19

Nobody had been sure why the Ku Klux Klan had burned a cross in front of Mr. Bates’s cornfield behind the First Baptist Church that night in April, but later, months later, an official of the Klan had telephoned Cousin Ida and told her to quit her worrying, they had not had the burning on account of anything she might have done but because of one of the Jamaican blacks who was getting too familiar with a white parlormaid in old man Graber’s house, a stone’s throw from Ida’s. But it was the cross burning in the Spring air that had caused all the trouble between her and Amos and had made him leave town and had deprived her of the comfort and support of a son who was now, she was certain, lost forever to her.

Ida’s letters to Eustace arrived now more frequently (she had written to him ever since Amos had first mentioned Ace, in his first weeks in Chicago) especially now since Amos himself had quit keeping in touch with her.

But the letters to and from Eustace were not enough for her, and she felt, though she was only thirty-eight, that she was going down “the shady side” of life’s road, without news of a son who was the paramount, yes, the only thing in her life. Of late she had had nothing but one terrible dream about him after another, and her pillow was wet in the morning from both weeping and the sweat of terror and anxiety.

She had frequently called Lily over to have a talk with her about it, and once a few weeks back when she had started to tell Lily the story of that April evening and the Klan, Lily had said firmly, “Ida, I don’t think you’d best finish what you’ve started to say. Not for my sake, precious, but for your own. Don’t tell me. Certain secrets a woman must keep buried in her own heart. This is one of them. We have to carry some things with us to the grave, and hope the Lord will turn away from judging us for them, and judge us only on the ones we can talk about in daylight.”

When therefore Cousin Ida had sent Lily a new urgent summons to come down to the end of the road for a “serious talk,” Lily was afraid that Ida was going to broach again the unwelcome subject of what had happened between mother and son.

Lily entered the house with a tight mouth, as if to say, “If you so much as open your mouth again about that matter, I’ll never darken this door again. I’ve been your best friend, but there’s a limit to what friendship can endure.”

Lily sat down stiffly and refused Ida’s offer of a piece of fresh-made cinnamon cake.

“Something awful has happened or is about to happen to Amos.” Cousin Ida went to her worry without preamble, placed the Woolworth sheet of stationery she had just received from Eustace Chisholm, and which contained the exact sentence she had uttered, in front of the music teacher. “Lily, for God’s sake, read what Mr. Chisholm has wrote.”

Lily refused to touch the stationery for several long seconds. Finally she took it.

“What on earth is wrong with you today, Lily? You act like I had the bubonic plague! If I can’t turn to you in trouble,” and her emphasis of the word trouble brought back to both women Cousin Ida’s role a number of years ago when she had gotten Dr. Sherman Stokes to perform an illegal operation for Lily when pregnancy would have ruined her career as a music teacher in a small town. Dr. Stokes, a respected M.D., had only done it because he was so fond of Ida.

“All right,” Lily said, remembering the old favor. “Let me read this gentleman’s letter.”

She read then.

“I think it’s wonderful you don’t have to use glasses, Lily, when you use your eyes so much in your teaching,” Ida rambled on while her friend perused the letter, and waiting, she took a bite out of her own cinnamon coffee cake.

Cousin Ida saw with impatience that Lily had now gone back to reread what Eustace had written. Impatient, she smoothed down her pretty home-made gingham apron with the forget-me-not pattern, and looked pridefully about at her immaculate kitchen.

Suddenly Ida noted with astonished surprise a look of relief, if not outright pleasure, spreading over Lily’s face as she read.

“What in God’s name is making you look so glad with a letter like that!” Ida could no longer contain herself.

She suddenly snatched the letter paper out of Lily’s hands.

“Ida, how unlike you, dearest!”

“Don’t Mr. Chisholm’s and my concern mean anything to you?” Ida thundered, and rising, forgetful, the empty cake plate fell from her lap and broke into pieces on the floor.

Lily stooped down with her and helped her pick up the fragments, uttering regrets.

“Ida, my angel, may I explain what you mistook for gladness in my expression? I thought the letter was going to contain something much worse than it did! After all, it’s only premonitions so far, on this Mr. Chisholm’s and your part . . . Not fact!”

Ida burst into tears in Lily’s arms.

“I love you, Ida, and you’ll never know how much. You’re the dearest girl in the world. Your only trouble is you love too much. You’re too full of love for your own good.”

The two women sat then talking and reasoning things out. Then Lily tasted the cinnamon coffee cake.

“I wish you’d move in here with me,” Ida said dispiritedly.

“Oh, the piano playing would drive you crazy, precious,” Lily replied. “I can hardly stand it myself any more.”

“And you think Amos will get through Chicago all right then and come back to us?” Ida spoke as if to herself.

Lily hesitated. There was the remembrance of the pack of cards, when at Ida’s insistence, over a year ago, she had told mother and son’s fortune.

She thought back to her own recollections of the boy. There was something about Rat, something she had never been able to explain, from the day when she had unsuccessfully given him a few piano lessons, then told him to stick to his Greek . . .

“We’ll hear from Amos, in the world,” Lily said ambiguously. “I’m sure of that.” But Ida was not listening to her.