Chapter Three

The door chimes rang again. Margaret began to wonder whether Devin had invited half of Denver to the meeting. She felt frazzled.

The constant doorbell ringing made her think of the ghoulish pranksters who trolled the streets every Halloween; however, this was a night in late January. The only ghosts and goblins scaring about were the recruits Devin had invited into their home for another of his Ku Klux Klan meetings.

This had to be at least the fifth or sixth meeting within the past two weeks. Another meeting was scheduled for Sunday.

Had she not witnessed Devin’s transformation—from hapless investor to zealous organizer—Margaret might not have believed her husband’s change to be genuine or lasting. Yet, she had watched him closely the last months and could honestly say that she had never seen anyone so obsessed. His determination to recruit the most new Klan members in the western territory revealed a level of ambition she had not thought him capable of achieving.

He had insisted that she join the women’s group, the Kolorado KKK Ladies’ Auxiliary. The members were narrow-minded and cold, and the meetings tended to be little more than long hours of hate propaganda. Since her involvement with them, however, Devin had stopped beating her. If that’s what it took to keep from getting her bones broken, then so be it.

The auxiliary had almost as many members as the men’s Klavern. And, she had to admit, the women’s mission to close whorehouses and illegal saloons did have a practical appeal. After all, if they didn’t exist, Devin might be home more.

However, welcoming Devin’s recruits was her immediate concern. She invited the two latest arrivals inside and extended her arms to accept their coats. Like most of the other attendees, the two men threw their wet, heavy coats across Margaret’s arms without so much as a thank you. Most coats smelled of mildew and stale cigar smoke.

As the two men stood in the foyer, they fell into a private but audible commentary about the Browne’s home.

“Blazin’ buffalo balls, will ya look at that beaut,” commented the man with thick rims of dirt underneath his ragged fingernails. He was ogling the magnificent chandelier overhead. “Now, I see why they call this stretch of Capitol Hill Millionaires’ Row.”

What a crock, Margaret thought. Most of the real money had moved a few miles south, to the Country Club District or to the estates around Cheesman Park and the Polo Club grounds.

The men continued their observations like gawkers at a circus sideshow. “No kiddin’,” the man with the sooty complexion said, nudging his pal. “Take a gander at that, will ya?” He nodded toward the full-suited armor sentinel that stood at the base of the spiral stairway, and walked over to inspect it. He let out a long, low whistle. His eyes roved from the top to the bottom of the nearly man-sized shield bearing the Browne’s family crest.

With childlike curiosity, he tested the point of the mannequin’s spear. “Ow, damn it,” he cried and pulled his hand back. A trickle of blood ran from his fingertip.

His companion was still craning his neck, trying with all his might to see what was up the Browne’s staircase.

“Come on, Frank,” the wounded man said as he inspected his flesh wound, “we got more important things to tend to.”

Margaret pondered, why weren’t these men home with their families on such a bitterly cold and snowy night?

If her guess was right, the whole lot of them—mill hands, factory workers, farmers, teamsters, policemen, ministers, laborers, mechanics, salesmen, bankers, doctors, lawyers, grocers, and barbers, you name it—were simply yearning for a little excitement—something that would spark their day-to-day routines and the bleakness of winter.

From the snippets of conversations she’d overheard before the meeting, Margaret knew that many of the men voted Republican in the recent national and local elections, electing Republicans President Coolidge, Colorado Governor Morley, and Denver Mayor-elect Stapleton, not to mention just about the entire slate of new state senators and county judges.

“About damn time the Klan got some real muscle in these parts,” one voter had boasted.

As Margaret laid the most recently collected hats and coats on the bench by the telephone table, the doorbell chimed again. This time it was a rosy-cheeked boy.

Surprisingly, he at least removed his cap before stepping inside. “Evening, Ma’am,” he stammered. “I’m late. Mind if I go on in. I know the way.”

“Please,” she said, and took the boy’s discarded coat and galoshes. She couldn’t help thinking that he wasn’t even as old as her stepson Kyle.

The boy went straight to the library, but in his rush, left one of the doors ajar. At last, Margaret had a way to listen to Devin’s sermon along with the others.

She set the boy’s things down, and went to stand just outside the library doors. She was close enough to hear what was being said, but near enough to the kitchen for an alibi, should anyone exit the library before she could disappear.

