The Blacks Of Their Eyes
AJ Russo

Prologue

The humid, sticky summer night made their shirts stick to their skin-despite the breeze coming through the open window of the pickup. Three men, squeezed together in the front seat, as the old rusted Chevy rambled and squeaked its way down the two-lane country road in Rockland County, West Virginia.
Billy Jenkins, the driver, pointed ahead and turned to the other two. "I'm thirsty as shit!"
He grabbed the black pearl knob on top of the long stick extending from the floor, and pulled. The stick hit the crotch of Joe Pitney, whose legs hugged both sides of the shift. The truck squealed as it slowed.
"Watch it! You fuckin' pervert!" Joe yelled in anguish.
The truck pulled into the parking lot of an all-night convenience store.
Billy turned to Joe, as the truck screeched to a halt. "Shut the fuck up, you ass hole. Next time you can drive."
The lot was empty, except for a small, old Toyota Corolla, parked on the side of the store in front of the employee entrance.
Danny Jenkins, Billy's younger brother, was sitting next to the door. He pulled hard on the door handle and pushed with his shoulder. It wouldn't open.
"Come on you pussy, I gotta get out of here, you smell like a piece of shit," Joe yelled at Danny, pushing him.
Danny tried again--this time harder. The door popped open, screeching because of the rusty hinges. Danny looked at the front door of the store. "This is gonna be easy," he mumbled.
The three men were all in their twenties. Billy was the oldest, the leader and twenty-nine. His brother was twenty-five and Joe, twenty-eight. They were all tall and thin. Billy looked especially emaciated, his jawbone jutting from his cheeks as if his skin was painted on. He was sporting a buzz cut.
They wore soiled jeans and T-shirts. Danny in a black shirt and pants--the other two in blue jeans and white T's. Joe and Danny had long straight hair down to the top of their shoulders.
"Clean the fuckin truck out," Billy yelled across the bed of the pickup at his brother.
Danny was already walking toward the store. He stopped in his tracks and turned. "Jesus Christ, who am I your fuckin slave?" he whined, walking back toward the Chevy.
Danny opened the passenger door, reached down and grabbed empty beer cans from the floor, under the seat and behind the seat, and threw them in the bed.
Billy, who was about to enter the store, heard the clanging sounds and turned. "Not in the truck, you asshole!" he yelled.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Danny whispered under his breath, jumping up and into the open bed.
Billy and Joe stepped into the store, turned right and walked down the first aisle toward the coolers of beer. A dark haired, Indian man stood behind the counter watching the men.
Billy turned toward the counter and yelled. "Hey, you got any cases a cold Bud?"
"Uh, yes, just a second. I'll go back and get one," the man behind the counter said, walking away from the register and toward the refrigerated storage rooms.
As the store employee moved toward the storage room door, Danny walked into the store. Billy looked at his brother and gave a quick nod. Danny walked toward the counter as the clerk walked into the back room. Just as Danny reached the register, the front door to the store opened. Danny turned. Billy and Joe glanced.
"Do you believe this shit?" Joe whispered, looking at Billy.
A tall, thin, black man walked into the store. He had to duck to get through the entrance. He noticed Danny standing next to the counter, hesitated, then walked toward the back of the store. Danny glanced at his brother. He had a look on his face that said, what should I do now?
Just as Billy was about to give a signal, the clerk came out the storage room door with a case of cold Bud cans on his shoulder. Frustrated, Billy and Joe followed the man to the counter, where Danny was still standing.
The black man had reached the counter, holding a six-pack of beer. Danny stood next to him. Joe and Billy approached from behind and the store clerk placed the case of Bud on the counter and walked behind to the register.
The clerk slid the six-pack over the bar code reader and asked the black man for some ID.
"Hey nigger, we were here first," Billy said, half smiling.
"Yeah, we're in a hurry, step to the back, nigger," Danny chided.
Billy stepped to the side of the black man and pushed him.
"What the fuck?" the black man said under his breath, losing balance and stumbling to one side. He looked angrily at the three men. They stared back at him seriously.
