It Happened in Silence

by Jay, Karla M

  I’ve offered a few catchphrases when I’m around Nancy, hoping she and the other women in our Daisy Ladies’ Society would like them, but none of my mottos have taken hold. But I’ll keep working on it. Loads of cornpone sayings run through my head from growing up in the sticks, such as “Don’t blame the cow when the milk goes sour—Vote!” But I need a high-class idea about women being industrious and making a difference.

  “The sheriff’s suggesting a change to some of the town’s laws. Probably going to get harder on petty criminals. He’s proposing all crimes, no matter how minor, become felonies, so we get more work time out of the men. The governor has been hounding private companies to increase their work contracts, so this should appease him.”

  Like in other counties, convict labor improves our highways and constructs our buildings. And the ongoing problem of criminals sitting around being useless in prisons, as in states up north, is solved. Georgia has no prison system, just a chain-gang program. Seems other states are watching closely to see why we’re so successful. We’re ahead of our time on lots of civil issues.

  William stands and gives me a peck on the cheek. “How are you feeling with the baby getting so close?”

  “My feet hurt a bit, but overall I’m doing fine.” I slide an arm around his waist. “Two weeks at the most, the doctor says.” I can’t wait to hold my little girl. William is a great father, and when he has time, he takes Oliver everywhere and plays with him in the backyard, roughhousing, doing boy things. I’m looking forward to being in charge of girl activities.

  “Good.” He draws me back to look into my eyes, and I melt under his gaze. I’m so lucky. Or as folks would say back home, “You didn’t pick up no crooked stick when you found him.” I give him a big smile. If only he knew my roots. I’ve told everyone the story of the loss of my parents aboard that doomed ship. How I was fortunate to have arrived in New York on the SS La Provence with my aunt from England—may God rest her sweet soul—the year before. It was the easiest way to wipe out Hickory Nut Hollow.

  “Since you’re feeling well, how about you spend some time with Oliver tonight?” He kisses the top of my head. “You’ll be busier once the little one arrives, and I know you were gone all today.”

  I keep the anger from showing on my face. My meetings today with the other wives were to support our husbands. To help him. Who did the men think organized the church suppers, catered the rallies, and helped spread the men’s mission of promoting racial separation in keeping with sustaining white Protestant supremacy? I spend all day with Oliver. Sure, Josephine is a great help, but the boy is always around.

  “Yes. I was planning on reading to him once you left.”

  I walk William to the door, and once his car pulls away, I move into the sitting room and sink into the soft couch across from our elaborate brick fireplace. The four tall windows are draped in pale gold Cretonne with a subtle flowery pattern. William complained he could’ve bought a car when he saw the price tag for the new draperies. But I know he’s pleased with all the compliments we receive for how beautiful our home is.

  I’ll read to Oliver in a few moments. I wiggle off the couch and climb the stairs to my study. I’ve scrawled appointments across the desk calendar’s face. William has hinted that once the baby comes, I need to back off the outside women’s meetings and should settle in at home. Except when he needs me at his office.

  I simply can’t do that.

  Women across the country are highly involved in the men’s Klannish activities, but here we are kept to the side. Only two weeks ago, a dedicated Klan wife in Dallas tipped off her husband about some shenanigans she saw on the street. The Negro boy caught associating with a white woman was taken out by masked members, whipped, and as a reminder to his friends, had the letters K K K burned on his forehead with acid.

  That’s the kind of information we wives can provide. I want to be more influential, to help our country. Women of the KKK are organizing in other states. When they reach Georgia, I plan to join. Maybe because my life has been built on secrets so far, I fancy the prospect of belonging to a hooded society kept hush-hush through oaths and rituals. And it protects our children and their future from inbreeding, immigrants, and the immorality of Catholic teachings.

  I pause in front of my bedroom and listen for sounds coming from Oliver’s room. Josephine is humming, the last kindness she does every night as she rubs his back, sending him off to sleep.

  I walk to my bed and lie back, enjoying its welcoming embrace.

