The reformatory, p.35
The Reformatory, page 35
“Whatcha got for me?” Haddock said.
Only a few steps uphill winded Boone. He was more muscle than fat, but he had never learned to carry his own weight. “See for yo’self, suh,” Boone said. He reached into his pouch and pulled out a small tube from the high school chemistry lab. “It ain’t much… but you’ll see. Look there at the bottom.”
In the past, Boone had brought him dust piles half an inch thick, but barely a quarter inch of film lay across the tube’s flat bottom. Maybe not even that. But Haddock’s disappointment vanished when he held it closer to his face. This was different, pure golden-brown dust that turned darker or lighter depending on how he angled it in the light. He had dust like this in his main collection jar, but not all of it—too much of that dust was red, like the soil on the grounds. But now he knew the difference between debris and haint dust. He wondered if Boone had tried to fool him with fake dust a time or two, but he decided to let that suspicion rest. Boone had found him Robert Stephens, and that made up for a multitude of sins.
“Told you, boss,” Boone said. “In all my years, I swear, I’ll never forgit that swirling from thin air. Even Nana couldn’t do nothin’ like it.” His panting was from excitement now.
“Where’s Stephens hunting today? Back in the kitchen?”
Boone frowned, his grin forgotten. His stare fell to his feet. “He said… he needs a day after to rest. Just one day, he said. So he’ll see more.” He spoke low to the ground.
“Repeat that, please.” Haddock tried to keep anger from his voice, sweet as candy. Boone didn’t repeat it, not daring to.
“And you said all right,” Haddock said. “Like… a vacation.”
Boone winced at the word vacation as what he’d done dawned on him. Haddock had told him he was in a hurry to clean out the haints. His number one priority, he’d said.
“I’m sorry, boss, but, yes, I did. Let me explain: he did so good at it, no trouble at all, I thought it couldn’t hurt to rest him up. Sometimes Nana didn’t get up for days at a time after she read cards, ’specially when folks’ fortunes was hard to see. Hard on the spirit, I mean. If… their futures wasn’t clean. So one day off, well… I hoped that would be all right with you. A reward.”
Boone had reasons for everything he did, as diligent with a carrot as a stick. Haddock nearly had come to blows arguing with his swamp redneck cousins over the intelligence of Negroes, since white trash forever liked to say, They’re so dumb. They’d said as much about Robert Stephens Senior when Haddock had pointed out the holes in the rape story—primary being that not a soul worth trusting had seen him with Lorraine at Pixie’s that night and that Negroes were not served there. He was supposed to believe Stephens had been passing by in his car everyone knew on sight and offered a drunk white woman a ride? What Negro man in his right mind would offer a ride to any white woman, much less a councilman’s girl, even if she was only Tad Hurley’s mistress?
Whites thought Negroes were dumb because they didn’t let them say their piece—or didn’t listen when they did—but Haddock had been working alongside Negroes his whole life, and any white man who underestimated one might end up with a bullet in his back. Negroes were talented pretenders. Robert Stephens Sr. wasn’t dumb and neither was his son. Maybe the boy really thought he needed a day to rest, or maybe he wanted to quit catching haints.
“Next time,” Haddock said, “get my permission.”
“Yessuh, boss.”
Haddock tilted the test tube and the dust seemed to spark in the sun. The hairs on Haddock’s neck stood tall. Overhead, pine needles hissed and swayed as if an army of squirrels were marching across the treetops. Boone looked up at the racket too. Haddock nearly warned him to watch for flying branches but thought better of spooking him. Still, Boone wrapped his arms around himself as if he were cold. He could feel those angry spirits too.
“Stephens seemed at peace with it?” Haddock said. “What he’s done?”
“Seemed real proud of himself,” Boone said. “He was tellin’ all about it at dinner. Boys was sayin’ where to find haints under their beds and whatnot. He was laughin’ and grinnin’.”
