Indiana Belle (American Journey Book 3), page 11
Candice giggled.
"I suppose he does."
"Do you like him?" Lula asked.
"I do. He's thoughtful, intelligent, and kind."
"That's nice. But you didn't really answer my question," Lula said. She returned a garment to the same rack, turned to face Candice, and raised a brow. "I asked if you like him."
Candice smiled and blushed.
"I guess I do."
"Well? What are you going to do about it?"
Candice looked around the store, which took up three thousand square feet near the corner of Seventh and Main, and checked for eavesdroppers. She didn't see any.
"I'm taking him to a cross burning Saturday night," Candice said in a low voice.
"You're what?" Lula asked.
"Lower your voice."
"You can't be serious."
"I'm very serious," Candice said. "Cameron wants to learn about the Klan. He says it would be helpful to his research."
"Can't you just tell him about it?"
"I already have."
"He's not satisfied with that?" Lula asked.
"I'm not satisfied with that. I want to show him something he can't see in New England."
"You sure know how to arrange a first date."
"It's not a date, Lula. It's a field trip," Candice said. "It's just the sort of thing my father would have done in the interests of research."
"Have you told Lawrence or Mother?"
"No. I don't want you to tell them either. I want them both to think I am going out to meet friends," Candice said. "I'll need your car, by the way, or at least the T."
Lula shook her head.
"You're something, Candice Bell."
"You have that right."
"Who is the Klan going to spook this time?" Lula asked.
"I suspect a man named Jack O'Brien."
"Who is he?"
"He's a Catholic professor from Boston who moved here with his family last summer. They purchased a small farm north of town."
"How do you know he's being targeted?"
"I overheard two men discuss the matter in Heller's last week," Candice said. "One of the men owns an adjacent property. He wanted to buy the farm when the original owners put it up for sale in July, but he couldn't match Jack O'Brien's offer."
"Do you know this family?" Lula asked.
"I know the professor. I wrote a feature story on him in September. He teaches math and science at the university. He's the first Catholic who has ever taught there."
Lula stepped forward and placed her hands on Candice's shoulders.
"You really want to do this?"
Candice nodded.
"I really want to do it."
Lula frowned.
"I hope this Mr. Coelho is worth it."
"He is," Candice said.
"OK," Lula replied. She sighed. "Be safe."
CHAPTER 21: CAMERON
Vanderburgh County, Indiana – Saturday, April 4, 1925
The first thing Cameron noticed was the seemingly endless stream of vehicles. As Candice drove Lawrence Bell's Model T through the dusk on Pigeon Road, he noticed car after car parked along the gently sloping shoulders. By the time Candice turned off the road and headed toward a large farmhouse, he estimated that he had seen fifty automobiles.
"Are you sure they are home?" Cameron asked.
"I'm sure," Candice said.
"How do you know?"
"I called them on Thursday and told them what to expect."
Cameron put a hand over his eyes, peered into the distance, and looked for signs of life. He found two a few seconds later in the form of a man and a woman. Both stood on the porch. One carried what looked like a shotgun.
"Is that them?" Cameron asked.
"That's them," Candice said.
The man and the woman stepped off the porch as the visitors approached the house. They reached the Model T just as the driver turned off the ignition and rolled down her window.
"Good evening," Jack O'Brien said as he lowered his gun.
"Hello, Professor," Candice said.
Cameron waited for Candice to step out of the car before doing the same. A moment later, he joined the journalist, the professor, and his wife in front of the vehicle.
"I see you brought a friend," O'Brien said in a thick Irish brogue.
"I did," Candice said. "Professor O'Brien, this Cameron Coelho. He's a doctoral student from Rhode Island. He came to Evansville last month to research the area, the people, and our customs. I brought him here tonight to see one of the uglier ones."
"It's a pleasure to meet you," O'Brien said.
"The pleasure is mine, sir," Cameron replied.
O'Brien introduced his wife, Margaret, to each of the visitors. He seemed surprisingly calm for a man defending his property against a potentially violent mob.
"Have you had any trouble tonight?" Candice asked.
"No," O'Brien said. "The agitators have so far kept to themselves."
Cameron listened to shouts and cheers in the distance. Though he could not make out what the yahoos were saying, he was pretty sure they weren't singing campfire songs or holding a pep rally for a local high school baseball team.
"How long have they been here?" Cameron asked.
"Long enough," O'Brien said. "The first ones arrived an hour ago."
"I believe it. We saw the cars coming in."
The professor nodded and looked away. He paused a moment, as if pondering some hidden meaning in Cameron's simple observation, and then returned to the visitor.
"So you're from Rhode Island, are you?" O'Brien asked.
"I am," Cameron said. "I grew up in Bristol and currently live in Providence."
"Is that so? I taught a year in Providence. I might have stayed there, too, had I not met my Boston Brahmin wife and moved to Massachusetts."
"So why did you move here?"
"We wanted to raise our boys in the country. We wanted to raise them on a farm with fresh air, clean water, and friendly neighbors," O'Brien said. "We found the air and the water, but we are still searching for the neighbors."
