I didn’t know Ralph Freeman’s wife except by reputation: a God-fearing, commandment-keeping woman who didn’t trust white people. I did know his children though, an eleven-year-old son and a seven-year-old daughter who was an engaging little gigglebox. Kids like Stan and Lashanda are one more reason I don’t mess with married men.
As if reading my mind, Cyl said, “He has children, a wife, a commitment to Jesus. And he’s right. It could jeopardize my job, too. He can’t—we can’t—That’s what he came to tell me Sunday night. We can’t ever see each other alone again. And he’s right. I know he’s right. But, oh Deborah, how can I stand it?”
And she began to cry again.
CHAPTER | 11
Never did a storm work more cruelly.
September 4 (Weds.)
—As of 6 a.m. Hurricane Fran 26°N by 73.9°W.
—Winds at 100 kts. (115 mph)—now a Category 3 hurricane.
—Predicted to hit land sometime tomorrow night.
—Hurricane watch posted last night from Sebastian Inlet, FL to Little River Inlet, SC.
—Evacuating coastal areas of NC, SC & GA.
—Trop. strm. winds 250+ mi. from eye & hurr. winds out 145 mi.—gale-force wind & rain if it hits NC.
Stan Freeman finished jotting his morning notes with a sense of growing excitement. Maybe they’d get a little action this far inland after all.
Certainly his parents seemed concerned when he joined them for breakfast. The kitchen radio was tuned to WPTF’s morning weather report. Rain today and more predicted for tomorrow with gusty winds. Unless Hurricane Fran took a sudden sharp turn soon, North Carolina was definitely in for it.
“It’s a biggie,” Stan told them happily. “Almost three hundred miles across. A lot bigger than Bertha and you saw what she did. They’re talking winds a hundred and thirty miles an hour! Storm surges twenty feet high! And if it comes in at Wilmington, we might even get tornadoes.”
“Stanley!” his mother protested.
“Tornadoes?” Lashanda’s eyes widened. “Like Dorothy? Our house will get blown away? Mama?”
“Your brother’s talking about ’way down at the coast,” Clara said with soothing tones for her daughter and a warning glare for her son. “That’s a long way away. And it seems to me, Stanley, that you should be praying the storm passes by instead of hoping it hits and causes so many people grief.”
“I’m not wishing them grief, Mama,” he protested as the phone rang and his father got up to answer. “I’m just telling you what the weather reports say. I have to keep up with it for my science project. You want me to get a good grade, don’t you?”
As he knew it would, citing school as a justification for his excitement somewhat mitigated her displeasure.
“Don’t worry, Shandy,” he told his little sister. “We’ll be safe this far inland.”
A drop of milk splashed on Lashanda’s skirt and she jumped up immediately for a wet cloth to sponge it off. She was wearing her Brownie uniform since they were meeting immediately after school.
His father hung up the phone and came back to the table. “That was Brother Todd. He and the other deacons think we ought to cancel prayer meeting tonight, and spend the evening taking down the tent. The canvas is so rain-soaked that it’s dripping through. One strong gust could send it halfway to Raleigh.”
“When will you start?” asked Stan. “After school? I can help, can’t I?”
“Me, too,” said Lashanda.
“You’re too little,” Clara told her. “Besides, that’s men’s work.”
“It’s not fair!” Lashanda’s big brown eyes started to puddle up. “Boys get to have all the fun.”
“I thought we agreed not to stereotype gender roles,” Ralph said mildly.
Clara’s tone was three shades colder. “Wrestling with a tent in the wind and rain is not appropriate for a little girl.”
“Or a little boy either,” he said with a smile for his daughter. “But I bet we can find something that is appropriate. Maybe you can gather up the tent pegs, honey. Would you like that?”
The child nodded vigorously.
“We’ll see,” said Clara as the phone rang again.
“For you,” Ralph told her, handing over the receiver.
“Sister Clara?” came a woman’s strong voice. “This is Grace Thomas and I sure do hate to bother you this early in the morning, but I wanted to catch you ’fore you got off.”
Grace Thomas was a fiercely independent old woman who lived a few miles out from Cotton Grove. She and her late husband were childless, her only niece lived in Washington, and there were no near black neighbors. Even the nearest white neighbor was a quarter-mile away. None of this had been a problem until she broke her leg last week.
“You’re not bothering me a bit,” said Clara. “How’s that leg of yours?”
“Well, it’s not hurting so bad, but I still can’t drive yet and with the hurricane coming and all, I was wondering if maybe you or one of the other sisters could fetch me some things from the store?”
“I’ll be happy to.” Clara signalled to Stan to hand her the notepad and pencil that lay on the counter.
She was in the habit of listing her plans for the day and the list already had four or five items on it.
Now she added Mrs. Thomas’s needs: bread, milk, eggs, cat food, lettuce, lamp oil and a half-dozen C batteries.
“Batteries might not be a bad idea for us,” said Ralph as he finished eating and carried his dishes to the sink. “I doubt we’ll lose power, but you never know. Best be prepared. Isn’t that the Scout motto, Shandy?”
The child wasn’t listening. Instead, she wiggled her finger around in her mouth and pulled out something small and white.
“My tooth fell out! Look, Daddy! I wasn’t biting down hard or anything and it just fell out. Am I bleeding?”
She bared her teeth and there was a gap in her lower incisors. Three of the upper ones had been shed so long that they were half-grown back in, but this was the first of the lower ones.
“Better hurry up and put it in a glass of water,” Stan teased. “You let it dry out and the Tooth Fairy won’t give you more than a nickel for it.”
The Tooth Fairy had been yet another of the many forbiddens in Clara’s childhood and she was eternally conscious of her father’s strictures concerning anything supernatural. Ralph, though, likened it to believing in Santa Claus, just another harmless metaphor for an aspect of God’s love. She suspected there was something faulty in his logic—Santa Claus might be an elf, yet he was modeled on a real saint, whereas the Tooth Fairy—? But Ralph had more book-learning and he was her husband, the head of their household, she told herself, and it was her wifely duty to submit to his judgment in these matters. Besides, they’d allowed Stanley to believe and it didn’t seem to have interfered with his faith in Jesus.
So her smile was just as indulgent as Ralph’s when Lashanda carefully deposited her tooth in a small glass of water and carried it back to her bedroom.
Their shared complicity made it the first time since Sunday that things had felt normal to Stan. His mother’s smile transformed her face. Forever after, whenever he remembered that moment, he was always glad that he’d reached out and touched her hand and said, “You look awful pretty today, Mama.”
She was usually too self-conscious to accept compliments easily, but today she gently patted his cheek. “Better go brush your teeth, son, or we’re going to be late.”
When they were alone in the kitchen, Clara lifted her eyes to Ralph in a look that was almost a challenge.
He picked up his umbrella and briefcase. “I’ll be home by four-thirty,” he said as he went out to the carport.