by T. K. Leigh
“Not talking about that, Wesley,” he says with a heavy drawl.
I fight against the wince wanting to break free. I’ve always hated when people called me Wesley, especially when they intentionally did so just to piss me off. Like Grady always did throughout our childhood and adolescence.
“Then what are you talking about?”
“The fact that you brought her here given who she is.”
“And who is she?” I sneer.
“A fucking criminal who belongs in prison for trying to kill a good white man.”
When he leers at Londyn, she doesn’t back down, pinning him with a penetrating glare, almost urging him to make a move he’ll regret.
“Although, if I’m being honest,” he continues, “I kind of wish you did kill him. Then the state could get rid of one more useless nigger whore.”
I’ve heard people talk about seeing red when in a fit of rage, but never truly understood what they meant.
Until now.
It’s not red they see.
It’s the manifestation of drawing blood.
My ears pound, my body shakes, my face burns hotter than the sun.
I’m usually a pretty even-tempered guy. I don’t fly off the handle all that easily. But when it comes to Londyn, I don’t think, just react. So when Grady calls her such a derogatory name, I do what I wanted to all those months ago.
And this time, Londyn doesn’t stop me, watching with interest as I shoot to my feet and reel back in one swift motion, my fist connecting with Grady’s jaw, a crack echoing around us.
A few surprised gasps can be heard before the diner goes silent. Grady remains motionless for a protracted moment, massaging his jaw. Then he looks back at me.
“Is that really the best you got? Come on, man.” He punches his chest. “Let’s settle this. Right here. Right now.”
“I don’t think so,” Miss Clara’s voice cuts through as she pushes her way between us. She turns to Grady. “Get out of my restaurant. I’ve put up with your shenanigans long enough, and I won’t do it anymore. So get on. Find somewhere else to spend your money, because it ain’t welcome here no more.” She stands her ground, eyes unwavering, almost urging him to say something in response.
I widen my stance, ready to jump into action if he tries anything. Luckily, he doesn’t, backing down after a protracted moment.
“You’ll regret this, Clara,” Grady hisses. “I’ll spread the word around town that you cater to criminals.”
“You mean like your entire family?” she scoffs, then waves him off. “Now get, before I call the sheriff.”
He hesitates for a minute, every other diner holding their breath as they wait for his next move. Finally, he turns, storming toward the front door, his friends falling in line behind him. Just before he’s about to disappear, he pauses, his eyes finding mine.
“You better watch your fucking back, Bradford. I saw some of the shit people are posting online about your girl. Wouldn’t want history to repeat itself, would you?”
“What do you—” I begin just as Clara interrupts.
“I told you to get. Or do you want to add trespassing to your list of achievements?” She places a hand on her hip, everyone watching the exchange with wide eyes. This is probably the most exciting thing to happen in this town in quite some time.
He flips her off and stomps onto the sidewalk, silence falling over the normally lively family restaurant.
After several moments of awkward tension, Miss Clara claps her hands together, her expression brightening. “I think we could all use some peach cobbler,” she says to everyone in the small diner. “Peach cobblers all around. On the house.”
That’s all people need to hear to return to their conversations and meals, chatter filling the space once more.
“Are you okay, dear?” Miss Clara asks Londyn as I slide back into the booth, still seething.
“I’m fine.” She forces a smile.
“Don’t you pay no attention to him.” Miss Clara squeezes her hand. “He’s not a good person. Never has been. Never will be. He doesn’t speak for me or anyone else in this town, ya hear?”
Londyn nods. “Thank you.”
“Anytime, dear. Now, let me get you two some cobbler.” She scurries away, making her rounds through the restaurant to check on everyone.
Once we’re alone, I grab Londyn’s hand, wishing I could do or say something to make her feel better. It seems we’ve been riding a tumultuous rollercoaster these past several weeks. For every up, there’s an even bigger down.
And since yesterday, it feels like we keep falling with no end in sight.
“I’m so sorry, Lo. The things he said…”
“I should have known something like this might happen, especially here.”
“But it shouldn’t.”
She shrugs, turning to look out the window. The street is busy for this small of a town. Then again, it is Saturday, and this is the only area to shop or grab a bite to eat.
Noticing Londyn’s gaze fixated on something, I follow her line of sight, spotting a couple around our age walking hand in hand. There’s nothing remarkable about them. Except they don’t have to hide their affection from anyone out of fear that some racist asshole might attack them for the simple reason that they fell in love with someone of a different race.
“What do you think he meant?” she asks, returning her eyes to mine. “About history repeating itself. What did he mean by that?”
“I’m not sure,” I reply just as Miss Clara swings by, carrying two plates of peach cobbler, the vanilla ice cream on top already starting to melt.
“Here you go,” she sings, setting them down in front of us. “Enjoy.”
She’s about to walk away when I stop her.
“Hey, Miss Clara?”
“Yes, dear?”
I glance at Londyn, then back at her. “What did Grady mean about history repeating itself?”
“Oh, you know how he can be,” she says dismissively. “Probably talking out of his behind, as always.”
