The Governor's Sons

Maria McKenzie

Kindle Amazon Edition

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Visit Maria McKenzie at
http://www.mariamckenziewrites.com

To Richard, Matthew and James

Many thanks to Lisa, Elaine, Joy and Annie.
 
Couldn’t have written this without you!
 
And Renae, thanks for your beautiful artwork.
 
Thanks also to my mom and dad for their historical insight.
 
And a big thank you to my husband, Richard, for his encouragement, as well as his advice on the male perspective.

Clarkstown, Capital City of a Southern State

Summer, 1965

Don Clay hoped to be home in bed in just a few more hours.
 
Last night he’d covered a riot across the state line and gotten cut on the wrist by flying glass.
 
That had cost him three hours in the emergency room, plus a good night’s sleep.
 
As he drove his red ’62 LeMans to cover another story, Clay glanced at his watch and caught a glimpse of the barbed wire like stitches holding the laceration together.
 
His skin felt sore and tight, but he shrugged off the minor discomfort.

Clay, a Negro and seasoned reporter, had taken several lickings and kept on ticking just like his Timex, and the trusty Nikon strapped around his neck.
 
The camera had been blasted from his hands when he’d been fire hosed in Birmingham covering a march back in ‘63, but he’d been lucky enough to retrieve it undamaged.

Clay took one last puff from his Kool cigarette before tossing it from the car window.
 
As he drove over the Manchester Bridge, he could see Friendship Fellowship, the colored church, situated comfortably across the Coleridge River in a little hamlet surrounded by oak trees.
 
It only took a few moments to cross the Manchester.
 
It was a steel beam bridge about the length of a football field.

This evening’s NAACP meeting was scheduled to begin shortly at Friendship Fellowship, and Clay looked forward to a peaceful event, the only excitement being black Civil Rights leader Harland Hall’s presence. He pulled into the parking lot at the side of the church.
 
About a dozen automobiles were there when he arrived, but Hall’s car wasn’t among them.

Clay stepped from his Pontiac and walked toward the church, his feet crunching over the gravel.
 
When he casually glanced in the bridge’s direction, a bright flash of flames caught his eye, then a loud blast erupted rattling the church’s stained glass windows.
 
Two old colored ladies fell to their knees in the parking lot.
 
They clutched each other screaming.
 
Clay felt his lanky frame shaking, then smelled smoke and saw a slight haze in the air while a young woman and her child ran to take cover behind a car.
 
After gathering his senses, Clay realized that the blast had come from the bridge.

Four men and a woman came running from the church to see what had happened.
 
But Don Clay knew.
 
A fresh rush of adrenaline surged through him and he forgot all about sleeping.

“Somebody call the police!” he yelled.
 
“I’m a reporter from the
The Crier
!”
 
Clay ran toward the bridge, stopping every few moments to snap pictures.
 
With Harland Hall expected at this evening’s event, that explosion could mean only one thing.

Joy Hope, a Small Southern Town

Summer, 1936

Ash Kroth pushed open the swinging door on his way to the kitchen, but stopped in midstride.
 
Moments earlier, he’d finished his morning run through town and removed his sneakers, leaving them on the sprawling front porch of the family mansion.
 
Then he’d come inside and followed the aroma of ham and biscuits.
 
Ash had been hungry only seconds ago, but now he wasn’t thinking about food at all.

He saw a Negro girl on a step stool, one he’d never seen before.
 
She was a young woman.
 
Ash was 23.
 
She appeared a few years younger, and wore the light blue dress of a domestic.
 
Ash’s gaze lingered on her shapely legs, then worked its way up.
 
Ash’s brother, Heath, handed her a large crystal platter.

The kitchen was big; Heath and the girl were at the opposite end.
 
They hadn’t noticed Ash yet, but as the girl rose on tiptoe, and her dress inched higher, Ash couldn’t help but notice more of her.
 
He strode in a few more paces, still unseen by them.

“Mother likes all the dishes washed the night of her parties, but she doesn’t mind them not being put away ‘til the next day,” Ash heard his brother tell her.

“Is this the last thing we need to put up?” the girl asked.
 
Heath told her it was.
 
“It’s a good thing you and your brother are supposed to do this.
 
Aunt Izolla would probably fall and break her neck trying to reach these cabinets.”

Heath smiled as the girl tucked the platter into place.
 
“Mother’s planning on hiring a new live-in maid, she just hasn’t found one yet that she likes.”

Ash was hot and sweaty from his run and the whirring ceiling fan and open windows did little to relieve the heat from a hot oven inside a hot house in June.
 
Ash ran a hand over his thick auburn hair to smooth it a little, then grabbed a dish towel from the counter to wipe his face and neck.

