It Happened in Silence

by Jay, Karla M

  Because it’s Sunday, we got the afternoon off. I ain’t sleeping like most the men, but lying down for a spell to rest is good enough. I still can’t shake the idea that escape shouldn’t be that hard. We ain’t shackled and chained like in the quarry. If’n I can get to the thick of the forest, I could disappear. Know I can’t outrun a coon dog but can sure outsmart one. At least that’s what my mind’s telling me.

  Monday’s the day, if’n there’s any day at all, when a feller is rested and could flee. But where would I go? Leading the bounty hunters back to Stewart Mountain is a terrible idea. Another awful idea would be trying to see Willow to say goodbye. Marietta ain’t that far from where I sit now, but they know she and me are related, and they’d look there. Would they add to her work sentence because of me? The thought leaves a bad taste at the back of my tongue, almost bringing on a choke.

  I’ve lost all trust in the judges and laws.

  But if I escape, I’d be on the lam forever. I read that the new Federal Bureau of Investigation don’t give up, like foxes in a henhouse. They nosed out a chain-gang escapee four years after he’d got to Chicago and turned himself into a well-off working man. Back to busting rocks with the snap of a finger.

  I’d be looking over my shoulder forever once I’m out.

  But I need to right some wrongs. No way I can bring back Luther Junior. One day, God will sort that out. But Ilya and his poor brother. If’n I get out of here, the cave is my destination. No one knows I got a connection to it.

  Okay, so I get the young’un out of there and into an orphanage. ’Course I’ll have to figure out how to let Ilya know where to find his brother when his time is done working the turpentine camp. Didn’t Taggert say a few weeks?

  The Bible says, “And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus.”

  Got a heap needs doing, and I surely will be calling out His name.

  The guards skip the whippings on account of it’s the Sabbath. After the same old supper, the mood is lighter in the long shack. More men talking. A few whistling mindless tunes. With no place to sit, we all take to our cots.

  My innards rumble. I’ve made up my mind. Gonna leave tomorrow, but I need a helper. Only really talked to one guy more than any other. Rambling Joe, one got pegged for being seen holding hands with a Colored gal. ’Course he’d have been hung if’n their skin colors had been the other way round. He’s done a year in prison, and his time’s almost up.

  I turn to my side to face Rambling Joe. “You sleep?” I say quietlike.

  “Naw.” His eyes stay shut. “Whatcha need?”

  “Tomorrow when we’re near the woods…” Am I asking the right feller? What if he don’t want to help and word gets out ’bout my plan?

  “What about it?” One eye cracks open, slow like a lizard sunning himself.

  “I need a distraction.”

  “You bugging out?”

  “Gonna try.” I lower my voice more. “I got thirty dollars for you if you’ll help.”

  That eye closes again. He ain’t gonna help. Think I just put myself in more danger.

  Seconds tick by before he slowly sits up and places his palms on his legs, leaning forward. A tiny smile grows on his lips.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking. I’ll tell you if I think you’re a dead man or not.”

  I push myself up to a sitting position, our heads no more than inches apart. I explain my plan and how he can find my money in the cave.

  He pulls out a secret picture of his gal. I draw a quick map on the back of it. No names of places. Just lines joining dots of towns around. I tell him the names on the cave walls carved above the hidey-hole.

  “It’s a deal.” He nods. “Could use some excitement round here. The shine done wore off this place a long time ago. And if you don’t make it”—he cracks a half smile—“the money is still mine.”

  “It sure is.”

  Sleep is slipperier than an armload of eels. All night I stare at the bare wood ceiling, watching the moon move past the cracks as it travels the sky’s limit. A full moon will make my night travel riskier, but I’ve made up my mind.

  Rambling Joe and me don’t say no words to each other. He just gives me a nod when we finish breakfast and head to the clay pits. The plan is to wait till after dinner when the guards are belly-full and fight to keep their eyes open.