"Yeah, sure, go ahead," the tall, black man said. He left the beer at the counter and walked out the front door.
Billy and Joe stepped to the counter. The black man stepped to the side. "Fuckin pussy," Danny said, just loud enough for all to hear. Joe laughed. Billy fumbled for the money, pulling wrinkled dollar bills and some change from his pocket. The clerk nervously placed the money in the register. Billy shoved the case toward his brother, who grabbed it and put it under his arm, and the three men walked out the door.
The black man stood at the driver side of his black Oldsmobile Cutless, fumbling with his keys. Billy was in front of the others and when they got to the truck, he turned to the other two. "Put the beer in the truck, come on, let's have some fun." He walked toward the Olds. The others followed.
The black man was scrambling to place the key in the car door, when Billy grabbed his shoulder and tugged on it. "Hey, nigger, that wasn't very polite of you, cutting in line like that."
The black man turned. "Get your hands ... "
Joe pushed the man into the side of the car, then kicked him in the groin. The tall man buckled over and fell to the ground. Danny kicked him in the chest. Then with a quick, hard kick, Billy kicked the man in the head. The black man's neck snapped back and his body went limp.

Chapter One
three months later

It was a dark, cold, rainy morning. A hurricane was coming up the East Coast. We probably wouldn't see its eye, but the blustery winds and rain, that moved in torrential waves--parallel to the ground--had already hit the area.
I checked my watch as I drove across northern West Virginia, along the hilly, four-lane highway. The sun would be coming up soon, I thought, but I couldn't tell through the rain and fog. I had the wipers on high, and was squinting--focusing on the highway. Luckily it was a Saturday morning. The only travelers on the road were a few weekend truckers and unlucky businessmen.
It was mid September and the leaves of the trees that bordered the highway were still basically green. But there was a hint of spotted color throughout the landscape. I found myself trying to figure out why the leaves had turned colors in some spots and not in others.
I stopped at a Seven-Eleven at the Maryland-West Virginia border and picked up a large cup of coffee, then got back in my Jeep and headed west. With one hand, I was navigating my Wrangler around high standing water and splashes coming off eighteen-wheelers. With the other, I held the sixteen-ounce cup, balancing it so that I didn't lose a drop. Steam was coming out of the top of the cup which was fogging up the windshield, and I found myself, every twenty seconds or so, having to wipe the windshield clean.
I was feeling both excited and petrified. This was going to be my first meeting with the 'old boys'. I'd already met a few of them. They had gotten to know me, and I was getting to know them. I suppose that they invited me to the breakfast meeting because they felt confident that I was one of them.
I thought getting to know them would be difficult--there wouldn't be that many and those that were around would be angry, suspicious old men. But that wasn't the way it was at all. The old boys were all over Rockland County--even beyond--working, living, mostly farming--young, old, mostly old--but generally not angry. In fact, they seemed normal.
After a couple of weeks on one of the farms, I was probably the one who seemed angry--or at least scared, constantly wondering if any of them had figured me out.
The sound of squeaking wipers snapped me out of a daze. It had stopped raining. My thoughts were preoccupied. Who would be at this meeting? Would there be strangers? Would they have questions for me that I couldn't answer?
I cracked the window open and let some fresh air fill the cab. Streaks of blue sky were peeking through the heavy clouds, but I knew that it was only a reprieve. Straight ahead--probably another five or ten minutes--another line of thunder and lightening--and I was headed right for it.
I checked my watch. Still had twenty minutes before I would reach Rockland, West Virginia. I looked from side to side as I sped along the highway. Mostly rural farmland, with a few pockets of suburban housing developments, but they seemed incomplete and small compared to the vast corn and wheat fields. I was getting close to the old boy's country--very rural, very agricultural, and politically very conservative.
Some light from the morning sunrise began to peek through the dark clouds, painting bright streaks on the road and fields. The wheat and cornfields glistened. What a beautiful setting, I thought--how ironic.