  Josephine softly closes Oliver’s door and whispers, “Goodnight,” as she passes by my room. Her living quarters are attached to the house, near the kitchen.

  And since Oliver is already asleep, I’ll read to the boy tomorrow night.

  Willow Stewart

  The wagon bumps along, and I balance inside, clinging to the wooden shelves to keep from falling. I’ve never been this afraid, not even the time Briar and I scared up a bear cub from a clover patch, and his mama set her mind on killing us. That day, my brother waved a large branch around and yelled as we backed out of the predicament.

  I need Briar and a big stick right now so bad it hurts.

  My stomach tries to toss what little is left from breakfast, but I fight to keep it down. The doors are bolted from the outside, and I’ve slammed my weight against them until my shoulders and back ache. I peek out of the crack running across the top of the doors, and the jerky view does nothing to calm my racing heart. We’re following a logging trail, moving deeper into the forest, and by the angle of the shadows, we’re not headed toward The Fancy Road. I send a prayer heaven-bound, asking for salvation from the dishonest Mr. Coburn. Poppy always says, “Let’s save tomorrow’s troubles for tomorrow.” I can’t heed his words because today’s troubles are a mite bigger than he was talking about. I wonder if I will even see tomorrow.

  Like a dead leaf in a stream caught in an eddy, swirling round and round, the peddler’s been singing the same eerie song over and over. His voice is the color of a bloated boar carcass, and the words sting like hornets.

  “There’s sweet peaches down in Georgia / The beauties there / Pick one for a peach of a time / There’s a preacher preaches down in Georgia / Always happy to say, sweet peach / Will you love and obey?”

  Sour rises in my throat. I’m nearing a respectable marrying age. I’ve worried no suitor will find my silence love-worthy even though Mama assures me love is not about words but about being fully seen by someone. If this man defiles me, I won’t even be a sight for sore eyes. Tears run down my cheeks and my legs shake. To calm myself, I reach for Mama’s wedding button to roll between my fingers. My chest hitches as I touch my bare neck, recollecting my charm necklace is lost to the earth, where the living pulse of grass and other plants will eventually absorb the precious buttons from sight.

  I sink to the floor where so many shoes and boots have stood, searching for something to buy. It’s also where the peddler must sleep during foul weather, and a chill races through me like the first blue lick of winter through the chinking in our cabin wall. Disgusted, I return to my feet.

  What’s he planning? I had one chore to do today, and I’ve failed Poppy and Mama, my kin. I’ll be talked about as the girl who went off to find a preacher but wound up dead. The truth sits ugly on my character. I was enticed into wrong choices by accepting a quick way into Helen. And that he seemed to be a respectable man, a vendor. In the dim light, I study the shelves loaded with cans and jars and brightly packaged candies. They might as well be serpents slithering around for all the evil they represent. We mountain folk only leave our homes out of necessity—to find a doctor, veterinarian, or a preacher. My now shameful predicament is why we keep the curiosity door to the outside world locked. The Bible warns against trickery and deception. I sure fell into this man’s evil ways.

  The wagon slows. I peek outside and notice we’re deeper in the woods. Through the door’s narrow crack, I in
hale the scent of pine and stagnant water. A woodpecker drums out an alarm as the wagon stops, the bird’s proclamation of danger banging the same beat in my chest.

  An unknown feeling shifts in me. I sense a gathering of contrasting desires that in the last hour were no more than scattered yearnings, like acorns dropped onto a bed of pine needles. There for the gathering. I can’t name them all, but I know I want to find Briar, to hear Mama laugh again, and I want to fall in love one day. And none of those will happen if I don’t escape.

  Mama always says, “We mountain folk are built for uphill climbs,” then adds, “although you’ll never climb the same mountain twice, not even in a memory.”

  I want this mountain behind me and the memory washed away by a flood like no one has ever witnessed.

  The springs in the driver’s seat creak and the wagon shifts. He’s climbed down. I hold my breath, anticipating how soon the back doors will open. I nose around the shelves for a weapon and grab a can of Campbell’s vegetable soup. His footfalls go in the other direction.