  The “All back” from dinner call comes, and we move back to our workplaces. Digging clay, I stay on the outskirts of the mud fields but not so far away that it draws attention. Working hard and not resting is what the guards watch out for.

  I lift my head to see Rambling Joe looking my way. He’s smiling.

  It’s time. My heart bangs a beat. In the next few minutes, I’ll be free—or dead.

  Rambling Joe grabs his stomach then latches on to a guard nearby, screaming he’s been poisoned. The guard tries to peel him off and yells at him to let go or he’ll bust his head.

  Joe throws up right on cue, slopping as many fellers as he can, hoping to catch more guards than workers. Well, that worked out better than we talked about.

  The guard near me runs to the ruckus, and I dive into a near bush. I take the shovel with me so’s not to leave it lying around, like a message on the open ground. I drop it in the brush and run like a duck, low and waddling toward taller, wider shrubs and the trees. No one seems to be yelling about me missing, so I stand and take off like the devil himself is at my back. I push away branches, scramble over fallen logs, aiming for the deeper woods. If’n I can get a good piece in front of them before they notice I’m gone, I got a chance.

  Ain’t a doubt in my mind. The coonhounds will be coming.

  I cross a stream, the splashing echoing through the trees. I head northwest. If my recollecting is correct about the Southern Railroad stops, I can catch out in Sparkdale and continue northwest toward Rockmart. Ain’t more than about five miles from where I am now, mostly hills and woods between.

  Coonhounds start their baying behind me. I am missed. Some guards will hit the roads, but the two dogs will stay on my trail with their handler. Never met the feller up close, but heard he was a swamp dweller before being hired. Everybody knows you gotta be mighty tough and wily to survive in the swamp.

  The wind’s blowing at my back, so I’m downwind for now. I spot a field through the trees. I scan the area for buildings and see nary a one before moving into the open. Need to find some rabbit tobacco. It doesn’t take long before I have two handfuls of the green leaves and flowers, and I hotfoot it back to the trees.

  I strip out of my stripes and tie the shirt to one branch and the britches to another.

  Left near naked ’cept for my underdrawers, I crush the plant parts, releasing the sweet, fragrant smell Pa and I always used to mask our scent while hunting deer. I rub it all over myself and stuff the rest in my boots. Sure hope it works the same for hunting dogs as it does for deer.

  The hounds sound closer now. I take off running again, sighting moss on the north side of the trees to keep my direction. In front of me, a wide crick, maybe twenty feet across, bumps and splashes its way down a rocky riverbed.

  I wade into the middle, where the cold water reaches my thighs. The force of the water and the slick rocky bottom conspire to knock me off my feet, but I prevail. Ahead, a tangle of tree roots and boulders strain most of the river, and I’m forced to leave the rushing waters and continue along the bank.

  Somewhere behind me, the hounds must’ve found my clothes. They’re crying like it’s the end of the world.

  My legs are about to give out, and I’m sucking air like broken bellows, but I push on.

  I shove away the joy rising in me. Way too early to celebrate. Once on the train and heading north, I might try cracking a smile. A puny one.

  The dogs’ howling drops away. Hopefully, confounded by the loss of my scent.
If the rabbit tobacco didn’t do it, running up the middle of a wide river did.

  But up ahead lie the roads, the truly dangerous part.

  I weave through the trees, slapping away underbrush and jumping over rotting logs. Daresn’t slow down. I can rest when I’m a free fellow.

  Yonder, a train whistle blows. I come out near the back of a farm. As much as I hate to break the law, I need me some clothes. Coveralls and shirts aplenty flap from the clothesline strung between two poles in the center of the yard. The yellow house is on the other side, and I’m hidden from sight behind bedsheets.

  I slip the wooden pins off some brown britches and a too big olive-green shirt, then rush back to the trees and put ’em on.

  I reset my direction and run faster toward the sound. It may not completely stop, but I can catch it on the fly. Least I could nine months ago.

  Blood pounds in my ears. Fellers get themselves killed all the time trying to board a moving train. Or their legs get cut off.

