Nanih Waiya Creek, and this wasn’t it. Maybe somebody here knows where it is. Maybe they know who tried to kill me and why. Or maybe they can find out. And, while they’re at it, I hope they find out who saved me, so I can thank him.”
He spread his hands and shrugged. “Or maybe they’re both dead. Even so, two people besides me knew what happened that day. I cannot believe that neither of them ever opened their mouths. Or that nobody ever noticed two white men coming home beaten and bloody on April 3, 1965. My guess is that they are both at least in their sixties. I’ve spent my career seeking justice for others. Help me find it for myself.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Faye saw Carroll Calhoun and his cronies step out of the thunderstruck crowd and disappear into the distance.
Chapter Six
The house party was still rocking when Faye and Joe dragged themselves out of the crowd fighting to shake Congressman Judd’s hand. The partygoers who had taken time from their drinking to go hear his speech were readily identifiable. Their faces were blank with shell shock, which is quite a different look from simple intoxication.
Sheriff Rutland emerged from a bedroom, backing through the door and hauling her father’s wheelchair over a high threshold. Parking him next to a bright window right beside Faye and Joe, she sank into an armchair vacated by a woman smart enough to recognize total fatigue when she saw it. Neely turned her face to the window long enough to rake the heel of her hand across her eyes and Faye looked away. It wasn’t seemly to watch a sheriff cry.
“The man that did the beating would have to be someone at least as old as Mr. Judd,” said a man in a Molly Hatchet tee-shirt. “Late fifties at the youngest.”
Several people nodded. An underage boy holding a root beer said, “He could be a lot older, too. Could’ve been middle-aged at the time. Older, even.”
“Judd himself already said it,” said a woman with bottle-blonde curls. “The man who beat him could be dead. Probably is dead.”
“Well, if he’s not, let’s put him up for a medal.” The barest quaver in his voice gave a hint of the speaker’s age. It was Calhoun’s friend, the one whose lizard eyes gave Faye the willies.
A queasy silence fell. Most everyone in the room developed a consuming interest in their toes, but Faye kept her eyes focused on their faces. They didn’t all agree with this man’s racist poison. She knew it. All the way back from the Pavilion, they had talked about Judd’s ordeal and she’d heard the revulsion in their voices. How did this dried-up little old man turn them into cowards?
“Preston Silver…” began the least lily-livered man in the room, but a quick glance silenced him. Faye watched Silver’s lizard eyes rake the room, lingering on her own dark face longer than she liked.
Sheriff Rutland, the only person in the room that Faye was sure had the gumption to stand up to him, hid her face by bending over the bag hanging on the back of her father’s wheelchair. Pulling out a spoon and a jar of puréed peas, she asserted her authority only far enough to say, “Stop stirring things up, Preston. It’s not constructive.” She opened the baby food jar. Faye was close enough to smell the sick-sweet, green odor of the peas.
Watching Neely’s father’s visible enjoyment of his jar of green paste and noticing a bulge in his trousers in the shape of an adult diaper, Faye was inclined to forgive the woman for her temporary cowardice. She wasn’t clear how far she herself wanted to go in stirring up a confrontation, but it wasn’t in Faye’s nature to slink away and let a bigot dominate an important conversation.
“Speaking of medals,” she piped up, “I hear that Congressman Judd’s up for the Congressional Medal of Freedom—the highest honor our country can give a civilian. If his speech today doesn’t make the national news, you know it will if that medal comes through. It will
He spread his hands and shrugged. “Or maybe they’re both dead. Even so, two people besides me knew what happened that day. I cannot believe that neither of them ever opened their mouths. Or that nobody ever noticed two white men coming home beaten and bloody on April 3, 1965. My guess is that they are both at least in their sixties. I’ve spent my career seeking justice for others. Help me find it for myself.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Faye saw Carroll Calhoun and his cronies step out of the thunderstruck crowd and disappear into the distance.
Chapter Six
The house party was still rocking when Faye and Joe dragged themselves out of the crowd fighting to shake Congressman Judd’s hand. The partygoers who had taken time from their drinking to go hear his speech were readily identifiable. Their faces were blank with shell shock, which is quite a different look from simple intoxication.
Sheriff Rutland emerged from a bedroom, backing through the door and hauling her father’s wheelchair over a high threshold. Parking him next to a bright window right beside Faye and Joe, she sank into an armchair vacated by a woman smart enough to recognize total fatigue when she saw it. Neely turned her face to the window long enough to rake the heel of her hand across her eyes and Faye looked away. It wasn’t seemly to watch a sheriff cry.
“The man that did the beating would have to be someone at least as old as Mr. Judd,” said a man in a Molly Hatchet tee-shirt. “Late fifties at the youngest.”
Several people nodded. An underage boy holding a root beer said, “He could be a lot older, too. Could’ve been middle-aged at the time. Older, even.”
“Judd himself already said it,” said a woman with bottle-blonde curls. “The man who beat him could be dead. Probably is dead.”
“Well, if he’s not, let’s put him up for a medal.” The barest quaver in his voice gave a hint of the speaker’s age. It was Calhoun’s friend, the one whose lizard eyes gave Faye the willies.
A queasy silence fell. Most everyone in the room developed a consuming interest in their toes, but Faye kept her eyes focused on their faces. They didn’t all agree with this man’s racist poison. She knew it. All the way back from the Pavilion, they had talked about Judd’s ordeal and she’d heard the revulsion in their voices. How did this dried-up little old man turn them into cowards?
“Preston Silver…” began the least lily-livered man in the room, but a quick glance silenced him. Faye watched Silver’s lizard eyes rake the room, lingering on her own dark face longer than she liked.
Sheriff Rutland, the only person in the room that Faye was sure had the gumption to stand up to him, hid her face by bending over the bag hanging on the back of her father’s wheelchair. Pulling out a spoon and a jar of puréed peas, she asserted her authority only far enough to say, “Stop stirring things up, Preston. It’s not constructive.” She opened the baby food jar. Faye was close enough to smell the sick-sweet, green odor of the peas.
Watching Neely’s father’s visible enjoyment of his jar of green paste and noticing a bulge in his trousers in the shape of an adult diaper, Faye was inclined to forgive the woman for her temporary cowardice. She wasn’t clear how far she herself wanted to go in stirring up a confrontation, but it wasn’t in Faye’s nature to slink away and let a bigot dominate an important conversation.
“Speaking of medals,” she piped up, “I hear that Congressman Judd’s up for the Congressional Medal of Freedom—the highest honor our country can give a civilian. If his speech today doesn’t make the national news, you know it will if that medal comes through. It will
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