Earl thought back to his first days at school, how overwhelmed he’d felt being surrounded by other children.
“You think he’ll do okay in school?”
“He’ll do great,” Vestal answered quickly. “He’s so smart. I watch him play with the other kids and they already look at him as a leader.”
“Just like his daddy,” Cora said proudly, bringing a burn to Earl’s cheeks.
“Mama, you don’t think we’ll have any trouble getting him enrolled, I mean with the papers and all?”
Cora considered the question. “No, you won’t have any problems. The birth certificate is real. I made sure of that. The two of you are named as his parents. The only hitch would be if there was someone who knew Vessie at that time and knew she wasn’t pregnant.”
“Our neighbors knew,” Vestal said. “But that was back at the duplex. I’ve not seen any of them since we moved.”
“Most of them are probably gone anyway,” Earl said. “Folks who lived around there never stayed long.”
Cora stretched her legs and smiled. “Well then, I think you’ll be just fine.”
“Actually Mama, we may not have Chan in school here for very long.”
Cora sat up and looked at her son. His grin told her what she already suspected.
“You about ready to close the deal on that farm?”
“Yes ma’am,” he nodded.
The next hour was an explosion of excitement and good wishes as Earl and Vestal shared their plans. Mr. Turner had decided he’d had enough of farm life. The farm would be on the market in November.
It was while Vestal was speaking that Earl first noticed the sadness that had crept onto his mama’s face. She seemed attuned to Vestal’s words, but her mind was someplace else, a melancholy place.
“Mama? What is it?”
Cora attempted to wave off her son’s concern. “It’s nothing, really.”
“Miss Cora, please tell us.” Vestal’s plea brought Cora up short. She seemed to be losing herself in memories.
“Well, there was a time when I was as excited as the two of you are right now.”
Vestal said, “When you first moved to Grebey Island?”
Cora nodded. “I knew it was too quick. Levi’s first wife had taken her own life just a few weeks earlier, cancer was eating her up. He came to my daddy’s house, we were poorer than church mice, and my marriage prospects were nil.”
Earl listened intently to a story he’d never heard before.
“He took Daddy and me out to Grebey Island, showed us around. It was so beautiful. And the house seemed as big as a mansion.”
The house Earl remembered was far-removed from any mansion, but he said nothing.
“Now I know it wasn’t much, but back then... you probably don’t remember, Earl, but my Daddy’s house still had a dirt floor.” He hadn’t remembered that. Memories of visiting Grandpa Tasby were dominated by a quiet man who led the little boy around the farm on the back of a broken-down mule called Honey.
“Anyway, I was as excited as a girl can be. Marrying a young farmer with a beautiful house. It seemed... perfect.”
But it wasn’t. Earl remembered Levi smacking Mama around the kitchen and how he raged out of control over the smallest things. He remembered being whipped and humiliated. He remembered the names he’d been called.
But he also remembered the good times, the years when Levi was in prison. Those were the times when Grebey Island seemed most like home. Eating dinner on the front porch. Playing with the other children. Following Harvester Stanley around, awestruck by how smart he was.
“Did you know today was also his birthday?”
“Whose birthday, Mama?”
“Your father’s.”
He hadn’t known.
“Sixty-three.”
It was on that somber note that they headed off to bed. Earl found sleep elusive as he considered the fact that his son shared a birthday with the man who had, through his actions and manner, provided Earl with the best example of how not to be a father.
A fitful night of sleep came to a merciful end just after six when Earl was awakened by his mother’s quiet voice coming from the living room. Rising to investigate, Earl found her on the telephone. The look on her face told him something was terribly amiss.
FORTY
THE KANSAS CITY TIMES
June 3, 1965
Missouri Man Dead After Robbery Attempt
Adair (AP) A sixty-three-year-old Saxon County man is dead following an attempted burglary overnight.
