Fireflies in December (10 page)

“Sorry.”

He handed me the lemonade and studied me sternly. “You okay? You look strange.”

“That’s a fine compliment!”

“I ain’t meanin’ nothin’. I just thought you seemed scared. You can’t even hold your hands steady.”

I looked down at the lemonade in my cup as it sloshed back and forth, and I quickly set the cup on the table. “I’m just tired. Ain’t nobody wantin’ to talk to me.”

“You want to go? I’ll take you home if you want.”

“Fireworks are gettin’ started soon. I want to stay and watch them.”

“Well then, let’s head on out to the lake. Everybody’ll be goin’ out there soon, anyhow.”

Momma and Daddy were ready to go too. Neither of them seemed to have found much joy in that social. Momma had worn a weary expression most of the evening, and Daddy never once played his guitar. We found much more pleasure in the simple act of walking to the lake, just the four of us.

When we reached the lake, we took a seat amid a large crowd of white people. Across from us, on the other side of the lake, Gemma sat awkwardly amid a group of colored children. I could see even from that distance that she felt as out of place as we did.

Every year I’d seen this same scene and never thought a jot about it. I’d wave to Gemma and her parents, and they’d wave back. But this year, while we sat on one side as a family and Gemma sat on the other side as an outcast among those who found her situation as strange as many white folks did, I watched the fireworks with sadness.

Luke nudged me as the first of the fireworks lit up the night sky, casting shiny reflections on the water. “That’s a real sight, ain’t it?”

I nodded, but I wasn’t paying much attention to the show.I was too busy mulling over all the things I’d been learning about life that summer. The way I saw it, fireworks couldn’t compare to that.

Chapter 10

On that Sunday in July, Gemma and I lay in our beds in our underclothes, windows open, cooling ourselves with fans we’d made out of newspaper. Even the crickets were quiet. No one and nothing had the energy to do a thing.

We hadn’t been to church since Gemma came to live with us. She didn’t want to go to her colored church alone, and Daddy said since she was family she should come with us, anyway. So Daddy said we’d go back when Gemma was ready. In the meantime, we spent a half hour every Sunday morning listening to Daddy read the Scriptures, and Momma would finish off with a prayer.

But on this morning, Momma told us we could skip the Scripture reading since everyone was too hot to even think straight.

Every now and again, Gemma or I would lean over and take a sip of the water we had beside our beds, but we hated doing it because the water was so warm. Momma would yell at us if we didn’t, though, saying we’d go and dehydrate ourselves, and she didn’t want to have to cart the doctor out to our place on a day like this. So we’d drink in sips and spill some onto our necks on purpose just to feel a bit of relief.

The next time I woke up, I could tell that the sun had started to dip, so I knew it was late, and I had slept the day away. I didn’t much care. If I was going to be awake at all for those sweltering twenty-four hours, I’d be better off being up during the dark ones. Rolling over, I saw a tray by my bed. The tray held fruit salad, biscuits, tomato slices, and a note in Momma’s curvy handwriting.
Daddy’s hankerin’ for some
ice cream. Gone into town. Be back by nine with a little something
for you girls.

I smiled as much as I could, being half-asleep, and called out to Gemma. “We’re gettin’ treats tonight. Ain’t had a treat in weeks.”

I didn’t get an answer, so I rolled over to look at her. “Gemma!” I squinted my eyes against the shadows in the room and finally made out that she wasn’t there. “Gemma?” I murmured, rubbing my sleepy eyes. “Where you at?”

I got up, stretched my arms, and wandered over to the window. I could hear Duke barking like crazy, and I stuck my head out the window to tell him to hush up. That was when I started noticing the voices. They were quiet and low, sort of grumbling to each other. The voices were coming from the front of the house, and I was in the back, so I dressed quickly and padded out of my room into the hallway.

I stood at the top of the stairway and peered down. The house was dark, and I about took a tumble when I started down the steps, but I caught myself just in time. The curtains were blowing out from a breeze that had moved in. To avoid being seen, I dropped to my knees and approached the window on all fours.

My skin prickled, and my heart raced when I saw the men whose voices I’d heard. They were the same men in white I’d seen that morning in the woods. They looked liked ghosts, wearing those hoods with slits for eyes. Duke was tied to a tree, and he was nearly hanging himself from struggling to get loose. I immediately thought of Gemma, and my fear turned into panic. What had they done to her? I wondered. Had they taken her? Were they going to hurt her?

