Page 90 of The Reformatory

At the intersection down the street, Sheriff Posey’s car was pulling up beside the pickup truck. His sheriff’s car had a gold stripe across the side that made it noticeable from a distance, shiny in the sun. His lights and siren weren’t on.

“Took his damn time,” Uncle June said.

“He’s prolly the one sent these crackers out here,” Waymon said. He whistled to the neighbor and pointed toward the sheriff. Up and down the street, the men lowered or hid their weapons. Grudgingly, June set down his shotgun across Miz Lottie’s empty porch rocker, out of sight from the road.

Sheriff Posey wanted to run for governor one day, or so Miss Anne said, and he comported himself as if he already had the position. He wore a dark suit and tie, with only his gray Stetson as his police uniform. He walked down the street instead of riding in his car, touching the brim of his hat as he passed one house and then the next on the way to Miz Lottie’s. The Hatchetts’ big-bellied yellow hound followed him, sniffing after his two-toned boots.

“Shouldn’t y’all be gettin’ ready for work?” Sheriff Posey called out as he walked. “Kinda late in the day to be out on the front porch, ain’t it?”

No one answered him.

The air was already hot before 7:00 a.m., so Sheriff Posey was sweating by the time he reached the end of the street at the edge of Miz Lottie’s grass. He folded his suit coat over his arm.

His face looked as if he were smiling even when he wasn’t. A face where you couldn’t guess his age. The broken living room window was staring right at him, but he ignored it.

“They’ll be looking for you at the mill any minute, J.W.,” Sheriff Posey said to Uncle June.

He did not greet Waymon or speak to him, and Gloria was glad. Waymon had bowed his head to hide his glare, but he might say anything. Gloria kept quiet too.

“Can’t leave my godmama’s house with hooligans breaking windows up and down the street,” Uncle June said. “We’ve got property damage all up and down. They were shoutin’ and raising a ruckus all night.”

Sheriff Posey glanced back at the pickup truck and the gathered white men and boys as if he had just noticed them. “Don’t you worry none about those fellas back there,” he said. “I’m sending them back on home.”

“You send ’em home, Sheriff, an’ we’ll go to work all right,” Uncle June said. Gloria wondered when the sheriff would say something about the fire.

Sheriff Posey sighed. He took off his hat and rearranged it on his head. Gloria understood why he was nicknamed “Bird”; he was fidgety, his eyes skirting here and there. “From what I can gather… lots of folks are wondering why Robert Stephens hasn’t been brought to justice. That was a nasty business, what happened at Pixie’s. But here we are, a year later—and no trial. If you could help us find him, I’m sure they’d settle down.”

Now he was looking straight at Gloria.

“He didn’t do what they say—everybody knows it.” Gloria had been afraid to say it to the judge, but Gloria was too weary to be afraid. She had lost Papa, Robbie, and her home. What else could they take?

“That’s what the trial’s for,” Sheriff Posey said. “She’ll say her side, he’ll say his.”

Waymon chuckled beside Gloria, almost out of her hearing. No jury in Gracetown would side with Papa’s word over a white woman, even if half the town knew she was lying.

“We ain’t seen Robert Stephens since he left,” Uncle June said. “Might be in New York.”

“I hear Chicago,” the sheriff said.

“Then you know better’n I do, suh,” June said.

“He might be out in California,” Waymon said. “Lotsa folks go out there too.”

Sheriff Posey gave Waymon a sour look. “War’s been over for five years, boy.” Miz Lottie was right: few things riled white men more than a black man in an Army uniform. Maybe it was knowing they might have killed white men overseas, even if they were Nazis. Or the white girlfriends in France so many Negro soldiers had stories about.

“Yessir,” Waymon said. “But looks like a new war’s comin’.”

Sheriff Posey’s lips formed a tight line and his face got redder. Before he could say anything, Uncle June said, “Papers say Korea’s heating up.”

“Then both of you go on and re-enlist,” Sheriff Posey said. “Anyway, you should all think real hard on getting out of Gracetown ’til this business with Robert Stephens is settled. Take this gal and the old woman too. Nights will get a whole lot quieter for everyone in Lower Spruce.”

None of them answered. Mild voice or not, they knew the sound of a threat. Gloria was so angry that her teeth clamped tight. Sheriff Posey backed up a step, as if he could see Uncle June’s shotgun waiting on the rocker. Or the little peashooter in Waymon’s pocket.

“By the way,” Sheriff Posey said to Gloria, “I’m sorry to report there was a fire last night. Looks like your daddy’s house got burned to the ground. Nothing but ashes left. Thank goodness you were here—safe and sound. I’m guessing maybe you left something cooking on the stove? Those grease fires get out of hand fast.”

“Wasn’t no grease fire,” Waymon said. “Ask Red McCormack. Might be he saw Mister Earl and some swamp boys out there last night.” He didn’t say Klan, but he didn’t have to.

Sheriff Posey froze, surprised. He wasn’t used to answers to his lies. He turned to scan the street, where everyone was posted on their porches or by their windows. Miz Lottie and Mrs. Hatchett were awake now, listening by the living room’s broken windowpane. Sheriff Posey suddenly busied himself with wiping his shoe in the grass. Gloria hoped he’d stepped in dog shit.