I opened my mouth but not a word came out. I let Cole grab my hand and shake it but he moved away without my thanks, flushed red to bursting.
Winking and joking, the state’s attorney was congratulating the defense attorney. “Why are you hanging around here, Ed?” Larabee called, throwing his arm around Cone’s shoulders. “You going to miss us?” And Cone, easing out from beneath that arm, laughed, too, although only a little.
There had been no trial-amateur theater, maybe, some light farce. All the attorneys on both sides that day were in on this big joke, having learned in advance from Tallahassee how E. J. Watson’s trial for his life had been decided-whether his life was to continue or it wasn’t. Realizing this, I could scarcely thank my lawyer and his staff, who had taken every penny that I had.
I looked past all these smiling men at Reese. Having no place to go, he had simply sunk down after the verdict and resumed his old place at the far end of the bench. The bailiff would soon notice and evict him.
Leaving that building, I was all nerved up and edgy. Old Calvin was across the street, saddling up his mule for the long journey home across north Florida to Ichetucknee. He would wear his white shirt and Sunday suit all the way there, sleep where night found him. Kate clutched at my arm but I shook her off and walked over to confront him. “I’se glad, Mist’ Edguh,” is what that old slave said as he hitched his cinches. “I sho is mighty glad dey has set you free.” Then why had he testified against a man he had known nearly forty years?
Calvin blinked and turned to look at me, surprised. “Mist’ Cory Larabee, he say, Tell nothin but truth, so help me God, Mist’ Edguh. Tol’ me speak out,” he continued. “Called dat de bounden duty of de citizen, called dat de solemn duty of de negro. Said black folks dat doan speak up for de truth, doan speak up like
But Calvin’s voice had diminished as he spoke. He cleared his throat, then asked me almost shyly if I aimed to kill him. To throw a scare into him, I said my neighbors might take care of that. This ornery old feller dared to smile. “Nosuh, Mist’ Edguh, ain’t Calvin they gwine take care of. I was you, I’d stay away from dem home woods a
“Watch out for Leslie,” I said gruffly and I walked away.
Frank Reese appeared. He could not go home to Fort White, either. Even if Cox weren’t running around loose, he was not safe there and probably never would be, which meant he would lose Jane. Frank looked as beaten as a man can look who is cold and hungry on a winter night at Christmas, without friends, family, future, or one dime in his pocket, and no place to sleep.
“Frank,” I said, “you come on south with us.”
CHAPTER 9
MODERN TIMES
On the first day of 1909, on the new railway, E. J. Watson and family crossed the Alva Bridge over the Calusa Hatchee and rumbled downriver into Fort Myers Station. I sent Frank over to Niggertown-Safety Hill, as it was called, because black folks felt safe there after evening curfew-to round up a few hands while bags and baggage were transferred to Ireland’s Dock to be loaded aboard Captain Bill Collier’s
Since the arrival of the railroad, the WCTU had sent Miss Carrie Nation, and a circus had also paid a call, complete with elephant. The first stock-roaming ordinance, fought by the cattlemen for years, now protected the public thoroughfares and gardens. Indian mounds up and downriver were being leveled for white shell for cement streets and Thomas Edison had leased Cole’s steamer to bring in royal palms from the Island coasts to ornament his Seminole Lodge and decorate Riverside Avenue for the tourists.
When Henry Ford came to visit Mr. Edison, Walter and Carrie were invited there to dinner, and not long after that, Cole and Langford bought Ford motorcars and went tooting and farting north and south the entire quarter mile from one end of our manure-strewn metropolis to the other. Jim Cole’s self-esteem was geared to ownership of the newest, best, and biggest-this year, the most expensive automobile in town. Quick turnover of everything from real estate to cattle had been the secret of his success, and he soon replaced his Model T with a bright red Reo.
On Riverside Avenue, I stepped right up and rapped the banker’s new brass knocker. In a moment little Faith was tugging the lace back at the window. Carrie’s daughters were only slightly older than Ruth Ellen and Addison, and I thought our girls might play and get acquainted while Kate washed up and rested for our voyage. When I waggled my fingers, Faith’s pretty face flew open like a flower and then vanished; she was running to the door. I heard Eddie’s voice and after that a silence; her face at the window was the last we were to see of my sweet granddaughter.
No one else appeared. We stared stupidly at the closed door. Begrimed and hot and cranky from the train, my poor rumpled family waited dumbly in the street while Papa wrestled with his rage. I rapped again, three good hard knocks, and this time the door cracked and a black maidservant stared out as if the Antichrist himself had come to call.
“Tell your Missus,” I said, “that Mr. Watson-”
The girl disappeared and Carrie stood there instead. “Well, I do declare!” my daughter cried. Her smile was terrible. She did not come forward and did not invite us in. “Papa,” she whispered. “Walter…” She could not finish and she didn’t need to. We had been preceded from north Florida by my son and son-in-law, doubtless bearing word that Mr. E. J. Watson had gotten away with murder.
“Since when does Walter wear the pants around your house?” I started away before I uttered something worse.
“Papa? Please, Papa,” Carrie begged.
I turned on her. “If your husband and brother thought me guilty, why did they testify in my defense?”
“Oh Papa, what choice-”
“I’ll have them indicted for perjury.” But my sour joke only frightened my bewildered family. Kate Edna stared wide-eyed from father to daughter, as if discovering for the first time how these Watsons worked.
The servant girl came down the steps with a tray of milk and cookies, which she held out fearfully toward my children as if feeding wild monkeys through bars. I recognized the rosewood tray I’d given Mandy as a wedding present. Without my say-so, nobody would touch a cookie, and the darkie was so rattled by the children’s hungry staring that she banged the tray down on the stoop before them like a bowl of dog food and ran back inside.
Carrie stooped, picked up the tray, and offered it again, eyes brimmed with tears. Addison reached first but my eye stopped him. “We came as kin, not beggars. We’ll be going.” I tried in vain to put some warmth into my voice because Carrie was at least trying to be nice, unlike her brother who had not come out to greet us, a discourtesy I was never to forgive.
“Thank your kind sister for her hospitality,” I told Ruth Ellen, who curtsied. Little Ad did, too. “No, Ad,” I told him. “Gentlemen pay their respects like this.” I put one hand behind my back, lifted my black hat with the other, and bowed to my beautiful Carrie, who burst into tears, knowing her rejection of her father would ensure that in all likelihood, we would never meet again.
“Oh Papa!” she cried. But we went away with resolution, leaving Carrie in the public street with her tray of milk and cookies. Addison fretted, looking back, but did not say one word.
“I love you, Papa!” Carrie called, glancing around for neighbors. For that small courage, I almost forgave her.
