Devil on My Heels Read online

  “Charlie and Daddy, they don’t have any idea what to do next. Daddy starts yelling at Charlie for letting the dog out, and Charlie is yelling back that the dog let himself out. And Ma comes out of the trailer with Biddy on her hip—Biddy’s my baby sister—yelling about all the yelling. Gator, he just sits there rubbing Roose’s ears and watching us like we’re the best show in town.”

  Rosemary sits up and brushes off her elbows.

  “While all the yelling was going on, I went over, got Roose, and put him back in the truck. I thanked the boy, though. He said, ‘I didn’t do anything but sit here.’ I said, ‘Well, I guess that was enough.’ And he told me his name was Gator. I didn’t see him again until—” Rosemary’s body seems to cave in on itself.

  “That Saturday across from the movie theater?” I ask. “When Willy and Earl showed up?” The minute the words are out of my mouth, I regret it. I don’t want to remember that day. And I’m pretty sure Rosemary doesn’t want to either. Her face is turning bright red.

  “No. Before that.” She gets to her feet and brushes off her skirt. “I’ve got to get to Luellen’s, or she’ll have a fit.”

  I look down at my watch. It’s almost three.

  Up until now I thought the only times Rosemary talked to Gator were that day outside of Tuckett’s Hardware and the day she ran into us in the Baptist cemetery. But I can see now that I was fooling myself. Pretending those were just coincidences. It’s as plain as the nose on my face that Rosemary and Gator have been secretly seeing each other whenever they can. Maybe even sneaking out at night, like Chase and me.

  Rosemary picks up her frayed binder. “This has been a real interesting way to spend an afternoon, reading poems to dead folks,” she says over her shoulder as she’s walking away.

  I want to ask her what it is about Gator that makes her face turn the color of strawberries. I want to ask her if she’s completely out of her mind, considering there are plenty of people like Willy and Earl ready to pound her and Gator into dust for flaunting the rules in their faces.

  I also want to ask her if she knows anything about Travis Waite cheating the pickers, seeing as how she knew about the clothesline fire. But she is already halfway across the cemetery. My questions hang there like little clouds in the sticky air.

  17

  It is after seven when I get home. I wanted to make sure dinner would be over and Delia had left for the day. In the oven I find a pie tin with two thick pork chops, a sweet potato, turnip greens, and a warm biscuit. Delia’s doing. Everything is swimming in gravy just the way I like it. I set the pie tin on the table, not bothering to transfer the food to a regular plate. As I’m rummaging around in the silverware drawer, I get an eerie feeling. The back of my neck tingles. I am not alone.

  I don’t turn around. I stand stock-still, clenching my fork and knife in one hand.

  “Where you been?” Dad says.

  “With a friend from school.”

  “You’re late.”

  “Lost track of time,” I tell him.

  “Dinner’s at five-thirty. Since when do you come waltzing in here after seven?”

  “Since tonight.” I still have my back to him.

  “We eat at the same time in this house.”

  I don’t know how to tell him that I don’t think I could sit at the same table with him anymore. Knowing what I do about him covering up for Travis, I can hardly bring myself to look at his face.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he says.

  I walk over to the pie tin, pick it up, and head for the front hall. I have to squeeze past him. He fills almost the whole doorway.

  His hand lands on my shoulder. “You want to tell me what this is about?” His voice is softer now. He looks worried.

  I don’t answer. I slip away from his hand and make my way to the stairs. My dad and I have never been much for long conversations. I figure he’ll get the message.

  He does.

  He looks away and shakes his head. Then he wanders off and leaves me be. I am hoping it will stay like this—the two of us going our separate ways, minding our own business, even though we are living under the same roof. Because I don’t have anywhere else to go.

  I take my dinner upstairs and set it on my desk. I haven’t eaten a thing since last night. Right now I’m starved. I wolf down the food as if it’s my last meal.

