he really going to let me take a nap? Alone? Awkward to say out loud, and Cassandra was not about to invite Tom to stay. To her relief, Tom saved embarrassment for both of them.

  "T.V.’s in the armoire," he said and opened the upper doors to expose a large flat-screen with a DVD on the shelf below. He put the remote on the table beside of the bed.

  “Yell if you need anything.”

  That ended the minor crisis brewing in Cassandra’s mind…and started a new one.

  I’m not ready for him to leave.

  As if she needed another opinion, Eva Walters’s voice—her mother—broke into her brain.

  “Don’t embarrass your family.”

  Still, she did not want him to leave just yet.

  “So who’s the decorator?” Lame, and she hoped he couldn’t see through her stalling.

  “Generations of Brunsons,” Tom said.

  “Really?” Cassandra said. And what about that?

  She pointed to a framed poster hanging behind the bed…a scantily-clad buxom beauty sitting astride an Air Force Phantom II jet fighter. The caption read, “Strap Something Exciting Between Your Legs.”

  Tom smiled. “That’s my contribution.”

  Nothing else came to mind so Cassandra gave into to exhaustion and removed her shoes. She climbed on top of the comforter and sank into fresh-scented fluffiness…and believed she could sleep for a week. Tom drew the drapes, allowing only thin shafts of light to trickle into the room. He made his way to the door.

  "Where are you going?" Cassandra asked as she raised herself to her elbows.

  “Cassandra!” Eva Walters screamed between Cassandra’s ears.

  Tom could not hear Eva Walters yelling in her daughter’s head so he accepted the invitation by slipping off his shoes and climbing on top of the covers next to her. She took his arm and pulled it over the top of her as she turned her back and snuggled against his chest.

  2

  Tom inhaled her fragrance. Only when he heard the soft, regular breaths did he lean forward and lightly kiss the back of her head.

  Monday, July 16, 1:45 pm, The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.

  "I know the request is kind of sudden, sir, but something just popped up out of town." Major (Lieutenant Colonel selectee) Mike Johnson said to his boss.

  Major General Frank Countryman considered the request, but not for long.

  "Take as much time as you need, Jeremiah. This train wreck will still be here and running on autopilot when you get back." The General hardly looked up from a file marked SECRET as he spoke.

  "Thank-you, sir, I should get back within a week. I'll call in with an update as soon as I know how long I'm going to need."

  General Countryman put down the file and caught Mike's eyes.

  "You need my help, Jeremiah? Because I'll be madder than a preacher in a biker bar if you don't tell me."

  "No sir General, but thanks. I need to check up on my old front-seater."

  The General would require no further explanation. He jockeyed fighters for more than twenty years and understood as well as anyone the bonds formed in combat.

  "Good on ya, Jeremiah. Now you better get going…and be careful, dammit."

  "Thanks, sir. See you in a week."

  Mike hoped his wife would understand as willingly. She’d want to tag along, and he loved her for it. But he sensed trouble in Torch's voice.

  If I'm wrong, we'll have a three day fishing festival. He plopped in the swivel chair at his desk. What if I'm right? In that case, I need to be there with Torch and Celia doesn't. Mike Johnson grabbed his hat and briefcase.

  Son of a gun, Torch, what have you gotten yourself into?

  He made his way to the Pentagon Metro stop.

  Monday, July 16, 2:19 pm, Brewton-Brunson House

  1

  Damp cold in the air woke Cassandra, and she could not restrain a shiver. Tom sat in the overstuffed chair across the room…but Tom’s hands could not be wrapped around her waist and be ten feet away.

  Felt-lined drapes hung loose on the rod but strong against the sun’s prying. Cassandra rubbed her eyes and then willed them to focus in the dark bedroom. When she opened them, a man sat in the chair, facing Tom and her.

  The visitor looked somewhere around Tom's age and build, and possibly as handsome. He seemed out of time—wore some kind of antique uniform—but not out of place.

  Like he belongs in the room.

  Cold beads of sweat came to life on her forehead as if ice had melted under her skin and pushed semi-solid drops through pores. Cassandra raised herself on one elbow…she wanted to get a clearer view.

  The man reached a hand toward her—fingers splayed as if groping for solid ground—and an eddy of cold air brushed past.

  I can see the bureau, she thought. I can see it right through his arm.

  Now she wondered if she woke up at all…if this man came in a dream and not real life.

  She wanted to speak to him…to ask him why he was in Tom’s bedroom…ask him what he needed. She could see that much now, despite subdued lighting and perspiration rolling down her head and back like frigid fingers laid on by a faith-healing snowman. The visitor reached for her with want in his eyes.

  When Cassandra tried to speak only a hoarse whisper came out.

  “Who are,” and she stopped there because the man stood for a moment and then faded away, the hand seeking mercy floated disconnected for a moment then disappeared with the rest.

  It took only a few seconds for Cassandra’s brain to concoct the logical—only a dream—explanation. Her body complained of exhaustion, so she wondered how she woke at all. The clock showed three hours gone since they laid down for a nap.

  What’s this chill? The cold covered her body like a humid blanket of snow.

  She wriggled from beneath Tom's arm, slid to the floor, and rummaged through the closet. A substantial quilt sat folded on the top shelf and Cassandra arranged it across Tom.

  She made her way downstairs to the kitchen, found coffee fixings, started a pot, and opened a can of soup. She’d wake Tom in fifteen minutes or so and have something warm waiting.

  2

  Upstairs and alone, Tom resumed his dream, the one interrupted by the call from Jeremiah earlier that morning.

  CHAPTER 46

  Monday, July 16, 1:47 pm, Brewton-Brunson House

  Moonbeam
s probed through ragged clouds that spit flecks of ice like shattered glass falling to the ground. Tom made ready to attack the clearing with the rest of the squad…the Confederate soldiers.

  But Tom’s not my name, he thought through the haze of his dream. I’m Mark. A pause in his mind and then, Mark Lawton. As if in confirmation, cold muck from the floor of Copper Gulch worked its way past meager defenses offered by Tom’s boots and the chill snaked up his leg until it met wet coming the other direction...down from the sky.

  Back in his bed, the comforter left by Cassandra rippled in still air and then moved slowly off Tom until he lay exposed to the room. A cold shiver tickled both his bodies—the one at home in Vienna and the other—Tom/Mark—prepared to attack in Copper Gulch.

  The leader gave the signal, shouted some sort of warning the enemy—that’s how Tom thought of the men standing in the clearing—and Tom stepped forward.

  A squad of blue-clad soldiers—Yankees are what his Grandmother used to call them when she felt especially kind—gaped up in shock. Three people were tied to the trunks of three trees. More Yankees stood near them.

  Tar on the bayonets, thought Tom/Mark…something black. But one of the soldiers raised his rifle, and Tom saw the tar drop as if no thicker in substance than water.

  Blood!

  Somewhere in his mind he heard his squad fire a volley…but that sounded far away…of little importance. But then in his brain: Return fire’s coming.

  Tom caught sight of something unexpected…something deadly. A bullet flew toward him—a bullet flying slow enough to track with his eyes—and moving to his face. His mind attempted to put the incredible sight into some sort of context and visions of another projectile—sharp, deadly—flickered in Tom’s mind like the final frames of a malfunctioning movie.