Behind the Masks Page 3

  “Wait,” I said. “Ling Loi, please wait. I’m sorry. I’m … tired and my hands hurt and I’m scared about Papa.”

  “I know that,” she said. She reached for the knob of the door.

  “And I do trust you.”

  She turned and pinned me with her eyes. It felt like being in the sights of a very steady rifle. She said, “Even though I’m Chinese?”

  I flushed, for she mocked my difficulty in trusting what is unknown and unfamiliar. I felt like one of those old ladies who act scared of everything, and it was not a way I wanted to be. “Yes, even though you’re Chinese.”

  “Then how old am I?”

  That made me smile because it was a test I could pass. “All right. You look as if you are ten but you told me you are nearly twelve. So you are nearly twelve. I believe you. I trust you. Now will you give me the message?”

  She opened the drawstring bag hanging from one wrist, the same bag that had contained the clean cloth for Momma’s wound. She reached inside for something and drew out her closed fist, extending it to me. I knew she was daring me to open my own hand to receive whatever it was. My palm was tender still, and I had no idea what would land in it, but all of a sudden I did trust her. I reached out and caught the small metal object she dropped. Then she was gone, out the door, leaving me no chance to ask further questions. But I knew I held one of the answers.

  Papa’s message to me lay in my hand: a key.

  Tuesday, June 8, 1880

  Dear Diary,

  It is a great relief that Papa is not dead, even though his funeral will be soon. Momma and I will not attend it, nor will we wear mourning clothes today. Momma fails to realize that this may cost me another paddling, as I determined not to tell her about yesterday’s punishment. She is weakened and has worries enough.

  Nor have I told her that the key brought by Ling Loi matched the keyhole to Papa’s antechamber and that early this morning I went in. Papa’s papers were all of a jumble on his desk, and I figured if Truth were there, discovering it would be an almighty task. I felt again a waiting presence, as well as a scent like running water, a stream. My nerves were much disturbed as there was no such stream nearby.

  What could Papa have wanted me to find? Why had he led me here? I made to sit at the desk and, pulling back his chair, discovered a large envelope on the seat. I stared, not touching it at first, for in a bold, unembellished hand was the number “601.” Somehow Papa was caught up with the secret vigilantes, the men who took the law into their own hands, and my hands were loath to occupy themselves with anything of theirs. Finally I reached for it, turning the envelope over to find it sealed with red wax. An image had been engraved on the seal and pressed into the wax—it was a mask, symbolizing, I think, the stealth and secrecy of those men. For a moment it made my flesh crawl. I returned the envelope to Papa’s seat and pushed in the chair.

  The tension in that room was like a stick of dynamite. I knew I should wait and allow whatever truth it was to find me, yet I feared that knowing the truth would be like lighting the dynamite’s fuse.

  I left without disturbing any of Papa’s papers. Later I will try to decide what to do to help him.

  At school I gave a hard candy to Beverly-Ann as thanks for tugging my dress yesterday, for she pulled me out of the maze of pain and kept me from further reprimand.

  Miss Williams made no mention of my calico dress, though she shunned me as if I were not there. I wondered if she herself had ever felt the effects of the paddle. If she had, I doubt she would ever use it to discipline a student again.

  As we all left the schoolhouse in the afternoon, Eleanor Tucker came to me privately and commiserated about the paddling and Hank’s insulting words. Always before I had no mind to speak to her, as she makes me impatient with her string of beaus and the perfect curls on her forehead and her womanly curves—for I have singed bangs that no amount of time with the curling iron will make pretty, the shapeless shape of a boy, and no beaus. But she pressed upon me the gift of a special salve and it soothed my hands wonderfully. She said she would never have spoken out if she’d known it would end with the paddle and she begged me to forgive her.

  So we have become a little more friendly than before, and thus one good thing came out of that terrible day.

  I returned home to find Momma slightly improved.

  Mrs. Babcockry arrived with a covered basket, plenty of words of sympathy, and barely concealed hopes for new gossip. I wasn’t overly worried that Hank had told her about my getting my hands paddled, for it would have meant revealing his own disgraceful role in that event.