With that thought came a long, loud bolt of lightening, followed by a rumbling boom of thunder. The bolt came from between the clouds and seemed to hit the earth miles away. A minute later my car was deluged with large, pounding drops of rain. I grabbed the knob on the end of the blinker column, turned it, and watched the windshield wipers go from stop to fast. It was dark again, and after a minute or two, I was developing a headache--squinting, focusing. The rain was pounding against the windshield and I could barely see fifty feet in front.
Jake Tillman, one of the old boys, told me that there would be about a dozen at the meeting. We would have some breakfast. There would be no one else in the restaurant.
Jake was a tall, thin, broad shouldered farmer, always dressed in, what appeared to be, the same set of overalls and long sleeve blue or green dress shirt. His face, weathered by the sun, made him look like he was in his fifties, but actually he was about forty. The wrinkles were etched into a serious frown. He smiled only when laughing at jokes--otherwise he had a stern demeanor. He was hard to get to know, because he was so quiet, but he was one of the leaders--no doubt about that. What his position was with the old boys though, I didn't know yet, but I supposed that I was about to find out.
I looked to my right as the rain pelted the windshield. A sign indicating that I had just entered Rockland County whizzed by. I grabbed the unfolded paper sitting on the passenger seat, lifted it up to my eyes, looked through the windshield, then at the paper--through the windshield--then at the paper again. I needed to take the second exit
The restaurant was in a small one-road town in Rockland County-Biglersville. At the end of the exit, I needed to take a right and follow a two-lane country road for about seven miles. Biglersville would be no bigger than a city block with one and two story row-house type shops lining both sides. Tucked in the middle, on the right hand side, would be the Four Leaf Clover Restaurant. A sign would be hanging over the sidewalk with a picture of a green clover on it. "You can't miss it," Jake told me.
I pulled off the highway and checked the speedometer. I wanted to measure the seven-mile stretch. The two-lane road sat low in a foggy valley. By the time I reached the stop sign, I couldn't see more than twenty feet in front of me. I looked both ways and crept out, made sure that my lights were on, and, when it was clear, sped into the right lane. The sun was coming up behind me. The clouds were breaking, the rain was subsiding, and all I could see on either side of the road were fields of corn, wheat and soybean, with a few farmhouses and barns tucked hundreds of yards from the windy, hilly country road.
Ten minutes later, out of nowhere, there appeared a small group of buildings hugging the road, then a sign--Biglerville, straight ahead. It reminded me of a town right out of the old, wild, west--built in middle of a desert. Except is this case, the town sat in the middle of fields of grain.
I slowed down--the speed limit dropped to twenty-five, and there were two state trooper cars parked against the curb. Couldn't be more than twenty houses in this town, I thought, looking down the main street. They were all connected and close to the road.
I passed an old country store on the left. A short, gray haired woman, bracing herself with a cane, was walking up the steps. She was the only person I could see--otherwise the streets were empty. A couple of old sedans and a few beat-up, full sized pickup trucks parked along the curbs. There, on the right, the hanging sign with the clover on it. I looked for a place to park.
This was it. I had to gain my composure. A little bit of nervousness would be expected, but too much would cause suspicion. I took a deep breath, grabbed what was left of my coffee, put the lid on tight, and got out of my Jeep.
I looked at my watch as I closed the door--ten minutes before seven. I was ten minutes early. No wonder the town was empty--Saturday morning before seven. If it hadn't been for this meeting, I would have been sleeping too. I walked up the three concrete steps to the front door of the restaurant, turned the knob and pulled. It was locked. Maybe it opened at seven. I stepped back and looked for a sign on the window. There it was, to the right of the door, pasted on the glass window underneath the Visa, MasterCard and American Express stickers. The restaurant opened at six, seven days a week.
I grabbed the knob again. It was definitely locked. There were mini-blinds over the glass doors. I couldn't see in. I leaned over the iron railing, put my right hand over my eyebrows, squinted--no activity. Maybe I had the wrong time--but this had to be the place.
