Lay that Trumpet in Our Hands (15 page)

Chapter 29

Nobody’s talking this morning. When Ren got up and Mother saw his head, its cluster of cuts round and ripe like a bunch of table grapes, his eye socket swollen like a small plum, she packed him in the car without a word and headed, we assume, to Doc Johnny’s. Doto’s carted Mitchell off to who-knows-where. And I’m left to help Daddy open up the showroom.
Divide and conquer—
it’s a sure sign the adults are upset with each other.

Daddy and I make the short drive to the packinghouse without talking. As we enter from the back, I’m the first one to see it—the brown Dodge parked outside.

“Somebody wants their orange juice awful early,” I say.

“Oh, I think he wants more than orange juice,” Daddy says as he unlocks and slides open the big front doors. “Agent Jameson, I presume?”

“Mr. McMahon,” Mr. Jameson says, reaching out his open window to shake Daddy’s hand. “Do I need to present my badge again?” he asks me as he enters the showroom.

“No, sir,” I say. It’s obvious he’s trying to keep things friendly.

“Mr. McMahon . . . may I call you Warren?”

Daddy nods, but says nothing. He’s a stone wall.

“I got your message very late last night, drove over from the coast first thing this morning. What’s all this about fireworks?”

“I thought you should know that the Opalakee Klan is about to get a taste of its own medicine,” Daddy says flat-out.

“What do you mean . . . medicine?” Mr. Jameson asks.

“The very same substance they administered to the Moores.”

“Dynamite? You’re going to dynamite the fishing camp?”

“Yes, I am,” Daddy says, locking his jaw.

“Hold on, Warren, our agents have appropriated pretty much all the dynamite in the county.” Mr. Jameson’s smile’s gone a little wobbly.

“Nobody’s appropriated mine!” Daddy tells him.

A noise in the back room startles the three of us. Mr. Jameson wheels around, as Daddy and I realize it’s only Robert, come as usual to sweep the floors and rake the gravel.

“Our employee, Robert Carmichael,” Daddy tells Mr. Jameson, nodding toward the back.

“Warren . . .” Mr. Jameson’s voice has totally dropped his friendly-fellow routine. “I have no business telling you this, but I’m going to . . . The U.S. Attorney General has agreed to convene a Grand Jury in Miami the first week of April. We’ll be presenting everything we have on the Opalakee Klan, its involvement in the deaths of the Moores, as well as the Gordon Klavern’s bombings in Miami.”

What about Marvin?
I want to scream, my hands fisting so hard my fingers hurt.

“If you take
any
aggressive action now,” Mr. Jameson tells Daddy, “you could destroy our hopes of ever bringing these Crackers to justice. The subpoenas are already typed, and we’re set to deliver them on Monday.”

“They shot at my son, nearly took his eye out,” my father says, flint-faced.

“They’re fools, Warren. You want to know why the Grand Dragon’s in town? To try to calm them down. We’ve been all over these guys like stink on”—he glances in my direction— “
feces
. Some of them are worried about having their precious family names dragged into court, so they’ve quit, surrendered their robes and their dynamite and quit. The Opalakee Klan is going
down
. You can’t ruin this for us.”

“Nobody shoots at my children without retaliation.”

“You want to
retaliate
, Warren? I’ve got just the job for you.”

“What?” Daddy asks, eyeing Mr. Jameson.

“Since last time we talked, we’ve found an insider, an older gentleman who says there’s a hidden compartment inside the fishing camp building which could put nails in a whole lot of coffins. Membership records, treasurer’s books, things like that. That’s
legal
dynamite, Warren, a whole lot more powerful than the stuff you want to plant.”

“So why don’t you just go in and get it?”

“No judge in this county would give us a warrant. What we’re talking about here . . .” Mr. Jameson looks down at his shoe, then up. “Well, to be honest, what we’re talking about is illegal break-in and entry.”

“I’ll do it.”

Mr. Jameson doesn’t seem to understand.