  “There you go, Old Blue and Keewah. I reckon you’re worn to pieces.” His voice has rusty streaks in it.

  The horses’ bridles rattle. He must be releasing them from their neck collars.

  “Yonder is grass and water. Starting in the morning, we have a big day looking back at us, so rest up.”

  He’s whistling that same peach tune as he nears the wagon again. The metal bar scrapes across the latch, setting my teeth to chatter. This might be my only chance to best him. I lift the can and wait.

  “I figure you’re madder than a wet hornet in there, lassie.” The doors don’t open but he’s talking. He clears his throat. “I’m only wanting some company in my travels. I mean you no harm. I can get you purty dresses and you’ll have good food.”

  The man may try to honey-coat his desires, but they still carry the stink of sin. I am traveling nowhere with him.

  “When I open the doors, I’m hoping for that neighborly spirit you showed toward me earlier.”

  I don’t wait for him. I push one door wide and swing the can onto his head, recollecting a similar feeling of helping Poppy pound a piece of leather laid over a rock.

  He yelps and staggers backward.

  I jump to the ground and spot a tree line. I know the forest better than almost anyone. If I can reach it, he won’t see hide nor hair of me again. Grasses whisk against my boots as I cross the field, and my arms windmill away a netting of gnats. My legs are stiff and won’t cooperate at first, but I push them faster. I send a prayer skyward that my narrow breathing tubes don’t fail me.

  “You no account woman!” His voice is akin to river stones rolling over each other. “You’re testing my patience!”

  I’m almost to a stand of sycamores and white pine when a pain zings across my left arm, the reverberation of the gunshot blasting past me and wearing itself out in the trees.

  I’m going to die here.

  Choking back a sob, I grab my arm and drop to my knees. I picture Poppy reading the note I left under Jacca’s saddle, saying I caught a ride with Mr. Coburn and will be back before dark. Poppy would wait until dusk, then be torn about following my trail and leaving Mama’s side. He’d stay awake all night, praying that at dawn’s first shine, I’d come home with a preacher. I would be overdue, but his mind would stay calm, knowing I knew my way around the mountain. What he would never know is what is about to happen in this field.

  The peddler reaches me. His face is blotchy, his skin purple and white with a river of blood tracing down one cheek.

  “I nearabout kilt you and it’s all on your head.” His eyes are full of menace, and heat rolls off him as he yanks me to my feet by my good arm. “Where’s your Christian compassion?” Spittle flies and I turn my face away, but wet flecks splatter my cheek. I wipe them away. “All I was asking for was the company of a fine lass, and now you’ve gone ornery.”

  He pulls me to the wagon as I condemn him for judging me to be non-Christian. The man wouldn’t recognize Jesus if He descended from the blue beyond, toting a sign declaring I Have Returned. Coburn is as heartless as a chicken gizzard.

  My arm is sparking fire, and I’m feeling swimmy-headed. After he ties my hands behind my back with rough twine, he spins me around against the wagon’s side. Pressed against me, his breath pulses hot and sour on my face. He jams his hand up the leg of my wide riding dress and pushes his fingers inside me. I squirm and fight, but he digs deeper, hurting me. I spit on him and he pushes me away.

  “You contrary woman!” He wipes the spittle from his cheek. “You will get used to that and much more.”

  My insides quiver like a squirmy nest of baby snakes. I look to the forest and the sky. I won’t have my last vision on God’s green earth be his scowling, beard-stubbled face.

  He continues to cuss and call me names as he paces about five feet away. I ignore his berating voice and shut off the pain in my arm and privates and immerse myself in the world that will go on long after I’m gone. Fluttering leaves accept their dance, following the rhythm of the wind, a light flap flap high above. Treetops split the sun into slanted beams, bonding the forest floor in shared spots of gold. A grasshopper whirs past, his life’s adventures fulfilled in short leaps. Stones press through my thin-soled boots. If only the ground could open up and swallow me. I don’t want to die but would rather that happen than have this man take my virtue.

