by Jay, Karla M
“Three dollars, son.”
The boy drops his head and arms.
“You got any money?” Tuck asks me.
“Not here I don’t.” I stashed some outside a town called Kingston west of here. It’ll be my first stop when I get out. “Steep price, but I bet it’s worth it.”
A man hands over some money and pushes past the boy to shimmy aboard. Soon the pilot gives the propeller a spin, and the plane kinda bounces down the field before turning around again. It thunders toward us and the road before lifting off.
My heart pounds, imagining what leaving the ground must feel like. The airplane disappears over a small hill, the engine noise growing fainter. Then before we know it, the airplane is right over our heads again. He flies so low, I feel as if I can reach up and touch the bottom skin of the machine.
The pilot is showing off now. He turns the airplane around over the town, pulling up sharp and rocking it on its side. He glances down through what looks like support rods and flying wires and waves. The fare payer’s face is stuck in a fearful stare, his arms braced against the door.
Once again, he circles low over the field and lands his plane.
I chuckle on the walk back to the wagon. “That was worth every dollar that man paid.”
“Sure enough.” Tuck nods. “I aim to do that someday.”
“You’ll be the Flying Lawyer.”
“I’ll give rides all day.” He slaps his knees. “Then I’ll buy one of your fancy dining tables.”
I turn to the Negro in the back. “Say. What’s your given name?” Taggert called all the Negroes John Henry.
“Frederick Sharp, sir.”
“Well, Frederick Sharp. What’d you think ’bout that?”
He’s all smiles, showing several missing teeth. “That was better than two singing Sundays.”
“Sure was,” I say.
The other convict is talking to his hands, something ’bout a porcupine. Not sure how that fit messed with his mind, but the boy is lost to the world. May just be a kindness from the Good Lord.
“What you in for, Frederick?” I’m always curious what got a man in trouble. Add it to my list of whatever they done, I ain’t gonna do.
“They got me for ‘walking without a purpose,’ sir.”
“How long you get?” Tuck turns in his seat to ask.
“Two years, nine months.”
Tuck whistles, a long slow sound that fizzles at the end.
I shake my head as I steer the wagon onto the road again. Walking without a purpose? What kind of no-good made up law is that? Might just as well arrest a feller for breathing while living.
We come in on Indian Avenue. I turn the mule up Chain Gang Hill, as the locals call it. At the top sits County Prison Camp, a layout of U-shaped wooden barracks inside high barbed wire fencing. One guard tower is at the corner of the barracks.
The prison holds a couple hundred convicts, most out this time of day on the county work sites. Same as we passed in the stump field near the airplane.
I used to believe we are all a fruit of life’s lessons. Bad or good. But what lesson is there in being made to work in cruel conditions ’cause some highfalutin so and so with power claims walking without a purpose is a crime? A man can stand brutal force, but brutal reasoning will break a feller in two. How can a man fight against laws made for the sole purpose of supplying free labor to the rich? It’s all so wrong.
I drive through the guard gate. The four of us had seen something full of wonder today—the airplane. The hope of flight that was only a wild idea some eighteen years ago.
Minutes and days ahead might get ugly, but I’m gonna hold on to the magical vision of that airplane. A symbol of freedom. I hope these other fellers do too.
Ardith Dobbs
I put the finishing touches on my hair and admire my new dress in the mirror. This one is a pink and pale yellow sleeveless chiffon shift, perfect for a fine May day and the important ceremony this afternoon. I can’t believe it’s finally happening. Our meager group of the Daisy Ladies’ Society becomes official members of the WKKK today in Georgia.
Josephine took Oliver to the park and later will watch him while she cleans our house one last time before she needs a few days off. She mentioned she thinks her baby is close to coming. Any day now, she predicts. William will enjoy his father-son evening with Oliver since I will be home late.
I rub my swollen belly. Baby Katherine has been more active today than usual. She must feel my excitement.
