The Devil's Beating His Wife (10 page)

Such a naive child. I guess to her this was all butterflies and sugarplums. With a few more years under her belt, I was certain she'd recognize the difference. The swiftest and surest way to silence Mother was for Father to kiss her. I didn't have to turn around to know that my mother was probably swatting at my father's chest while he held her face in a death grip. The kiss wasn't about romance. It was about dominance and impatience.

Jean's sweet face was new to me. I couldn't recall her or her name. Appleton was small enough that everyone knew each other's families, regardless if that family was black or white.

"I can't recall any Donalds. There was a McDonald family in Dublin, but I ain't aware of any Donalds."

Her lips parted into that gap-toothed smile. "I'm not from here, that's why. I'm originally from Atlanta. My cousin Dorothy married one of the Harper boys and she had a baby seven weeks ago, so I came down here to help her with her children. Her husband is still fighting in Europe, you know."

"Dorothy. She's married to ol' J.B., ain't she?"

"That's her," she confirmed. "That's her husband. You know them?"

J.B. was a good egg. He was five years older than me, so I hadn't really socialized with him much. His mother and my mother had been real good friends, though. "I'm sure you know that my mother is very close to Mrs. Harper. I know J.B. from around town. Your cousin must have been a special lady to catch one of those boys."

"Why do you say that?"

"There were men and then there were the Harper men. All of them were damn good with just about everything they touched." I sucked in a sharp breath. "I'm sorry. Please excuse my language. Sometimes I forget how to talk around young ladies."

Jean's eyes blinked rapidly. Then she raised her hand to smooth a stray lock of hair away from her eyes. When she finally cracked a smile, I began to relax.

But then, things all fell apart. It began in the ground with a rumbling underneath our feet. Then came the acrid smell of smoke. Finally, the open park reverberated with the sound of exploding bricks and shattering windows.

I grabbed Jean's arm and tossed her to the grass. I dropped to the ground and used my arms to shield her head. Her small fists struck against my chest. I raised my head and stared down into her light green eyes. She was terrified.

I leapt away from her, fearing I'd had another episode like the one I had experienced in Carver's kitchen. But then I heard the screams tearing through the air. Men shouted for the women to leave. Mothers screamed their children's names. The mournful mood had been eliminated by fear and uncertainty.

Stepping away from the girl splayed out on the ground, I glanced around the park, trying to locate my mother and father. Townspeople ran through the park, searching for the source of the sound and smell. When I thought the air was full of sounds already, the clear bang of a shotgun caused the remaining people in the park to drop to the ground.

Move, Baxter. Move.
The survival instincts honed by war kicked in. I sprinted through the crowd, running in the opposite direction of everyone else. Another shotgun blast sounded and I crouched down behind a park bench.

My eyes scouted the boundaries of the park. I scanned the ground and saw no bodies or body parts. Finally, my mind registered what had exploded. My eyes sought out the source, and noticed big angry flames streaming from the windows of the Baptist church.

People scrambled out of the doors of the church. A few men carried the body of a woman. A woman ran out holding the hands of two children. People huddled on the street, crying at the sight of the church in flames.

My damaged thigh made its presence known. I nearly doubled over from the pain, but I didn't slow my march to the church. As my feet left the park and I stepped onto the road, the rumbling of a truck caught my attention. It was Carver's truck. I waved at my brother as he sped down the street.

He was driving so fast I worried that he didn't see me. He stopped in front of me, the wheels of his truck screeching with exertion. Men unloaded from the back of the truck and ran towards the church.

Damaged leg be damned. I ran in their direction, intending to help the people leave the area. Some of the colored men had placed the wounded woman on the ground, cradling her head with reverence and grief. It was old Miss Betty. Both of her eyes stared up towards the sky. Clear and vacant.

More screams filled my head. "Get the fire brigade!"

As I stepped around the survivors, the scene before me finally crystallized in my shocked mind. I had assumed that Carver and the other men had arrived to help these people.

