Duet for Three Hands

by Tess Thompson

  “You ladies go on back upstairs,” a gravelly male voice said.

  “While you burn up our family home? I’ll shoot you all dead before I do that.”

  Sarah pointed her gun at them. “Get out, or I’ll gladly take your heads clean off.”

  “We grew up hunting wild boar and pheasants when we were the only house for miles. If you think we can’t do it, you’re sorely mistaken,” said Alba.

  “We’ll just take the kid, Miss, if you don’t mind.” This was a raspy, indolent voice, like someone used to getting his way.

  Whit heard both guns cock and then the roar of another gunshot.

  “Holy shit, she just about took off my ear,” a man said, almost squeaking.

  “C’mon boys.” This voice sounded like he held a toothpick between his teeth. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Someone kicked him in the gut. He cried out, the pain in every part of his body.

  “We’ll get him some other time,” the raspy voice said.

  Unable to lift his head now, Whit saw only the men’s heavy boots tromping out of the room. After they were gone, the two women, their feet in heavy socks bunched around their ankles, came toward him. Alba got on her knees, joints creaking, and peered at him with every crinkle and crease on her face gathering into worried folds. “We need to get the doctor,” she said.

  “That won’t be possible,” said Sarah.

  “I suppose you’re right about that. Doc Landry’s probably along for the ride.”

  “That’s right, sister. How’re we going to patch this poor child up?”

  “I surely don’t know. What’s this boy done that’s got the Klan after him?” asked Alba.

  Whit tried to move, tried to answer, but the pain in his ribs was unbearable. “Get Jes,” was all he managed before everything went to purple and then black.

  Chapter 48

  Nathaniel

  * * *

  A sooty, acrid smell drifting in from a partially open window awakened Nathaniel from his whiskey-induced sleep. For a moment he was a child waking to his mother’s early morning fire. He imagined she knelt before the open door of the wood stove, stacking thin, dry pieces of kindling around the last hot ember, her mouth in a circle, blowing to make a flame that would warm and feed them. After the room lost its chill, she would summon him from his narrow bed and set cooked oats with a teaspoon of maple syrup at his place near the stove. His stomach full, he would practice on the upright piano until it was time to go to school.

  But then the scratching of his shirt collar against his neck reminded him that, hours before, he’d fallen onto his bed in his clothes and shoes, his half-empty glass of whiskey discarded on the table. He’d thought, in his drunkenness, that sleep would give respite from the pain and confusion; he would know what to do in the morning, he had told himself as he put his weary head upon the pillow, his heavy eyelids closing to dreamless sleep.

  Now, head aching, he bolted upright, everything rushing back to him. He looked over at the clock. It was almost midnight. His dry mouth held a bitter, sour taste. This nonsense with the whiskey hadn’t helped him. The liquor gave him a few hours of senselessness, but it was all still here, waiting. He was awake now, he thought, after years of being asleep—days and days of acting like the dearly departed. No more. He would brush his teeth and then go downstairs to drink all the cold water he could hold. It would soothe his body, perhaps heal the pain in his head and heart. Then he would come back to bed and sleep off his hangover. And in the morning he would sort through all his muddled emotions and concoct a plan for the rest of his life.

  Then he realized something in the room was different. There was an eerie glow to the walls, a flickering of orange light. He went to the window.

  Something burned in the middle of his lawn. In his shock, his mind grappled to make sense of the image, to name it.

  It was a burning cross. He stared into the blaze, unable to look away.

  His shirt was damp with sweat. He shivered. His pounding heart seemed large in chest.

  Somehow they’d been exposed. Frances. It had to be Frances. But the idea of that kind of betrayal was too much for him to understand. He must collect the others and get them all out of town. He’d take them all to Maine. To his mother. She’d fold them all into her simple house where there were no burning crosses, no hatred. He thought of Whitmore and Lydia, alone and unprotected in their rooms and pregnant Jeselle on her cousin’s farm. He remembered, with a terrible jolt, Bess and her family.

  A memory came of a painting above the pulpit in his childhood church: a depiction of Jesus on the cross in the last moments before death, in physical agony, questioning His father, crying out, “Oh God, oh God, why have you forsaken me?”

  He thought of his own cries in the dark of night to a God he felt had abandoned him. And then, the Lord’s Prayer came to him. He spoke it out loud, like he had so many times as a child.

  He threw a change of clothes and a few toiletries into a bag. A gun. He needed a gun. There was a small pistol, a wedding gift from her father that Frances kept in her bureau, hidden in her vanity for safekeeping. The moment he opened his bedroom door, a cloud of smoke rushed into the room, drifting up from the first floor. Peering over the railing he saw the sitting room encased in flames. A rush of adrenaline seized him. He ran to the white, ornate vanity in Frances’s bedroom. In his haste he couldn’t remember which drawer held her underclothes. He yanked open the top drawer. It was full of lipsticks, hair combs, and perfumes. He pulled open the second and saw undergarments of various colors: eggshell, pink like apple blossoms, lemon yellow. He felt toward the back of the drawer, searching for the gun. Gasping for air, he put his hand past and through his wife’s garments to the farthest corner of the drawer until he felt cold metal.