  “Bessie,” Momma said, without inviting her in. “We’re obliged for the basket but have no need of condolences, for Mr. Reddy is not dead.”

  “But, my dear,” Mrs. Babcockry said hesitantly—she was a little wary of Momma’s temper, having encountered it before—“his murder is a well-known fact, Lord have mercy.”

  I saw tiny lines I’d never noticed before on Momma’s forehead, and dark smudges under her eyes. Ordinarily she would have set Mrs. Babcockry right straight, but now there was resignation and weariness on her face. The look she gave me seemed like a plea for help. I stepped up beside her on the porch, blocking the entrance to prevent our visitor from pushing her way inside.

  “Yes,” I said, as if in agreement with Mrs. Babcockry. “We, too, have seen the newspaper accounts of his murder. And I’m certain Papa’s in a better place now.” Mrs. B. seemed relieved. It simply would not do for Papa’s wife and daughter to spoil the funeral and the wake by disagreeing with known facts.

  But for an instant, Momma’s lips had twitched; she knew I was neither lying nor telling the whole truth, either. In this way I am sometimes a bit like Papa. An artist can make your eye look at a canvas and see not little green dots on top of a blue smudge, not paint at all, but leaves and a patch of sky. That is how Papa uses words.

  Mrs. Babcockry was inching forward, so I asked, “Do you recall if any of the stories mentioned whether my father was going upstairs or downstairs when the stabbing occurred in Molinelli’s? It seems like the answer could provide a … clue, don’t you agree?”

  I tried to figure how Mrs. Babcockry fashioned her curls so as to wave handsomely in different directions; it seemed to me unfair that some people have magnificent thick locks while others such as I must make do with mere thin scraps for hair. She peered around us for a look into the parlor. “I did read some mention of that,” she said, “at least I think I did, and if not, someone should ask Sheriff Kelley about it. I had better see to it right away.”

  “Thank you so much, Mrs. Babcockry,” Momma said. “You’re very kind, and now forgive me for I must rest.”

  At last Mrs. Babcockry stopped trying to edge her way inside; I guess she was in a hurry to find the sheriff and question him. She beamed at Momma and me and patted a perfect ringlet, looking well pleased with her visit.

  I hoped that the basket she brought had in it something good to eat.

  Wednesday, June 9, 1880

  Dear Diary,

  Tonight I longed again for Papa, for I felt frightened and unprotected. When we heard the vigilante mob whooping and rampaging through the streets, Momma made me clean and oil the revolver and the old rifle Papa keeps in a wooden box. We knew that, whatever the mob’s goal or destination, it was safer to stay indoors and hidden. I hope not to shoot as I hate the pounding recoil, I hate the deafening noise, and I hate the smell of gunpowder. Papa shakes his head when I protest each time he bids me practice. He says I will not hate remaining alive when some other is bound on killing me.

  Momma said they have no reason to want to harm us, and I should not be afraid. But I think reason is not what governs these vigilantes. There is some other thing, some powerful thing, and part of that is hiding behind a mask. The mob would not go against the law so boldly if their true identities were known.

  I went around closing curtains as Momma took her bottle of medicine and retired to bed. I stood in t
he parlor, feeling as if the house had grown bigger, or I smaller. There was a sound in front like the tap of a shoe heel on our wooden porch. When no knock on the door followed, my stomach lurched a little. I picked up the revolver and stared at the door. Still no knock; nor any other sound. My apprehension grew; I could not endure not knowing who was outside. My courage was thin as a thread, but the strong rope of curiosity lassoed me and pulled. I decided I would rather find out than stand there quaking all night.

  I turned low the wicks of the lamps. Slowly I inched the door open and slipped outside, closing it behind me. A moth fluttered against my face, someone coughed, and I nearly shot my foot off.

  “Who’s there?” I hissed. Speaking in a normal voice seemed ill-advised for some reason.

  “Excuse me. Antoine Duval.” I could see him off to the side, in the moon-shadow of the house. He, too, spoke in a low voice. “May we go inside?”

  “No,” I said rudely. “What do you want? Why do you creep around our house?”