“I was going in to plant some dynamite,” Daddy says quietly. “If you’re telling me I can’t do that, I have to do something.”

“Well, uh, we sort of see this as a two-man job. One to go in and find the stuff and one to stand watch.”

“I’ll go with you.” Robert emerges from the back. He’s carrying the push broom diagonally, like a rifle, in front of him.

“This is a
man’s
job, son,” Mr. Jameson tells him.

“ ’Scuse me, sir,” Robert says, blue eyes blazing. After all, he
is
seventeen. “The reason we moved here was to get away from the Klan in South Carolina. They practically
killed
my father because somebody confused him with some man dating a Klanner’s ex-wife. They beat him with a cat-o’-nine-tails and left him for dead right on our doorstep. I
hate
the Klan. If Mr. Mac needs me, I’m
in
.”

Mr. Jameson stares at Robert for a long second, we all do, then turns back to Daddy and lifts both hands, palms forward, in a way that I know means
your call
.

“How much time do we have?” Daddy asks him.

“Why?” Mr. Jameson asks.

“Well, I’d planned to go the next moonless night, which, according to the calendar, is eight days from now.”

“You’ve got
that
, but not much more. We need to have all the evidence in hand as soon as possible.”

“Do I call you when I have it?” Daddy wants to know.

“No. No calls. Let me get you something from the car.” Mr. Jameson strides to the Dodge and pulls out a stiff flat canvas bag, about the size of a TV tray. When he hands it to Daddy, I see the mailing label is addressed to the P.O. box in Orlando.

“I don’t know how much postage you’ll need, but there’s a twenty inside to cover it. Send it first class, okay?”

“Right, as if I’m going to break into Klan headquarters and send whatever I find by parcel post?” Daddy shoots back.

“I am, uh, authorized to pay you two hundred fifty dollars for your trouble,” Mr. Jameson says.

“I don’t want your money,” Daddy tells him right away. “The only thing I do want is your word that you’ll strike any mention of my name, or Luther’s, or young Robert’s here, from your files.”

Mr. Jameson nods. “Warren . . . if you get caught, I never heard of you. If you live, make sure your attorney packs the jury with tenderhearted parents of boys your son’s age.”

“I’m way ahead of you.” Daddy’s extending his hand. “Will we see you again?”

“Only in the funny papers,” Mr. Jameson says, returning his grip. Then, “You’re doing us a tremendous service, you know.”

“Let’s hope so,” Daddy answers.

“Pleasure to see
you
again, young lady,” Mr. Jameson tells me. “Stay out of trouble, young man.” He cocks and points his fingers like a gun at Robert, then walks out into the sun.

The months of hand-holding and head-ducking are over. The weeks of waiting for
some
one to do
some
thing are done. My father has finally found his way into the fight.

He turns, signaling to Robert to follow him up the stairs and onto the platform. I’m left in the still-dark showroom to turn on the lights, unlock the cash register, and deal with the tornado of feelings—pride, relief, terror—whirling around me.

Outside, off one of the big specimen trees planted by the drive to impress the tourists, an overripe grapefruit falls to the sand. The sound’s like a heavy fist hitting flesh.

Chapter 30

Daddy’s decision to help the F.B.I. sparks off a slew of other choices: He, Mother and Doto choose not to demand a police investigation of Ren’s shooting (“The Constable was probably standing there in his sheets when it happened, anyway,” Doto sneers); not to discuss the details of the shooting outside our family (“I’ve told Petey the same thing,” Smitty says, “after I spoke my piece with Mr. Casselton.” “Who is, after all, his landlord,” Daddy reminds Mother); not to disclose his F.B.I. plans to Ren and Mitchell (“They’re too young,” Mother says, “and they know way too much already”); and, finally, to ask Armetta and the maids for help.

The decision to keep the source of Ren’s injury a family secret hits the boys hardest. Ren was hoping for some center-of-town showdown between Daddy and the Klan, like in
High Noon
with Gary Cooper, Ren’s favorite actor. And Mitchell remains mesmerized by the mechanics of the “bad guy’s bird shot” bouncing off the metal water tower to hit Ren in the head.

