Flowers in the Snow (4 page)

“Can’t you see the color of my skin? Your doctor won’t do a thing for me. I need to get back to my people.” The more he spoke the more blood seemed to pour from the cut on his head.

“I don’t see why you colored folk don’t want to be around us white folk. You won’t go in our restaurants, and you won’t see our doctors,” Beatrice huffed, exasperated by his stubbornness. She thought being selfless would be easier, but this man was making it impossible. Didn’t he know this was a nice thing she was doing?

Though it seemed completely out of place, the man laughed. Or at least he tried to. It was a low chuckle punctuated by pain, which stopped his laughter abruptly. “Child, oh what it must be like to be so innocent. You need to go on and get out of here.” Blood bubbled out of his mouth as he spoke, and Beatrice felt the urgency of the situation growing. If people knew she was this close, this involved, and then the man died right here, she’d be in big trouble.

“I can’t just leave you here. I don’t know if colored folks know about the Bible or anything, but it tells us to help people. I could tell you the story of the Good Samaritan, and then you’d understand better.”

“We know the Bible,” he barked back, and Beatrice swallowed hard, scared by the roughness of his voice.

“So then you know I should help you. You know what compassion is, right? My daddy says you people don’t have the same kinds of brains as we do, so it’s okay if you don’t know the Word.” Beatrice tried to keep her voice slow and gentle so he could understand the best he could.

“Child, go. It ain’t your fault you don’t know any better, but people are coming over here. You need to go on.”

“I’m gonna hold this towel on your head until someone fetches the doctor. I don’t care if you don’t wanna see a white doctor.” Whatever the man’s holdup was about white people, he’d have to put it aside she decided.

“Beatrice,” a familiar and angry voice rang out from behind her. “What the hell are you doing?” Though she couldn’t see his face behind his white hood, she knew it was her daddy.

“Daddy, this man fell down. We need to fetch the doctor.” She’d forgotten something important her daddy had always told her about when he was in his Klan robe. Even if she knew it was him, she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. The group was very important and for some reason they couldn’t let anyone knowing who they were. She remembered instantly, as he cut the space between them with ferocity, she’d broken that rule and was in trouble.

Eli stepped outside just as her father reached her. “Is that my damn towel covered in this animal’s blood? You got his filthy blood everywhere,” Eli raged.

Her father grabbed her neck and yanked her away from the injured man. “You fool,” he fumed. “You don’t touch him. You don’t help him. He is an animal. A criminal. That’s why we beat him. He’s like a dog that bit someone.”

“He bit someone?” Beatrice asked, looking the man over as her father dragged her farther and farther away.

“No, dummy,” her father hissed. “He drank out of the whites only fountain as if he’s the same as us. He knew better. It’s bad enough we have to let them walk down Main Street and breathe the same air as us. I’ll be damned if they’re going to dirty up our things.”

“You beat him for getting a drink?” Beatrice cried, hunching under the pain of her father’s tight grip on her neck.

“You’re not a baby anymore, girl. Your mama can say all she wants that you’re too slow in the head to be told about the world, but obviously if I don’t you’ll run our family’s name through the mud. I don’t ever want to see you helping, talking to, or being anywhere near one of them ever again. I have worked my whole damn life to keep them in their place so the world can be worth living in for you. Don’t go undermining all my work and the work of the Klan by treating them like people.”

“Aren’t they people?” Beatrice asked as they made their way past the fence at the Miller’s farm. She wanted to see if the horses were still standing by the fence for a pat on the nose again. Before she could be grateful for the release of her neck, she was whacked hard across the face by her father’s hand.

“How can you be this old and not know this? They ain’t people. If I ever hear you talking like this again, you’ll get the beating of your life,” he snarled. The anger raging in his grey-blue eyes was unnerving.

Nothing about this afternoon made sense to Beatrice. All she knew was she didn’t want to be beaten, but something was about to make that inevitable. “I forgot Mama’s eggs,” she cried in a sudden panic.

“Then you better go out to the field and bring in a switch. When she hears what you did, and you come back empty-handed, you’ll be in for it,” her father grumbled.

“But I was trying to be like the Good Samaritan. I don’t understand.” The fear of the inevitable whooping filled Beatrice’s eyes with tears.

