Amethyst usually slept soundly—the gift of a clear conscience, Silvie always said—but tonight she couldn’t seem to relax. For three hours she drifted and dozed, awakening at the slightest noise from the creaking old house.
When the clock in the hall chimed two, she opened her eyes and stared into the darkness at the canopy over the bed. Strange, how the shifting of leaves in the moonlight reflected against the fabric. It almost looked like—
Amethyst sat up and squinted again at the canopy. An odd light, flickering and moving, as if from a candle flame. Then her nostrils caught the faint, dusky scent of wood smoke.
Fire!
She grabbed her robe, stuck her bare feet into her slippers, and ran toward the front door. Silvie met her in the hall. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep, and—”
At the same time they saw it—the eerie red glow coming through the windows of the parlor. Silvie pointed. “Outside!”
Amethyst flung open the front door, and her heart lodged in her throat.
On the front lawn, just beyond the big magnolia tree, a cross stood, engulfed in flames.
“Quick! Get a bucket!”
Silvie sprinted for the kitchen, and Amethyst ran out onto the porch, robe in hand, headed for the conflagration. Maybe she could beat some of the flames out before the fire spread.
Even from this distance, however, she could feel the heat. The smell of gasoline came to her on a wave.
“Fire!” she yelled, hoping to wake the boarders. But her voice came out weak and whispery, as if she were in a nightmare, trying to scream but producing no sound.
Then her eyes focused to one side of the burning cross, in a dark hollow where the moonlight could not penetrate the dense leaves of the magnolia. A circle of men, dressed in white robes and makeshift hoods, their eyes shadowed like ghostly apparitions. In the center of the circle, a dark figure huddled, its legs drawn up to its chest.
“Let it burn, Miss Amethyst,” a rough voice commanded. “Consider this a warning. You ain’t getting another one.”
A cold bead of sweat traced down Amethyst’s spine, and she shivered. Then the figure on the ground let out a horrible groan, and the fear turned to rage.
“Bailey!” she screamed, running toward him. “Bailey, are you all right?”
“Let him alone,” another voice warned.
But Amethyst didn’t listen. “Get out of my way, you idiot.” She pushed her way into the circle and fell on her knees at Bailey’s side. “What have you done to him?”
“We gave him what was coming to him. Nigger troublemaker.”
She touched Bailey’s face, and her hand came away streaked with blood. He had been beaten badly, but she was pretty sure he would live. She struggled to her feet and faced down his attackers.
“Big men, are you?” She shoved one of them, hard, leaving a handprint of blood on his white tunic. “Big, tough men, with your bats and ax handles, half a dozen of you against an unarmed man. Takes a lot of courage, doesn’t it, Billy Tarbush?”
The one she had pushed took a step back. “I—I ain’t—”
She moved closer, until she could see his panicked look through the eyeholes of the hood. “Don’t try to deny it; I know your voice. And I know your daddy, too. He’s been an ignorant bigot for as long as I can remember. Looks like that apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.”
She swung around. “And you, John Layton! You should know better! Your grandfather was mayor of this town for years, and he would never have condoned this!”
On she went around the circle, identifying each one of the attackers by name. Did they really think they could get away with this? Hide in the dark and beat a helpless man senseless just for the color of his skin?
She came to the last one, a tall, skinny fellow holding a blood-spattered baseball bat. She peered at him. Something about him was familiar, but she couldn’t place him. Then she looked down at his shoes—scuffed brown oxfords with one lace broken and retied in a knot. Shoes that had been under her own dining room table; shoes she had stumbled over in the parlor when he forgot and left them there. Dooley Layton, John’s cousin.
She whipped out a hand and snatched off the hood. “You!”
Dooley glared at her. “He had it coming,” he repeated lamely.
“Get off my property,” she hissed. “All of you. I see any one of you within a hundred feet of my house, I’ll call the sheriff.”
“And what do you think he’ll do?” Dooley sneered.
“For one thing, he’ll cart your sorry behind back to Natchez, where your daddy will beat the living tar out of you,” Amethyst retorted. “Don’t forget—I can identify every one of you. You think I won’t press charges? Try me. I’ve got a houseful of lawyers to represent me.”
“You got a houseful of niggers, you mean.”
Amethyst whirled around to see Rube and Edith Layton’s grandson John standing behind her with a self-satisfied smile on his face. “Your grandpa would be so ashamed of you,” she said. “And your grandmother warned me that something like this might happen, but I didn’t believe her. What do you suppose she’ll say when she finds out where you were tonight?”
