Amethyst shook her head and let out a snort of disgust. She had to stop this. Now. Conrad would have to bear the responsibility of what he had done. She couldn’t change the situation, couldn’t change him. All she could do at the moment was find a way to salvage everything she had worked for since she was eighteen years old.
What she would not do was evict Bailey Blue.
“But Amethyst, he’s your son.”
“Yes, he is, although at the moment I’m not particularly proud to claim him.” Amethyst looked into Bailey’s clear, guileless gaze and refused to back down. The pain she had felt at the news of Conrad’s betrayal had metamorphosed into a deep-seated anger—partly at Conrad, partly at the state of the world in general. Nobody, her only son included, had the right to tell her that she couldn’t rent to a Negro. Nobody had the right to intimidate a poor helpless boy like Clarence Bogart. Nobody had the right to coerce her into betraying her own principles. Nobody.
Those self-important little college boys no doubt thought she was just a weak, insecure woman who would collapse like a house of cards at the first sign of resistance. But they couldn’t have been more wrong. Amethyst had her Grandpa Silas’s courage flowing in her veins and her grandma Pearl’s faith surging in her soul. What was right was right, and she wouldn’t bend to the winds of prejudice. Not even if it cost her Noble House.
“I can find another place to live. You can get your boarders back.”
Amethyst shook her head. “Do you think I want them back? Besides, Bailey, this is not about money, and you, of all people, should know it.”
“Of course I know it. I’ve spent years putting myself on the line for justice. But that’s just the point—it’s my life, my career, my reputation. You took a chance on me because you believed it was the right thing to do, and I appreciate it. We need people like you—people with the courage to stand up for their convictions. But it backfired, Amethyst. And you shouldn’t have to go bankrupt on my account. This is my cause, my battle. Not yours.”
Amethyst sat there in silence for a moment, considering his words. This could all be smoothed over so easily. Without Bailey in the house, she would have boarders again—not the college boys, necessarily, but someone else. Someone . . .
White.
The truth struck her with all the force of a blow to the midsection, and the air went out of her lungs. That’s what it would take to save Noble House. White boarders. “Acceptable” boarders, people who wouldn’t challenge the status quo or incur the wrath of the citizens of Cambridge. It was so simple, really. All she would have to do was reject everything she and Silas and Pearl had ever stood for.
Amethyst looked at Silvie, who sat quietly with her hands in her lap, gazing at her. The woman had been a light in the darkness for Amethyst, the one person she could depend upon no matter what struggles or difficulties life brought her way. It was Silvie’s hand she reached for when she needed support and consolation, Silvie’s words that made her laugh, Silvie’s incisive honesty that made her think. And they couldn’t even share a cup of coffee together at a restaurant table.
Amethyst returned her attention to Bailey. “You’re wrong,” she said quietly. “This isn’t just your battle. It’s my cause, too.”
“But Conrad—”
“Conrad has chosen his course. He’s not a child anymore, and he will have to answer to God for the decisions he makes. I love him, and my door will always be open to him, but—” She paused and smiled at Silvie. “Only if it’s open to you, too.”
At last Silvie spoke. “So let’s hear it, Amethyst.”
“Hear what?”
“Your plan.”
Amethyst chuckled. “What makes you think I have a plan?”
“You think I don’t know you, girl? I can see it in your eyes. You’re hatching something.”
“Silvie and I have been together way too long,” Amethyst said to Bailey. “She thinks she can read my mind.” She paused and grinned. “But as a matter of fact, I do have an idea.”
Edith Layton slid into the booth next to Amethyst and grabbed her elbow. The hotel restaurant was nearly full, and Edith’s beady little eyes kept darting around the room. She reminded Amethyst of a fat little wren on the alert for the neighbor’s cat. “Act natural,” she whispered. “Pretend we’re talking.”
“Good afternoon, Edith,” Amethyst said smoothly. “And unless I’ve missed something, we are talking.”
