Out Through the Attic (27 page)

Shorty stared at the fat man, looking him up and down. Madge saw perhaps just a glimmer of spine.

“I’m a Christian, Gentry … God fearing. I ain’t going to Hell for killing an innocent white woman, no matter what you or Stephenson says.
You
do it.”

Gentry turned to Klink. “That leaves you.”

“Go to Hell, Gentry. I’ve been in the joint, four years, and I’m not doing a lifer rap for anyone. Besides, all we gotta do is wait. She ain’t gonna last long.”

“Well, we can’t let her croak here,” Gentry said, rubbing the back of his pudgy head.

There was a pause as Klink and Gentry exchanged glances. During Madge’s assault, it had been the alcohol talking and given them backbone, but now they squeaked and squirmed like rats in a trap. It was Shorty that saved her in the end. She never did know why. Maybe it was a lifetime of abuse. Maybe he just had more humanity than the rest.

“Lemme take her home,” Shorty finally spoke up, “let her die with her family.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Klink asked.

“We can’t leave her here, and dropping her off to die someplace is the same as killing her, Klink. If we try and help her, we can tell the judge we did everything we could. She’s the one who took the pills, and you said yourself, she won’t last long. Even if she does say something, it’s our word against hers.”

Klink and Gentry both considered Shorty’s reasoning, cowardice winning in the end. Klink looked at Gentry who merely shrugged. “Yeah … I guess you’re right, runt.” Klink stared at Shorty and shook his head. “Take her.”

At noon Shorty gathered up Madge’s unconscious body, put her in the car and drove her home to where only the Oberholtzer’s tenant Mrs. Schultz was present. He told the old woman that Madge had been in an automobile accident, and then he left in a rush without leaving his name, confident Madge would not live long.

But Madge didn’t die. A doctor was called and a story told … a story that spread.

It didn’t take long for the outrage and the arrests.

April 13
th
, 1925—Indianapolis, Indiana

Madge’s mother stared down into her daughter’s pallid, sweating face and prayed for a second miracle, this one seven years after the first. Back then it had been a week of hell, starting with a cough that quickly turned into thick, throat-tearing heaves full of yellow and green that threatened to shake her weak, feverish daughter to pieces. Madge had gotten caught up in the influenza epidemic of 1918 and ended up lying in that very same bed. Back then the same doctor had said exactly the same thing as he said only a few hours ago: there was nothing more he could do, and the Oberholtzer’s should begin making final preparations.

Her mother remembered the moment of the miracle, like it was before her eyes once again.
Madge hadn’t coughed for hours. Her cheeks glowed with the burning hue of deadly fever. Her breathing was thick and labored while her mother sat beside the bed and clutched her daughter’s hot, sweaty hand. Then Madge went into a fit of convulsions and fierce coughing, as if a devil were trying to rip its way out of her body. It subsided. Madge lay back in the bed, her face calm and her chest still. Her mother screamed in despair and then felt the presence.

The curtains flickered, even though the midnight air was still. She felt a chill and sensed something at the foot of the bed. A shift of air brushed past her check, and Madge’s matted hair quivered across her forehead. Madge took in a long, sucking breath, her chest heaving once, followed by a long exhale, and then her breathing returned to normal. Her mother couldn’t believe her eyes. She laid her hand on Madge’s forehead and found the heat gone. Madge’s cheeks were losing the angry hue of fever. Madge opened her eyes the following morning, and everything went back to normal.

So there her mother sat and prayed for a second miracle, not the least bit guilty for the asking. A knock on the door brought Madge’s mother back to the present and all-too-real fear of losing her daughter.

“Come in,” she said, her voice sounding stronger than she felt.

A thin, clean-shaven man stepped in, removed a faded brown cap from short black hair and tucked the cap under his arm. “Mrs. Oberholtzer?” he asked. He wore a simple brown suit with worn elbows, and his black shoes were dusty and unpolished. He had a green bow tie that seemed to dance over his Adam’s apple when he spoke. He had a fountain pen tucked behind one ear.

Madge’s mother cast a questioning glance at the man.

“My name is Henry Walker,” he offered. “I take statements for the courts.”

Realization flashed into her eyes. “Mr. Walker! I’m so glad you’re here.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “The doctor says that we don’t have much time.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Oberholtzer.”

