Why, thank you, Mr. Dankins, J. Henry said, taking his leave as fast as he could. He knew what kind of situation he’d landed in thanks to the irresistible temptation presented by thirty-five dollars. It had long passed being worth the trouble.
Laura Anne called out to him. Thank you, J. Henry, she said, but there was no response from him, just the sound of his car starting up outside. She felt a fresh sadness. From the way things turned out, J. Henry had been right about danger in the backwoods, and she should have said something before he left, apologized for brushing off his concerns. Oh, if I had it all to do over again, J. Henry, she wanted to tell him, I would never have put another in danger to satisfy my own desires. But even if she had the chance to do so, she wondered if he would ever have believed her.
Anyone want to explain to me what’s goin’ on here? Billy asked.
They told him what they knew, which still wasn’t much.
And you’re the fiancée, I take it?
Laura Anne nodded.
Then I am pleased to meet you. I heard enough about you these last few days that I feel I know you. You’re very welcome in my house. Now this fellah . . .
He kicked the side of the tub, which caused its occupant to yelp like a dog.
. . . I’m willin’ to bet that this fellah’s one of them Yankee agitators come down here to stir up the niggers and have ’em settin’ alongside white folks on the bus and in restaurants, have ’em votin’ in communists an’ whatever riffraff clings to ’em that they may lord over white men. Why, I’m willin’ to bet further that he got took from the car he was travelin’ in alongside one of his nigger buddies and taught a little lesson or two.
Billy Dankins gave Laura Anne a sheepish look meant to apologize for speaking plainly of matters ladies were better left ignorant of.
Look. I don’t appreciate what happened to this boy here. I got the call to join in the fun last night, but I said no. There’s a meanness in some men that I just don’t want to see or encourage. But I got to believe that this here Yankee interloper had no business at all comin’ down here and stirrin’ up people’s passions like that, and I do not want him in my house. You all got to go, and you all got to go now. I’m goin’ back to the garage to bring your car back, Mickey Moe. You was good company these past few days, but your car’s done and you’d be leavin’ in the mornin’ anyways, so get goin’ before my people discover he’s here.
Mickey Moe’s mouth worked soundlessly. Laura Anne knew he was filled up with emotion he fought to keep from spilling out. He shook his head. He raised his hands with palms up in a gesture of helplessness. He looked at Billy from where they knelt washing the wounds of the stranger with much the same expression Billy had when he’d entered his home to find him there. There was the same twist of the head, the same perplexed pout.
It’s your house, Billy. We’ll be going directly after you return, but I didn’t ask this boy to come down here and stir things up any more than you did. I want to be clear about that.
Billy shook his head. Well, alright, then, he said. One good old boy to another, I’ll buy that, but there’s people here that won’t. I got eyes. That boy’s buck naked in that tub. I can see he’s a Jew, same as you. Nine outta ten of those agitators are Jews. Everybody knows that. Folks say all you Jews stick together. That you got a method of signals and handshakes, and every one of you knows what the rest are up to.
That’s ridiculous, Billy. I don’t expect you to believe me, but I’d like you to remember I said it.
I will. I didn’t say I agreed. But you know, there’s people that read their Bible and people that don’t. It’s the ones that don’t who disbelieve me when I tell them the sweet mother of Jesus was a Jew, as you’ll recall we discussed t’other night when the subject came ’round. And they’ll be the same types you’d best be lookin’ out for when you leave here.
It took some time for Billy to retrieve the LTD, but they needed every minute to get the stranger dried off and into Mickey Moe’s set of spare travel clothes. The lovers dragged the tub out the back door and dumped the bathwater out. They took a few minutes to hold on to each other and make promises. Feeling the warmth and give of each other’s flesh built up their courage. Mickey Moe promised Laura Anne he’d get them out of this mess in one piece. Laura Anne promised she’d use the pistol she’d borrowed from Daddy if need be and not to worry, her aim was pretty good.
The what?
Pistol. Daddy’s Colt 45. I somehow knew I should have protection for this trip. Don’t ask me how, I just knew.
Mickey Moe suffered a sick feeling in the pit of his belly. Something in there roiled and rose and sought to choke him. Consequently, his voice came out of his throat weak and raspy.