Deidre Barr from Indiana is coming with other Imperial and Realm Commanders from northern Klonvocations. Today’s gathering at the Atlanta Friends Meetinghouse is heralded to draw six hundred women. Miss Barr is a celebrated Quaker minister, a temperance organizer, a political activist, and has preached in factories, garages, shops, and on the streets. I can only dream about how wonderful it would be to draw a crowd like she does.
An article my friend Teresa Greer wrote and submitted to the Fiery Cross, the Klan newspaper, caught Miss Barr’s attention. Teresa wrote that we glorious mothers are powerful forces in society. The prime shapers of the values of home and family. That we are the foundation of a strong America. And that by not being allowed to join the men to defend the traditional moral standards against the vices of a modern society, a women’s purity cause is half lost. This message is what Miss Barr has preached for years. That women are helpmates to Klansmen and should be duly inducted.
What I like are her progressive ideas about motherhood. She says it used to be the ideal fulfillment of a woman’s destiny, but it’s time for change. With equality on our side, our new roles as mothers extend to supervising our communities. To help our husbands uphold the tenets of pure Americanism.
As I’m leaving the house, Frank Greer pulls up in his new touring car. It’s a beautiful sky-blue color with white sidewalls and tan soft-top. William said a lawyer’s salary buys this type of car while an advertiser and insurance man needs to be happy with his new Ford. It’s fine. Our house is nicer than the Greers’ home.
Teresa slides out of the front seat and hops in the back with me, so I don’t have to ride there alone.
“Frank.” She uses a fake English accent. “You may now drive us to our meeting.”
We raise our eyebrows to each other. Aren’t we special?
Because Teresa grabbed the attention of the northern Women of the Klan, we get to meet Miss Barr personally after the ceremony.
“Are you excited, Ardith?” Her rouged cheeks are extra pink, and she’s got a watermelon-wide smile fixed to her face.
“My heart is pounding faster than all get out.”
She pulls away and frowns. “What a corny saying. Did you pick that up from your nanny?”
I will the heat to leave my face, realizing I’ve slipped in a saying from back home. I give a teensy chuckle. “I suppose I did.”
She pats my leg. “Remember. We’re helping raise the lower classes. Best not use your maid’s phrases in front of Miss Barr.”
“Of course. That would be ridiculous.” I offer her my don’t-be-silly face I’ve practiced a hundred times in the mirror, but inside I’m boiling. Sometimes Teresa is downright snooty. If she ever gets to heaven, she’s the person who will request to see the upstairs.
Twenty minutes later, Frank pulls up to the large, one-story meetinghouse. Lines of women snake out the two doorways, and I worry we might be too late.
“You ladies behave yourself.” He turns sideways to look at us and smiles, saying “Don’t go trying to run for government or anything.”
We agree not to, and head to the front of the line with our special invitations and wait for the man at the door to check for our names.
I wish William was as accepting as Frank. We had a fight this morning about why I wanted to mingle with women who are opinionated enough to get themselves killed.
William cited a mother murdered after she turned in bootleggers in Ohio, and another wife was beaten to death by unknown assailants, leaving her small children motherless. She’d recently passed out literature inviting Catholic women to leave their church and join the Women Against the Catholic Empire. To stop Papal Prisons and rescue girls trapped behind convent walls. I reminded William that in the end, they discovered the woman was killed by her husband because, in his opinion, she spent too much time away from her household duties. “Hopefully you’re not plotting to kill me,” I’d said.
When he didn’t laugh, I added, “You know my focus is on poor immigrant women. We don’t support the New Hope Charity Home for nothing. And like you, we’re fighting the Catholics at every turn. Steering women away from the Sisters of Charity Homes. We’re way ahead of them teaching women how to raise a better baby by joining our women’s group. They swear to our moral code, get food, clothes, and advice.”
I knew that would get to him. William loves babies and has rallied for the pursuit of only pure-blood children filling Marietta’s schools.