“Clara…” I narrow my eyes on her. “I don’t think that was it. He’s talking about something in particular, isn’t he?”
She worries her bottom lip, glancing around the restaurant. Then she heaves a labored sigh. “Well, you’ll just be able to read about it online, so I may as well tell you the correct story.” She motions for Londyn to scoot over, sitting beside her.
“Did your mama ever talk about Penny?”
“Penny?” I swallow hard.
Londyn’s intrigued eyes meet mine, obviously remembering the story I’d told her yesterday. How I thought Gampy and my father had been fighting over money. I’d thought it strange to argue over something as insignificant as a penny. What if it weren’t a coin, but a person?
“I figured she wouldn’t,” Clara says. “It was a difficult subject for your grandparents. Hell, for everyone around these parts. At least the good people.”
“Who was she?”
“You know your grandparents fostered kids when your mama was younger, right?”
I nod.
“Well, Penny was one of them. Normally, the kids only stayed a few months while they waited for a more permanent placement. Except Penny. Your grandparents took a liking to her right away, agreed to foster her as long as she needed.”
I sense this story doesn’t have a happy ending. “What happened to her?”
“Depends on who you ask. Most people these days have finally come to terms with the truth, but back then, they were happy to turn a blind eye to this sort of thing. This was the early 70s, so things were much different. Especially if a white person were to date someone black. Like Penny did.”
“Oh.” Out of instinct, I clutch Londyn’s hand in mine.
“If you think people are less than accepting now, it was even worse back then. Sure, the Civil Rights Act had been passed and racism was supposed to be dead—”
“It’ll never be dead,” Londyn says softly. “Not wh
en it’s so deeply entrenched in this country’s roots.”
Clara nods. “You’re right about that, sweetie. In the 70s, racial tensions were pretty high, especially in this small town.” She peers out the window. “I’ll never forget the day a teenager rushed into the diner when my mama still ran it, God rest her soul. There had been a car wreck about a half mile up the road. He’d asked us to call an ambulance, said a man was badly injured. I was about to do so, but my mama placed a hand over my wrist, stopping me. Then she asked the boy what color the man was.”
“Why would that matter?” I ask, although I already know the answer.
“It always matters,” Londyn says. “Even today.”
“Up until that moment, I’d always thought my mama to be a good Christian woman. Always advocating how important it was to help those less fortunate than us. Which was why she often donated excess food to the local shelters. Little did I know that she’d only donate to white shelters.”
“So I take it most people in town didn’t like the idea of Penny dating a black boy,” I comment.
“Certainly not, but that didn’t bother her one bit. Nothing seemed to bother her. She marched to the beat of her own drum.”
“Who was the boy?” Londyn inquires.
“As you know, your grandparents spent the summers here,” she says to me before looking back at Londyn. “Samuel’s mama worked as a housekeeper at their house. And Samuel helped take care of the grounds. Mowing the grass. Fixing things that needed fixing.”
“Whenever Gampy let him,” I joke, knowing how my grandfather could be.
A smile lights up her face. “He wanted to help them out. They were good people. Proud people. Samuel’s mama, I believe her name was Abigail, had lost her husband a few years prior, so money was tight. From what I understand, your gampy offered to help with her bills, but she wouldn’t have it. Didn’t want people to think she was looking for a handout. So he hired Samuel, as well. Every day, he spent hours with that young man, showing him how to fix things. How to be the man of the house.”
“That’s admirable,” Londyn says in awe. “Especially considering the time.”
“That’s Conrad Hammond for you,” Clara states with a wistful look. “Always helping where he could. With all the time Samuel spent at the house, he started to notice Penny. Their friendship grew over the course of a few summers. And for the longest time, Penny and Samuel stayed just that. Friends. Despite your mother’s constant teasing about being friends with a black boy, let alone ‘the help’, as she referred to him,” she adds under her breath with a roll of her eyes.
“So she’s always been this way?” I remark.
She considers my question for a beat, then shakes her head. “Not always. When she was younger, Lydia would play with Abigail’s kids, since your meemaw was more than happy for her to bring her kids with her to the house. But once Lydia hit adolescence, she changed, like most teenagers do. Girls are mean. There’s so much peer pressure to fit in. And back then, there was peer pressure to be on the…correct side of certain issues.”
“And she never outgrew it,” I comment, filling in the blanks.
“I think some people are born with hate in their heart. It’s not for your gampy’s and meemaw’s lack of trying. Back then, they weren’t as vocal as they were in their later years, due to your gampy’s job at the prosecutor’s office, then as a judge. But they were still good people. Didn’t make a ruckus when they learned about Penny’s relationship with Samuel. Just warned her to be careful, that people may not be as understanding as they were.” She briefly closes her eyes as she draws in a deep breath. “But what those boys did…”
“What happened?” I ask again.
