Brotherhood Page 3

  Shad heard Jeremiah’s boots stomp behind him. He thought he heard voices. They walked a tad more and now he knew he heard voices. They had to be getting near the brotherhood meeting. The voices weren’t out in the open air but were muffled, like coming through a window. Pointy Head pulled Shad’s arm and they stopped. Shad listened to the long, slow hoot of an owl.

  “One step up,” said Pointy Head.

  Shad lifted his foot onto a wooden step. Pointy Head stomped, the wood rang hollow, and Shad heard voices shush one another. Then Pointy Head pulled him through a door. Shad couldn’t see anything because of the blindfold. He sensed people—warm bodies and sweat and rustling and whispering. They shoved and shuffled to make room. Shad told himself to stay strong—the ghosts were just Clifton and Jeremiah and a bunch of boys he probably knew, anyway.

  Pointy Head announced, “A new member, brothers! This boy wants to join up.”

  “Bring him forward,” said a voice.

  Shad smelled Pointy Head’s stale breath on his ear as he leaned in and talked low, but his words were plenty loud enough for everyone to hear. “The brotherhood will now inspect you. Keep the blindfold on.”

  Shad heard feet move toward him, heard them circle around. He felt something brush against his cheek and neck—a feather, maybe. He raised his shoulders to block it, but it tickled his skin—down his back, then his bare feet. He cringed as he felt a hand pull at his burlap-sack shirt, then another hand, and another. He’d never before felt anything this creepy.

  Shad lifted his arms to take off the blindfold.

  “Keep it on!” someone barked.

  Shad dropped his arms. Then he felt someone put something down his back. The something was cold. It wiggled. It was gooey. Shad heard boys laugh, and he wriggled all over. Get it out of my shirt! He hopped. He danced. The wiggly thing fell to his britches. He brushed at his backside. Now the thing was in his privates.

  The room howled. Shad hopped. He went up on tiptoes. Was it a worm? Help me, Jesus. Shad shook his britches, trying to give it room—get it to fall out. Now it was down the back of his knee. He shook his leg and didn’t feel it anymore. It was out.

  Then he felt it squish, cold, beneath his bare foot.

  6

  Brotherhood

  “THAT’S ENOUGH,” someone said. “Everybody settle now. The Grand Cyclops will speak.”

  The rustling died down. Shad trembled, suddenly hating everything about this brotherhood. He figured Jeremiah was probably the one who’d put that squishy thing down his back, and he hated to admit Jeremiah might have been right—maybe Shad was too young. Maybe he didn’t belong here. He felt like such an idiot—always running after Jeremiah’s shadow.

  He still wore the blindfold, but even with it on, he could sense the light shift. Someone moved a lantern and the odor of kerosene rose in the room. From a crack under the blindfold, Shad glimpsed his bare feet on wooden boards. Beside them lay a squished baby bird. A baby so young it didn’t have feathers yet.

  “Brother,” said a new voice, “you have entered the den of the most secret society on the face of the earth.” The voice was rich and soft-spoken, not clipped and choppy like Granddaddy’s or Mr. O’Malley’s, not as deep as Clifton’s. Shad felt relieved for a moment, thinking that such an educated voice wouldn’t belong to the kind of person who’d put a baby bird down his shirt. This man spoke with an aura of authority and trust.

  But as the man went on, Shad heard a coldness in the voice. Each word was perfect and slow-spoken. “Brother, do you solemnly desire to become a member of the society of the Ku Klux?”

  Shad didn’t know what a Ku Klux was, but he wasn’t going to show his ignorance. Today he wore a blindfold and at his feet lay a squished baby bird, and he was not—no way, not ever—going to ask what a Ku Klux was. He said, “Yes, sir.”

  “We are here tonight to welcome you in,” said the educated voice, and the room grew still. “State your full name for the record.”

  “Shadrach Alfriend Weaver.”

  “Now, Shadrach, answer me these questions. First, in remembrance of the unforgivable humiliation of Davis and Lee—”

  “Hear, hear!” came a chorus of voices.

  “Blessings to them!”

  “Let’s have quiet, please! Now, brother, in the solemn honor of Davis and Lee, do you commit yourself to this brotherhood and its loyal deeds?”