It occurred to her that there must be nearly fifty men packed into the library. After the meetings, they usually spent another hour inquiring about Devin’s maternal granddaddy’s collection of Civil War memorabilia. Instead of a room full of books, the librarys walls were devoted to an arsenal’s worth of Confederate relics, mostly guns and swords.

In the northern corner of the room stood a flagpole bearing the Confederate flag. The few books on the shelves glorified the southern cause.

Margaret tiptoed closer to the crevice between the doors and tried to peek in. Whatever Devin’s proclamation, it was receiving lavish applause. It required several attempts for him to continue.

How amazing, Margaret thought. In private, Devin tells me the recruits are “nothing but a bunch of northern yahoos and hick ne’er do wells.” But to their faces, he greets them all like they were long lost brothers.

“Shoot,” he’d once admitted to Margaret, “if ten thousand fools all want to hand over ten dollars of their hard-earned pay envelopes just so they can march through the city wearing sheets and mumbling nonsense, well, hey, I say step right up. I’m more than happy to oblige anybody. Besides, if so many others in the good ole U.S. are jumping on the KKK gravy train, why should I be a sucker and pass it up?” Margaret never found herself with an adequate answer.

She wondered, though, if any of the “citizens” he recruited had the foggiest notion of Devin’s real intent … that he craved far more than just being Colorado’s head membership salesman, the King Kleagle. The way he saw it, being able to pocket two dollars out of every Klectoken, the ten-dollar initiation fee, was nothing compared to the take the exalted Cyclops of Klaverns was getting.

Devin was due for a promotion because he brought in so many new members. And the better he made the state’s Grand Dragon Dr. Locke appear, the more reasonable his chances of being appointed head of his own Klavern. He just had to outmaneuver Locke’s flunkie MacDuff. It wasn’t going to be easy, but Devin wasn’t going to let some no-count coal miner from Ireland come to Devin’s own hometown and walk away with all he’d worked for.

Margaret may not have known all the wheeling and dealing that took place among the Klan hierarchy, but it wasn’t hard for her to see that Dr. Locke had complete control over what went on in Colorado. No wonder he was so egotistical and pompous. She hated thinking of what it meant if their lives became any more mixed up with his.

She heard the recruits fall silent again, then Devin continued. “The Ku Klux Klan is a white man’s organization,” he said. “We teach, promote, and uphold the doctrine of white supremacy.”

The applause began anew, but he must have signaled for them to hold on.

“The preservation of the white race, indeed, the very survival of Christian civilization, depends upon us. Unless the purity of white blood is maintained, you, me, our families are all doomed. A real American has to be prepared to defend his birthright.”

This time the men refused to be quieted. They stomped and yelled. The Chinese vase on the round mahogany table in the center of the foyer vibrated to the edge of the table. Margaret reached out for the vase just before it fell to the floor. As she held the vase close, it reminded her of her life, which in so many ways was also toppling over.

She sat the vase under the table and returned to her listening post. This was precisely the kind of audience Devin craved.

“The science of berry picking,” he stated, is to know which fruit is ripe, so that when you go to pick it, the fruit practically falls into your palm.” The bookcase ladder, which he had had built with extra-wide steps, was where he berry-picked his books.

He’d climb midway up the ladder and spoke to those looking up at him with all the eloquence and brimstone of a country preacher. By the end of his appeal, the audience was so full of ire and hate, they were ready to go out and burn crosses as soon as they could.

“Shhh,” she heard the men prompt each other. She pictured Devin like she’d seen him rehearse in front of the bedroom mirror, mopping his brow with his handkerchief, and hooking his thumbs under his suspenders. She had to admit, he’d cultivated the sense of urgency to perfection.

“I’m speaking of that centuries-old evil. Mixing white blood with that of Negroes,” he said. “Did you know that now there are so many Negroes with white blood flowing through their veins, you and I are in danger of looking up one day soon and not knowing who is who?”

The men sucked in their breaths in a collective gasp of disbelief and disgust. Devin let the image of a lightskinned, keen-featured, straight-haired Negro sink into the men’s minds a moment longer. There was an uneasy quiet.

Margaret could sense the men shaking their heads in anger and suspiciously studying one another. Devin’s puppetry had succeeded. One of the men let loose a blaze of profanity and hostile oaths. Others copied him.