Haddock nodded, more at ease. That was typical of the boys: Give them special privileges and attention and they would betray anyone, much less the dead. Stephens hadn’t seemed at peace in his office, but maybe he’d told Boone the truth about needing to rest. Or…
“You don’t think one of ’em got to him, do you?” Haddock asked Boone. “A haint?” Lucy’s spirit was just a baby, but she knocked picture frames off his dresser and made his bed’s headboard shake. A haint or two might have given Stephens a sleepless night.
From Boone’s blank face, he hadn’t considered it.
“Every action, Boone, has an equal and opposite reaction,” Haddock said. “That’s science. And that’s haints too. They ain’t gonna just sit still for it. They won’t be idle. If I was a haint, I wouldn’t let the new haint catcher sleep another wink.”
Worry crept across Boone’s face. “You right. Nana used to say spirits she crossed bedeviled her sometimes.”
“He might not tell you, so watch him real close. Pay attention to everything.”
“You know I already do that, boss.”
Out of the blue, Haddock thought of Kendall Sweeting. Almost as if the young man he’d been—the one who’d set the fire—had whispered in his ear. If any haint was troubling Stephens, it was Kendall Sweeting.
“Does Stephens have friends yet?” Haddock said.
“He stays close to Redbone—I mean August Montgomery. That’s about the only one.” Of course. Stephens and the bright-skinned one they called Redbone had gone to the Funhouse together on Stephens’s first night. They were blood brothers now.
“That’s the one we’ll use, then,” Haddock said. “They’ll do things for friends they won’t do for themselves. As long as Stephens chases haints like he’s supposed to, hands off Redbone. Otherwise, Redbone pays. And if Stephens tries to cross you or con you… Redbone really pays.”
Haddock could devise a number of punishments for Redbone beyond the Funhouse or more time on his sentence, especially if he used a broomstick. Or he could give Redbone to Cleo, who was happy to do anything to avoid another night with Haddock in the shed. And Cleo was good with a knife. He could rip a hog’s belly from end to end without blinking.
“Only if it comes to that,” Haddock said for clarity. “Don’t jump ahead of me, Boone.”
“Gotcha, boss,” Boone said. He scratched the bridge of his nose, glancing toward the pitted soil without headstones. That was another thing about Boone: nothing that should remain unspoken needed to be said. If Haddock were still a drinking man, he’d rather share a beer with Boone over at Pixie’s than the swamp scum he’d hired as dorm masters for the white campus, Negro or not. Any damn day.
“You’ve done real good with this one, Boone.”
“Yessuh, I pegged him,” Boone bragged. “He’s part bloodhound. Saw that right off.”
Just when you thought you understood Negroes and their place in the world, a special one came along and made you rethink everything you knew. Haddock had seen how scared McCormack and those Juniper Street blowhards looked when they heard reports of Robert Stephens and his union meetings right under their noses. That was power. As Gramps used to say, once you saw a talking dog, you never looked at a dog the same way again.
Robert Junior had a different kind of power. Haddock had felt an odd pull to him right away. He wanted to tell him things. He’d wanted to open his heart to this boy who stood one step closer to God’s mysteries the way Catholics confessed sins to their parish priests. Haddock was mostly Baptist, and Baptists only liked telling other people’s secrets, but Haddock had felt unburdened when he showed the Stephens boy the photo of Kendall Sweeting and the fire. He wanted to show him more—so much more. Because what could Stephens say or do? Even if he had the foolish courage to try to tell, who would believe him?
But someone might. And even if they didn’t, any wild claims from Robert Stephens Jr. might give fuel to those who wanted to shut down his school or run Haddock away from his duty to his boys. Telling Stephens about Lucy had been an indulgence, a moral and rational weakness, like keeping the photos close in his drawer. Grief and shame stirred and tightened beneath Haddock’s breastbone, the way he’d felt when he stared at the photograph of the broomstick his conscience had compelled him to burn.
Boone had his own ugly secrets from the hunts after boys ran, but Haddock didn’t want to air out his new plans at this restless graveyard. He didn’t want to hear his plans with his own ears. He’d told Stephens he could get an early release, and Stephens had sat there with wide, believing eyes despite Haddock spelling out to him how he’d killed Lucy—not all of the words, but enough. Stephens had seemed to know as soon as he’d seen Haddock’s photo with his dead baby sister on the wall, his confession in plain sight.
