arkansastraveler (21 page)

Inside the tree house my cousin lay across the carpeted center of the floor, cradling a fifth of Blanton’s bourbon whiskey, his head propped up on some books.

“Sweetcakes!” he said. “How nice of you to join the party. Have a drink.” He took a long swig from the bottle and held it out to me. “It’s Daddy’s best. Fifty bucks a fifth.” He put a finger in front of his lips and gave a lopsided smile. “Don’t tell him I stole it.”

“Oh, Emory,” I said with a sigh, sitting down next to him. “You know this won’t accomplish a thing except give you one horrendous hangover tomorrow.”

“If you’re goin’ to be lecturin’ me, cousin-o-mine, then take a hike. And for your information, I plan on stayin’ drunk for at least a week . . . or until that woman leaves, whichever comes first.”

“You love
that woman
,” I said, pulling the bottle out of his hand. “And things are going to work out, trust me.”

He didn’t protest when I took the bottle and put the pewter-horse stopper back on. “How can you say that?” He
brought a trembling hand up to his face. “I’m sure you must have heard most of our conversation.”

“Me and half the neighborhood,” I said.

“Then you know we’ll never see eye-to-eye.” He hiccuped and groaned. “All I have to offer her is myself, and that’s apparently not good enough for her royal self to even take a chance on.” He sat up and faced me, crossing his long legs. He tilted precariously to the left. “There’s no way it’s goin’ to happen for us. You’d best get used to that fact right now. I have.”

I sat the bottle in the corner and stood up. “C’mon, you sorry piece of Southern manhood. We’d better get you out of this tree house while you can still climb down the ladder.”

“I’ll just sleep here tonight, thank you very much,” he said, suddenly straightening, then swaying slightly over to the right.

I caught him and, with a bit of a struggle, pulled him up so he was standing. “No way am I leaving you up here to tumble out and break your neck. I think you’re being a stubborn, crazy, irritating
man
, but you’re still my favorite cousin, and I’m not going to let you get hurt.”

He looked down at me, his green eyes hazy and miserable. “Too late, sweetcakes,” he whispered.

After about a half-hour of coaxing, I managed to get him down from the tree house and upstairs to his room. On the way up the long staircase, though I tried to shush Emory’s piercing diatribe on what was wrong with women today, he woke up Boone.

“Hey, Daddy,” Emory said. “Better cancel the caterers ’cause there ain’t never goin’ to be no weddin’ in this ole house.”

“What’s going on?” Boone said, standing at the top of the stairs in a brown velour bathrobe.

“You weren’t at the gospel sing tonight?” I asked, not believing he hadn’t heard the story five times over already.

He shook his head no as he came down the stairs and took Emory’s other arm. “I had some paperwork to catch up on down at the office. Let’s get my boy to bed, and then you can tell me what happened.”

By the time we reached Emory’s room, he was almost out cold. I pulled off his expensive leather loafers and covered him with a quilt.

“Things will look better in the morning, kiddo,” I said, tucking the quilt around him. “I promise.”

Outside Emory’s room, I gave the highlights of the evening to Uncle Boone.

His rugged old face twisted in pain when I told him about what Gwenette said about Elvia. “The acorn doesn’t fall short of the tree,” he commented. “Her parents are ’bout as heartless as folks can be. Fired their maid one time when she left work because her son was hit by a car and was down to the emergency room in critical condition.” He pulled his robe tie tighter. “I’ll talk with Emory in the morning, see if we can’t remedy this.”

“I’ll come by tomorrow sometime and see how he’s doing,” I said, leaning over and kissing my uncle’s rough cheek. “You go on back to bed now.”

