The trees, p.8
The Trees, page 8
Gertrude returned and they stopped talking.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” she said.
Jim looked at her, said nothing, and sipped his coffee.
Gertrude sat next to Ed and looked across at Jim. “All right, so tell me: What the hell is going on?”
“Nothing,” Jim said. “Except for a couple of murders. Gruesome, unsolved, messy, disturbing murders.”
“And a disappearing body,” Ed said.
“Aside from that, nothing is going on. Anyway, it’s an active case and we can’t talk about it.” Jim put down his mug and watched a dually pickup bounce by. “Gertrude, who knows everything that goes on in this town?”
“Everybody knows everything that goes on in this town.”
“No, I mean somebody special. Somebody who knows the history, the gossip, everything.”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“Neither do I,” Jim said. “I don’t know what I’m asking.”
“Is there a witch in town?” Ed asked. “He’s just afraid to say it. A witch. A root doctor.”
Gertrude laughed. “I knew that’s what he meant. I just wanted to hear him say it. You’re looking for Mama Z.”
Ed looked at Jim. “Really a root doctor?” he asked.
“That’s what I’ve heard. That’s what she says.”
“What can it hurt to talk to her?” Jim said.
“I have to go with you,” she said.
“It’s better if you just stay out of this.”
“You’re not going to find her without me.”
32
In the basement of the defunct Bryant General Store, the Reverend Doctor Fondle stood before ten White men. They all shared the same flinty look. They were, almost to a man, fat. A tall, extremely skinny man sat by the door.
“Okay, let’s say the oath,” Fondle said. “Together now.”
Standing, all: “I have done passed the Yellow Dog and stand here a member of the Grand Invisible Empire. I vow to protect the God-given rights of the White race from all aliens, be they Black, yellow, red, or Jew. I pledge to follow to the letter the orders of my superior, the Grand Dragon of the Majestic Order of Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, as passed down through the duly elected Grand Kleagle of my chapter. Rocka rocka shu ba day! We is the Klan of the USA!”
They sat at Fondle’s gesture.
“I pronounce this meeting commenced,” said the skinny sergeant of arms.
“We got ourselves a situation, White brothers,” Fondle said. “I’m afraid what we’re lookin’ at is a real nigger uprising. Two of our own brothers lay dead, and a killin’ nigger is on the gawddamn loose. I seen him, seen him close up, scarred up by Satan hisself. A nigger that’s as good at fakin’ death as anybody you will ever find. I seen him dead, and then he weren’t.”
“What do we do?” a man in front asked.
Fondle looked at all of them in turn. “We go back to the old, tried-and-true ways of our KKK forebears, the sacred ways, the ways of fury, fire, and the rope. First we gonna burn us a great big cross tonight, right out there in Smithson’s Field, right where all them Black faces in the Bottom can see real good.”
“What about them nigger police?” the thin man in back called out. “What the hell are they doin’ here?”
“The state of Mississippi thinks we’re just a bunch of rednecks can’t take care of ourselves or our business,” Fondle said.
“Well, we is just a bunch of rednecks,” one of the men said, and the others chuckled. “Peckerwood Power.” He raised his fist.
“Shut up now, Donald,” Fondle said. “I’m thinkin’ on what to do about them detectives.”
Donald said, “You know, we ain’t had no elections in this chapter in a long time. How come you still the Grand Kleagle? How come you decided you can just camp out in office like that? Other clubs have elections and other people run. Why we ain’t had no elections? Why is that?”
“That’s simple. It’s because we ain’t had us an election since I was elected,” Fondle said.
“That was twelve years ago,” the thin man said. “Ain’t supposed to be no life term, is it?”
“No, it ain’t,” from another man.
“We ain’t had no election because we ain’t had no goddamn meetins,” from still another.
“That’s true, Jared,” Donald said.
“Used to be back when my daddy was alive, we had meetins all the time, every week,” Jared said.