Haddock had come close to confessing the first time Stephens had set foot in his office with those scrawny arms and knobby knees, pissing in his pants. On Stephens’s next visit, after he did confess, Haddock’s hand had itched with the desire to spread his entire photo collection across the desk and show each one to this boy who saw haints. If Stephens had the wisdom of a grown man, he would have blubbered, Don’t tell me no more. Please don’t tell me. A grown man would have expected to be shot on sight.
How many ghosts would Robert Stephens catch before he would have to die?
27
Robert waited all night for Blue to appear and tell him which haint he could point out for Boone, but Blue never came—unless he was the tree branch scraping against the dormitory window in the wind or the shadow that flew across the ceiling once, but it was probably an owl hunting in the moonlight. When the sky grew lighter and Redbone finally stirred and sat up in his bed, Robert gestured a shrug: Did he come? Redbone shook his head. Blue was right: he’d come up with his first haint too fast, and Boone would expect him to catch one right away. He might go to the Funhouse again if he didn’t catch another one today.
It was Sunday, church day. Could he ask God to help him find a haint who deserved to go in the jar? Was it a sin to ask? The church bell tolled as if to answer him, and Robert could have sworn he felt Mama say, It’ll be all right, Robbie, or his ears only wanted to hear her. Robert looked out for Boone, nervous, but only Crutcher came to snap his ruler against the wall to get them out of bed. After he and the other boys were in button shirts and ties—which hardly dressed up stained pants and scuffed shoes—Crutcher lined them up for the walk to the church.
“Superintendent Haddock believes the house of God belongs to everyone,” Crutcher said, overhearing them as they marched two by two. “Today he’ll preach the Word to you boys himself. That’s the kind of man he is.”
Robert knew what kind of man Haddock was. He was itching to share a look with Redbone, and knew Redbone felt the same, but they both stared straight ahead across the field that looked like a grassy version of the Red Sea between their campus and the white side.
Robert had been afraid he might go to hell for setting foot on any church on these grounds, but he would go for sure if Haddock was preaching.
“Silent reflections on God’s blessings as we walk to church,” Crutcher said. “No talking.”
Their walk in the hot morning began, everyone fidgeting and no one speaking. Robert tried, but he couldn’t think of a single blessing to be thankful for—not even Papa and Gloria, who seemed too far away to be real. Thunder rumbled above, a low growl. The sky was graying as dark, bloated clouds floated past the sun, trapping soupy heat below. Robert’s armpits were drenched with sweat after only a few yards.
A colored boy stood alone in the high, empty grasses thirty yards ahead, arms outstretched like a scarecrow. He was dressed like a deacon in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. His shirt ruffled in the warm breeze but the boy didn’t move, arms frozen akimbo. Robert knew it must be Blue before he was close enough to see his face. Still, the sweat under his shirt turned cold as he and Redbone walked past Blue without stopping or turning their heads. The bell kept ringing, past counting.
“You see him?” Robert whispered. Redbone nodded.
Blue matched their pace, walking beside them—or floating, anyway. Robert looked away from Blue’s bare feet skating across the grass—flying!—because it made him feel like he was Alice falling down an impossible rabbit hole like in Mama’s book.
“Did I look like Jesus?” Blue said. “I bet I did, didn’t I?”
The belly of a gray cloud sparked white. Lightning would strike them all before they made it to the church; Robert was sure of it.
“Don’t be sore,” Blue said. “We can still be friends. You just have to do what I say now.”
Redbone made a snorting sound, and Blue looked hurt. The only sound other than Blue was the tolling bell, which finally came to a rest. It must have rung twenty times.
“Don’t you want Haddock to pay for whupping you?” Blue said. “Get what’s coming?”
“I need another one, like you promised,” Robert mumbled, staring at the ground.