“Don’t ’good afternoon’ me, Amethyst Noble,” Edith hissed. “Just tell me it’s not true.”
“Going to give me the latest gossip?” Amethyst laughed. “Please do, Edith. I haven’t heard a juicy tidbit for ages.”
“Stop it! You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.” Edith’s voice was hushed, barely a whisper, but her mouth was so close to Amethyst’s ear that the breath tickled. “It’s all over town that you have five . . . ah, colored men living under your roof.”
Amethyst pulled back a little. “Don’t make it sound so salacious, Edith. I’m not running a brothel, for heaven’s sake.”
“Oh, dear, dear!” Edith fanned herself with a napkin. “Then it is true!”
“That I have five boarders? Yes, I do. Gentlemen, every one of them.”
“Gentlemen? You call a bunch of nigra Yankees come down here to stir up trouble gentlemen?”
“They’re lawyers, Edith. Educated, cultured attorneys. If they were white, you’d think I was living in a gold mine, and every unmarried woman from here to Memphis would be lining up at my door to get a peek at them.”
“We’re all aware of what they are,” Edith spat out, her volume increasing with every word. “They’re rabble-rousers from the N-double-A-PC.”
“NAACP,” Amethyst corrected. “The National Association for the Advancement of—”
Edith waved a hand. “I know, I know. Keep your voice down.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a shame and a degradation, that’s why. Amethyst, how could you?”
“How could I do what? Rent rooms? That’s what you do when you own a boardinghouse, Edith.”
“But to them? Everybody in town knows you’re a little eccentric, Amethyst. When my husband, Rube, was mayor, he actually admired you for standing up to the town council and working to get jobs for those . . . those—”
“Freaks?” Amethyst supplied. “Like my husband Harper.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Edith amended. “But that was different. They were—”
“White.”
“They were veterans.” Edith shook a finger in Amethyst’s face. “They deserved jobs.”
“And black people don’t?”
“Of course they do. Jobs that befit their station in life, that is. But these nigra lawyers—”
“Bailey Blue is a veteran,” Amethyst offered. “He served aboard a navy destroyer for two years during the war.”
“Yes, but—wait, you’re confusing me,” Edith complained. “Now, where was I?”
“Confused.”
“The point is, Amethyst, you simply cannot have those colored men in your house. A lot of people in this town just won’t stand for it. And Rube isn’t mayor anymore. He can’t protect you.”
“Do I need protection?”
“You might.” Edith slid out of the booth, her gaze coming to rest on the second place setting. “Is someone joining you for lunch?”
“Yes. I’m expecting a friend any minute now.”
“Try the barbecue chicken salad. It’s wonderful.” Edith patted Amethyst on the arm. “Please, think about what I’ve said,” she whispered. “And consider yourself warned.”
Amethyst was still mulling over her conversation with Edith Layton when she looked up and saw Silvie standing over her.
“I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” Silvie muttered.
Amethyst pointed to the booth. “Sit.” Silvie sat. “I, on the other hand, think it’s a great idea. I think it’s high time you and I had lunch together without
one of us having to cook it.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
“Silvie, look at me.” When Silvie met her gaze, Amethyst went on. “It’s time for this to happen. Nothing ever changes in this world unless people take risks.”
A shadow fell over them. Amethyst looked up to see a vaguely familiar face staring down at them.
“Hello, Miss Amethyst. Silvie.” The waitress frowned. “You don’t remember me, do you? I came to Thanksgiving dinner at your house. But it was a long time ago; I don’t expect you to recall.”
Amethyst peered at the woman. “Dinah? Dinah Johnson?” She grinned at Silvie. “Remember, Silvie? Dinah had just come to town, and was working for Neta at La Femme—”
“Of course.” Silvie shifted nervously. “Nice to see you again.”
“So what have you been doing, Dinah?”
“I’ve been working. Up north, in Virginia, just outside Washington.”
“And what brings you back this way?”
