Jake and Clay exchanged a look. One of the other kids oohed.
Robbie, though, was showing Ruby something, a military medal.
Or was it a dog tag?
* * *
“What you got there?” Bone asked Robbie as they filed back into the schoolroom.
He clutched an old cigar box to his chest. “Some of Daddy’s souvenirs from the war.” He turned to her. “Wanna see?”
Bone nodded. She motioned him toward her and the boys’ seats at the back of the room. Jake, Clay, and Ruby followed.
Robbie set up shop at Bone’s desk. He opened the battered cigar box, lifting the lid slowly to reveal its treasures. Inside lay medals, some with little ribbons, some with dangling crosses or stars. Some were simple silver disks—not dog tags as Bone had thought. He picked one up gingerly. “Daddy won this for bravery at the Somme.” That medal had a star on it. He picked up another one, this time with a black cross. “Daddy took this off a Kraut he killed.” Robbie laid out a few more as he described an epic battle in which his father was the hero.
Bone’s hand brushed against the cigar box as she reached for a medal. She saw Robbie, with the box tucked under his arm, sneak into a big room full of bookshelves and glass cases. His daddy’s study. He made a beeline for the big wooden desk at one end and plopped down in the leather chair. Robbie twirled around in it once, quickly stopping it when papers on the desk went flying. He scrambled to pick them up, many of them stamped FINAL NOTICE. Robbie selected one of Mr. Matthews’s cigars. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, smelling the tobacco, just like he’d seen his daddy do many times. Sticking the cigar in his mouth, careful not to leave any marks, though, Robbie sidled over to a row of glass cases. In one, several baseball caps were lined up. The Grays. The Black Barons. The Stars. Dust outlined a missing cap. Over them hung a signed bat. Robbie moved on to the next case. Inside it, there were more medals, dog tags, knives, guns, and other war trinkets than Bone could count. Robbie lifted up the glass, picked out a medal, and told himself a story about it. It was the same one Robbie was telling now about a completely different medal.
Did Mr. Matthews tell him that story? The scene shifted. Robbie sat at a long wooden table, a plate of roast beef and potatoes in front of him. His parents sat on opposite ends, his father walled off behind the newspaper. “Father, I got an A on the math test.”
Mr. Matthews snapped the paper closed and folded it in half. “I’m going to Greensboro tomorrow,” he told Mrs. Matthews. He didn’t even look at Robbie.
“It’s such a shame about Norton’s car dealership,” Mrs. Matthews replied. She tsked-tsked as she cut into her meat. “The war effort takes its toll on us all.”
“We’re exploring other opportunities,” Mr. Matthews told his wife.
* * *
“Bone.” Ruby nudged her. “Robbie asked if Uncle Ash has any medals.”
Bone shook herself. Robbie’s dad barely acknowledged he existed. Robbie told himself those stories. She felt sorry for him—until she saw the sneer on his upper lip as he waited for Bone’s answer.
“Yes, but Uncle Ash don’t like to brag,” Bone finally said. He didn’t. It wasn’t until his so-called funeral that anyone in the family ever heard he’d won a silver star.
“He’s got nothing to brag about,” Robbie said as he brushed the medals back into his cigar box. Looking up at Ruby’s best Aunt Mattie–like glare, he muttered, “Sorry.”
He clearly didn’t mean it. But Bone had seen a tiny glimpse of what made him such a misery.
WHEN BONE GOT HOME to the boardinghouse, the kitchen smelled like Christmas dinner. Mrs. Price hummed happily as she stirred a pot of beans, a thick ham bone simmering in the middle. The aroma was more pork than beans. A batch of her cinnamon and molasses cookies cooled on the counter. Fresh-cut pine boughs, cones, and holly lay on the kitchen table. Mrs. Price always made a wreath for the front door and decorated the mantel in the parlor. And Daddy usually cut a nice tree for the parlor.
Only he wasn’t going to be here this year. “Maybe me and Uncle Ash can go fetch a tree after supper.” Bone swiped a cookie from the tray. Mrs. Price didn’t mind one bit.