“I saw the very same thing on
Hopalong Cassidy
!” he insists, till I want to throttle him.

The day after Daddy agreed to help Mr. Jameson is a Sunday.

I’ve got Mitchell by the hand on our way into Sunday school when eagle-eyed Miss Maybelle intercepts us with “Where’s my hero this morning?” (That’s what she calls Ren ever since he rescued her from the rattler.)

“He got shot!” Mitchell blurts out.

“No, no,
caught,
Mitchell, Ren got
caught
by a branch climbing up the big live oak out back. Scraped his head from here to here,” I show her, all the while squeezing Mitchell’s hand,
hard
.

“Swoll up like a balloon,” Mitchell says, finally getting into it.

“Purple as a plum,” I say as Miss Maybelle continues to give me the eye.

“Goin’ to miss school tomorrow?” she wants to know.

“Maybe a day or two,” I tell her. “But Doc Johnny says he’ll be good as new by next weekend.”

Later that afternoon, it’s Mother who has to run interference with a concerned Miss Maybelle. “He’s sound asleep,” Mother tells her at our front door, accepting a plate piled high with “feel-better brownies.”

Now, about the maids: It was a lifetime ago that Daddy joked to Luther about his personal spy ring, the circle of choir members who work as maids in the homes of area Klansmen. Before Marvin’s murder, the circle was mostly social. Afterwards, it turned political, seeking and sending information to Armetta, who in turn fed it to Mr. Harry Moore.

Along the way, Armetta and Mr. Harry and his wife, Harriette, became friends. It was Armetta who invited the Moores into The Quarters and helped them register eligible adults to vote.

Fueled by the Moores’ murder, it’s Armetta who convinced the ladies of the choir to fill in the blanks on the F.B.I.’s list of Klan members. It’s Armetta who expanded the circle to include several other maids from the Colored Town in Opalakee. “It’s Armetta,” Daddy assures Doto, “who’ll find out if Monday, March twenty-fourth is a Klan meeting night or not.”

Luther argues strongly that he should be the one to go with Daddy. “Robert’s jus’ a boy. Ah know those groves like the back of mah hand.”

“No, Luther,” Daddy argues back. “If you and I got caught, a Negro and a Yankee in Klan headquarters, neither of us would live to tell about it. With Robert, I can play the upset father and probably talk my way out of any trouble.”

“Ah’m driving y’all then,” Luther insists. “Ah know jus’ where to let y’ off and the safest place to pick y’all up.”

“And what if they run into you, alone in the middle of a white area in the dead of night? You’d never see daylight. This is a two-man job and you can’t be one of them. All I need is for you and Armetta to confirm that the twenty-fourth is clear.”

Whatever objections my mother has to Daddy’s plan—I can tell she’s not the least bit happy about it—have been raised outside my hearing. Daddy’s resolved, a man on a mission. And Mother is real quiet, more Poker Faced than ever.

It’s two days before Buddy’s tail wagging and the familiar
tappety-tap-TAP
on the back door tell us Luther has Daddy’s answer.

The boys have left the table already and are plopped in front of the television laughing at Allen Funt’s
Candid Camera
show. I’m at the fridge, refilling our tea glasses, so I let Luther in.

“Evenin’, Rootin’-Tootin’!”

“Hey, Luther, pour you some tea?”

“That’d be fine, real fine, thank you. Evenin’, MizLizbeth, Miz Doto. How y’all tonight?”

“You’re in high spirits,” Daddy says and invites him to “have a seat” in Ren’s empty chair.

“You bet Ah
am
! There are Grand Jury subpoenas showin’ up all over the place, at some of the finest homes and oldest names in Opalakee. The ladies say they ain’t never heard the blues sung so bad; the folks with the white robes hangin’ in their closets are whinin’ to beat the band. People callin’ each other back and forth, wantin’ to know what they s’posed to say, where they g’wan to stay, how long they g’wan to be gone, and how the hang did the Governor let this happen. Well, of course, they not sayin’ ‘hang,’ but Ah won’t repeat what they really sayin’ in front of the ladies.”

