The scent of decomposing leaves underscored by strong whiskey and fear stung her nostrils. She closed her eyes tightly, wishing she were back home under the warm quilts listening to the soothing ticking of the mantle clock. Tears leaked down her cheeks. Her favorite Sunday shoes, a white patent leather pair with dainty pink bows, were ruined beyond redemption by the muddy path she followed.
A fire lit the woods, giving an evil red cast to the trees around her. She cringed, tugging at her Daddy's hand. She begged him to take her home. He laughed and ruffled her hair. It was okay, Gretta, it's okay. The flickering firelight made him look like a demon and not like her Daddy at all.
Daddy's friends had erected a cross in the clearing beneath an old oak. Maybe it had been there before, she didn't know. She'd never been there. She didn't want to be there now. She begged her Daddy to take her home. The flaming cross scared her almost as much her Daddy's friends did. Her younger sister shrieked in joy, spotting Pa-paw, her favorite person in the whole world. Gretta pressed herself tighter to Daddy's leg. Pa-paw held the thick rope.
Behind Pa-paw stood the nice man who had helped her cross Main street so she could get to the soda fountain for a vanilla coke. Only she barely recognized him. He was beaten and bloody and tied to a tree. She just knew that Daddy was there to help him like that nice man had helped her. She looked for her Daddy, he stood beneath the ancient oak, testing the noose.
Pa-paw cut the nice man loose and dragged him over to Daddy. It took several men to get him there, he suddenly began bucking and fighting his captors. Daddy slipped the noose around his neck and smiled at her as if it were going to be all right. She watched in horror as Daddy and a few other men hoisted on the rope, pulling the nice man upwards.
His legs kicked like he was trying to climb up a cliff with no hands. Gretta's eyes were drawn to his face. His eyes were open, the black pupils rolling wildly in the whites. Gretta was staring into those terrified eyes when he died, his body jerking then hanging limply from its string like a marionette that had been cast aside.
Daddy put his hand on her shoulder, gently squeezing. He said something but she didn't understand. Pa-paw called her name and, terrified, she looked at him. A flash exploded in her face. Her sister giggled. Dully, she heard the sounds of men congratulating each other.
Above her, he groaned. That kind man groaned like the sound of a rattlesnake hissing. "Why?" he demanded, "Why didn't you save me?"
Gretta jerked upright, clutching the quilt to her chest. She pressed a hand to her roiling belly, but it was too late. Bolting from the bed she raced to the small water closet and emptied what little she had in her stomach. She wiped her face and pulled the chain, listening to the screaming protests of the broken commode. She pressed her cheek to the cool porcelain and cried.
As usual, she hadn't gotten back to sleep. Instead, she curled up in her bed with a slim volume of poetry that her mother had given her.
Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart; My silent heart, lie still and break: Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed... For a dream's sake.
The lines of Christina Rossetti's
Mirage
blurred from the tears.
Eventually the sun rose again, giving her the excuse to climb out of bed. She gently closed the book and placed it on the night table next to the only picture in her small apartment. She looked at the grainy black and white photograph and squeezed her eyes shut. A little less than half an hour later she quietly let herself out of her apartment. A leisurely coffee before work would help to erase the fine lines beneath her eyes. After that, her job would keep her occupied enough to stop thinking about it. Perhaps afterwards she would go see the new Cary Grant picture,
The Bachelor and the Bobby-soxer.
She had heard her friends the secretarial pool talking about it, they had said it was funny. Anything to take her mind off of her life. The building superintendent had request she be absent until after six o'clock so that he might bring in a plumber to fix the commode. A moving picture would do the trick.
Gretta slipped her key into the lock late that evening and opened the door. She was still smiling from the picture and the late dinner she'd had with some friends. Tomorrow was a Saturday so she didn't have to work. Perhaps she would go to the museum and the library.
"S'cuse me, ma'am." A voice from the dark recesses of the hallway startled her. She dropped her purse, whirling to face it. A dark man emerged from the shadow, a hat held diffidently in his large hands. She put her hand to her chest. "I'm the plumber'n I fixed you all's toilet this mornin'n I left one of my tools on in yo' bathroom. I'se jes' wonderin' iff'n I could maybe get it back."
It was him. The same rich sienna colored skin, the same flat nose, and the same downcast gaze. He twisted his hat in his hands and peeked up at her. She felt jarred, the past overlaying itself with the present and then separating. The other man's face had been broader, the forehead slanting backwards a little. His thick, tightly curled hair had been generously sprinkled with white. This one's forehead rose proudly, his face thinner. His hair was shorter and uniformly black. The other one's eyes had been the kindliest she'd ever seen. This one kept his eyes on the floor.
"Ma'am? I need that tool to do a job t'morrow." Even his voice, rich and smooth, matched the other's with the slow southern drawl.
"You're from Mississippi."
"Alabama. You all from Miss'ssipi?"
"Near Tupelo. I haven't heard a southern accent in all the years I've been here." She collected herself and opened the door. "Come in, I'll see to your tool. I'm sorry, you just looked like someone I once knew."
"Way you all was starin' at me, you must not've like him much."
"I thought he was a wonderful man. Come in." She found the chain for the light before he shut the door behind him. She was briefly nervous about being alone with a man, particularly a Negro one, but she shoved the uneasiness aside. "Would you like some coffee?"
She froze at the bolt to her lock clicking shut.
"No, I jes' want to know one thing. Is that you in the picture?" His voice, still smooth and rich, was menacing. Her mind grasped at inanities. The air suddenly seemed chillier. The crack in the wallpaper over her countertop had spread.
Daddy slipped the noose around his neck and smiled at her...
He stalked toward her, stopping when she could feel his hot breath stirring all those fine hairs that were standing straight up on the back of her neck. "Is it you?"
Daddy and a few other men hoisted on the rope, pulling...
"Yes..." The word ripped from her throat, a tortured sound from a wounded animal. She squeezed her eyes shut, her heart pounding hard enough to beat its way out of her chest.
"Which girl?"
His legs kicked like he was trying to climb a cliff with no hands...
"Please..." she begged, don't make me remember. She squeezed her eyes tighter, swallowing the rest of the plea.
