“A nobody who makes the front page of the Sun.” The man reaches back on his desk and grabs a newssheet. It’s the paper from nearly a month ago. The date puts it the day after the lecture and the headline reads MAYOR AND THE MISSUS SAVED BY NEGRO GIRL’S DERRING-DO. The illustration that accompanies the story is a crudely drawn version of me, my hair sticking up in twenty different directions, my lips thick and my eyes wild as I gun down no fewer than ten shamblers.
“Sheriff Snyder, I must confess, this is the first time I’ve seen such a headline. Might I borrow your newssheet to peruse the story at my leisure?”
An expression I can’t identify crosses his face. “You read?”
There’s a sudden tension in the room, and I hunch my shoulders and shuffle a bit, letting a slow drawl enter my voice. I prefer to be misjudged as well. “No, suh,” I say, my words slow and deliberate. “I jes like to look at the pictures, if’n that’s okay.”
The sheriff hands me the newspaper with a grunt before leaning back against the desk and crossing his arms, and I tuck the paper into the top of my boot while the man talks. “So, the ground rules. Curfew at eight each night unless you’re assigned to a patrol. You will be responsible for the protection of this town. Scythe, sickle, knife, club, you want it, you got it. But no guns. We don’t let the darkies carry ’em, only my boys. I used to run patrols back in Georgia before the war, and I know how crafty you people can be.” The sheriff’s voice goes hard, and I swallow.
He takes out a pouch of tobacco and begins to roll a cigarette as he continues. “You ain’t slaves, because as far as I know that’s still illegal, more’s the pity, so you’ll be paid two dollars a week plus your room and board. You also get a bath once a week, should you choose to use it. I know your kind have an aversion to water.”
Katherine and I exchange a look. Who is this man? And just how many Negroes does he know?
“Also, no drinking and no fornication. Summerland is a town of high morals, so none of that will be tolerated. Breaking my rules results in swift penalties. Do you understand?”
For a moment the world falls away and I can see the future as it opens up before me: toiling away, working in the fields or on patrols, killing the dead while people like the sheriff live a life of safety and leisure. On the surface it seems to be equal to my potential future in Baltimore, but there I still had a choice. Well, at least the pretense of one. It always seemed I could strike out on my own should I choose to leave Miss Preston’s. It would’ve been an ill-advised choice, but an option nonetheless.
Here, there’s not even the subterfuge of such a possibility. The trap is sprung well and tight. I know what things were like before the War between the States, and even though the years after were chaotic, at least colored folks like me were free. But this place is the brainchild of a bunch of Survivalists, built on a dream of prewar America, which is how I know that my next words will change everything.
“Suh,” I say, “I ain’t sure why you’re making Miss Katherine listen to all this. She ain’t a Negro.”
The sheriff turns to me as Katherine’s eyes go wide. Behind me, his men shift; I’ve gotten their attention.
“Jane,” Katherine says, fists clenched, color riding high in her cheeks. “What are you—?”
“It ain’t your fault the mayor put you to the side, Miss Katherine, ain’t your fault at all. And I know you’s about to be cross with me, but you can’t toil in the field. You’re better than that.”
Katherine buries her face in her hands. I ain’t sure whether she’s laughing or crying, but I use the moment to finish my plan before she can ruin it. I step closer to the desk. “I graduated from Miss Preston’s, that’s the Lord’s own truth, Sheriff, but Miss Katherine here is a lady, my charge. The mayor took a fancy to Miss Katherine and his old windbag of a wife conspired to have her sent here. That’s why she’s dressed like an Attendant. She was tricked.”
Katherine is now staring daggers at me as the sheriff turns to her, a glint of interest in his eye.
“That true?” he asks.
Katherine turns her head, refusing to meet the sheriff’s eyes, her lips clamped shut. Even after five days of rough treatment, she’s still beautiful, which is how I know this is going to work.
The sheriff turns to Jackson, who’s sat up enough to watch the goings-on in the office. “You there, boy, this woman white or is she a darkie?”
Jackson’s jaw clenches, he looks the sheriff in the eye, and slow as winter molasses drawls out, “She definitely ain’t a darkie.”
The door opens behind me. The sheriff looks over my shoulder and says, “Go fetch the professor, tell him I need him to bring his tools.” I look over my shoulder as one of the men that waited for the railcar nods and ducks back out of the door. The other man leers at me, and I just give him a flat stare in return. I’m tense from the ride, and I’d like an opportunity to knock some sense into one of these boys.
The sheriff sighs. “We got ways of figuring out whether or not someone’s colored, never you fear. We’ll table that discussion until the professor gets here. So, as I was saying: Summerland is a town of high morals. Church every Sunday, a dance the last Saturday of every month, providing there’s been no infractions. Bible study on Wednesdays and Fridays. The pastor seems to think the word of the Lord will keep your kind
