It Happened in Silence

by Jay, Karla M

  “Fine. That’s no problem.”

  And it isn’t. I have a week to get a better nanny and an ethical doctor.

  A fresh start in both cases feels good.

  Willow Stewart

  I write fast, needing to make the policeman understand he has misunderstood how I’ve come to be here. Sir, I’ve done nothing wrong. Just arrived here from Helen with the blessing of my family. I’m to bring my brother home. I’m sweating, and my hand trembles.

  “Tell that to Judge Henry. He will hear your case this afternoon in Marietta.” He pulls me to a black paddy wagon. “Soon you’ll be a guest in their jail.”

  His smile is full of malice. His voice is storm-cloud gray.

  He opens the rear door and pushes me up the two steps into the wagon. Benches line both sides. From a small window in the front, I can see the driver. The windows look to be covered with thick wire fencing. To keep us from breaking them and escaping, I guess. Not that I’d even try.

  The policeman slams the door shut and leans against it. Not wanting to look at him, I look out through the fenced-up windows. My train pulls away, leaving smoke and dust floating above the barren tracks.

  The wagon begins to move.

  This wooden bench is so hard, and my shoulders feel as if someone’s pushing them down. I’m going to jail. The trouble I courted could fill my lifetime, but now I’ve invited it all in a matter of days. When Poppy hears of this, he’s likely to cancel my birthright. He keeps his actions straight as a string, and here I am tangled up in a snarly mess. It’ll be hard to explain I was arrested for doing nothing on my way to doing something. I don’t count running from Mr. Vissom a bad thing though. He was about to send me off to a place I most likely couldn’t have left. Seems like kidnapping to me. But I did take Mrs. Holcombe’s church money. I’ll send it all back to her if I can just get to Briar.

  The paddy wagon rattles down the street. People stare. Shame fills me, knowing they must only see a dishonorable girl who must be kept away from society, locked in a cage. What seems like hours later, we stop, and I’m led into the backside of the Cobb County Courthouse in Marietta, down a hall, and into the jail.

  The lockup has three separate rooms. The first room holds about five cages of white menfolk. The next room has two Negroes in a cage and one tied by his wrists to a metal pole near a dirty window. The overpowering smell of sweat, unclean menfolk, and utter despair come off that room.

  “In here.” The mustached policeman stops at the third section and points inside. A woman is curled up on the dirty floor in one cell, among bits of paper and dried mud. He directs me into the cage next to her. We’re the only two women in the room. The clank of the closing door rattles through my being. If it didn’t seem real before, this iron-bar pen just brought reality up close.

  My surroundings are dark, but I cipher another kind of darkness in this place. The sadness left by folks before me. Four bunks line the cell and fold down from the wall and bounce back up when let go. A dingy quilt is folded on a short bench next to each one.

  I sit on the bed and hold my eyes on the other woman.

  Why did they just leave her on her back on this awful floor? Her head is twisted, facing the ceiling, and her eyes are open. Swollen. Red. As if stung by a sadness I never seen before. She’s not crying now, but she must’ve offered up a powerful tear storm earlier.

  Her eyes start to move, slowly searching my cell. They climb to reach mine.

  “Help. Me.” Her voice is the color of red coals. Only two words, but they seem to hurt her throat coming out. Not sure how I can help her though. In a nasty stew myself.

  It just hit me that she’s a light-skinned Colored gal. She’s holding her stomach like she’s sick or hurt. Must be why it’s swollen ’cause she’s tall, not fat.

  I scribble out a note on my tablet and slide it through the bars.

  She reads it then says, “I had my baby stole from me, and now they trying to send me far away.”

  What! Who steals babies? The newspapers say young girls get stolen and then made to do terrible things as a man’s slave. But a baby? I signal for the tablet back and write again. This time I hold it up for her to read.

  How is it you came to be arrested?

  “The doctor told the police I was outta my mind. I was just distressed. They done me wrong.” She pulls herself to a seated position.

