True Fires (9 page)

19

Another goddamn stack of them,
Lila bristles as she seats herself at the giant mahogany desk that dominates her father’s study as surely and surly as the old man himself.

He’s been dead and buried two weeks now.
When will the constant, irritating stream of condolence cards and letters end? Wasn’t it enough she’d had to endure the funereal coronation of the old son of a bitch by everyone from two U.S. Senators to the Governor on down? Now, like Chinese water torture, comes the almost daily drip-drip-drip of sugary cards, fawning letters, and flowery tributes.

Lila snatches open the desk drawer, recoils from the smell of old cigar, grabs the Judge’s silver letter opener, emblazoned with the seal of the Great State of Florida, and, one by one, slits the spines of the offending envelopes. The condolence cards go first. They’re acknowledged most easily by her own preprinted message cards—“The family of Judge Howard Hightower thanks you for your kind expression of sympathy in the untimely event of his death.”

Untimely, my ass. Not a minute too soon’s more like it,
Lila thinks as she licks and sticks three-cent stamps and wonders, for the millionth time, whatever possessed her to return to this godforsaken place after she’d vowed
for years
not to.

It certainly wasn’t mother love for the shrill Daughter of the Confederacy who chose now, of all times, to have yet another “nervous breakdown” and retreat to her bedroom with a case of bourbon “for medicinal purposes.”
When was it,
Lila wonders,
that Mamma’s drinking became “nerves,” and her out-and-out bingeing a “nervous breakdown”?

It wasn’t some silly Scarlett O’Hara yearning for the fertile soil surrounding the old homestead. There was no strength to be drawn from
this
Tara. It wasn’t even greed. Didn’t she have everything she could possibly want up in Washington?
Well,
not exactly. But as soon as Jazz gets his divorce from Kitsy, I will!

What brought her back, she remembers, was Sissy, the colored woman who’s ruled the Hightower roost forever, and her pleading request to “come home, settle your daddy’s affairs, and keep Kyle from walking off with everything whole hog.”

A fairs!
Lila snorts, recalling the Judge’s surprise assignation of fifteen thousand dollars apiece to three mystery women who, coincidentally, lived in each of the three surrounding counties.
The old bastard!

And Kyle.
She relished the fact that her simple presence had been enough to deliberately, summarily thwart Kyle DeLuth’s smug ascension to Daddy’s property and preeminence as the most powerful S.O.B. in the county. Not that they didn’t deserve each other. Truth was, Daddy and Kyle were cut from the same lean and hungry cloth. She’d seen it years ago, when she and Louis would complain about their father’s heavy-handedness, his apparent disregard for anything that smacked of sentiment, his ruthless dispatch of one character-building high-school coach for another more in tune to the team’s win-loss record. At every turn, with every issue, even then, ol’ Kiss Ass had taken the Judge’s side. And—like Cassius to Brutus— hung around for a bite of Louis’s leftovers.

Louis.
Her twin brother was the only fine and true thing the Judge ever produced. And the old man spent the boy’s lifetime attempting to remake Louis’s perfection after his own power-grubbing image.
But Louis . . . well, Louis wasn’t capable of becoming Daddy’s kind of man. But he certainly died trying, didn’t he?

“Jesus H. Christ,” Lila mutters as she opens the official proclamation from the State Legislature rechristening the county’s main thoroughfare the Judge Howard Hightower Memorial Highway. There’d been talk of it at the funeral. The state’s big men openly envied the way Judge How-High had bullwhipped this county out of its malarial malaise into a marvel of citrus, cattle, and tourist-industry production.

That was Lila’s most persistent memory of the old man— Hav-A-Tampa cigar in full, jaw-clenched flare, his left thumb hooked casually in his belt loop while his right hand flicked the rattlesnake bullwhip with pinpoint accuracy at the hind end of a reluctant steer, the back of a thieving Negro or, in Louis’s case, the legs of a soft-hearted, daydreaming boy.
The
bastard.

Lila hears the Westminster chime of the front door, checks her watch, and listens as Sissy hobbles to the entryway and admits her guest. As steps echo across the hardwood hall, Lila sweeps the rest of the envelopes into a pile beside the phone and, at Sissy’s knock on the study door, rises to greet Fred Sykes.