“Elections too,” another man said. “They was always votin’ back in them days. Right?”
“And they used to have cross burnins a lot more and family picnics and softball games and all such,” said Donald. “I remember eatin’ cake next to that glowing cross. I loved my mama’s cake.”
“Yeah,” several voiced their agreement.
“We don’t do nothin’ now,” a man complained. “I don’t even know where my hood is. I don’t even own a rope.”
“Are you saying you want to have an election now?” Fondle asked.
“Yeah, yeah, election, election,” they all chanted.
“No speeches, though,” Donald said.
“No speeches, no speeches.”
“I move we have an election for Grand Kleagle of the Money, Mississippi, chapter,” Donald said.
The thin man seconded the motion.
“In favor?” Fondle asked.
“Aye,” from all of them.
“Opposed?”
Nothing.
“The ayes have it,” Fondle said.
“Wait, who’s taking minutes?” Donald asked.
“Oh hell, Donald, you take them,” Fondle said.
“Nobody can read his goddamn scrawl,” another said.
“Just do it, Donald,” Jared said.
Donald pulled a pen from his pocket. Fondle gave him the little notebook he used for work.
“I nominate the Reverend Doctor Fondle for Grand Kleagle of the Money, Mississippi, chapter of the Supreme Order of the Knights of the Majestic Ku Klux Klan of these United States of America,” Jared said.
“Second,” from the thin man.
The others looked back at him.
“I like to second things,” the thin man said.
“All in favor?” Fondle asked.
“Aye,” from them all.
“Opposed?”
Nothing.
33
Jim and Ed picked up Gertrude at the Dinah after the lunch rush, such as it was. She sat in the middle of the rear seat and leaned forward.
“Sit back and fasten your belt,” Ed said.
“So you’re the one with kids,” she said.
“Kid,” Ed said. “She’s seven.”
“Turn left at the flashing light,” Gertrude said. “Stay on this until it becomes a dirt road. Wake me up then.” She leaned back and closed her eyes.
“Is her belt fastened?” Ed asked Jim.
“Yes, it’s fastened,” Gertrude said.
“I talked to the captain,” Jim said.
“What did you tell him?” Ed said.
“Only what he already knew. I know what pilots who see UFOs feel like now. If you tell everybody, they’re going to think you’re crazy. If you don’t say anything, well, you’re not saying anything. Then the aliens invade, assume human form, start working in grocery stores, kill everybody you know, and take their places. You could be one.”
“You’ll have to excuse him,” Ed said.
When there was no response, Jim looked in the back. “She’s asleep.”
“I wish my kid would go out like that.”
“She’d be faking,” Gertrude said. “I just like to close my eyes.”
“Who doesn’t?” Ed said.
“Will one of you tell me what you saw?” she asked.
“The fact is we didn’t see much of anything. But if you believe the people around here, then there’s a crazily battered and likely dead Black man running on the loose, maybe killing White boys with shady histories.”
“Oh.”
“See what happens when you ask questions?” Jim said.
“Anything we need to know about this Mama Z?” Ed asked.
“She calls herself a witch. What else do you need to know? She’s kinda odd, kinda scary.”
“How do you know her?” Jim asked.
“She’s my great-grandmother.”
The small house was set back in a tangle of tree branches, away from the wide expanse of yard, as if intentionally and effectively camouflaged. Gertrude trotted ahead and knocked on the screen door.
“You knock like a cop,” Jim said.
“So I’ve been told.”
She knocked again. “Mama Z!”
“Stop knocking and come in!” the woman shouted.
The front room was filled with books, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, but neatly, cleanly. A thick-legged wooden table sat centered on a jute rug in the middle of the floor. Mama Z was a broad-shouldered but not heavy woman, tall. She greeted them with a thousand-yard stare, looking at none of them as she reached out to shake their hands.
Jim and Ed took her hand in turn, both coming to believe she was blind until the old woman let out a laugh. “I’m just fucking with you,” she said. “I can see better than both of y’all put together.”
