Out of Darkness (37 page)

He shouldn't have bothered. His mother and father were blazing at each other when he came into the house. A pile of suitcases sat by the back door.

“We're not going,” his father said. He sat in his favorite chair, a rocker by the lamp. He made a show of reading an old copy of the
Chicago Defender
. “It's just gossip. And anyway, let's say a couple of rednecks do come looking to ransack my property. Would you like to come back and find your piano smashed to bits?”

Peggy looked ill. She was folding linens, which their mother jammed into a sack.

“Have you lost your mind, Jim?” Rhoda asked. “Can you hear yourself? The house, the piano? We're talking about our lives.”

“Crane will talk sense into them. He knows we had nothing to do with what happened.” Jim turned deliberately back to his newspaper.

Rhoda crossed the room and pulled the paper out of his hands. “Mr. Crane is too busy mourning his dead to protect us. And they're blaming him, too. The talk going around about the school switching to green gas—and Wash out there when the explosion happened—it doesn't look good.”

His father frowned. “You must be exaggerating.”

“Look at me.” Rhoda leaned close and turned his face toward hers. “Have you ever known me to be the panicky type?”

“No, but—”

“I talked to Whit Mason. His wife works for the Crims, and she's heard things. He said it's serious. These men have lost their children. They want blood. They're not going to let this go.”

“We're not running. If anything, that'll make them more likely to think we were involved.”

“Jim!” Rhoda cried. Wash shivered. Desperation was breaking through her anger. “This is no time to be proud. We can come back. Or we can start again. We have the money.”

“That money is for the children's college.” Now Jim was the one to raise his voice.

Wash's heart pounded as his mother crossed the room to the cabinet where they kept the Booker money. She opened the door and pulled out the family Bible. She reached for the tin of money they kept behind it.

He wiped his hands on his pants. “Mama,” he began. “Mama—”

“Go clean up, Washington,” she said. “Change those clothes. We're going to Aunt Jennie's in Tyler.”

Wash swallowed and nodded.

“We're not going anywhere,” Jim called as Wash hurried into his bedroom for a change of clothes.

In the bathroom he scrubbed the mud from his hands, washed his face, and put on the blue shirt Naomi had made for him. He tried to think. If his mother was right, then his family needed to be gone an hour ago. He could go along and still meet Naomi and Beto at the station in the morning. But he had to give the tickets to Naomi and tell her where to go and how to get there. He double-checked that he had the tickets and pencil and paper, then he went back into the living room to face his parents.

Rhoda stood with her arms crossed, her lips set in a tight line. His father sat with the box of Booker money on the desk in front of him, the bills laid out and counted. His face was livid.

“How dare you remove money from this household!”

“This is not the time, Jim,” Wash's mother interrupted with a nervous smile. “Now, Wash, where did you put it? Just show me so we can finish packing.”

“I can explain,” Wash said. He did not meet her eyes. There was only one reason he could give for why he needed to leave the house now.

“James Washington?” his mother asked. Her voice trembled.

Wash didn't answer.

“Spent...?” His mother's eyes were begging him to tell her it wasn't true.

“I was going to repay it. I can get it back now,” Wash said. “I can explain—”

“Don't explain. Just listen.” Jim's voice was deadly calm. “You go get the money. Be fast but not careless, and then—”

Rhoda cut in, pulling at Jim's arm. “Listen to me. There's no time. Forget the rest of the money. Get these bags out to the car. And then we'll go.”

Wash glanced over at his father, who raised his eyebrows at him. “Did I stutter, son?”

“Oh, Lord,” Peggy moaned softly from the sofa.

Wash pulled his boots back on and laced them with trembling fingers. He ran out on his mother's entreaties, calling over his shoulder, “Ten minutes, Ma!” as he pushed open the screen door.

As he ran through the yard, he could hear her shouting, “What are you thinking, Jim? It'll take too long!”