What she didn’t understand was why all the fuss. It wasn’t as if you saw Negroes wherever you looked in Denver.

True, there were the ones in household and courtesy employment, and the few who worked in the factories and as laborers, but for the most part they stayed on their own side of town—Five Points, or whatever it was called.

She had never even seen a Negro in Denver General Hospital. Not even during an outbreak of influenza.

And, like in her father’s dry goods store, Margaret knew the city’s general policy was that coloreds had to use the rear entrances, even when they were sent to pick up packages for their employers. The more exclusive shops arranged delivery of their goods to keep the matter from ever being of concern.

Of course, there were the complaints about the cinema and vaudeville houses admitting Negroes, but at least the coloreds were restricted to the seats in the balconies. The “crow’s nest,” she believed their section was called.

The only real trouble Margaret had ever heard of coloreds causing were the rare instances, usually on a scorching summer day, when two or three of their children would try to swim in the Washington Park lake with all of the other children; but they were always quickly shooed away. So, goodness, what problems between whites and coloreds could there really be in Denver?

For just an instant, Margaret thought of her daughter’s father. His skin had been more reddish and freckled than black or brown, and his hair, though coarse, had been almost blond. She had known the truth about him all along, that he was a Negro, but he’d never hidden that from her. His color hadn’t mattered to her.

For the sake of the future, if not the present, she forced the memory as far down into her soul as it could possibly go. Somehow, her thoughts turned to Walter.

Walter’s father had served the senior Brownes for years, long before Father Browne was crippled in a polo accident. Indeed, the Brownes had considered Walter Sr. almost family. They’d seen to it that Walter Jr. and Devin grew up as playmates. When Walter Sr. died, there had been no question that his son would inherit his position.

Margaret had never met the senior man, but Walter Jr.’s skin was as dark as imported chocolate. It was obvious there couldn’t possibly be any white blood in him. She did wonder, though, where he’d gotten his thick silky black hair.

She thought of the child in her womb and her limbs flooded with fear. She crossed her arms over her stomach and hunched inward, but she was safe now. She had to keep reminding herself of that.

Unlike her first baby, this one was all white. He or she even had a father whose family tree could be traced back to English royalty. She was worrying needlessly. Devin’s resumed speech roused her from her morbid contemplation.

“I don’t know about you,” Devin railed, “but I ain’t about to let the goddamned day come when some uppity Negro traipses his nappy-headed self up to me and tries to claim I’m his kin.” The recruits stomped and hooted their approval again.

“No sir,” Devin went on, “not in this lifetime, nor in any one hence. Not if this Dixie-born-and-bred son, and I dare say any other red-blooded Klansman, has anything to say about it. I guarantee!”

Margaret suddenly understood, this is what could turn a roomful of men into a pack of rabid dogs. Hate piled so high and thick that it was all they could see or touch; all they could dream or talk about.

Once again, she looked down at her stomach and smoothed her hands over its budding roundness. “Don’t worry, little one. We’re safe this time,” Margaret whispered painfully.

She turned toward the mirror behind the telephone table and looked into it. She hoped to see her stronger self, the self she had nearly forgotten about. She thought to herself: and, somehow, I still have to find my daugh …

A scream of torment came from upstairs. She knew that she should have been accustomed to Mother Browne’s cries by now, but they were just as alarming today as when they’d begun several months ago.

Margaret always ran to her mother-in-law’s side whenever the outbursts occurred, only nothing ever seemed to be truly wrong with her. Devin accused Margaret of being negligent and impatient with his mother.

What Devin refused to understand was that Margaret loved Mother Browne. That despite Margaret’s not knowing if her own mother was dead or alive, caring for her mother-in-law gave her a measure of relief, perhaps even a degree of hope.

“It’s all right, Miss Margaret, I’ll go,” Walter said as he came into the foyer and headed up the stairs. He was carrying a silver tray with a bowl of steaming tomato soup. “She wouldn’t eat earlier,” he said. “She’s probably just hungry by now.”

Walter seemed to understand Mother Browne better than anyone. As usual, Goldie, Kyle’s dog — half retriever, half mutt — followed close behind Walter, happily wagging its tail.

Margaret thought of the rowdy bunch in the library and for a fleeting moment felt an impractical sense of safety because of Walter’s being in the house as well. She felt herself flush.

