“The Harvey Gantt rally,” I reminded her. “Out at the community college.”
“Adderly’s supposed to be there?”
“So far as I know, that’s the only thing happening tonight that would bring him out.”
Cyl nodded, then looked at me helplessly as the grief that had been building suddenly crumpled her lovely face. Her dark eyes pooled with tears that spilled onto her rose-colored dress, making little dark wet spots.
“All this time he was right here,” she said brokenly, reaching for the box of tissues behind her. “Never got out of Colleton County. Never had a life.”
Sometimes, the only thing you can do is just put your arms around a person and hold on tight.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather try to catch him after the rally, back at his motel?” I asked Cyl as we drove through town.
I had convinced her that she shouldn’t be driving alone in the rain in her emotional state, but I couldn’t convince her to go back downstairs and tell Dwight everything she knew or suspected.
“I’ve waited twenty-one years to know what happened to Isaac,” she said fiercely. “I’m not waiting any longer.”
Colleton County Community College had begun life back in the mid-fifties under Governor Luther Hodges as part of the state’s string of technical and vocational schools designed to give rural kids a chance to learn a trade or pick up two years of college credits on the cheap while living at home.
It was still raining on Harvey Gantt’s parade when we got there, but the organizers had rallied their forces and regrouped.
Instead of a pleasant picnic supper in the oak grove next to the administration building as the sun went down, the pig cookers had been moved out of the rain to the other side of the building where a wide covered walkway connected to the auditorium. There, a spacious lobby accommodated buffet tables, and a podium backed with red, white and blue bunting stood waiting at the far end. Also waiting were a couple of television cameras. This was Harvey Gantt’s first visit to Colleton County since the burnings and reporters would be wanting his reaction to events, no matter how predictable that reaction would be.
Gantt was a man of solid Democratic values and he probably would make a pretty decent senator given the opportunity, but he lacked that fire in the belly that would let him get down in the mud and wrestle with Jesse Helms on Jesse’s level, so I didn’t have good vibes about his chances this time around either.
But optimism springs eternal in a yellow dog’s heart and I hoped the thin crowd was more reflective of the rain than of Gantt’s following. Although soggy gray skies could be seen through the clear skylights overhead, someone had turned on all the lights to brighten things up.
Minnie and Seth waved to me from across the lobby. I shook the worst of the rain from my bright yellow umbrella, raised it to furl it closed and wound up fencing with someone doing the same thing.
“Lashanda and Stan weren’t up to more barbecue?” I asked, adding mine to the lineup.
“They’d eat it every day,” he said, “but my wife’s taken them to visit her parents back in Warrenton for a couple of weeks and I’m not all that crazy about my own cooking.”
His smile broadened to include Cyl. “Ms. DeGraffenried. I hope Stan told you how much he appreciated you driving him home Saturday?”
“Your son has impeccable manners,” she said. She stood on tiptoe and scanned the crowd, which seemed to be growing as classes broke and the smell of roast pig floated across the campus.
“I don’t see him.”
“See who?” asked Ralph.
“Wallace Adderly.”
“Just look for the flash of cameras,” I said and pointed toward the front.
Sure enough, Harvey Gantt and Wallace Adderly were sharing media attention up at the podium. Print and television were both there and I recognized the kid who worked out at the AM station on the edge of town. He had a microphone stuck in Adderly’s face and even from here, body language told me that the attorney was answering earnestly and graciously.
I followed Cyl across the width of the lobby, though I was slowed by more people putting out their hand to me for a word of greeting.
As we came up, a pretty young reporter from WRAL must have just asked Adderly a question about quotas because I heard him say, “—new right-wing buzzword. I believe in merit and a fair chance for everyone and in a perfect society there would never have been a need for quotas. You’re too young to remember when the quota for African-Americans was zero. And for women who wanted to report on-camera,” he added, flashing her his famous charming smile, “it was less than zero.”
As he turned toward the next questioner, Cyl stepped between them and spoke into his ear. I don’t know what she said to him—“My Uncle Isaac’s bones have been found”?—but whatever it was, he excused himself with another smile, quickly took her by the elbow and led her through a nearby door to a covered areaway outside.
I was right behind.
Adderly gave me an annoyed glance. “Could you excuse us, Judge? This is a private matter.”
“I’m her friend,” I said above the dripping of the rain. For some reason Cyl seemed even more surprised by that than Adderly.
“Besides,” I added, “if you had anything to do with Isaac Mitchiner winding up under the floorboards of Mount Olive, it’s not going to stay private very long.”
For just an instant, Wallace Adderly looked as if he’d been sucker-punched. He recovered instantly though and said, “Look, is there somewhere we can go talk?”