“Come right this way, ladies,” the man says. He’s the only male in sight. Is he being honored or punished?
The interior is a large open room with dozens of rows of benches that create an inner square, all facing a pulpit in the center. A balcony above mirrors the same square pattern but appears to be for standing worshipers only. We are seated in the front row on the right side. A dozen other women are already seated around the interior. The room is unpretentious, without any ornamentation, but the benches’ muted gray color and white walls are pleasing to the eyes.
Within minutes, the floorboards rumble as hundreds of women flow inside and squeeze into the pews, their colorful dresses creating an image of a flower garden against a gray backdrop. They are all talking, noisier than plovers descending on a swarm of grasshoppers.
I emulate Teresa, who is sitting near the edge of her chair, her back ramrod straight, a permanent smile on her much-too-red lips. This is a big evening for us.
Someone begins clapping, and women rise to their feet as three ladies enter from a side door. I recognize Miss Barr from the newspaper stories. She’s smartly dressed in a light blue linen suit, white blouse, and smart cloche hat with a rosette flower on the side. She does a slow turn and waves to the cheering crowd, her round face aglow. My heart pounds, and I can’t control my somewhat toothy grin. This is the closest I’ve been to a famous person.
“Thank you, everyone,” she says, starting right in. Her voice is strong, uplifting. “Please be seated.” As we all sit, she notices the women in the balcony section. “Or please find a railing to lean against.” She pauses to wait for everyone to stop chuckling. “I am so thrilled to be speaking to you today. I’ve always wanted to visit your lovely state, but duty calls in so many cities. I’m here because you have a woman of justice among you! Thanks to Teresa Greer, you have my attention.” She scans the front rows, searching. “Teresa. Would you mind standing?”
I give Teresa a gentle nudge, but she lets a few seconds tick by before she stands. As we’d say back home, she’s milking this cow until the last teat goes dry. Then I chastise myself. Her letter to the newspaper has brought us all favor. She stands to booming applause.
“And we have our Society of Friends here today. Could I have all of my Georgia sisters stand?” Miss Barr says.
This is so nice of her to include those of us who know Teresa. I rise and smile, but Teresa pulls me back to my seat and whispers, “She’s talking about her Quaker friends.”
I duck my head and study my hands like they’ve just shown up at the end of my arms. My face burns and I barely hear Miss Barr’s opening words. I hope she didn’t see me stand. I want to be able to make eye contact with her when we meet later.
Teresa murmurs in agreement. “That’s right. And it’s the truth.”
I sit up straight and tune in.
“…and we are all here together. Joined in one brave, noble cause. I see representatives from the Ladies of the Invisible Eye, the Grand League of Protestant Women, Queens of the Golden Mask, who have traveled here from the Midwest. We have the Hooded Ladies of the Mystic Den, and Puritan Daughters of America. We are not different groups any longer.” She raises her hand in the air and women clap and catcall. “We are here to stay. History will tell of our righteous fight to safeguard the white race against a rising tide of color. We prevent juvenile delinquency, loose morals. We support segregation and fight every moment against miscegenation.”
We cheer louder.
If William could hear Miss Barr, he would agree with her ideas and not think of her talks as radical. He and the others have combated the same vices for six years since the Klan started up again in 1915. That circuit-riding minister, William Simmons, proclaimed the rise of the second KKK atop Stone Mountain, not that far from Marietta.
“But I insist that in all things you act with the modesty and with the virtue of your womanhood and be careful not to foster masculine boldness or restless independence. Leave political strategizing to the men but support the politics in the communities. We hope one day to open these doors to our children. I want to see our southern sisters sponsoring parades like the one we just attended in Indiana. My heart was warmed by one float in particular. It featured a little red schoolhouse surrounded by happy children dressed in miniature Klan robes. The banner read ‘Ku Klux Kiddies.’”
“We should do that in our Spring Fair,” Teresa whispers. “We can have a sewing bee to make the children’s and the babies’ regalia.”
