used to it since I first dated her in high school. Usually I can ease the situation with some of my daddy’s bourbon—which is exceptional.” He grinned. “We’ve had the questions, but none of the easing. Willy and I would like to have you join us for a drink.”
Surprised, Mendelsohn returned his smile. “Thank you. I’d be very pleased to do that.” As Luke moved to a sideboard to pour the drinks, Ted turned to Willy. “Might I use your phone, Willy? A friend of mine expected to hear from me by four o’clock.” He grinned as her eyes widened. “The kind of friend that worries a lot.”
“One of those scruffy students who rarely showers?”
He laughed and picked up the phone. “How did you know?”
Dale’s voice sounded tight and constricted on the phone, and Ted had to strain to hear. “Yes, I’m fine. Why do—? When? ” Drinks in hand, Luke and Willy turned at the sudden urgency in Mendelsohn’s voice. He began jotting notes. “Where? Of course. I’m on the way.” When he hung up the receiver, he scanned the notes, and approached the Claybournes.
“Is there a problem?” asked Willy.
Mendelsohn handed her the notes. “They’ve found the station wagon that the three civil rights workers were driving.” Her hand was shaking as she returned the paper.
Luke grinned. “Five will get you three that it was parked at the Havana airport. J. Edgar predicted it.”
Mendelsohn tried to control his voice. “You’d lose. The wagon was hidden in the woods outside Meridian in Lauderdale County. It’s been burned.”
“Meridian? And what about the three outside agitators?” Luke’s voice was aggrieved. “They leave a forwarding address?”
Mendelsohn stared at Luke. “Those three agitators are boys I was with up in Ohio at the orientation, Mr. Claybourne. James Chaney is a kid from Meridian. He’s been working with Mickey Schwerner, a young man from New York who’s been down here restoring black churches that have been torched. And Andy Goodman is a college kid from Westchester, New York, nineteen years old, who just arrived in Mississippi to try to register black voters.”
Willy stepped in front of Luke. Her face was pale. “Where are the boys, Ted?”
“Nobody knows. They’re simply gone, Willy.”
“I think my bet is still a good one, Mendelsohn.” Luke was replenishing his drink. “Can I pour you one?” Mendelsohn knew it was an afterthought meant to be gracious, but he recognized it as arrogance cloaked in good manners. He’d seen it before. Claybourne had the implacable confidence of a poker player who was so sure of the validity of his hole card that he didn’t even have to show his hand before picking up the chips. Mendelsohn felt disoriented and sick at heart. James! Andy! Mickey! Just disposable chips? Where are you guys? His jaw was clenched. Can I pour you one? Go fuck yourself!
“No. I’ve got to get back. This is a very important story and my editor’s going to be looking for me.”
“Why important, Mendelsohn?’ Luke’s voice was unrelenting. “Three Commie kids playing hide and seek in the barbarous South? That’s what you think is important enough to write about? You just lookin’ for another black eye?”
“It’s not a judgment call for me to make, Mr. Claybourne. I’m just a working stiff. If something has happened to those boys—” He hesitated. “Two of these boys are white. People up north will notice that. Some, unfortunately, are considered more equal than others up there. Just like down here. My editor taught me that.” He turned to Willy. “Thank you for this afternoon, Willy. I hope Mr. Claybourne is right, that those three young men are hiding in Havana. It’s a bet I’d like to lose.”
Sunday already, and still no hint of rain.
Luke Claybourne sat down heavily on the top step of the porch. The sliver of shade from the roof cut the glare from the fields, but the sodden heat engulfed every corner of his Delta. He squinted at the shimmering silent fields and the implacable sky. It’s never going to rain again. Not a damn cloud. Look at that sky. As unbroken blue as the plantation’s green. Like Delta bookends this rotten summer. Rain! Please, Jesus, rain! Down by the roots it’s caking and that cotton’s getting browner by the minute. Should have listened to Roland Burroughs, that money-sucking bastard. New sprinklers that can wet you down twelve, fifteen rows at a time, Lukie. Lukie! Nobody’d called him Lukie since the old man passed.
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