I turned away from the window and scooted off to the side, staying low. I had to think of what I should do. Mulling over ideas in my head, all I knew was that if they had Gemma, I had to help her.

But then I saw her huddled in a corner of the den, her knees tucked under her chin. “Gemma,” I whispered in relief, “I been lookin’ for you.” I crawled over to her as quickly as I could go and pulled her with me, both of us stooped down, into the closet under the stairs. “You should’ve let me know where you were,” I told her once inside. “I was scared near to death.”

“They would’ve heard me,” she said in a shaky voice. “Don’t make no mistake. They’re here for me.”

“Ain’t no matter why they’re here,” I said, angry and defiant. I always had more courage when I had someone to defend other than myself. “They ain’t got no right to trespass here.”

“What’re we gonna do?”

“My daddy should be back soon, shouldn’t he?”

“That note said nine, and it ain’t but eight fifteen.”

“Maybe I can call for help.”

“They done stopped the phone.”

Having Gemma tell me that made my lips go numb. We were trapped, and those men were aiming to make their point, no doubt.

I sat there thinking for a few minutes before we heard a pounding at the door. “Harley Lassiter,” a man called, “you best come on out and face your due now. And bring that nigger with ya.”

I gripped Gemma’s arm hard, as much to comfort myself as to comfort her.

“I said, come on out,” the man shouted.

I heard footsteps thump around on the porch, making the floorboards creak, and then I could hear them yelling in through the open windows. “Haaaarley!” a man called, drawing out the middle of my daddy’s name as if he were telling a ghost story. “You ain’t afraid, are ya, Harley?”

They laughed and said some things quietly to each other. Soon they were pounding on the door again and then on the side of the house. By this time, both Gemma and I were shaking from head to toe, jumping with every bang of footstep or fist.

“He ain’t got the courage to come out and face us,” one of them yelled. “He’s probably hidin’ behind his woman.”

I recognized that voice, and my stomach turned with the memory of Walt Blevins’s threats.

“Yes, sir,” another man said. “We’d better just smoke ’im out.”

With that, I made a decision and pushed the closet door open.

“Where you goin’?” Gemma asked me nervously.

“I’m goin’ to get my daddy’s rifle.”

“You ain’t got no trainin’ with that thing. Your daddy always told you to keep away from it.”

“Ain’t no time he thought I’d need to use it,” I argued. “Ain’t no time he figured on this happenin’.”

She clutched my shirt and hung on tight. “I ain’t lettin’ you. You just stay in here with me and wait till they give up.”

“How do you know they aim to give up? They’re talkin’ of smokin’ us out; ain’t you heard?”

Gemma wouldn’t budge. She kept her iron grip on my shirt and said, “I ain’t lettin’ you leave. I’m older’n you, and I say you’re stayin’.”

“You ain’t but two years older, and I say you ain’t got no rule over me, anyhow.” I tried to pull away, but she still wouldn’t let me. “I’ll just climb out of my shirt, if that’s what it takes. But I’m goin’!”

The banging on the house got louder and more frequent, and I could hardly hear Gemma over the noise when she told me, “Over my dead and rottin’ body.”

“Gemma,” I cried, my skin crawling from the howling and pounding the men were doing. “Your dead and rottin’ body’s about a sure thing just now. Either they get us or they smoke us out. You want to burn in this house like your momma and daddy?”

I knew my words must have made her sick to her soul, but I had to make her see how we had no choice. Gemma didn’t say a thing, but she did let go of my shirt.

I took off out of the closet and into the kitchen like a shot. I knew Daddy kept a rifle in the pantry beside the icebox, and I reached in and grabbed the cold steel of it, shocked by its weight. I could barely lift it out, and I wondered how I’d ever be able to perch it under my chin like I’d seen Daddy do. No matter, I figured. If I could hold it up and act like I knew what I was doing, I might get them to run off. After all, like my daddy said, only cowards would go around with their faces hidden. I snatched the ammunition box, loaded the gun like I’d seen Daddy do, and stuck a few more bullets into my pocket.

Letting the gun drag beside me, I went to the front door, shivering and shaking, and said a quick prayer before flinging it open. There, right on the other side of the screen door, stood a robed man, looking evil as the devil.

“You ain’t what we came for, girl,” the man said. “Run and get your daddy.”

I just stared at him.

“I said run and get your daddy, girl. You deaf?”

“I ain’t deaf,” I said. “I heard you.”

