arkansastraveler (8 page)

“When do you think you’ll get married?” I’d asked him one time. It was the summer before his mother died. I was trying on this same wedding dress, ancient even then, pulling it on over my shorts and tank top. The strong musty smell coming off the layers of netting caused me to sneeze violently. Sun filtered through the lacy open curtains covering the round attic window.

“I dunno,” he said, slipping on a double-breasted forties-style jacket and brandishing a wood-handled buck knife I was sure his daddy didn’t know was up here. “Maybe never. Girls stink up a place.”

“We do not!” I said, putting my hands on my hips.

He dropped his arm, letting the knife dangle at his side. I couldn’t see his hand in the long jacket sleeve, only the blade of the knife. It was spooky. A ray of light from the attic window caught the steel blade, causing it to glitter. With his free hand he pushed his perpetually sliding eyeglasses up his freckled nose. “I don’t mean you. You don’t wear that smelly stuff. I mean girls like Gwenette.”

“Yeah, she does stink,” I agreed. “She’s always spraying something on herself. But there’s probably lots of girls besides me who don’t stink. You could always marry one of them. And Dove and your mama and Aunt Garnet stink, but in a good way.”

He considered that for a moment, then said, “You’re probably right. Maybe when I’m fifty, then. Like after I go to college and stuff. After I go to New York and become a famous writer.”

I nodded. “Fifty seems about right. That’s probably when I’ll get married, too. I’m going to marry a lion tamer and travel with the circus.”

He put on a stained sailor cap, his thin, pale face thoughtful. “I can see that. Will you get me free tickets?”

“Sure, front row. For you and all your famous writer friends.” I twirled around in the full-skirted dress until I collapsed on the floor in a dizzy heap.

“Hey, sweetcakes, what’re you doing hidin’ up here?” Emory’s adult voice brought me back to the present.

He stood in the doorway of the attic, his hands deep in his pants pockets, his straight, silky blond hair flopping across his forehead in that rakish way that had always driven women crazy with desire.

“Just remembering old times,” I said, letting the dress fall out of my hands back into the trunk. “How’s the fundraiser going?”

“Great, great.” He walked into the room and stood next to me, staring down at the open trunk. “Amen’s given her speech already, and I think even convinced a few people that votin’ for her wouldn’t be a bad idea. It’s an uphill battle, but she’s more than capable of climbing it.”

“Duck told me about the threats. They scare me.”

“Yeah, me, too. But she’s got lots of people watching out for her. Quinton’s staying with her and her son through the election. He’s got some of his college buddies travelin’ with her when he can’t. We try not to let her be alone, though she fights us like a wild cat on it.”

“Amen in politics,” I said, shaking my head. “You know, the longer I think about it, the more sense it makes.”

“My feeling exactly.”

“How’re you and Elvia . . .” I started.

He held up a hand, and I stopped talking.

“Listen,” he said, his expression alarmed.

The sound of angry voices was loud enough to filter through the closed attic window. We rushed over to the window and pushed it open.

In front of the house, a small crowd had gathered on the wide front lawn. On the street a bright green, jacked-up truck idled, its loud muffler already familiar to me. Another car, an older, primer-gray Chevy Camaro, sat behind it.
Boone, his arms crossed over his chest, talked to someone in the truck.

“I bet it’s Grady Hunter’s son, Toby,” I said. “I saw him in that same truck at the 3B Cafe this morning.”

“That little pissant,” Emory said. “He’s going to give Daddy another heart attack.” He turned and ran out of the attic with me close behind. Out front, we pushed through the small crowd of curious people to reach Boone. Toby Hunter’s face held the same mocking sneer as this afternoon. Quinton Tolliver stood behind Boone wearing a look that could only be described as lethal. Inside the two vehicles, I quickly counted seven young men.

“Now, get on out of here,” Boone was saying. “We don’t want any trouble.”

