Devil on My Heels Read online

I can’t seem to find the words I need. I stand here, at the bottom of the steps, dumb as a fence post. Somewhere in my mind I have made important connections. I know tonight’s Klan meeting has something to do with this small group of men. I don’t know how I know this, I just do. The problem is, I don’t know how to put it in words that will make any sense to them. Words that will convince them they are in danger.

  “I thought you should know the Klan’s up to something.” I finally manage to get this much out.

  Gator and three of the men laugh. Then he turns to the others and says something in Spanish. The other three men laugh.

  Gator turns back to me. “When isn’t the Klan up to something?”

  “I think it has to do with you and the other pickers,” I tell him.

  “Why would you think that?”

  I look over at Rosemary. She’s being no help at all. Like the rest of them, she’s waiting for my answer. She sits down on the top step.

  I don’t dare tell them where I’ve been tonight or why. I haven’t even told Rosemary this. “There’s been rumors going around town,” I tell them. “Some folks are saying the pickers are setting all these fires.”

  “Why would we do that?” Rosemary says. I don’t miss the we.

  “I’m not saying you did. It’s what the people in town think. They think you’ve got it in for somebody.”

  One of the men says something in Spanish to some of the others. They’re all staring at me. The man says, “Su padre, he is in the Klan? Is this how you know these things?”

  Gator is staring hard at my face. I look away.

  Rosemary says, “Dove’s just trying to help is all. She wanted to warn you there’s trouble coming.”

  “We ain’t done nothin’,” one of the men says. I notice he isn’t wearing a shirt. His skin is slick with sweat. A large red welt runs from his shoulder across his chest. Blood is crusted in spots. I have seen this plenty of times before. The strap from his picking bag has cut through his skin. Pickers in our groves sometimes have to stop work early because of bleeding sores.

  “I’m not saying you did,” I tell him. “I think the Klan’s using whatever they can as an excuse. It doesn’t make any sense, I know, but . . .”

  Rosemary goes over to Gator and sits next to him. “I told her about Travis bringing in Julio and the others. Taking their wages to pay for him driving them here.”

  “I know Travis has been keeping some of you in debt, overcharging you,” I say, “taking your pay to cover bills at the store and your rent before you ever see the money.”

  Gator looks up at me. “You think we’ve been setting fires to get back at Travis Waite?”

  “No. But a lot of folks in these parts know Travis owns this camp. And that’s what they’re thinking.”

  “We never set no fires,” one of the men says. He’s not much older than Gator. He’s missing part of one earlobe and several teeth. “No point in that.”

  A baby begins to cry. Its sharp, piercing shrieks cut through the night. The barrel man gets to his feet and heads back toward the long row building. I watch him disappear through one of the doors.

  “That’s Julio Gonzalez,” Rosemary says. “His son is only a few weeks old. He’s one of the men who’s in debt to Travis.”

  “There has to be some reason you’ve got the Klan nervous.” I look at Gator when I say this.

  He doesn’t answer.

  Rosemary looks over at him. He glances from her to me.

  “It’s nothing more than talk right now,” Gator says.

  “What kind of talk?”

  “We’re thinking maybe if we stick together, maybe not show up for work for a few days, they’ll figure it out.”

  “Figure what out?”

  “They need us. If we don’t work, the fruit’ll rot on the trees. The tomatoes, the strawberries, the pole beans, they’ll all rot.”

  “Are you saying you’re going on strike? Like union folks?”

  “Maybe.” Gator takes a deep breath. “Someday. Not right now. We’re not organized enough. It’s like I told you. It’s just talk.”

  “But Travis must know you’ve been talking about it,” I say.

  Gator shrugs. He turns the radio up louder.

  I look over at Rosemary. “Let’s go,” I tell her.

  No one says anything as we walk away. But I can feel six pairs of coal black eyes searing themselves right into my back.

  Five minutes later Rosemary climbs out of the driver’s seat in front of Luellen’s place. I scoot over behind the wheel. “You going to be okay driving home?” she says.