  He shoved the pistol into his pocket and went to Frances’s bedroom window, sliding the glass pane upward as high as it would go. He threw his bag out first. It opened when it hit the grass, spilling his few material remnants onto the lawn, illuminated in the light of the flaming cross. Holding tightly to the window frame, he climbed out feet first and found the topmost foothold so carefully positioned by Frances. Once he reached the ground, he gathered his things and ran to his car. The flames engulfed the entire first floor as he backed out of the driveway.

  He imagined his piano, ablaze, intense heat snapping strings and devouring the keyboard, flames creeping up the graceful legs and spreading until the only steadfast item in a house made of grief and deceit was finally destroyed, too.

  Chapter 49

  Lydia

  * * *

  Lydia dreamt of gunshots, waking out of the edges of the dream to the realization that someone was pounding on the door of her room. Alarmed and shaking from being startled out of sleep, she opened it a crack. It was Nathaniel in wrinkled clothes, his hair disheveled.

  She opened the door all the way as he slumped against the doorframe. “Nathaniel, what’s happened?” He smelled of smoke.

  He swayed slightly. “We have to go.”

  “What is it?” She moved to where he stood in the doorway, wishing to put her hand on his forehead.

  “Pack your things.” His forehead was dotted with perspiration. “Please, hurry. We have to get the others.”

  Something terrible had happened. She reached out her hands, and he took them in a way that was like a desperate grip on life itself, as if he might not make it without the gesture. When he was inside the room, he said her name three times, like a chanted prayer. She guided him to the armchair, but he remained standing, clinging to her hands as if he might not let them go.

  “There was a cross. A burning cross. In my yard.”

  She couldn’t speak.

  “And they’ve burned down my house. It’s gone. We have to get the kids and go.”

  “Where?”

  “To Maine. To my mother.”

  She nodded. “Yes, Maine.”

  “I cannot let anything happen to any of you.”


  “Where’s Frances?”

  His face went dark, his eyes clouded, the words deep in his throat. “She’s gone.”

  She wanted to ask more, but words failed her. Reaching under the bed, she pulled out her suitcase, tossing her few belongings into it while he stood at the window, peering into the darkness.

  “I can’t tell if anyone followed me or not.”

  Shaking, she held her dress against her chest, so frightened she wasn’t sure what to do next.

  He turned from the window and looked at her, his face rearranging from focus to concern. In one stride he was in front of her. “Lydia, I know you’re frightened, but you must get dressed at once.”

  His words jarred her from her stupor. “Yes, yes, of course.”

  He backed out of the room. “I’ll wait for you right outside the door. Please hurry.”

  She shivered as she pulled her dress over her head, shoved on her shoes, and grabbed her suitcase. They ran across campus to the car, where he opened the trunk and tossed her bag inside. As they pulled away she saw him search the darkness for movement, but it was quiet. Neither spoke. Lydia looked at her hands in her lap, praying silently.

  “We’ll get Whit first,” he said.

  They found Whitmore collapsed in a pool of blood on the floor of his room. The two sisters, holding shotguns, stood over him.

  “Some white hoods beat him pretty bad,” Alba said.

  “We heard the noise, but it took us a few minutes to get down the stairs,” said Sarah.

  “They’d had a good go of him before we got here,” said Alba.

  The room reeked of gasoline. “They poured gasoline on him?” Nathaniel asked.

  “Yep. Just about to set him on fire when we showed up,” said Sarah.

  “Had to shoot out a lamp to get their attention,” Alba said.

  Nathaniel stooped, gathering the boy into his arms. “We’ve got to get to Jeselle,” he said.

  Whit opened his eyes and murmured, “Jeselle.”

  “Lydia, find him clean clothes. These are soaked.” Lydia opened the small dresser and found a stack of clothing inside. She grabbed a shirt and pants and tossed it to Nathaniel as he pulled the wet clothes from the boy’s bruised and battered body. While she threw his remaining clothes into the open suitcase near the bed, Whit opened his eyes briefly, moaning, and then closed them again.

  Nathaniel carried him to the car, putting him gently in the backseat. “We’ll get to the next town,” Nathaniel said. “Get him medical attention then. But first we need to get Jeselle.”

  It was almost four a.m. as they sped from the boarding house, making their way through a sleeping town. At the entrance to the highway, Lydia turned to look into the backseat. Whit was curled into a half circle, making occasional whimpers. Just as Nathaniel turned onto the highway a dark car appeared behind them, following so closely that the cab of Nathaniel’s sedan filled with light. She watched his face closely, as his eyes darted between the road and the rearview mirror.

  “You think the car’s following us?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” He shifted on the seat, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small pistol. “Here, keep this on your lap.”