  I break out of the bushes near the railway tracks. Not far off is a small depot and crowded platform. Steel wheels scream as the big smoking engine roars round the bend. The ground vibrates, pushing excitement through my feet up into my chest. It’s a freight hauler, the best kind. Hot sparks flit from the wheels, and the smell of heated oil fills the air. The train slows and fifteen boxcars clack, knock, and groan. The engineer slows with a great whoosh of steam.

  I dash from the trees, headed for a car. It’s all a rusty blur, but I jump and seize the hot metal rung with my right hand. The movement of the train whacks me against the ladder, but I finally grip the rod with my other. I pull myself up and lay flat against the ladder, breathing hard, fear twisting through me.

  Once steady, I get a foot on the rung and begin climbing.

  The conductor blows the whistle again, and the train picks up speed. I hurry to the top, where I can’t get ripped off by tree branches. I hold tight to the big metal beast and climb to the catwalk. I lay flat where none will notice and let out a big breath and smile at the world flying by.

  The soot-belching monster shoots forward, wailing at each crossing, rattling my nerves. Eventually, I raise my head to watch the train slither along the tracks, a monstrous black snake carrying me to freedom.

  I brace myself for the upcoming curves. Seen a man thrown clean off the top near Lincoln. Landed as a twisted-up mess on the other set of tracks. Tunnels is another worry, but I don’t plan on sitting up. My hair’s all wind-tangled and full of cinders. It’s hard to stay out of the way of the long gray tail of smoke the engine stack throws over its head toward me.

  Never did get myself a hobo name. What should I be called? Once thought Georgia Boy might make me a good enough name, but soon enough I’ll be needing plenty of disconnect from my home state.

  I try to enjoy the blur of greens, the brushstroke of farms, lakes, and hills over yonder. Young’uns along dirt roads wave at the freight train. There’s only the train workers and me to wave back. I don’t oblige.

  The train should pass by three depots before the Brushy Mountain Tunnel. I need to slide off when the train slows for Rockmart. From there, can’t be more than a fourteen-mile walk to Euharlee. Then yonder to the cave.

  I drop my ear to the fearsome beast and hear the power of this metal machine, fitted together with bars and bolts and springs and wires. Obedient cars happily trailing behind. My eyes burn, and the taste of nasty thick smoke coats my tongue. But it’s hard not to be pleased and a mite amazed I actually made my escape.

  Ardith Dobbs

  Supper is over, and William and I are home sitting under our magnolia tree. Oliver is playing with a new wooden airplane, and Baby Karl is asleep on my shoulder.

  “I haven’t talked to Teresa yet, but do you think Frank would help me fight the Legal Aid Society?” He’s enjoying a pipe, a new activity he’s taken up. The rich cherry tobacco aroma circles and swirls on a light breeze.

  “Fight what?” He squints against the smoke as he turns his gray eyes my way.

  “A woman and her husband are making trouble. The Elsmores.” I shoot him my most innocent look. “Said they’re going to the Legal Aid Society to get a free lawyer.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?” He sits up straighter and turns his wicker chair to face me. “Why do they need a lawyer?”

  “Fiona Elsmore is on our charity list. Last I visited her, she said she’d been abandoned by Roy. She practically shoved the baby girl in my car and begged me to find a better home. The adoption place I took the baby to had already found a new placement by the time I went back two days ago.”

  “You went to the doctor that day, I thought.”

  He sets his lips in a line I recognize as forced patience. I’ve seen him use it at the office when workers ruin an ad copy.

  “Before the doctor visit.” This is a lie of course. I drove the baby to the Elsmores’ place. Roy wouldn’t have known the difference, and he was full of smiles and coos for the little one. The boys danced around and tried to hold their sister. Replacement sister. But Fiona, she went right out of her mind when she picked up the little girl.

  All my insistence that this was their daughter couldn’t calm her, and I drove away with shouts and curses trailing behind the car.