“She’s still asleep, but….”

“I’m awake, Mr. Walker.” Madge’s voice drifted up from the bed as if from a great distance.

“Miss Oberholtzer, I’m sorry I disturbed you, but I’ve come to take your official statement.” He paused, his eyes focusing on the gaunt, black-and-yellow bruised face that stuck out from the blankets. “I can come back later if you’re not up to this.”

“No. I’m afraid I don’t have much time.” She winced, and Walker watched an arm slide up from under the covers, push the blankets down and beckon him. He had to swallow when he saw the bruises and bite-marks that painted the white skin in a mottled pattern of tormenting abuse.

Henry turned to Mrs. Oberholtzer and saw tears rolling down her face.

“I’m sorry….” she started, closing her eyes and turning her face away. “I can’t hear this again … it’s too….” Her body shuddered with sobs. She covered her face with one hand, grabbed the doorknob and rushed out of the room. Walker heard her burst into violent sobs as she ran down the hall. He swallowed again, pulled a small, black notebook out of his pocket and sat in the chair next to Madge. He looked at her with tender eyes that recognized suffering and wanted to do something about it.

“How are you feeling?” he asked out of habit and then wanted to kick himself for the stupidity of it. The embarrassment on his face gave him away.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Walker. It’s okay. How I feel isn’t important anymore. What is important is that you’re here. This is the last piece,” she said and tried to sigh. She got halfway through it, and her whole body winced with deep pain. The agony seemed to last for several heartbeats, and her face twisted into a grimace like something was tearing at her from the inside. “How about I just tell you what happened,” she managed when the pain abated slightly.

She began the tale.

He nodded, pulled the pen from behind his ear and started writing as she spoke. As her story unfolded, Walker found himself filling with fury and sorrow and even shame for being a man, for it was men who had committed such evil. Madge finished, wrapping up with his entrance into the room. She let out a long breath full of relief and despair and satisfaction, all impossibly mixed together, but genuine nonetheless.

“How did you endure it?” Walker asked finally, full of horrified sympathy.

“I knew what was coming from the moment he first grabbed me,” Madge said. Harriet had known what was coming from the first moment Madge Oberholtzer saw the fiery eyes of David Curtiss Stephenson. “I guess I just turned my back on it all while he did what he did … it was as if I wasn’t there.”

Life passed from Madge’s body that night, with her father looking down and her mother weeping while she held her daughter’s hand. The cries turned to a long, drawn-out wailing full of agonized sobs and screams of bereaved askance hurled at Heaven and He who ruled it with such apparent indifference.

September 15
th
, 1925—Indianapolis, Indiana

“Stephenson! You got mail!”

Convicted of second-degree murder, Stephenson sat in his cell with a blank stare on his face. All he could think of were the men,
Klan,
who had turned their backs on him. He thought of how he would roll them over and bring them down with him. A guard’s hand stuck through the bars and held out a postcard. Stephenson stiffly reached out, snatched it and peered down at the photograph. The Hemphill dogwood image brought back memories that warmed him, and it was enough to put a smile on his face after months of frowns and scowls during the trial. He flipped it over. The smile disappeared, turning to agonized shock. The poem on the back was not as he remembered it.

You were the root of the Dogwood tree;

A heartless soul of white supremacy.

And though once taught in the Pioneer’s school,

This land is no more under the white man’s rule

The Red Man once in an early day,

Was told by whites to mend his way.

Yet this lamb, by God’s eternal grace,

Has shown you truly the dragon’s place.

Across this land, a place to be free,

Let true, blind freedom forever be.

Let this a promise to all evil be,

I am salt in the roots of your dogwood tree.

A single sentence was scrawled awkwardly next to the poem in a child’s scrawl, and a signature.

I got you.

Harriet Truth

Author’s Notes:

Harriet Truth is a composite of many. She is the spirit of Harriet Tubman and Sojourner Truth, but she is also a tribute to every person who suffered so horrifically at the hands of whites and had the indomitable courage to make a stand, including Madge Oberholtzer, who faced evil with a courage most couldn’t comprehend.