“My . . . uh, my husband.” Tears welled up Dinah’s eyes. “He, ah—”
Amethyst opened her mouth to console the girl for losing her husband in the war, but something held her back.
“Found someone younger and prettier,” Dinah finished. “Divorced me. I couldn’t make it alone up there, so—” She shrugged. “Here I am.”
Amethyst cringed, thankful she hadn’t said something that made her look like a total fool. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, me, too. Sorry I ever met him.” She swiped at her eyes. “Now, what can I get you?” She fixed her gaze on Silvie. “I reckon you’re ordering something to take with you?”
“No,” Amethyst said in a soft voice. “We’re both having lunch. Here. Together.”
Dinah’s eyes widened. “I don’t know—I—I don’t think I can—I’ll have to ask—”
“I’ll have the barbeque chicken salad,” Amethyst continued. “Silvie, what would you like?”
Suddenly the hubbub of conversation in the restaurant fell into silence, as if the lights had dimmed and the show was about to begin. Somewhere a fork clattered to the floor. A baritone cleared his throat. A soprano let out a little gasp.
Silvie cut a glance across the table, and her expression reminded Amethyst of a rabbit with one leg in a trap. “The same, I guess,” she stammered.
A masculine figure appeared beside Dinah and snatched the pad and pencil from her hand. “Go serve your other customers,” he snapped. “I’ll take care of this.”
Amethyst looked up. “Well. Mr. Mansfield.”
She hadn’t seen him up close in ages, since back in the days when Silvie had worked as a cook in his restaurant. The years had not been good to him. He was fifty or sixty pounds heavier than she remembered, his round, florid face crisscrossed with broken blood vessels until it looked like a road map. He rolled his eyes and tapped the pencil against the pad. “You know better than this, Miss Amethyst.” One meaty finger pointed to a sign that said WHITE ONLY.
His gaze shifted to Silvie, and he made no attempt to hide the leering expression in his eyes. “You want something, gal?” He grinned at her and picked his teeth with the edge of a fingernail. “Naw. You never did know what you wanted, did you?”
The implication in his words was unmistakable. Amethyst was just about to respond to him when she caught a glimpse of Silvie’s face. The scared-rabbit expression had vanished, replaced by a look of pure outrage.
“I’ll have roasted Mansfield on toast, and a glass of iced tea,” she said, her voice strong and clear. A titter of laughter dispelled the tension in the room, and someone in the back corner applauded.
He blinked. “Not in my restaurant, you won’t. Now get out, both of you.” He grabbed Silvie by the arm and hauled her bodily out of the booth. “And don’t come back.”
Silvie jerked her elbow from his grasp and turned to face him, so close that their noses were almost touching. “Mansfield, you’re a bigot and a lecher, and not worth my time,” she spat out, then raised her chin and addressed the whole restaurant. “And in case anyone’s interested, there are rats in the kitchen.”
Propelled by Mansfield’s arm, Amethyst and Silvie found themselves out on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. But they were not alone. A mass exodus from the restaurant followed, nearly pushing them down in their haste to leave the establishment.
Amethyst straightened her collar and grinned at Silvie. “I think that went well, don’t you?”
“Perfect,” Silvie agreed, falling in step beside Amethyst. “I don’t know about you, but I haven’t felt this good for ages.”
39
Nightriders
Amethyst usually slept soundly—the gift of a clear conscience, Silvie always said—but tonight she couldn’t seem to relax. For three hours she drifted and dozed, awakening at the slightest noise from the creaking old house.
When the clock in the hall chimed two, she opened her eyes and stared into the darkness at the canopy over the bed. Strange, how the shifting of leaves in the moonlight reflected against the fabric. It almost looked like—
Amethyst sat up and squinted again at the canopy. An odd light, flickering and moving, as if from a candle flame. Then her nostrils caught the faint, dusky scent of wood smoke.
Fire!