“You better start understanding right quick. If they know their place and follow the rules, we put up with them. But one toe out of line and we give them what they deserve. And nowadays it’s not just about them but anyone who tries to help them, too, the way you just did. Like a fool. That’s what this is all about,” he said, gesturing to his white robe. “I do this for you.”

For the rest of the walk home they were both silent. Beatrice hung her head and cried, knowing she was about to face the wrath of her mother when all she’d wanted to do was show her how she could walk with God. Being eleven was proving impossible. Nothing made sense anymore, and all she ever got lately was a good walloping.

“I’m sorry, Daddy, I didn’t know,” she apologized, feeling like she must be the stupidest child in the world.

“You got his blood on your clothes. We’ll have to burn them tonight,” he retorted coldly.

“Yes, Daddy,” she agreed as she looked down at the bright red blood that rimmed the edge of her jumper. She didn’t understand any of this, but she could tell she better figure it out soon.

Beatrice had thought there would be nothing worse than the whooping she received that night, but she was wrong. The way she was treated at school the weeks after was far harder to deal with then the wallops on her rear end from her mother. After word of what she’d done had traveled around town, Beatrice had been called names, had gum was stuck in her hair, and had been ignored by anyone who wasn’t harassing her. The teachers wouldn’t call on her even when her hand was the first one to go up to answer a question. The only two things she experienced now were teasing and feeling invisible; she couldn’t sort out which one hurt more.

With her head down and her heart aching, she muddled through the school days then dragged herself through her front door every evening, knowing it wouldn’t be much better. Her parents weren’t calling her names and they weren’t completely ignoring her, but disappointment was constantly painted on their faces.

Her stomach ached most of the time and food tasted like sawdust in her mouth. She’d always been lanky, but now she was getting bony. Most days she did everything she could to find a place to be alone after school. Today she decided to take the long way home. The very long way.

Cutting through the woods behind the Dorit’s farm, she weaved her way to the brook and followed it north toward her house. She turned left after she saw the old cemetery she used to avoid at all costs. Suddenly the dead didn’t seem quite as scary as the living. A bunch of old headstones couldn’t call her names or spit in her food.

After walking for what felt like an hour, she heard the unmistakable sound of a twig cracking beneath someone’s foot. She dropped low, squatting and slowing her breathing as she tried to find the source of the noise. Had one of those jerks from school spotted her heading into the woods and followed her so they could tease her again for her mistake? Would they pour soda on her and tell her to give it to her colored friends? Didn’t they know she didn’t have colored friends? She’d barely known a single one of them her whole life, but now the way people were acting you’d think she was out jumping rope and having cookies with them every day.

When she heard nothing for a minute she thought of standing, but something told her to stay put. Something in her gut just kept saying,
Not yet. Don’t move yet. It’s not time.
Then she heard it: a scream followed by a body bolting by her. It was a black girl moving so quickly she wasn’t paying attention to branches that were slapping her across the face. The girl’s foot caught on a log and she dropped to the ground with a thud that told Beatrice she’d likely had the wind knocked out of her. Chasing behind her was a familiar face. Simpson had his baseball bat slung over his shoulder as he closed the gap between him and the fallen girl. Beatrice could recognize him from a mile away. He had abnormally large brown eyes and his hair did this spikey, untamed thing, making him look far more interesting than he was.

“Stop,” Beatrice shouted, tossing herself between them before Simpson could reach the girl. His body slammed into hers, and they both toppled to the ground.

“What the hell are you doing out here, Beatrice?” Simpson barked, jumping to his feet and brushing the dirt off his tattered hand-me-down pants.

“I’m walking home,” she explained, turning toward the little girl and extending her hand to help her up. “Are you hurt?” she asked, looking the girl over once she was on her feet. She had her black hair parted in three different spots and pulled back into tight braids punctuated at the bottom with pink plastic clips. When she spoke Beatrice saw her smile had multiple holes where her baby teeth had fallen out. Her dress, which was now soiled, had matched the clips perfectly. It was trimmed with lace at the sleeves and hem, and Beatrice could tell it had been made with great care. Her round plump lips, framed perfectly by even plumper cheeks, were quivering with fear. Beatrice had never seen such pretty eyes before. They were rich and shiny like molasses and shimmered beneath the tears gathering in them. They seemed bottomless, and it made Beatrice want to lean in and examine them further. As the girl blinked nervously, Beatrice watched her long curled-up lashes catch some of the drops and hold them. The girl finally offered only a small, nearly imperceptible nod to Beatrice to let her know she was fine.