“Miss Hightower, it’s a real pleasure to meet you,” Sykes says, shaking her hand a bit too heartily. “You got a real nice place here.” As he drops into a leather guest chair, his eyes skim the room with the deft economy of one accustomed to evaluating property. Lila watches him take in the deep mahogany shelves flanking the windows with floor-to-ceiling leather-bound books, the wall of dark paneling behind her with its certificates, awards, and proclamations, including the framed headline: “Hightower and DeLuth Named All-Americans.” This revelation, just over her left shoulder, brings his eyes suddenly back to her. “Though I have to admit I’m surprised to be here.”

“Why’s that, Mr. Sykes?” Lila asks, smiling. The man is about her age, with the sort of firm-chinned, nicely combed, not-from-around-here good looks that she might, under other circumstances, find attractive. He smelled good, too, freshly showered with a discreetly spiced aftershave.

“Well, like that headline says, the names Hightower and DeLuth are fairly tight around here. And I’m obviously not a fan of the incumbent Sheriff.”

“But that’s precisely why you
are
here, Mr. Sykes. I can’t stand Kick Ass any more than you can.”

Sykes’s eyes flicker surprise.

“I
had
to know,” Lila continues, “what possessed you to run against him in the first place?”

“Well, to be honest, I lost a bet.”

The man’s got a great grin,
Lila thinks, admiring the slow, sly parting of Fred Sykes’s lips, his confident display of square, white teeth.
And a rather shiny gold wedding ring,
she notes.

“ ’Scuse me?” Lila asks.

“A bunch of us were down at the Board of Realtors one day, complaining about the Sheriff and some of his high jinks— like running a legitimate labor organizer out of town barefoot and in handcuffs. There’s a flood of folks moving into Florida just now, a lot of them Northerners and fairly liberal. We’re competing with half a dozen other counties, you see, and the Sheriff—well, he’s just plain bad for business. So, one fella says, ‘It’s hard to get rid of somebody who runs unopposed.’ And another fella says, ‘Yeh, we need somebody more modern-minded and friendly.’ Well, one thing led to another and, before you could say Jack Robinson, we were drawing straws. And I lost.”

“So, what are you doin’ to win? I haven’t seen any bumper stickers, heard any speeches.”

“Well, I haven’t had much luck with fund-raising. And a lot of folks tell me they’re happy with the way things are.”

“A lot of folks are scared to death. Do you want to win, Mr. Sykes?”

“Well, yes, I guess so. I mean, it’s not like he’s got a lot to do. This is hardly a hotbed of crime, is it?”

“Not in the traditional sense, no,” Lila answers. “But, if you’re serious about this, I could help you win.”

Sykes sits back, his handsome face a blank. Lila studies him carefully. Her years—as her father’s daughter, as one of the first women admitted into the Army’s Command General Staff School (the one they called Suicide School because every class had at least one man blow his brains out), as Special Assistant to Major General Jasper P. Atkinson, S.H.A.E.F. Intelligence—had taught her the art of instigation: You toss a man a challenge and wait; if he’s up to it, he’ll volunteer. If he’s not, he’ll quibble. At which point, you find yourself another man.

Sykes drops his eyes to study, for a moment, his nails cut short and straight across. He frowns. Then, with a single movement, he lifts hands, starched white cuffs, broadclothed forearms onto the desk and, with a determined blue-green gaze, declares, “Show me how.”

Lila chuckles. She opens the leather address book on the desk, bracing herself against the sudden smell of cigar that permeates every thing that was her father’s, and dials the number.

“JoLee, this is Lila Hightower, is Hizzoner the Mayor in? . . . Thank you. . . . Well, hey, Jimbo, catch any fish this weekend? . . . You don’t say, what’d you use? . . . Really? Imagine that. Now, Jimbo, the reason I’m calling is to tell you I’m a friend of Betty Whitworth’s, and to ask you what kind of Law ’n’ Order allows a cross-burnin’ in the town’s best neighborhood? . . . I know, I know. . . . Well, course if Daddy was still around, there’d been hell to pay. . . . Now, Jim, I’m just wonderin’ if you’ve had a chance to sit down and talk to Fred Sykes . . . Sykes, Jim, running against Kyle for Sheriff ? . . . Real estate . . . Well, I just had a meeting with the man. He’s got some fine ideas, progressive, thought you and the other mayors might want to at least give ’im a listen. Y’all still have that Third Monday meeting? . . . Tonight? What time? . . . I think you’ll be impressed, Jim. . . . Thank you, I’d love to, soon as I find my tackle around here. . . . Bye now.”