  I notice blood on the inside of one leg and more bloodstains on her dress. Lordamercy! What did he do to her?

  We will see a judge. He might be better at understanding.

  She shakes her head. Tears wet her face. “Men are deaf to a Colored’s tale.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  My skin gets darker than hers in the summer, and with my red hair, my skin’s not prone to browning much. Before I can write what I want to say to her, the door opens. The policeman is back.

  “The judge left for the day and will see you both tomorrow.” He smiles, but it’s rotten. “Food comes around in about two hours. Those pails in the corner of your cells are your bathroom. Settle in.”

  He leaves. The only sound is the other girl crying softly. My chest hurts. She needs a doctor, not a night in jail. But it’s apparent that no one will hear her pleas, let alone mine if offered on her behalf.

  I reach through the bar and take her limp hand. Mama taught us the healing power of handholding. I plan on giving this girl as much of my strength as I can in this bleak situation.

  The morning passes before a policeman pushes through the door.

  “You two are up. Judge Henry’s about ready to hear your stories.” He unlocks our cages, and we follow him out. I hold the girl’s elbow, since she’s walking drunklike.

  We enter a large room with fine wooden chairs and benches. Judge Henry is portly, with cherry-red lips he licks over and over again. Must’ve just eaten something good. He’s sitting on a raised stage with deputies on each side of him. We’re led to a row of wooden chairs about fifteen feet back from him.

  I’m shaking and wish Briar or Poppy were here to take my side. But when I write this story later, I’ll shorten it. Make fun of the circumstances.

  I’m led to the line on the floor in front of the judge. I swallow a lump the size of a hickory nut. The policeman stands next to me.

  A guard in a uniform that’s a mite too tight reads from a piece of paper. “Willow Stewart, age fifteen. Arrested for insufficient guardianship, irresponsible conduct, and possibly becoming a menace to society.”

  I gasp. None of that’s true! I shake my head trying to clear away the lies.

  The judge’s couldn’t-care-less squint worries me. My legs are shaking like I’ve gone and murdered someone. And he’s bored?

  “She can’t talk, or she don’t want to,” the policeman says to the judge. “Another reason she shouldn’t be on her own.”

  That gets the judge’s attention. “Can you talk?”

  I shake my head. I hold up my pencil and mime I can write.

  “Write something in your defense.” The judge leans forward. Waits.

  What should I say? My family is all catawampus and I need to pull it back together? That I have an older sister who’ll act as my mother? They’re so worried about me going back to a home with only a father. If they only knew what a good man he is.

  I left home for two simple chores. To find the traveling preacher before my mother died. While I was traveling, she passed. Then I wanted to find my brother to let him know the sad news.

  “What’s his name and what does he do?” The judge seems righteously interested now.

  Briar Stewart. He’s working in the lumbering business in Cartersville.

  The policeman steps forward and slides a sheet of paper in front of the judge, who sets a pair of spectacles on his nose and reads for a moment.

  What’s that paper?

 
He chuckles and shakes his head. “Deputy here looked up your brother when you told him his name.” He taps the paper. “He’s in Cartersville working in the pines all right. But he’s been lying to you.”

  I scowl. If my thoughts could reach his tongue, it would be cut from his big mouth. Don’t like him badmouthing Briar. Dear Lord, keep my mind. Don’t let me take your name in vain because I’m fixin’ to lose my religion.

  Now a worry pushes through. Truth be told, Briar’s letters stopped five months ago. Might be something new happened to him that he hasn’t told us.

  “He’s serving time at the County Prison Camp, out on the turpentine gang.”

  My head spins. Briar was arrested? All this time I’ve been happy he’s satisfying his wandering spirit, while he’s been stuck in a jail. And Poppy’s heart changed toward him, trusting he was a working man.

  How long will he be there?

  The judge looks at the paper. “Let’s see. Done five months and has four months more.” He clucks his tongue. “Criminal tendencies must run through your kin. Because here you are too.”