  “I’m … conducting a search. Not a search, exactly, but an examination. Of the houses along this street.”

  “And to what end are you conducting this examination?” He had this way about him, now as before, that seemed partly interesting and mysterious, but partly devious as well, and I suspected he was lying.

  “Miss Reddy, it’s not safe out here. The vigilantes are liquored up and wild. I’m trying to keep track of their whereabouts.”

  “Maybe you should just listen for a lot of whooping, and keep a sharp eye out for hooded men riding fast.”

  He laughed softly. “You sound like Swift.”

  “Who?”

  “An Irish satirist, as are you. But you must go in, a better choice than the place he called ‘Where fierce indignation can no longer injure the heart.’”

  I was interested in that. “What place did Swift mean?”

  “Death,” he said. “Swift wrote his own epitaph. Now go inside and write some mocking words of your own on another theme. I admire your tone.”

  “Well, I do not admire yours. I have much work and no time for fanciful writing.” This lie was my own, for while it is true I have little time, there is always, dear diary, some of it left for writing.

  “Shhh,” he whispered. Something made me clamp my retort in my teeth, though I wanted to launch it at him like a spitball (a particular art I last practiced at the age of eight). Then I heard an approaching horse. “It’s one rider, not the mob,” he whispered. “Go inside and I’ll stay hidden nearby to keep watch. If they come in a mob I’m going to have to try to trick them.”

  I stayed where I was. Mr. Duval was not to think he could order me about. I guess I have some of Momma’s bit of temper, the kind that turns its back on good sense. She says our angry stubbornness makes the two of us real good at cleaning every bit of grit out of a corner, but poor at hasty decisions.

  Moments later a hooded horseman rode straight to the porch. He must not have seen me, for he yelled over his shoulder, “This here’s the Reddy house! Over here!”

  His voice slid up an octave on house. I said, “What are you doing, Hank? Does your mother know you’re riding around with a hood on your head?”

  His horse had scented me, but Hank must have had an almighty shock to learn I was standing there in the dark—and that I knew him. He jerked back on the reins with one hand while adjusting his hood with the other. I realized I could see him much more clearly than he could see me, and that flour sack with eyeholes in it wasn’t helping him. In a deeper voice he said, “Git down off that porch and come over here.”

  “Why?” I said, full of the knowledge that Antoine was listening. I guess I was showing off a little, pretending more bravery than I had. Besides, it was only Hank, in his daddy’s too-big-for-him trousers. “I live here. I’m holding my revolver I just cleaned and I sure hate to fire it, especially with my hands still a little sore. But I can fire it and I’m a good aim. You know the best way to aim, right? You just act like the gun’s your finger that you’re pointing straight at the target. Did you come to murder my papa again?”

  “I ain’t never murdered him the first time.”

  “That what you want your tombstone to say?” I still had the words of Swift in my mind and fierce indignation in my heart.

  “Tole you to git down here.” Another rider appeared to the left of the house, the opposite side from where I’d seen Antoine. I hadn’t heard his horse on the softer ground as he walked it slowly around from behind. He carried a flaming torch and gave a low whistle as he guided his horse next to Hank’s.

  I said, “Friend of yours, Hank?”

  The new arrival muttered, “How she know who you are?”

  I laughed and said, “I recognize your voice, too, Con Williams.” He was Teacher’s young brother. In spite of my bold act, I was beginning to worry about the situation getting rough.

  He ignored me and said, “This the house we burn down?”

  I turned cold all over. My hands shook like a miner’s after a night in the saloons—I could barely hold the revolver, much less fire it. My water threatened to rush out of me uncontrollably like an infant’s.

  I wondered when Mr. Duval would make his presence known. Then many things happened quickly and nearly all at once.

  Con Williams lifted his sidearm in my direction. I heard a shot and expected to be dead. Con swore and dropped his flaming torch.

  The door behind me was wrenched open and a rifle was fired over my shoulder. I became deaf for many moments from the explosion near my ear.

  Hank fell off his mare, which immediately bolted, raising dust as it followed the other retreating horse.