“That would be lovely.” Mrs. Price pulled a whole chicken out of the icebox. “Why don’t you get the decorations from the attic?” She began neatly and efficiently thwacking the bird into parts with her butcher knife—all while humming “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”
Even from the attic, Bone could smell the chicken frying. The box of decorations was kept in a place of honor by the big window. Most of them were Daddy and Mama’s, some were Mrs. Price’s, and others belonged to other tenants over the years. Many of the ornaments were handmade—little wooden rocking horses, bells, and nutcrackers Papaw had carved.
Bone’s favorite, though, was the box of Shiny Brite glass ornaments Mama had bought at the five-and-dime store in town. Bone traced her finger around the faded green Christmas tree with red ornaments drawn on the lid. Through cutouts in the cardboard, you could see the real ornaments inside, all shiny and bright. Bone loved the pink-and-white one with the silver flower inset into it. She saw Mama holding up the green-and-white one shaped like a tree. She patted her protruding belly. “Laurel, I got these for you. Next Christmas and every one after that we’ll put these up together.” They did for six Christmases. Then she and Daddy put them up for six more Christmases. And now…and now she’d just have to do it herself.
She set the carton aside and dug around in the box, looking for the tree topper. It was Mrs. Price’s, a chipped white star made out of glass. Bone saw Mr. Price lifting up a boy to put the star on the top of a tree decorated with candles and twinkling ornaments. Mrs. Price then lovingly wrapped the star and other ornaments in newspaper, happy but sad Christmas was over.
The star was the only one of those twinkly ornaments left. And Mr. Price and the son were gone. Bone carefully wrapped the star and placed it and Mama’s ornaments back in the cardboard box.
A door jangled and slammed downstairs. Boots stomped up the steps to the floor below—and another door slammed. By the time Bone returned to the kitchen with the box, Mrs. Price was no longer humming.
“What was that ruckus?” Bone asked.
“Heck if I know.” Mrs. Price decapitated a carrot with a whack.
* * *
Supper was uncommonly quiet, almost like Uncle Ash really did die. It was just Bone, Uncle Junior, and Mrs. Price—and Uncle Junior wasn’t talking. He pushed around his food, his mind a million miles away. Mrs. Price collected his full plate and stormed into the kitchen. He didn’t say anything until Bone polished off her chicken and was sopping up the gravy with her second biscuit.
“Bone, honey, you didn’t say anything about that German fella, did you?”
Bone shook her head. Loose lips might sink ships.
“Good. Don’t.” And that’s all he’d say about it. He pushed himself up from the table wearily and dragged himself into the parlor. The radio clicked on to the Lum and Abner show.
Bone cleared the rest of the dishes and brought them to Mrs. Price.
“What in tarnation is his problem tonight?” Mrs. Price said in a low voice.
“Heck if I know,” Bone answered. She really didn’t. He’d been so happy when Uncle Ash turned up not dead.
“Well aren’t we a pair?” Mrs. Price handed Bone a dish towel.
Mrs. Price proceeded to wash the dishes without humming, handing each to Bone to dry. Bone told her about school and about Robbie asking Ruby to the Christmas dance.
“You and Will are going, aren’t you?” Mrs. Price perked up.
Bone shrugged. She didn’t much care for dances. But Mrs. Price was humming again. The fact was, though, that Will hadn’t asked her. Yet.
“I’ll make you a new dress—well, not new exactly.” Mrs. Price was a wizard with her sewing machine. She’d made
Bone several feedsack dresses for the school year—but Aunt Mattie had donated them to the needy. “There must be a dress of Willow’s still up in the attic.” She’d also made Bone her Sunday dresses out of some of Mama’s old ones. “Anyway, you’ll have a far handsomer and kinder date than Robbie Matthews. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
The knock came at the usual time.
“Speak of the devil.” Mrs. Price turned off the spigot and took the dish towel back from Bone. “Ya’ll help yourself to some pie and milk,” she told Will as he stepped into the kitchen. “It’s about time for my program.” With that, she hummed herself into the parlor.
Bone poured two glasses of milk, and Will cut two slices of pie. On top of all the food Mrs. Price just fixed, they still had plenty of funeral food left. Were you supposed to give it back if the funeral was a bit premature?