I turned and started down the steps when the door of the restaurant opened. It was Jake.
"Jim," he yelled. "Come on, we're downstairs."
He looked up and down the sidewalk, as if he didn't want anyone to know he had come out the door. I scurried back up, went through the door and closed it behind me.
"This way," he said.
I followed him, walking through the empty restaurant toward the kitchen. He pushed on two large metal doors. They swung open. We both walked through. In the back of the kitchen was another door that opened to some steps. He went first, then I followed--ducking my head as we walked down the half-lit, narrow stairwell--toward a smoke filled, musty smelling basement.
As we reached the landing, Jake turned toward the middle of the room. Sure enough, there were about a dozen men, some old and some young, sitting around a large table. Some drinking coffee, a few smoking. They all looked up, some smiled, some didn't, but they all were staring at me--the newest member of the 'old boys'.

Chapter 2

My eyes watered from the smoke. I looked around. Nothing but concrete block, painted a drab green. There were round iron posts, extending from the marble tiled floors to the exposed wooden beams in the ceiling--nothing on the walls, a single bulb at the end of a wire hanging from the ceiling over the table.
Jake introduced me and pointed to an empty chair. I sat quietly looking around as he spoke. The young men were teenagers, the old could have been my grandfather. I recognized a few of them. A couple of them had put their heads down, staring at their coffee and ashtrays. Two of the men were wearing West Virginia State Troopers uniforms. I began to sweat, having second thoughts, regretting that I was even there.
Jake decided to go around the room, and have everyone introduce themselves. I tried to focus, but I couldn't listen. I was thinking back to my decision to come to Rockland County.
***
It was about two months earlier when I decided to make my first move. It made sense not to snoop, but instead to become part of the community.
I came to Rockland looking for a job. I had studied the area, had photos and bios of suspected members. I knew that the old boys were mostly farmers, so I'd see if any of them had need for an extra hand. I spent the first two Saturdays searching small country stores, gas stations--asking if anybody needed help. Then at the end of an exhausting second week, I met Jake.
I was standing at the counter of a country store, in the middle of telling the store-owner that I needed a job, that I was a hard worker and if he knew of anybody that might need help to let me know. I'd be back. I didn't leave a number, didn't leave a place where I would be. Then, as I turned to leave the store, Jake walked up. Apparently he had been standing in the aisle, collecting canned foods, and listening. He poked me on the shoulder and I turned. I recognized the face from one of the photos.
"I might need some help," he said, sternly.
I was about five inches shorter than Jake, so I was looking up to his eyes and wrinkled, leathery face. I explained to him that I was passing through and I needed a job. I told him I didn't have much experience farming, but I would work hard. He asked me where I was coming from. I told him that I was originally from South Carolina. He said that I didn't sound like I was from the south. I told him that I had spent quite a bit of time in New York. I had left my family and drifted around. He stared into my eyes and didn't say anything for a few seconds. I knew that he was thinking about my story. Wondering if I was telling him the truth.
"Come by the house," he said. "My farm is not far from here. We'll talk." He gave me directions and told me to come back the next day. "After church," he said. "You can come to Sunday dinner and meet the family."
I agreed and thanked him. He gave me directions. His farm was on the other side of the County. It sounded like it was easy to get there--one turn off the main highway. Look for the mailbox and then turn down the narrow driveway through the cornfield. I made some mental notes, didn't write anything down, turned, hopped down the steps and went toward my Jeep. Glancing back, I saw Jake, still standing at the door, staring, as if wondering who I was and why I was in town.
***
Sunday turned out to be a hot Indian summer day. I pulled down the road where Jake's farm was, with the windows down, the warm air against my face, looking for the right mailbox. There it was on the right. I made the turn into the driveway. From the road I couldn't see the house. Tall cornfields bordered closely on both sides of the approach.
About fifty feet into the drive, I heard gunshots. I flinched at the first one. Then there were a few more. They seemed to be in the distance, but getting louder as I approached the house. After about a quarter of a mile, the driveway turned, and straight ahead was a large, white house--two stories, with a silver, metal roof and large, pillared, wrap-around porch.
