Sandra spent the rest of the evening agonizing with Mama Tilman over what she should tell Ben when he returned. She had never lied to Ben about anything during their marriage. She feared telling him about Alicia’s pregnancy, and she feared not telling him. Mama Tilman understood but offered no advice, allowing Sandra to make her own decision.
The next morning, as Sandra fixed coffee in the kitchen, Alicia walked in, looking exhausted, stricken, sorrowful.
“I can’t face Daddy until after the abortion,” she blurted, her voice hoarse. “May I please stay with Betty for a couple of days, until we leave for Atlanta?”
Sandra frowned. “Are you trying to see that boy?”
“No. Dickey and I are over.”
“You have no business going to Betty’s house right now,” said Sandra, crossing her arms.
“Betty’s mom said it’s okay. Please, Mom, I’m begging you.” Alicia burst into tears. “I could face you and Mama Tilman yesterday because I didn’t know about Dickey, but now I know. Please don’t make me face Daddy until after the abortion. Please?”
Feeling guilty about the beating, Sandra melted under Alicia’s tears. “If it’s okay with Mrs. Keyes, you can stay with Betty until we leave for Atlanta,” she said. “I went off yesterday. Before then, I can’t remember touching you in anger. Such a well-behaved child; you never gave me cause. We need to put this behind us, and we’ll do that in Atlanta.”
Ben returned home as scheduled on Wednesday evening. He looked like a blur of beige as he dashed into the house, dressed in a three-piece suit that blended seamlessly with his fair complexion and light-brown hair. He slid his trim six-foot frame next to Sandra, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and hugged his mother.
“Where’s Alicia?” he asked.
“She’s with Betty,” said Sandra, avoiding his eyes.
“I talked to her before I left for New York, and she sounded troubled about something. Now you seem troubled. Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”
In the presence of Mama Tilman, Sandra told Ben the truth. Then she waited.
Initially, Ben did not appear to react. He simply sat in a chair for a few minutes, stoically looking away. He eventually stood, strode into his study, locked the door, and stayed in seclusion that night and all of the next day. Sandra offered food, but he declined.
Sandra worried incessantly over her husband and daughter. She had never seen Ben act this way, and as for Alicia, she could only imagine the emotional state of a teenage girl whose life had gone from bright to dark in only a few short hours. It was a good thing Benny was away at football camp.
“Sandra, let him be,” said Mama Tilman, early Thursday evening. “He will deal with this in his own way and in his own time. I trained him a long time ago to stay calm, patient, and strategic, regardless of the circumstances. He’s in that room sorting through this mess. And you will have a chance to heal with Alicia and help her get through all of this on your trip. You’ve been a wonderful, dedicated mother, Sandra. The two of you will be fine.”
Ben poured a bottle of bourbon into a glass, filling it to the brim. He downed a healthy swig before the foul taste of alcohol could fully set in. How could she do this to us? he wondered for the hundredth time. To herself?
He toyed with a family photo, one of the many arrayed on his desk. Sandra and I have worked hard to motivate our kids—not so easy when they grow up with everything they need and most of what they want. Alicia was always on the right track.
Ben turned to a recent photo of Sandra and felt himself stirring. Forty-two and doesn’t look a day over thirty, and she still excites me after nineteen years of marriage. Things have certainly changed. When we were dating, sex was off-limits, especially for a Richmond high-society girl.
Sipping the bourbon, which seemed to go down more smoothly than before, he remembered a series of difficult occasions, the first dating back to 1952. He had graduated from Hampton that June with an offer to attend his first choice for dental school, the Medical College of Virginia in Richmond. He had been dating Sandra Miller for about a year, but the two had been separated over the summer, with Ben working odd jobs in Chesapeake and Sandra returning to her Richmond home. He needed to report to dental school in mid-August, which would give him two weeks with Sandra before she went back to Hampton for her junior year.
He had arrived at the Richmond bus terminal on a Saturday and discovered Sandra there to meet him. He overflowed with joy at the sight of her. She had raced into his arms wearing a formfitting dress, not too tight, but revealing enough of a young woman with ample curves. With her dark brown hair up, he thought she could have been Lena Horne’s baby sister.
Sandra told him she had come to the terminal without her parents’ knowledge. Ben had been invited to meet John and Flora Miller the next day for Sunday supper, but Sandra said she had missed him too much to wait another day, and she wanted something she could never receive under the ever-watchful eyes of her parents: a decent kiss.
The two made a beeline for Ben’s new room off Broad Street, near the dental school campus. The place looked bare, with only a bed and desk for furnishings, but he and Sandra hardly noticed. After falling into one another’s arms, their lips met, and Sandra pressed her body into his. Breathing grew heavier as their mouths opened, their tongues engaged in a sweet slow dance, and their hands roamed. Sandra eventually moaned with desire while Ben broke into a sweat against her subtle gyrations, his need for completion rising to an uncontrollable level.
Ben recognized an opportunity never before presented when dating Sandra at Hampton: complete privacy, with a bed only a step or two away. The woman he wanted was his with a single move. His body ached for Sandra, and as she raised a thigh against his, he nearly crossed into a zone where physical desires trump all justifications for restraint. But then he remembered a promise, the vow he had made in honor of the recipient—one to be kept prior to marriage, however legitimate a mutually shared love. His body screamed defiance; his mind screamed No, not yet.