“How was work today?” Bone asked as she sunk her fork into the gooey pie. She was beginning to tire of pecan pie, if that was possible.
“Odd!” Will gulped down half his milk and then started writing.
“Why aren’t you talking?” she whispered.
He nodded toward the parlor—and Uncle Junior.
Mr. Matthews came down the mine!
“Why ever for?” He never went into Big Vein, at least that’s what the boys had said.
Will shrugged. He and Junior went down to 27.
That was odd.
“When Junior got back, he was steamed,” Will whispered. Told me not to mention the German.
“Me, too. Just now.” Bone had a bad feeling about this. That meeting with Mr. Matthews had put Uncle Junior in his foul Christmas-spirit-killing mood.
Army contract.
She took the pad and pencil from Will and wrote: One of Mr. Matthews’s deals.
They’d both seen Mr. Matthews muscle Uncle Junior into doing things his way.
Will nodded. Mr. Matthews didn’t want the army to know they’d found a dead German guy in Big Vein. That would certainly make it hard to meet the quota with the brass sniffing around and maybe shutting down the mine. Big Vein might even lose the contract.
No one would ever find out who killed Rainer Beck—and his family might never know what happened to him.
“That’s not right,” Bone said.
Will nodded. “But I need my job.”
So did Uncle Junior and every other family in Big Vein. Daddy would need his, too, when he came back from the army.
But it still wasn’t right. Somebody needed to hear Beck’s story—even it if was only Bone. And Uncle Ash.
Did Uncle Junior tell him and Mamaw about the meeting? Is that why they weren’t there for dinner?
Let’s go back to the tipple tomorrow night, Bone wrote.
With Ash? Will wrote.
“Yes, he at least needs to see that ghost dog.”
Will nodded as he licked the pie crumbs from the plate.
AFTER SCHOOL, BONE STOPPED BY the Scott Brothers’ store to pick up the sugar ration for Mrs. Price. When Bone emerged, the yellow pickup was parked out front—but no Ash or Miss Spencer. Bone put her hand on the still-warm hood. Among the scenes she’d felt before, Bone saw Uncle Ash and Miss Spencer sitting on the hood, leaning against the windshield, under a starry sky. The truck was parked next to a dark lake or pond, its waters gently lapping against the shore. The dogs snored in the bed of the truck while the humans talked into the night.
It was so peaceful.
Up the road, a dog growled and whined. It was Corolla. Kiawah and Kitty Hawk popped their heads up from the truck bed. Uncle Ash and Miss Spencer were walking near the tipple. Corolla stopped and snapped at something unseen, and then started slowly backing away, the hair on his shoulders bristling, tail low. The hounds ran to the little dog—and then started slinking backward, too, and whimpering. Bone followed.
“What in the Sam Hill is wrong with you dogs?” Uncle Ash asked. He kicked at the very spot the ghost dog had stood. The dogs kept backing away, the big dogs skulking behind little Corolla.
“Back to the truck,” Bone told the dogs. They turned tail and ran to the safety of the yellow pickup. She bent down to hold her hand over the spot. She couldn’t feel anything. The coal that had landed on Beck was probably halfway to Norfolk by now. Or burned up in someone’s furnace. Bone stood and looked her uncle in the eye.
“There’s something you need to see. Tonight after supper. Don’t bring the dogs.”
Uncle Ash looked both amused and bewildered. “Can I bring a date?”
“Dress warm,” she told Miss Spencer with a wink.
* * *
Supper was quiet again—even with Uncle Ash and Miss Spencer there. Miss Spencer and Miss Johnson carried the conversation, talking about the goings-on back at the college. The brothers avoided talking to each other during most of the meal.
Finally, Uncle Ash spoke. “I went to see Tiny.”
Junior looked up from pushing his green beans around the plate. “Did Al drop the charges?”
“Nope. I got him to deputize a few more people to watch the jail, just in case…” Uncle Ash lit a cigarette. His plate was as untouched as Junior’s. “You know what? That weren’t even Tiny’s cap. Queenie found his right where he left it on his dresser. Al claims Tiny must’ve had two, and there’s other evidence besides. Leave it to lawyers, he said. But no one will represent Tiny, leastwise not around here.”
