Fireflies In December Part 27

"What's wrong?" Momma asked. "Where's Harley?"

"He's collectin' Luke and then comin' on home. But I need to call my boys and get you safe inside right now."

We hurried inside with Jeb giving us a little push to get us started, and I watched him as he went to the telephone.

"What's he mean, 'call his boys'?" I asked Momma.

"Ain't nothin' for you to worry about." Momma stood at the window, staring out in search of Daddy, but I tugged at the back of her dress.

"I got all kinds of things to worry about. Ain't no difference addin' to it. I want to know who Jeb is."

Jeb hung up the telephone and faced me. "I work for the government, Miss Jessie," he said bluntly, his voice making it plain that he was too busy to give much information. "I'm here to stop the Klan, not join 'em. Now, that's that, and I want everyone to stay here and lay low. I got to get back out there, you understand?"

"But you had a Klan robe," Gemma blurted in surprise. "We saw it in the lean-to."

I glared at her for giving away such secrets.

Jeb shook his head. "That's evidence I dug up. Nothin' more."

"Jessilyn La.s.siter," Momma said. "You girls were fis.h.i.+n' in Jeb's private property?"

"Yes'm. But we had a good reason to," I argued. "I saw Jeb talkin' to Walt Blevins one day, and he told Walt he had plans. I had to know what he was doin'."

"Walt Blevins is givin' information to me so he can stay out of jail for a federal offense," Jeb said. "That's why I was talkin' to him."

"But he's the one tryin' to hurt me. You just let him go so you can get information?"

"We got bigger fish to fry, Miss Jessie. I came to watch out for you while we gathered information, hopin' I could keep you from real trouble until we had what we needed. Only way to get rid of Klan in these parts is to find reason for federal charges." He tipped my chin up and gave me a rea.s.suring wink. "It's all gonna work out in the end. I promise you that. But right now, things are fixin' to explode, and I gotta go meet my boys and see if we can't round everybody up. You stay put with your momma and Gemma. And keep these doors locked, you hear?"

We all nodded, but I didn't really understand when it came down to it. After Jeb left, I looked at Momma and said, "I can't figure out who to believe no more."

"Jeb's speakin' the truth. He's been here all the time on government business; it's just n.o.body was supposed to know. Now, why don't you tell me what's been goin' on that's got everyone so riled up?"

I sat down on the couch, my muscles sore and tired, my head swimming. "I didn't kill Cy Fuller."

Momma sat beside me with a sigh of relief, and I knew by that simple gesture that she'd never really been sure I hadn't killed that man.

Gemma came over to sit at my feet. "How do you know for sure? Where'd you hear that from?"

"I heard it from the man who did kill him. It was Mr. Otis," I said, my tone surprisingly calm. It was as though I'd run out of the energy I needed to be hysterical.

But Momma did a good enough job for both of us. "Baby, no! No, that can't be!"

"I heard him with my own ears. I heard him say that he killed him."

My momma grabbed the sides of her head like she didn't want to hear anything more, and she kept murmuring, "Dear Jesus, no" over and over again.

Gemma just sat in shock as I had done when I'd found out the truth.

Footsteps on the porch gave us a jolt, but we realized it was Daddy when he started pounding on the locked door, calling for us to let him in. Momma opened the door, and Daddy and Luke rushed into the house.

"Where's Jeb?" Daddy asked.

"He made a call and then went on back out," Momma said. "He told us to stay put."

Luke looked at me and pointed in my direction. "You and me, we got some talkin' to do when this is over, you hear?"

"What for?"

"What for?" he barked. "You up and run off on me like that and get me all scared over you, and you ask me why we gotta talk?"

Normally his tone would have made me bristle, but he'd said he was scared for me, and amid the chaos, I still found the time to let that flatter me.

"I think we can settle this later," Daddy said to Luke. "Don't you think we got more important things to deal with, son?"

Luke glared at me and tossed his hat onto a table before going off to follow my daddy.

I had my back up a bit, but it didn't matter much. I just settled into the sofa with a sigh, daydreaming about the concern I had seen in Luke's eyes.

It was a lot better than thinking about what was looming ahead.

Chapter 22.