  What can I do to change any of this?

  He sits back and folds his hands on his chest like he’s studying me.

  “You’re going through a rough patch, your ma dying and all. Because I’m not a bad man, I’ll help you both out.” He motions for a pen and takes up a new sheet of paper. “You can serve two months in a labor industry and that will reduce his time by two months. You’ll both get out together.”

  Two months! I write real fast. Could our time be shortened, sir?

  He frowns at me. “You’ll pay your debt to society by working it off where we see fit, girl…and help your no-good brother too.”

  He can’t mean that I would work in the forest, can he? What if it’s a sneaky way to put me in that deaf school? I can’t trust anyone.

  Where will I work? I’m trying not to cry but can feel my throat pinching toward a good bawling.

  He reaches to the corner of his desk and drags a black book closer and opens it.

  “This has the recent requests for girls.”

  Huh? How many gals get arrested? With the police and their made-up crimes, maybe more than I could ever imagine.

  “There’s a sewing job in Cartersville, or a local woman here needs a nanny.” He adjusts his spectacles to look closer at the page. “A Mrs. Ardith Dobbs.”

  The Colored girl jumps to her feet and screams.

  “Lordy! That lady is puredee evil! Lying Jezebel done killed my baby and sent me here.” Her fists are balled up tight at her sides. “She the one needs arrestin’!”

  “Quiet down!” the judge says, his voice thundering, face scrunched like an old bulldog. “One of you bailiffs take her out of here until we’re done.”

  “I need to speak to a legal person!” Her red-striped voice fades as she’s taken outside.

  But her words, that nearabout echo through my soul, rattle me. That kind of house sounds mighty awful. Besides, Cartersville is where I wanted to go in the first place. I cast a fine stitch Mama always said. Sewing for two months, knowing I’m helping Briar? That’s my choice.

  Please send me to the sewing job. I wait, my chest fluttering. But he doesn’t seem like a man who wants someone telling him what to do.

  He scribbles on a paper and hands it to the policeman who brought me here.

  “Get her transportation up to Cartersville.” He looks my way again. “I sentence you to two months’ labor. At a place called Miss Lily’s Threads & Things.”

  I sag in relief. Briar’s sure gonna be surprised when he learns about this.

  The policeman driving me north is lanky, with combed-back dark hair and a dark shadow above his lip. What a thin mustache. His eyes are cloud-gray, the color that builds before the rain spills out. But dark circles under his eyes show he’s been ill-acquainted with a full night’s sleep for a time now. He gives me a too-quick smile when I’m handed over to his care.

  Before he says a word, we’re in farm country.

  “Did you meet Sheriff Withington?”

  I shake my head.

  “My brother-in-law. Our men’s group is meeting up here today is why I can drive you. You can’t talk at all?”

  Again, I shake my head.

  “When you get out of custody, you can cleanse your evil ways by joining the women’s branch of the Klan. Put you on the right path of wholesomeness. Just stay away from immigrants and Negroes. We’re working fast and hard, trying to cleanse the world for pretty white gals like you.” He taps out a beat on the steering wheel. “We’re only the best men, and now women, in every walk of life. You can’t hardly find a doctor, lawyer, or banker that hasn’t joined.”

  I nod but don’t like his words. I don’t have evil ways. Just got caught up with bad-intentioned folks. Newspapers outside Georgia write worrisome stories ’bout the Klan killing in the dark of night. Like he says, important men belong, so the papers say everyone looks the other way.

  “We don’t have to stay secret anymore.” He’s smiling. Looks to be more proud of his belonging than a God-made soul ought. “We sponsor parades, picnics, even beauty contests. Donate money to churches and hospitals. Last year, the wife and I showed up at Christmas parties for orphans, me wearing a Santa suit and handing out gifts. We’re what America is all about.”