“I’m a man—I’m old enough to do as I please.”
“Old enough to get yourself killed, or hanged for murder.” Amethyst gave a little snort. “You think you’re all so powerful, dressing up in bed sheets like a bunch of goblins. If you were real men, and believed what you’re doing is right, you wouldn’t be ashamed to show your faces, and you wouldn’t be running around at all hours of the night like little boys at Halloween. Trick or treat’s over, boys. You’re obviously too immature to be playing with matches, so take your toys and go on home.”
One of them let out an ear-piercing whistle, and a dark pickup truck pulled up to the curb. The white-sheeted attackers climbed into the back, and one of them pounded on the top of the cab, a signal to get moving. But just before the headlights came on, Amethyst caught a quick glance at two of the figures inside the truck.
The one on the passenger’s side, hanging his head and looking thoroughly miserable, was Clarence Bogart.
Between Bogey and the driver sat her own son, Conrad.
“Ow! That hurts!”
“Sit still, will you?” Silvie commanded as Bailey Blue squirmed in his chair. “If I don’t get some antiseptic in this cut, they’ll have to amputate your head.”
“I’d probably feel better if they did,” he muttered.
“We all would. Now stop whining.”
Bailey laughed, then grimaced as Sylvie dabbed at the wound. “I’m sorry, Amethyst. This is all my fault.”
Amethyst shook her head. “I’m sure my lunch with Silvie at Mansfield’s didn’t help the situation. Edith warned me, but I guess I didn’t really think the Klan would come after us.”
“Klan Junior, you mean.” Bailey put a hand to his head and held the bandage while Silvie taped it on. “If that had been the real Klan, I’d be swinging from the magnolia tree.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.” Amethyst winced.
“It’s the way of the world, at least in the South,” he responded. “That’s why the NAACP is here.”
“But what would cause those boys to do that?”
“Exactly what you told them, Amethyst—insecurity. They probably never even considered the fact that they could have killed somebody. They were trying to prove their manhood, trying to be tough. But they’re not thinking for themselves, making a statement of their own. It’s what they hear at home—that Negroes ought to keep in their place.”
Amethyst fell silent, thinking. Bailey had sustained some pretty bad bruising on his arms and shoulders, and a couple of nasty cuts to the head. But it could have been much worse. He could have had internal injuries. He could have been in the hospital, or . . . the morgue.
She hadn’t told anyone about what she had seen in the cab of that pickup. She wasn’t sure she could admit to Bailey—or even to Silvie—that her own son had been party to the attack. Oh, he hadn’t clubbed Bailey with his own hands or set fire to the cross, but he had been there. Even his presence among those boys testified to an implicit acceptance of such violence and brutality. She couldn’t comprehend how the child of her own flesh could be so cruel, so heartless.
And she couldn’t stop blaming herself.
Silvie sat in the passenger’s seat with the window rolled down and the fresh spring breeze blowing in her face. Bailey drove slowly, as if relishing every flash of white dogwood in the woods, every scent of daffodils along the roadside.
“It’s a beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?” He slanted his eyes toward her. “Are you cold?”
“A little,” she admitted, pulling her sweater closer around her shoulders, “but I like it.”
“Spring is my favorite season,” he went on, looking back at the road. “A season of rebirth, a time that makes me believe anything is possible.”
She studied his face. The bruises were fading a little, but the angry gash in his forehead still had a bit of infection in it. When they got home this evening, she would make sure to clean it out and put a new bandage on it. It would probably leave a scar, but a few nicks and cuts just added character to a man’s face. Especially a man as handsome as Bailey Blue.
“A nickel for your thoughts,” he prodded, giving her a dazzling smile.
“Pardon me?”
“I figure they’ve got to be worth more than a penny.” He smiled again, and her heart did a little jump-step.
“You’d be getting the bad end of that bargain,” she retorted playfully.
“Oh, I don’t know. The NAACP doesn’t pay as well as private practice, but I’d wager a month’s salary that anything on your mind would be absolutely fascinating.”
Silvie smiled faintly—what she hoped was a mysterious, inscrutable expression—but she didn’t respond. She wasn’t about to tell him what she was thinking: the way her pulse raced anytime she heard his voice; how her mind wandered to him throughout the day; the feelings of terror and loss she had experienced when she saw the blood gushing from his head the other night. The truth was, she thought he was perfect. A man of character and integrity, a man of intelligence and honesty, a man who was giving his life to an important cause. And a man, she had to admit, who was as handsome on the outside as he was on the inside.