Teresa and I have paid our ten-dollar Imperial dues. Finally, in tonight’s initiation, we will receive our robes and hoods. We’ve already been calling ourselves by the Klan’s organizational names that the WKKK in the North and Midwest are using. But tonight, I will become a true secretary and treasurer for our group. A Kligrapp and a Klabee in our local Klanton. Perhaps one day I could move up to just the secretarial position over a province, which would cover our whole county. And what if William moved up the ranks? To be married to a Grand Dragon. That would be most exhilarating!
Teresa jabs me in the ribs. Can the woman hear my pious thoughts?
“She asked who is ready to take the vow,” she says, leaning close to me.
Hands are raised all around the meetinghouse, and Miss Barr is turning in a slow circle with a celebratory air about her. I jam my hand upward before her eyes move to our side of the room.
I am ready.
I’m not sure I have ever been as excited or as filled with a sense of patriotism as I have at this moment. Baby Katherine is extra active, and I can’t wait to tell her about this when she’s older, about how she was involved too. We are more than two hundred and fifty robed and hooded women gathered on a high hilltop outside Atlanta. Miss Barr and the local Klansmen arranged streetcars to carry all of us who were ready to join to the edge of the city. We walked with linked arms the rest of the way to the remote hilltop. Only moments ago, the sunset presented a magical ending to the day, which perfectly matches my mood. As dusk settles, the chief officer of the province, a Grand Titan, and his other officers, known as the Seven Furies, walk to the fifteen-foot wooden cross and light it on fire.
“This is to remind you to act like Jesus Christ and serve the Klan. You are in God’s army against the enemies of God’s chosen people.” The fire flashes yellow against our white robes. “You are masked to hide your individuality, your social class, and to make you all equal as you go forward in Klankraft. Remember your motto, ‘Not for self but for others.’ As you look upon each other robed in white, realize you are now on a common level of sisterhood.”
That’s the swell of pride I’m feeling. I finally have an honest group to belong to. No more running from my backwoods roots or the lie about how I’m the only one left in my family due to an iceberg. This is the first truthful endeavor I’ve ever participated in.
�
��In a few minutes, you will take a sacred vow. If you ever break that vow or disclose what you’ve learned today, you will answer to a tribunal. Failure to obey our laws or the command of an officer results in harsh punishment, from suspension to banishment altogether. Spies, and there have been a few who have joined, are eventually discovered and no longer report to anyone.”
I swallow. The weight of what I’m about to do hits me in the chest. I will be a member of a secret army. The reason America will recover from its depths of impurity.
“We are the invisible empire, and you will be able to identify a sister or brother Klansman by our secret Klan words. Learn them well.”
I’ve rehearsed the new names for the Kalender. The days, weeks, and months, but it’s a lot. January is Dismal, February is Mystic, March is Stormy. The secret saying for today’s date, the 6th day in the first week of May, is the Dreadful day in the Woeful week of the Horrible month. I’ve tried to practice with William when we are alone, but he’s often not as thrilled as I am. He said the words are to be used in emergencies, when a brotherhood connection needs to be validated. Not just for a notification of a run to the market.
I disagree.
“Let the ceremony begin,” the Grand Titan says.
Miss Barr and her female officers approach the makeshift altar after kissing the American flag and slipping fancy blue hoods over their heads. The rest goes by fast, and I try to savor every minute. We sing one verse of “Onward Christian Soldiers,” then an officer repeats a litany over our symbols. The Bible, the fiery cross, an American flag, a sword, water, mask, and our robe. Then they pour water into bowls on a long table.
We line up and move forward until we each reach the water. I dip my fingers in and do what the other women ahead of me have done. I touch my shoulders and say, “In body.” I touch my forehead and say, “In mind.” I wave my hands in the air. “In spirit.” And finally, make a circle around my head and say, “In life.”
When we’ve all completed the water ritual, the Grand Titan speaks, his voice deeper now. Like a loud rumble against the wavering fire.