Thankfully, the door chimes rang again. She fanned herself with both hands, and looked in the mirror to find any loose wisps of hair. She tucked the two or three loose strands back into place, and walked quickly to answer the door.

The sight of a large burly man with a black patch over one of his eyes took Margaret aback. She was at a loss for words as he brushed past her and entered her home uninvited. With effort, she regained composure.

“Mr. MacDuff, this is such a surprise,” Margaret stuttered before MacDuff reached the library. “I don’t believe my husband’s expecting you.”

She did not offer to take his jacket and cap nor did he take them off. He simply ignored Margaret and went straight into the library without a word, firmly pulling the library doors closed.

Margaret winced and jigged backward at the unexpected insult. She had never known the man to exhibit any manners, but treating her so rudely, in her own home, was inexcusable.

Putting thoughts of him aside, Margaret went back to the library doors and pressed her ear to one of them. Devin’s speech was so aflame now that his voice transmitted even through the thick mahogany doors.

“Let me delight you with another fact, brothers,” Devin said. “The mighty Klan is a Protestant organization. We shun all that is not the way our proud forefathers intended.” The applause seemed less generous this time, yet a few of the men did shout earnest approval. Devin continued.

“Brothers, we say to the world, truly and without apology, no Catholics or Jews will be permitted to spread their filthy propaganda here. No siree.”

This time, the applause was vigorous and Devin had to wait a long while before going on. “And that’s not all, loyal subjects.”

“Tell ‘em boss,” one of the subjects volunteered, only to be hushed by his brethren.

Devin took advantage of the moment and paused to regain their full attention. Nearly a full minute passed before he continued.

“You’ll be equally pleased to know that this is purely an American organization. Only those who are one hundred percent Caucasian and native born are welcome. Which means no spics, gooks, or spooks. No wops, kikes, or micks. In other words, if you weren’t born here, then on my granddaddy’s grave, you’re not welcome here.”

Hearing such blatant vitriol sent a chill down Margaret’s back. She couldn’t listen anymore.

What about her own father? His people were Irish. She did know at least that little bit about him. And not only that, her father and Devin never had more than the odd word to say to each other. How did where her father’s parents were born make her and Devin enemies?

For that matter, what about herself? She had the same blood as her father, and also like him, was Catholic. She put a hand over the little gold cross suspended from a delicate necklace that she’d worn since the day her mother put it on her.

It was all that she had left to remind her of her mother. Angus had burned everything else the morning after the evening her mother had hurriedly packed and rushed out of both of their lives forever.

She tucked the cross inside the bodice of her dress, out of sight of any it might antagonize, then felt for it under the fabric. She would have to remember to keep it hidden from now on.

Lost in the tangle of her concerns, Margaret missed the last few minutes of Devin’s speech, but she could hear that the men were nearly rabid now. This was probably the best time to make her entrance. After all, Devin had made it clear that her job as mistress of the house was to keep the room comfortable for his guests.

Eventually, she received a rare compliment from him. He admired how she could slip into the library, straighten the chairs, clear away empty glasses, and stoke the fire, all with him barely knowing it. So, yes, this was the time to go in.

She neatened her hair, checked that her collar was flat, squared her shoulders, and opened one of the library doors.

She nearly gagged from the mingled odors of cigar fumes, body musk, and cheap whiskey. How dare these men, these strangers, turn her home into a saloon. Wasn’t the purpose of prohibition to make liquor illegal? Margaret decided, then and there, to finally accept the Klan women’s invitation to join their chapter.

Upon surveying the library she became even more incensed. The men were not only using Mother Browne’s crystal candy dishes as ashtrays, smoldering cigarette butts and cigar ends were perched on the edges of various tabletops, bookshelves, and the fireplace mantel.

Furthermore, an arm on a fragile, antique chair was broken; a puddle from a spilled drink was dripping into an opened end-table drawer, and an ember was smoldering on the Persian rug. Father Browne’s prized collection of five hand-carved smoking pipes, each with its own display stand, were all jumbled together in a pile at the end of the mantel, and the oil painting of Devin’s granddaddy, the Colonel, was knocked cattywampus.

Worst of all, the Brownes’ family Bible was on the floor and had footprints on it.

Devin was holding court near the flag stand, and apparently did not care about the damage to the library.