  Shad held himself tight for a moment, thinking of President Jefferson Davis and the great General Robert E. Lee. Then he let out his breath with a shudder, resting his palms on his thighs to make them stop trembling. “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you promise to protect and defend the weak and the innocent, especially the widows and orphans of soldiers who gave their lives in sacrifice for our noble cause?”

  Shad’s thoughts raced with everything Virginia had fought for and his daddy had died for. He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you promise to remain true to the Ku Klux to your dying day, and never divulge the identity of your Ku Klux brethren?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am the Grand Cyclops of this den, and I will not tolerate disloyalty to the brotherhood. If you betray the Ku Klux Klan, you will pay dearly for such betrayal. Do you understand?”

  Shad squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again, and found the blindfold still in place. He tried to reason his way through the question. If he got into an argument with Jeremiah, was that betrayal? If Jeremiah told him to splash with the water moccasins down the Chickahominy River and Shad said no, was that betrayal? He didn’t like this question. “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you swear by the heart of your mother, by the soul of your father, and by the bones of your ancestors that you will honor this Klan from this night and forever, and do what you are bid, blindly and without question?”

  Shad swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, let me introduce the officers of our den. We have two Night Hawks.”

  Shad heard feet stomping. Applause. Whistles.

  “A Grand Monk.”

  Again, stomping and commotion. It went on and on as the Grand Cyclops announced positions: a Grand Scribe, a Grand Exchequer, a Grand Turk, a Grand Sentinel.

  “Finally, Shadrach, do you swear that you will keep secret the location of this meeting, and swear that no manner of questioning or torture will lead you to betray the Ku Klux?”

  He wanted to go home. More than anything in the world, he wished that he had just stayed home. “Yes, sir.”

  “Place him before the royal altar and adorn his head with the regal crown.”

  The rustling picked up. Somebody put something soft on Shad’s head. Then a hand grabbed his arm and pulled him, and he shuffled through the crowd again. Something tickled his neck—another feather, maybe—and he jerked his shoulders upward.

  “Now, Shadrach,” the Grand Cyclops bellowed, and the room grew quiet. “Repeat these words after me: Oh would some power the giftie give us.”

  Shad thought the brotherhood was crazy. He had no idea what a giftie was, but he swallowed and said, “Oh would some power the giftie give us.”

  “To see ourselves as others see us.”

  “To see ourselves as others see us.”

  Somebody pulled at his blindfold, and it was off. Shad saw a cracked looking glass with his own face in pieces. The soft thing on his head was made of big, honest-to-goodness donkey ears. The room howled with laughter, and he understood. He was the jackass. He was looking at this—what had the man called it—the royal altar, wearing a regal crown of donkey ears. Shad was nothing but a jackass, and these boys were having a night of fun at his expense.

  Someone was holding a lantern high, and like a moth, Shad turned toward it. The light blinded him for a spell, and he squinted. The room was chock-full of blurry white spots and ghosts—gray-white sheets stretching taller than men. Painted faces
and masks.

  Then they came at him, one by one, saying, “Welcome to the brotherhood.” It was a blur of ghosts and handshakes and the tousling of hair and chuckling.

  “Welcome, son,” said a deep voice—an old man. Shad shook his hand, then the ghost backed into the crowd and another one came forward.

  “Hey, hey, Jeremiah’s little brother,” said an extra tall one with a deep voice—Pointy Head. The ghost dropped Shad’s hand and punched his shoulder lightly, then disappeared into the crowd, and Shad knew for certain that it was Clifton.

  “W-w-welcome,” said another ghost. His big, sweaty palm grabbed Shad’s, and a smoky smell came with him. Shad couldn’t believe it. Bubba? His friend hadn’t told him he’d joined up. His own buddy was here—Bubba with his stupid stutter.

  Then there was a ghost with only one eye. He wrapped two warm hands around one of Shad’s and held them there a moment, not shaking, just holding. He said, “Welcome, son,” and the voice belonged to the Grand Cyclops.

  Then one squeezed Shad’s hand, hurting it, twisting. It was Crooked Face. Jeremiah.

  Shad yanked his hand away.

