Lay that Trumpet in Our Hands (6 page)

Chapter 10

Somewhere, someone must have put grieving to music. There must be a song that, when you hear it, helps your heart heal its aching hole. I don’t know that person, and I don’t know that song. But, I do know, mine has lyrics—
Marvin’s dead, gone forever
—and that my brother Ren’s is a simple series of beats—
Bhhh-dmmm (pause) p f;
sometimes harder,
BHH-DMM
, sometimes softer,
Buhhhh-dummmm,
with a varying pause, and a final
p f
.

Ren’s grief song is the sound of a solitary person throwing a baseball that hits the ground, bounces against the car barn wall, arcs through the air and into a lonely glove. The rhythm, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, changes with the distance between the ball and the wall, which alters the arc and the glove pocket’s answer.

I can see my brother outside my bedroom window, a lean little figure facing a big, blank wall, on the bright opening day of Major League play. For baseball fans across the country, this is a personal holiday. But for Ren and Marvin, it was a holy day in the sacred celebration of Heaven on Earth.

Marvin gave me nicknames, Bible Drill secrets, Mistuh Bee stories. But his gift to Ren was baseball.

Two years ago, on my brother’s sixth birthday, Marvin gave Ren his first glove and the great love of his life. He had Daddy’s permission, of course, because Daddy can’t play—the polio withered the muscles required for an overhand throw. So it was Marvin who taught Ren to catch a ball, fire a pitch, hit a curve, follow a game on the radio and love the Brooklyn Dodgers.

Marvin wasn’t alone, of course. Old Sal Tomasini, the Italian grocer who grew up in Brooklyn, was in on it, too. The same year Ren got his glove, the Dodgers won the 1949 National League pennant, Marvin’s hero Jackie Robinson was picked Most Valuable Player, and Sal and Marvin christened Ren their lucky charm.

Above Sal’s small store, which caters to the folks from The Quarters, is the cheerful, cluttered apartment where he and Sophia live. Rising above that is the twenty-five-foot radio antenna that connects Sal and the fans who gather behind his store on game days to the Brooklyn Dodger Radio Network.

No doubt, they’re all there now, sitting on the benches under the scrub pines, watching the game in their minds with the help of the Dodger’s honey-toned storyteller, The Rhubarb, Red Barber.

Old Sal was here earlier, offering Ren a ride. But Ren refused.

“We can’ta open widout you!” Sal had said in his thick Milano-by-way-of-Brooklyn accent. “You are our lucky charm! Besides,” he’d pleaded, “It’s Preacher Roe pitching; you don’t wanna miss
him
.”

Ren said nothing, and everything, with a shake of his head. Chin on his chest, face unreadable under the bill of his blue cap, he’d mumbled, “Sorry,” and turned away, walking resolutely down the drive to face the car barn wall.

Sal’s eyes, behind his thick glasses, grew pained; their sadness magnified by the high-power lenses. His white mustache drooped over lips pursed in disappointment.

“Sorry, Sal,” I’d told him, by way of comfort.

He’d thanked me with a wave of his small hand, adjusted his own ancient Brooklyn cap and driven away.

Bhhh-dmmm (pause) p f.
The lonesome sound of Ren’s solitary play is a world away from the complex chatter of catch with Marvin.

For the past two summers, the driveway where Ren stands now, facing the wrong way, was his and Marvin’s playing field. In front of an imagined crowd (Ebbets, of course), the two of them, fifteen feet apart, re-enacted baseball’s greatest plays, playing multiple positions as their personal heroes. Marvin was most often Jackie, the great Jack Roosevelt Robinson, white baseball’s first black player. Ren was sometimes Preacher Roe, the Dodgers’ league-leading pitcher, sometimes himself as a grown-up pitcher, Ren “Rocket Man” McMahon. (“When Rocket Man’s on the mound, nobody orbits the bases!” he’d crow.)

“But can The Rocket do it again?” Marvin would taunt, his throw finding Ren’s glove with a firm
Thwap!
Ren would squint, hard, and hurl the ball back—
Thwap!
—and the imaginary game would begin, with Marvin, imitating Red Barber, calling the play-by-play:

“Rocket Man’s held the flock scoreless, folks, through eight innin’s. Bottom of the ninth, one away, with Reese on first. Snider steps in to face McMahon.