"Are your sons in the house?" Cameron asked.
O'Brien nodded.
"We put them to bed an hour ago. We did not want them to see this."
"Is this the first time the Klan has come out here?"
"It is, to my knowledge."
"It is," Candice said.
"Thank you again for warning us," O'Brien said to the reporter. "If nothing else this evening, I am thankful for that."
"It was the least I could do."
"Have they done more than shout?" Cameron asked. "I didn't see a burning cross."
"Nor have I," O'Brien said.
"That's because Leonard and his minions are just getting started," Candice said. "They will bring out their matches soon enough."
"I suspect you are right."
"I would like to see for myself what they are up to," Cameron said to the professor. "Do you mind if I wander a little closer to get a better look?"
"I don't mind at all," O'Brien said. "Let me take you to the property line."
A moment later, O'Brien led his wife, Candice, and Cameron about a hundred yards to a gap in a grove of birch trees. Though the opening provided little cover, it offered an excellent view of men in long robes and pointy white hats who congregated fifty yards away.
Cameron had little difficulty estimating their number – about a hundred – in the fading light. He had even less difficulty when one of the men, bearing a torch, lit a dozen kite-size crosses that participants carried like acolytes in a religious procession. When the same man lit a twenty-foot-high cross in the middle of the assembly, he had no difficulty at all.
"There it is," Cameron said.
"There it is," Candice replied in a weary voice. "That's a big one."
"How many have you seen?"
"Six."
Cameron looked at Candice and wondered how anyone could be so blasé about something as sinister as a burning cross. Then he remembered, once again, that he was in 1925 – not 2017 or any other year where a hundred hooded bigots routinely gathered in unplanted fields.
Jack and Margaret seemed more engaged. Each stared at the demonstrators as if they were wild animals that threatened the very peace they had come to Indiana to find.
"Are you all right, Professor?" Cameron asked.
"I am," O'Brien said. "So long as they keep their distance, I am."
Cameron returned his gaze to the assembly as the hooded men fell silent and encircled the large cross like white pillars in a human Stonehenge. Those with the smaller crosses formed a gate in the circle that pointed inward. They lifted their crosses high when a tall man emerged from the darkness, passed through the gate, and proceeded toward the large cross.
When he reached the burning centerpiece, the tall man turned to face the circle, raised his arms high, and began speaking in a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. If Leonard Heller, friendly neighborhood pharmacist, was not rallying the troops, then his identical twin was.
"I see Leonard didn't go bowling tonight," Cameron said.
"Take a good look, Mr. Coelho," Candice said. "Take a really good look. This is what I have opposed my entire life. This is a side of Indiana I want you to see and the world to know. It's a side that needs to go – and will go, if I have my way."
Cameron couldn't make out most of the words coming out of Leonard's mouth, but he didn't have trouble with "papists," "mongrels," "Negroes," and less tasteful labels. He could tell by his strident tone alone that he was preaching a sermon of division, fear, and hate.
"You think he sees us?" Cameron asked.
Candice nodded.
"He recognizes us too. He doesn't miss a thing."
"How long will this last?" Cameron asked.
"It depends. If Leonard has a lot to say, it might last an hour."
"You've known about him a long time, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"Is that why you didn't speak to him at the drugstore?"
"It's one reason," Candice said.
"What's another?"
"I'd rather not say."
"Why not?" Cameron asked.
"Let's just say the reason is sufficient. I can't stand the man and will only frequent his store when I don't have the time to visit another."
Cameron again pondered her words. He thought it odd that Candice could even occasionally support the business of a man she despised, but he didn't hold it against her for doing so.
Like most people, Candice had to pick her battles and decide where convenience ended and principle began. She had to weigh her obligations to society against her obligations to herself.
So did Cameron. Twenty-five days into his adventure of a lifetime, he was still mindful of his own challenges and battles. Like Candice Bell and others in this strange, rigid, difficult time, he had rules to obey, missions to complete, and promises to keep.
Whether he obeyed, completed, and kept them to the satisfaction of others remained an open question. On April 4, 1925, he was in no hurry to find an answer.
CHAPTER 22: CAMERON
Evansville, Indiana – Monday, April 6, 1925
Cameron looked at his lunch and then at his date and smiled. The first, a club sandwich he had purchased for thirty cents, was as mysterious and intriguing as a cardboard box. The second was as enigmatic as anything on the planet.
"Thanks for taking time out of your day," Cameron said. "I'm sure you have better things to do than answer more of my questions."
"I have other things to do," Candice said. "Are they better things? No. You did me a favor by pulling me out of the paper. I was about to go crazy when you walked in."
"Why? I thought you liked your job."
"I do, at least most of the time."
"Then what's the problem?"
Candice sighed, gazed at the man at her café table, and frowned.
"The problem, Mr. Coelho, is that my editor has shackled my wrists. He won't let me type stories about things that matter."
"I like your stories."
"That's because you want to learn about society," Candice said. "If you wanted to learn about other things, like the criminal activities in this town, you wouldn't like my stories at all. You would turn elsewhere for information."