  Jeremiah leaned in close so that his sheet touched Shad’s forehead. He said, “Brother,” with a growl, and Shad knew he was angry that Shad had followed him to the meeting. “Listen here,” said Jeremiah softly. “Now you’re in. And you make sure you never embarrass me or Mama or our family. You got that?”

  Shad’s hands went into fists.

  “I asked you a question,” Jeremiah whispered.

  “I got it,” Shad said. “I got it.”

  Jeremiah turned away, and Shad’s eyes followed him into the shadows. Shad wanted to haul off and hit him, but more ghosts were coming at him, shaking his hand and welcoming him, and he couldn’t keep stewing over Jeremiah.

  Then there was a ghost who didn’t say anything. He gave Shad a hug and stepped back, and because of a limp, his weight came into Shad as he tottered to find his balance. There was something about him—maybe it was the dye-setting smell or the limp—Shad wasn’t sure, but somehow he knew he’d hugged that ghost a thousand times before. He knew exactly who it was.

  7

  Sheriff Parker

  NOW SHAD WATCHED Granddaddy pace from the east wall of Weaver’s Fine Tailoring to the west, and with every clip-thunk of his bad leg, the floorboards shook. Granddaddy punched the plaster wall beside his black devil sewing machine. Then he rubbed his fist with his other hand. “Let’s get going, Shad. If they’ve nabbed Jeremiah, well, the first order of business is to put your mama’s mind at rest—ain’t that right?”

  “Uh, yes, sir. Mama.”

  “Then let’s go. We got to talk with Sheriff Parker.”

  Shad followed Granddaddy into Richmond proper, walking the tree-lined streets past crowds at the marketplace, past church bells chiming on top of one another, past Old Market Station. Granddaddy didn’t slow at the station, and Shad knew that meant Sheriff Parker was at the other police station—the one out Marshall Street—and he braced for the walk.

  They crossed Fourteenth Street—wide like Broad—and it was busy with rebuilding. Men, both colored and white, were laying bricks, pushing sand-filled wheelbarrows, mixing up mortar, carrying lumber, sawing boards. Most of the buildings that had burned in the April 1865 fire were gone now, but a few shells remained—just chimneys and rubble.

  A couple of men waved to Granddaddy. He tipped his cap at them, and Shad realized what Jeremiah liked about coming here, hoping for work. It wasn’t just the dollar and the meal. It was these men—this brotherhood. All this commotion. Watching a wall go up. A roof. Maybe Jeremiah got to swing a hammer here. Or learn to lay bricks. Back home in the quiet down Nine Mile Road, what did Shad and Mama do but make tiny stitches with fine little needles? No, tailoring didn’t appeal to Jeremiah one bit. Never had, never would.

  The walk to the Marshall Street station was a hefty one—north and west and mostly uphill. Shad had been out that way a few times, first on deliveries with Daddy and Mindy-girl, and later alone. Weaver’s Fine Tailoring had done its share of the britches-tightening business during the war, and Shad had done nearly all the deliveries.

  He and Granddaddy kept to Main Street for a while, walking on and on as the numbers got smaller and smaller. They started to turn on Eighth Street but saw Yankees on patrol up that way—three of them catching a smoke, brandishing muskets on blue shoulders. He and Granddaddy kept their heads down and went on to Seventh Street and turned there, instead.

  Damn Yankees. They’d put Richmond under martial law when the war ended, and their presence alone had Virginians so riled up, at times Shad half expected another war to break out. The Yankees would whistle at ladies and stare down gentlemen, gloating, We showed you good, you stupid, bigoted Confederates—so much so that when boys accidentally-on-purpose tripped one of them, or a Yankee’s nose just happened to get in the way of a good old boy’s fist (“But officer, my hand was there first. You can’t blame me for his shortsightedness. Get that boy a pair of spectacles . . .”), why, cheers would go up like the Fourth of July. For a brief moment, Richmonders would feel good about themselves again.

  Then the Yankees would drag the offender away and hold him overnight, and when it was Jeremiah, like it sometimes was, Mama would burst into tears. Shad would find himself explaining again how it was good, Mama. How Jeremiah made everyone proud.