The next twenty minutes or so went by in a blur. As I sat on the couch, I saw Daddy and Luke rush from room to room, locking windows and checking doors. I heard Daddy muttering because he couldn't reach the sheriff on the telephone, heard him whispering things to Luke that I couldn't comprehend. Momma sat near me praying, as did Gemma, but I was too afraid to think, much less utter words of prayer. The electricity was still out, and the darkness of the house lent to the wildness of our situation.

Daddy came into the hallway and started to say something, but he never got to say a word. He just stopped and stood there, listening.

"What is it, Harley?" Momma whispered.

"Shh!" He walked methodically over to the pantry. I knew what he was going for. I'd gone for it myself one night not too long ago. Goose b.u.mps popped up over my arms, and I glanced at Luke for rea.s.surance. But Luke was staring sternly out the window, pulling his pistol from the waistband of his trousers.

Putting one finger to his lips, Daddy readied the gun and looked at Luke, nodding toward the back door. Luke went to the door, opened it slowly, and after a good look around, departed through it, leaving Daddy to cover the front.

By the light of the lantern, Momma, Gemma, and I looked like frightened little ghosts, our faces lit by shadows. We stayed still for a few seconds before our curiosity got the best of us, and then we rose and crept steadily toward Daddy, who was holding the front window curtain back a couple inches, peering cautiously through. He saw us approach and waved to us to get behind him.

While Daddy made his way to the door, Gemma and I stared nervously at one another, wondering if my prediction that something awful would happen had come true. All sorts of ideas flitted through my mind, scenes of terror and death. What if something happened to Daddy . . . or Luke? What if we were all going to be trapped inside, burnt to death like Gemma's parents, only this time we would be burnt up by sparks that blew off a fiery cross?

Amid my outrageous imaginings, I was cultivating a sense of doom, as I had felt all day long. My heart raced and then seemed to stop momentarily, and then it would race again.

It seemed hours before Daddy finally opened that front door. It creaked loudly at first and then expelled a long, soft whine. The screen door had blown open and still stood wide, letting leaves and pieces of debris scatter inside. From the top of the doorway, something came flying inward, and my first thought was that it was a bird making his disoriented way into the house. Everyone ducked, and Momma let out a shriek, but the thing didn't come all the way in. Instead it bobbed back out of the house as the wind receded, weaving a drunken path back and forth in front of us.

Despite the strands of hair that had blown into my face, I was able to make out a familiar form, disheveled and lifeless, hanging from a roughly tied noose. "Lucky!" I screamed, das.h.i.+ng forward.

Daddy caught me and held me tight. "Stay back, baby," he said, his voice equal parts authority and sympathy.

I struggled momentarily, but Daddy shoved me behind him and told us to get down and stay down. It was an eerie sight to behold as my daddy pushed aside the body of the small cat in order to peer about the porch, his gun at the ready. Lucky's furry remains swung away and then back as Daddy walked onto the porch, and I watched the cat, mesmerized. He was hung by the neck, a rope holding him aloft, lynched by men who were terrorizing us in the name of civility.

I was sickened by the sight of it, but I couldn't move my eyes away. Like a clock's pendulum, he swung to and fro, his small pink tongue poking out of his mouth. From behind me, I could hear the tearful whimpers of my momma and Gemma. Momma tried to push my head down to keep me from looking, but I wouldn't budge. I was compelled to study the gruesome scene.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone pa.s.s by the den window, and I jumped up, shrugging off Momma's restraining grasp, to warn Daddy. I had just reached the doorway when I saw Daddy whip around and aim his gun toward the end of the long porch, where a man stood pointing his pistol at Daddy.

"Don't shoot!" I called, realizing how easily my daddy and Luke could have shot each other in cold blood.

Daddy and Luke lowered their guns, sighing in relief.

Daddy shook his head and wiped his forehead. "Son, that was way too close for me. We should have a sign or some-thin' if we-"

He was interrupted as someone came around the corner of the house, bringing the two men to raise their guns again. It was Jeb, his hands flying into the air the minute he spotted Luke and Daddy ready to fire.

"It's only me, Mr. La.s.siter," he said breathlessly, his face red and glistening with sweat. He pointed toward the back of the house. "Think you'd better come to the fields with me."