  Ever since I found out about Travis killing Gus, I have been trying to think what to do. Delia has a right to know what happened. But if I tell her, she will probably quit working for us, and I can’t bear the thought of her leaving. Delia has been here my whole life. It would be worse than losing my mom because I don’t remember my mother all that well.

  From below I hear the roar of Dad’s truck coming to life. He’s going out somewhere again. Seems like he’s been going out a lot more than usual lately. I wipe a few drops of gravy from my chin.

  I finish reading all of the Ferlinghetti poems even though I have the whole weekend ahead of me.

  It is a hot night, too hot to be in my stuffy bedroom. I am about to settle in on the front porch swing with an extra pillow, my transistor radio, and a glass of iced tea, wearing nothing but my light bathrobe over my baby-doll pajamas, when here comes Chase, tearing up the dirt road in his T-bird with the top down and dust flying all over the place. He circles into our driveway and stops right in front of the porch steps. He sits there grinning at me for a few seconds. Without bothering to open the car door, he slides up onto the back of the seat, swings his legs over the side, and lifts himself up. He takes our porch steps in two leaps and lands next to me on the swing, which about jars the teeth right out of my skull.

  He fingers the lace ruffle on my robe and grins. “Looks like you were expecting me.” His hand travels down my arm. It’s like soft waves washing over my skin and spreading through my whole body.

  “You weren’t in school today,” I say.

  Chase leans back in the swing, crossing his long legs at the ankles and making himself right at home. “So? I’m not in school a lot of days.”

  I have no idea what I was expecting him to say. Even if what happened in the groves last night upset him as much as it did me, he’d never let on.

  Chase presses his heels to the floor and begins rocking the swing back and forth. We don’t talk for a while. We float gently on the swing, listening to the Platters singing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”

  Suddenly I’m wondering if Rosemary and Gator are somewhere listening to a radio too. I look over at Chase. “If I tell you something, will you swear not to tell?” I figure he owes me one.

  Chase just frowns. “Tell me what?”

  “Swear,” I say.

  “Fine. Consider me sworn.”

  “What would you say if I told you Gator has a white girlfriend?”

  Chase stares at me for a few seconds, thinking. “I’d say he wasn’t planning to live very long.”

  I nod. This was more or less what I’d expected him to say—expected anybody in this town to say.

  “Things are going to get pretty bad for him and the other pickers as it is without him doing something stupid like that. It’s just going to rile folks up even more.”

  “Bad for Gator and the pickers? Why?” I remember what Chase told me at lunch yesterday, about folks trying to scare the pickers. “Is someone planning to set fire to more clotheslines over at the camp?”

  He reaches for my glass of iced tea and helps himself to a healthy swallow. “You’re a lousy hostess, Dove, you know that?”

  “Well, are they?”

  “There’s talk, that’s all. Some folks around here are worried about those fires.”

  “What folks?” An uneasy feeling has started to creep over me, setting my skin to prickling.

  Chase presses his heels to the floor and begins rocking the swing again. He doesn’t say anything.

  “Is it because of those rumors about our barn?”

  Chase shrugs, like he doesn’t much care. And that sca
res me a little. “Could be part of it. Who knows?” he says.

  I pull my knees up close to my chest, trying to cover my bare feet with my robe.

  “But nobody burned our barn,” I say, my voice rising a notch. “How many times do I have to keep saying that? It was lightning. Your dad, Spudder, Moss, Jimmy, they were all there. They know it was lightning.” A moth bumps against my cheek. I swat it away. “You told them, right? You told them Willy made up that stupid story, didn’t you?”

  “It’s like you said, they were there. I didn’t have to tell them anything.”

  “Then why would anybody act like they believe one of the pickers did it? Why would they want to cause trouble for them?”

  Chase takes a deep breath. He works at his face, trying to look patient. “They just do, okay?”

  “It’s not okay,” I tell him. “There’s got to be a reason.”

  “It’s complicated,” he says. As if that explained everything.

