It was deep summer in the Deep South. World War II was about to come to an end and everyone was optimistic, looking forward to the future. But 10-year-old Billy wasn’t interested in world affairs; he had other things on his mind.
Billy lived with his father and grandmother, Big Momma, in Peterson, Alabama, a small, sleepy town near Tuscaloosa, where he knew everyone and everyone knew him. So he was on his own that summer, exploring the hills and hollows of Alabama, fishing, catching grasshoppers. And picking up kindling, which he loaded on his little red wagon and pulled into town. He sold it for a fraction of what it was worth, hoping to earn enough to go to The Bama in Tuscaloosa on Saturdays to see Gene Autry or Roy Rogers. Sometimes, he had enough for a bag of popcorn.
After the picture show, Billy generally meandered around, seeing what was going on, listening to the latest gossip. And one subject that came up time and again was “The Klan.” The old men in the town square talked about them; his daddy and uncles talked about them. Even his mother and her friends mentioned them from time to time.
“They got after Luther Perkins the other night,” Uncle A. J. told Billy’s daddy one Saturday afternoon. They were leaning against Uncle A. J.’s Nash, sipping moonshine.
“Bout time,” his daddy said, “He’s been beating up on his old lady for years.”
“Well, they warned him before,” Uncle A. J. said, “So he got what he deserved.”
“Yep, the Klan don’t give second chances. After all, they are the law in Alabama.”
Billy was curious. He wanted to know more about the law in Alabama. And a few months later, he found out much more than he wanted to know.
It was a hot, humid night, and his daddy was sitting on the front porch with Big Momma, who was patching socks. Billy had been catching lightening bugs, but he had gotten tired of that. He had just plopped down on the steps, when a line of car lights suddenly rounded the curve, one right behind the other, moving very slowly.
Big Momma leaned forward, huge breasts moving toward her knees. “Wonder what’s going on?”
“Hard telling,” said Billy’s daddy.
Billy counted the big black cars as they crawled past the house. There were eleven.
“They’re turning in at the school house,” his daddy said, craning his neck, “Must be something to do with that colored man that got killed down there.”
Billy glanced at his daddy and Big Momma. They were settling back in their rockers, talking about something else, so he slipped inside the screen door. And then he raced through the living room, kitchen, and on to the back porch.
Outside, he took off down the hollow to the railroad tracks. Crisscrossing through the woods, he could hear the loud chant of the katydids, bull frogs croaking in the nearby swamps. And unknown creatures scuttling through the underbrush.
As he neared the edge of the woods behind the schoolhouse, he could see flickering shadows as the figures got out of their cars and passed in front of the car lights. And he could hear a low murmuring sound.
He pulled the bushes back, swatting at mosquitoes swarming around his face, and then he froze. They were all dressed in white, wearing tall pointed hats, hoods covering their faces. Several were carrying a big cross, and the rest were forming a circle.
The low murmuring started again, reminding him of Sunday morning services at church with Big Momma, just before the Holy Spirit grabbed hold of people, threw them to the floor. Caused them to speak in unknown tongues.
Chills rushed up and down his back as Billy watched them drag the big cross to the center of the schoolyard. All in white, faces hooded, they looked like ghosts.
They stood quietly for a moment, and then one man stepped forward and struck a match. Swoosh! Billy jumped back as the whole school yard lit up. A Klansman walked out of the shadows, leading a young black man. And the look on his face was one of sheer terror.
The Klansman led the man to the burning cross. “Kneel!” he yelled, “And pray!”
The man knelt, placed the palms of his hands together, and bowed his head.
All was quiet for a moment, and then the Klansman motioned to him, “Now, get up!”
The man got up, but as the Klansman started to grab his arm, he jerked away and took off. Billy had never seen anyone run as fast in his life. He was heading toward the woods, directly where Billy was crouching, and before he could move, the man was facing him. He hesitated, his eyes holding Billy’s for a second, and then he was gone.
Billy cringed, waiting for them to come after the man, but they huddled again, the murmuring continuing. Some lit cigarettes. And one looked toward the spot where Billy was hiding. He crouched lower, flinching as something slithered across his bare feet.
Finally, they all got into their cars and slowly drove away.
As soon as they were out of sight, Billy ran through the woods at breakneck speed, dashing into the kitchen just as his daddy and Big Momma were coming through the front door.
“Get them feet washed and go on to bed,” Big Momma said.
In bed, Billy couldn’t quit thinking about the young man. He hoped the Klan wouldn’t hunt him down. They weren't supposed to. The sheriff was supposed to find out who did it, and then they were supposed to have a trial. He had learned that in school. “Everyone is innocent until proven guilty,” Miss Iris had said, “No one can take the law into their own hands.” Afterwards, they had a mock trial, and Billy was on the jury.
“The sheriff got that man that killed that other colored man,” Billy’s daddy told Big Momma a few days later, “He wasn’t from around here.”
Billy was glad. But he couldn’t get the young man’s face out of his mind, the helplessness and fear in his eyes. It reminded him of the day he came upon the neighbor’s dogs, chasing a stray cat. He had grabbed the cat just in time. It was trembling, defenseless.
Billy wished he hadn't gone to the school yard that night, never seen the Klan. But one Sunday night, a few weeks later, he saw them again.
He and Big Momma were in church, and services were almost over. The pastor was preparing to lead the closing prayer when suddenly the church doors burst open and a Klansman appeared. He was carrying a battery-powered cross; it blinked like Christmas tree lights. Behind him were several more, all dressed in white, wearing hoods.
The preacher stopped talking, and everyone watched as they marched down the aisle of the little church. When they got to the pulpit, they stopped, and then the leader marched to the collection place and dropped in a wad of bills. Without saying a word, they marched back down the aisle and out of the church.
The pastor raised his hand. “God bless them for their very generous donation,” he said, "Now let's pray."
As the pastor gave the closing prayer, Billy thought about the young man, scared and helpless. Why should God bless the Klan? They were worse than those dogs, chasing the defenseless cat. And no matter what his daddy had said, they were not the law in Alabama.
* * *
My husband has never forgotten what happened that summer night in Alabama so long ago. And the lesson he learned. (This story is an excerpt from Bill's memoirs, another of my works-in-progress!)
ently, I have been in denial. Like an alcoholic, who won’t admit he has a drinking problem Or Raquel Welch, who lies about her age.
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