Daybreak

by Belva Plain

  Betty Lee said, “I put the Sentinel and the Courier on the back veranda for you to read. I figured you wouldn’t want to be seen from the street this morning. Reporters will be coming.”

  “To the house? Oh, do you think so?”

  “Sure as shooting.” Betty Lee’s mouth was grim. “Wait till you read the papers.”

  She sat down to read. There were headlines: PROMINENT COMMUNITY LEADERS MOWED DOWN AT KLAN RALLY; TYSON, RICE, AND PITT KILLED IN KLAN ROBES. There were subheadings: No Clue to Driver of Death Car; Luther Tyson, Prominent Supporter of Jim Johnson.

  Down the column went Laura’s eyes, and the letters rose from the page as if they were coming to life. The scene of the horror took color: the orange-red burning cross, the dark, the moonlight, the headlights of the ambulances and the police cars, figures running to and fro, the injured writhing on the grass, the gory dead.

  She skimmed the first paper and made an exchange with Tom to read disjointed words and phrases. Homer Rice, a well-known figure in the civic life of the city … the old firm of Paige and Rice … three generations … prominent family … survived by wife Laura and two sons, Thomas and Timothy.

  She skimmed the indignant editorials. The respectable navy blue suit, the proper collar and tie, the affable manners and correct opinions disguising the real man who, in robe and mask, waits with his kin at night in secret to spread this evil disease …

  She was numb. Flexing her legs and hands, it actually seemed to her that they were chilled, as though the blood had ceased to flow through them.

  Jim Johnson can disclaim the Klan a hundred times over, but if his aims are so different from its, it behooves him to explain why so many of its members are also his supporters.

  “Have you read all this?” Laura asked.

  “Yes, I’ve read it,” Tom replied.

  “And?”

  “And it’s not worth the paper it’s written on.”

  She got up to avoid any more words with him and went inside. The doorbell had begun to ring as she had known it would; friends and neighbors would be coming to bring food, offer whatever help she might need—and also, now that they had read the news, to satisfy their very natural curiosity.

  Reporters came with photographers, who caught her on the front veranda, trying to answer with as much coolness as she could muster a clamor of questions.

  “Are you then saying, Mrs. Rice, that you actually knew nothing about your husband’s connection to the KKK?”

  “I am saying just that.”

  “How is that possible, Mrs. Rice?”

  “It’s possible because he never told me.”

  “And why do you suppose that was?”

  “Because he knew,” Laura said patiently, “that I would have been horrified. He respected me enough not to want that to happen.”

  One of the neighbors from down the street, losing patience with a string of reporters, told Laura to go back into the house, and shouted at them.

  “Have you no decency? Go away and let the poor woman alone.”

  Flowers arrived with notes of sympathy. Telephone calls came from people whom Laura had not seen in years, some of them men and women who had been at school with her or with Bud. Toward evening there came a call from Ralph Mackenzie.

  In his direct and simple way, he asked only, “How can I help you?”

  “I can’t think of anything now, but I will call you if I do.”

  “I’ve heard from Margaret and Arthur. If they can be of any help—” And he corrected himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be mentioning it. This isn’t the time.”

  “You can speak out to me, Ralph.”

  “No, it really isn’t the time. Well, all right. They’re concerned about Tom. The paper they read said he was there, and they’re wondering whether that was true.”

  “Yes, Tom was there. He’d gone along with Bud.”

  “Well,” Ralph said.

  “Tell them I feel just as bad about that as they possibly can feel. But tell them that Tom’s otherwise all right, not to worry. Oh, here he is now.”

  “I’ll hang up, Laura. Just remember where I am if you need me.”

  “I suppose that was Mackenzie,” Tom said.

  She turned to face a thin, bitter mouth and hard eyes. “Yes, a condolence call, like all the others.”

  “Like all the others,” he repeated.