  “I got myself here, didn’t I?” What she doesn’t know is that I’m not planning to go home. Not right away. I’ve got one more thing I need to do tonight before I can lay my head on my pillow.

  20

  The gravel I’ve scooped up from the driveway hits Chase’s half-open window and the side of the house like a barrage of bullets.

  It’s after midnight. His T-bird is parked out back of the house. I checked. I fire off another round of stones. And wait.

  I’m getting ready to fling another fistful when a voice from behind me says, “Whoa! Hold your fire.”

  I about fly out of my skin. My heart shifts into full throttle. It’s racing like a motorboat engine at top speed. Chase puts his hands on my shoulders and tries to calm me down. “Hey, Dove, it’s okay.”

  I pull away and take a step back.

  “You jerk! Creep! Don’t you dare touch me.”

  He frowns and looks up at his window. “I thought this was a friendly call.”

  “You’re an idiot!”

  “Okay! I get the general idea. What’re you doing here, then? You come here in the middle of the night just to call me names? Is that it?” He gives me the once-over and shakes his head. “Where you been? You’re a mess.”

  “And you’re a liar!” I yell. “And . . .” My voice begins to break. “You’re in the Klan.” The last word comes out as a sob. I turn away.

  “I’m not in the Klan,” he says.

  “I saw you.”

  “Saw me? Where?”

  I tell him about following my dad. Suddenly it dawns on me that my dad is probably home by now too. Maybe he’s got the police out looking for whoever it was stole his pickup. Maybe he’ll think whoever stole it took me along too. Kidnapped me. Maybe I will just let him go on thinking that. Maybe I’ll get back in this truck and keep on going till I reach California.

  I head to the pickup.

  Chase runs alongside me. “Are you listening? I’m not in the Klan.”

  “You were there.”

  “My dad dragged me along. He makes me come with him sometimes.”

  “You don’t have to go. You could tell him no.”

  “Come on, Dove. You know how he is.”

  This is true. I do know. Jacob Tully could scare the bark off a tree when he’s feeling mean.

  “So it’s just easier this way, going along with it?” I ask.

  “Well, yeah. Better than getting the crap beat out of me.”

  “I hate that you’re part of this. I hate you for it.”

  “Dove, I’m not part of it.”

  He has his hand on my arm. I am trying to climb into the driver’s seat. “Yes, you are.” Chase lets go of my arm. “What did they talk about, then? You say you’re not a part of it, then you can tell me. They’re planning something, aren’t they?”

  Chase puts his hand over mine, the one clutching the steering wheel. His touch is hot and damp. “Yeah. They’re planning something.”

  “What?” I slide my hand from under his.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t, Dove. You’re just going to have to trust me on this.”

  But I don’t listen. I don’t believe him for a minute. I know what I saw at Spudder’s. I turn the key in the ignition and drown out his stupid excuses. He jumps out of the way as I back up the truck, whip it around,
and tear down the driveway, the tires spitting stones every inch of the way.

  Right now I’m the walking dead. I am so tired from all that’s been going on tonight, I’m about ready to keel over. But I can’t do that because my dad is sitting in the rocker on the back porch, waiting for me when I drive up. I muster all the energy I have left. I’m going to need it.

  I stand at the foot of the steps. Dad stays in the rocker. The same one I sat in the night Chase told me about Gus.

  “Where you been?” he asks.

  “Driving.”

  “Driving where?”

  “Around.”

  “With just a permit?”

  I don’t bother to tell him I left my permit at home. “I’m getting my license in less than four weeks. It’s not like I don’t know how to drive, Dad.”

  “You take off with my pickup without telling me. You don’t leave a note. What am I supposed to think?”

  “You do it all the time,” I tell him. “You take off, don’t tell me where you’re going. Most of the time I don’t know where the heck you are.”

