Darby (16 page)

Later in the night, I woke up to the sound of my daddy yelling and King barking. Feeling woozy, I searched over toward Aunt Greer and saw that she was still asleep. Being that I wasn’t thinking clearly, I got up and snuck real slow out of the room and down the long steps to the open front door, where McCall was staring outward as if he were a zombie. Following his eyes, I saw what he was looking at, and all the blood in my body seemed to dry up in my veins and heart. Out on our front lawn, by the highway, a huge cross burned in the blackness. It was yellow with long, licking flames, and my daddy and King stood below it. The flames cast a warm, jumpy glow on the trees and the ground, making my daddy and King look like two devils on a volcano top.

Glancing to the side, I realized that Mama stood silent on the porch. The blaze reflected on her cheeks and arms. As she breathed out, steam rolled from her mouth.

I whispered, “Are you scared, Mama?” because I was. The burning cross was the symbol for the Ku Klux Klan.

At first Mama didn’t answer. Then, turning to see me, she said slowly, “No, Darby. They wanted to scare me. They wanted to scare all of us. But in lighting that cross, they didn’t push me down. They stood me up.”

Before school, Sheriff McDonnell drove out from Bennettsville to see what was left of the fiery cross. After studying the scene, taking his hands and combing for stuff in the grass, the sheriff came inside and sat at our kitchen table, where he had himself a glass of milk. Drumming some fingers against the chair he sat on, he told us how earlier in the evening somebody had burned a cross in front of the
Bennettsville Times
office. He said that Mr. Salter was furious. “The Klan’s getting active again. That’s for sure.”

Shaking his head, Daddy asked, “Can’t you shut them down?”

“Only when they do something illegal.”

“Like burning a cross on private property?”

Sheriff McDonnell took a swallow of milk, and some of it soaked into his bristly mustache. “Yeah, that’d qualify,” he said. “Thing is, the Klan don’t generally operate in Marlboro County. You’ll find most of ’em is outsiders. Plus, it’s hard to nab those boys. Each one vouches for the other. One will say the other was somewhere else at the time of a crime. That’s infuriating, ’cause I know good and well who’s responsible for certain things, but my hands are tied. I gotta work within the confines of the law.”

Daddy ate some of his eggs. Blotting his mouth with his napkin, he asked, “Do you think we should be scared?”

Sheriff McDonnell took a deep breath. “Like I told Mr. Fairchild after they tossed a brick through his office window, these boys’ll likely continue harassing you till you stop doing whatever it is that’s getting them mad. In this case, if Darby were to write her next column on something as innocent as bugs or birds, they’d likely as not forget all about you.”

Daddy nodded.

“Then again,” Sheriff McDonnell said, “if you back off, they win, and I’d hate to see those cowards win anything.”

On the way to school, McCall turned the Chevrolet onto a little gravel lane called Haircut Road. Setting the choke, he let the car idle. Peering straight ahead, he gripped the wheel like he was trying to squeeze water out of it.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

He looked at me in a real serious fashion. “I’m just worried about you going to school today.”

“You . . . you think something might happen?”

McCall wiped back his hair. “I don’t know.”

“You must think that something might or you wouldn’t’ve stopped.”

He banged a hand against the steering wheel. “Naw, that’s not true. I mean, all I’m saying is, if somebody bothers you, you tell ’em they gotta deal with me. You tell ’em I won’t think twice about going after ’em.”

I tried not to smile, but I always like it when McCall’s nice to me. “If someone’s mean, I’ll say that.”

“When you walk into school,” he instructed, “just act like nothing happened. You just be yourself and don’t worry ’bout all that’s going on. It was a good article, and if people had any sense, they’d see it was good, too.”

“Thanks, McCall.”

Putting the car in gear, he pulled a U-turn. “Right now we gotta watch out for each other.”

A few minutes later, as we rumbled past the
Bennettsville Times
office, into the Murchison School parking lot, I studied its front yard unable to see where the cross had burned. I squinted and then widened my eyes, but I didn’t see anything. At school, I got out of the car and said to McCall, “I’ll tell you if anyone’s mean.” Feeling anxious, I went off looking for Beth. Zigzagging through the crowd of kids, I didn’t glance up to see if anyone was watching me. But just as I got to the Murchison School’s front door, somebody called to me from behind. Frightened, I spun about and saw Sissy.

