The Governor's Sons (21 page)

Last Saturday Heath and Ash had arrived home in blood stained clothes.
 
Ash, scheduled to have classes on Monday, wasn’t able to drive back to school until Tuesday.
 
He’d been so broken up he couldn’t even get out of bed.

Feeling overheated by the hot weather and the scotch, Louis unbuttoned his black double-breasted jacket and loosened his tie.
  
He wanted to offer some comfort to Ash, as well as to Catherine’s family, but he didn’t know how.
 
After all, it wasn’t a man’s place to do such things.
 
He’d leave that to Joan.

****

“What do you mean, he may not be going?”
 
Miss Joan asked Heath, who sat waiting in the living room with his arms spread across the curved back of the gray satin sofa.

“Right now--he says he can’t.”

Miss Joan headed for the stairs. Her black heels clicked rhythmically as she crossed the cold marble floor of the entrance foyer.
 
Then, with rigid precision, she climbed the carpeted steps.

Ash had had every intention of going to Kitty’s visitation.
 
He’d driven from Simpson Leggett early this morning so he could.
 
And last night he’d written a letter to Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes.
 
To get the words just right, he’d labored over it for hours so he could place it in Ward’s hand today at the visitation—if he could force himself to go.

Still standing at his dresser, Ash pulled the letter from the envelope to read one last time before sealing it.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes,

There are no words to express my sympathy for Catherine’s untimely death.
 
I can barely withstand the pain of losing her myself.

I truly loved Catherine, and my intention was to marry her, and move abroad.
 
There, we would have lived as husband and wife.
 
I regret more than anything her death in the delivery our child.
 
I will provide for Harland, and I wish to be a part of his life, if you and your family will allow that.

My desire was to spend my life with Catherine, and raise a family with her.
 
My love for her was genuine. I can only hope that you accept my words for the truth that they sincerely express.
 
As my wife, I would have treated Catherine as a princess, no less.

I extend my deepest sympathies.

Yours truly,

Ashton Kroth

Ash finally sealed the letter.
 
He placed it back on the dresser, then clasped his hands and stared at it.
 
Since he’d showered and dressed, he’d been positioned at the same place for over an hour. And during that hour all Ash had done was dwell on the visitation and what waited there to confront him.

Although he tried to muster the nerve, he felt paralyzed.
 
Ash didn’t want to face Kitty’s family and friends.
 
And the last person he wanted to see was Russell.

Mother had been in contact with the Wilkes family immediately after hearing of Kitty’s death.
 
From Miss Joan he’d learned that they’d wanted the Graham Mortuary to prepare her.
 
So the Wilkeses had made arrangements with the undertaker in 86 to ship Kitty’s body back to Joy Hope.

Ash sighed.
 
Worst of all would be seeing Kitty dead again.
 
Ash didn’t think he could handle that yet.

Jarred from his thoughts, he heard his mother’s commanding footsteps coming down the hall.
 
When she stopped outside his bedroom, he glanced toward the door.

Miss Joan didn’t try the knob and she didn’t knock.
 
For several seconds she said nothing, then, “Ashton Leigh, you open the door this minute.”

At first Ash didn’t move, but then slowly walked to the door and opened it.
 
His mother wore a raw silk dress, black and cut straight, with a matching shawl draped over her shoulders.

“There’s never an appropriate time to be a coward,” she said.

“I’m not afraid!” Ash exclaimed.
 
“I’ve never been afraid of anything in my life!”

Miss Joan raised a brow.
 
“Then why are you acting like you are now?
 
If you don’t go to Catherine’s visitation, what will that say about your character?
 
It’ll show that you’re not cut out to be a leader of any kind.
 
We all make mistakes, but we must confront the consequences head on, not hide from them.
 
You
can’t
allow this—this indiscretion of yours—an indiscretion of
extreme stupidity
—to debilitate you.”

Ash felt the blood heat his face.

“Only a few people know the truth,” Miss Joan continued.
 
“And you can either choose to be respected as a
man
by them, or be scorned as a coward.”
 
She swirled to go. “We’ll be leaving in five minutes.”

****

Ash gazed out the backseat car window at the sandy streets and oak trees.
 
No one spoke as Mr. Louis drove his gray Packard to the Wilkes’s home.
 
Miss Joan held a large covered dish of fried chicken for the visitation, along with a sympathy card.
 
Enclosed in it was a check for $100.00 to help with Kitty’s funeral expenses.

After Mr. Louis parked in front of Kitty’s house, he turned toward the back and looked at Ash.
 
He cleared his throat, then said, “In this time of tragedy…” but he couldn’t go on.
 
“Ash—I—I don’t really know what to say, but—”

“Louis!” Miss Joan snapped.
 
“Hush up!
 
This is no time for a speech!
 
And for heaven’s sake,
straighten
your tie and
button
your jacket!
 
You look like a forgotten man, or a hobo, or something.”

Mr. Louis adjusted his tie, then climbed from the car.
 
He buttoned his jacket while walking to the passenger side to open the door for Miss Joan.

Heath started to pull on his door handle, but Ash stopped him. “Can you wait with me—just a couple minutes?”

“Yeah,” Heath said.

Miss Joan glanced back at both of them.
 
Then, with narrowed eyes on her youngest son hissed, “Ash, don’t embarrass your family anymore.
 
You’ve already embarrassed us enough.”