Leviticus H. Manning, of Grebey Island, was pronounced dead at Adair Memorial Hospital at 3:45 this morning after being shot in the chest by a homeowner in western Saxon County, sixty miles southeast of St. Louis.
According to police reports, Lowell Surratt, Jr., 29 was awakened at approximately 1:20 AM by suspicious noises coming from an adjoining room. Upon investigating, Surratt discovered a man rifling through desk drawers in the dark living room. When he ordered him to stop, Surratt stated that the intruder turned quickly toward him, leaving him no recourse other than to discharge his handgun.
Surratt further stated that there had been a heated exchange between himself and the deceased the day before in his office at the Adair Public School where Surratt serves as school principal. Surratt stated that Manning had wanted to purchase a Civil War-era knife from him, and when they could not agree on a price, Manning became angry and made statements of a threatening nature.
At one time, Manning was married to Cora Tasby Manning, a Washington D.C. lobbyist and confidante of former President Harry S Truman. Miss Manning was unavailable for comment.
FORTY-ONE
Little had changed with The White Covenant in the quarter century since that first meeting. Membership remained small, never less than a dozen or more than twenty. Thirteen of the seventeen current members were second generation, their memberships proudly handed down like treasured family heirlooms. Four current members were part of that first meeting. Now, well into their sixties and seventies, these men served as a tie to the past, but were of little use otherwise.
Unlike their predecessors, the Saxon County Knights, The White Covenant remained largely unknown to most Saxon Countians. Their actions were viewed as little more than the occasional random act. Through the years, Saxon County had progressed from a rough-and-tumble home of dirt farmers and shopkeepers to a community known for its southern-like gentility. Gone were the days when men would stream into the bars that dotted the courthouse square, eager to experience things unavailable in the neighboring communities of Sainte Genevieve and Perryville. Bars had been supplanted by dry goods stores, dress shops, and a movie theater. Two local restaurants were featured in a St. Louis Post-Dispatch article on fine dining, drawing an eclectic mix of city folk and well-heeled locals, all oblivious to the role played by one small, but powerful organization in keeping these parts blissfully lily white.
The decision to let the Levi Manning incident play out was an easy one for The White Covenant. Levi grew ornerier as he aged. His desire to leave a legacy had been thwarted by Covenant members who refused him membership, while rewarding him handsomely for taking care of details with which they chose not to be associated. Lately he had become increasingly antagonistic, making threats to pull back The Covenant’s veil of secrecy. Sooner or later, Levi’s actions were going to land him in the family cemetery on Grebey Island. In the end, a mix of drunken bravado and stupidity made it easier.
Lowell Surratt, Jr. was heralded as a hero; a man who defended his home against an intruder. Some minor manipulation of the facts made the story play out even better. The Adair School Board presented their principal with a commendation signed by the Governor. Rumor had it that Lowell would be named school superintendent as soon as Chauncy Parker got pushed out. Everybody knew he really ran things at the school anyway. Lowell Sr. made sure of that.
For The White Covenant, Lowell Jr.’s ascension to the position of superintendent was of little co
nsequence. More important was the planned acquisition of Levi Manning’s farm and the opportunities it would present. The Covenant’s national leaders had had their eyes on Grebey Island as a meeting place and training ground for years, helping them fulfill their overall mission of ‘one white nation, under God.’ With the KKK and its offshoots dominated by rednecks more interested in drinking beer and burning crosses, The White Covenant was poised to become the choice of a generation of Americans interested in covertly maintaining racial and ethnic purity.
They had already taken care of the rest of Grebey Island. Now, with Levi’s passing, the last piece of the puzzle was about to fall into place.
FORTY-TWO
Earl often found his thoughts drifting since Levi’s death. Usually it happened at work, when the men were out on the job and Cindy had stepped away for one of the frequent smoke breaks. More often than not, his musings returned to the Grebey Island of his youth, particularly that timespan when Levi was in jail and the farm was prospering under the care of his mother and Harry Davis.