“Darby,” Sissy said, rushing up the steps. “Hey, ah . . . you . . . you think we can talk?”

I told her, “I’m going to see if Beth’s upstairs. You wanna come?”

Leaning close to one of my ears, she whispered, “If . . . if you don’t mind, I wanna talk private for a minute.”

Confused, I said, “All right.”

“You think we can go somewhere?”

“I guess,” I told her, wondering what she wanted to keep secret. We walked down the hall, made a sneaky swerve, and went through a door and into the back section of the school stage, with its heavy red curtains and fiery lights that were dark on account of the electric being off. Seating ourselves on the edge of the platform, we swung our legs back and forth and looked out at the pretty theater seats that were lined up in rows. Behind them, the fanciest columns held up the balcony. Because it looked so good, the theater was my favorite room in school.

“Are y’all right?” I asked Sissy. I wanted to hurry up and talk so that I could run upstairs and tell Beth about the burning cross.

Sissy gently clomped her heels against the side of the stage. It took her a bit, but real softly she answered, “I don’t know.”

“Why’s that?”

She raised a shoulder. “Well . . . ’cause by mistake I might’ve done something bad.”

“What?”

Wrangling her hands in her lap, Sissy seemed hypnotized by the spidery way her fingers moved. She said, “I don’t wanna say, I don’t,” she mumbled, “but I gotta. I know I do . . . I mean, it sounds like nothing, but it’s not. What I mean is, yesterday my daddy picked me up from school, and the first thing he asked was, ‘Sissy, do you know who Darby’s friend Evette is?’ I didn’t think anything of it, so I said she was a black girl on your farm. I said she was at your birthday party and that you had her sit at your special birthday table instead of me. I told him you acted like she was your and Beth’s pretend sister and that I said it was impossible on account of her being black. You remember?”

Feeling like I might topple over, I squeaked, “Yeah.”

Sissy kept on. “Anyways, when we stopped at our house, he told me I couldn’t see you anymore for a while. Just like that, he said you and Evette had written something awful in the
Bennettsville Times.
He said you were mixed up in things that are way over your head and that your daddy and mama must be responsible for giving you such terrible ideas.”

I wanted to tell her it wasn’t true, but I couldn’t say a word, for feeling so awful and shivery. Sissy’s daddy had grown up friends with my daddy. I never would’ve guessed he would tell Sissy she couldn’t see me anymore.

Finally, I gurgled, “Sorry, Sissy.”

“Why’re you saying sorry to me? You didn’t do anything bad.”

I nodded. “I don’t know why I said it.”

“The bad thing,” said Sissy, “is that my daddy and some of his friends hate the blacks, and I’m worried he might say something mean to your daddy or mama. That’s what I thought about after I told him that stuff. After I said it, I wished I hadn’t. All night I wished I’d just shut up about Evette ’cause I know your mama and daddy are nice, and I always wanted for you and me and Beth to be best friends. But now you and Beth won’t ever want me to come visit.”

I said, “Your daddy won’t let you anyway.”

In a weak voice, Sissy said, “Yeah.”

I asked, “Do you think your daddy hates other kindsa people, too?”

Sissy replied, “Like who?”

“Like Indians or French people? People like those?”

“I never heard him say anything.”

I said, “It’s sorta sad he’s that way, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she answered.

On the day Sissy told me about her daddy, I skipped lunch and went down to the
Bennettsville Times
office. Slithering through the crowds of kids stomping home to eat, I rushed along Fayetteville Avenue and up the steps to the newspaper office door. Stopping, I built up my nervous guts by searching the grass for charred bits of cross. Then I turned and pushed at the door, which was locked tight. I knocked, and heard some footsteps, then saw Mr. Salter through the glass. He clicked the bolt and pulled the door back.

“Well, if it isn’t Darby Carmichael. We’ve stirred up some trouble, haven’t we?”

I dropped my head, wondering if he was mad. “Are you upset?” I asked.