He glanced down at his gym shorts and tee shirt for a moment, feeling self conscious.
 
But he didn’t need to be spic and span for the new help, and besides, Ash thought, he wouldn’t mind if she saw him with his muscled physique partially exposed.

The girl had had no trouble reaching the high cabinet shelf.
 
Ash guessed her to be around 5’ 4”, but she almost lost her balance after she closed the cabinet door.

“Careful, Catherine.”
 
Heath held out his arms.
 
“Let me help you down from there.
 
We don’t want you getting hurt your first day on the job.”

“Oh, Mr. Heath, I thank you kindly.”
 
The girl, Catherine, placed her hands on Heath’s broad shoulders.

He lifted her from the stool.
 
“You’re light as a feather.”
 
Setting her on the floor, he said, “You hardly weigh a thing.”

“Aren’t you sweet?
 
And I hear you’re smart, too.
 
Aunt Izolla told me you’re a resident at the hospital, in—I think obstetrics.
 
Is that right?”

“Why yes, indeed.”
 
Ash noticed his brother’s chest puff out at Catherine’s flattery.

Instead of hiring poor white girls, Mother preferred genteel Negroes from the respectable colored part of town.
 
And this Catherine was pretty, with large dark eyes that sparkled, and soft looking cocoa brown skin.

“She said your brother’s smart, too.”
 
Catherine smiled sweetly at Heath.
 
“But I bet he’s not half as good looking as you are.”

Heath grinned.
 
“Well, Ash
is
the runt.”

Ash became jealous of the easy banter between them.
 
Heath was older, bigger and taller than his little brother, and he referred to Ash as wiry.
 
Heath also had a three inch advantage over him that he never tired of pointing out.
 
Ash was slim from running, and muscular with the broad shoulders of a swimmer, but he was only 5’11 ¾”.
 
Despite this, he claimed to be an even 6 feet.

Heath’s frame was broader than Ash’s and at 26, Heath’s brown hair was streaked with premature gray.
 
To the ladies, this hardly diminished his attractiveness; according to some, it only enhanced it.

Izolla, the family cook of over 25 years, said Heath had a kind face, because of his pleasant smile and gentle brown eyes.
 
But she’d accused Ash more than once of having a touch of devilment painted brightly across his countenance.

She’d said that his boyish dimples couldn’t counteract the mischief in his hazel eyes.
 
And “that widow’s peak along with those slightly pointed brows conjures up the very image of Mephistopheles himself!”

Regardless of her smart remarks, Ash considered himself just as good looking as his big brother, as well as a formidable rival in the art of flirting.

“Why’s a pretty girl like you wasting time talking to an old man like him?”
 
Ash smiled, approaching them.
 
“I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Upon seeing him, Catherine smiled, and her eyes widened slightly in what looked like surprise. Ash figured she didn’t find him to be the homely runt she’d expected.

They shook hands while Heath introduced them.
 
“Catherine, meet my
little
brother, Ash.
 
And Ash, this is Catherine Mae Wilkes, Izolla’s great niece.
 
She and her sister, Betty Jean, are gonna be working here this summer.”

“So,
you’re
the infamous Mr. Ash.
 
Why, I’m pleased to meet you, sir.”

“Let me guess,” Ash said, “‘infamous,’ according to Izolla?”

“That’s right, sir.
 
Aunt Izolla
raves
about Mr. Heath, but she says, in her opinion, you’re the devil’s assistant.”

Ash shook his head as a sly smile curled his lips.
 
“Now, Izolla would say that about me, wouldn’t she?”

Catherine gazed back at Heath.
 
“Mr. Heath, does your brother
always
walk around looking like this?”

Ash looked down at his clothes.
 
Maybe he should have showered and dressed.
 
He hadn’t expected to be made fun of.
 
In his defense he said, “Well, I take exercise every morning by going for a run.”

“Wearing that?”

“These are running clothes.”

Catherine grinned.
 
“Oh.
 
I just thought you just wanted to look like a fool.”
 
Heath had just taken a sip of coffee, but almost spat it out as he laughed.
 
Then Catherine tipped her head and eyed Ash strangely. “So, why is it that you—take exercise?”

“And don’t drink coffee,” Heath said before taking another sip.

Ash felt his cheeks burn.
 
Being ridiculed by Heath was one thing, but he hadn’t expected the new girl to act as his accomplice.
 
“I went to a lecture series on health and nutrition at the YMCA a few years back--it changed my life.”

“So,” Heath said, “he doesn’t eat chocolate cake, banana pie, or anything else that makes life worth living.”

Catherine clicked her tongue. “Now, that’s a shame.
 
Aunt Izolla didn’t tell me he was crazy, too.”

