Sweeping Up Glass (24 page)

I back the truck out on the road and head east. Headlamps are no help at all. In fact, they make the going harder. Normally, it’s a twenty-minute drive, but tonight it takes at least forty-five. I haven’t made a plan, but I tell myself that’s all right—there’s no way to predict what I’ll find, if anything. I’ll decide on the spot—I’ve had plenty of practice at that.

To my considerable surprise, there are two cars ahead of me on this highway that usually carries so little traffic. Both lanes have been cleared so that the road’s almost dry. I’m mildly grateful for it wouldn’t do to have Phelps to find me in a ditch in his
neighborhood come morning. I am taking this whole thing too much as a lark. Of course the road hasn’t been cleared for me, but for his club—which probably accounts for the cars in front. They turn into his driveway and shut off their lights. This last thing, in fact, raises my curiosity several notches. Perhaps they are guests, and merely being considerate. I doubt it. I drive past.

A quarter of a mile on, with no traffic in sight, I make a U-turn and approach again. By now my eyes have adjusted to shapes, and between whorls of fog, I see that cars are parked behind his barn and the hedge, and along the road to the stables. I consider dousing my headlights, turning into the drive, and following the others. But no. Nor would it do to park on the side of the road—a Johnny-come-lately might recognize my truck. All the light, of course, spills from the barn.

I drive another quarter of a mile, step hard on the brake, and fishtail some—then grind into reverse and locate the narrow back road. It’s rutted solid with ice, but seems my only means of getting close. Still, I’ve made no commitment. I could let this be the end—but Alton Phelps wouldn’t see it that way. He’s unwilling to forgive me for something I’ve either forgotten or never known, while, in fact, it should be he who is begging forgiveness from me.

I ease up on the clutch and down on the gas pedal, then turn in with my lights off. To stay on the road, I open my door, lean out, and follow the ditch. Pray no one comes from the opposite direction. It’s maybe two miles before I find a place wide enough to turn around, and my eyes ache from straining in this light.

This
must be it. No gate, just a break in the rails and tire tracks in the snow. I sit contemplating. Wish I’d remembered to put a shovel in the back of the truck, and a couple of feed sacks. And
that I’d been smart enough to leave a note, for if I get stuck between here and the barn, I’m as good as dead. Neither Will’m nor Wing will ever know what’s happened to me.

With every foot, the tires break through new crust and sink until the snow is almost up to the running board. I’m not sure what I’m doing, don’t know where I am, and there’s no pulling over. I turn off the ignition, get out.

On foot, the going’s no easier, and now there’s no light at all. If I cross the field, there’s no telling what I might stumble into. I plow ahead until I hear shouting. Liquor talk. Whatever Phelps is up to, why here? How can he afford to be so obvious, so blatantly breaking the law—unless he isn’t. I am almighty tired of this circular thinking. But if this is just some damn barn dance, at least I’ll know.

But no—something is greatly wrong when a family I never see nor speak to harbors such hate for me. And with Phelps, it appears to be more than harboring—he savors it. He rolls anger in his mouth like an almighty gumball.

I come to the hedgerow. My boots are full of snow, and my toes ache like bad teeth. I hunker down while two more cars arrive, five men I do not recognize. A woman is with them. They pull dark handkerchiefs from their back pockets and shake them out. Then they open the big barn door and disappear inside.

With as little noise as possible, I move around the hedge, and into the space between bushes and the south wall. Almost no snow has collected here.

When I press my face to the planks I see maybe twenty men having a fine time. Light glints off the bottles and glasses they hold in their hands. Off to one side are several bales of hay—other than that, this barn is not a barn at all. Under the lights,
three young women in tight, shimmering dresses dance with elbows locked and hips bumping. I have never in my life seen shoes with such high heels.

Phelps steps onto a platform. They all turn to him. The only other one I can make out, through the crack, is Doyle Pink, who’s sure enough the county sheriff. The music scratches to a stop, but the women keep dancing. Phelps is talking, and although I hear words, I don’t catch them. In unison they slide handkerchiefs over their heads, and then I see that they’re not squares of cloth at all, because every man’s head is anointed with a peak, and all the peaks are the reddest of reds. Blood rackets through my arms and legs as my heart turns loose of my breastbone and thuds into my boots. And there in the barn, above the bales of hay, hangs a loop of hemp, knotted into a noose.