The shots kept getting louder. I debated stopping and turning around, but this project was too important. I parked in a grassy area, about fifty feet from the front porch, next to an old pickup truck with a Confederate flag draped across the back window.
Two children came running from around the side of the house as I got out of the Jeep--laughing, stumbling, chasing each other. Then a woman came out the front door and onto the porch, wearing a flowery, blue dress with a white apron tied in a bow around her back. Her hands looked like they were covered in flour. She wiped her forearm across her head.
"You must be Mister Stevenson," she yelled.
I gave her a smile.
"Please come in. Dinner will be ready in about half an hour. Jake's around back trying out a new rifle. Target practice. Go around back. Tell him it's Sunday. Day of rest."
I smiled again, gave her a nod and walked around the back of the house. There was Jake in his overalls, and what looked to be his Sunday shirt--rifle cocked to his shoulder, eyes staring down the barrel at some cans sitting on a bale of hay, a hundred yards away.
As I approached, he pulled the trigger. The sound made me flinch. A split second later a can flew in the air. I stopped in my tracks. He turned toward me, lowered the rifle, and extended his hand to shake mine.
"Glad you could make it. Suppose you met the family." He wasn't much of a talker.
I told him I did and that it was his wife who told me he was behind the house with his new rifle.
"Yeah just picked up this Remmington. It's a beauty isn't it?"
He handed the rifle to me. I looked at it and gave him an expression of approval, as if I knew something about the gun, but the truth was, I didn't know the difference between a Remmington and a Kenmore.
"Yeah, it's a beauty all right." I handed it back.
"Come on, let's go in the house," he said. "I've got to clean up. Don't want to be late for dinner."
He turned and walked toward the back door. I followed. We turned left into the kitchen. Jake's wife was scurrying back and forth from the oven to a large butcher-block table in the center of the room. She grabbed a tray of biscuits and slid them into the oven, then looked up at Jake. "Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes, honey."
He grunted, but didn't say anything else. Just went over to the sink, grabbed a bar of soap and washed his hands. Jake's wife walked over to me, and, wiping her flour-dusted hands with the apron that draped across the front of her dress, reached her hand out and introduced herself. "I'm sorry, the old man has no manners. I'm Millie, Jake's wife," she said, looking over at Jake and rolling her eyebrows.
I smiled. "Hi Millie, very nice to meet you. Thank you for inviting me to dinner."
"Oh, we're glad to have you. Hope you like ham, because there's plenty of it." She turned, opened the oven door and looked at the large tray of meat.
"Yes, I love ham," I told her, kissing ass.
The windows in the kitchen were open, no air conditioning. I was beginning to sweat. Jake turned from the sink, wiped his hands on a towel that draped through the handle of the refrigerator.
"Come on, let's go in the living room. We can talk about some work before dinner."
I followed him through an open doorway and into a hallway leading to the living room. We entered through a large archway. I gazed at the high ceilings and the beautifully decorated walls and furniture. Most were antique--probably hand-me-downs. I wondered if the house was also a hand-me-down. A large oriental carpet sat in the middle of the room with an antique glass-top coffee table in the center. Bordering the edges of the room, I could see polished oak hardwood floors.
Jake went to a high-back winged chair with claw legs and I found the end of the couch closest to him. He leaned toward me as if he was going to tell me a secret.
I had waited for this moment. I was nervous, anticipating specific questions that I'd have to lie about or avoid. He got right to the point.
"Where you from again, Jim?"
I repeated my story about being from the south and then moving to New York. I wasn't sure if he bought it, but what he really wanted to know was what part of the south I had been born in. I was prepared. "I was born in Biloxi, Mississippi, then moved to Charleston, South Carolina. My dad worked for a tire plant down there, and my mom was a school teacher," I said, confidently.
I got lucky. He had never been to Charleston. I decided to exploit the situation and explained how my father had been laid off as a young man and then later changed professions--to computers. Looking around, I guessed that Jake probably knew very little about technology.