“Oh, you’ll see him,” Blue said. “At the church. He kneels at the altar every Sunday like he can make up for all he’s done. Name’s Robicheaux. He’s more decent now than he was, but better to be sacrificed in a church than in the kitchen. Tell Boone where you see him—but only him. You put anybody else in that jar and I’ll make you sorry, all right.”
“What does he look like?” Robert said, impatient with Blue trying to make him feel bad.
“No talking,” Crutcher called from behind them. The boy behind Robert kicked the back of his heel to shush him.
“You’ll know him,” Blue said while Robert limped through the pain in his foot. “Haddock’s gonna be so happy, he’ll think nothing can touch him. And that’s when you’re gonna use his spare key to find his snapshots in his drawer. And you’re gonna take them. Every single one.”
Robert shook his head. Hell, no. The plan sounded more dangerous all the time.
“Yes you are,” Blue said in a singsong, and when Robert looked up to challenge Blue, Blue was gone. Robert couldn’t guess how long Blue had been nothing except a voice in his ear.
* * *
Robert had never visited a finer church, identical to the church on the white side of the campus. The white paint looked fresh from the top of the steeple to the wide double doors. The shiny golden cross above the doors was as tall as a tree. Miz Lottie’s church was filled with memories and people who loved him, but those pews were shabbier; it had only a handful of worn Bibles and hymnal books, and no stained glass rinsed color into the gray morning light.
This sanctuary had carpeting and these pews had thin cushions instead of bare wood. The church’s prettiness was startling.
Inside the church, the organ set high beside the pulpit was fitted with large pipes to make it louder as Mrs. Hamilton, dressed all in white, played “Amazing Grace,” Mama’s favorite hymn. Robert hoped the haint Blue wanted him to catch wouldn’t go near the massive pipes because he doubted Mama could resist them. Mama was probably wrapped inside the brass, making the powerful music swell. Mama had said most people didn’t know “Amazing Grace” had been written by a slave ship captain who saw the error of his ways. Anyone can change with help from God, she’d said.
The first rows of pews were filled with a dozen colored employees in their Sunday best with their families, including babies. That was a surprise. After Crutcher led the boys to their rows, he joined a round-faced woman holding a young girl’s hand and kissed her on the cheek.
Even Boone was dressed for church in a tight-fitting suit with straining buttons, although he had no family with him. Robert was sitting at the edge of his pew across the aisle, so Boone tipped an imaginary hat to let Robert know he was watching. And tapped the leather pouch hidden just under his suit coat.
Robert only mouthed the words to the hymn while the others sang. He looked up and down for the haint Blue had promised him, but the only people kneeling at the altar were two colored boys in tatters giggling while they took turns blowing on the nearest candle to make the flame dance. Even Redbone didn’t see the boys—only Robert. Was he supposed to point out one of these boys to Boone? If so, which one? Maybe even Blue didn’t know they were there.
“Please remain standing,” an officious colored woman said at the shiny wooden pulpit, “as we prepare for a special address from Superintendent Fenton J. Haddock.”
Warden Haddock appeared from where he had been sitting just out of sight, wearing a preacher’s crimson robe embroidered with a yellow cross. His robe was far too short for his long legs, barely reaching his knees. Robert noticed rumbling thunder above again, closer than it had been. Warden Haddock’s boots boomed across the wooden planks, then he clasped the woman’s hand with a smile and took his place at the pulpit. Mrs. Hamilton’s organ went silent.
“Good morning, Gracetown School for Boys family,” Warden Haddock said.
“Good morning, Superintendent,” the church said in unison, although Robert called him Warden instead of by his proper title like the rest. That was what he was, wasn’t it?
“Today we greet the promise of not only a new week, but a new era,” Warden Haddock said. “An era of trust and growth. An era when we can truly leave the darkness of the past in the grave where it belongs and walk together to a better future.” His eyes came to Robert’s and stared, and Robert’s fingers tightened on the smooth wood of the pew in front of him. His knees trembled with relief when Warden Haddock looked away from him. “No more whispers. No more questions from Tallahassee. Only all of us, hand in hand, making the Gracetown School for Boys the marvel it deserves to be in this great state and nation.”