Daddy and Luke went with Jeb right away, and though I knew Daddy would have told me to stay put had he taken the time to think about it, I followed them anyway. Momma hollered after me but gave up and decided to come, Gemma at her heels. My bare feet stung as I made my way across the gravel drive, not taking the usual time to pick my way gently across it, but I didn't think twice.

I ran all the way, and my chest felt raw and hollow when I finally reached the fields. The sight was more than I could believe, an image I was sure would be burned into my memory for eternity.

For as far as my eyes could see, my father's living had been destroyed. The sheds were ablaze, obliterating every object they held within. The crops, as well, were lit to the sky, flames leaping and dancing amid a symphony of pops and crackling brush. We could hear nothing but the roar of fire. With the winds as wicked as they were, our house was completely vulnerable. Daddy, Luke, and Jeb worked feverishly to build a firewall, Daddy shouting at the same time for Momma to put in a call for help. Momma, though, was nearly pa.s.sed out, bent over in the tall gra.s.s crying to Jesus. Gemma was stiff as stone, engulfed in terror. I found my legs and ran to her, pleading with her to call for help in Momma's place.

I have no idea why I didn't think to place the call myself right off, but I knew with one look at Gemma that I would have to. Her eyes were gla.s.sy, and up close I could see reflections of the flames dancing in them. I shook her a few times before running to the house, tripping over stones as I went.

I made my way to the front door, but it only served to have me run straight into Lucky's corpse. I screamed and jumped back against the doorway, petrified as his wide-open eyes stared into mine, close, then far away, and then close again as he swung, the rope creaking with each stroke he took. Holding my breath, I grasped the rope, tugging desperately to get him down, tipping my head away from the fur that stroked my face. I struggled to get him loose, and eventually out of sheer terror I pulled with all my might, finally managing to free the rope. The force of the release sent me flying backward with Lucky in my grasp. I dropped him like a hot potato and, realizing I had come here for a purpose, left him on the floor and headed to the telephone.

But there was no operator on the end of the line. It was silent, as was the house. Despite the chaos that was taking place in Daddy's fields, the house was still and eerily uninhabited. There was only me and a dead cat there in the thick darkness.

Or at least that was what I thought at first.

Every once in a while my momma s.h.i.+vers, rubs her arms quickly, and says, "I swear somebody just stepped on my grave." I knew what she meant right then as the hair on my arms stood on end and my face felt p.r.i.c.kly. There was something or someone with me. I knew that as surely as I knew no one in those fields would hear me if I screamed.

I turned around slowly, willing myself to look and see what it was that had suddenly inhabited the s.p.a.ce behind me.

There in the hallway, illuminated by what little outside light there was, stood a man robed in white, the crisp fabric billowing in the breeze. He was holding the rope from which Lucky hung, as though taunting me with it, but he said nothing. The silence of the scene was more horrifying than anything he could have said to me.

I crept toward the kitchen, grasping behind me in hopes I would eventually run into the countertop where Momma kept her knives. With each step I took backward, he took one forward, the floorboards creaking as he came.

At length he spoke, but it was no more than a whisper, making himself even more ghostly. "You don't want this hap-penin' to you, do you?" he asked, nodding at the dead cat he held. "You want to end up swingin' from a rope?"

I couldn't reply. I simply shook my head much longer than I needed to. Even though he whispered, I knew it was Walt Blevins, and the very thought of being alone with him paralyzed me with dread.

"Well now, little girls who don't want trouble shouldn't go around shootin' at people all w.i.l.l.y-nilly then, should they?"

"You can stop whisperin'," I said with a breaking voice. "I know who you are. Just as I knew you every other time you hid like a coward."

"Coward? I ain't no coward, girl. I'm a patriot!" Walt ripped his hood off, revealing his sooty, sweaty face, and slid Lucky across the floor toward me. The cat's remains coasted to a stop at my feet. "That's right. You oughta thank a man like me for savin' this country for you and yours. If we had a country made up of gutless fools like your daddy, we'd be run over by darkies. How'd you like that?"

Still making my way backward, I ran into one of the kitchen chairs, giving me a s.h.i.+ver of surprise as it jabbed my side. I knew I had to edge past the chair and stumble a few more feet if I was to reach a knife. It was still dark in the house, but with my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I could see Walt studying my face from where he stood no more than ten feet away.