“Then get them legs movin’.”

I kept the gun behind me so he couldn’t see it and said, “My daddy ain’t here, and anyway . . . you’re trespassin’.”

The man threw his covered head back and laughed. “We got a smart one here,” he said to the other men. “Think we got us a junior lawyer on our hands.”

I looked at the other men who were on the lawn, and my heart started to race as the flickering of firelight could be seen reflecting off their white robes. “I got help comin’,” I lied. “You best leave before they get here and skin you alive.”

“Who you got comin’? The law?”

“That’s right.”

“Heck, girl, we are the law!”

Behind him, a commotion sounded, men hollering at each other in urgent voices. He turned around and swore, rushing down the steps. “Can’t you boys do nothin’ right?”

I took that chance to shove the door open and heave the rifle into the air. In the short moment that I had to peer at them from behind that gun before they noticed me, I got a good look at the fiery cross they had set up on our front lawn. It had started to tip, causing the ruckus that had gotten the man to rush off our porch, and now the men were struggling to keep it erect.

Through the sparks that were singeing Momma’s geraniums, one of the men pointed at me and shouted, “Looky there, will you? That girl’s got herself a rifle.”

Several others turned around to see, laughing at me like I was putting on a show.

“Ain’t your daddy ever taught you not to go around playin’ with guns?” Walt Blevins asked. “’Course your daddy’s stupid, so he ain’t likely taught you much.”

I aimed that gun at him and said, “I know who you are, Walt Blevins. Ain’t no mistakin’ a sinful voice like yours. You may as well take that stupid hood off your ugly face.”

“You ain’t got no idea what you’re sayin’,” he said sharply, but I thought I detected nervousness in his tone. “You best put that thing down and get out of here before you get hurt.”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere. It’s you who’s goin’.”

Walt lit a match and held it up in front of his hood, casting an eerie glow. “You wanna burn, little girl? ’Cause you keep spoutin’ off, and I can make it happen.”

I reached up in sheer anger and cocked the rifle, everything in me consumed by rage at these men who felt they had the right to terrorize. “It’s you who’ll burn in hell, Walt Blevins,” I spat out even though I knew Momma would’ve put soap on my tongue if she’d heard me. “God won’t let you get by for the things you do.”

With those words, Walt flicked the match toward me. The sudden movement made me flinch, and I pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening, and the force of the blast sent me stumbling backward into the wall of the house. When I heard Gemma scream, I realized that she had been just inside the doorway the whole time.

I blinked hard against the smoke that came from the rifle and cleared my eyes in time to see a splotch of red beginning to color the front of Walt’s robe. He whipped off his hood, leaving no doubt to his identity, and started shouting and swearing, calling for the men to burn our house down.

The match he’d thrown had landed in front of the door, and Gemma stomped on it with her bare foot to squelch the small flame. Once she was out that door, a man came around the corner of the porch and yanked her away from me.

I screamed at him, but I pointed the rifle at Walt because he was closer to me. “You let her go. Don’t you do nothin’ to her.”

“You may just as well give up,” another man snarled. “Ain’t nobody to help you now.”

“Go on,” Walt yelled to the man who was holding Gemma with one hand and covering her mouth with the other. “You teach her a little respect. We’ll take care of this one.”

His words filled me with rage, and I straightened, cocked the gun, and used all my strength to raise it again. I could see I hadn’t killed Walt, but I was scared all the same. I didn’t want to go to jail, but we had no choice. It was us or them.

Although Walt was unable to do much, two other men had made a move to finish the job, but they stopped when they heard me cock the rifle again.

“What’re you waitin’ for?” Walt said in a strained voice. “Burn ’em!”

“The girl’s ready to use that gun,” one of the men said. “I ain’t gonna be the next one shot.”

The other man didn’t have as much fear as the first, and he picked up a can of gasoline and walked toward the house, flinging the can back and forth to soak the flowers in Momma’s beds. I could feel droplets of the gasoline landing on my pant legs.

“I ain’t afraid of no little girl,” he said. “She just got lucky.” He put the can down and took the matches in his hand. “Ain’t that right? You just got lucky. Well,” he continued, striking the match, “you ain’t so lucky now . . . are ya?”

When he tossed the match, it seemed like it took minutes for it to land square into Momma’s best rosebush. It lit up like fireworks, crackling and popping and sending sparks every which way. Everything went crazy then, with shouts and curses and gunshots.