“Mother,” Heath said calmly, “we’ll go inside—just give us a couple minutes.”

“Fine, but you’d better not stay out here more than 120 seconds.” Miss Joan abruptly turned away.
 
As she stepped from the car, she handed the food to Mr. Louis.
 
He didn’t say another word to either of his sons before he shut his wife’s door behind her.

Heath looked at his little brother who sat silently, gazing straight ahead.
 
“Ash—we can’t just sit here.”

“I know.
 
I—I just need you to—pray with me.
 
Pray that I can make it through this visitation without breaking into a million pieces.”
 
He was about to cry but managed to hold back his tears.
 
“I don’t think I can see her again--without falling apart.”

Heath clasped his brother’s hand.
 
“Father God—we uh—just pray that you’ll keep Ash strong through this difficult time.
 
We ask that—You give him the strength to face anything. In Jesus name—Amen.”
 
Heath gave his brother’s hand a firm squeeze, and then let it go.

Ash exhaled.
 
“I reckon it’s been 120 seconds.”
 
But he made no effort to move.

“Yeah.
 
So—are you ready?”

“No, but I suppose we should go inside.”

Heath stepped from the car first.
 
His door faced the house.
 
Then Ash climbed out.
 
Heath waited, but his brother told him to go on.
 
As Heath walked ahead, Ash took a deep breath and followed.
 
But before he made it to the foot of the porch steps, he saw Thomas coming out of the front door.

Dressed in a black pin stripe suit, Thomas quickly made his way down the steps and approached Ash with an outstretched hand.
 
Unsure of what to think, Ash extended his hand in return.
 
But Thomas grabbed it in a vise like grip, then steered him toward the large oak tree in front of the Wilkes’s home.

“It’s safer to talk over here,” Thomas said, “so no one can over hear us.”

The two men were roughly the same height.
 
Thomas, however, was broader through the shoulders, and the extra fabric and light padding in the shoulders of his drape cut suit made him appear even larger.

Thomas loosened his grasp on Ash’s hand, but still held it tight.
 
Putting his other hand on Ash’s shoulder, he leaned closely to his ear.

“The only people that know the truth are Catherine’s parents, Betty Jean and me,” he whispered.
 
“Russell’s family prepared the body, so they know she died having a baby.
 
The story that the family’s telling is that she was raped--by a white man.”

Ash stiffened.
 
He could feel the blood drain from his face.

“A white man she
didn’t
know.
 
And instead of aborting the child, she went away to have it.”
 
He looked at Ash smugly.
 
“So I suppose you can relax now.”
 
Thomas dropped his hand, then left him standing alone.

Ash felt as if something had been ripped out of him.
 
Eviscerated, he could barely move.
 
His love for Kitty had been reduced to an indiscretion of extreme stupidity, and now degraded to rape.

Ash held onto the metal pipe railing for support as he walked up the steps to the house.
 
Once inside, his senses were assaulted by the sickeningly sweet smell of orchids, gardenias and lilies.
 
Sprays of floral arrangements, large and small, were placed throughout the cramped living room and dining room.

He purposefully avoided looking near the open casket.
 
But this proved difficult since it was the center of attention and main focal point in the living room.
 
All the furniture had been moved against the walls to accommodate its size.

His family had purchased the expensive piece.
 
Besides a glimpse of mahogany and the ivory satin lining, Ash saw nothing else, and didn’t want to.
 
He couldn’t bring himself to see her—at least not now.

Several people, all colored, except for the Kroths, milled about the small house eating and talking.
 
Ash had seen his mother and father offering condolences to Kitty’s parents moments earlier.
 
Now Dad was at Mother’s side while she hugged Betty Jean.
 
Ash saw Heath approach the Wilkeses and talk to them for a short while before moving on to Betty Jean.

Now it was Ash’s turn.
 
He dragged his leaden feet in the direction of Kitty’s parents.
 
Sophie’s dress was simple; an elegant short sleeved black satin.
 
Ward hovered next to her like a big black giant.
 
Wearing a dark suit, he looked uncomfortable, and his large frame confined.

Once he’d reached Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes, Ash pulled the letter from his breast pocket. Sweating heavily and almost too choked up to speak, he only managed to say, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ash,” Sophie said quietly.

To Ash, her eyes looked accepting, but Ward only nodded, then dropped his gaze.
 
Ash grabbed his large callused hand and forced the letter into it.

Ward raised his head.

“Please, sir,” Ash’s voice shook, “when you can—please—read this.”

Ward’s eyes were filled with hurt and anguish.
 
But Ash also detected hate—hate only directed at him—the white man responsible for his daughter’s death.
 
Ash lowered his eyes and moved away, not wanting to peer into the dark pools of sorrow and loathing a moment longer.

He slowly walked toward Betty Jean, but from the corner of his eye, saw the rest of his family viewing Kitty’s body.

Talking to Kitty’s sister would be easier than talking to her parents, but Ash was angry with her.
 
She knew he and Kitty loved each other, and he resented the story chosen to explain her death.
 
“Betty Jean,” he clenched his fists for a moment, “I’m sorry.”

She grabbed his hand with both of hers.
 
An overlay of black lace covered her dark dress.
 
“Thank you, Mr. Ash.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say anything else, so Ash turned away from her and steeled himself to view the casket.
 
No one was there now, except for an old black woman who loudly blew her nose.
 
Ash hesitantly approached, and soon Kitty’s body became visible.