Sure enough, he was quiet again, waiting for me to continue my story, but I waited for him to speak.
He described the job. I guessed that he had enough personal information to begin to trust me. He needed someone to help him in the barn, basically do the dirty work--shovel manure, move bales of hay around, feed the animals-that type of thing. I said the job sounded fine, was sure I could help him out. Certainly was skilled enough to do the work. Then I asked him if he had a place that I could stay during the week. It would help me out because I could get up early--as early as he needed--and also work as late as he needed. He sat back in the chair, thought for a moment. He had never had a hand stay at the house, but he seemed intrigued by the fact that I was willing to put in the extra hours.
"I'll talk to the wife," he said. "We might have a spare bedroom upstairs. We'll probably need to clean it out and get it fixed up, but I'll talk to her and see what we can do."
I thanked him and told him that if I did stay I'd probably have to go home on the weekends. I explained that my dad had passed away and that my mother was living by herself in a row house in east Baltimore. "I go home and see to her needs on the weekends," I explained.
Jake seemed impressed by that--helping my elderly mother. What a good boy.
Millie walked into the room, wiped her hands on her apron and announced that dinner was on the table. On his way to the dining room, Jake walked to the front door, opened it and yelled for the children. Within five seconds they both ran through the doorway, toward the dining room.
Millie yelled from the kitchen, "You two better not sit down before you wash your hands and face."
How did she know? She had her face hidden in the oven, pulling out biscuits.
The children ran into the other room, pushing each other and laughing. I stood next to the table. Jake pointed to one of the chairs, silently telling me where I'd sit. The ham, potatoes, and green beans were already on the table. Jake sat. I sat. Then Millie brought the biscuits to the table in a woven country basket. I could hear the two children laughing and yelling in the bathroom. Jake looked up.
"You two better hurry up or you're not going to get anything to eat."
Ten seconds later I heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet running across hardwood floors. They ran into the dining room and literally jumped on their chairs.
"Who are you?" the boy asked. He looked to be about eight or nine years old.
I introduced myself to both of them.
The girl was also curious. "Are you going to stay tonight?"
"No I just came for dinner," I told her.
"Jim here is going to be working with me on the farm," Jake announced. "And he may even be staying with us over night, during the week."
This was a surprise to Millie. She looked at Jake, eyebrows high, eyes wide open.
"Umm, that's assuming it's okay with your mom," Jake said, appearing embarrassed for not having talked to her privately. Millie looked over at me with a serious look, eyeing me up and down.
Then Jake continued, looking at Millie. "I thought that we might be able to fix up the spare bedroom, straighten it out. Jim here said that he needs a place to stay during the week."
She looked over to Jake, stared at him for a second. "That shouldn't be much of a problem. I can move some of my sewing things into the other bedroom."
As if she had a choice, she probably thought. I was a little embarrassed. The announcement of me staying had brought some tension to the table. But then, as quickly as the uncomfortable moment came, it left. Jake's wife was as hospitable a person as I had ever met. She smiled and laughed, and so did Jake. The children carried on. They seemed comfortable with a stranger at their table, like they had done it many times before.
Jake introduced the children while we passed the food around. Jake Junior was nine and Mary was six. Then he told me that they had an older daughter, Julie, who was twenty-one. She wasn't home. She was finishing up her last year of college at West Virginia University, living on campus, and coming home for vacations and weekends. The bedroom that Millie would prepare for me was Julie's room, he explained.
Within thirty minutes I had eaten more than I usually eat in a week. I was as stuffed as I could get. Then the homemade apple pie topped with ice cream was brought to the table. I couldn't refuse. It would be downright ungracious. So I stuffed a little more in, excused myself, and rolled out the front door at about six o'clock. I had to get back to my mother, I explained.
I walked briskly to my Jeep, trying not to look like I was rushing. But I had another dinner waiting for me. My wife, Beth, had warned me that this project had better not get in the way of our family, and I had promised her that it wouldn't. My second dinner was scheduled for seven and I had just about enough time to get home.