Was there any remnant of that Grebey Island? When he and Vestal talked about it, Earl said he hoped the Stanley or Cornish families would buy the Manning farm and expand their holdings. Earl figured that the last quarter century had been difficult for them, and perhaps acquiring Levi’s farm would allow them to experience peace.
But, if he were to say what he really hoped could happen, it would be to return to Grebey Island himself to run the farm, side-by-side with the wise men and women known years before as the Grebey Island Negroes.
What were they like today? Harvester would be in his forties, teaching at the Grebey Island college he’d helped start. Knowing Harvester, Earl guessed he was also operating the family farm, as his parents would now be well up in age. Charlene, now his wife, was probably still teaching school.
And what about Mary Dobson? As a young Army recruit he’d had dreamed of a day when he would return and sweep the beautiful Mary off her feet. Those thoughts had melted away the moment he laid his eyes on Vestal, but he still found himself thinking about Mary, hoping her life had turned out well.
###
“Cora, it’s the strangest thing.”
Leonor Sullivan had become one of Cora Manning’s best friends over the years. Cora respected the determination she had shown in silencing both the skeptics and the Democratic party. It had been expected by many that Leonor would take over her husband’s seat in the House of Representatives when he died unexpectedly in 1951. Her own party had different ideas, however, and their reluctance to endorse Leonor cost them the seat in a special election. Rather than retreat home to St. Louis to lick her wounds, Leonor signed on as a staff member for another Congressman, biding her time until the 1952 election, when her home district chose her over six rival Democrats. In the years since, voting for Leonor had become a habit.
“What did you find out?” Cora held the phone tightly, concerned with what she was about to hear, but tempering her thoughts with the realization that what Leonor called, ‘the strangest thing’ could be pretty routine for Saxon County.
For fifteen minutes Cora listened carefully, jotting enough notes to fill three pages of a stenographer’s notebook. As always, Leonor’s information was complete and concise. There was little need for Cora to ask additional questions. After hanging up, she called Jack Schira.
“Hey Miss Cora, good to hear from you.” Jack had called upon Cora to help him win a seat in the Missouri House of Representatives the year before. Her work was stellar, but Jack’s matriculation from the University of Kansas Law School proved difficult to overcome. Still, he owed her and would happily pay up. Cora related the information she had gleaned, then asked Jack for his help.
“Miss Cora, will I get out of there alive?”
“I think I can help with that,” Cora replied, flipping through the oversized Rolodex dominating a corner of her desk. “You just plan on being there on time with everything in place.”
FORTY-THREE
Proceedings usually started at nine, but Judge Kenneth Airey made sure his hand-selected auctioneer had a previous commitment that would require moving things ahead an hour. The time change was buried in a public notice that appeared in the Saxon County Weekly Telegraph, but it was obvious from the turnout that few had gotten the word.
The auctioneer moved to the courthouse’s top step, looking directly into the sun rising over the shops on Adair’s city square. The County Clerk and Circuit Court Clerk stood behind him. Judge Airey and Saxon County Deputy Sheriff Tommy Bramble stood to his left. Judge Airey, now pushing eighty, hunched over, and hard of hearing, was still sharp of mind. His green eyes scanned the gathering like a fox. With a slight wave of his hand, the auctioneer got things underway.
“We have three parcels of land available today for back taxes owed.” The auctioneer described each, but there was no doubt it was the first that would gather the most attention.
“The first parcel of land is Number 062859, owned by the late Leviticus Manning.” The auctioneer described the acreage, its location, and the structures on the land.
Nine of the ten men gathered at the base of the steps were from Saxon County. Among them was Troy Hatcher, fourth generation President of the Adair Building and Loan. Hatcher was here to vouch for the other men hoping to purchase the parcels. Lowell Surratt, Sr. was also in attendance. He certainly had the money to make a purchase, but at his advanced age most thought it unlikely. Conspicuously absent was Lowell, Jr. who was said to be in Jefferson City for a school principals’ meeting.