“Rocket Man checks Reese, an’ delivers. Duke swings—
Thwap!
—It’s a blue darter over the shortstop’s outstretched glove. The left fielder picks it up an’ rifles it to second—
Thwap!
—No, suh!
Too
late!

“Listen to those fans as Jackie Robinson approaches home plate. Jackie leads the league in runs scored, an’ bases stolen. PeeWee’s on second, Snider’s at first. Here’s The Rocket’s windup, an’ the pitch—
Thwap!
—It’s a bullet back to the box. Rocket Man snags it, turns and fires it to second, doublin’ off a surprised PeeWee Reese!—Thwap!—Oh-ho, doctor! Rocket Man McMahon has single-handedly
won
the game!”

“Waa-hooo!” Ren would holler, tossing his glove high in the air, tipping his cap to the imaginary crowd.

What’s he thinking now?
I wonder as the sound of Ren’s vigil echoes in my room.
BHH-DMM (pause) p f
. He’s not much of a talker, even on good days. Mother says he gets that from her side of the family. Oh, he can go on forever about baseball and his precious Brooklyn Dodgers. But when it comes to something personal, like “You missing Marvin, too?,” forget it.

I asked Marvin once, “What’s the big deal about baseball, anyway?”

He and Ren were taking a break, sitting in the shade beside the house.

“Well, Ah’ll tell you, Roo,” Marvin replied, rubbing his chin. “Ah heard Red Barber say ‘baseball’s like life.’ His life, maybe. Not mine. Ah’d say baseball’s a bit of Heaven on Earth and Ah can prove it, too. Wanna see?”

“Sure,” I said, sitting down beside him.

Marvin drew a diamond in the dirt. “Looky here. If this is heaven, y’got to have the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, right? Well, the pitcher’s like God, standin’ highest on the mound, playin’ catch with The Son behind home plate. Backin’ God up is the Holy Ghost, the shortstop who’s all over the place. With me so far?” Of course I was. “Okay! Now, behind these three, there’s two bands of angels, three each: Cherubim on the bases, Seraphim in the field. Heaven on Earth!” He laughed. “But, Roo, wouldn’t be Heaven without a pearly gate and that’s right here,” he said, stabbing home plate. “And behind the gate is St. Peter hisself, dressed in a suit. Also called the umpire,” he said, as if I didn’t know.

“Now, jus’ like Heaven, a batter comes knockin’ at the pearly gate, askin’ God and St. Peter, ‘Can Ah come in?’ ‘We’ll give you three tries,’ the two of them say. God loves threes, don’t y’ see—three around the mound, three bases, three outfield, three outs. So the batter tries his hardest, and his teammates try, too. But here’s the best part, Roo: Once you get in, you jus’ as good as anybody else. In Heaven, they don’t count the color of your skin, or the cut of your clothes, or whether your shoes are shined or not. In Heaven, a black man can out-hit, out-run, out-field a white man and live to tell about it. A black man, black as Jackie Robinson, can be picked Most Valuable Player, over hundreds of white men. That ain’t like life, Roo. That’s Heaven on Earth!” Marvin had grinned, and sat back satisfied he’d proved his point. Looking at me sideways, he’d flashed me his V-for-Victory sign which, for Marvin, meant
I know what I’m talkin’ ’bout
here
, or simply,
gotcha!

Wait ’til next year!” Marvin promised Ren last October, after the Dodgers lost their pennant to the “Whiz Kids” from Philadelphia.

Baseball’s next year begins today: Jackie Robinson’s a Cherubim on second base, Preacher Roe’s passing judgment on the mound, the fans are assembled in Ebbets Field and under the pines behind Tomasinis’ store. But Ren’s outside facing a big, blank wall. And Marvin?

Marvin’s dead, Buhhhh-dummmm, gone forever, p f.

Chapter 11

The month of April falls with the last of the orange blossoms into May. Armetta’s gone to work for Mr. and Miz Charles Clark in Wellwood. Miz Clark is the former Patsy Lee Berry, youngest daughter of the Wellwood Berrys, who are fine folks with no apparent Klan connections. Mr. Clark is from New Orleans and as nice as can be. The Clarks’ first child, Parlee Berry Clark, has just arrived and her parents need Armetta’s steadying hand.