***
The ride to my home in Rockville, Maryland, a congested northern suburb of Washington D.C., was a pleasant one. The weather had changed from warm and humid earlier in the day, to clear and pleasant for the ride. There wasn't any traffic--something I wasn't used to--which made it even more enjoyable. But I found myself rushing. I didn't want to be late. Beth would have the dinner ready and on the table exactly at seven.
I wanted our conversation to be a pleasant one--big news, the first big step of my project. I wanted to share it with Beth. Tell her how excited I was and that this was going to be big, for both of us.
Jake had never asked me if I was married. Strange. I guess it was because I had taken my ring off. He must have assumed--because I had a need to stay overnight during the week and I was going home on the weekend to take care of my mother--that I couldn't be married. Just as well, I was glad that the question hadn't come up. It would have been another lie. Another lie that I would have had to keep track of, as I wove this web of deceit.
Beth knew about my plan. That wasn't going to be a problem. I told her weeks before that I'd have to live in West Virginia. I had to become friends, to get close, in order for this to work.
She didn't like the idea. In fact, at one point, she had threatened to leave me because of it. It was too much she said--too dangerous.
"I don't want to expect you one weekend, you not show up, and not know where you are." She was scared, and rightfully so.
I told her it was my career and in order for me to advance, sometimes I had to take chances. She didn't buy it. Nothing I said would console her. Then finally, in a last ditch effort, I told her I would check in with her everyday. Then on the weekends, I would spend literally all my time with her--no work, just play--having fun--vacationing, going to the beach, just spending time together. It worked, or at least it seemed to work, and now I was determined to keep my promises.
I pulled into our three-story town-home, pushed the button on the automatic garage door, pulled in and then closed the door. Beth was waiting at the kitchen doorway, which opened up into the garage. She was smiling, but with a suspicious look on her face.
I checked my watch. I was five minutes early. No wonder she was smiling. She kissed me as I walked in the door.
Sure enough, the table was set--meatloaf and potatoes, on large serving plates.
"Big news," I said, as I walked through the door, headed for the sink to wash my hands. "I'm in."
"What do you mean you're in?" Beth said sternly.
"Well I mean that I'm going to work at the farm as a hand and they may even have a place for me to stay." I sounded cautious, even a little apologetic.
Beth was quiet. She was facing the sink, both her hands on the edge, her elbows and arms stiff and straight, leaning on the palms of her hands. At first I thought she was staring out the window. But then I realized that she was looking down into the sink.
She had begun to cry, shivering. I walked over to her and, from behind, put my arms around her. She turned quickly and pushed me. She had tears running down her face.
She cried out, "Jesus Christ, Jim. You're going to leave me? How long is this going to go on?"
I didn't have an answer. "I thought we talked about this possibility and agreed."
"I thought we were going to try to have children. We can't have children unless we're together," she said crying, loudly.
Guess we hadn't agreed.
I grabbed her, putting my arms around her. She tried to push away and then gave in. She hugged me. Then, laying her head on my shoulder, she sobbed.
"It won't be for that long," I said, trying to console her.
But she knew differently. She knew it would be for as long as it took. I was determined like that. I wouldn't give up until I had the story.
"I'm just afraid for you," she finally said, as we stood in the middle of the kitchen holding each other.
"I know you are, sweetheart. But I promise you I'll stay safe."
That was the best I could do. She broke loose from my hold and turned back to the sink, opened the cabinets above and pulled out a couple of plates.
Looking away from me she said, "Did you eat much? Are you hungry?"
"I'm starved. Can't wait to have some of this meatloaf."
I was lying through my teeth.
We sat across from each other with glasses of red wine in hand. I stuffed down as much meatloaf as I could. She asked me about the family that I'd be staying with. I told her about he children, and the farm, and the fact that they seemed like good people-at least on the surface.
"Hey maybe we can rendezvous somewhere half way between Rockville and Rockland County. Maybe at a bed and breakfast, or a motel, maybe even a couple of times a week."
