Page 77 of The Reformatory

“About Robbie Stephens…,” John Dorsey pressed.

While Gloria waited for his answer, so much time passed that her heartbeat made her light-headed. Judge Morris made his way past their huddle to open his door. Footsteps scurried away from the other side, so Gloria wasn’t surprised to find the secretary and a young man in round eyeglasses who might be a clerk standing just beyond the doorway, eavesdropping. The clerk stared, moon-eyed, through his lenses.

“I’ll take everything you fine folks said into consideration,” Judge Morris said, loudly enough for his audience. “Y’all have a nice day.”

As they all walked past the watchers, Gloria saw grimness on the faces of Harry T. Moore and John Dorsey: they knew. She wanted to believe the judge had said maybe, but as she took one last glance at Judge Morris’s smile, she realized it was a weapon, not a mask. Judge Morris would not set Robbie free. He and the sheriff would not risk making Red McCormack angry. How many times had Mama and Papa told her that Red McCormack owned so much of Gracetown that no one wanted to cross him? And anyway, everyone was so mad at Papa.

It had been foolish to come, just like Mr. Moore said.

Tears were stinging Gloria’s eyes as they emerged from the colored stairway downstairs even before she noticed how many whites had gathered in the hall to observe them, lined up on either side of the shiny marble floor, a Red Sea parting. Their eyes were sharp with scorn as they assessed the four Negroes: John Dorsey in his smart suit, Harry T. Moore with his unbowed head, Miz Lottie in her pillbox hat, and Gloria Stephens—that Gloria Stephens. Their angry thoughts hissed in the courthouse’s stale, ancient heat.

“Know what N-A-A-C-P stands for?” a woman’s voice called from a window booth. “National Association of Communists and Pickaninnies.” Several people laughed. Most people. John Dorsey paused as if to answer, but he could not return the joke. His good humor was gone.

“That’s right—git on back to New York!” a man said.

“Where’s your rapist daddy at?” another called. A rock bloated in Gloria’s belly.

“Walk faster,” Miz Lottie muttered as she leaned on Gloria for support.

Mr. Moore touched Gloria’s elbow to urge her to hurry, and Gloria pulled Miz Lottie beside her. The rear door by the COLORED sign seemed miles away, but finally they were outside in the rear parking lot where Mr. Moore’s Ford Model T waited, Miz Lottie’s truck just beyond it at the curb. Gloria turned to make sure no one from inside was following them. No. She’d almost been certain they were.

“Damn it to hell,” Harry T. Moore said.

“Had to try.” Miz Lottie’s voice was small.

“We don’t talk here,” Mr. Moore said. “Get to your truck and get home. Quick. I’ll call you later tonight.” Gloria followed his glance to the rear courtroom door, which was now propped open with two men staring out, watching.

John Dorsey rushed into the old Model T, door slamming. Mr. Moore went to the driver’s side and opened his door, keys jingling and ready. Gloria and Miz Lottie had gone to Live Oak and found the lawyer like Papa said, and it wasn’t enough. The money from Miss Anne, now hidden in Miz Lottie’s pocketbook, would not be enough. Nothing might be enough. It was worse than before.

Mr. Moore hushed his voice. “Gloria’s not still sleeping out in those woods by the McCormacks’, is she?”

“She’s with me,” Miz Lottie said. “Nobody’s comin’ past Waymon and June.”

“Keep clear of Main Street,” Mr. Moore said. “Tell your other kin too. Let it settle.” He looked at Miz Lottie like he wanted to say he’d warned her, but he only sighed. “We’ve gotta move on down the road to beat the dark. I’ll tell Harriette I saw you. Come here, sweetheart.”

When Harry T. Moore kissed Gloria’s cheek, the phantom smell of his skin’s charred ash plugged her nose. The certainty of his death was a breathing thing. But not today. He and John Dorsey would be all right today. But would she and Miz Lottie be?

“All right, now,” John Dorsey said, seeing Gloria’s face. He reached to her through the passenger’s-side window and she took his smooth, dry hand, the one with his golden wedding band. His palm was soft from paper and pen and book pages. Mama’s hands. Papa’s hands had never been so soft. “It’ll be all right, Glow Bug. They’ll simmer down.”

Mama had never allowed her nicknames, but Gloria liked “Glow Bug” because John Dorsey had given it to her. And now John Dorsey was leaving like a ghost she had conjured, and she was afraid to forget a single detail: his handsome face she might try to sketch for herself, the Pall Malls he smoked, his slicked-down, curly jet hair, the shiny buttons on his suit coat.

And his scent, a smell like freedom.

V HAINT CATCHER

21

Mrs. Hamilton raised her thin baton, and Robert lifted his trumpet to his mouth the way she’d instructed. Twenty-five boys with their horns and clarinets and saxophones in a half circle around him did the same. But not fast enough. She tapped her baton on her desk, and they all lowered their instruments, with only a stray rattle from Redbone’s snare drum in the back.

“Remember what I told you: your instruments should snap to attention. Again.”

They repeated the exercise once, twice, three times more. The third time, Robert jerked his trumpet so fast that he bumped his lips, knocking against his teeth. But he didn’t move to betray the sting, as frozen as the rest. Mrs. Hamilton smiled.

“Yes, that’s it,” she said. “All right, on the count of three, we’ll play the scale.”

As she counted, Robert never took his eyes off of her bouncing baton. When the time came to play the first note, most of them started at the same time, with a couple of stragglers. The first note in the scale was Robert’s favorite because he didn’t have to remember to press a key. The last note, high C, was still his strongest, strung in the air as if it could hang Christmas lights.

Mama. Yes, it had to be Mama, hidden inside the trumpet’s peal.