  He reaches for me again, this time tearing my dress open at the shoulder. I kick him and he backs off. My shoulder is wet. That’s when I glimpse my bare arm, where blood flows from the gunshot wound.

  The world swirls into an ever-shrinking tide pool of greens and blues and then disappears altogether.

  I awaken propped up against one of the rear wooden wheels, my hands still tied, my legs outstretched on the ground. My throbbing shoulder is bound in a rag. Coburn is about fifteen feet away, back turned, stoking a fire under a hanging metal pot. I assess how my body feels, relieved I haven’t been further violated. He’d reattached the shoulder piece of my dress with a safety pin. It’s afternoon, and by the length of the shadows, I’ve been unconscious for about half an hour. If able to stand without making any noise, I can slip around the wagon and be gone. I need to reach the deep embrace of the forest to lose him. A man who doesn’t know about chiggers has no notion of the hidey-holes for a person determined not to be found.

  Balancing on my backside, I lift my legs and pull my feet toward me, careful not to touch the ground. I rock forward, trying to get my boots under me, just as one of the horses nickers.

  Coburn looks to the horse and then swings around to face me, catching me mid-stand.

  “Hell-fire and damnation! You’re more stubborn than a corpse.”

  I cross my legs and sink back to the dirt. As long as his temper doesn’t turn on me, I’ll get my chance to escape.

  He scratches his face and shakes his head.

  “But it is serendipitous you’ve just awoken. I’m standing in need of that mushroom soup your ma made.” He points to a board near the fire, where he’s been chopping mushrooms and wild onions. “Thought perhaps you’d show me how to make it.”

  I stare back at him. As hungry as I am, I won’t indulge his made-up fantasy about us. We are not coupling up in any way. And I’m not taken with the idea of teaching him to cook.

  He shrugs and drops the vegetables into the pot and reaches for a burlap poke set nearby.

  “That look is a bit hateful, you know. But it don’t trouble me none. I’m a single man now, and I can learn to make do. Finally got rid of my wife, Reppie. Her sass-back was well above her raising and I tired of it, you know.”

  He empties the sack onto the board and reaches for his knife again to slice the mushrooms spilled there. My breath catches. They’re Death Cap. Country folk know how to spot the deadly fungus, but to an untrained eye they look like regular white mushrooms. I stretch my eyes wide and shake my head when he looks my way. Tales have it that right before folk
s die from everything inside of them shutting down, they claim Death Caps are the most delicious food they ever ate. There’s not one healing herb in the world to turn our fates around if we eat these.

  “Oh, yeah. Reppie’s mouth ran like a boarding house toilet. Her father wasn’t no better. Ask him the time of day and he’ll tell you how to build a watch.” He drops the poison mushrooms into the pot and slowly stirs. “I borrowed money from the bank for the wagon and horses and set out. But it’s lonely. You must know what that’s like with your handicap.”

  I point my elbow toward the pot and shake my head again. Of course, the man can’t make me eat these any more than he can make me talk. But if I let him die, is that murder? The Bible takes no weak-kneed stand on killing.

  He stops stirring and peeks in the pot then back to me.

  “What’s wrong?”—he shrugs—“Oh, I reckon I’m not making it the way your ma does.” He chuckles, then turns back to his stirring. “I know us being together is new on you, but you’ll come around. I sure am thanking the Lord for a silent woman after my Reppie chewed my ears to nubs.”

  I close my eyes and try to think how to tell him about the deadly mushrooms, but he keeps yakking.

  “I owe the bank money, but I’ve not sent them penny one of it. And I sure picked me a bad mountain to try to sell my wares.” He reaches for two tin bowls and ladles the soup. “Take your daddy…he bought nothing but ten cents’ worth of candy. Pshaw! A lousy chicken can scratch together more money than that. Your pap’s probably so cheap he wouldn’t give a nickel to see Jesus riding a bicycle.” He stands and heads in my direction with the soup.