Lila hangs up the phone, jots down “Mayors’ Meeting, 7:30 tonight, Dixie’s Coffee Shop,” and hands the note to Sykes.

“Every mayor in the county’ll be there. Lean heavy on Kyle being bad for business, on things gettin’ outta hand around here—you know about the cross-burnin’?”

“I heard a rumor, didn’t know whether to believe it or not.”

“Oh, you can believe it. Four doors up from the Mayor’s house, too. Think about introducing yourself as Fred Sykes, the future Sheriff, talk about how you’re focused on the future instead of the past. The war’s long over, the whole country’s movin’ forward, and this county can’t afford to be left behind. How’s that sound?”

Sykes gives Lila an admiring nod. “Sounds great.”

Lila smiles and dials another number.

“Why, Lloyd Green, got the boss man himself answerin’ the phone today? . . . You still head of the downtown Chamber of Commerce? . . .”

Three phone calls later, Sykes holds a handful of appointments with the key small-business groups around the county. Noticeably missing are the elite citrus men and cattlemen clubs which, Lila says, “will no doubt back Kyle for another term.”

“This last one’s a little tricky,” she says, dialing. “Big Nick there? . . . Tell him it’s Missy Lila. . . .” At this, she shoots Sykes an ain’t-I-cute look. “Nick? . . . Nick, I sent you a note but I wanted to call you in person, tell you that bouquet you sent to the funeral was the biggest, most beautiful one there. . . . Meant a lot to me, Nick . . . yes, yes, he was . . . Thank you. But, Nick, well, this is kind of hard, but, you know that I know ’bout the arrangements you and Daddy and the Sheriff have on Friday nights. But, maybe you don’t know that, ever since Daddy died, the Sheriff ’s been keepin’ Daddy’s share . . . yes, yes, he has . . . You’re right, ain’t right atall. . . . No, no, I’m not askin’ that, I’m askin’ somethin’ else. The Sheriff ’s up for reelection, Nick, and there’s a man, a real good man named Fred Sykes, runnin’ against him. Now, if you were to have the runners spread the word to vote for Sykes, and if Sykes got elected, I could promise you a much better deal than you got now, considerably better, Nick. . . . Something like that, Nick. . . . Sure . . . My word on it good enough? . . . So you’ll spread the word? . . . Two weeks from tomorrow, November fourth . . . Thanks, Nick, Daddy always said you were the smartest businessman in the county. . . . I will. Bye-bye.”

“Miss Hightower, did you just cut a deal with Big Nick the Bolita King?” For the first time, Sykes appears distinctly ill at ease.

Lila grins. “I sure did.”

“But, Miss Hightower, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Win without his help? You’re absolutely right.”

“No, I mean—”

“Mr. Sykes, I couldn’t care less what you mean to do after you get elected. The goal here is to get you into office. Afterward, if you want to collect the Sheriff’s share of Big Nick’s bolita money or, if you want to shut down every Friday-night numbers game in town—it makes not one goddamn bit of difference to me. As I recall, your words were ‘Show me how.’
This
”—Lila has unscrewed the cap of her father’s ebony fountain pen, written and signed the check. She blows the ink dry and hands the check over—“Mr. Fred Sykes, future Sheriff, is how it’s done. Now, get yourself some buttons, bumper stickers, and placards. I suggest the slogan ‘I LIKE SYKES!’ Worked for Ike, y’know.”

20

Ruth Cooper Barrows sits facing the typewriter table beside her desk, lost in the rapid clack of the keys, the slap and slam of the carriage.
Almost there, almost there,
she promises the sharp craving for a cigarette, as her stubby, new-ribbon-and-tobacco-smudged fingers fly across the final paragraphs to the “—30—” finish line.

Done!
Ruth yanks the sheet out with one hand, pats her coat pocket with the other.
Where the hell did I put them?
she wonders, then spots the pack of Pall Malls and her lighter stacked on the far side of her Underwood. She lights up, inhales greedily, and checks the big clock (a gift from the guys in the Raleigh newsroom) on the wall in front of her. Just enough time to proof the story before Hugh returns to threaten, for the last time, he’s going to press without it. Ruth smokes and reads quickly:

A Tale of Two Bible-Toting Billys

WITH apologies to Mr. Dickens, it is the best of times and the worst of times when two men named Billy can read the same Good Book and come up with entirely different interpretations, one appealing to man’s baser instincts, one approaching the higher good.