  My head is spinning. Near as I can figure, there are people in this town pretending to believe the rumors that are going around so they can use them as an excuse to hurt colored folks. But why? It doesn’t make any sense.

  My stomach is getting all queasy again. The last thing I need is to throw up in front of Chase two nights in a row. “I have to go in,” I tell him. “My dad will have both our hides if he catches us out here, me dressed like this.”

  “Your dad isn’t going to be home for hours,” he says, downing the last of my iced tea.

  “How would you know?”

  “Because he’s over at our place, along with a few of the boys.”

  “What boys?”

  He looks down at the empty glass. “Travis and them.”

  I have a bad feeling about this. But I can’t bring myself to ask him any more questions. I stand up and move toward the front door. “You better go now,” I tell him. “I’m not feeling very well.”

  The look on Chase’s face about breaks my heart. I can tell he was planning on spending the evening with me. And I don’t know how to tell him that I’ve suddenly got these disturbing thoughts screaming in my head. Terrifying thoughts. Thoughts about my dad and all those nights he’s been going out lately.

  “You going to be okay for tomorrow night?” Chase is watching me. He looks worried.

  I stare at him. I don’t know what he’s talking about.

  “Our date. Remember?” He gives me a funny look, then comes across the porch and gently rests his hands on my shoulders. “You okay?”

  “I’ll be all right.” I rest my cheek on his hand. Then I slip away and leave him there on the porch.

  Inside I lock the door, turn off the porch light, then, one by one, all the lights in the house, leaving us both in the dark.

  A few minutes later I look out the front window. Chase is still there. He’s sitting on the top step with his shoulders hunched and his head in his hands. I know he’s wondering why I didn’t so much as kiss him good night. It about tears me apart, seeing him like that. But there is something I need to find out. Something I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. Something that started as a tiny suspicion, nibbling away at me when Chase was talking about my dad being over at his house, a suspicion that has swelled into a question that fills my whole mind.

  A short time later I hear his car heading out of the driveway. I turn all the lights back on and begin my search. The truth is, I’m not really sure what it is I’m looking for.

  I start in the attic, opening every dusty old trunk. I dig through the toolboxes in the barn. I rummage through every drawer in the house. The last room I search is Dad’s office. It would have made sense to begin here, but I was too scared. Dad’s office has always been off-limits to me. Even Delia isn’t allowed in here to clean. It’s complete chaos, and my dad doesn’t want anyone trying to tidy it up for him. He says he knows exactly where everything is. It’s his own system. Which to my way of thinking is no system at all.

  Piles of papers and magazines are everywhere—all these file folders, all these envelopes—it’s a mess. This is why I didn’t want to have to look in here. Too much stuff to go through.

  I stand in the middle of the piles in my robe and pajamas, wondering where on earth to begin. Stacks of papers and envelopes hide the top of his desk. I decide to start with the desk drawers. I’m half expecting them to be locked. But the middle drawer opens right up. The tray along the front holds pencils and pens, erasers, and paper clips. In the corner is a stack of cards. The one on top looks like my dad’s driver’s license. I lift it up and see that’s exactly what it is, an expired one. There are other cards, mostly expired. This doesn’t surprise me. My dad doesn’t like to throw anything out. He even has copies of his old high school newspapers in a stack on top of his filing cabinet.

  I shuffle through the rest of the old cards, not really paying much attention, when suddenly I see something that cuts my breath right off. I am holding a blue-green card with the letters KKK at the top. And there, at the bottom, is my dad’s signature.

  18

  Saturday night Chase and I go to the drive-in to see Some Like It Hot. I don’t much care one way or the other if my dad finds out.

  Chase doesn’t appear to notice anything is wrong. I watch the movie. I laugh in all the right places, even though nothing seems funny. I eat popcorn. A few of the pieces stick in my throat. I let Chase kiss me. But the kisses don’t feel the same. They don’t feel like anything at all.

