"Wait." Words from Walterene's diary came back to me; she had seen his daughter in town. "Didn't he have children?"
"Oh yeah," she said. "His wife died in childbirth, but the grandparents, Mrs. Sampson's folks, raised the baby girl. He didn't know how to deal with a baby."
"Is his daughter still alive?"
"No," she sighed. "Back in the seventies, she was killed by drugs. That family was doomed. His wife died, then him, and finally, the only daughter shoots poison up her arm. When his wife died, and with the baby growing up across town without him, he worked all the time; kept his mind off things, I guess. I think that's why he stayed on so long with Mr. Harris, and why it hurt him so much when he was fired. Mama said he killed himself, but us kids thought the men in sheets got him."
"The Klan?"
"Yeah." She nodded. "Those were some bad times. You didn't hear that much activity in Charlotte, usually only out in the country. But, time to time, they'd come through Brooklyn."
" Brooklyn?" I asked, not aware of any area in Charlotte called that.
"Downtown, used to be a black place called Brooklyn. It's where the government buildings are today. Also, Wilmore was a beautiful place, just over the railroad tracks past South Boulevard. That's where Mama's house was, and Mr. Sampson's. Wilmore and its neat clean old mill houses was the place where all the colored people lived who worked for the white families in Dilworth and Myers Park. Now, all that is rundown, almost as bad as the projects. Anyway, the Klan didn't have much need to be here."
"Is there ever a need?"
A sad smile graced her black somber face. "You and me know there ain't ever a need for that, but some folks do. That's why it's still around."
"So, you think the Klan killed Mr. Sams?"
She considered her stance. "Mr. Sams killed Mr. Sams. Although Mama said nobody who knew him thought he had done anything wrong, he ran like a guilty man. Why else would he be in those woods alone at night?"
"But wasn't he chased? Do you remember anyone around his house that night?"
"I couldn't have been more than ten or twelve, and probably fast asleep when it all happened. Mama didn't tell us anything about it except that he was found hanging in a tree." She took a long sip of her tea.
"The tree outside Walterene's house," I added.
Hands still on her glass of tea, her brown eyes widened. "What?"
"Yes, ma'am. Walterene knew exactly which tree he had died in, and when that area was developed after the war, she and Ruby bought the house built on that plot of land."
Martha stood and leaned against the sink, hands supporting her weight. "Ms. Walterene always had a sentimental spot in her heart for old Mr. Sampson."
I took over rotating the bowl as I talked. "Yeah, she has a collection of elephants, apparently started by an old stuffed toy Mr. Sams had given her." I counted the number of bowl rotations from a good spin: two and a half. A few ashes flew out onto the table, and I wiped them up with my hand.
"That was Mr. Sampson, I remember he claimed his ancestors rode elephants across Africa. He always talked about elephants." Martha returned to her chair at the table. "Mama said he was full of baloney and sawdust. That old man ain't no African prince any more than I am Cleopatra's wash woman.' Mama was a good Christian, but she didn't like to hear people putting on airs."
I smiled at the thought of Mr. Sams telling African fairytales to little-girl versions of Walterene and Ruby. "Does the elephant have any special significance in," I wasn't sure how to phrase it, "in African folklore, uh, culture, life?"
"Ask an African," she shot back with a smirk. "I'm American." To my relief, she winked at me as if to say, stop trying to be so politically correct. Then I remembered Walterene's message from the grave: Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em if they take themselves too serious; fuck 'em if they ignore you; fuck 'em if they lie to you; fuck 'em if they try to fuck you. I smiled back at Martha as she tapped her cigarette pack on the table. "So, what does an elephant symbolize?"
She lit another Camel and exhaled. "Strength and dignity, that's the elephant."
"He must have seen that in Walterene," I said more to myself than to Martha.
"Yes, sir. Ms. Walterene had strength and dignity."
The kitchen door burst open. "Martha," Gladys barked. "Is that cigarette smoke I smell?" She stood in the doorway glaring at me. Martha snuffed out her cigarette and jumped to her feet. The jerky, stick figure of Gladys the Bitch made me think of Nancy Reagan on crack, her fists placed on her thin hips in an expression of power like an emaciated Wonder Woman, meant to put terror into the hearts of Martha and me. It only made me laugh.
I leaned back in my chair and lit another Marlboro. "Gladys," I blew smoke in her direction, "I've been waiting for you."
Gladys didn't move.
Martha looked from me to Gladys and then back to me. "I should go check on Ms. Eleanor." She excused herself and hurried past Gladys without a second look.
I stared back at the Bitch, waiting for her to twitch-a standoff worthy of a John Wayne Western. She dropped her hands and walked to the cabinet opposite me, not letting her eyes stray from mine. I smiled at her crumbling to make the first move, and then I took a drag from my cigarette.
"I don't allow smoking in this house," she pronounced.
"This house belongs to Grandma, not you."
"Nevertheless," she leaned against the counter, thin arms folded across her bony body, "you'll do as I ask. Please put out that cigarette and leave."
"Please?" I laughed. "Aren't you polite? But I came here to see you."
"Why?"
I straightened up in the chair, ready for my time in the ring with her. "I want to know why you treat me like a bastard son."
"What?" she huffed. "I do no such thing."
The Bitch had the audacity to deny it. "Cut the crap, Gladys. Ever since you found out I'm gay, you've hated me. You tried to ignore me, and when I wouldn't let you, you banished me to that Lynchburg brainwashing college. You told me never to come home, but here I am. I'm grown, and I accept who I am, what I am. I know myself better than any of your country club friends will ever know themselves if they live to be a hundred." I pushed the chair back and took a step toward her. "You see, I haven't played the role you set up for me. I made my own decisions and paid for the wrong ones. Living on my own, in a place far from the strangling grip of the Harris family, I succeeded by my hard work and knowing my true self."
She pushed herself from the counter, away from me, to a neutral corner by the stove. "You think you know yourself," she spit the words toward me. "I raised you; I've been on this earth longer than you will ever be. Don't come in here, twenty-five years old, and tell me you have all the answers. That arrogance shows you don't know anything."
I walked toward her again, and she glared at me. Grinning at her, I said, "I admit I don't know all the answers. That's why I'm here." My cigarette smoldered in the cereal bowl. "Tell me, Mother." I turned my back to her and took my seat again. "Why do you hate me? Is it the gay thing? That little secret is out."
"Published in the Observer," she slammed her tight little fist against the marble countertop, "like some cheap trailer park trash on one of those horrible talk shows. You bringing Vernon 's campaign into it."
" Vernon 's political aspirations come before your own son?" The second I said it, I knew it wasn't worth asking.
She stalked across the floor as she talked. "Our reputation in this city, this state, is spotless, or it was until you decided to tell the world you like boys."
"Correction, I like men. I like big strapping men, the kind who work in construction. Isn't that perfect, how my family owns a construction business?" Horror contorted her face. "Gee, Mom, do you think Vernon would give me a job in personnel? I could test-drive the workers before they go on site."