  She took the gun without mentioning she had no idea how to use it. The other car continued to follow closely until they reached the turnoff for Bess’s dirt road. Nathaniel slowed, preparing to turn left. The other car slowed, too, inches from them now. Nathaniel jerked the steering wheel, making a quick dart across the highway onto Bess’s road. Lydia turned to see if the other car would follow. To her surprise, it did not. It simply sped away down the highway. Lydia sighed, feeling some relief but afraid to speak.

  “Trying to scare us,” Nathaniel said.

  “It worked.”

  “Sending us a message that we’re being watched.”

  They were halfway down Bess’s road before they saw another car. This one was parked, waiting. As they approached, two men got out, fedora hats low over their foreheads, and stood in the middle of the dirt road, forcing Nathaniel to either stop the car or run over them.

  “Lock your door.” He took the pistol from her lap and rolled down his window. “You boys need something?”

  One of the men, young, clean-shaven, and lean, came over to the window and leaned down, looking into the car. “Evenin’, Miss.” He tipped his hat at Lydia before taking a flask from his shirt pocket. “Kinda late to be out for a drive, isn’t it, Professor?” The other man came around to Lydia’s side of the car, glaring at her before perching on the right side of the hood.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” said Nathaniel.

  “That right? How ’bout her?” He pointed at Lydia. His dialect had a harsh, uneducated quality.

  “I couldn’t sleep either.” She sat with her back straight and looked him directly in the eye.

  “You picking something up?” The man sneered and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Nathaniel shoved the pistol near the man’s face. “We’re on our way out of town.”

  “That right?” He stepped back, raised an eyebrow, and took a swig from his flask, ever so casual, like he didn’t see the gun. But Lydia saw his left cheek twitch. “From what I hear, you best be staying out of town.”

  “Says who?” Nathaniel sounded eerily calm and sat perfectly still.

  The boy shrugged and took another swig. “That’s the word around town. No one wants you here. You’d be watching your back everywhere you went.”

  “You tell your friends I’ll do as I please. If I decide to stay, I’ll stay.”

  The boy raised his eyebrows, shrugged again. “I’m just trying to help you. We heard the Klan’s got word of it.”

  “We have to go.” Nathaniel cocked the pistol, still pointing it at the boy. “Now.”

  The boy backed away and said something to his companion, who nodded as they slid into their car. Its headlights came on, and the car turned around and headed down the dirt road back toward the highway. Lydia realized she’d been holding her breath. She let it out in one, long sigh.

  Nathaniel gave her the gun. She held it in both hands, pointing it straight at the windshield. They continued on, around the bend in the road, until they saw Bess’s shack. He came as close to the porch as possible before turning off the car. “Stay here. I’ll get her. Be ready to shoot that gun if you see anyone.”

  “Maybe you should take it.” She couldn’t keep the quiver from her voice.

  “No,” he said, his voice firm. “Keep the lights on.”

  She watched him run between the beams of the headlights to the house. Jeselle popped up from a cot on the porch. Nathaniel said something to her, his head bowed. Jeselle put her hand up to her mouth and nodded her head in apparent agreement. Then she disappeared inside and a few moments later came out with a small bag over her arm.

  They were halfway between the porch and the car when a dozen men came out of the woods carrying lit torches, white hoods covering their heads and upper torsos. Two of the men broke out of the circle and took hold of Nathaniel and Jeselle, putting guns to their temples. Lydia held the pistol in both hands, trying desperately to think what to do. Just then one of the men yanked open the car door, grabbed the pistol out of her hands, and dragged her out by the neck. She gagged as the man’s hand dug into her windpipe. He loosened his grip on her neck, moving his arm to hold her tightly at the waist. His breath smelled of whiskey as he put his gun to her throat.

  Nathaniel struggled against the man who held him. “Get your hands off her.”

  The man smacked Nathaniel on the side of the head with the butt of his gun. “Shut your mouth, Yankee.” Nathaniel’s knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground. Lydia wanted to scream, to run to him, to make sure he was alive, but she couldn’t move. The man held her tighter.

  Jeselle, too, remained trapped. Her captor had one arm around her neck in a choke hold, and her brown eyes, big and scared, darted from Nathaniel’s limp body and back to Lydia. Then, Lydia th
ought she heard a low hum that sounded like another car approaching. Was she imagining it? No, there it was, louder. Yes, it was a car, coming fast. After a moment, it lurched to a stop next to Nathaniel’s car. The motor went silent, but the lights remained on, matching those of the other car, like four eyes shining in the dark. It was eerily quiet. No one made a sound. Everyone waiting.

  The door of the car opened. Lydia had to blink twice to make sure what she thought she saw was real. Yes, it was indeed Pastor Ferguson. He wore his pastoral robes like he did at Sunday service. She almost expected to see a Bible in his hands, but they were empty. He looked around the dirt yard, seeming to survey the situation before noticing Nathaniel on the ground. “What have you done?” He directed the question to the man standing next to Nathaniel’s limp body. The man took a few steps back as the pastor knelt and put his fingers gently on Nathaniel’s neck. He whispered something that Lydia assumed was a prayer.