Not that physical appearance would have made a difference. Human beings looked on the outside, the Bible said, but God looked on the heart. Handsome or homely wouldn’t have mattered; she could never be attracted to a man whose soul was not tender—both toward God and toward others.
But she was attracted to him. She couldn’t help it, no matter how much she tried to reason with herself about the difference in their ages, their education, their life experience. He probably had a gaggle of women after him up in Washington. Younger, prettier women; educated, refined women. Not women who cooked and cleaned and ran a boardinghouse for a living.
Still, here she was with him, at his invitation—his insistence, really. Traveling the back roads of Cambridge County and talking to poor black men and women about their lives, their dreams, their fears. Encouraging them to attend the civil rights rally he and his colleagues were planning.
The white folks were right, she supposed. In some ways, Bailey Blue was a troublemaker. But it was trouble that needed to be made. Bailey had a gift for seeing into people’s hearts, knowing what would stir them to action. He had a way of calming their fears, convincing them that there was power in numbers. So far more than a dozen Negro families had agreed to take part in the rally.
One old man, a ninety-nine-year-old former slave named Jabeth, had kissed him on the cheek and thanked him for coming. “I’s been prayin’,” he murmured in a palsied voice, “prayin’ I wouldn’t die before I saw the comin’ of the Freedom Train.” He gripped Bailey’s hand and held on tight while tears streamed down his wrinkled face. “Bless you, boy. Bless you.”
Silvie found herself easily caught up in the charisma Bailey emanated. Surprisingly, the attack on Bailey—what he jokingly called “The Night of the Klan Babies"—made her even more determined to join his cause, to take a risk that might just make the world a better place.
Bailey’s mellow, taunting voice interrupted her thoughts. “It’s taken me forever to get you to myself, and there you sit, refusing to talk to me.”
Silvie turned. “I’m sorry. You were saying something?”
He gripped his chest and let his head sag against the steering wheel. “You really know how to hurt a guy. And all this time I thought I was such a charming fellow.”
If you only knew, Silvie thought. Aloud, she said. “My fault. I was drifting. Please, go on.”
He brightened. “Well, as I was saying—back when you weren’t listening—I was beginning to fear I’d be an old man before I got any time alone with you. You haven’t been avoiding me, have you?”
Silvie frowned. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you never really talk to me, that’s why. You’re always busy. It’s not because I’m a lawyer, is it? Some people hate lawyers.”
Silvie let out a little laugh. “No, I don’t hate lawyers.”
“That’s better. You have a wonderful laugh, you know. Like music.”
Suddenly Silvie realized that the car wasn’t moving, and she looked around. He had pulled onto a dirt road—just two tracks through the grass, really—and parked alongside a small lake. A white bird with long legs was feeding in the shallows.
“This is one of my favorite places.” He sighed, leaning back against the seat. “I found it not long after I came here, on one of my trips out to the country.” He gazed at her and pointed toward the lake. “That egret and I have become pretty good friends. Want to meet him?”
Silvie nodded, feeling a strange mix of euphoria and nervousness wash over her. “What did you call it?”
“It’s a snowy egret. I call it Buster.”
The ridiculousness of the name attached to such a gracious bird made Silvie laugh out loud. “Buster, huh?”
“Yep. We’re pals.”
He got out of the car and came around to her side, opening the door for her with a gracious little bow. “Milady.”
Silvie giggled. How long had it been since anyone had opened a car door for her, held her coat, treated her like a lady? Probably never. In Cambridge, she wasn’t a lady. She was the nigra maid who kept the boardinghouse for Miss Amethyst. But now, here, with Bailey, she felt as if she might be an African princess, born to royalty and nobility.
He took her elbow and led her down a narrow path to the water’s edge. The sun was beginning to set, casting red and purple hues across the water. She sat on a fallen log, and he settled himself next to her.
“I can see why you love this place,” she whispered. “It’s so peaceful.”
He pulled a small tin out of his pocket and held it up. “Sardines. Buster loves them.”
She stared at the sardine can, and a pleasant realization worked its way into her consciousness. “You planned to come here? With me?”
“Guilty as charged. Yes, I planned it. And definitely with you.” Deftly he snapped the key off the back of the can and unrolled the top. The egret’s head jerked around, and he surveyed them with an unblinking eye. Bailey tossed a sardine in the bird’s direction, and its long neck darted down into the water to retrieve it.
When the sardines were gone, Bailey went to the edge of the lake, washed out the can, and laid it on the log to dry. The bird stretched its long neck and nodded in their direction, as if bestowing a kind of benediction.