Shaking her head, she returns her haunted gaze to mine. “It was a week or so before Labor Day. One morning, your meemaw came into the diner looking for Penny. She hadn’t come home the night before, which was unlike her. Claimed Lydia had seen her sneak out to meet Samuel at one of their usual spots. When your meemaw went over to ask Samuel, he claimed he hadn’t seen Penny since the previous afternoon.”
“Did Penny sneak out to meet him?”
Miss Clara nods.
“Why did she have to sneak out? You said my grandparents didn’t mind so much.”
“And they didn’t. But people around town did, so they were never able to go on real dates together.”
“Why not?”
“A lot of establishments in the South refused to serve interracial couples during that time,” Londyn explains.
“That’s right.” Miss Clara nods. “The only reason anyone around town even knew about Penny and Samuel was because of Lydia. She couldn’t resist poking fun at her to all her friends.”
“Was Penny ever found?” Londyn asks.
Clara pinches her lips together. “Later that morning, Penny’s unconscious body was discovered on the riverbank. Her clothes were torn. There was blood between her legs. It was obvious what had happened. Everyone was outraged. It didn’t matter these same people had spoken ill of Penny mere hours ago, made fun of her for daring to date someone other than a white boy. Now that she’d been hurt, presumably by a black man, the town rallied behind her while she lay in a coma in the hospital.”
“Was Samuel arrested?” I ask.
“The police never got the chance. People in town took justice into their own hands.”
“Oh god.” Londyn covers her mouth with her hand.
“They beat Samuel to death, then burned down his mama’s house while the rest of his family slept. His mama and most of his siblings were able to get out in time, but…” She trails off, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “A little girl died in the fire. Only four years old.”
“No…” Londyn’s lower lip quivers.
“Was anyone ever arrested?”
Clara gives me a pointed stare. “What do you think?”
My shoulders fall. “No.”
“Correct.”
“What about Penny?” Londyn asks, wiping her eyes. “Did she ever wake up from the coma?”
“She did. Tried to tell the police what really happened that night, but no one wanted to hear it, although I think we all knew she was telling the truth. It was easier to believe the contrary.”
“And what did she say happened?” I ask.
“According to Penny, she snuck out to meet Samuel, as Lydia claimed. But along the way, she was…intercepted.”
“Intercepted?”
“By a bunch of boys around Penny’s age. Teenagers. Troublemakers. And the head troublemaker?” She pauses. “None other than Edward Stowe.”
I cock a single brow. “Stowe?”
“Grady’s father. He’d always had an eye for Penny. I could be wrong, but I think he finally snapped over the idea that she chose a black boy over him.”
“What did he do?”
“Penny claimed he assaulted her.” She lowers her voice. “Raped and beat her before leaving her for dead.”
“Was he arrested?”
“Of course not. It was the word of a white boy against a dead black boy. Who do you think they believed?”
“Even with Penny’s statement?” I press.
“The police claimed she was scared of retribution, which was why she tried to blame Edward when, according to the authorities, an ‘upstanding citizen from a good white family’ wouldn’t do what Penny alleged.” She uses air quotes, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Such bullshit,” I mutter under my breath. “What happened to Penny?”
Clara heaves a sigh. “Once she was discharged from the hospital, she was removed from Gampy and Meemaw’s care.”
“Why?”
“Child Services claimed it was due to insufficient supervision. Even went so far as to terminate their status as foster parents. But I think they did so because your grandparents allowed Penny to carry on with Samuel instead of forbidding it. Other than hearing she’d been placed with a family in Savannah, I don’t know what became of her.”
“Gampy and Meemaw must have been devastated,” I remark, mostly to myself.
“They were definitely rattled by everything. Which was probably why that was the last summer they spent here.” She nods at me. “Until you were born.”
I shake my head, sitting back in the booth, the ice cream now melted in a pool around the untouched peach cobbler. “Why is it like this? Why do people hate? Why do people judge based on someone’s skin color?”
On a deep inhale, Clara slides out of the booth, slowly rising to her feet. “That’s the million-dollar question, my dear Weston. One I don’t think we’ll ever have an answer to. All we can do is love as fiercely as possible in the hopes of drowning out all the hate in the world.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Londyn
I can’t stop thinking about Miss Clara’s story. It’s not the first one like that I’ve heard. Growing up, it seemed everyone had some footnote they’d share about their own experiences with racism. While the town where I spent most of my younger years was predominantly black, I still took these things to heart. Knew it didn’t matter that laws had been passed to supposedly protect people of different races and ethnicities from discrimination. It still happens. It always will.
Needing to do something to take my mind off everything for a minute, I slip out of bed and pull on the pair of yoga pants I’d discarded on the floor last night. After shrugging on a hoodie, I slide on my sneakers and grab my phone. Then I scribble out a quick note.
I’m in the workshop. If you wake up and miss me, feel free to join me.
I love you.
I leave it on my side of the bed, pausing to appreciate how peaceful Wes looks as he sleeps. Then I make my way out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and out the back door, Zeus following dutifully behind me.
“It’s a chilly one, isn’t it, boy?” I say to him as we travel the familiar path from the house, the flashlight on my phone illuminating the way.