He jogged up the road. He thought about heading straight into the trees, but the night was so dark, it would be faster to take the road and then cut into the woods farther down. Naomi might be there now, just maybe. If not, he would leave the tickets and a message. He pumped his arms harder.

He was about to turn off into the woods when the first truck sped toward him, tossing up a cloud of red dust and catching him in its headlights. There was no time to hide.

A deep voice drawled at him from a face he could not see. “Don't think about runnin' no more, boy. You're caught. They's three shotguns pointed at you right now. So turn on around and start walking back to your house so's we can sort this out nice and civilized, see. Stay there right in front of our truck where we can see you.”

As Wash walked slowly back up the road, his heart pounding, the pickup inched along behind him. The men didn't bother lowering their voices as they talked. From the different voices he heard, he guessed that there were six or seven men in the truck, although he couldn't be sure.

“You sure that's the right one? Niggers all look the same to me.”

“You know they're guilty if they're tryin' to run, see?”

“It's him all right. I seen him skulkin' around the school the day of the explosion. Didn't have no business there, disrespectin' the dead.”

“A lesson's coming for him, ain't it now?”

“Where the hell are the rest of the coons in this coon town?” one of the men asked. His words slipped over one another, slurred by booze.

Someone laughed. “They're like animals. They smell trouble and hide. After we get done with this boy, we can go nigger knockin'. Stir 'em up.”

All the houses along the street were dark now, their curtains closed. Wash thought he saw a hand disappear behind a window shade when they passed Fannie's place. Only his family's house at the end of the road still had lights on. Wash prayed, though, that his family had gone out the back door. That they were crossing through yards in the opposite direction at this very moment. He moved slowly. He wanted to give them as much time as possible.

 

BETO
Beto pressed his fingers into his armpits and bit his lip. Hard. Harder. His guts knotted as the truck swung around a curve and then flew down another country road. He wanted to be in the cab with his daddy, but instead he was in the back with five men he did not know and Wally, who was in the grade above him and mean. The men stared into the dark woods and passed a bottle between them. Their faces were shadowed, their mouths silent. From other trucks, though, he heard wild sounds. Whoops and laughter. The black of night had never seemed blacker. He did not want to be here.

They turned onto an oil-top road and passed Mason's general store. When they got to the end of it, Beto knew where they were going.

The yard was crisscrossed with tire ruts. Headlights knifed through the darkness, all turned toward the Fullers' porch.

Henry pulled into a narrow space between two trucks and got out. “Black as a nigger's nipple!” someone shouted, laughing. “Y'all leave the lights on.”

“Let's make this quick,” Henry said as the other men climbed out of the back.

Beto sat rooted, his face pressed to the truck's back window. Through the windshield, he followed the path of the headlights. He took in the smashed birdbath, the toppled stones around the edge of the flower bed, the flattened heads of jonquils and pansies.

And then he saw Wash's work boots. And Wash in them.

Beto wanted to be invisible. He wanted Wash. Cari. Naomi. He wanted the bright sun shining through the magnolia tree. Those days eating fried pies. He closed his eyes tight.

 

WASH
Wash blinked into the blinding light of the headlamps. Run, run, run, he willed his family. He hoped that was what they were already doing.

There was a real crowd now. The men at the front were getting warmed up.

“Where'd you get them nice boots, boy?” came a voice thick with tobacco juice.

“Mr. Crane gave them to me, sir. When they didn't fit his son anymore.”

“Tell the truth, now, you stole 'em, didn't you? Stole them from the school? Stole 'em off one of our boys' feet, didn't you?”

“No, sir, I didn't.”

“You calling me a liar?” the man asked.

“No, sir. I just think you're mistaken.” Wash tried to keep his voice calm, but he felt his fear creeping in. The stories he'd heard from his father's growing-up days in the country. All the ways a black man could die.

“He's calling you a liar, Gary!” one of the other men at the front shouted. He stepped forward and sluiced a spray of black tobacco juice out of the side of his mouth. It landed hot and thick and wet on the side of Wash's neck. He started to wipe it away, but the man shook his head. “Leave it be, nigger.”