I was out the front door and walking down the tree-shaded street before I realized that I’d broken my promise to Gabe. I hesitated and considered going back, but the familiar street was empty and quiet, so I kept going. Bright spots of moonlight filtered through the treetops and glinted on the concrete sidewalk. Memories of playing hide-and-seek on these same streets with Emory, Amen, Duck, and all the other kids until ten or eleven at night were as fresh as if they’d happened yesterday. I wasn’t ready to concede to the fact that Sugartree was not the same town I once knew. I rounded the corner and glanced across the desolate courtyard square. The courthouse clock struck midnight. I stopped and automatically counted the strikes. A few neighborhood dogs commenced to barking, then in a few minutes
fell silent. From where I stood I could see the side of Sugartree Baptist’s sanctuary, bathed yellow in a weak security light. In a flash the security light went out, and my heart jumped. A memory came to me from an old TV show or something seen in a darkened movie theater—visions of a burning cross. I shook my head and laughed at myself. This wasn’t a television show, for pete’s sake. A lightbulb goes out, and I’ve got the Klan burning a cross in the church’s front yard. My imagination sometimes amazed even me.

Still, I stood and watched the church for a few minutes, just in case. All I saw was a man walking around the corner, his face obscured by the shadows. He carried something in a paper bag under his arm, something small enough to be obscured by his biceps. He passed the church, and a flash of moonlight lit his face for a split second. I let out my held breath when I saw it was only John Luther. He was a head trustee of the church, the person in charge of the grounds and maintenance. He was checking the church one last time before going home and was probably in the process of replacing the burnt-out light. Again I laughed at myself, hurrying down the street toward Aunt Garnet’s house. This was one flight of fancy I would certainly keep to myself, especially from my husband, who already had more than enough reason to doubt my sensibility.

Of course, I felt differently the next morning when the spray-painted swastikas were discovered on the sanctuary’s front door.

“Q
UINTON
’
S ARREST MADE
the front page,” Uncle WW said when Gabe and I came down to breakfast. He handed the
Sugartree Independent Gazette
across the table to Gabe.

“Surprise, surprise,” I said, reaching for the blue bowl of scrambled eggs in front of me. “What did they say?”

“It’s not very long,” Gabe said, scanning it. “Probably because it was a trumped-up charge to begin with.” He tossed the paper aside and reached for the glass pitcher of orange juice. “Journalists.” He said the word with the same tone as he would say
cockroach.

“Where’s Isaac?” I asked.

“In the kitchen,” Uncle WW said. He nodded over at the scrambled eggs, toast, and juice. “He’s the cook this morning since the girls have moved on to other things.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “What other things?”

“Gathering flowers for the grave-cleaning tomorrow.”

Gabe raised his eyebrows in question.

“We’re spending the day at the old Sugartree cemetery cleaning up the graves,” I explained. “Kind of like your Day of the Dead, only we don’t actually have a set day for
it. Most of the old-time cemeteries around here don’t have perpetual care, so whenever there’s any kind of a reunion, we always clean up the graves. It’s an all-day thing with food and everything.” I grabbed a piece of toast and said, “I’m going to say good morning to Isaac. I’ll be right back.”

In the kitchen Isaac was poking at sausage patties in an ancient iron frying pan. “Wow, Dove ought to rope you and drag you to the altar right away. A man who will cook is hard to find.”

“No roping needed,” he said, flipping the patties. “I’d marry her in a minute if she’d have me.”

I stared at him, stunned. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. She’s the holdout, not me.”

I took another bite of my toast, chewing on that and his words for a moment. “What is it with all the women around me?” I finally exclaimed. To explain my remark, I gave him a quick summary of what had happened between Emory and Elvia.

He shook his head and drained the grease out of the pan. Sliding the sausages onto one of Aunt Garnet’s orange Fiestaware platters, he said, “Guess everyone’s afraid of commitment these days.”

“My advice, Isaac, is to take the bull by the horns,” I said. “Don’t take no for an answer.”

He huffed with amused derision at the thought of forcing Dove to do anything she didn’t want to do.

I laughed and patted his arm sympathetically. “Well, I’ll put in a good word for you whenever I can.”

We were all sitting at the dining table enjoying our peaceful, noncompetitive breakfast when the phone rang. Uncle WW came back into the dining room, his old face ashen.