  She followed him outdoors to where he had sat down at his usual place on the steps. An unopened book lay beside him. His elbows rested on his knees, and his head was in his hands. For a moment she stood unspeaking; the air was too thick with sorrow, the cicadas’ drill too loud, the oak leaves too dreary and dusty in the heat, to collect any thoughts.

  Tom raised his head. “Who’s not to worry about me? Those Crawfields, I suppose.”

  “Yes, they care about you, Tom. They care very much.”

  “They have no right to. I’m nothing to them. They’re nothing to me.”

  She laid her hand lightly on his hand, asking, “Tom, tell me, is there anything at all that I can do for you?”

  The reply was so low that she barely heard it. “Nothing. Nothing.”

  She left him sitting there. The rage that had been firing him had used itself up, leaving a residue of caustic ash.

  That Mackenzie, a meddling do-gooder if there ever was one! He probably had his eye on Mom, too. And those others who “care about you, Tom.” Never. Never. A long struggle lay ahead, perhaps a lifelong struggle, unless he were to leave here and disappear on some other continent. Now that Bud was gone, there was no one to stand up with him or for him. Mom had not the faintest comprehension of his feelings, and Timmy was still a little guy, eleven years old, for heaven’s sake, with a hell of a problem of his own.

  If only Robbie were here! He wouldn’t even need many words; once the first few bare facts were told, she’d grasp his meaning and take him into her arms with that hot, vigorous little body, hard yet pliable as rubber, the lips so soft, the hair slippery as silk spread over the pillow, the scent of flowers, the—If only she were here!

  CHAPTER

  14

  Lugubrious chords descended from the organ loft, and a mournful purple light flickered through stained-glass windows as the sun went in and storm clouds gathered. All this was appropriate to the occasion, Laura reflected, as were her gloved hands resting on the lap of her black linen suit. Correct as he had been, Bud would approve the fine decorum of his sons in their dark suits and black ties; he would be pleased at the large and distinguished assembly here to say their farewells. How many of these people had come out of sympathy, and how many had come because it was an “event,” she had no way of knowing, nor did it really matter.

  She still felt numb. She still had that odd sensation of being at the same time outside of herself, observing the event and observing her own numb demeanor. Her eyes roved upward to the top of the windows, which were now quite dark. It would be raining by the time they reached the cemetery. Her eyes roved to the coffin, directly in front of her. They had asked her whether she wanted a “last look” before it was closed, but Dr. Foster had advised against that, no doubt because the body was so mutilated; hadn’t Tom said something about the face? So there Bud lay under a sheaf of carnations with everything ended, everything: ball games with Timmy and Tom, Chamber of Commerce meetings, Rice and Son, along with the sinister robe and hood. Laura shivered.

  Dr. Foster was giving a remarkable performance, a feat to tax the most ingenious sermonizer. On the one hand it was imperative to condemn, while on the other it was humane to recall with praise.

  “We must view each life with compassion. No life is perfect. We can be loving parents and responsible citizens, and at the same time we can stray into dark places. The powerful forces, inner or outer or both together, that lead us into these are many and complex. It is not for us here to analyze Homer Rice, but rather to remember him as the friend he was, and to pray. Pray for him, for the man who killed him, and for us all.”<
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  Heads were bowed, while a soft murmuring accompanied the mellow voice. Timmy and Tom wiped their eyes. The organ played a recessional while the coffin was carried down the aisle between the ranks of men and women standing in respect. The next stop was the cemetery.

  Bud always hated funerals, Laura remembered. He feared death, possibly more than most people did. She remembered that, too. Poor Bud.

  On the way back home the rain was a torrent, so that the long black car had to crawl. She sat silently with her sons. There was, after all, nothing much to say, she thought again, perhaps for the hundredth time. Or maybe there was too much to say, so much that it seemed too discouraging to begin.

  Tom said, “Mackenzie was in church. I saw him in the back row when we were going out.”

  “I didn’t see him.” Surely he needn’t have come, but he had wanted to, and she was touched. A little lump came to her throat; in another second her eyes would be wet. She said quickly, “That was nice of him.”

