18
Summer Insomnia

Do you know the feeling when your sleep is so troubled that you are glad when something wakes you?

That something was a quiet but urgent tapping on my front door.

The girl, Hannah, was standing on the porch, wearing her usual grubby T-shirt and ragged jeans, with bare feet below; but her expression was wild with alarm.

I grabbed her wiry arm and pulled her into the living room, locking the door firmly. As I did so, I recalled the sounds that had disturbed my dreams – the engines and the shouting. I remembered that throughout the night I had half woken again and again. There had been all kinds of shenanigans up at the barn – some sort of devilish party, it sounded like . . . But surely it wasn’t possible that Hannah had been caught up in that madness!

‘What’s going on, Hannah?’

She stared at me.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake . . . I suppose I’ll have to find pen and paper . . .’

I fumbled around searching for a notepad and pencil, realizing that it could take the rest of the night for her to write the story. When I returned she was standing by the window, gazing into the moonlight.

One of the fascinating things about people who have been mute for many years – either physically or electively mute, as I knew Hannah to be – is that their faces become incredibly expressive. Before she had written a word I understood that Pip was out there and he was in profound danger.

In a civilized society a fellow would get straight on the phone and call the police. But with a feeling of absolute dismay, I recalled the patrol cars amongst the night convoy.

I threw down the notepad and grabbed a coat. ‘Hannah, now listen. You’re going to wait here and I’m going to take a walk and see if I can spot him. Is that all right?’

She turned towards me, and I read her thoughts again as if she were shouting in my face: There’s nothing you can do out there alone!

I sat her at the table and gently placed a cardigan around her shoulders. Then I went to the kitchen to make her a warm drink, and all the time my mind was whirling as I struggled to formulate a plan . . .

And that’s when I heard it!

I stood at the door with a mug in each hand – and simply froze in my tracks. At first I thought it was the radio or a voice outside, but then I saw her head bent sadly and realized that Hannah was singing again – quietly and tremulously in that beautiful, natural voice.

It was a song called ‘Strange Fruit’, which they were playing a lot on the radio those days. ‘Strange Fruit’ was a protest song, but it wasn’t an angry song. Oh no. What made it so disturbing was that it was sung softly like a sad, sleepy lullaby. Every time I heard it, it made my skin crawl. And it happened again that night as I heard Hannah sing. Because, you see, ‘Strange Fruit’ is a lullaby about lynching. Go and listen to it sometime . . . listen carefully to the words and maybe you’ll shudder like me when you realize that the strange fruits in the poplar trees are nothing less than lynched Black bodies with bulging eyes and twisted mouths, swaying gently amidst the sweet fragrance of magnolia.

I restrained myself from moving until the last pure notes had died away, then I walked quietly to her side and placed a mug in her hand.

‘Ah, that’s a wonderful song, Hannah. One of my favourites. Was it Billie Holiday?’

She nodded, and I was completely taken aback when she whispered, ‘Don’ tell no one, Jack.’ Her voice was cracked and hoarse.

‘Hannah, I won’t tell a living soul. Not until you’re ready. But I loved hearing you. It’s a gorgeous voice you have there.’

It was a precious moment, as we sat side by side watching the timid rays of morning creeping into the room.

At one point I asked her a question, but I was pretty sure I knew the answer. ‘It’s the Klan, isn’t it, Hannah? It’s the bloody Ku Klux Klan!’

She nodded and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Of course, I knew a little about the KKK. Who didn’t know something? The papers were full of their despicable lynchings and beatings and the unexplained ‘disappearances’. In segregated states like this, Black people were not allowed to serve on juries, so on the few occasions when Klansmen were brought to justice they were released within hours, and TV footage sometimes showed them smoking cigars and laughing arrogantly with police officers outside the courts. So if a Black orphan like Pip went missing . . . well, it would barely get a mention in the barber shop on a Saturday morning.

My mind was in turmoil and, although I hate myself for admitting it, there was fear too. It was not the same fear as when Erwin had confronted me; this was something far darker and more sinister. It was the realization that the world I thought I knew did not exist at all – the word ‘justice’ had been torn from the dictionary. There was nowhere to turn and no one to complain to. Perhaps this was the same feeling of overwhelming helplessness that decent law-abiding Jewish families felt when the Nazis came to power.

This must be the world that Pip and his family had always known. How could anyone sleep safely in their bed in this stifling climate of dread?

And what about Hannah? Where were her family? Where was her tribe? On my way to the university I had often seen those dispossessed Native American people sitting sadly and silently on benches around the town, with an empty expression or an empty bottle.

That’s why Hannah is here in the hypnotist’s tale. This mute girl represents those proud and noble indigenous people who hunted these mauve mountains long before it was taken from them.

As I was thinking these sad thoughts, the boy appeared quietly on the deck, staring in at us with eyes aflame. He looked taller and older than the last time I had seen him, and a little more harrowed.

Hannah ran to the door and fumbled with the key. I saw his shoulders drop with exhaustion as she smothered him in her embrace. The relief I felt was like a loosening of every muscle in my body and a warmth flowing through my veins.

It was 5.30 a.m., and the glow of the moon was melting into daylight. I left the children huddled beneath a blanket on the swing seat. Something had changed between them; Hannah now rested her head affectionately on Pip’s shoulder.

I washed and dressed and prepared eggs and bagels and muffins. I saw Finnegan return from his night’s hunting and crawl onto Hannah’s lap. I carried out the food and we ate together on the veranda, like three washed-up refugees.

In brief sentences Pip told me the incredible story of what had taken place. I must admit that at various times I wondered if the story was a little far-fetched but, as if to chasten me for my doubts, we heard the familiar drone of engines coming down from the fields. A look of dread spread across Pip’s face, and we had the sickening experience of watching that slow-moving convoy roll down the dirt track by Dead River Farm. They filed past my bungalow – the pickup trucks, the customized four-wheel drives, the farmers’ vehicles, the patrol cars, the Harley Davidsons, two or three Cadillacs, a Thunderbird . . . As they passed, every head of every driver and every passenger turned and stared directly at me as I sat with my two young friends. A patrol car slowed. The stony-faced cop leaned his head out of the window – he touched his eyes with two fingers then rotated his hand and pointed them aggressively at me. I understood what it meant all right – ‘I see you, fellah . . . I see you.’

When the last vehicle had gone I stood up, my heart belting, my body aching with fatigue. I looked at Pip and Hannah curled up beneath the blanket, and suddenly my thoughts came into focus. ‘Pip . . . Hannah . . . Did you ever go on holiday?’

They stirred a little and stared at me blankly.

‘A vacation, I mean. You know what? I’ve got a feeling we’d all benefit from getting away from this infernal place. And I’ve an interesting destination in mind. Call it Jack Morrow’s Mystery Tour if you like!’