The lone outsider kept his distance from the rest. A couple locals approached to say hello, but got little in the way of a response. “Is he one of ours?” one of the locals quietly asked Lowell, Sr.
“Probably,” Surratt responded. “The leadership is interested.”
“Why won’t he say anything, then?”
Surratt glanced at the stranger and shrugged. “That’s the way they operate; it’s worked for ‘em so far.
“Bidding will start at four hundred and eighty dollars,” the auctioneer cried, “the amount of taxes the property is in arrears. Do I hear a bid for four-eighty?”
“Four-eighty.” The bidder was an East End farmer, a man not involved with or sympathetic to The White Covenant.
“Twelve hundred.” Heads turned to David Comstock, second-generation owner of the farm that bordered Grebey Creek. A tall, slender man in his forties, David had taken over the operation from his father. Like Surratt and several others, Comstock was Covenant. His proximity to the Manning farm made him the logical choice to be their front man.
“Two thousand!” Several bristled at the rogue East Ender.
“Four thousand,” Comstock said quietly.
“Six,” the East Ender countered.
“Nine thousand,” Comstock responded.
“I have nine, do I hear ten?” The auctioneer was doing his part. The land was worth many times this amount, and would have fetched more had others noted the earlier start time.
The East End farmer stayed quiet. Like many who attended tax auctions, he was looking for an inexpensive way to add to his acreage. Also, like many farmers in Saxon County, he didn’t have much money.
With the bidding commanding everyone’s full attention, no one noticed the late model Lincoln Continental pulling into a nearby parking spot. The driver got out and checked his watch, surprised to see the proceedings already under way.
“Nine thousand going once.”
The East Ender walked away.
“Nine thousand going twice.”
David Comstock smiled as a couple of the other men slapped him on the back.
“Just a moment, please.”
Heads turned toward the street.
The auctioneer pointed at the late arrival. “Do you wish to submit a bid on this property, sir?”
“No I don’t,” the man said as he approached. The others took note of his well-cut dark suit and military bearing and haircut. “My n
ame is Jack Schira. I’m an attorney from Columbia, Missouri. I’m here to put a stop to this auction.”
Schira became the immediate focus of attention, a fact that displeased him not at all. The auctioneer stood gap-mouthed and motionless. Others looked upon Schira as they might a visitor from another planet.
It was Judge Airey who found his voice. He turned to Deputy Bramble.
“Go stand next to that one,” he said, nodding toward Schira. “If he tries to disrupt the proceedings again, put him in handcuffs and place him in a cell.” The deputy moved tentatively toward the attorney.
“Judge,” Schira said quickly. “You have to stop this proceeding immediately. You’ve violated at least a half-dozen laws related to sale of property for tax liens, plus there’s been no good-faith attempt to try to find surviving heirs.”
Nostrils flaring, Judge Airey stabbed a crooked index finger in the direction of the attorney.
“Lock him up!”
Deputy Bramble placed his hand on Schira’s shoulder; the attorney shrugged it off.
“Go ahead Judge. It’ll be my pleasure to put you on trial in your own courtroom.” There was a collective gasp. People in Saxon County weren’t used to seeing Judge Airey challenged. His face crimson, the judge’s voice reached a crescendo heard several blocks away.
“Tommy, get him out of here!” Deputy Bramble brusquely twisted the attorney’s left arm behind his back, cuffing it expertly. When he grabbed Schira’s right arm, the attorney’s papers flew out of his hand, littering the sidewalk and blowing in the breeze.
It was then that the other stranger in the crowd spoke.
“That won’t be necessary.” The stranger climbed to the top of the steps, pulled an identification wallet from his pocket, and displayed it to the judge.
“I’m Franklin Whitehead with the State Attorney General’s Office, Judge Airey. Mr. Schira has raised some valid points. I’m here to make sure he is heard.”
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