Glancing back at the photo on his desk, Ben shook his head, remembering his frustration, and hers, but he thought about their wedding night four years later when he realized for the first time the full extent of Sandra’s loveliness. As his eyes roamed her full breasts and perfectly formed hips, he had told her she took his breath away. She had blushed and beckoned him forward. As he approached, her shy smile turned into a full grin, and the two made love until both were completely spent.
And that was just as it should be.
The thought that his beloved daughter had given herself up so cheaply—that she had thrown away the chance to have a similar experience—filled him with grief. Didn’t we raise her to value herself more than this?
Then his mind reverted to the person it had been circling since he learned the news: his father. He topped off his glass and tossed the whiskey bottle, full only hours before, into the trash can.
Ben remembered learning the circumstances of his birth at the age of seven. Although his mother had tried to be gentle, Ben sensed her pain and reacted in anger, expressing hatred for his father and shame over his lot in life. Then the first of many conversations began as Mama Tilman attempted to reconcile him to a difficult reality, and Ben eventually recognized his mother’s design: She hoped to convert the most dangerous of his emotions—hatred—to ambition; she knew success was the solution to shame.
Ben once again felt a rising hatred for the man who had abused his mother, and who, through his grandson, had wreaked new, unexpected havoc on his family. Mama Tilman had never completely purged him of hatred. He had secretly compressed it into a locked box, tucked away in a private compartment in his mind, and hid the only key. But now he fingered the key, tempted like never before to unleash the powerful emotion that the box contained.
First my mother and now my daughter. Ben emptied his glass and checked his watch. Just after midnight, Friday morning.
Sandra tossed and turned, unable to sleep. She glanced at the clock on her side of the bed: 12:17 AM. My world is falling apart, she thought. Ben is stashed away in that study and Alicia is hiding at Betty’s. I haven’t heard from her all day. Something doesn’t feel right. Should I call Betty’s house at this hour? No. Yes. I have to.
Sandra dialed and waited, relieved to hear Betty’s voice instead of her mother’s. “I’m so sorry to call at this hour,” she said, “but may I please speak to Alicia?”
“Isn’t she home, Mrs. Tilman? Alicia said she had to run an errand for her father, and if it got to be too late when she finished, she would go home. She said you all were leaving tomorrow for Atlanta.”
“Alicia hasn’t been home, and she has no errands to run for her father. She’s supposed to be spending the night with you! Where is your mother? Does she know where Alicia is?”
“No, ma’am. I dropped Alicia at the bus station around ten this morning. I offered to drive her where she had to go, but she said she needed time alone. She’s been acting strange, Mrs. Tilman, but I didn’t think anything of it. Alicia is always so responsible.”
“Where did she say she had to go?”
“She didn’t say. I asked her, but she just changed the subject. If she’s not home, I don’t know where she is. I’m sorry.”
Sandra felt a lurch of panic. She hung up the phone and woke Mama Tilman, who jumped out of bed at the news and started dressing. Time to rouse Ben, thought Sandra, rushing to the study. She knocked on the door and waited for an answer. Then she banged. “Ben, we can’t find Alicia,” she yelled. She flew to the kitchen for the spare key to the study.
Sandra opened the door to complete darkness. She turned on the lights, only to find an empty room. She searched for clues on his desk, but everything appeared normal, until she found odd notes on the chair—Ben’s summary of their investments, including a detailed listing of various stock positions and their values. Then she smelled alcohol. But Ben doesn’t drink, she thought, staring at an empty bottle of bourbon in the nearby trash can.
With her fears increasing, Sandra eyed the right-top drawer of the desk, the one Ben always kept locked. She reached for the drawer, wondering whether it would open, and whether what she hoped to find there might be missing. Her hand trembled as she felt the handle and pulled.
Still peering into the vacant space in the drawer, Sandra heard Mama Tilman enter the study.
“I didn’t hear him leave,” said Sandra. “Is he where I think he is?”
“I pray not, but I think he may be.”
“Where is their house?”
“Six blocks from where I used to live: 231 South Sixth Street.”
Sandra called the police and asked for Detective Johnson, a sharp black officer she and Ben had recently come to know through a series of civic occasions. She held her breath, hoping the detective worked evenings, until he answered. Sandra explained her suspicions and gave him the address. He said he would tend to the matter immediately.
Ben found a window to the Samson living room open about a foot, letting in the cool night air. He pushed it up and climbed through, then deftly crept from one room to the other. Before long he had his father, his half brother, his half brother’s wife, and Dickey lined up against the living room wall, holding their attention with a pointed .38 caliber revolver.
With the open window to his back, Ben studied his half brother and his half brother’s wife, but neither appeared to know him; they probably suspected they were being robbed. Dickey, who Ben had seen at Alicia’s school, emerged from a stupor feigning ignorance. Richard Samson Sr. examined Ben closely, and was the only Samson who showed no signs of fear.