“There’s trouble down to the church,” he said. “We’d best get over there.”

We threw our napkins down and rushed out of the front
door. On the walk through the square, Uncle WW told us what the pastor had said. “Somebody’s spray-painted the church. Pastor saw it this morning when he went to open the sanctuary for some ladies who were going to straighten up from last night.”

We joined the small crowd gathered in front of the church. The church’s blue double doors were painted with two black, glossy swastikas.

“Who would do a thing like that?” Uncle WW said, his teeth clamping down tight on his pipe.

I glanced over the crowd, looking for John Luther. My mind flashed back to last night, to his prowling around the church, a small paper sack clutched under his arm. Was he the one who did this? Should I say anything to anyone? If it wasn’t him, just the idea that I’d accuse him would hurt him deeply and probably harm our relationship permanently. On the other hand, he
was
suspiciously lurking around the church last night . . . or, my more open-minded self countered, he was checking the building, which was
his job
. John Luther wasn’t a racist, I would have bet my savings on that. He and Amen were friends from childhood. Why in the world would he paint swastikas on his own church?

I slipped my hand into Gabe’s, taking comfort in its warmth and strength. I couldn’t even tell him. Not unless I had something more than the possibly innocent thing I saw last night.

“Want some coffee?” I asked Gabe. The police had arrived and were taking pictures of the damage.

“Sure, want me to come with you?”

“No, you stay here and watch what happens. I’m going to go over to the 3B.”

I walked the short block to the cafe, trying to formulate how I could approach John Luther. Before I could confront him, I needed more than just what I saw last night. I needed physical proof.

Like an empty spray can.

On a hunch, I walked past the 3B Cafe and around the corner to the back of the old brick building. I was right; the four businesses that shared the building also shared a common trashbin. No one was around, so I lifted the lid and looked inside.

Garbage is a detective’s best friend, I remember Gabe saying one time. The sweet, strong odor of rotting garbage wafted up and almost knocked me over. My heart beating double time, I pulled out a crate and used it for a step so I could see better, looking for something that resembled a spray can. I pushed aside a couple of flattened pasteboard boxes and thought I spotted a brown paper sack that looked like the shape I saw under John Luther’s arm last night. I leaned farther in, reaching for it.

A hand pulled my shirt back, and I yelped in surprise.

“What are you doing?” John Luther demanded. In his other hand, he held a white plastic bag of garbage.

I turned, pulled out of his grasp, and stumbled down from the crate. “Nothing!” I said in childish denial. I could have kicked myself. What was I thinking looking through his garbage in the middle of the day? I should have come back at night.

Right, a little voice sarcastically said, and get arrested by one of those handcuff-happy cops.

John Luther’s face went dark with anger. “I asked you what you were doing.”

“And I told you nothing,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster after being caught digging through someone’s trash. Heat rose up in my cheeks. But, as Dove would say, my luck was running kinda muddy anyway, so I might as well jump in the swamp. “Actually I did see something in there that looked rather interesting.”

He walked over to the trashbin and closed the lid. “Have you lost your mind? Why are you going through my trash?”
But there was something on his face, a slight expression of panic that confirmed what I suspected.

“John Luther, have you lost yours?” I asked.

His eyes shifted sideways, as if he were expecting someone to come around the corner. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then let me take another look in that trashbin.”

He clamped a hand down on the lid. “You need to mind your own business.”

“I’d say painting disgusting symbols of hatred on God’s house is everyone’s business, wouldn’t you?” There, I said it. I waited to see his reaction.

The area around his eyes went white. “You don’t have proof of anything.”

“I saw you walking around the church last night.”

“I was checking the doors. I’m the head trustee.”

“How could you do something that vile? What do you hope to accomplish? For cryin’ out loud, John Luther, you and Amen have been friends forever. What is going on?” I was truly confused.