  Dad is on his feet now. We square off and size each other up like two cowboys facing each other down in the middle of a dusty street, their fingers twitching only inches from their guns.

  Dad is the first to look away. He draws a deep breath. “You had me worried.” His voice is low, almost a whisper.

  “Well, I’m home. I’m in one piece. No dents in the pickup, if that’s what you’re worried about.” The sharp anger in my voice rings in my ears. There’s no hiding it.

  “I swear, if you weren’t going to be sixteen in a few weeks, I’d whale the daylights out of you for going off like that.” He rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, like he’s trying to squeeze that picture out of his head. “Look at yourself!”

  I stare down at my filthy clothes, at the scratches and dirt on my arms and legs, at a few sandspurs Rosemary missed. There isn’t a whole lot I can say.

  “Get on up to your room,” Dad growls. He jerks his thumb toward the house.

  I head through the door, hoping this is the end of it. But Dad grabs my arm as I’m passing by. “This isn’t over by a long shot, Dove.”

  “What’s not over?”

  “This. You behaving like this.” He follows me into the kitchen. “Coming home late for dinner. Staying out all hours. Taking my pickup without permission. Where in tarnation is this coming from?”

  “Maybe I get it from you,” I say.

  His face turns the color of raspberry sherbet. It looks blotchy in the glare of the overhead fluorescent light. He stares into my face like I’m some complete stranger who has just walked into his kitchen. I know how he feels.

  I leave him standing there and head down the hall.

  I am lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about Chase and how it felt, seeing him at that meeting tonight, when Dad shows up at my bedroom door.

  “You think you can just take off like that, in my pickup, anytime you feel like it and not get punished?”

  I don’t answer him. He’s not there. As far as I’m concerned, my dad—the one I thought I knew—is gone. Forever. I keep my eyes on the ceiling.

  “From now on I want you home right after school, you hear? Every day for the next two weeks.” Even with my eyes on the ceiling, I know he’s poking the air with his finger a few times for emphasis. “And I want you home on the weekends. No parties or movies.”

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. I have been giving a lot of thought to what I’m going to say next. Now I’m wondering if I have the courage to do it. I turn to Dad and look him right in the eye.

  “I want to tell Delia about Travis,” I say.

  He blinks a few times, looking confused. “What about Travis?”

  “About him killing Gus Washburn.”

  Dad stands there like somebody facing a firing squad. “Where’d you hear that?” He crams his hands into his pockets.

  “Doesn’t matter where or how. I just know is all.”

  Dad takes a step forward. His pockets are bulging with his fists. “You aren’t gonna do anything but cause pain by telling Delia. What happened to Gus happened a long time ago. It was an accident. Nobody’s to blame.”

  “How can you say that, Dad? Gus is dead. He’s dead because Travis Waite was having what he likes to call a little fun. Everybody in town knows Gus was killed in a hit-and-run. They just don’t know who was driving that car. But Cholly Blue saw the whole thing. Delia told me. And Cholly says the driver aimed that car right at Gus, like it was some kind of loaded weapon or something. On purpose, Dad.”

  “You don’t know anything about it, Dove. You try to stir up trouble now, the only one’s gonna get hurt is Delia.” Dad shakes his head, looking solemn. His voice is quiet and even, but I know all that calm is hiding a powerful lot of anger. It’s like lava boiling down under the earth, waiting for the right moment to explode. I can feel it.

  “How can you look Delia in the eye every day, knowing what you do?” I ask.

  Dad lowers his head, exposing the top of his crew cut. The hair is thin enough on top that I catch a glimpse of sunburned scalp. When he looks up, I can tell he’s struggling to make his face look normal.

  When he has control of himself, he says, “I thought I was doing the right thing for Delia. Seemed to me with Gus gone and her boy Jeremiah heading off to college, she needed to go on working; she needed things to stay like they’d always been. I couldn’t bring Gus back, but I could make sure Delia’s life didn’t change any more than it already had. And I could watch over her, make sure she was taken care of. I owed Gus that.”