I was kind of proud of the idea. Beth smiled. It was nice to see her smile. I felt comfortable. I felt like this might just work.
After dinner, I washed the dishes and Beth went into the living room, to do some needlepoint. When I was done putting the last glass in the dishwasher and wiping the counter down, I joined her.
"So nobody knows about this?" she said to me as I walked in and flopped down on one of the fluffy easy chairs.
"No."
"Not even your agent?"
"Well, Kirk knows about the idea and he's contacted a couple of publishers who seem interested. But he doesn't know any details."
"And nobody at the College?"
"No, I don't want anybody to know. In fact, you're the only one who knows any of the details."
We had taped a movie on Direct TV the night before. Beth got up from the couch, popped the tape in, grabbed the remote and pressed play. I propped my feet up on the ottoman in front of me and stared at the TV.
***
I was a Sociology Professor at George Washington University. I had been there for seven years. Receiving tenure the year before.
It was at GW where I met Beth. She was also a teacher in the Sociology Department. She had been there for two years, when I arrived. She and I started dating a couple of years after that, and have been together ever since.
I've enjoyed teaching and have done quite a bit of research since my graduate days at Georgetown University. In fact, it was research, at least in part, that had brought me to this project.
My true love was writing. I had written four novels over the past several years--the first one, published by St. Martin's Press, about a year ago. The other three have not been published yet, but St. Martins was taking a close look at them.
My professional life seemed to change when the first novel hit the bookstores. Interviews, book signings, and now grant money. Not only was more money available, but the whole process of getting money to write had changed. People from granting agencies were calling me. Asking if I'd like to put together a piece for them. There was plenty of money available, they said.
Where was this money when I was sweating and groveling, spending months putting applications together.
It was at a research conference a couple of years ago when the idea for this project hit me.
The conference was being held at the University of Maryland at College Park. I was sitting at lunch at a small fast food restaurant on Route One. A friend of mine from the Sociology Department at the University of West Virginia was with me and we were sitting across from one another, burgers and Cokes in front of us.
"Hey did you hear about the incident last week at West Virginia?" he asked me.
I hadn't, so he went on to explain about a basketball player who had gone into a Seven Eleven, just off the main highway in Rockland County, West Virginia. He was by himself, just getting some gas or food. While paying at the cashier, three or four young white men approached him from behind--getting close, bumping him at the counter, and then accusing him of cutting in line. The black kid didn't say anything. The West Virginia student turned and left the store, and the white men followed him.
A young girl was standing at the gas pumps, just outside the store. She saw the whole thing. Apparently, when the basketball player got to his car and started to open the door, one of the white men slammed the door shut again and accused him of butting in line inside the store. The black kid was pushed against the hood of the car. The other white men jumped in, and after about five minutes of punching and kicking, the black player was left on the ground, unconscious.
"I can't believe I didn't hear anything about this," I said.
"Well it only made the local papers."
"Have they caught the guys that did it?" I asked.
"No, as far as I know, they haven't. The girl remains anonymous. There hasn't been any news of any convictions."
"What about the store manager? The guy behind the counter?"
"He didn't see anything. He apparently had walked back into his office when all this took place. He saw a pickup truck speed away and then stepped outside and saw the body lying on the ground. The girl apparently was already gone."
"And this guy, the cashier, didn't recognize any of these guys? They weren't locals?"
"I thought of that too," my friend said. "But the report said he'd never seen them before. That he really couldn't identify any distinguishing features on them. He didn't look at them carefully when they came in the store. But he did say that they harassed the basketball player."
"I don't know. That sounds kind of suspicious to me. One person in the store paying for gas, a bunch of other guys coming up and harassing him and this guy doesn't remember any features of these white guys."
"Well, I don't know. The report claims there were no identifications made. I'm assuming that he couldn't identify anybody."
My friend leaned forward on his elbows and lowered his voice to a whisper looking from side to side.
"Personally," he said. "I think that these kids were Klan mem