She grabbed her robe, stuck her bare feet into her slippers, and ran toward the front door. Silvie met her in the hall. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep, and—”
At the same time they saw it—the eerie red glow coming through the windows of the parlor. Silvie pointed. “Outside!”
Amethyst flung open the front door, and her heart lodged in her throat.
On the front lawn, just beyond the big magnolia tree, a cross stood, engulfed in flames.
“Quick! Get a bucket!”
Silvie sprinted for the kitchen, and Amethyst ran out onto the porch, robe in hand, headed for the conflagration. Maybe she could beat some of the flames out before the fire spread.
Even from this distance, however, she could feel the heat. The smell of gasoline came to her on a wave.
“Fire!” she yelled, hoping to wake the boarders. But her voice came out weak and whispery, as if she were in a nightmare, trying to scream but producing no sound.
Then her eyes focused to one side of the burning cross, in a dark hollow where the moonlight could not penetrate the dense leaves of the magnolia. A circle of men, dressed in white robes and makeshift hoods, their eyes shadowed like ghostly apparitions. In the center of the circle, a dark figure huddled, its legs drawn up to its chest.
“Let it burn, Miss Amethyst,” a rough voice commanded. “Consider this a warning. You ain’t getting another one.”
A cold bead of sweat traced down Amethyst’s spine, and she shivered. Then the figure on the ground let out a horrible groan, and the fear turned to rage.
“Bailey!” she screamed, running toward him. “Bailey, are you all right?”
“Let him alone,” another voice warned.
But Amethyst didn’t listen. “Get out of my way, you idiot.” She pushed her way into the circle and fell on her knees at Bailey’s side. “What have you done to him?”
“We gave him what was coming to him. Nigger troublemaker.”
She touched Bailey’s face, and her hand came away streaked with blood. He had been beaten badly, but she was pretty sure he would live. She struggled to her feet and faced down his attackers.
“Big men, are you?” She shoved one of them, hard, leaving a handprint of blood on his white tunic. “Big, tough men, with your bats and ax handles, half a dozen of you against an unarmed man. Takes a lot of courage, doesn’t it, Billy Tarbush?”
The one she had pushed took a step back. “I—I ain’t—”
She moved closer, until she could see his panicked look through the eyeholes of the hood. “Don’t try to deny it; I know your voice. And I know your daddy, too. He’s been an ignorant bigot for as long as I can remembe
r. Looks like that apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.”
She swung around. “And you, John Layton! You should know better! Your grandfather was mayor of this town for years, and he would never have condoned this!”
On she went around the circle, identifying each one of the attackers by name. Did they really think they could get away with this? Hide in the dark and beat a helpless man senseless just for the color of his skin?
She came to the last one, a tall, skinny fellow holding a blood-spattered baseball bat. She peered at him. Something about him was familiar, but she couldn’t place him. Then she looked down at his shoes—scuffed brown oxfords with one lace broken and retied in a knot. Shoes that had been under her own dining room table; shoes she had stumbled over in the parlor when he forgot and left them there. Dooley Layton, John’s cousin.
She whipped out a hand and snatched off the hood. “You!”
Dooley glared at her. “He had it coming,” he repeated lamely.
“Get off my property,” she hissed. “All of you. I see any one of you within a hundred feet of my house, I’ll call the sheriff.”
“And what do you think he’ll do?” Dooley sneered.
“For one thing, he’ll cart your sorry behind back to Natchez, where your daddy will beat the living tar out of you,” Amethyst retorted. “Don’t forget—I can identify every one of you. You think I won’t press charges? Try me. I’ve got a houseful of lawyers to represent me.”
“You got a houseful of niggers, you mean.”
Amethyst whirled around to see Rube and Edith Layton’s grandson John standing behind her with a self-satisfied smile on his face. “Your grandpa would be so ashamed of you,” she said. “And your grandmother warned me that something like this might happen, but I didn’t believe her. What do you suppose she’ll say when she finds out where you were tonight?”
The Amethyst Heart Page 31