A thought hit Bone. Was the missing cap in Mr. Matthew’s study a Memphis Red Sox one? The Grays. The Black Barons. The Stars. Those were the other caps. Were they Negro league teams, too? She’d never heard Will and the boys mention those teams or heard their games played on the radio. Why would a man like Mr. Matthews—who obviously didn’t like black people—collect them? The man was a puzzlement.
“That poor man hasn’t got a lawyer?” Mrs. Price asked as she brought in the pecan pie.
“I thought everyone got one when they’re arrested,” Bone said. In every detective novel or movie she’d seen, the criminal always got some guy in a suit to speak for him or her. But then again, they were all white in those movies.
“Technically, everyone is entitled to a fair and speedy trial as well as an attorney, under the Constitution,” Miss Spencer replied.
Uncle Ash shook his head. “But the judge can’t make someone take a client if he don’t want to. And the white lawyers don’t want to.” He tamped out his cigarette in the ashtray—under Mrs. Price’s glare—and took a piece of pie from her. “So Oscar ran over to Radford to talk to the NAACP last week.”
“Who are they?” Bone asked. Uncle Junior’s and Mrs. Price’s faces were blank.
“The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People,” Miss Spencer explained. “They work for civil rights.”
“They’re calling in someone from Richmond to take Tiny’s case.” Uncle Ash dug into his pecan pie.
“Oliver Hill,” Miss Spencer added. “He used to practice in Roanoke. Now he works on big cases for the NAACP. He got the black teachers in Norfolk equal pay!”
“He won’t be here for another day or two,” Uncle Ash said through a mouthful of pecans. “He’s wrapping up some lawsuit in Sussex first.”
“Let’s hope he can handle a murder case,” Junior said. “And that certain white folks don’t go after Tiny or his new lawyer.”
“And that justice is color-blind.” Uncle Ash refilled his coffee. “You know they won’t put any black folks on that jury.”
The grown-ups fell silent at that. Mr. Hill, Bone realized, must be black, too. Both him and Mr. Sherman were still in danger despite Tiny being obviously innocent. Plus there was no telling whether the Richmond lawyer could win the case with a white jury deciding Tiny’s fate. Bone pushed away her pie.
Uncle Junior cleared his throat. “You didn’t mention the German to anyone, did
you?”
Uncle Ash set his cup down with a clatter. “I did not.” He looked squarely at his brother.
Uncle Junior started to say something.
“I understand, Junior,” Uncle Ash cut him off. “It’s not your fault, but I don’t have to like it.”
Uncle Junior had obviously told Ash not to say anything about the German. Bone understood why. Mr. Matthews didn’t want to risk the army contract, and Uncle Junior certainly didn’t want to risk everyone’s jobs. But how could the lawyer defend Tiny if neither of them knew whom he supposedly killed? This was worse than a bad Charlie Chan movie.
Uncle Junior turned his attention back to the pecan pie—as did everyone else.
Uncle Ash lit two cigarettes and passed one to Miss Spencer. “I hear you got to ride with Mamaw up the mountain,” he said to Bone, obviously ready to talk about happier things.
“It takes far less time to get there when she drives.” Bone actually liked the feeling of racing up the mountain. Coming down, though, she’d gotten a bit green around the gills.
“Now you know why I don’t let her drive my truck.” Uncle Ash laughed.
“Is your mother a bad driver?” Miss Spencer asked.
“No. The poor truck couldn’t take it.” Uncle Ash shook his head. “She drove shine better than me or Daddy.”
Bone laughed. “You mean faster!” She mimicked herself holding on to the door handle for dear life.
Junior laughed, too. “I’d forgot all about that.”
Mrs. Price came into the dining room with more coffee. “Now that’s what I like at my table, laughter—and clean plates.”
* * *
The knock on the screen door came at the usual time. Only this time, Will had company. Jake, Clay, and Ruby. Ruby wore britches, but she still brought a blanket and thermos.
The Truce Page 9