“Beatrice, what the hell? Are you really that thick? You didn’t learn anything from last month did you?” Simpson shoved Beatrice aside with a force unlike any of the playful teasing the two of them had done in the past. He was angry. “She needs to go on. Now.”

Shoving him back, Beatrice let all the fury that had been building in her over the last month show on her face. “She’s a little girl. You’re going to beat her with a bat?”

“I got lost,” the girl whimpered, dropping her head obediently like a dog to its master. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Her voice was quivering, and that only made Beatrice’s rage grow.

“God tells us to love everyone,” Beatrice countered with her chin held high. “She’s a lost little girl. She deserves mercy.”

“Shut up, Beatrice,” Simpson growled, looking over his shoulder and biting at his lip nervously.

“You can’t seriously think you should beat her with that bat because she got lost near your farm?” she shot back, eyeing Simpson’s hesitation. Surely if he was going to do it he’d have done it by now.

“You’re a retard, Beatrice. You must be. I know your mama and daddy can barely read and you don’t have no television, but how can you not know what’s going on in the world? It ain’t just about them anymore.” He gestured over to the little girl with the tip of the bat and sent her jumping nearly out of her skin. “They’re stringing up whites now, too. Shooting them. Burning them. White people out there marching with them, trying to get them the vote; they’re getting killed, too. You can’t help them. You ain’t supposed to.” Simpson dropped his bat to his side, but his face was twisted up and angry like he was trying to explain to a horse how to eat with a fork.

“I don’t get it. Why does everyone hate them so much?” Beatrice demanded, balling her fists together and stomping her foot in frustration. “I’m tired of being dumb about all this stuff. I want to know.”

“It’s complicated,” Simpson replied as he brushed his hand over his dark brown hair. She saw gold flecks in his eyes that had previously been masked by a fierce anger, and they now caught the light that filtered down through the trees.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Beatrice said with a shake in her own voice now. She was exhausted. Sick of feeling tired and stupid.

“You don’t have to do a damn thing and you’re mighty lucky for that,” Simpson explained with an edge back in his voice. “No one is looking to you to do anything. No one is handing you a white hood. You’re a girl, all you gotta do is keep your mouth shut and stay out of the way. Count yourself lucky for that and go on home.”

“I ain’t gonna let you hurt her. You’ll have to hurt me too. There ain’t no way I’m going home knowing you’re gonna beat on her.” Beatrice stuck out her chin defiantly. Surely this was different than the man on Main Street she’d tried to help. Her father couldn’t possible agree that this little girl, who’d accidently gotten lost, should be beaten by a boy so much larger than she was. The situations were completely different, and she tried to convince herself that she was doing the right thing.

Simpson drew in a deep breath as though he was trying to calm his temper. “You don’t know what you’re doing, Beatrice. This ain’t kid shit anymore. We ain’t horsing around in the schoolyard. The world isn’t what you think it is. You have a choice to make. We all do. People don’t want any kind of mixing with colored folks. They’re willing to do anything to keep that from happening. And you’re either with them or you’re dead. That’s your choice.”

“I ain’t leaving her. You wanna hit me with that thing, then go ahead.” Beatrice closed her eyes, blocked the girl with her body, and braced for impact.

Gritting his teeth and growling, he leaned in close to Beatrice’s face. “You know damn well I ain’t gonna do that. But it ain’t me you gotta worry about. There’s four other boys and two of my brothers just a half mile behind me, and they won’t think twice about it.”

Looking past his shoulder, genuine fear began to set in. She’d known Simpson all her life. He’d be unlikely to really raise a hand to her, but these other boys wouldn’t.

“Run, Beatrice. This is the one and only time I’ll ever cover for you. You pull shit like this again, and I won’t stand in anyone’s way. Just take her with you and run.” Simpson lifted his bat and used it to point in the direction they should head.