Instead, Charlie stood with a shotgun pointed at the people in front of the church. His finger caressed the trigger as he waved it from person to person. "Now that we done got your attention, we got an announcement. You lot have until sundown to pick up your things and clear out of this town. Anyone who remains after the sun goes down... Well. You'll learn real quick what that means. Now go and tell the other niggers."

The sounds of my quickly approaching footsteps must have startled him. Charlie swung around and pinned me with the barrel. "You got something to say, Baxter?"

I looked at my little brother. His hair stood on end as he stared between his friend and his brother. Carver's throat convulsed as he forced himself to swallow. "Charlie, you know he's one of us. Drop your gun."

Charlie stepped towards me and raised his gun towards my head. "Everybody knows that your brother is a grand nigger-lover lusting after some damn monkey's cooch. You saw it with your own damn eyes. He was standing outside, trying to court that black bitch. As far as I see it, he ain't one of us. He made his decision and he should clear out of here with the rest of these niggers."

I reached out and grabbed the barrel, catching Charlie by surprise. I pushed the butt of the gun towards his face, making a hard impact against his nose and right cheekbone. I felt bone shatter. He fell to the ground as I pulled the shotgun from his hands and pushed the barrel into his face.

"You must not have learned much in the Marines, Charlie. Never point a weapon unless you're ready and able to use it."

He roared and rushed at me. His arms wrapped around my legs and pushed me hard into the ground. I slammed my elbow into his throat and then I pushed my knee into his stomach. I dropped the barrel close to his head and pulled the trigger. Dirt and stones flew into the air as the blast struck the ground. Charlie stared back at me with hatred.

"Next blast will be at your damn fool head," I said.

Carver came up behind me, and I turned towards him with the gun pulled high. He stepped backwards with his arms in the air. "Baxter? What in the hell are you doing?"

"Carver. You're my brother. My damn fool of a brother, but right now, I don't know you from friend or foe."

"Fuck you, Baxter. You know that I wouldn't let him hurt you. We ain't here to hurt no white folks."

My breathing was labored as I stood there, staring down my brother. I stepped away from the rejects, moving back towards the park. The colored folk stood watching this showdown between the golden-haired Bennett boys.

"Baxter!" I heard my mother shout.

She stood at the edge of the park. Tears streamed down her face as she looked at one son aiming the gun at her other son. Father was walking slowly towards me, making no sudden moves.

"Baxter, how about you lower that weapon?" he crooned. He stared at me like I was some strange rabid animal that would strike without notice.

All of them acted like I wasn't aware of what I was doing. I knew fucking well what I was doing and who I was pointing the gun at. Blowing out a harsh breath, I lowered the barrel of the gun. Father rushed forward and took it away.

Mother ran towards me. She slapped me and then hugged me. Then she slapped me again. I was really damned tired of being slapped around by my parents. I ground my teeth together and looked away. She turned to Carver and raised her hands towards him, expecting him to walk into her embrace.

I looked to see his reaction. He stared back at me. I knew that he felt like I had betrayed him. To be truthful, the feeling was mutual.

CHAPTER FIVE

April 12, 1945, Wilkinson County

Father, Mother, and I left the park together. Carver drove away with the malicious rejects as they continued to terrorize the colored folk. Father and Carver had exchanged disapproving looks, and after that, I knew that my family would never be the same.

The ride home had been a silent and tense one. Neither Mother nor Father had asked any questions or made any accusations. It wasn't until we got home that they silently looked at each other before heading to their bedroom where they now shouted at each other. I didn't need to be in the room to imagine my father's laborious pacing.

"I told you that that woman ruined this family." Mother's high pitched wail penetrated every wall. I bet she was sitting on the bed nervously bouncing her legs.

They'd been arguing for a good hour now as I sat in the living room, kneading my ruined thigh with one hand. I poured myself a glass of water and listened to them blame everyone but me and Carver.