  “The Legal Aid place called this morning, on a Sabbath of all days. Can you imagine?” Incredible how some people disrespect Christian values, like keeping the day holy. “I’m not worried at all, but the man said he’d be filing charges against me.”

  “Charges?” His mouth opens and closes twice. “If you were securing an adoption for them, what are they charging you with?”

  “Using my membership in the Klan to garner favor.” I circle one hand in the air to express what a silly accusation.

  “I still don’t get it.” He tamps his pipe out in the glass ashtray on the table between us.

  “To garner favor so I could take her money and her baby.” I pat Karl’s back, even though he’s not awake. It soothes me too. “I feel sorry for her. She gave me the ten dollars she was saving toward our club dues to find a good home for that little girl. And she was a sick one too. All covered with impetigo blisters, sores.”

  William stares at his clasped hands, his arms on his knees. He’s quiet. Thinking. He’ll have a solution. It’s what he does. He’s a problem-solver.

  “When was this?”

  “Before Josephine had her baby. She was here cleaning while I had Oliver with me running errands.”

  “I remember. The day you put all those miles on the car.”

  This isn’t good. I told him we went for a ride in the country to see the wildflowers in bloom. I nod.

  He rubs his temples and closes his eyes. “And you took Oliver.”

  “You know I love having him around.”

  “No, Ardith. I don’t know that, and right now I’m not even sure I know you.” He stands and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Going to call Frank and try to sort this out.” He turns around, stops, then glares at me with a slight squint. “Is there anything else I should know about this?”

  I can’t tell him about the Beck Infantorium. If Frank Greer ever went there to check out my story, it might get out that the sisters knew me from years ago. Those are stories William can never hear. I smile and shake my head. “Thanks, hon.”

  I stare across the yard full of flowering gardenia and lilac bushes edged with beds of orange marigolds and red geraniums. Josephine planted them in such perfect arrangements, once I brought them home from the greenhouse. What must her life be like now at the lunatic home?

  William is just short-tempered because Karl cries through most of the night. If only Josephine had accepted our story about her baby. She could be living in this wonderful house, with food aplenty and two darling children to tend to. She’s a natural at mothering. Maybe the doctor went too far operating so she can never
have another baby. I don’t know. One day, she might have wanted to marry one of her own kind and start a family. It’s all so sad she lost her mind.

  Karl is awake and staring at me with these brown eyes. I can’t see hide nor hair of William in him. He favors my pa, just less wrinkly, with no chin whiskers. Pa. He always smelled like the coal dust from the railroad, no matter how much he washed. That fire knocker job seeped into his skin—and eventually into his soul.

  I sniff Karl’s head. He smells milky sweet.

  “Oliver. Time for your bath.”

  The boy skips over to the porch and climbs the steps. He’s always so happy. He’ll be a good influence on Karl.

  “Willow should be done with the dishes by now. Go find her to get ready for bed.”

  Oliver points. “She’s right there, Mommy.”

  I turn, and there she is, standing just inside the parlor, looking out at us.

  How long has she been there? Did she hear what I told William? The windows are open to allow the fresh air inside. She knows I’m lying if she did hear. I’ll have to talk to her about snooping. Of course, I’m not worried. Not really. That dumb gal can flap her hands around all day and try to tell what she saw at the Elsmores’ shack. No one will understand her.

  Thank goodness she was never schooled much in reading and writing.

  Next morning, I’m enjoying a cup of tea and reading through the Atlanta Constitution’s society section while Karl sleeps in his crib next to me. When I get rid of my baby bump, I’m going shopping to buy some of the styles the women pictured in the party photographs are wearing. I went from rags to riches by mimicking what I saw in newspapers and by watching women on the streets. I listened to conversations and practiced them as I rode behind genteel ladies on trolleys. Made myself worthy for any gentleman of distinction.

  Pushed Sissy Belle Strunk and Hickory Nut Hollow deep down. The new me was born.