A man with bright red hair and freckled arms unzipped his pants, shuffled closer, and grinned. Wash did not look down, but he felt the hot liquid soaking his pant legs and socks. “There!” the man said when he finished. “Now your shoes are real special, ain't they?”

“Call your old man out,” someone called.

“Make him holler for the whole stinking family,” said another.

“They're not home,” Wash said softly.

“You think we're stupid? Every light in the whole damn house is burning, you smart-alecky bastard.”

“I'm telling you, sir, I believe that they are out.”

“Call them out here,” a big man growled. It was the same one who'd blocked his way when he'd tried to help Mr. Crane after the explosion. He radiated malice. “I told you we'd pay you a visit, didn't I? Call them.”

“You tell him, Dalton!” someone yelled.

“Ma, Pa,” Wash called, his voice cracking. “Peggy. If you're home, come out.” He started to turn toward the house, but one of the men jabbed his side with a shotgun.

“You just keep facin' forward, pal. We'll take care of the other Sambos.”

And then there were footsteps on the porch. The men sent Peggy and Rhoda to the side of the yard, but they made Jim stand with Wash.

“Let's get down to business,” Dalton said. He stepped forward and tucked the barrel of his shotgun under Wash's chin. “You blew up that school.”

“It was a gas leak that did it, sir,” Wash said.

“There you go contradicting me again.” He forced Wash's chin up another inch. Pain shot down the back of Wash's neck.

“We can stretch that liar's neck of yours,” someone called.

“I'm just telling you what I know, sir. That's all.” Wash had to talk around the pain.

“And you, what do you have to say for yourself, boy?” Dalton turned to Jim.

“There's been a misunderstanding, is all I can say, Mr. Tatum.” Jim's voice sounded small and afraid.

“Zane Gibbler got firsthand knowledge that you two was complaining about your nigger school 'fore it happened. Acting real jealous. Jealousy can make a body do crazy things.”

“Sir, we would never—”

“We know what your boy said that day. ‘It'd take an explosion to get their attention.' Don't deny it.”

A murmur ran through the crowd.

“Sir,” Wash stammered, “I never meant—you can't think that—”

“It's a marvel what you can think after you've picked up pieces of children and sorted them into piles.” Dalton edged even closer. “There's a lot stranger things I could believe than that you and your nigger pa had a hand in this.” He turned to the rest of the men and asked, “Who here lost a child?”

More than half the men called out or raised a hand.

“Who wants justice?”

A shout went up.

Somebody hefted two heavy coils of rope into the space between the mob and Wash and his father.

“All right, let's do this,” Dalton said.

 

BETO
Beto lay in the bed of the truck, trembling. He could not move.

“Henry, where's your boy?” he heard someone say.

Beto wished to be with Cari. Even in the ground. Anywhere but here. And then his father grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him over the side of the truck.

“You wanted to come,” he said. “Now get out here.”

Henry pushed Beto to the front and thrust him between Wally and another older boy from his school.

They held stones pulled up from the edge of Mrs. Fuller's flower bed. “Here, pal,” Wally said with a false smile. “This one's for you. You go first.”

Beto ignored the rock and looked down. His right hand was jammed deep into his pocket, his thumb flattened against his leg. His left arm hung limply. Sweat pricked his upper lip.

Then Henry grabbed his son's chin and wrenched it upwards. “This,” Henry nodded at the crowd of pale men, “is our side.” He grabbed the rock from Wally and pushed it into Beto's left hand.

Beto dropped it.

His father cursed and grabbed Beto's arm. He hunched low and spoke into Beto's ear. “Pick up the goddamn rock and throw it through a window. This ain't a game, boy. Unless you want to be the one they're pissing on next. Unless you want to be eating that goddamn cat for dinner tomorrow.”

Henry's hand was heavy on his back, pushing him down to the ground. Beto felt his fingers close around the rock. And then he was standing again. Henry smiled a little and nodded. “Throw it.”