"Now, the way I see it," he said, "I got me a right to stand up for what's best for this country, and that includes takin' care of people like you."

I hesitated before I asked, "What do you mean?"

"What . . . do . . . I . . . mean?" Walt repeated, pretending to consider my question thoughtfully. "You know where the Good Book says 'an eye for an eye'? I figure you put this here bullet hole in my shoulder, so I should be able to get payback for my sufferin', you see? Teach you a lesson, so to speak."

He sauntered toward me, stopping an arm's length away. "Now, let me think what little piece of you I want to take as payback. . . ." He scanned me sordidly. "Take these locks of yours." He tugged my hair hard enough to tip my head backward. "All I got to do is get me a good knife, and I got me a souvenir. But, naw . . . ," he said, letting my hair drop. "Naw, I don't think I'll waste it on your hair. Maybe I want to give you somethin' that hurts a little worse. Give you a taste of what you put me through, eh? How about that? I got me a gun right over there in the corner. Maybe you'd like to know how a bullet wound feels, burnin' and stingin' and bleedin' all over the place. You want to try that instead?"

I couldn't say a word, couldn't move. My hand was frozen by my side, and though I knew that I was only inches away from discovering a knife, I couldn't make myself budge.

Walt took my right arm in his hand and wrung it tightly, burning my skin, and I cried out in pain. "You best save those cries for later," he whispered. "'Cause it's gonna get worse'n that, I can tell ya. You think I'm gonna let a girl make a fool outta me and get away with it? No, ma'am, I ain't used to lettin' that get by. You wanted to play with Walt Blevins, little girl, and now you better ante up."

He pushed me backward into the counter, but though I was engulfed by his huge frame, the movement pushed my left hand directly onto one of Momma's sharp knives. I found my senses enough to wrap my hand around the handle. "Get off me," I said as forcefully as my short breaths would let me.

Walt looked straight into my face and grinned. "I will when I'm done."

That was when I plunged the knife into his right arm, making him shriek in pain. I shoved past him but tripped over Lucky and struggled to regain my balance. As I started to run away, Walt grabbed my hair from behind, pulling me backward so hard my neck felt like it snapped in two. I landed on my back, my head slamming against the floor, and for the next several seconds I felt dazed, my head spinning in confusion. I could hear Walt cursing me, but it sounded distant and m.u.f.fled. I opened my eyes to find him leaning over me, one hand around my neck.

"I'm gonna kill you, girl," he seethed, saliva dripping down his chin. "Ain't no one here to help you now, and I'm gonna kill you."

His one hand was large enough to wrap around my throat, and I felt my air cut off. I kicked my feet and flailed my arms, trying desperately to find the knife I had dropped. My eyes were wide and unblinking, my mouth as dry as cotton. None of my thras.h.i.+ng budged Walt's burly frame even an inch, and as his hand tightened even more, I knew it was the end. Weary and with a head that felt fuzzy and light, I dropped my arms and legs, almost accepting defeat.

Until I heard the gunshot. One single gunshot that echoed throughout the silence of the house.

I saw the shock on Walt's face, watched as the patch of blood on his s.h.i.+rt grew to become a river trickling down his front. Suddenly I could breathe again, and I inhaled with a screeching gasp as I watched Walt teeter to his left and slump to the floor beside me, his unseeing eyes looking into mine. Coughing and sputtering, I kicked my heels into the floor, sliding myself away from him. From my haven in the corner of the kitchen, I looked up to see Walt's executioner.

His white robe wasn't as pristine as when I'd first seen it less than an hour before. He was wearing no hood, showing me his worn, taut face. I couldn't discern Otis Tinker's expression just as I couldn't understand how one who had betrayed me all summer long could now come to my rescue.

He simply lowered his gun and spit on the floor at Walt's feet. "He gave us all a bad name, anyhow. Traitor!"

Then he walked out and left me alone with the dead.

Chapter 23.

I can still remember Daddy's expression when he fully recognized the truth of Otis Tinker. There was a sadness in it that brought tears to my eyes, a sort of heartbreak that I'd had the good fortune to have never seen on my daddy's face before.

For the first time, I knew a little bit about such things. I, too, had felt the strain of broken trust. I'd had a summer of it.