  “Dad, what we owe Gus, and Delia, is justice.”

  He shakes his head. “This case won’t ever come to trial, Dove. You’ve lived in this town long enough to know that.”

  “There are folks higher up, with more power than Spudder Rhodes or the county sheriff, folks who can make sure Gus gets justice.”

  Dad shrugs. “Maybe,” he concedes. “But with the only eyewitness being Cholly, and Spudder and them sticking together on Travis’s and Jimmy’s stories—”

  “Chase knows the truth,” I say. “He overheard Travis telling Jacob what happened.” I feel bad about breaking my word to Chase. Never in my life have I sworn to keep a secret and then told. But I’m not feeling too kindly toward him right now, not after seeing him at that meeting.

  Dad tips his head back and squints up at the overhead light. He sighs. “Chase won’t go against his father.”

  “If Chase won’t testify, maybe you could.” I say this softly, more to myself than Dad.

  Dad is looking at me as if I’ve completely lost my marbles.

  “Well, Travis talked to you about it, didn’t he? Or Jacob told you. Somebody did. If you testified—”

  Dad’s fists are bulging in his pockets again. “When are you gonna understand, Dove? I’ve got to live in this town. Things have been getting bad around here of late. There’s a lot of folks upset about these fires. If you tell Delia about Travis, if she goes to the police and tries to stir up trouble—” He pulls his hands from his pockets and braces himself on the doorjamb. “Look, I grew up with Travis and Spudder and Jimmy and them. I’m not about to turn on them. Not even for Delia.”

  I cross the room. I’m standing only a few feet from Dad. “Then I don’t want to live here anymore. Not in this house. Not with you.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “And where do you think you’re going to go?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Anywhere. Even that disgusting migrant camp would be better than living with a member of the Klan.”

  When the slap catches the side of my face, it’s as if somebody hit me with a gunstock. Never in all my born days has my dad ever laid a hand on me, even though he has threatened to.

  The tears make it hard for me to see his face. It’s like trying to see him under water. I tell myself this man, standing across from me, isn’t my father, can’t be my father.
This man isn’t the same person I’ve been living with all these years, who has made sure I had everything I needed, who I thought loved me.

  Dad stretches his hand toward me. I jump back. His arm flops to his side like a tree limb half severed in a storm. That’s when I see his eyes are wet too. “Dove,” he says, and shakes his head, “listen to me, I’m—”

  “Get out of my room!” I scream. “Get out!” I can’t bear to look at his face. But he saves me the trouble by turning around and softly closing the door behind him.

  21

  A few hours later I show up at Delia’s door in the gray dawn. I have walked the whole two miles to town, carrying one of Dad’s old duffel bags packed with a few changes of clothes, a toothbrush, and my school books. My arms feel like they’re about to snap off.

  Delia’s house is in the colored quarters. I have never been here before, not in all the years she has worked for us, although I know the address. White folks don’t go to the colored quarters unless they have business to attend to, which isn’t very often.

  The colored section is surrounded on two sides by railroad tracks, the Seaboard to the south and the Atlantic Coastline to the east. Delia’s house is on a dirt road. None of the streets in the colored quarters are paved. Her house is a small one-story, not much bigger than Luellen’s apartment but with a front porch and window boxes bursting with petunias.

  Delia stands in the doorway in a worn terry-cloth robe covered with swirling blue and pink flowers that could make you dizzy if you looked at them too long. I stare at the robe. I can’t help thinking of the one Delia was wearing the night Gus died, the one that had Gus’s blood all over it. On her head is what looks to be part of an old nylon stocking that has been cut off near the top and tied in a little knot. She blinks a few times, as if she is waking from a dream.

  She sticks her head out the door and looks up and down the road. “You walk here all the way yourself, child?”

  I look down at my feet. “I got something I need to tell you,” I say.

  She swings the screen door open for me. “Well, come on in then.” She points to the couch in the cramped living room, then heads off somewhere.