  My insides are hopping around like I swallowed grasshoppers. Got the willies about what’s ahead for me, can hardly tolerate this man’s boastings. Proverbs says don’t brag about tomorrow, since you don’t know what the Lord has planned.

  What should I do when I get to my labor job? Can I ask where Briar is working and try to find my way there? Do we get days off from our work? It would be nice to spend a day with him.

  I wonder if he looks much different. It’s been a whole fifteen months. I think he’s kind of cute—for a brother—with his dark hair and bright blue eyes. But I’ll never tell him that ’cause he’d make fun of me.

  We reach Cartersville, a town two times bigger than Helen. The policeman stops in front of an appealing shop. Miss Lily’s Threads & Things is printed on the window in frilly cursive. Bedcovers in many colors are stacked in the window.

  “I was told to take you in the back way.” He gets out and motions for me to follow him between this and the next building, a shoe repair shop. The back of the bedspread store looks like a house, sided with white boards and pink trim. Must be where we sleep when we’re not working.

  The policeman opens the door and lets me step inside.

  “Here she is,” he says, handing my papers to a woman. “As promised.”

  The lady looks me over and nods. “Hi. I’m Miss Lily.”

  I nod and look her over too. Her face reminds me of a hawk, with those sharp lines and angles. And her name don’t fit her at all. Prickly Thistle would suit better. She’s wearing a Sunday-best flowered dress. Two other girls are sitting round a table, working on pieces of cloth in front of them. They don’t stop but glance my way before turning back to their work. Funny, they both look scared. Why?

  I’m self-conscious about how I look. My riding dress is a mess, my hair is loose in places, and I must smell nigh close to a horse that’s been rode too hard and put up wet with sweat.

  “Thank you for bringing her,” she says to the policeman. “By the by, my husband said you all have a night meeting a bit later.”

  “We sure do.” He pops his knuckles. “Need to remind a feller about rules, if you know what I mean.”

  “That pastor knows better. Mixing Coloreds and whites in his service. It’s just wrong.”

  “I’ll be going.”

  Ooh! He tips his hat like Ruthy’s beau does and leaves.

  Miss Lily smiles then turns to me. Her cheeks are a little more rosy.

  “Never had a mute girl here before. I’ll run a bath. Get you clea
ned up and into a pretty dress.”

  Not sure why I need to dress fancy to work in the sewing department, but getting clean does sound good.

  I’ll look nice and presentable when I meet up with Briar.

  Briar Stewart

  The day was moving along smoother than churned butter, and Taggert was in a good mood because we were back on schedule for the barrels of sap he promised. But because the sun don’t shine on the same dog all the time, just like that, the day changed.

  A wailing come circling out of the woods a few minutes ago, and I rush to see who done what. Tuck’s on his back breathing raggedy, air and blood bubbling from his nose.

  A shook-up Colored worker stands with his hands on his head, a shocked look on his face.

  “Oh, Lordy,” he says. His hack’s lying at his feet.

  I hasten to Tuck’s side. “Shit! What happened here?”

  Tuck’s holding his nose and moaning. “Walked into his damn swing,” he finally manages, with a voice choked with blood.

  Taggert comes out of nowhere and is on the Colored man. He lands a slap that sounds like a pistol shot. Spit flies from the man’s mouth as his head snaps sideways.

  “Boss”—the Negro raises his hands to plead—“I never saw him.”

  Taggert hits him again, this time in the throat.

  Strangling sounds come from the man.

  I call out to the convict, “Hush your mouth. You only making him mad.”

  Tuck gets up, one knee at a time. Blood covers his mouth and runs down the front of his shirt. “It’s my fault.”

  Taggert moves closer to study his wound. “Nose is busted. Have the cook look at it.”

  Tuck stumbles off.

  Taggert bends and picks up the hack. Taps it against the side of his leg as he faces the convict.

  Christ Almighty, is he gonna kill the man? My heart’s thumping like a rabbit facing a fox, and I ain’t the one in trouble.

  The whites of the prisoner’s eyes pop huge with terror.