"Cecilia, when will you get it through your thick mind that it ain't that woman's fault!" Father yelled. "No woman would have brought this on."

"He changed after he met her. Carver ain't never had a mean bone in his body until she showed him he had one." That wasn't true and Mother knew it. She just liked to imagine that it was true. She said to Father, "You didn't listen to me when I told you that she was trouble. I saw it plain as day. I don't know why you're so blind."

"It's those boys," Father countered. "None of them could fight in the war. You know how tore up Carver was once he realized he couldn't follow Baxter. All of them had their disappointment turn into rage, and that evolved into hatred. They had to channel it somewhere."

"What are we going to do?" Mother asked.

"Nothing. We are going to do nothing."

"People will be killed tonight. Don't you understand? If we don't do anything, then innocent people will be killed."

"And what is it that you expect me to do? Jump in my pick-up truck and haul Carver's ass away? He's already feeling like less of man because he couldn't join the Army, you think he'd feel better if I went down there and interfered? As much as I hate to admit it, I just ain't got no control over that boy. Not anymore."

"We have to do something. It's our Christian duty."

"My Christian duty only extends to this family," Father said. "I don't give no damn about them people, Cecilia." I heard the door of their bedroom open. The stairs creaked as my father stormed down them and entered the foyer. Mother followed behind him and grabbed the back of his shirt.

"What about Della? Spicey?"

Spicey's name caught my attention. For the last hour, my mind replayed the events at the park. The brief walk with Jean. The explosion of the church. My brother and his ilk threatening innocent people. God. What about Spicey?

"Look, you talked me into buying that store as a way of paying her back for what this family has done to hers. But we will not be doing anything else. You're asking me to choose between my son and that woman."

"Your son is a disgusting bully, Frank."

Father's head whipped around, and he stared into the parlor. I sat sipping my water, looking back at him. A red flush darkened his cheeks. I didn't know if he was embarrassed because I now knew that he was the source of Della's good fortune, or if he was embarrassed that his youngest son was terrorizing the town.

I set the glass down on the table and pushed out of my seat. I left the parlor and entered my small bedroom, giving my parents additional space to air their grievances.

Sitting back on the bed, I pulled my leg onto the mattress and began to work over my thigh. The muscle tensed and throbbed under my fingers. The pain was overwhelming. I grabbed the handle to the nightstand drawer and pulled it open. Inside was a bottle full of painkillers given to me by the good Doctor Finley.

I took a pill and swallowed. As my muscles began to loosen and my body began to relax, I imagined a bloody and brutalized Spicey. I took two more pills. Another image of Spicey blossomed in my mind. This time, I imagined her long, pretty neck stretched tight by the noose around her throat. I looked out the window and noticed the rusty color of the sky.

Silently, I prayed that the bloodlust consuming the malicious bunch would run its course. I prayed that the residents over in Twiggs County survived this night with their homes and lives intact. As I stared out the window, across the farm, and over the trees, I noticed black smoke forming in the air.

The smoke from the church had mellowed into puffs of gray. This was a new fire. A bigger fire.

Was it Spicey's home? Della's store?

Grabbing the bottle, I poured two more pills into my hand and popped them into my mouth. The pain in my leg grew less angry, but my head felt more detached from my body. I walked through the parlor, past my parents, and entered my father's den. Pivoting around the desk, I limped to the closet where my father stored his guns. I grabbed my grandfather's pistol and loaded bullets into the chamber. Lifting up my shirt, I tucked the gun down my waistband and settled my shirt over the handle. Just as I turned around and stepped away from the closet, Mother entered the room.

"I have a bad feeling about tonight," she said. Her nose and eyes were red from weeping. She glanced out the window and placed a hand over her stomach. Her skin went pale. She rocked forward on her toes and then she inhaled a labored breath. "This will not be ending well."

She was right. I could sense it, too. I moved to her and wrapped my fingers around her shoulders. She stepped towards me, placing her arms around me. She was so close that I was sure she could feel the pistol.