A minute went by before he answered. “I’ll deny I had anything to do with it. By the time you get someone back here to check the trash, trust me, there won’t be anything for them to find. No one will believe you over me. You know that.”

He was right. I was an outsider, no matter how many years I’d visited, no matter who my family was. And I’d be accusing one of the town’s—the church’s—most loved and trusted leaders.

“But why?” I whispered. “Just tell me that. I don’t understand.”

“Because I just don’t want to share a church with blacks,” he said. “They can be police. They can be politicians. Shoot, I don’t care if they own businesses and teach my kids. I just don’t want to change the way I worship God on Sunday, and if we merge the churches, that’s going to
happen. They’ll take over ’cause that’s the way it always goes. What happened didn’t hurt anyone. It’s just a little paint.” He opened the bin and tossed in his sack of trash.

I stared at him, dumbfounded by his skewed reasoning. “But it does hurt people.”

“Not physically,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “And maybe people will think twice about votin’ for the merger.”

I didn’t know what else to say to him, so I turned and walked away. The few bites of toast and sausage I’d eaten this morning felt sour in my stomach. Tears pricked my eyes as I walked around the corner and back toward the even larger crowd gathered in front of the church. Old Brother Cooke was standing on the top step in front of the painted swastikas saying a prayer, asking for forgiveness for the perpetrator, for harmony among the races, for grace between all human beings. Flashbulbs from cameras punctured the pale morning sunlight.

“I have to talk to you,” I whispered to Gabe. We broke away from the crowd, and I pointed toward the bench in the courtyard square we’d sat on the other day. “I need to sit down.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his face alarmed.

In halting sentences, I told him what had happened.

“First,” he said when I was finished, “I’m not going to lecture you about sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, how it could hurt you and other people, too.”

“Good, because I don’t think I could stand it right now.”

“Even though you shouldn’t and it could.”

I raised my eyebrows at him.

“Sorry, that just slipped out.”

“What should I do? Should I go to the police?”

“Tell me again what he said.”

After I repeated John Luther’s words, Gabe shook his head. “He never actually confessed. Honestly, with the climate of this town being the way it is, I can’t believe I’m
telling you this, but I think you should keep what happened to yourself. For the time being, anyway.”

“That doesn’t seem right.”

“It’s not right,
querida
. Just prudent. This battle started long before we came to town and will continue long after we leave. I’m not certain that you getting involved will necessarily be the best thing for anyone.”

I leaned back against the park bench. A slight October breeze kicked up some papers around our feet. “I just can’t get over his weird reasoning. He thinks it’s okay for Amen to be mayor or teach his kids, but he doesn’t want to sit next to her in church. What’s that all about?”

Gabe leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Like I told you, people have all sorts of hidden prejudices that surface when things start to change. I guess church is the racial boundary your friend found was his.”

“I’m not sure
friend
is the proper term for John Luther,” I said, trying not to sound bitter. “And frankly, it changes everything I thought about him. How do we know he didn’t literally kill two birds with one stone?”

“What?”

I realized then that I hadn’t told him what I’d learned from Crystal when I was getting my hair cut at Beulah’s yesterday morning. So much had happened since then; it felt like it had been a week. I quickly told him about what Toby had done to Tara and about a possible new suspect: Ricky Don, Tara’s old boyfriend. After the incident with the church, though, all my bets were on John Luther.

“It makes perfect sense now. If John Luther killed Toby Hunter, then not only would he be avenging his daughter, but with the ruckus it’s been causing between the blacks and whites in Sugartree, chances are the two churches would never merge.”

Gabe blew out a sharp, irritated breath. “Let me remind you once again I don’t like you being involved in this.”

Ignoring his comment, I sat upright and grabbed his forearm. “What if he’s not working alone?”

“Now you’re really reaching. Are you suggesting an organized group is involved with all this?”

“Is that so hard to believe? Have you looked at the Internet lately? I don’t have to tell you how many hate groups there are. It’s not unreasonable to consider that one is active here in Sugartree.”