Ren and I continue our daily dashes to the post office but, to tell you the truth, I’m starting to think Mr. J. Edgar Hoover couldn’t care less about a cold-blooded murder in the middle of an orange grove.

On a night in early May, Mother, Doto, Ren and I sit around the kitchen table attempting Pinochle. Under Mother’s patient tutelage, we’ve worked our way up from Go Fish and Old Maid through Crazy Eights, Rummy, Hearts, and Canasta, to Pinochle, her prerequisite for instruction in Bridge.

Daddy, with a sleepy Mitchell slung over his good shoulder, ribs Mother, “You know, you’re probably this town’s only serious card-playing Baptist.”

“Don’t forget Lillian!” she mock-protests.

“Twice a year does not a card shark make,” Daddy calls on his way upstairs. “Besides, you taught her everything she knows.”

Mother grins, cuts and deals.

All of a sudden, Buddy, our live alarm system, scrambles up and runs to the back door. Nose to the crack, his tail ticktocks welcome while, at the same time, a small warning growl rolls around his mouth.

Luther’s knock follows and, opening the door, I see the source of his mixed reception. Behind him, just outside the circle of porchlight, stand two white shirtfronts split by dark ties, men dressed for business.

“Evenin’, Roo. Y’all finished supper?” Luther asks quietly.

“Yessir, we have.”

“Ah brought a couple people to see your daddy.”

“Please come in,” I say, pulling the screen door wide.

Mother and Doto look up and hastily collapse their card hands.

“Evening, MizLizbeth. Ah’d like you to meet Mistuh Thurgood Marshall and Mistuh Harry T. Moore.”

“Gentlemen, welcome,” Mother says, rising from her chair and extending her hand. “Please meet my mother-in-law, Mrs. Dorothy McMahon.”

“How do you do?” Doto stands, offering her hand in that queenly way she uses whenever she meets anybody.

“And this,” Mother continues, “is Marie Louise.” Although they seem to be about the same age, the two strangers are quite different. Mr. Marshall’s a great golden bear of a man. His hand swallows mine in a firm, hearty shake. Mr. Moore hangs back, slim, dark, dignified. He meets me with his eyes before offering his grip.

“Also known as Roo, I hear,” Mr. Moore says. His smile is warm and kindly. N-double A-C-P, I remember, from Daddy and Luther’s talk.

“Pleased to meet you,” I say.

“And our son, Warren, Jr., who we call Ren,” Mother says. Ren does Daddy proud, shaking hands firmly, level-eyed.

“It’s a pleasure meeting all of you,” Mr. Marshall says, openly surveying the kitchen. Unlike Luther and Mr. Moore, his hair is straight and brown. He sports a handsome, close-clipped mustache and a taffy-colored tweed jacket, an unusual fabric for Florida, but of course he’s the lawyer from New York.

“You’re a long way from home, Mr. Marshall,” Doto says.

“I’ve had business at the Lake County courthouse all week,” Mr. Marshall explains in a voice that seems to rumble around the room. “Spent today with Harry registering voters. Heading home tonight.”

“Looky here!” Luther says, grinning gold. He pulls a small white card out of his shirt pocket. “Says
here
Ah’m a duly registered Democrat in the County of Orange, State of Florida. Come next spring, Ah get to vote in the primary elections. After that, Ah’ll help pick the President of the United States.”

“Haven’t you voted before, Luther?” Ren asks.

“Nope,” Luther says.

Mr. Moore explains smoothly, “Orange County’s been a little slow in giving us the vote, but thanks to Mr. Marshall here, we’re back in the registration business.”

“Good Lord, that amendment passed, what? Twenty years ago?” Doto asks Mr. Marshall.

“Thirty, actually!” Mr. Marshall’s laugh is hollow. “But,” he tells Doto, “I doubt you need me to tell you the pace down here is a bit behind the rest of the country.”

Doto shakes her head in weary agreement.

“How’s the voter registration coming?” Mother asks Mr. Moore.

“Pretty good, so far.” A shy grin widens his narrow, thoughtful face.

“Harry’s being modest,” Mr. Marshall booms. “Before he got involved, less than four, four and a half percent of the Negroes in this state were registered. Now, we’re up to nearly thirty percent, which is
twice
the rate of any other Southern state!”

“Good for you!” Mother says. “I’m sure it hasn’t been easy.”