  “I hate him,” Tom answered.

  Complications. There were too many. The windshield wiper raced from side to side, unable to cope with the rain. The car moved through the city toward the familiar home, now become so strange, a hostile place filled with all these complications. And why? Why me, why us?

  The question was: Where is my direction? In the first days after the funeral, Laura went from her desk to Bud’s, aimlessly sorting papers, bank statements, letters of condolence, and a printout from the laboratory proving that Tom was a Crawfield.

  She leapt from the chair as if she had been shot. And, indeed, a wild thought had shot through her head: Just let us get away from here. Away from Crawfields and the KKK, we can get back the peace we had, my boys and I. With eyes closed, she twirled the great globe and put out a finger. Someone must have tilted the globe so that her finger landed on Patagonia, that vast, barren stretch at the tip of South America on the route to the South Pole.

  “Well, that figures,” she said aloud, “on a par with the rest of our luck this awful year.”

  Then the telephone rang. Bud’s secretary, Mrs. Fallon, hated to bother her at such a time, but really, it was important.

  “Nobody’s running things, Mrs. Rice. The orders aren’t going out, and five of the men reported sick this morning. They’re taking advantage, of course. But they’ll be in later this week to collect their wages, you can be sure.” Mrs. Fallon, who was a responsible woman, was much worried. “That large project of Salsberg Brothers, those condos out on Route Nine, you know?”

  Laura had heard some mention of it, but little else. She only knew that Bud had been jubilant over the order.

  “Well, they’ve canceled. They’re going elsewhere for their supplies. They’re Jewish, and with this stuff about the KKK, well, you can imagine. And the MacDonald job fell through, too. One of the typists there told me that the old man MacDonald felt uncomfortable about dealing with Rice anymore. So there we are, Mrs. Rice. I can’t tell you how I feel for you and the boys, Tom especially. He’s such a fine young man. The men all like him here. It’s too bad he’s not old enough to take over.”

  “Well, I’ll think. I’ll get some advice. I’ll do what I can. And thank you,” Laura said.

  She sighed. If the aunts were still young enough and willing besides, there would be no problem. But they had been businesswomen since girlhood, while I—well, I have been a good mother and not-quite-first-rate pianist. What do I know about cement and two-by-fours?

  Betty Lee came in, whispering that there was a visitor. “Mrs. Edgewood would like to see you if it’s convenient. That’s the black family who had all the trouble last month, you remember?”

  Indeed Laura remembered. And wondering what the purpose of this visit could possibly be, she went to the room still known as the “front parlor.” Mrs. Edgewood, holding a bouquet of roses, extended them to Laura.

  “I always think that when you’re really down, flowers can lift you up a couple of inches. They’ve always done it for me, at least, and I hope these will do it for you.”

  “They’re lovely, and it’s so kind of you. Won’t you sit down?”

  Mrs. Edgewood, complying, sat on the edge of a chair. She was nervous and frankly said so.

  “I was nervous about coming here. You were so good to come to my house after that attack on us, and I wasn’t nice to you. We almost slammed the door in your face.”

  Laura smiled. “It wasn’t quite as bad as that.”

  “Yes, it was. I was punishing you for what other people did to us, and that was wrong of me.”

  “I understand it. You had been through a terrible ordeal.”

  “Yes, and you’re going through one now. Ever since all that came out in the papers, I’ve been thinking, and I said to my husband, how hard it must be for a woman like you, what a blow, to find out—” And seeing the brightening film in Laura’s eyes, she turned her gaze considerately away, continuing, “I had to get this off my chest. I couldn’t treat you the way we’re so often treated, all of us taking the blame whenever one of us misbehaves. It’s not your fault that your husband—oh, but I’ve said too much. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I know what you’re trying to tell me, and I appreciate it, truly.” This woman was genuine. She was among those few who had come to this house without a trace of morbid curiosity. “Let me put these wonderful roses in water and get some tea,” Laura said. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  “No, another time, if I may. I didn’t come on a social call. You need to rest, not to entertain people right now.” At the door Mrs. Edgewood remembered something. “You said once you would take my daughter as a pupil. Will you be going back to work, and will you still take her if you do?”