  But today, more was at stake than a punch in the gut and a night in jail, and the last thing Shad wanted was to walk by those Yankees and rile one up. He and Granddaddy continued along Seventh Street across Franklin and Grace and Broad Streets to Marshall, then west, crossing over the numbered streets until there weren’t any more numbers.

  After First Street the names changed to the old presidents and founding fathers. Shad’s reading wasn’t good enough to make out the wooden signs, but he’d memorized the names—Adams Street, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, Patrick Henry Street. Daddy had told him all about those fine men and everything they’d done to make the nation great. Then times had changed and Yankees had set out to ruin the country—to take away rights that each state had under the Constitution—and Shad knew that no street in Richmond would ever get itself named after Abraham Lincoln.

  When they got to the police station—to the funny intersection where Brook Road hit Marshall and Adams Streets on the diagonal—there sat a two-story building made of huge cement blocks. The second-floor windows had awnings with fat red and white stripes. In front of the station stood a hitching post with a black mare that pawed the dirt.

  Shad and Granddaddy went into a room with hollow-sounding wooden floors, and Shad smelled candle wax right off. He noted how high the ceiling was, how the white plaster walls held light that came through tall windows.

  A voice bellowed from God knows where. “Where your shoes, boy?” Then a man came from shadows in the back—a big man with thinning hair and a black mustache. He wore dark trousers and a brown corduroy vest with a fat gold star. His face was puffy. Shad watched him spit a wad of tobacco into a can beside a wooden desk where a candle was changing shape from a stick to a puddle.

  “Henry, when are you going to put this grandson of yours in shoes?” asked the sheriff. He threw back his head and laughed in a good-hearted way. Then he bent over the candle and blew it out, and Shad marveled at the pattern of wax lumps splattered all over the desk.

  Granddaddy chuckled and Shad turned to see him wrap two hands around one of the sheriff’s. “Good to see you, John.”

  “And you, Henry. And this is Shadrach, ain’t that right?”

  Shad smiled and shook the sheriff’s hand—a mighty big hand with coarse fingers—and felt something wrong in the grip. When the sheriff pulled away, Shad saw that his hand didn’t have all five fingers. It only had but four.

  “John, we’ve got a problem,” said Granddaddy. “Seems they’ve arrested Jeremia
h.”

  “Damn Yankees. What is it this time?”

  “Shad didn’t catch the charge,” said Granddaddy.

  Shad felt the sheriff’s eyes burrow into him, and he shifted his feet. He chose his words carefully. “They didn’t say, sir. They just took him.”

  “Tell Sheriff Parker what you heard,” said Granddaddy.

  Shad shifted again, then squared his shoulders and lifted his chest to try to appear a tad taller. The lift made his bruised rib cage ache.

  “Go on,” said Granddaddy.

  Shad nodded. “Heard tell there’s a dead man at Doc Moore’s, and word is that ’fore he died, he said ‘the Weaver boy’ did it.”

  “Barrel Boy,” said Granddaddy.

  Sheriff Parker leaned toward Granddaddy and spoke through a hand over his mouth. “He made it out of that barrel? How the hell did he get out of there alive?” He slapped a palm against the desk, and the candle wobbled. “For Pete’s sake, Henry, you’re a tailor and your family has the most god-awful disguises.”

  Shad looked from Granddaddy to the sheriff and back again. It was one thing for Granddaddy and Jeremiah—for all the Confederate families like the Weavers—to be in the Klan, but it hadn’t occurred to Shad that the sheriff would be in it, too. After all, the sheriff was—well, he was supposed to be the law, and last night they hadn’t abided by the law—not at all. The thought made Shad’s eyelid twitch, and he rubbed at it to make it stop.

  “Look, John, it’s one thing to keep the coloreds in their place,” said Granddaddy, “and it’s another to kill a white man.”

  Shad felt his mouth go dry. He watched the sheriff pace the room. Each step of the man’s boots on the hollow-sounding floor made a dust mote swirl in a neat little circle.

  The sheriff stopped beside the spittoon and shot a wad of tobacco into it. Splat. “Henry, I don’t think anybody intended to kill him.”

  Granddaddy ran a hand across his face. “Beg to differ, John.”