Mr. Moore nods, offers a honey-toned thank-you, then adds gently, “Ma’am, I need to get Mr. Marshall to the airport in about two hours. Luther said your husband might have a word with us?”

“Of course. He’s upstairs putting our youngest—” Before she can finish, Ren and I are up and in motion. “We’ll get him right away,” we say and race out the door.

“Would you like some iced tea, coffee?” Mother asks as we tear through the dining room and up the living room stairs.

“Daddy!” we tell him on the landing. “Luther’s here . . . Mr. Harry T. Moore, Mr. Thurgood Marshall . . . to see you.”

“Here?
Now?
” he asks.

“Isn’t this great?” I ask, heart pounding.
At last, somebody’s
going to do something about Marvin’s murder!

“Yes,” Daddy says. Suddenly, he’s all business. “You two stay up here while the adults talk,” he tells us curtly and heads down the stairs.

Ren and I gape at his back, at each other, in surprise. It’s not like him to exclude us from living room conversation.
Aren’t we witnesses to the conversation at the Lakeview Inn?
I sulk. Together, my brother and I sink into the dark of the upstairs landing, lean against Doto’s bedroom door, and listen to the introductions downstairs.

“Mr. McMahon,” Mr. Marshall begins.

“Please, call me Warren,” Daddy says warmly. He sounds glad they’re finally here.

“Warren, we’re compiling a file on what happened to Marvin Cully. I’d like to hear your story and that of your mother.”

“Hold on. Let me get my notes.”

I hear Daddy’s steps into his office, the slide of a file drawer opening and closing, and his quick return to the living room.

“What I have here are four documents: The first is the notes I made on Thursday, March eleventh, the day Luther and I found Marvin on Round Lake Road. Except for poor Marvin, the scene looked pretty much like there’d been a party . . . beer cans, cigarette butts, a couple of broken branches on the orange trees, lots of wheel tracks nearby.”

I hear the sound of rustling papers as the sheets change hands.

“How’d you know to go to this place?” Mr. Moore asks.

“Everybody knows where the Opalakee Klan takes people,” Luther says.

“If we hadn’t found him there, we’d have checked the Ocoee Klan’s stomping grounds off Winter Garden Road,” Daddy adds.

“Harry, can you research these properties, find out who owns them?” Mr. Marshall asks.

“Oh, I can tell you that,” our father says. “Emmett Casselton’s a big citrus man around here and long-time Klan member.”

Talk about how the Klan’s been taking people to the Casbah for
years!
I urge Daddy in my head, but he’s not listening.

“Good. What else do you have?” Mr. Marshall asks. Though we can’t see him, his presence rolls up the stairwell. This is a man who, one way or another, makes things happen, gets things done.

“These are Doc Johnny’s notes on Marvin’s condition when we brought him in. I’ve called the coroner a couple times for his report. I’m not even sure there
is
a report.”

As he reads the notes, Mr. Marshall makes little clicking sounds with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. I’d asked to see the notes—after Daddy finally finagled them out of Doc Johnny’s nurse—but Mother said no. “She’s seen too much already,” she told Daddy.
As if reading about it would be
any worse than the real thing,
I’d told Ren.

“Here’s a transcript of the conversation my mother and the children heard at the Lakeview Inn on Saturday, March thirteenth. My mother and I sat down afterwards. She dictated, I typed. As you can see, I’m not the world’s best typist.”

Again, there’s the sound of paper shuffling and a silence.

“Did you get a look at this Deputy, ma’am?” Mr. Marshall asks.

“Unfortunately, only from the back,” Doto answers. “He was a burly man, about your size, with big brown freckles all over the back of his neck and hands. Big-boned, too. I’d guess Irish descent.”

“And the waitress. Can you remember her name?”

“No,” Doto says, “I’m sorry.”

“Mary Sue!” I cry out, and six pairs of eyes seek me mid-stairwell. Leaning over the banister, I explain, “She had a curly pin on her uniform that said ‘Mary Sue’ plain as day. And that’s what the Deputy called her when he asked for the check.”

“You’re very observant, young lady.” Mr. Marshall nods, making a note. “Anything else?”

“The other two men wore grove boots, like Daddy’s. One was tall and real skinny, stooped like Ichabod Crane; the other was older, with dark hair like Mother and a big bald spot on the back.”

“That’s right, Reesa,” Doto says. “I’d forgotten.”