Ben announced that all three men were going to die that night: Richard Samson Sr. for raping and beating Ben’s mother; Richard Samson Jr. for the sins of his father and son; and Dickey, who would be the last Samson to touch a woman in his family.
“But Dr. Tilman, I didn’t rape Alicia,” protested Dickey.
“Son, Alicia is pregnant by you just like my mother was impregnated by your grandfather, and I’m the product of that rape.”
Mrs. Samson nervously eyed her son, who stood taller than all of the others. In response, Dickey shrugged his shoulders as he dropped his head. Then she stared at Dickey’s grandfather and crossed her arms. “Is that true?”
Richard Samson Sr. ignored her, focusing his intense, beady eyes on Ben. “Did Dickey just call you a doctor?” he asked. “Well, I’ll just be damned, a doctor!” He broke into a sly smile. “Boy, how’s your mama? What do they call this, patri-something? Now, you know you can’t shoot your own daddy.”
The three remaining Samsons gaped at him in shock.
Ben cocked his weapon, pointing it at the senior Samson. Dickey broke into tears as a wet spot formed on the front of his pajama bottoms.
“Oh, please, no! Please don’t,” whimpered Mrs. Samson. “Sir, you already know your daughter can get rid of that baby. It’s easy. We’ve already gotten rid of two others on account of Dickey, and, and—you’re a doctor. How can you take my son’s life?”
“Dr. Tilman,” boomed a voice from outside the window. “This is John Johnson, sir. Let’s do yourself a favor, and put the gun down.”
Ben stayed focused on the Samsons. He clenched his teeth while sweat poured from his brow.
“John, these men are going to die tonight,” he replied, “with or without your interference.”
“No, Dr. Tilman,” said the detective. “Whatever they’ve done, we’ll handle it in a lawful manner. You are too important to this community to do something so foolish. Come on, man, let’s talk things over. Why are you even doing this?”
Ben spoke evenly; he had never felt more sober. “Some people are inherently good, and some are inherently evil. Most of us lie in between and live our lives favoring one side over the other. These men are inherently evil. My family will never again suffer from their actions.”
He straightened his aim on the senior Samson. The old man turned to the side and raised his shoulder, trying to protect his face. He looked to the detective for help.
“Dr. Tilman, I am begging you, please don’t make me do this,” said Detective Johnson. “Don’t make me shoot you. Think about what you’re doing, man. Your family is about to suffer because of your actions, not theirs. Lower the damn gun now.”
Ben stole a glance at the detective’s pointed revolver. Time stopped. Then the sound of hurried feet could be heard approaching the window.
“Benton!” sounded a commanding voice.
“Ben?” questioned another.
Ben knew the first voice belonged to his mother and the second to his wife. He kept his gun pointed in the direction of the Samsons but glanced at the window.
His mother stood beside Detective Johnson. “That won’t be necessary,” she said, sliding her hand in front of his gun. Before Detective Johnson could object, she climbed through the window with surprising agility.
Ben held up a hand to signal for her to stop, but she ignored him and sprang between him and the Samsons. He responded by pointing his gun toward an empty wall.
“Old man, I would not have recognized you on any other occasion,” said Mama Tilman, facing Richard Samson Sr. “I remember you as a robust man with a full head of hair. Now you are gaunt, hairless. Insignificant. Do you hear me, Benton? This old fool is insignificant! He has no power over either one of us.”
Ben moved next to his mother to get a clear view of Richard Samson Sr. The old man’s eyes were fixed on his mother with a cold, hate-filled stare. Then a distorted half smile appeared; one Ben imagined must have contributed to his mother’s horror and pain some forty-five years before.
He started to raise the gun to take aim and fire, but before he could move even an inch, he felt his mother’s viselike grip on his arm. He looked at her and froze. She had first returned the senior Samson’s stare only with pity. Then, armed in righteousness, her eyes flamed with fury.
The old man’s eyes, at first filled with venom, flickered, then retreated, darting from point to point, until they settled on Detective Johnson.
All three remaining Samsons gazed at Ben’s mother with wonder.
Her point made, Mama Tilman spun toward her son. “Benton, you listen to me very carefully,” she said. “Alicia is gone. We do not know where she is, so come on. Your wife and I need you. Put that silly gun down and let’s go!”
Her words converted Ben from the executioner to the executed. He felt deeply from within a pang of certainty that his precious daughter was lost to him forever. He slowly lowered his gun.
Detective Johnson climbed through the window and took the gun from Ben before it could drop to the floor. Ben felt the detective’s arm around him as the two started for the front door. His mother led the way, but she abruptly twisted around, directing a murderous expression at Richard Samson Sr. The old man’s eyes, now conquered and content to hide, would not meet hers.
Sandra broke for Ben in front of the Samson house and took him from Detective Johnson. In Sandra’s arms, he collapsed to his knees and blasted out a high-pitched cry. Sandra dropped to the ground and clutched him, her tears flowing with his.
Ben felt his mother behind him, rubbing his head to ease his pain, but she abruptly stopped.
“The bastard’s been struck down, Mama, but at what cost?” she screamed.
Confused, Ben turned and saw his mother addressing the sky. Then he understood, and a paralyzing chill gripped his heart.