It Happened in Silence

by Jay, Karla M

  A large painted sign in the front of the yellow house has Doctor Howard Jackson’s name in black lettering on white. A smaller sign below reads, NO DOGS, INDIANS, OR BLACKS.

  I tie Bayou to the hitching post at the side of the huge two-story house. It’s an awful fancy one with black shutters and a great big tulip tree. The branches are loaded with pink flowers, reaching halfway ’cross the screened porch like a lady’s fan.

  I carry Cy while Ilya stays behind me.

  “Rap on that door, Ilya.”

  He gives it three sharp knocks and we wait.

  A woman opens the door. She’s sturdy-built with graying hair twisted up in a knot at the back of her head. Her eyes are bright blue, trustworthy as a summer day.

  “Hello. Looks like you need my husband.”

  “If he’s the doctor, we sure do, ma’am.”

  She steps back but holds the door wide. The room’s got half a dozen straight-back chairs set around its edges, with a fireplace and a braided rug in the center of the floor.

  She crosses to an inside door and taps.

  “Howard? You are needed.”

  Tall but bent over at his shoulders, Doc Jackson steps through the doorway. His eyebrows are bushy white to match his thick head of hair.

  “He the one?”

  I nod.

  “Come in and lay that boy there.”

  He steps back to reveal a sunny room with cupboards and shelves and a small bed.

  Once Cy lies down, I step back.

  “Not sure what he’s got, but he’s been getting weaker and weaker.”

  “He’s your relation?” The doctor pulls back Cy’s eyelids and whites show.

  “These’re my brothers. Fell on hard times while back, been living meager in the woods.”

  The man opens Cy’s mouth, looks inside, then presses round on his stomach. He sighs.

  “It’s pellagra. Seen too much of this lately.”

  “What’s that?” I ask. If an orphan home takes the boys, they gonna want to know what’s vexing the little one.

  He folds his arms and studies Ilya and me.

  “Best we know, it’s from lack of certain foods. Mostly meat and eggs.” He looks to us both. “Don’t suppose you’ve been able to afford those?”

  “No, sir.” I stuff my hands in my pocket. This ain’t a problem up in the hills. I touch the ten dollars Taggert gave. It’ll buy some food. “How much is your fee?”

  He squints. “You have any to give?”

  “Got a dollar if you got change. Gonna use the rest for what you say. Meat and eggs.”

  Cy moans and mutters words, but they clearly ain’t English.

  Doctor Jackson steps back and crosses his arms.

  “You got bigger troubles if that’s Russian I’m hearing. Where you gonna live? Guy named Palmer has agents all over hunting for Russians. Sending them back home by ship, young and old.”

  “Think a home for orphans can take these two in ’til the little one is strong again?” I ask.

  “How old are you?” the doctor asks Ilya.

  “Fifteen. Just small ’cause of starving years before ve come here.”

  “Orphanages won’t take you. Too old. But they will take your brother.” He turns and washes his hands in a sink and dries them on a towel. “First, I’ll get the wife to fry up some eggs and get the youngster a glass of milk. You think you can wake him up?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “Come through here”—he opens another door leading into what looks like the kitchen—“and wait on the back veranda.”

  I tote Cy and we end up on a restful open porch, shaded from the hot sun by a sloping roof. I set him in one of the chairs placed round a lower table and give him a shake. His head rolls round like a rag doll missing its stuffing.

  “You try,” I say to Ilya. “Don’t wanna hurt him.”

  He bends down and talks in the boy’s ear, words I don’t understand. He rubs his brother’s arms and face. Soon the child’s eyes crack open. They’re as blue as Ilya’s.

  “Stay avake, Cy,” Ilya says. “Ve now getting something to eat.”

  Cy’s fixed look says someone forgot to turn the lights on in his head. Must have no idea how he come to be here.

  “Okay,” he mutters.

  The door opens, and Mrs. Jackson brings out a tray and sets it on the table at our knees.

  “You boys finish it all.” She smiles. “Doctor’s orders.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I say. She’s included small plates and cups to go with the pitcher of milk.

