Her mind momentarily blanked on what came next on the list.
As Ralph’s wife—no, as the minister’s wife—she had cheerfully put her services at the beck and call of his congregation and she’d always made lists to organize her days. But since finding those condoms in his desk on Sunday, she tried to pack her days even fuller so she wouldn’t have time to brood on how his betrayal undermined the very foundation on which she’d built her life.
Her hands gripped the steering wheel so fiercely that her knuckles gleamed through the tight skin.
How? she asked herself for the thousandth time since she’d found those condoms. How could he have done this dreadful, stupid thing? Did every man, from the President of the United States of America right down to her own husband, put sex before honor? Make themselves slaves of their malehood, shackle their God-given free will to their gonads?
At least Ralph didn’t try to excuse himself by saying, “The woman tempted me so I sinned.” No, he’d rightfully taken the blame on himself. And when he came back home Sunday night and lay down beside her in the darkness, she’d asked two questions. “Does she go to our church?”
“No,” he’d answered.
“Is she white?”
“No, Clara.”
That was all she’d wanted to know, but he had a question of his own. “Do you want a divorce?”
Her heart leaped up and she’d let Satan tempt her for a moment.
To be free of him always wanting what she didn’t have in her to give? To go back to her father’s house? To sleep alone in a narrow bed?
Then she remembered being a daughter in her father’s house, a minister’s daughter, not a minister’s wife. Abiding by rules, not making them. Having to ask, not tell.
As a wife, she had the power to do God’s work.
As a daughter? A divorced woman with a failed marriage?
Her father would do his duty by her, however much he might disapprove of her decision. His congregation would be kind.
But respect? Position?
“No,” she’d said. “No, I don’t want a divorce. All I want is your promise that you’ll never go to her again.”
“As God is my strength,” he told her.
She had turned to him then, ready to give her body as a reward for his vow. He had not pushed her away, merely patted her shoulder as if she were Lashanda or Stanley. In that moment, she realized that he might never again reach for her in the night, and part of her was glad.
Another part felt suddenly bereft.
That sense of loss still clung to her this morning even though she knew that she’d acted as God would have her. She had been grievously wronged, yet she had risen above his sin. She had forgiven him. So why should she feel this inner need for forgiveness?
With relief, she reached the dead end of the unpaved road where Sister Thomas lived and hurried inside with the groceries and supplies.
She fed Sister Thomas’s cat, changed the sheets on the bed and straightened up the kitchen, but when the old woman invited her to stay for lunch, she excused herself and ran through the rain back to her car.
In just the hour that she’d been inside, the rutted clay roadbed had turned into a slippery, treacherous surface that scared her as the tires lost traction and kept skewing toward the deep ditches. She was perspiring freely by the time she’d driven the quarter-mile back to the hardtop.
Pulling out onto the paved road, she recklessly lowered her window and let the cool rain blow in her face. She took deep breaths of the humid air that did nothing to dislodge the weight that seemed to have settled on her heart since Sunday night.
That’s when she noticed the lights of a car behind her. Even though it was noon, the sky was black and the dazzle of lights on her rain-smeared rear window made it impossible for her to distinguish make or driver. Dark and late-model were all she could tell about the car as it rushed up behind her.
She moved over to the right as far as possible. If he was in that big a hurry, maybe he’d go ahead and pass even though there were double yellow lines on this twisty stretch.
A second later, her head jerked and she felt her car being bumped from behind.
What the—?
Another glance in the rearview mirror. He’d done it deliberately! And now he was so close that the headlights were blanked out by the rear of her own car.
She could clearly see the white man behind the steering wheel.
Fear grabbed her and she stepped on the accelerator.
He bumped her again.
It was her worst nightmare unfolding in daylight.
Her dress was getting soaked, but she was too terrified to think of raising the window. Instead, she floored the gas pedal and the Civic leaped forward.
Almost instantly, he caught up with her.
The road curved sharply and she nearly lost control as the car fishtailed on the wet pavement.
Then he pulled even with her and they raced through the rain, neck and neck along the deserted road and through another lazy S-curve that swept down to an old wooden bridge over Possum Creek. With so much rain, the creek had overflowed its banks and was almost level with the narrow bridge.
Again Clara pulled to the right to give him room to pass.
At that instant, he bumped her so hard from the side that her air bag inflated. She automatically braked, but it was too late. The Civic was airborne and momentum carried it straight into the creek. By the time it hit the water, the air bag had deflated and Clara’s head cracked hard against the windshield, sending her into darkness.
As the car sank deeper, muddy creek water flooded through the open window.
* * *
Just as he was thinking about lunch, Dwight Bryant looked up to see Deputy Richards hovering near his door and he motioned her in.
“I spoke to the librarian that Millard King said was jogging when he was. She was listening to a book on her Walkman and couldn’t say who else was out there.”
“Too bad. But King said he thought one of the men was a doctor. Try calling around to see if any of them were jogging.”
“Yes, sir. And remember that jewelry store manager who bought the other two silver pens?”
“New Orleans, right? You talked to her?”
“Yes, sir, but no help there. She gave those two pens to her granddaughters. They’re in high school in New Mexico and still have them so far as she knows.”
Dwight frowned. “I knew it wasn’t going to be that easy.”
“No, sir,” said Mayleen Richards. “I’ll start calling the doctors.”
* * *
When his phone rang promptly at six p.m., he was momentarily startled, but he collected himself in the next instant and his voice was calm. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” said the woman.
The same woman who’d called this morning.
The woman he’d sent crashing into the creek at noon.
Wasn’t it?
“You got the ten thousand?”
“Who is this?” he croaked.
“You know who it is,” she answered impatiently. “You got the money or do I go to the police?”
“How do I know you won’t anyhow?”
“’Cause I’m giving you my word and I ain’t never broke my word yet.”
Like I’d trust you far as I could throw you, he thought angrily.
But he willed himself to calmness. He was an educated white man, he told himself, and she was a stupid black bitch. He’d already killed one nigger woman today. He could certainly kill another.
“I’ve got the money,” he lied. “Where do you want to meet?”
“We ain’t gonna meet.” Tersely, she named the Dobbs Public Library, told him to put the money inside a white plastic bag, and described where he was to leave the packet in precisely forty-five minutes. “I’ll be watching. You leave it and just walk on out the front door, ’cause I see your face I’m gonna start screaming the walls down.”
That didn’t give him much time to fashion a packet that looked like money, wrapped tightly in a plastic bag and wound around with duct tape. She might duck into the ladies’ room, but she’d never get into this packet without a knife or scissors. Satisfied, he put the packet into a white plastic bag as instructed, drove to the library, left it on the floor beside the specified chair, and walked out without looking back.