“Daddy, what’s going on?” Emory said, coming up behind his father. Emory was at least five inches taller than Boone, but shared his wiry, quick frame. Boone wasn’t a big man, but according to family stories, he’d whipped men twice his weight when he got riled, which wasn’t very often. Besides his blond good looks, Emory had inherited his father’s low-key, easygoing personality. But you didn’t want to make them mad. Ever. Because they believed in fighting until someone hit the ground unconscious or dead, and with a Southern man’s crazy arrogance, it never occurred to them that the person on the ground could be them.

“I reckon this here is a public street,” Toby said. Next to him, hidden in the shadows of the truck, his friends laughed.

“Toby,” Emory said, his voice easy but steel-edged, “just beat it. You’ve had your fun, now go on home and tell your daddy that you successfully harassed his opponent and caused a scene.”

“I said I reckon this is a public street,” he repeated, ignoring Emory.

Boone started toward the truck, one fist raised, but Emory caught his dad’s shoulder and stopped him.
“Remember what the doctor said. You’re not supposed to be gettin’ riled up.”

“That boy needs to be taught a lesson,” Boone said. “And if’n his daddy isn’t gonna teach him manners, I reckon it’s up to me.”

“Daddy, just let me handle it,” Emory said, pushing in front of Boone.

Emory walked up to the truck. “Now, Toby, I don’t want to have to call the police, but . . .”

“You stupid asshole, my daddy owns the police in this town,” Toby said.

I saw Emory tense and one hand close into a fist.

A thin, powerful voice came out of the crowd. “Toby Maxwell Hunter, I done wiped your little white butt as a baby, and you’re actin’ about the same age as when I did it.” Miss DeLora, dressed in a pale blue chiffon dress, pushed in front of Emory. “Now you get on outta here and leave folks be. We ain’t doin’ nothin’ to hurt you and yours, so y’all got no business here.”

“Looky there,” Toby said to the driver of the truck. “Emory’s wet nurse is standin’ up for him. Ain’t that sweet as can be.”

“Miss DeLora, I can handle this,” Emory said, gently trying to pull her back.

Amen had pushed her way through the crowd and stood beside her grandma. “Emory’s right, Grandma. Let’s go back into the house.”

Miss DeLora jerked away from both of them and moved closer to the truck. “Now, get. I mean it, get on home.” She waved her hands at him as if he were a pesky cat.

“Ain’t no black mammy gonna tell me what to do,” he drawled. Then, with a high-pitched laugh, he hacked and spit tobacco juice, spraying the front of her dress. She gasped in surprise, falling back into Amen’s arms. Amen’s face exploded into a mixture of anger, horror, and disgust.

At the same time Emory and Quinton bounded forward
and grappled for the door handle of the truck. Before they could get it open, the driver took off, the Camaro behind it. Quinton ran after the vehicles for half a block, yelling curses. Emory, breathing heavy, stood out in the street watching the truck and car screech around the corner.

A group of ladies had gathered around Miss DeLora, making sympathetic noises and giving advice on the best method to remove tobacco stains. Amen gripped her grandmother’s shoulders as if she’d float away if she let go.

“Now, now,” Miss DeLora said, trying to calm everyone down. “Y’all don’t fret on me. I’m fine. The boy’s just actin’ like the fool his daddy and mama raised him to be. All’s I need is some club soda to blot this stain with.”

After a long emotional hug, Amen let her grandmother be led away by the group of ladies and walked over to me. “If I had a gun I’d have killed him,” she said, the tone of her voice removing any doubt to her sincerity.

“I would have handed you the ammunition. What a little pig.”

“Don’t insult the porcine family,” she said grimly. She glanced over at Emory, who had his arm around his dad while they walked over to Quinton, who was still standing in the middle of the street, staring after the truck. “I’d better go see if Quinton’s okay.”

“Let Emory and Boone talk to him,” I said. “I think it’s kind of a guy thing.”

Her face went stiff with rage. “Guy thing, my eye! It’s a race thing, and you know it.”

I stepped back, embarrassed and shocked. “I know that, Amen,” I finally said. “I meant that sometimes guys can calm each other down easier. Just like women are sometimes better at comforting each other.”