Mr. Salter shook his head. “The last person I’m upset at is you. As a matter of fact, I’m happy I ran your article. What’s bothering me are the narrow-minded folks who canceled their subscription to the paper. And of course, it’d be nice if the Klan hadn’t burned a cross in front of the building. That would’ve been nice.”

I told him, “Last night we got a cross burned in front of our house, too.”

Breathing in deep, Mr. Salter wandered back toward his desk. “I heard about that,” he said, “and I’m sorry. I really am.”

I followed after him and sat in a chair.

Mr. Salter asked, “How’d you hurt your arm?”

I explained, “I fell down some steps during the storm.” Touching the cotton wrap on my wrist, I asked, “Mr. Salter, how many people stopped getting the newspaper?”

He said, “Not enough to bother me, really. Twelve families did it. Twelve families in all of Marlboro County jumped ship. Probably already signed up to get the competition delivered. I won’t miss that money. It just shows how strongly some people feel.” Putting his hands behind his head, he leaned back in his chair. “Of course, I’ve gotten a few phone calls from people who aren’t happy with me, but that’s all right. That’s what newspaper writing is about. I don’t mind creating a small ruckus.”

“You don’t?”

“Not so much.”

“Okay,” I said.

Sitting forward again, he rested his elbows on his desk. “By the way, in case you’re worried, I spoke with the sheriff, and he says that a majority of the Klan members aren’t from around here. He says the real troublemakers aren’t our neighbors or friends. I find a certain comfort in that.”

“Yes, sir,” I agreed softly. Scooting about on the slick wooden chair, I figured it was a good time to admit to how Sissy had blabbermouthed to her daddy. “Mr. Salter?”

“Yeah, sweetie?”

“I got something to admit.”

He tilted his head forward to listen better.

In a single gush, I let it pour from my mouth. “People know who Evette is on account of her coming to my birthday party. A friend of mine told her daddy, and he might’ve told other people.”

Mr. Salter stared at me. Then he laughed. “Well, heck, that’s all right. I knew it would eventually happen. It had to. Don’t worry about that. Now we can use Evette’s last name. What do you think?”

Surprised, it took me a minute to say, “That’d be all right.”

“Probably should’ve done it from the start, huh?”

“Mr. Salter, you know what? I might not ever write another article. I’ve been thinking on it, and I might quit being a newspaper girl.”

He adjusted forward. “Now, wouldn’t that be a shame. It’d be a real waste.”

“I know,” I whispered, “but I might.”

“I hope you don’t.”

“I guess I didn’t realize it would be this way.”

For a few minutes, we didn’t speak a word. Then I said, “Maybe I should go, sir?” Standing up, I turned and started walking.

“Darby?”

At the door, I looked back.

“You be strong, and if you can’t be, you let the adults be strong for you. This’ll all blow over.”

“That’d be good,” I answered before leaving out the door and walking over to the schoolyard.

Passing by a group of older boys, I watched them till one called, “Darby, my mama says your daddy’s a communist!”

I ignored them and went inside. In the hallway, I wondered what a communist was and if it meant his mama thought Daddy was a bad person.

That afternoon, I sat quiet in the back seat of the Chevrolet as McCall teetered through town toward home. As we went along, our friends jumped off the car fenders and running boards. Watching them, it seemed to me that they swooped away so graceful they were part turkey buzzard. It was nice, except that three of the kids who normally hang so tight to the car refused to ride with us.

That made me feel worse. I looked out a window and could feel tears scooting down my face. I didn’t know how I was going to get myself and my family out of the fix I’d caused, but I wanted to. I wanted to forget all about blacks and their problems. I wanted to set up penny peeks and do pole-vaulting and play with dolls or get in my dress-up clothes. I wanted to fetch my tobacco bag of pretty marbles and play a game or jump rope to a song. Instead of worrying, climbing a springy tree would be better. I could ride it slow to the ground, like it was hooked with giant pulleys. Maybe I’d ask my mama and McCall to play croquet out front. I just wanted to have good, regular fun again. I didn’t want to be a newspaper girl who was supposed to tell the truth all the time. I wanted to be a normal girl from then on.