“Any other details?” Mr. Marshall asks.

Ren’s voice at my elbow startles me. “The deputy’s gun had a fancy handle.”

Mr. Marshall’s eyes shift alertly up to Ren. “What do you mean,
fancy
?”

“It was white, like the inside of a shell,” Ren tells him.

“Like a pearl?”

“Yes, like that, and marked, carved maybe?” Ren says.

“Donnelly,” Mr. Marshall says grimly. “Deputy Earl the Pearl Donnelly. It figures.”

“Ren, Roo, you’ve been a big help. Thanks.” Daddy’s look sends us back into the dark recess of the landing.

“Warren, do you know these people Donnelly mentioned?” Mr. Marshall asks Daddy.

“I know Reed Garnet; but I’m sure Armetta can tell you more than I can.”

“Yes, we’ve spoken with her.”

“J. D. Bowman’s another story. I know his father. The old man’s a loudmouthed bigot, worked for Emmett Casselton for years. Has a grove of his own, but since most of the local pickers won’t work for him, Bowman hires migrant labor instead. I don’t really know J.D., but he has the reputation of being a wild hare, a real chip off the old block. I don’t doubt for a minute that what my mother heard is exactly what happened. This last is a copy of a registered letter I sent J. Edgar Hoover mid-March.”

“Heard anything back?”

“Not a word.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. The Director’s had his hands full, and he’s not exactly color blind,” Mr. Marshall says, and I think his voice sounds careful. “Plus, this situation’s a little tricky. Here in Florida, murder is a state crime. If local lawmen choose not to act, the feds have to be creative because they lack the authority to get involved. If you would, Warren, I’d like a copy of all this.”

“I typed everything with carbons, in triplicate. Take whatever you’d like.”

“Warren, how would you compare the Orange County Klan to the group I’m dealing with in Lake County?” Mr. Marshall asks.

“Well, the first difference is the sheriff,” Daddy says without hesitation. “Willis McCall is a racist son of a bitch— ’scuse me, ladies—and his deputies are pond scum.”

“I have to agree with your assessment.” Mr. Marshall’s tone is weary.

“Not that our sheriff’s much better,” Daddy continues, “but he’s a lot less arrogant. The second thing is there are three different Klans here in Orange County. I don’t know much about the one in Orlando except they seem to have the good sense to leave the folks in Eatonville alone. There’s another Klan in Ocoee-Winter Garden and that crowd’s a lot like the Crackers in Lake County. You know about the signs, don’t you?”

“What signs?” Mr. Marshall asks.

“You mean the ones in Ocoee?” Luther says.

“What signs, Luther?” Mr. Marshall asks.

“Driving in and outta town, they’s signs on both sides sayin’ ‘
Nigger—If you can read this: Don’t let the sun set on your
head in Ocoee.’ ”

“Harry, make a note,” Mr. Marshall says with a rumbly sigh.

“The Opalakee Klan’s a little different,” Daddy says. “The names I know read like the town’s social register. Most of the oldest families are involved. Their grandfathers brought The Klan with them from Georgia and the Carolinas. The fathers are pretty sedate, but the sons . . . Well, before the war, they mostly pulled college-boy pranks on young couples parked in cars and old coloreds whose fear amused them. Obviously, they’re men now . . . veterans, with experience in killing.”

Despite the fact that six adults sit in it, our living room is silent.

Ren and I exchange looks. What’s happening down there? Finally, Mr. Marshall clears his throat. “Warren, Luther said you’d be a big help and you certainly have been. I can’t make any promises. The problem is the state’s jurisdiction and the lack of hard evidence. If the coroner removed the bullet, if the bullet happened to match J. D. Bowman’s gun . . . Well, we’ll see what we can do.”

“Marvin was a good friend, not just to me and Lizbeth, but to our children. We’ll do whatever we can to help.”

People are standing, shaking hands.

We hear Mr. Moore quietly singling out Mother. “Thank you for the coffee, ma’am, and for opening your home to our little meeting.” Daddy, meanwhile, is insisting that Luther and Mr. Marshall, turning toward the kitchen, leave by way of the front door. Doto opens it for them and bids Mr. Marshall a warm “Good night and safe journey.”

As our parents and Doto head back to the kitchen, Daddy tosses up the stairwell, “You two go to bed!”