“Mama, these men are detectives from—” Gertrude started.
Mama Z interrupted her. “From Hattiesburg. Morgan and Davis. How come your office ain’t in the capitol? I find that odd.”
Jim and Ed were thrown a bit.
“Oh, Mama Z knows everything,” the old woman said. “I know you’re sleeping in the Motel 8, and I know you’re driving a family van, a Toyota something or other.”
Jim shook his head. “You know a lot, Mama Z.”
“And I know how to use a police scanner,” she said. “I listen to them crackers all day and all night. I know what’s going on because I listen. It pays to listen. Them idiot deputies don’t burp or fart unless they talk about it over the radio. They like talking on the radio. Sit down.”
They sat at the table with Mama Z.
“Make some tea for our guests, girl,” she said to Gertrude and slapped her rump as she walked by. “I got to feed her and put some meat on those yellow bones. She’s my great-granddaughter so I can boss her around like that. Lord knows nobody else can. She’s a damn pistol.”
“So, you know why we’re here,” Ed said.
“You’re looking for whoever killed those White boys.”
“Pretty much, ma’am,” Ed said. “We’re trying to figure out what’s going on with a certain seemingly dead Black man who keeps showing up and disappearing. Do you know who he is?”
“I have no idea,” Mama Z said. “But I know what’s troubling you, and I didn’t hear that on the scanner.”
“What’s that?” Jim asked.
“The connection between Wheat Bryant and that Milam.”
“That’s right,” Ed said.
“You’ve already figured out about their daddies,” she said. “Roy Bryant and Robert Milam were the worst of the worst. They were Klan all the way through to the bone, and so was them stupid boys of theirs.”
“Do you know anything about this Black man who keeps showing up and disappearing?” Jim asked.
Gertrude came from the kitchen with a tray of cups and a teapot to hear her grandmother say, “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“I didn’t know that,” Gertrude said.
“Very funny,” Mama Z said.
“I thought you were a witch,” Jim said.
“Yeah, but not that kind.” She poured tea for herself and sipped it. “I saw on CNN that a White man was killed in Chicago.”
“We know about that,” Ed said.
“They say the man was killed last week,” Mama Z said.
“Okay,” Jim said, leaning forward.
“They got his name wrong on the television, said it was Milan, but I’m suspecting it was Milam. That would be Junior’s brother. I know because Robert had a son named Lester, Lester William. They called him L. W.”
“Shit,” Jim said.
“You got that right,” the old woman said. “Somebody is exacting revenge.”
“I wonder, why now?” Gertrude asked.
“That poor boy was lynched sixty-five years ago. Maybe the spirits have had enough,” Mama Z said.
“You just said you don’t believe in ghosts,” Ed said.
“I have never claimed to always be right.” The old woman put down her cup and tapped her fingers on the table. “I’ll tell you what, though: if the spirits are out for revenge, there’s going to be a lot more killing around here. Those spirits are going to have a field day around here. Every White person in this county, if they didn’t lynch somebody themselves, then somebody in their family tree did. If you believe anything, you can believe that.”
“How do you know that?” Jim asked. “The police scanner?”
“Come with me,” the old woman said and stood, pressing against the table to find her full height.
They followed Mama Z down a short hallway lined with family photos and into another room. The room was filled with chest-high file cabinets all the way around, shorter ones under the single window.
“What’s this?” Ed asked.
“The records,” Mama Z said. “These are the records. Tell them, child,” she said to Gertrude.
“This is almost everything ever written about every lynching in these United States of America since 1913, the year Mama Z was born.”
“Wait,” Jim said. “That would make you—”
“One hundred and five,” she said.
“Every lynching?” Ed asked.
“Damn near,” Mama Z said. “I used to go to the libraries all over the state and read every paper. Now, I use the internet. You should know I consider police shootings to be lynchings. No offense.”
