Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(92)

And may God have mercy on our souls.

(He will, I know. He does.)





Lizbeth Andrew (Borden)




OCTOBER 4, 1921


Simon and I scared up directions to Chapelwood, courtesy of the hotel proprietress and a local map she kept in the office. Mrs. Becker (I believe that’s her name) tapped the little atlas with her index finger.

“Are you sure you want to visit that place?” she asked, frowning down at the unfolded paper, now marked with arrows and a big red circle.

“Not tonight, of course,” I lied through my teeth. “Tomorrow morning, I think.”

The inspector added, “We’d like a chat with Reverend Davis, and it wouldn’t be polite to pay him a call so late.”

Mrs. Becker shuddered. “That one gives me the willies, though I shouldn’t say such things about a man of the cloth.”

I might have muttered, “On the contrary, I couldn’t agree with you more.” And Simon might have gently elbowed my arm.

Then, as if to cover for my breach in decorum, he said, “A friend of ours has gone missing, and we believe he might know what’s become of her.”

“Ruth?”

We both blinked at her in surprise.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “Word gets around.”

“At speeds that would shame the telephone company, it would seem.” Simon took the map, folded it into its original pamphlet form, and placed it in his vest pocket. He was wearing a charcoal gray suit now. It was a little formal for a nighttime raid, but it was the darkest thing he’d thought to pack. “Dare I ask what you made of the trial? Since you’ve been kind enough to help us, despite our allegiances.”

“I don’t know that I’m helping you, and I fear for your soul if Chapelwood’s where you mean to go. But . . .” She shook her head. “But I’ll tell you this, because I want you to know it: There’s more to Birmingham than men in sheets and murdering hillfolk.”

Then she did the most astonishing thing—she reached to her throat, and tugged a little necklace out of her cleavage. For one brief moment, it glimmered in the shimmering lights of the lobby, and then she stuffed it right back between her breasts for safekeeping.

She wore a tiny gold Star of David.

“You see?” she said with a shaky smile. “My parents came to this land fifty years ago, and changed their name to keep the secret. Some are more open about it, but . . . not them. They suffered too much in Europe, I think. It seemed safer to start again, in a new place, with new names for their children. Of course, in days like these—the men who’d run us out of town are too busy trying to run the colored folks and the Catholics out on a rail. It’s an awful shield in front of us.”

“That’s tragic, but true,” I agreed. I put my hand on top of hers, and she squeezed it, then let it go.

“You know the maids here? The Malone girls?”

Simon nodded. “I’ve seen them.”

“And the man who does maintenance when it’s needed, Mr. Cooney? And MacGrath, who keeps the bushes trimmed? Catholics. You’re not supposed to hire them,” she whispered. “Not anymore, not since Nathaniel Barrett passed that legislation as soon as he got in the door. But a man’s got to work if he wants to eat, and my own family saw enough of that injustice back in the old country. So we give them work, if we’re able. And we wait for the True Americans to come, and we worry. But . . . we do what we can.”

I didn’t want to ask, but couldn’t stop myself. “What if they do come?”

She shrugged. Not like she hadn’t thought about it, but like she knew there was not much to be done, regardless. “Then they come. We’ll see what happens, but I think . . .” She fiddled with the chain, but didn’t reveal the pendant again. “I think they’ll find our numbers are greater than they know. These days, there are as many outcasts as in-casts. We own businesses, banks, and homes. We pay taxes like everyone else, and when we have to, we’ll stand together. The rest of us, I expect. Well,” she said, releasing the chain and flipping her hands up, “you know what I mean.”

? ? ?

We left with the map and with Mrs. Becker’s blessings, and Simon took the wheel of a car he’d arranged, sans driver this time. We didn’t talk much, as we were both paying attention to the road signs—and the lack thereof—but he did say, with less optimism than I wanted to hear, “They didn’t stand together. They didn’t stand with Ruth when they came for her. No one did but us.”

“No one came for Ruth. She went to that trial of her own accord.”

He didn’t reply, but I knew he was thinking about it, and deciding how true that was. As for myself, I didn’t know. I’ve been an outcast longer than I ever was part of society, and I will say this much: When you’re left out of things, you don’t know who else is left out, too. Most people assume they’re alone, because it’s safer that way. To confide is to risk exposure, after all. I think most of us would rather be pleasantly surprised to find like-minded or equally reviled others to ally ourselves with.

So I know he’s right about Ruth, because I sat there, too, and watched her all alone except for the small handful of us—and Simon and I weren’t local to the place, so we had precious little to lose. But I also know how punishing fear can be, and how hard it is to break the patterns that have frightened you into silence.