  Ilya pours and helps Cy drink milk.

  I reach for the ten-dollar bill to pay the doctor.

  “Can you take this to your husband, please?” I hold it out to Mrs. Jackson.

  “He won’t take it now that he knows your plight. Said to tell you to buy food and the youngster should get stronger in a couple of weeks.”

  “Mighty kind. Thank him for us.” Still have to explain to Taggert where his money ran off to, but I’ll buy more food for the young’uns.

  I let the boys eat the eggs and drink the milk. The smell of the eggs calls to me to take a few mouthfuls, but these boys need it more. ’Sides, I’ll have all the eggs I want in a few months. My worry is where to take these fellers. Tearing them from one another at an orphan home’s door don’t seem right. But to keep a bigger problem from befalling me, I need to get on my way to Cartersville for Taggert’s supplies. Opposite direction.

  Then I recollect when I passed this way before being arrested. I spent time in a large cave with about thirty dry rooms ’bout four miles northeast of here. Where my money’s waiting. Was saving the trip back there until I got out, but a quick drop-by won’t delay my return to the work gang by much. Going to have to tell a tall tale to Taggert the way it stands.

  “You boys ready to get back on the horse?” They finished the last of the vittles, and Cy looks a sight more bright-eyed but not so bushy-tailed yet.

  “Where you take us?” Ilya says. “Ve together, no matter what, da?”

  “Oh, I plan to keep you together.” I motion them off the back porch and to the horse. “But first, we got a stop to make.”

  Soon we’re headed back to downtown Euharlee. My plan for the Russian orphans is so clear to me now. The Bible reminds me, “Do not boast for in a moment you may reap disgrace.” I won’t crow about my idea, but inside I do feel mighty pleased I thought of it.

  Ardith Dobbs

  “Bedsheets and pillowcases?” Teresa Greer taps the Atlantic Independent newspaper page, a scowl on her face. “Leave it to a writer from New York to not see us for what we’re about.”

  Teresa, Nancy, and I sit around my dining table, properly set with my finest china, tall crystal glasses, fine embroidered napkins, hot tea, and homemade cookies—my old grandmother’s recipe. Josephine serves Earl Grey and then leaves the room. She has all seven children corralled in the playroom, entertaining them for the next hour, despite having birth contractions since this morning. We’re squeezing in one more planning meeting before she’s off work a few days having her baby.

  We’re looking through the local newspapers for articles written about our WKKK march through Atlanta last night. I’m still thrumming from the delight of pulling off a sixty-women march—led by mounted police, thanks to Sheriff Withington. Though most were Klan, they weren’t robed. Dressed in their finest black uniforms, they had a sharp but menacing presence. We women assembled at the Methodist Church, and when we were all outfitted, marched quietly down the main street carrying our signs of patriotism. Mine said “Stronger Women, Stronger Homes.” I wanted “The Awakening—Now and Forever,” but another woman grabbed it first. The exciting part was that people packed the sidewalks. The many announcements we hung around town publicizing our “Walk for American Values” worked well.
r />   I remember the hush that fell on the onlookers. They seemed to sense our force, respect our unknown power. Some may have been afraid. Good. Chills had raced through me. I mean, I boss Oliver and Josephine around, but I’ve never held sway over groups of people before.

  When we reached the park, the local librarian Mrs. MacDougal stood on a platform to announce the social activities we were involved with and how we were solving problems across the country. She was robed, of course, so only we knew who she was. Some people may not have liked the idea that the woman who hosts Reading Time for their children also thinks of nuns as the pope’s whores. She talked in general about what type of women join the Klan, while the rest of us handed out new flyers inviting “the better educated and connected woman” to a lecture session. That’s where we get down to the truth about the Catholics’ dirty little secrets. We also cover the sneaky Jews and the sexually promiscuous Negroes.

  I circulated through the crowd, telling everyone that our group was a fun thing to do with friends. That it got me out of the house for a few hours. About how I loved the emphasis on family, home, and women’s rights.

