Page 56 of The Reformatory

What had sounded at first like shocking honesty was only icy cruelty now. How could this woman know these things and say nothing? Why protect a liar?

“You know her,” Gloria said as she realized it. “Don’t you?”

“She’s my cousin. More like a sister.” Miss Channing’s voice was low.

“Is that why you’re here?” Gloria said. “You feel bad about it?”

Miss Channing did not answer her. “She’ll stand by that story ’til her dying breath because she’s so scared of the one who really beat her up, so I can’t help you with that. But I want to help you, if you’ll accept my advice. Maybe we can keep this from getting worse.”

“Does Miss Anne know she’s your cousin?” The idea of it rocked Gloria. She could imagine the three women sipping Coca-Cola in a booth at Meg’s Diner on Main Street.

Channing turned to give Gloria a look like surrendering. Like a secret. Of course Miss Anne knew. “I were you, I’d be mad as a hornet too,” Channing said. “But from what I understand, your daddy’s safe in a big city now. Isn’t he?”

Gloria didn’t answer. She didn’t trust this woman with Papa’s secrets. How he moved from job to job, couch to couch. Always afraid.

“They’re too lazy to chase him,” Miss Channing said. “They don’t want federal scrutiny anyhow. But they’re not too low to try to lure him back with Robbie. I’m not sayin’ they were smart enough to plan it that way; that’s just how it’s worked out.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“The sheriff. The judge. The growers. The town council. The White Citizens’ Council. Chamber of commerce. The Klan, of course. Hard to think of anyone with sway in Gracetown or Marianna who isn’t gunning for Robert Stephens. He scared them, that’s why. He walked tall, didn’t stoop his shoulders.” It was odd to hear Papa addressed in the past tense, as if he were already in a grave beside Mama at Christ the Redeemer Baptist Church. Miss Channing’s voice grew gentle. “First thing’ll happen is your brother’s six-month sentence will turn to a year. Or two years. However long they want to keep him, that superintendent will make up a reason. By law, that bastard can keep him until he’s twenty-one. And that’s only if—”

“If he lives that long.” The blood in Gloria’s veins grew hot with sorrow.

“Yes,” Miss Channing said soberly. “If the SOBs don’t kill him first. I guess you’ve heard some children don’t come out. White or Negro.”

Gloria wanted to ask about the haints Miz Lottie had mentioned, but her instinct told her Channing knew the world of men better than the world of spirits. She swallowed her anger about Papa, and her fishing rod stopped shaking. Papa was safe, for now. Robbie wasn’t. And this woman was offering to help, no matter how much her daily silence hurt Papa.

“Maybe Miss Anne can pay for a lawyer,” Gloria said. It was the least Miss Anne could do for letting the lies against Papa stand for so long.

“She would—to a point,” Miss Channing said. “She’s told me as much. But the problem is finding a lawyer willing to come speak up for Robert Stephens Junior. I’ve talked to one or two, and I’ll tell you for a fact there aren’t any willing within fifty miles in any direction. The boy’s growin’ up to be trouble like his daddy, they say. And Miami lawyers aren’t too keen on stirring the Klan up here.”

“What about you?” Gloria said. “You’re a law student.”

“Oh, I’d love to see the look on Judge Morris’s face,” she said, “but until I pass the bar, there’s a world of difference between me and a lawyer. Not for another two years.”

“Then I’ll find one,” Gloria said. “A Negro lawyer.”

“In Florida,” she said, “there’s no such thing.”

“There are Negro lawyers in New York,” Gloria said. “There’s got to be one in Florida somewhere. More than one.”

Channing’s face didn’t fully agree or disagree, but she didn’t say anything right away, so Gloria figured she didn’t have much faith in finding a Negro lawyer. Maybe she had never seen or heard of one. She wasn’t as smart about the world as she thought she was.

Channing’s line went taut, and her lure raced away as a caught fish tried to flee. Deftly, she pulled out the line, and a good-sized bream veered toward her. Miss Channing caught it and hissed when the stiff dorsal fin poked her, then she slipped the fish into the sack slung across her shoulder. She sucked her finger and swung her empty hook back to Gloria for more bait.

“You mind, Gloria?” she said. “You’re good luck.”

Good luck! Gloria wanted to tell her to go to hell. Miss Channing was going about her fishing while Robbie’s life was in danger. But when Miss Channing handed her another worm, she took it in silence. This one was barely moving, or maybe it was already dead.

“My mentor told me,” Miss Channing began, “that if the dean of my law school caught word I was talking to you, I might find myself expelled as a communist. And I could be blackballed out of any law school in the state if he wanted it that way. The whole South, in fact.”

Gloria jabbed the hook into the worm so hard that she almost pricked her fingertip when the hook poked through the worm’s flesh.

“I don’t expect you’ll feel sorry for me,” Miss Channing said. “I just want you to realize how serious this all is. If you can find a lawyer—or even if you can’t—it’s not safe for you in Gracetown.” She said it like a secret.

“It’s never been safe.”

“But now I’m hearing bar talk about Robert Stephens Junior kicking Lyle McCormack. How they should have burned down both of your houses, not just the new one out by the lake. Should have burned down Lower Spruce. No good talk starts in a bar.”