I don’t like guns, he said.
Laura Anne looked at him as if he’d just said he didn’t care for sunshine or birdsong.
Then it’s a good thing one of us doesn’t mind ’em.
There are not many things that can pierce the manly confidence of a good old boy, but having a woman best him in an arena that by rights is manly turf is one of them. Mickey Moe’s mouth worked. He coughed several times to push down the fear or distaste or whatever it was that sent a burning lump of bile up his throat to begin with. He put a hand out to her, and they both tried to ignore how it shook.
Give it to me, he said.
No.
Give it to me, woman.
Given her generation and geography, Laura Anne felt that she was in one of those moments when a woman says to herself, this is wrong, this is disastrous, this is the most foolhardy, insane decision of my life, but this man, son, father of mine needs me to do this thing for his own sake, and it is my job to put my life on the line for him. In her most salient gesture of love yet, she walked with her head erect, her shoulders square as a queen’s, walked over to the kitchen table where she’d dropped her pocketbook, reached into the bag, and produced Daddy’s gun. She put it in Mickey Moe’s hand, showed him that the safety was on, and then closed his hand over it with her own. Mickey Moe filled his chest with air and thanked her. They kissed.
When Billy returned with the car, they put the stranger in the backseat and covered him up with a picnic blanket Mickey Moe’d kept in the trunk since his visits to Greenville, when he and Laura Anne would lie together by the riverbank planning their future. They settled in the front seat, the pistol on the space between them, and set off for Memphis.
It was night. The sky was clear. There was moonlight all around. Between the moon and the headlights, they managed to ride pretty well through the backwoods, going around the potholes and through fallen branches and puddles that littered the roadway in the manner paper goods and cigarettes litter more traveled byways. They were beyond anxious, expecting sheet-wearing kluckers to pop out of the woods, discover the Yankee in the back, and rain punishment on their heads for helping him. They didn’t talk much, but held hands whenever Mickey Moe didn’t need two to steer. That warm contact proved stronger comfort than any of dozens of speeches they might have accomplished had the situation been less dire. They weren’t five miles from the interstate, which they considered to be heaven’s gate to safety, when their passenger spoke up.
Stop! Stop!
Though they refused his directive, they looked in the rear view and turned around respectively in order to pay him attention. He who had been mute, who’d barely moved a muscle since his rescue, was greatly agitated.
Stop! Stop! Stop! This is it! This is where they took us!
Now is not the time, Mickey Moe said.
Oh no, oh no. Stop! Stop! He might still be alive.
It was a terrible piece of news. There was a “he,” and he might be alive. Laura Anne swallowed to get her throat wet enough to speak.
Who is “he”?
My partner. Jeffrey Harris. He’s one of you. I mean, he’s a Negro from Raleigh-Durham. We were assigned together to come out here and canvass the local Negroes for a literacy program. It was great for a while. Everyone was so kind, so hospitable. Then the trucks came. With the white men in ’em. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Please. You have to stop. He could be alive.
Dang!
Mickey Moe stopped the car. He banged his head on the steering wheel three times. He looked at Laura Anne, and there were tears in his eyes, tears of fear and frustration and internal moral combat.
Dang! he repeated. He picked up the gun. Banged that against the steering wheel twice. He left the car. Slammed the door. He paced outside in circles, waving his arms around and muttering in a way that frightened Laura Anne more than the impossible circumstances of the moment. She rolled down a window.
Honey. Honey, she said. What are you doing?
He stood by her window wild-eyed. His shoulders heaved from breathing hard.
Well, I’m about to go into those woods and look around for Jeffrey Harris from Raleigh-Durham, he said. I want you to stay in the car with our guest here. . . .
He hit the rear window with the gun butt.
And what is your name, sir? I’d like to know the name of the man I’m about to give up my life for. . . .
The stranger gulped. Walter Cohen, he said.
Alright. Now, darlin’, you stay in the car with Walter Cohen and keep the doors locked. Anyone comes by while I’m in those woods, you take off. Run ’em over if you have to. Now where exactly about here did you think Jeffrey Harris is lying, breathin’ his last?