Daddy nods. “Jim Jameson said the subpoenas’d be there.”

“That he did and that they are,” Luther agrees. “And as long as we’re talkin’ ’bout what’s happenin’ where, looky here what
Ah
got.”

Luther unbuttons his shirt pocket and pulls out a small, folded piece of paper. Carefully, he opens it to full letter size, laying it on the table in front of Daddy, smoothing out the creases with the flat of his hand. I peer over Daddy’s shoulder to see.

It’s a flyer announcing a “Kounty-wide Klonverse,” inviting “all members of the Orange Kounty Klaverns of the Invisible Empire” to gather on the north shore of Lake Eola in Orlando, Friday night, March twenty-first—three nights from now!

“Where in the world did you get this?”

Luther looks at Daddy sideways. “You know, Mist’Warren, any laundress worth her salt checks the pockets of the dirty clothes before puttin’ things in the washer. Ah got four more just like it if you want extras.”

“So, instead of the twenty-fourth, we’ll go in on the twenty-first. Luther, tell Armetta this is a Godsend!”

“You got
that
right, Mist’Warren.” Luther’s smile is wide and golden. “Could be the first time the good Lawd sent word by way of a laundry chute!”

The seventy-two hours between Luther’s arrival with the flyer and Daddy and Robert’s March twenty-first “invasion” of the fishing camp pass me in a blur. The days at school roller-coaster in and out of crazy. Although our teacher, Mrs. Loreen Finney, promised last September, “I won’t put up with any foolishness,” she’s still having trouble controlling the boys in our class. Most seem bent on seeing who can get sent to the principal’s office first, ahead of the others. The nights make my stomach churn, as Daddy, Luther and Robert sit on the front porch suggesting, rejecting and arguing over details of The Plan.

At
last
, late Thursday, March twentieth, everything finally seems set. The ladies of the C.I.A. have confirmed that most all the Opalakee Klan members are committed to attending “the Rally in Orlando” the next night. The flyer outlines the meeting time “from eight o’clock until midnight,” so The Plan is this:

At nine P.M., Luther will stop by the Dump to see his old friend Horatio Sykes, Negro caretaker there. Together, they’ll unlock the Dump’s little-used back gate. At nine-thirty Daddy and Robert will enter the back gate, park Daddy’s truck behind the shed, and climb through the barbed-wire fence into the grove closest to the camp.

As Daddy and Robert approach the fishing camp from the south side, Luther and his friend, driving Horatio’s truck, will cruise into the driveway on the north side of the camp and make sure there are no vehicles parked on the property. (Horatio often picks up trash at the camp and is certain they’ll be safe.) If everything looks good, at ten o’clock, Luther will flash a single “go” sign with a flashlight across the lake toward the ridge where Daddy and Robert will be waiting.

Daddy and Robert will wade across the small lake which, Horatio swears, is no more than four feet deep in the center. The wide rim of razor-sharp saw grass on each side prohibits any kind of hike-in entry. They’ll enter the camp’s main building from its blind side.

Once there, Robert will stand guard by the front door while Daddy looks for the hidden compartment. The Plan allows for twenty minutes of search time; they must be out of the camp no later than ten-thirty, wade back across the lake, get through the grove, return to the truck and be home by eleven, at the latest.

On the face of it, everything makes sense to me except one part. For thirteen years, I’ve begged my father to swim with us in any number of lakes around here. Not
once
, not
ever
, has he done it.

“Swimming pools and oceans are fine, Roo,” he’s always said, “but ever since the polio I just can’t bring myself to get wet in a Florida lake.”

“So why are you willing to wade through this one?” I want to know.

“This is different, Roo,” he tells me, calm as calm can be. “
This
is war.”