Page 13 of The Reformatory

But the approaching vehicles weren’t sheriff’s cars: they were heavier, kicking up a veil of dust as they crawled past the stand of pines. The first vehicle lumbered out: a tractor hauling a trailer crowded with so many white boys with their legs hanging off the sides that it looked like a giant caterpillar as it drove past. Their swinging legs fell still when they saw her, and at least ten sets of eyes craned to see her. On Main Street, this passing truck would have subjected her to noisy taunts and come-ons, or nails and pencils thrown like missiles, but these boys stared as if she were a curious apparition. She stared back at faces weary at midday, gray work clothes grimy with soil.

The second tractor came at a steady pace behind it, identical except that the boys were Negro. And there were twice as many of them, at least twenty. Gloria’s heart raced as she looked for Robert in their noses, chins, eyes, brows, craning to see any faces hidden on the far side. She took a few running steps after the tractor, and some of the boys grew anxious, half rising to see if she were a loved one. Some were teenagers, some as young as Robert, sweaty brown skin glistening. But she did not see Robert, so her running halted as the second truck followed the first through the reformatory gate.

Gloria’s disappointment at not seeing Robert warred with her relief. He was not yet among those tired-eyed, overworked boys.

“Guess they send ’em out to work in the mornings,” Miz Lottie said.

“Send them where?”

“I don’t know, chile. The Reformatory’s got all manner of farms. They grow enough corn for the whole county. They work these boys out here. Or lease ’em out.”

Papa’s greatest hope was that Robert would not be tied to any white man’s field or grove, and Robert was already bound for that fate at twelve. He should be at school, not at a work camp! This had to be a bad dream, and she would wake again with no deputy at their door.

Then a green station wagon with wood panels appeared from the main road, a white man at the wheel. The car slowed—and Gloria saw Robert. He was bouncing up and down in the passenger seat, and she heard him through the open window: “It’s her! That’s my sister, Gloria!”

The car had hardly rocked to a stop before Robert jumped out and ran to her with so much fervor that he nearly tripped over his feet. He did not look harmed, and his face was alive with joy that was contagious. She heard herself laughing as she clung so tightly to Robert that their hearts raced side by side.

“You all right? Nobody hurt you?” Gloria said.

“Naw—he gave me a sandwich.”

For the first time, Gloria took in the tall young white man in a gray linen suit climbing out of his car. She expected him to be angry, but instead he only looked resigned and harried, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. He casually angled himself between Gloria and the truck, an obstacle if she tried to run with Robert. He looked furtively toward the Reformatory grounds. “Haddock’s a stickler for rules, so hurry and say your goodbyes,” he said. “Visiting hours are Sundays. I think it’s twelve to two.”

Gloria knew right away that the man wasn’t from Florida, or anywhere in the South. That was plain in his northern accent, his casual manner among Negroes. Gloria’s heart jumped.

“Can you help us, sir?” she said. “This is all a misunderstanding. Robert’s a good boy; he doesn’t belong in a place like this. The judge just didn’t give us time to explain.”

“Yeah, he seems like a good kid,” the man said, but without hopefulness. “Like I told him, I’ll try to have a word with the judge. Still, six months—that’s not too bad. He does what he’s told, he’ll be all right.”

“But, sir…” Gloria’s mind raced as she tried to think of a way to make more of an impression on him, to let him know that Robert Stephens was not a sack of feed to be disposed of for an entire half a year. “My name is Gloria Stephens. That lady in the truck, she’s Lottie Mae Powell, Robert’s godmother.” Miz Lottie gave him a wave.

He smiled a friendly smile, tipping his hat to Miz Lottie. He raised his voice to address Miz Lottie as well. “David Loehmann. I’m a social worker based out of Tallahassee. I was in Gracetown on other business, so I was asked to give Robert a ride. What happens now is, ma’am, I’ll take him to the superintendent, Mr. Haddock, to process him in. He’ll get clothes, shoes, meals, anything he needs. The boys sleep in dorms. He’ll be on the colored side.”

“But they’ll put him to work?” Gloria asked. The tractor trucks were still visible, shrinking as they drove deeper into the campus. “What about school?”

“All the boys work a bit. But don’t you worry: he’ll also get his schooling here. I know the teachers, and they’re quite fine. They’re paid well, so it’s a plum job for them.”

The girl’s eyes sopped up every word David Loehmann spoke. She was a pretty girl, with bright, almond-shaped eyes. A smart girl. She and the boy too. Loehmann poured cheer into his voice, perhaps too much, but he couldn’t make himself bring bad news to Gloria Stephens and her eyes. Or that old woman in the truck, who looked ready to faint in the heat.

So, these were Robert Stephens’s people. He’d heard complaints about Robert Stephens’s unionizing efforts almost from the time he and his family got off the train, and it had struck him how courageous it was to try to organize Negroes in the heart of the land of lynching. He had noticed that no Negroes dared venture to town after dark in Gracetown.

“The nigger Stephens” fueled conversation at lunch counters and diners as far as Tallahassee, so he hadn’t been surprised by the allegation of rape. David Loehmann didn’t know what had or hadn’t happened outside of Pixie’s that night, but he’d heard a rumor at the courthouse that the girl, Lorraine, hadn’t even been there when the attack supposedly took place, that it was her married boyfriend on the town council who’d beaten her bloody. Heard another rumor that Robert Stephens didn’t frequent Pixie’s, a segregated roadhouse just outside the Gracetown border, either. Which would explain why Sheriff Posey hadn’t scoured the ends of the earth to try to bring Robert Stephens back to Gracetown to face justice. How hard would it be to find him, with his children still living locally?

But they’d found a way to get to Robert Stephens, all right: through his boy. Sentencing the younger Robert Stephens to the Reformatory might be a way to lure the elder Robert Stephens back home. Or a petty retribution like his father had faced organizing workers in the AFL in New York before the war. As bad as that had been, he’d witnessed how much worse circumstances were for Negroes in the South, or even the poor crackers down here whose sole comfort was knowing they were better off than Negroes.

But he’d promised Sarah. The boys were already getting teased over their curly dark hair, accused of being “part nigger” in addition to being Jews. Writing checks in New York was one thing, but raising his head in Florida would be a good way to get their house burned down. As soon as he’d heard the names Robert Stephens and Lyle McCormack, he’d known this case could be none of his business. Hell, he’d halfway expected that pimple-faced deputy to tail him to the Reformatory just to try to intimidate him. He worked long days and nights to try to improve conditions for white and Negro children alike through his job, giving them equal attention and care. Sometimes the only justice was a hot meal and a bed to sleep in.

“… so there’s not much more you can do,” he heard himself saying. He didn’t want to be seen talking to Robert Stephens’s family. A white gardener by the gate was already edging closer, maybe trying to listen. “But like I said, don’t you worry. It’ll all turn out all right.”

The old woman, the girl, and the boy all stared, not believing him. Their eyes reminded him that his distant cousins might have had similar conversations with bureaucrats in Munich before they were sent to the train cars.

“Sir, my brother didn’t have a lawyer,” Gloria said. “Wasn’t he supposed to?”

Loehmann sighed. This girl was too smart for her own good. “Well, that all depends. Not so much with a juvenile case, since there was no jury trial. That meeting with Judge Morris was more an informal thing.”

“But shouldn’t there have been?” Gloria said. “A jury trial? If he committed a crime?” Robert clung to his sister, swaying with anticipation as if any coming word might free him. He trusted her with his life. “So we could tell our side?”

“Again, not with a juvenile case, a minor offense. You’d see a jury trial with bigger crimes. This was left to the judge’s discretion.”