Back there a bit. There’s a tree down, a tree with pink flowers. I don’t know what it is, but it’s lying in a ditch. I remember it, because I was trying to remember everything in case I got out alive. There were seven of them in two trucks, and they parked the trucks there and dragged us into the woods. Not very far in there’s a campsite. That’s where they took us. They put us against some kind of posts that were there. They made a fire. They drank. They spit and pissed on us, and then they cut us. They had whips, too. Every man took his turn. Then they took Jeffrey off somewhere, and I could hear him screaming. I don’t know what they did, but it was awful. I know it was awful from the sound of his screams. He was in agony. His screams went on forever. I never heard anything like that before in my life. I knew I had to get away or I’d be screaming like that next, and I don’t know, I guess the bonds they had us in were compromised from the whipping and the cutting, and I was able to break loose. I just ran and ran and ran until I landed on your car, miss. That’s what happened, I swear to God.
Mickey Moe walked off in the direction indicated by Walter Cohen to seek out a fallen tree with pink flowers stopping up a ditch. He walked flat-footed with his head down like a child having a temper tantrum. He stiffened his arms and talked to himself. There’s not going to be a tree with damned pink flowers lying in a ditch anywhere, he muttered. Walter Cohen has gone crazy from trauma is all, and why couldn’t he’ve just remained incoherent until we got to Memphis anyway? Oh no, Walter Cohen has to perk up and put me and my darlin’ Laura Anne in jeopardy for the sake of some dang tortured Negro out here, who brought it on himself, didn’t he. . . .
But there it was. The tree with pink flowers stopping up a ditch. And not far into the woods, a campsite with empty whiskey bottles lying around, wood still smoking a little, two bloodstained posts, and Walter Cohen’s shoes. Mickey Moe released the safety of his gun and tried to calm himself. They’re not still here, he said out loud. No one’s stupid enough to hang around and lay claim to this scene.
Unless they were looking for Walter Cohen.
He walked a ways off down a path to find Jeffrey Harris or what was left of him. He walked through brambles and bush with his gun hand shaking and his heart in his throat, his ears pricked for the sound of others. An animal broke a branch, and he jumped, then stumbled to his knees. When he looked down in the moonlight to see what he’d tripped over, he saw a foot. A black, bare foot with its pink sole staring up at him like the face of a living thing. There was nothing attached to the foot, it just lay there along the path in a blackened pool of blood as if someone had dropped it. Mickey Moe didn’t have to see any more. He scrambled up and ran back to the car. He banged on the door. Laura Anne unlocked it as fast as she could. He got in, pushed her aside, turned the key, and stepped on the gas.
Did you find him? Walter Cohen asked. Did you find Jeffrey Harris?
It took a while before he could respond.
I found a piece of him.
The others tried to ask him what he meant, but he held up a hand to silence them and drove as fast as the road permitted to the interstate. They weren’t a mile away from the safety of blacktop and street lamps when a red pickup truck hurtling down the road in the opposite direction nearly ran them into a tree.
Walter Cohen gasped and whipped his head around to stare through the back window. That was them. That was them, I know it. It was a red truck they threw us in and a white one that followed.
Mickey Moe’s blood was already up about as high as it went. Walter Cohen’s outburst maximized his irritation. Simmer down! Do you know how many red trucks there are around here? Do you? Then set down and stay quiet ’til we get to Memphis. I’ll take you to the hospital, and then we’ll file a report to the police. After that, you’re on your own. I will have gone as far as I can go.
Laura Anne patted Mickey Moe’s closest driving hand to show her approval of his plan. She noticed something new that’d gone wrong.
Honey, she said. Where’s Daddy’s forty-five?
Mickey Moe’s eyes near popped out of his head. The gun, the gun, the gun, he thought, what happened to the goddamn gun.
I don’t know. Maybe I dropped it back there. Probably when I fell down. Maybe not. It should’ve gone off if I did.
Well, honey. I’m not so sure it was loaded.
You’re not?
I never checked.
You didn’t.
I forgot.
He stared ahead at the road with his mouth working a while before sound came out. You sent me back there with an unloaded gun.
Her face wrinkled up. Tears flowed. Her body shook.
He couldn’t stand her pain. It’s alright, darlin’, he said. He reached out and pulled her close to him. It’s alright. I’m in one piece.