  Momma jerked me inside, slamming the door. I peeked out the window at Hank, who seemed to have lost the rope holding up his trousers, for he was hopping around in his drawers. I dashed out back to the outhouse, where I relieved myself in time, then hurriedly returned to the parlor.

  A knock, followed immediately by the door being opened by Mr. Duval, his hands high in the air. “Mrs. Reddy,” he said. “Was anyone hit? Are you both all right?”

  She aimed the rifle in his direction.

  “We are unharmed,” I said hurriedly. “Momma, it’s that Mr. Duval from the bank. He was covering us.”

  She ignored this information and the possibility of being civil.

  With the rifle still aimed at him, Momma said to me, “Angeline Maude Sullivan Reddy, what the devil were you doing out on the porch knowing those thugs were about? I’m ashamed you carry the names of everyone I love best in the world.” She meant her sister, her mother, Papa, and, I guess, myself. She was trembling, though whether from fear or anger I cannot say. Carefully I placed my hand on her arm; carefully I lowered the barrel of the rifle. Carefully, carefully, I pried her fingers off the stock.

  “They’re gone, Mrs. Reddy. Your daughter faced up to them.” He advanced slowly, looking (I noticed) almost more Irish than an Irishman, as Frenchmen sometimes do—those that have long narrow noses and thin lips and curly black hair. “They won’t come back, but I’ll stay nearby, to be sure.”

  Some great pent-up force seemed to go out of Momma. She sagged, and I caught her before she crumpled. Mr. Duval helped her to a chair. I went to the kitchen for water.

  When I returned, he was gone. Peering through the window I saw him scraping sand with the side of his boot over the last flames of the burning torch. I watched as he looked around. He seemed to be listening. After a while he merged into the darkness and I turned to attend to the weapons and, worse, to face Momma.

  Tea and Mrs. Babcockry’s meat pie calmed her down some. She explained that she hadn’t taken her medicine after all, since it made her sleep too deeply, and glad she was that she hadn’t, or we’d both probably be dead right now.

  “But Mr. Duval fired at them just when you did, Momma,” I began. There was a tap at the door. “That’s him now,” I said. “He said he’d be back.”

  I ran to open it, but it wasn’t Antoin
e Duval. It was Hank Babcockry, hoodless, grasping a wad of trouser cloth at his skinny waist.

  “Come to ax you something,” he said.

  I glared at him. “Where’s your gun, Hank?” I said.

  “Give it up to that Frenchman Duval and another fella—he kept in the shadows and didn’t talk much—couldn’t say who he was. And I tole them where I heard the mob is heading and promised Con and me won’t do this no more, so they let me go. I lost my rope,” he finished in a mournful way. I waited. Worse things had happened this night. Momma spoke up.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, let him come in, Angeline.” I was not too surprised. Momma had always had a soft spot for Hank, and I lost track of how many times over the past two years that he sat in our kitchen getting broken bones splinted and wounds patched up. When I was younger I was even a little jealous of how much she babied him. “Hank, you better not have that other delinquent with you,” Momma added.

  “No, mam,” he said. “I ain’t.”

  I moved back slightly to allow him to pass, closed the door, and waited by the table where I’d set the revolver. I crossed my arms. Last year I saw Hank kiss Ellie during the game of grace hoops. Now he was scaring women in their homes.

  “What is it you want?” I finally asked. I noticed he’d ripped his shirt and scraped his cheek; he was lucky it wasn’t worse. He smelled like it was a little past time for his weekly bath. I knew he kept away from home as much as he could, for his father was mean when he drank. His eyes slid to the tray that still contained half of one of his mother’s meat pies.

  Momma said in a weary voice, “It is late, Hank. Eat the rest of that pie Bessie made and tell us what you have to say.”

  Hank’s hand shot out. He crammed the food into his mouth as if he were starving. Momma and I exchanged a glance; she’d seen it, too, something worse than bad manners. I believe he was starving. I went once again for water. Pausing at the stairs, I dashed up and got something from Papa’s bureau. Downstairs in the kitchen I put it in a clean lard pail with two apples, biscuits, and some jerky. Papa says hunger and poor treatment are as bad for a boy as for any animal. When I returned, Hank was standing in the same spot. He burped.