She touched a trembling hand to her face, covering it for a moment. Her face was contrite when she brought her hand down. “I’m sorry, Benni. I didn’t mean to snap at you. Seeing that little punk diss my grandma like that just
froze me inside. You go for a long while, and it doesn’t happen, and you’re lulled into this sense of anonymity, of safety. Then all it takes is one remark, and you remember there are people out there who’d kill you just because of the pigment of your skin.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, tentatively touching her arm. “I wish . . .”

She hastily brushed away the tears in her eyes. “I know. Miss DeLora would be the first to tell me to grow up, accept the fact that change takes time. She’s probably bothered less by this than Quinton and me.”

“I doubt that, but she’s like my gramma, has seen too much to be surprised.” I looked around at the small knots of people still milling around, talking about the incident. “Speaking of Dove, I wonder where she is.”

“Probably in the backyard. This all happened so fast, I bet most of the people here didn’t realize anything was going on out front.”

“You’re probably right. I think I’ll go look for her and fill her in. She’ll want to go fuss over Miss DeLora. Not that your gramma needs it.” I looked intently in my friend’s shiny eyes. “Are you going to be okay?”

She nodded, straightening her spine, the unflappable Amen back in charge. “I’ll be fine. I think I’ll go see to Grandma then try to talk my nephew out of ambushing Toby and his gang, try to convince him we’d be better off fighting with laws than fists.”

“Except you’re going to have to do some fancy lying to convince him of that, ’cause you’re itching to punch someone silly right now, right?”

She grimaced. “You know me too well. I sometimes do wonder if I bit off more than I can chew with this campaign.”

“Of course you didn’t. There’s a reason your mama named you after Harriet Tubman, the
only
woman in U.S.
military history to plan and execute an attack on enemy forces.”

That made her smile. “Where did you learn about Harriet Tubman?”

“Where else? My own revolutionary gramma. When she saw that my history books in high school only allotted one paragraph to Harriet Tubman, she made me do a ten-page report on her, then mailed copies to the superintendent of the San Celina school district and every member of the school board. The next year, they spent a whole week on black history and have ever since.

“Dove’s a kick in the pants,” Amen said, laughing. “Guess it’s good she wasn’t out here. I’m not sure we could have controlled both of them.”

“And I’m not sure we should have. A day with Miss DeLora and Dove is just what that snotty-faced boy needs.”

Her face turned serious. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. He’s a menace, and Grady’s doing nothing to control him.”

“Then it’s time to go to the police,” I said.

“Except what he said about the police in this town is true. Grady Hunter does own them.” Before I could answer, she said, “I’ll see you later.”

“Later,” I repeated and watched her walk toward the house.

“How’s Amen doing?” Emory asked, coming up beside me.

“She’s angry, of course, but in control. How’s Quinton?”

Boone, his white hair glowing bluish under the street lights, walked with Quinton toward the house, talking low and urgently to him.

“He and Daddy get on good so he’ll listen to what he has to say. Hard to believe a bunch of little jackasses like Toby Hunter and his gang of white-trash rejects could cause so much hullabaloo.” His voice was hard and flat.

I glanced back down the dark empty street. A cool evening breeze blew through, rustling the tops of the red maple
trees, its eerie sound causing me to shiver under my thin silk shirt. Emory slipped his arm around my shoulders and hugged me to him.

“Don’t worry, sweetcakes, we’ve got things under control. Amen’s going to be safe.”

“I hope so,” I said, not feeling as confident as he about that fact.

While Emory went to look for Elvia, I found Dove, Isaac, Aunt Garnet, and Uncle WW out on the back patio discussing the incident.

“I was afraid something like this would happen,” Aunt Garnet said, her voice fretful. “There’s bound to be more problems if the churches merge. Sugartree’s not ready for this. Why can’t folks just leave things be?”

Uncle WW just shook his head, his unlit pipe dangling on his lips. I didn’t know if that meant he agreed or disagreed with her.

“I can’t believe the words comin’ out my own sister’s mouth,” Dove said to Isaac. “They purely shame me.”