“I feel God’s nearness here,” Bailey said quietly. “As much as anywhere I’ve ever been, including church.”
Silvie nodded. “I expect in your line of work, a sense of the Lord’s presence must be hard to come by.”
“Because of the violence, the animosity?”
“Yes.”
“I see what you mean. But actually, it’s quite the contrary. Every time I look into the trusting face of a little black child and hope for a better future, I confront the face of God. I see God’s tears in a mother who has lost her son to the Klan. I feel God’s touch in the hand of an old man like Jabeth. Sometimes I even think I hear God weeping over all those created in the Divine image who have not yet tasted freedom. The fact is, I couldn’t do this job if I didn’t sense God’s presence in it. It’s a calling, not just a career.”
“I know how you feel.” The words came unbidden, and Silvie bit her lip. She felt like a silly little fool, comparing what she did to his important work.
But his response couldn’t have surprised her more. “I was certain you would understand, certain you would feel the same way.”
“You were?” she blurted out. “How?”
“I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice. And I’m aware of the history of Noble House, what you and Amethyst have done. You know what it is to take a risk for something you believe in. You know what it means to give people the dignity and respect they deserve.”
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she could hardly speak. Over the years she had not received much appreciation, except from Amethyst. Not many people knew, or acknowledged, that she was more than Amethyst Noble’s nigra maid. And as much as she tried not to let it hurt, the truth stung. She had been invisible for so long that it stunned her when someone looked into her heart.
“Thank you,” she managed at last.
Bailey turned to face her, his eyes locking on hers. “Silvie, I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re so gentle and giving, yet you have a backbone strong as an iron rod. I don’t know quite how to say this, but—”
She composed herself and gave a little chuckle. “And you call yourself a lawyer?”
“I know, I’m supposed to be good with words. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ve waited all my life to find a woman like you.”
Silvie stared at him. Was it possible he was saying he was interested in her? No. It couldn’t be. She had misunderstood him, and if she responded seriously, she really would look like a fool. “Well,” she quipped, “that’s to be expected, since you haven’t lived very long.”
A shadow passed over his handsome features, and he frowned. “I know. There are a few years’ difference in our ages, but I don’t think that should matter if two people are meant for each other.”
“Meant for each other?” she repeated stupidly.
“Yes, I—oh.” He stopped suddenly. “You must think I’m an idiot. Of course. You have someone in your life. I didn’t know, but it stands to reason, as beautiful and sensitive as you are.”
“Someone in my life? You mean a man?” Silvie let out a donkey bray of a laugh, then clapped a hand over her mouth.
“You don’t?” He leaned forward eagerly. “Well, that’s—that’s wonderful! Not wonderful for you, of course, but wonderful for me. What I’m trying to say is—well, you know.”
She crossed her arms and gazed at him. “No, I don’t know. Exactly what are you getting at, Bailey?”
He took a deep breath. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”
“It would solve a lot of confusion, yes.”
“All right. Here goes. I think I’m falling in love with you, and I want to know if you’d be open to the idea of pursuing a relationship.” He said it in a rush, as if expelling all the air in his lungs would give his words more emphasis. Then he sat back and took in a deep breath. “I want to get to know you better, Silvie, but what I know already tells me that we could build a life together. Work together. Do great things in this world. I’ve never met anyone I felt so at home with, so complete with. All I ask is the chance to love you.”
The sun had almost set, and the reflection in the water cast a ruddy glow over his face. He looked as if he were lit from within by some celestial light. And perhaps he was.
“You’re sure?” she whispered as his eyes searched hers. “You’re sure it’s me you want, not some pretty young thing from up north?”
“Yes.”
She leaned closer to him and felt his lips touch hers—a brief, velvety kiss that left her with the promise of more. When she drew back, he was smiling, suppressing a laugh.
“What’s the matter? Do I kiss funny?” Silvie narrowed her eyes at him.
“Of course not. You kiss wonderfully.” He pointed in the direction of the lake. Buster, the egret, was staring at them as if thoroughly offended by their public display of affection.
“Guess he doesn’t appreciate kissing.” Silvie chuckled.
“I wouldn’t, either, with a beak like that.” Bailey turned to him. “Get your beady little eyes off my woman, fish-breath. This one’s taken.”
Silvie peered at him. “She is, is she?”
He took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I certainly hope so.”
“Well, Buster, you heard the man. Go find your own girl.”
With a haughty tilt of his head, Buster unfurled his wings and flew into the sunset.