  Everything has changed.

  As we’re coming back through town, Chase makes a sudden sharp turn down a side street. I have no idea where we’re going, and I don’t bother to ask. Chase makes another sharp turn. We are in the back alley behind the Benevolence Hotel. “Remember this?” he says.

  I look to where Chase is pointing and see Amos Pritchett’s old electric chair. Amos Pritchett owns the Benevolence Hotel. He also owns the only funeral home in town, which is right next door. Amos has been known to take out one ad in the Benevolence Press for both businesses. His latest slogan for the Benevolence Hotel and Funeral Home is “We offer comfortable lodgings for one night or all eternity.” The best thing about the Benevolence Hotel, which doesn’t have much else going for it except its Sunday brunches, is that electric chair. Nobody knows where Amos got it, but it still has all the electrodes and straps on it.

  When we were little, Chase and I used to run over to the hotel after school. The elementary school is a lot closer to the center of town than the high school. We would sneak up on the porch to play with Amos’s electric chair.

  We used to take turns strapping each other in; then we’d give each other a chance to make a last-minute confession before we pulled the switch. Our only rule was that your confession had to be something real, not something you made up. It had to be something you wanted to get off your chest before you died. We played this game every chance we got, which is why Chase and I know a lot more about each other than most folks would care to.

  Amos always caught us and chased us off, yelling loud enough for the whole town to hear. But that didn’t stop us. We always came back.

  Like now.

  Chase stops the car and hops out of the T-bird, taking the porch steps two at a time, and flops down in the electric chair. I follow right behind him. He reaches up and pulls me into his lap. “Let’s make some electricity,” he whispers in my ear.

  It’s been years since we played with Amos’s electric chair. I’d almost forgotten about it.

  Sitting in that old chair, even in Chase’s lap, suddenly makes me uncomfortable. I stand up and put my hands on the porch railing. I am afraid he will try to get a confession out of me, like when we were kids. And I have secrets I don’t want to tell—can’t tell.

  “You used to wangle a last-minute confession out of me before you threw the switch, remember?” Chase says.

  I nod, but I don’t turn around.

  “I love you,” he whispers to my back. “I always have.”

  He reaches for my ha
nd. When I turn to look at him, Chase says, “You can pull the switch now.”

  For the rest of the week I feel as if I am only going through the motions, pretending everything is fine. I avoid my dad whenever I can. Just looking at him makes me want to cry.

  I take the notes Rayanne passes me in homeroom, scribble some stupid answer, and slip them back to her. I dutifully deposit my copy of A Coney Island of the Mind in the box Marilee Redfern, who is head of the school board, carries up and down the aisles between our desks in Miss Poyer’s class. I don’t even flinch when I toss it in with the rest of the banned copies.

  I let Chase walk me to my classes. I do all the things I always do, but it feels as if I am outside of myself watching somebody else do them.

  Even with Chase—even with him telling me he loved me that night on the back porch of the hotel—things aren’t right. I know I should be thrilled to the bone. But what happened that night, it’s like something I saw in a movie or on TV. It doesn’t seem real.

  All week I’ve been trying to understand why my dad would be a member of an organization that is known for hating just about everybody who isn’t them. But no matter which way I turn it over in my head, I can’t make it work. And I don’t have the faintest idea what to do with this terrible knowledge.

  When I was in eighth grade, my social studies teacher, Mr. Stone, spent one whole class period doing what he called “dispelling the evil myths about the Klan.” He said people were wrong about the Ku Klux Klan scaring and hurting people. He told us they did a lot of good for the communities, like donating money to charities and bringing baskets of food to the poor, including colored folks. He even passed around this photograph of Klansmen dressed in their robes and hoods, handing a basket of food to a colored man at an old folks’ home. Staring at that picture, all I could think was how those poor old colored people must have been scared out of their wits when those white robes came waltzing through the front door—food baskets or no food baskets.