“None taken,” Jim said.
“Why do you do this?” Ed asked.
“Because somebody has to. When I die and this place is made known, I hope it will become a monument to the dead.”
Gertrude’s eyes welled up.
Jim Davis and Ed Morgan, who had seen nearly everything, been shot at, shot, seen death and pain, had killed in the line of duty, fell silent. They stood there and looked at the gray fronts of the cabinets. Jim counted in his head. There were twenty-three of them. The drawers were like those in a morgue.
Ed put his hand on the cabinet near him. “Are there any more relatives of Bryant and Milam?” he asked.
“I think I heard of another Milam boy, but I don’t know for sure, and I certainly wouldn’t know where he is,” Mama Z said. “Of course, there is Carolyn Bryant. Though she doesn’t look it, she’s still alive.”
“Yeah, we met her,” Jim said. “That didn’t go well. She was a little, shall we say, distraught. Of course, her son had just been murdered in her house. That makes even a racist distraught.”
“Have you seen or heard about any strangers around town?” Ed asked. “Black or White.”
Mama Z shook her head. “Wrong question,” she said. “Death is never a stranger. That’s why we fear it.”
“Is that supposed to be some kind of witchy thing to say?” Jim said. “I ask because it sounds important, but I don’t get it.”
“I like this one,” the old woman said to Gertrude. “You might talk to Deacon Wright. He was a boy then, and he was with Emmett Till in that store. I doubt he knows anything. And then there’s Betty Smith.”
“Who’s she?” Jim asked.
“Her older brother, Lamar, was shot dead in front of the Brookhaven courthouse just before Emmett arrived here in Money. There was a lot of hate in this state back then. Maybe more than there is now. Lamar was a farmer, and he was already working for civil rights around here. Nobody ever talks about him. Shot dead. My daddy took me down there, and I saw where his blood had soaked into the ground. New sidewalk there now.”
“Why do you think we need to talk to her?” Ed asked.
“If you want to know a place, you talk to its history,” Mama Z said.
34
Red Jetty pulled over and turned off the engine of his squad car. He was on the Tallahatchie Bridge. From there he could see the burning cross. He remembered the cross burnings from his youth. His father had taken him to a few Klan rallies, but his Catholic mother had protested. He had never seen an actual lynching, and he was glad of that, but his father had either seen or participated. That thought made him sad, but also made him understand, as much as he could, why there was such tension and friction between him and the man. His mother finally ran away to Detroit with a man he never got to meet. He knew only that he sold meat saws. The flames sent black smoke into the dusk sky. Even from that distance the cross looked sad, not for political or social reasons, but because it was so obviously poorly constructed. The crossbeam was already collapsing, and the flames lost all enthusiasm, lapped at the air around as if exhausted. All the kerosene in the county wasn’t going to keep that fire burning. Sadder than any of it was the fact that not a single masked member of the terrorist exercise was unknown to anyone in the town. It was a long-running joke in Money, Mississippi, that the way to discover who belonged to the Klan was to wait at Russell’s Dry Cleaning and Laundry.
35
The children were finally tucked into their beds in the Bryant house. They had taken turns crying themselves to sleep, but not one of them understood what had happened. How could they? Charlene’s CB radio sat on the sill above the kitchen sink. She sat on a high stool in front of it, the receiver near her mouth when she was speaking and nestled in her lap when she wasn’t.
“This is Big Ten-Forty, I’m on that Five Eighteen headed north toward Money. Hot Mama Yeller, you out there so I can holler at you, baby girl? Come back,” crackled through the speaker.
Charlene fumbled with the receiver, pressed the button, and said, “Here I am, Big Ten-Forty. Come back.”
“How you doin’, baby doll? I was sure sorry to hear about yer man. Just awful. Come back.”
“Yeah, it’s been just terrible. There was a lot of blood, but I got most of it cleaned up. You still driving that anteater? Come back.”