The multiple lynchings in 1908, possibly the largest mass lynching in American history, did indeed take place. After Hugh Dean was shot to death, six blacks were arrested by the county sheriff and incarcerated in Sabin County Jail in Hemphill, Texas. On the first night, the prisoners were taken from the jail by a mob of roughly 150 men and women brandishing torches. Five of the six were hanged in a nearby tree while the sixth was shot trying to escape.

Over the next few nights three more black men were hanged by similar but smaller mobs. Not only were no whites brought to justice, but their actions were celebrated by the good, white people of Texas. As proof of such vile celebration, the postcard described in this story is also real. Apparently, such postcards were commonplace in the aftermath of Klan lynchings across the US.

The influenza epidemic of 1918 killed millions globally. It has been speculated that its widespread nature was a result of birds carrying it across the world. The speed with which that little virus decimated our numbers certainly lends itself well to the notion of an avian-borne killer.

Finally, the kidnapping, rape and death of Madge Oberholtzer as well as the downfall of the prominent David Curtiss Stephenson (born in Houston, Texas only 80 miles southwest of Hemphill) is also true. The Ku Klux Klan had been reborn around 1915, and it gained both momentum and membership throughout the twenties.

According to my research, in the spring of 1925, Klan membership under Stephenson was either 35,000 or 250,000 strong. Reports conflict and the difference may be between Indiana membership and membership through the 22 states under his control. His trial and conviction shed light upon the evil of the Klan.

Rats abandoned the sunken ship in hordes, and by 1928 only 4,000 members of the Indiana Klan remained. Stephenson had been the root of Indiana’s dogwood tree, and the death of Madge Oberholtzer was enough salt to bring it down for good.

It was Billie Holliday who sang, “Southern trees bear a strange fruit.” As a culture, each and every one of us should take any steps necessary to forever pour salt upon the roots of dogwood trees when we find them sprouting in our midst and ensure that they never bear such horrible fruit again, regardless of race, color or creed.

OU
T THROUGH THE ATT
IC

Orange light flashed within a swollen, black belly of clouds. An alien aircraft trailing flame and smoke burst forth, cleaving a bright wound through the downpour. One of its forward-swept wings tore free, and the craft spun out of control as it disappeared beyond the lip of a nearby cliff. I stepped to the edge. A roar of hate rose up, reaching, clutching at me from throats of ten thousand screeching horrors filling the wide valley below.

A tremor of doubt scurried up my spine as the doomed aircraft—one of
theirs
—shattered against the lifeless, rocky landscape. A bright detonation of fuel and munitions cast Hell’s army in harsh light and deep shadow. Their hulking, shapes, a sea of armor and spikes, howled in fury as they marched in thunderous syncopation toward the plateau behind me. I turned to see a domed city ill prepared for an onslaught from Hell itself.

It all felt real. As I stared into that ocean of terror, it occurred to me that I might have bitten off more than I could chew.

I turned away from the edge and let my eyes trace up along two massive, armored legs five meters tall. They gleamed like milky crystal in the darkness. A long torso and angular head towered above, with thick arms reaching down nearly to the machine’s knees. The faceted hull of powered armor stood three stories, with hatch doors gaping wide down the middle of its chest, inviting me inside.

I knew those facets and angles would absorb sensors and deflect energy … knew I could wade into battle and slaughter Hellspawn. I knew because I’d
imagined
it that way.

But I didn’t know if I could survive the hordes below.

I marched back to the armor,
my
armor, and scrambled up one leg. Hooking my body over its waist, I slid between the hatch doors into a gleaming cockpit resembling the inside of a silver egg. I curled into a fetal position, and with a whine of servos, the doors folded in and shut out the rain. A dim, sourceless light tinted everything blue as the cockpit filled with liquid. Metallic tendrils spawned from the ceiling. The liquid filled my mouth, nose, and eyes. Without fear, I took my first breath. I felt the tendrils slide across my scalp, then a momentary flicker of pain as they pierced my cranium and plugged directly into my brain.

Perfection.

The machine came alive. I felt immense energies coursing through it … through me … and my vision filled with images of the battle, the city, the sky. I sensed it all. An ocean of red triangles dotted my surroundings on three sides—enemy targets. Readouts flicked by in the HUD, and it all seemed …
natural
 … as if I’d been born in that armor. I hadn’t: I’d been born in a place far from the city, the valley, and the Hellspawn below.