“Boys,” Devin hailed as Margaret went about her duties, “the fiery cross is now ours to carry if America is ever going to be redeemed.”

“Here, here,” a man shouted.

Devin replied, “I say, America for Americans! Are you all with me?”

“Hell, yes,” someone near Margaret bellowed.

Devin repeated, “America for Americans,” and pounded a fist into the open palm of his other hand.

The men began chanting over and over, “America for Americans, America for Americans, America for …”

They were frightening Margaret. She wanted Devin to end the meeting before trouble started. She pushed her way past one man, then another, anxious to get to Devin.

MacDuff blocked her way, seemingly unwilling to budge. She tapped his shoulder, but he refused to look around.

Thankfully, the men’s chanting at last died out. She could just lean around MacDuff and call to her husband from where she stood. She peeked around him, and just above a whisper called, “Devin, Devin.” He looked partially in her direction.

She mouthed to him the words, “It’s late and the streets are getting icy. Isn’t it time these men went home?”

The men were crowding around Devin and recaptured his attention. She was stranded in the crush of men trying to get to him when one loud voice from the back of the room drowned out all the other with, “Say, Pop, what’s a woman doin’ in here? Ain’t this men’s business?”

Margaret instantly recognized the voice of her stepson Kyle. Somehow, she hadn’t seen him come in. Perhaps he had entered the house through the kitchen and come into the library after her. If only she could locate him among the other faces.

As if reading his stepmother’s mind, Kyle seemed to appear out of nowhere. Margaret jumped when she felt his arm across the back of her shoulders.

All the chattering had stopped, and everyone, including Devin and Margaret, gave Kyle their attention. “Hey, Pop. Maybe Stepmom’s a spy. Whadya’ think?” Kyle, a foot taller than Margaret, stared down at her with a sneer.

Margaret braced herself and looked to Devin for help, but Kyle spoke first. “Just kidding, Stepmom. Don’t get worked up.”

“That’s enough boy,” Devin said, scowling at Kyle. The tension between father and son nearly crackled. Only an uneasy cough from a corner of the room caused Devin to relent. “My wife is quite right, gentlemen,” he finally said. “It is time that we adjourn.”

The men grumbled but shoved their way out to the foyer, heading en masse to the stack of coats and hats. Little of the camaraderie witnessed just a few minutes ago was in evidence as everyone began to reach for his belongings.

Only Devin, Margaret, Kyle, and MacDuff remained in the library. Margaret was clearing a place on Devin’s desk to put the Bible, but Devin and Kyle were locked in another of their stare downs.

MacDuff went over to them and laid a hand on each of their shoulders. “You’ve got a fine boy here, Browne,” MacDuff said. “A real good soldier. I’d be mighty proud to have a son just like him.”

“Listen, MacDuff,” Devin said as he slapped MacDuff’s hand away, “I don’t know who you think you’re bluffing, because it’s no secret that this here boy of mine ain’t nothing but a lazy, good-for-nothing runt. Furthermore, I’ll thank you to stay out of it.”

And with that, Devin reached for Kyle’s ear and twisted it. He seemed to enjoy watching his son squirm with pain. MacDuff’s hand fell away from Kyle’s shoulder as Kyle contorted his body in an effort to escape the pain. It took Kyle’s face and ear turning blood red for Devin to let go.

Even from across the room, Margaret could see pools of tears gathering in Kyle’s eyes. Risking Devin’s ire, she went to Kyle to comfort him.

“Your father’s just full of himself and bourbon right now,” she whispered in her stepson’s uninjured ear. “You know as well as I do that by morning he won’t even remember this. Just go up to your room for now.”

Kyle gave his stepmother a woeful glance, but followed her instruction. As he left the library, he did not see his father stumble backward and plop into a chair; but MacDuff did and walked to the front door shaking his head. Margaret followed.

By now the others were gone, and it was just the two of them at the front door. MacDuff opened the door and allowed a swirl of falling snow into the foyer. “Sure lookin’ forward to summer,” he said to Margaret, catching her completely off-guard.

She was about to reply when she felt a definite flutter in her stomach and momentarily looked down at her stomach to contemplate the miracle of the life growing inside her. By the time she looked up again, MacDuff had disappeared into the blustery darkness.

“Me, too,” she said to herself, instead, as she joyfully realized that by summer’s end she would be a mother again. “Me, too.”