Ring Shout(18)

Sure enough, there’s four Klans in robes standing outside the store’s glass window, directing the steady line of patrons. Two I know is Ku Kluxes, faces shifting as they pass a canteen back and forth.

I told Nana Jean about the dream with Butcher Clyde and my meeting with the Aunties. After she get through grumbling about haints, she admits he could be the “blood redhead buckrah man” from her premonitions. Seems he arrived in town a week back, opening up this shop next to the American National Bank building. She warned us to keep our distance. But a whole day gone, and I’m losing patience. This Butcher Clyde snuck into my head, outright threatened me. But I ain’t no scared girl no more. I hunt monsters—they don’t hunt me. So now I’m about to do something real brave or stupid.

I wait for a streetcar to pass, then cross Cherry Street, walking straight to Butcher Clyde’s. White folk in line frown when I skip past them. Probably thinking I’m plumb out my mind when I march up to the Klans. One, a little bit of a man, looks at me like he gone dumb. I wait for him to recover.

“You lost, girl?”

“Nope,” I respond. “Here to see Butcher Clyde. He know me.”

White folk get thrown off if you act like they don’t expect—least till they remember they gotta put you in your place. I play my other card, looking to a Ku Klux.

“I can see you.” I tap under one eye. “Ugly as sin under that skin.”

The green eyes of the man the Ku Klux wearing don’t blink. He stops drinking from the canteen, letting water run down his chin, and turns to the other Ku Klux, like they got a silent way of speaking. My gamble pays off.

“Let her through,” the Ku Klux says.

The two human Klans set to holler, but I slip right in the door as someone leaves.

Bruh Rabbit walking into Bruh Gator’s open jaws, my brother’s voice whispers.

The inside look like any other butcher shop. Smells like one too—fresh blood and raw, open flesh. But there’s also the scent of seared meat coming from a kitchen. And at tables, people sit eating. There’s Klan posters everywhere, one advertising The Birth of a Nation at Stone Mountain Sunday. Men at the counter, every last one a Ku Klux, hand out brown packages to customers. And behind them is none other than Butcher Clyde.

He looks the same from the dream—a hefty bulk of a man. Like the other night he stands with his back to me, singing some awful tune and swinging his cleaver. I start up whistling, loud as I can, and he stops what he doing to turn slow. There’s slight surprise when our eyes meet, but I don’t stay for him to say nothing, walking to take a chair by the front window, leaning back all casual-like. A white lady and her son sitting nearby watch me open-mouthed. I stare back until she turns away. There’s angry buzzing behind me, but Butcher Clyde cuts in.

“Brothers and sisters, don’t let this disturb our feast. The lesser of God’s creatures at times need to be guided righteously to recall their proper place. Rest assured, I will take this one in firm hand. Go on and eat now, eat! Fill up your bellies with the Lord’s sustenance. Make the Invisible Empire strong!”

I don’t bother to look while he making his speech, and I only turn when I hear him take the chair across from me. His red hair slick with pomade and he’s wearing spectacles this time. There’s patches of sweat all over him, soaking his underarms, and trickling down his shaved chin.

“You look hot. Must be cold, wherever you from.”

He just grins and drawls, “Figured we’d see you soon, Maryse.”

“I prefer you keep my name out your mouth, Clyde.”

“Bold to come here alone. You know we’re the only thing keeping you alive right now?” He leans forward, voice gone low. “One word and these good people would tear you limb from limb. Hang you from a light post.”

I lean in to meet him, smiling. “What make you think I come alone, Clyde?”

I wonder if he can sense Sadie on a nearby rooftop, Winnie cocked and waiting. Or Chef in the old Packard, ready to toss a few homemade bombs through his window. Maybe he do, because he lets out a slow chuckle.

“Bold as brass.” His eyes wander over my shoulder. “And with the sword.”

“Want to see it up close?” I pull it from my back, slamming the blade flat on the table. The woman sitting near us squeaks, jumping up with her son and leaving.

Butcher Clyde don’t flinch, his eyes tracing the triangular patterns cut into the black metal before returning to me. “No need for theatrics, Maryse. I’m sure you didn’t wander in here just to make threats. You come because you have questions. Questions those three interlopers—your Aunties, is it?—won’t tell. Ain’t that right?” The answer on my face makes him break into a toothy grin. “Well, go on, then, ask us what you want to know. We tell you true.”

Auntie Margaret hums in my ears. They are the Lie. But my lips already working.

“You a Ku Klux?”

He laughs. “Us? One of them? Like comparing you to a dog, which we understand they’ve developed a taste for. Not to worry, don’t serve that here.”

“A dog. So you they master, then?”

“Master might be a bit much. Think of us more like”—he twirls thick fingers, grabbing for a word—“management.”

“Why you here?”