One Billy, named Hathaway, visited our county last weekend carrying a Bible purportedly given to him by his home church (although the pastor of the Houston, Georgia, Baptist church disavows Hathaway’s claim to membership). Hoisting the Good Book high above his head, Billy Hathaway preached a sermon demeaning the U.S. Supreme Court and espousing white racial supremacy (although, according to his mother, he is not an ordained minister). Hathaway also claimed to be a war hero, injured in service to his country (although the U.S. Marines have no record of him, and his local sheriff states that the only uniformed service Hathaway may legitimately claim is two and a half years in Clinton County Corrections). There was, of course, at the end of Hathaway’s sermon an invitation, not to accept the love of God, but to join a club of hate.

Compare this story with that of another Billy, named Graham, who was graduated and ordained by our state’s own Florida Bible Institute, who has prayed with three Presidents, preached to thousands from coast to coast, and hosts the popular “The Hour of Decision” radio show. This Billy, in a recent article in
Life
magazine, disagrees with Billy Hathaway’s message of hate. Billy Graham says that those who “apply the Old Testament to justify racial discrimination” miss the point. “Again and again, through the law and the prophets, by His warnings and by His judgments, by His action and by His word, God worked to impress two lessons: 1) that the standards of lasting and constructive fellowship are religious—not racial; 2) that the purpose of the separation He commands is for service—not superiority.” To this, Billy Graham adds, “Then came Christ. Jesus broke down the barriers.” In his extensive article, Graham argues that Christ gives us “the commandment and the power to love thy neighbor as thyself,” and that “Jesus put no color bar on the Golden Rule.” “Jesus made it clear,” Billy Graham warns, “that what we shall have to answer for is the way in which we have treated our neighbor” and reminds us to “remember the sobering words of our Lord: ‘As you did it not to one of the least of these, you did it not to me.’ ”

Whose interpretation is correct? The unordained, unchurched minister of white supremacy, Billy Hathaway? Or the leader of Billy Graham’s worldwide Crusade for Christ? As laymen, we must all thoughtfully, prayerfully search our hearts for the appropriate answer.

Editor’s Note:
In preparing this article, we contacted ministers from Lake Esther’s seven local churches for assistance or comment. All refused because, as one pastor put it, “My congregation is a long way from resolved on this issue.” Special thanks to Dr. John Leighton, President of the private Clark Christian Academy, who did direct us to the
Life
magazine article by the Reverend Billy Graham.

“Well?” Hugh drawls from the doorway.

“Done,” Ruth reports, holding the sheets up and out to him.

Hugh’s eyes drop from her face down to the double-spaced lines of copy in his hands. He reads intently, knitting bushy brows, but does not, she notices, reach for the pencil perched above his right ear. At the end, he looks up. “Thought your plan was to discredit the messenger,” he says quietly.

“Had to take on his message, too, Hugh. It’s more dangerous than he is.”

Hugh frowns.

“What?” she asks him.

He steps into her office, closes the door behind him, then sits down, holding her copy between them. “This Hathaway’s a huckster, no doubt. But he’s also a shill for our esteemed Sheriff, is he not?”

“Yes,” Ruth says, wondering where he’s going with this.

“Correct me if I’m wrong. But wasn’t it a head-to-head with the Sheriff over the last election that cost our predecessor his life’s savings and enabled us to pick up this paper for a song?”

“Ye-es,” Ruth replies.

“We’ve got this Hathaway piece, plus the photos and story on the cross-burning at Charmwood, plus some editorial outrage over the Dares’ forced move, plus the statement in support of Fred Sykes, the opposing candidate. Any chance we’re hitting the Sheriff a trifle hard this week?”

“A trifle hard for whom?”

Hugh shrugs. “You’re the one picking this fight. You prepared to see it through—win, lose, or draw?”

“You asking me to back off?” Ruth feels her face flush. “If we don’t take a stand, who will?”

“Who indeed, my dear?” he echoes with a searching look, then stands to go. “Fighting hellfire with brimstone, little lady,” he tells her. “We who bear our battle scars vainglorious salute you.” He turns on his heel toward the door.

“Thanks,” she calls after him.

Hugh’s silent acknowledgment is a single wave of the rolled pages in his hand.