Then an arm comes around me, and a hand covers my mouth so that I bite down and kick with my feet.

“Shh!” Elizabeth Phelps says. “Come away from here!”

In her eyes I see tremendous fear. I look back once, then let her lead me to the house, to the pretty kitchen now full of shadows. There’s not one light on. She slips out of her coat.

She keeps her voice low. “In another half hour they’ll be drunk as lords and urinating in the snow. You’d have been caught as sure as a rat in a trap.”

“I’m caught now.”

For a moment she says nothing, then sighs and sits down heavily in a kitchen chair. “Oh, Olivia. Why do you have to do this now?”

“Because your husband is killing my wolves.”

“Well, it’s certain you didn’t come to be inducted. Your pap wouldn’t hold with it, and I expect you won’t, either.”

“Inducted?” My eyes are adjusting, and I can see the white of hers. “Into what?”

“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

“I’m getting almighty tired of hearing that,” I say.

“Whatever’s made you come here, Olivia, you could have forgotten. Saved yourself sorrow.”

“I’ve already got sorrow, Miz Phelps. So why don’t you tell me.”

“There’s no one to help you, Olivia. You saw the sheriff, tonight, out there in the barn. French, Andrews. The Detwieler brothers. They’re all part of it just like their fathers were.”

“Part of what?” I pull out a chair and sit facing her. Our knees touch. “Who are they?
What
are they? You talk to me now, or I’ll drive into Paramus and bring back a federal marshal.”

She laughs, a sound like something breaking. “By the time he got here, there wouldn’t be one red robe left.”

“Red robe?”

“That’s what they wear when they hold the cotton trials.”

Cotton trials. The words leave no taste on my tongue.

“I made every one of those robes myself,” she said flatly. “Tonight they’re taking in new members, so they’ll only wear hoods.”

The handkerchiefs I thought I’d seen hanging from their pockets. …

“They think you’re onto them,” she says. “You can’t just go home now, and run your store and sew your quilts. There’s no going back. Olivia, Cott’ners were the dregs of the Klan. Men so cruel that even the Klan wouldn’t condone what they did.”

My stomach turns over. “Tell me about my pap.”

Her voice has gone flat. “He came spying just like you. Only it was Booger that went out and hid him in the bushes.”

“Booger!”

“Yes. That very night, James Arnold shot Booger in the back of the neck.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “Maybe they saw him with your pap. Maybe he was going to tell on them, who knows? Olivia, I used to work for Alton’s mama. One morning they found Booger in his bed, staring at the ceiling with what was left of his eyes. They told everyone he did it himself. But I knew.”

She looks away.

Booger saved my pap’s life.

“Please, Olivia, forget what you saw tonight.”

“They’re coming after me and my boy.”

“They won’t—because you’re not colored.”

A flash of guilt lights the backs of my eyes. The pain is as deep as the night when I begged God to change the color of my skin. “He threatened me—”

“He’s hurt a lot of people to get where he is. It’s extortion, Olivia, plain and simple. Like taking a child’s milk money. He collects payment from families—or he hurts them bad. His pa did it, before him.” Her voice grows vague, and she looks away. “Maybe that’s what he’s planning to do with you.”

I know she is lying. “Elizabeth—”

“No more, Olivia! Get in your truck and drive away from here!
Hurry!
”

I
can’t close my eyes, let alone sleep. Even awake, I dream of men in long robes, invading my house. In a way I wish I’d gone on looking through the crack in the barn wall. Maybe I’d have witnessed a man admitted into this Cotton Club. I wonder who the new man is.

So Pap hit upon something whether he knew it or not. Or maybe he had already seen them, or guessed, and that day, when we delivered the brown jugs, he was letting them know that he knew the truth. And the Pope County sheriff is stupid Doyle Pink, a Cott’ner himself.

Who else, I wonder.

Before daylight I’m up—having never undressed. It’s Sunday, and there’s nothing to be done today. Around noon, Will’m walks up from town with Wing’s copy of the
Buelton Sunday News
. The paper reports that half the school is out with colds and influenza, so they’ve closed the place down. Will’m’s not disappointed, and wants to know if he can stay at the hotel for one more night. Wing’s going to show him how to make his famous sticky buns. Will’m asks, too, if we can sell the buns in the store.