  “Yes, to both. I’ll be glad to. Just give me a few weeks to straighten myself out.”

  When the door closed after the visitor, Laura put her face down into the roses; the petals were tender, cool against her flushed cheeks and beating temples. Then she went to fill a vase for them, set them on the table in the library, and stood undecided over what to do next. Perhaps she should go to the piano. There was always solace in music.

  Straighten things out, she had said. But how, with Tom so sullen, Timmy so scared, and the business on which this household depended now seemingly about to fall apart?

  Somebody was at the front door again. If Earl had been here, he would have heard the footsteps long before they reached the door. His little body would have been shaken with excitement from his soprano bark to his scruffy tail. And she went to open the door.

  “Hello,” Ralph said. “You haven’t called me, and I thought I wouldn’t wait any longer.” In the hallway he stood looking down at her with a quizzical, half-rueful smile. “You promised to ask me for help, and you mustn’t tell me that you don’t need any because I won’t believe it.”

  “All right, I won’t say it. Come sit in here. It’s cool.”

  She felt a queer embarrassment. He was so bright with the light on his copper-colored hair and the sweetness of his smile, too bright and alive and easy to be engulfed by the mood of this house. So she was loath to speak, and she said so.

  “Right now the problems seem insoluble. So why let them spoil a summer day? I’d rather hear what’s happening in your campaign.”

  “The campaign is tough, we’re working hard, we’re hopeful because one has to be hopeful, and that’s that. As for you, Laura, nothing’s insoluble.”

  “Except death.”

  “Even that. You solve it by accepting it, your own death or somebody else’s.”

  When she turned her head, she beheld Bud in a leather frame; seated in full dignity on a Queen Anne armchair, he had importance. Everywhere in this house, the faces of the family’s dead looked back at you.

  “It can be disillusioning,” she said, the thought slipping out unbidden.

  “Yes.”

  The syllable was gravely spoken, and she knew that he had caught her meaning.

  “There’s
no one to run the business. The Klan—” she said, cutting into the word with a chisel, “the Klan has taken Bud and Pitt. Now there’s no one.”

  “Perhaps it can be sold.”

  “Perhaps—Oh!” she cried. “Do you know what I did a little while ago? I spun the globe around, closed my eyes, and put out my hand. I said to myself, The place I touch is where we’re going, the boys and I.” And making a wry face, she told him that the place had been Patagonia.

  “Plenty of empty space there. Desert and sage and rocks and wind.”

  “You talk as if you’d seen it.”

  “I did. I was curious, so one year I just decided to go and have a look.”

  “I knew somebody once who had that kind of curiosity. From India he went to Nepal and Tibet. That was years ago, when almost nobody went there.”

  Frowning a little, she paused. It occurred to her that she had mentioned Francis to Ralph one time before, yet she wasn’t sure she had. There seemed to be so many parallels between those two men.

  “So you’re not going to Patagonia?”

  “No, I’m probably not going anywhere. It’s just”—and she made a wide, spreading gesture—“Bud’s deception, the public shame—”

  “It’s not your shame,” Ralph said quickly.

  “But even Timmy feels it, all the same. I know he does. And he looks so bad, so frail.” Now her worries poured out of her. “The funeral was very hard for him, the emotion, the church so stifling, and the heat these last two days. This morning I sent him to spend the day with a friend of his who has a broken leg. That way I can be sure he’ll be quiet. But I never know what’s coming next.”

  “I understand. I lived through it all with the Crawfields until Peter died,” Ralph said gently, looking straight at Laura.

  She said very low, yet not allowing herself to flinch, “I think of Peter so often. You knew him. What was he really like? Tell me the truth. Margaret said—”

  “Margaret told you the truth. He was a very quiet, thoughtful boy and young man. He was much the way you’ve described your Timmy.”