  “Good Lord.” Nancy is reading from the Miami Herald. “Listen to this garbage.” She folds the paper, aligning the column in front of her.

  “Astonished Atlantans watched in shock as robed Ku Klux Klan women took to the streets of the downtown last evening. The organization has frequently been investigated in crimes against ethnic minorities, in particular, Colored people. The Klan hides behind their masks and robes while spreading hate and fear throughout the south. The irony is that for all of their dislike of the Catholic faith, the Klan wears the Church’s pointed hood, the capirote, a way for self-confessed sinners to repent in public without being recognized by fellow churchgoers. It is fair to say the members of this rapidly growing Klan are not using their disguises for the same apologetic purpose.”

  We all snort and hmmpf our disapproval.

  “How dare they!” I’m furious. “I bet a Catholic wrote that.”

  Teresa sips her tea and gently places her teacup in the saucer. The Royal Albert Azalea design always reminds me of fuzzy purple caterpillars, but I could never ask William to replace his family’s wedding gift to us. My family would have sent chipped blue enamel cups if they’d had any idea I was married—or even alive. Sissy Belle Strunk has been a missing person all these years, and one day the search for her, for me, will simply fade away.

  “Frank said that Congress’s investigation has helped him recruit men faster than ever,” Teresa says. “And higher-class members, especially in rural areas. They say they didn’t know we were a true American organization until Congress stuck their noses in our doings and the newspapers carried the failed investigations.”

  “That’s what’s going to happen here. You watch.” Nancy closes the Miami Herald. “We have our local paper to praise. Ardith, William did a magnificent job with the advertisements he placed around the article. Flag and Bible sales, our bake-off to support deserted children.” She opens the Marietta Daily Journal and taps the photo of five women in full regalia with the headline.

  Women of the KKK March for Charity

  “That’s what we need more of.” Teresa takes a peek. Points to another ad on the page. “Oh. Have you ladies tried this?”

  The photo shows a bottle of Lysol with the tag line, “For complete Feminine Hygiene rely on Lysol. A Concentrated Germ-Killer and more.”

  Nancy Withington laughs. “Yes, in my kitchen but not my privates.”

  “It says it’s recommended by leading gynecologists.” Teresa leans back with a satisfied expression on her face.

  “People are paid to say those things. Right, Ardith?” Nancy says. “William must see these false claims every day.”

  “Just snake oil, companies trying to get a person’s money.” I try not to look at my ankles as I feel heat rise in my neckline and pray I’m not perspiring. Because I’ve wasted money on Melto and several fat-reducing creams, the only thing that changed on my waist, legs, or ankles was potent swampy smells coming from me by the end of the day. “It’s like that Gillette Company trying to get women to shave their legs and armpits. Shameful.” I add another exhalation to show my disgust.

  The other two are quiet for a heartbeat, then Teresa shrugs. “Frank likes my legs smooth. I’ve been shaving for about two years now.”

  “Me too.” Nancy removes her lightweight embroidered jacket off one shoulder to show and rub her armpit. “Nothing there. I swear I grow more hair than York.”

  How could I have missed this? This is why I need to get out more often and not immerse myself so much with Oliver or cleaning. I swallow and resist the urge to fan my warming face.

  “I meant that the ads of half-clothed women are shameful. Once I can see my legs again, I’ll try out the newest razor.” I pretend to bend over, but I’m stopped immediately by my big belly. I change the subject. “Let’s get a list ready of I Caught You’s”—I grab a tablet and pen—“and Nancy can take them to York to look into.”

  “Me first,” Teresa says. “I don’t know the man’s name, but he works at the Atlanta Pencil Factory.” She leans forward, eager to share what she’s discovered. “He’s always on the street in front during the dinner hour, handing out pencils that read, ‘You won the vote—Use it.’”

  “Does he seem to have a political leaning?” Nancy asks. “I’d like to finally see women vote this fall.”