“For a percent of the profits,” I tell him. “Wing could have come and asked me himself.”

I pour coffee. All morning I’ve worked on a red and white striped quilt top, my needle dipping and pulling, fingers tying dozens of red knots. Still, the work doesn’t keep me from trying to fathom men so cruel they’ve been turned away by the most malicious tribunal in human history. And I know who they are.

“He says you’re mad at him, Gran.”

“I’m not mad at him. I’m not
anything
.”

“Yes, you are.”

I give Will’m a look. At Wing’s he’ll be safe for another night. …

“Tell him—fresh every morning. The second day I’ll mark them down. After that they’re fodder for the goats.”

Will’m grins.

I sleep that night because I’m exhausted. The next morning I’m up before dawn, and driving toward Buelton. I considered Paramus, but I don’t want to be away from the grocery any longer than I have to. I cannot think of a single pay phone in Aurora that’s guaranteed safe. There’s no one I trust. Wing has a telephone, but he must be kept clear of all this. A sudden thought threads itself down my spine—might Wing be a Cott’ner?

I arrive in Buelton an hour and a half before the place opens, so I find a cafe and sit drinking cups of black coffee. Finally I drive back, park out front, and go in. I tell a woman at a desk that I need a telephone number. She sends me to another woman behind a counter.

This one asks me if it’s long distance, and I tell her I think so. I’m woefully stupid on the subject of telephones. I’m sent to a back room, to a spectacled young man behind a desk. I can barely see him over stacks of directories.

“What city?” he says.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, is the number you’re looking for in this state, in Kentucky?”

I don’t know that, either. Perhaps marshals keep offices only in Washington, D.C. Pap talked about revenuers from the Treasury office.
G-men
, he called them. But I’m not calling to report moon-shining.

“I need to talk to a federal marshal.”

“United States … federal … marshals,” he says, pulling out a book and thumbing through. He runs a finger down one page. “Twelve cents for three minutes, and you can use that phone, there. Put on the headpiece. I’ll connect you.”

I nod, open my purse, and give him the change that he drops in a drawer. I sit at the other desk and fit the set over my head. Adjust the ears. Hear clicks and humming and dialing, and then a woman says, “United States Marshals Service.”

“I beg your pardon,” I say. “My name is Olivia Cross, and I need to know where you’re located.”

“Wheeling, West Virginia. How may I help you?”

The only thing I can say about help coming from West Virginia is that at least it’s on the right side of the country.

“Is that the only office you have?”

“Oh no, ma’am,” she says in her perfect voice. “We’re stationed in every state. Where are you calling from?”

I tell her.

“We have offices in Lexington and Bowling Green. What city are you calling from?”

“Aurora.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know that area. Can you be more specific?”

“Just north of the Tennessee line—about fifty miles east of Route sixty-five.”

“I’m looking at my map,” she says. Then, “Yes. Our nearest office is in Nashville. Would you like that number?”

Nashville. Nearly sixty miles away.

“Yes, please. Just a minute.” I look around for the young man, but he’s gone. I reach for a notepad and tear off a corner, open a desk drawer, find a pencil. I write it down.

“If you’ll hold a moment, I’ll connect you—”

Behind me, a voice. “Why, hello, Miz Cross. What a nice surprise.”

I jerk off the headset, and it clatters to the floor. “Mr. French! What are you doing here?”

He followed me, of course
.

“Trouble with my telephone bill. You?”

“Thinking of putting one in,” I say, glad Will’m and I once talked about this. “It’d be good for taking orders—making deliveries.”

“I thought,” he says, looking around, “that this was the long distance room. My mistake. Well—” He reaches for my hand.

I bend to pick up the headgear and tuck the scrap of paper in my boot. Grip his cold thin bones. Murmur, “Good to see you.”

I think,
Better to have seen you Saturday night
.

I never liked Henry French. Now I know he’s no more than pond scum.

I scurry outside. Climb into my truck, so nervous that at first I can’t start it. Drive away. The man behind the books will be easily bribed to tell French everything. In the end, these are hard times for us all.