That’s when she remembered driving around the back corner of the Orchid Motel in Sister Clara’s quiet little car and there was this white man coming out of that very same room. He closed the door and hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob and soon as he saw her, he turned away quick-like.
“Jesus, lift me up and lead me on,” she sang along with the radio. “Till I reach your heavenly throne.”
If any policeman had’ve asked her Sunday night, she might’ve told about that man right then and there, but all the guests down at that side of the motel, them that didn’t just up and check out, had to be moved over to the front side and Mrs. O’Day had kept her hopping till after the police left.
And if anybody’d been with her in the bathroom at two o’clock this morning when she was sitting on the stool reading the Ledger, she might’ve bust out with it then, but they weren’t and she didn’t. By the time she returned to the lounge, she’d had second and third thoughts about what this secret knowledge could do for her.
“For my sins you did atone,” sang the choir.
Yesterday’s Ledger lay on the car seat beside her, neatly folded so that the man’s picture was staring right back at her.
Probably had plenty of money. White men like him usually did. And here she was, needing a new car real bad, what with winter coming on. That old rustbucket of hers stayed in the shop more than it stayed on the road. Wouldn’t have to be a fancy car, just something nice and dependable like Sister Clara’s.
Sister Clara was always warning her to stay out of white people’s business.
Easy enough for her to say, thought Rosa, and her a preacher’s wife with a husband to give her everything—nice house, nice car, nice clothes she don’t have to go out and work among white folks for. Still, it won’t none of her business to bear witness against that man. “Thou shalt not suffer a whore to live.” Isn’t that what the Bible said? Not up to her to avenge the killing of a white harlot.
Anyhow, she didn’t have to decide right now, she told herself. Like Mary, she was going to sit back and ponder all these things in her heart.
“Jesus, lift me up and lead me on.”
* * *
He couldn’t believe his luck. Ever since it happened, he’d checked his rearview mirror for every white Civic that he met, noted every white Civic parked on the streets—who knew Honda had such a big slice of the car market? And didn’t they make Civics in any damn color except white?
Then suddenly, there it was!
He was waiting at a stop sign when the car sailed by, the gold cross affixed to the license plate, the Jesus bumper stickers with their blood red letters on a white background. The one on the left read, “Jesus loves YOU!” The one on the right, “Jesus died for your sins.”
Without thinking twice, he immediately switched his blinker from a left-turn arrow to a right-turn. As soon as the westbound lane cleared, he pulled out and headed after the white Civic, his heart pounding. He didn’t have a plan. All he’d hoped—a blind illogical hope, he’d begun to think—was that he could somehow find her before she heard about Lynn’s death, connected it with him, and went to the sheriff.
Finding her was first. He hadn’t really thought about what he’d do after that.
She drove as if she were late, weaving in and out of morning traffic. Fortunately, the heaviest traffic was leaving Cotton Grove, not entering it, and he was able to close the gap between them. Nevertheless, she was four cars ahead of him and he almost lost sight of her when she suddenly whipped into the central turn lane and zipped across in front of an oncoming car with only inches to spare.
He was forced to wait for six cars before he could follow and by then, the white Civic was nowhere to be seen.
Damn, damn, damn!
To be this close and then lose her.
He kept to the posted thirty-five miles per hour even though every instinct told him to go even slower so he could look carefully. Unfortunately, this was a residential street in a black neighborhood with black kids collecting on the corner to wait for their school buses. He couldn’t afford to drive too slowly or they’d notice him.
Notice and remember.
He told himself that Cotton Grove was a little town and this black neighborhood was proportionately small, too. How long could it take to quarter the whole area?
As it turned out, he didn’t have to. Two blocks down, he spotted the white Civic parked in the driveway of a neat brick house. He carefully noted the house number as he drove by but didn’t have time to make out the name on the mailbox, too.
At the next comer, he made a left, then three right turns to bring him back down this street. As he passed the house a second time, he saw two women and two children getting into the car and he immediately pulled in ahead of a green van parked at the curb. He waited there with the motor running till the Civic backed out of the drive. Only the little girl’s head turned in his direction when they passed him, and even she didn’t seem to notice as he trailed them through town.
First stop was the middle school where she let off the boy, then the elementary school for the little girl. Finally, she stopped in front of a small house at the end of a shabby, unpaved, semi-rural street and the second woman got out. He was too intent on the driver to pay much attention to her passengers. A quick stop at a convenience store, then she drove straight back to the first house.
He was right behind her all the way, and by the time she got out of the car and went into the house with her purchases, he’d begun to formulate his next move. She had to know about the murder by now, yet he hadn’t been arrested. Either she hadn’t looked at him closely enough to give the police a good description or she hadn’t connected him with the murder room. But how could that be unless she was dumber than dirt? She’d driven around the corner of the motel just as he pulled the door closed behind him. He’d certainly registered a black female face and the car’s religious symbols as she passed within fifteen feet. It seemed impossible that she wouldn’t recognize him the minute she saw him face-to-face again.
He slowed down enough to read the name on the mailbox.
Freeman.
It was a sign.
Take care of that woman and he’d stay a free man.
* * *
The blue LCD numbers on her bedside clock marched inexorably toward eight o’clock. Lying there, watching the numbers reconfigure themselves to show every passing moment, Cyl DeGraffenried wondered dully who it was that first realized it would take only seven straight little segments of liquid crystal to display every digit.
She was supposed to be in court at nine, but she couldn’t seem to pull herself out of bed. All she wanted to do was lie here and watch those little segments light up or then go dark as the numbers changed.
As an assistant district attorney, she’d seen her share of people with clinical depression and she knew that staying in bed was a classic symptom of withdrawal, but knowing it and being able to resist were two entirely separate things.
Like falling in love with Ralph Freeman. She had known it was stupid and wrong, and she hadn’t been able to resist that either.
She considered herself religious, yet she’d never daydreamed of loving a preacher. And certainly not a married preacher.
Two months of unimagined happiness, followed by these last two nights of misery. Just thinking about Sunday night made her eyes fill up again with tears. Such delight when she’d opened her door to find him standing there.
Such grief when he told her why he’d come.
“You don’t love her,” she’d said and he didn’t deny it.
Instead he took her in his arms as if reaching out for salvation and held her against his heart. “If it were just you and me, I’d walk through the fiery furnace to stay here with you forever. I love you more than I ever dreamed I could love anyone. The smell of you, the softness—” His voice broke with sorrow. “She’s the mother of my children, Cyl, and she’s done nothing to be humbled like this.”