"I don't know about that."
"I do. I wanted to report what we saw Saturday night. I wanted to tell my readers that a bunch of miscreants are trying to run an outstanding educator and his family out of town, but I couldn't. Thad wouldn't let me. He insisted that our cub reporter, a male who doesn't know a glory suit from a toga, cover the Klan and all the other hard news."
"I thought you liked Thad," Cameron said.
"I do," Candice replied. "He is a superb editor and one of the best newsmen in the business, but like all men he has serious shortcomings."
Cameron smiled.
"Have you identified mine, Miss Bell?"
Candice blushed.
"I'm still working on that."
Cameron laughed.
"I guess I should let the matter drop."
"I guess you should."
Cameron sipped some iced tea.
"Since I can't ask what you think of me, can I ask what you think of other men?"
"You can ask me anything," Candice said as she lifted a chicken sandwich from her plate. "I just may not give you an answer."
Cameron nodded.
"Fair enough. Let's start with Leonard Heller."
"What about him?" Candice asked.
"Why don't you speak to him?"
"I told you."
"You gave me one reason," Cameron said. "What's the other?"
"I'd rather not say. I told you that too."
"I know."
"Why do you want to know?" Candice asked.
Cameron looked at her thoughtfully.
"I'm curious."
Candice put her sandwich down. She paused for a moment, as if considering how best to proceed with a difficult subject, and then looked at her companion with serious eyes.
"OK. I'll tell you. The other reason – the main reason – I don't speak to Leonard Heller is because of something he did to me."
"Did he hurt you?" Cameron asked.
"Yes."
"You can stop there."
"No," Candice said. "I'll tell you. You should know what kind of man he is."
"Then continue."
"Leonard, as you may know, is a frequent visitor at the Post. He was a frequent visitor two years ago when he stopped by the paper one day, after hours, to presumably conduct business. Since I was the only one in the building at the time, I answered his knock and let him in."
"What did he want?" Cameron asked.
"He wanted to speak to Thad about an advertisement."
"Did you tell him he wasn't there?"
"I did," Candice said. "I told him Thad had left for the day and wouldn't be back until the next morning. That's when Leonard became flirtatious."
"How did you respond?"
"I asked him to leave, of course. I said I was busy and didn't have time to talk."
"I take it he didn't leave," Cameron said.
Candice took a breath.
"No. He stayed and made a pass at me. When I refused his advances, he called me names, slapped me in the face, and forced me to the floor. Had it not been for the janitor, who showed up a moment later, Leonard might have done a whole lot more."
"I'm sorry," Cameron said. "I really am. That story explains a lot."
"Now you know why I'm not particularly fond of the neighborhood druggist."
Cameron gazed at Candice and wondered how such a kind, sensitive, and engaging woman could have so much bad luck with men. He hadn't even gotten around to Richard Paine or Tom Parker, the black custodian who was still very much a mystery.
"What can you tell me about the janitor?" Cameron asked.
"Who? Tom?"
"Yes, Tom. I assume that's his name. I saw him pushing a broom when I visited the paper on St. Patrick's Day. What can you tell me about him?"
"Why do you want to know?" Candice asked. "Did he do something odd?"
"No. All he did was sweep the floor and mind his business. It's just—"
"It's just what?"
"It's just that he looked out of sorts. He looked – I don't know – angry."
Candice frowned.
"He is angry. He carries anger everywhere he goes."
"Why?" Cameron asked.
"I shouldn't say anything. It's not my place."
"Did he hurt you too?"
"Oh, no," Candice said. "He's done nothing to me. He's been very kind to me, in fact."
"Then what it is? Why is he so angry?"
Candice sighed.
"Tom Parker is angry because he's had a difficult life. Like you, he grew up without parents. Unlike you, he spent much of his youth in institutions. He has bounced from one difficult situation to another for almost thirty years. He has never known happiness, to my knowledge, except for a brief spell in 1922."
"What happened then?" Cameron asked.
"He got married. Tom met a local girl, married her, and set her up in a house with money he had saved from a warehouse job. Then he got a new job, saved more money, and bought a bigger house. For a while, he seemed happy. He smiled nearly every time I saw him."
"I take it the smiles didn't last."
"They didn't," Candice said. "One evening, nine months into his marriage, Tom came home and found his wife in the company of a longtime friend. Enraged by the discovery, he ran into his shed, picked up a hammer, and bludgeoned his wife and his friend before they could flee. The homicides were among the most gruesome this city has ever seen."
"How come he's not in jail?" Cameron asked. "How come he's still alive?"
"He's alive because a judge ruled that his violence was justifiable under Indiana law. Others, of course, disagreed. They protested the verdict. The Klan threatened violence. Even more peaceful sorts, like my mother, wanted to put Tom in a chair and flip the switch. To them, the idea of a black man getting away with murder was simply unacceptable."
"So why did the Post hire him as a janitor?"
"The Post didn't hire him," Candice said. "Thad did. He hired Tom in spite of the publisher's reservations because he wanted to give him a second chance."