Her legs didn’t instantly respond as she thought they would. Instead she froze for a moment until he barked at her again, “Run!”

Latching onto the girl’s hand, she spun away from Simpson and headed toward the west side of Edenville. She ignored the pain of whipping branches and the pinch of a cramp in her side. Nothing would slow her down, for any pain she was feeling would be dulled in comparison to what would happen if they were caught.

“I know where I am now,” the girl mustered through exhausted breaths. “My house is just over that hill.” She tugged Beatrice’s arm and, knowing there was an end in sight, felt a much-needed burst of energy. As their tired feet pounded the dirt, they came to the edge of the woods and stood atop a hill. Beatrice looked down over the gully and realized where she was. This was the west side of Edenville. This was where she was never supposed to venture too. Every story she’d ever heard about the place began circling her mind like vultures. Sprinkled across the grassless field and blocked by overgrown trees were dozens and dozens of shacks. The dirt road that led into the ravine was only wide enough for one car, and deep holes had been cut in it by rain that raced down toward the shacks. There were no real roads that led up to each place, just paths created from multiple passes over the mud.

All the shacks looked like they were fighting gravity and a few had lost, caving in on themselves like a loaf of bread that hadn’t had enough time in the oven. Beat up trucks and old furniture littered the open spaces. Fences that were missing full sections did their best to divide each property and give the façade of privacy.

The entire place was sad. That was the best way Beatrice could describe it. It made her feel sad. There were no vibrant colors; everything was the dingy brown-gray of weathered wood or the burnt copper of rust. No flowers bloomed in window boxes; the windows barely looked like they could hold themselves in place. A few skinny dogs roamed and a few skinnier kids chased them.

“Is this where you live?” Beatrice asked, raining pity down like a waterfall on this poor child.

“That one there,” the girl answered with a big smile. “We live in one of the nice ones with the good windows and a sturdy porch. We’ll have to run fast; we’re tucked away real good behind those trees so no one should see you—but just in case.”

It was the nicest shack, but that was like being the best pup in a bad litter. Its dirt front yard looked well kept, no garbage was strewn across it. It was tucked away, and more private, but that was the extent of its luxuries.

As they took off in a sprint down the steep hill, Beatrice felt as though she were flying, and not in a good way. Racing toward this unfamiliar and new world felt out of her control.

“Alma Mae, where on God’s green earth have you been? You had me as worried as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.” The woman’s voice came echoing from the porch. It was brash, but when they grew closer Beatrice could see her face was soft as she opened her arms wide. The little girl plowed right into her and buried her face in her chest. Beatrice felt suddenly out of place as they all stood on the front step in silence.

Staring down at her shoes, she kicked at a pebble and contemplated just turning around and going home. But the stitch in her side was still aching.

“I got lost, Mama. There was this boy with a baseball bat, but this girl, she saved me,” Alma explained through tears.

“Saved you?” the broad-shouldered woman asked as she looked Beatrice from head to toe appraisingly. Her face was round like her daughter, her arms thick and chocolate colored. Nothing about her was petite, but somehow she was still incredibly feminine. It was in the curve of her hips and the fullness of her mouth. Her hair was pinned back with much care, leaving perfectly sculpted waves framing her face. Even with an apron on, a broom in her hand, and mud-covered boots, she looked elegant.

She was larger than Beatrice’s own meek mother in every way. Her voice was louder. Her dress was more colorful, and her presence could be felt even when she was silent.

“She told that boy she wasn’t going to let him beat me. Then she grabbed my hand, and we ran the whole way here,” Alma explained, her words coming quickly and plowing into each other.

“Girl, did you make sure they weren’t following you? Are they coming this way?” the woman asked nervously, clutching her daughter tightly.

The fear that spread across her face made Beatrice’s heart skip a beat. It wasn’t often that a grown-up in her life showed any kind of true alarm. It was wholly unsettling.

“They didn’t, Mama. I watched. No one’s coming.” Alma spoke into her mother’s shoulder, clearly not ready to let go. “We ran so fast, Mama.”

“That’s good, girl. You gotta be fast. Now come on in the house so I can clean up those little cuts on your face,” the woman instructed as she brushed her thumb across her daughter’s cheek.