The oven timer buzzed and Ash was thankful the distraction would spare him further harassment.

Catherine used a red pot holder to take a baking pan from the oven, then placed it atop a hot pad on the counter.
 
With a spatula, she removed a biscuit to a small plate, then gently pried it open with a knife.

“Now, Catherine’s a long name.” Ash frowned.
 
“Can I call you something for short?”

Catherine lifted two slices of fried ham with a fork from a platter, and placed them in the biscuit.
 
“My mama used to call me Cathy.
 
She loved
Wuthering Heights
.
 
Just like your mama.”
 
When she said this, Catherine smiled at Heath, and he smiled back.
 
“Mr. Heath told me that’s how he got his name, too.
 
But I never liked the sound of Cathy all that much.
 
For something short I like Cat better.
 
Mr.
Heathcliff
, do you want two biscuits?”

“No, one’s good,
Cathy
.” Heath winked.

“Yeah, he’s getting pudgy around the middle,” Ash said, resentful of his brother’s
Wuthering Heights
exchange with her.

“Oh, Mr. Ash,” Catherine admonished, pulling a roll of wax paper from a drawer, “there’s certainly nothing wrong with the way your brother looks!”
 
She tore off a length of wax paper, wrapped the biscuit, and then handed it to Heath.

Ash ignored her comment regarding his brother’s looks.
 
“Cat sounds like an animal to me,” he said.
 
“How about Kitty, can I call you that?”

“That’s a baby animal!”
 
Catherine laughed.
 
“But I’ll tell you what, Mr. Ash, you call me anything you want, as long as it sounds nice.”

“Then Kitty it is.”

Heath glanced at his watch.
 
“I need to eat on the run and get to the hospital.”

“Good,” Ash said, “it’s about time.”
 
He studied Kitty’s face as she put the wax paper back in the drawer.
 
Thick black lashes framed her luminous brown eyes, and her lips were full and sensual. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss them.
 
A light blue bandeau pulled her chin length tresses away from her face.
 
Her hair, a kinky curly mass, appeared luxuriantly soft and puffy.
 
Ash felt almost compelled to touch it.

Kitty looked toward Heath as he started to leave.
 
“You have a good day, now, Mr. Heath.”

“Thanks, Catherine.
 
You do the same.”
 
As he walked out the back door at the rear of the kitchen, he yelled over his shoulder, “See you later,
runt
!”

Kitty tried not to laugh but couldn’t help it.
 
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ash.”

“Shucks.” Ash smirked, and his eyes dropped to the floor.
 
 
“Go ahead, laugh all you want.”
 
Gazing at Kitty again, his smirk widened to a smile, then he propped himself against the counter next to her.
 
“So, Miss Kitty Mae Wilkes, tell me about yourself.”

“There’s not really much to tell.
 
I’m at Maretta University, the colored school over in Cherrywood.
 
So’s my older sister, Betty Jean.”
 
Kitty opened a large metal pot simmering on the back of the stove with the pot holder.
 
After the steam escaped she stirred the hot grits inside with a wooden spoon.
 
“I just turned 19, and I’ll be a sophomore in the fall.
 
Betty Jean will be graduating next year.”

After she closed the pot and placed the spoon on the white spoon rest next to it, Ash said, “What are you studying?”

“Elementary education.”

Ash nodded his approval.
 
“Teaching’s a good choice.”

“I thought about being a nurse.
 
That’s what my sister wants to do.
 
She’s in Maretta’s nursing program.
 
I like helping people—but I hate science.
 
And all that blood—I just can’t take looking at it.”

Ash laughed.
 
“I’m not cut out for medicine either.
 
But I did teach for a while, right after I graduated from Clemson three years ago.
 
I taught agriculture at the high school; also coached the football team.
 
This summer I’m still doing a little teaching.
 
In the evenings, a couple times a week, I teach adult reading classes.”

“Aunt Izolla told me all that, but she also said you’ll be going to law school this fall.”

“That’s right.
 
I decided to go into politics.
 
It’s only natural.”
 
The Kroths were descended from a large land holding family of wealth and political prestige.
 
Ash leaned close to Kitty and smiled. “You know, since before the Civil War, the Kroth men have been known as crafty lawyers and shrewd politicians.
 
And one of these days, Miss Kitty Mae Wilkes, I’m gonna be the governor.”
 

“Oh?” Kitty put her hands on her hips.
 
“And how’s that, Mr. Ash?”

“I’ve got it all worked out.
 
Law school’s gonna take me three years, so my sights are set on the 1940 election.
 
That’s when I’ll run for superintendent of education.
 
I know I can do a better job than the old geezer that’s doin’ it now.
 
He keeps getting elected, but if
I
run, I know I can win.”