  “He’s only handing them to Negro men and poor immigrants, so…”

  “The one-dollar poll tax prevents most of the poorer folks from even registering,” Nancy says. “That and the literacy tests, of course. Not sure a pencil’s going to matter.”

  Teresa pulls one from her pocketbook and puts it on the table along with a brochure. “He’s handing out helpful information that may get more Negroes interested.”

  My mind jumps to my folks in Hickory Nut Hollow. They never would’ve paid one dollar to register to vote. And take it from me, their opinions weren’t worth hearing. A century of staying locked away in the hills, circulating their backward logic? My pa would say, “Life begins with hospitality, but if you want happiness, that requires a powerful emphasis on leave us the hell alone.”

  “Well, we don’t need this man trying to change the voting numbers,” Teresa says.

  “I agree,” Nancy says, as she tucks the brochure in a folder. “York can send out a deputy to get this man’s name. Maybe a late-night visit will put him back on course.” She smiles at Teresa. “Well done. This is a good Caught You. I’ll go next.” She brings out a newspaper clipping of a wedding announcement. “This priest named James Coyle performed a marriage last week between an Episcopalian girl and a Puerto Rican immigrant. Several days before the wedding, Ruth, the wayward gal, converted to Roman Catholicism. We can only assume under pressure.”

  We tsk and agree the minister needs to be punished. Nancy slides the clipping into her folder.

  “What do you have, Ardith?”

  “Two things.” I pull out a dollar bill. I’ve torn off the upper right corner where the pope inserted his image. “The bank needs to go through all of its currency and purge its vaults. Why, after four years, are we still finding these…these blasphemous things?” The arrival of the pope as the emperor of the United States was imminent if we did nothing. Rumors circulated that the Catholics plan to build a palace in Washington, DC to allow the pope to oversee his empire. Everyone knows Catholics in the United States, whether citizens or immigrants, are spies for the Vatican.

  “You want the Klan to go after the Marietta Bank?” Teresa lifts her eyebrows, turning her eyes into large sapphire marbles. “We all deposit there.”

  “Um…only a conversation. Not a punishment.” I swallow hard. That didn’t impress them like I hoped. “This leads me to my Caught You. Roy Elsmore, out on Chicken Branch Road, has deserted his wife and two boys
. The wife, Fiona, went so far as to put her darling daughter up for adoption.” I remember the impetigo and shiver. That child was a mess. “I’m sure Roy can be found and brought back.”

  The truth is I hadn’t put any time into spying on the townsfolk because this week it was too hot out, and I am too tired. After the baby, I’ll get my prying eyes going. Offering up Fiona’s husband was my easy way out this week. The Klan will discover what Fiona already believes—Roy is most likely dead.

  “Oh, we can’t have that,” Nancy says. She makes a note on a pad of paper and puts that in her file, then pushes away from the table. “I’ll round up my kiddos and head home. We’ve had a good week, fellow Daisies.”

  Teresa agrees, and as she leaves, two little ones trail behind her. Four follow Nancy. I sink into the chair in the front room. William will be home in two hours, and I haven’t had one thought about what Josephine should make for supper.

  I smile. Our ladies’ club is what I’ve needed in my dull life. Because of us, three secret deeds will take place to improve our community.

  “Miss Ardith.” Josephine is standing in the hallway. She clutches her belly, and the front of her dress is wet. “I am sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but my baby is coming.”

  If she lost her water in the house, I will be furious. “I see that.”

  “I was outside when this happened.” She looks at her wet dress. Her face scrunches together. It’s obvious she’s fighting pain. And that’ll be me soon enough, but of course, I’ll suffer worse. Colored gals can tolerate pain better than white women. I mean, everyone knows that. Thank goodness, Dr. Grange will give me something for the pain.

  And because we like Josephine so much, he’ll provide that for her too.

  “Okay. Head to your room and I’ll call the doctor.”

  This means I have Oliver for the next three days while she recovers. It’ll be draining, but I can manage. Then a happy thought bubbles to the front of my mind.

  Today is Friday, or Deadly in Klan-speak. William will be home on Dark and Desperate to help me.