I gaped at the tokens of concern. “People . . . people in Elston . . . were worried about me?”
“Quite worried.” Uncle Clyde reached across to my right wrist and checked my pulse. “The reverend called a special town meeting just a couple of hours ago and asked for the residents of this community to take a stand against the Klan. He said it’s time we put up a fight instead of ignoring the problem.”
“And then the Markses and a few of the younger girls from school and their families showed up at the door,” said Mama, “bearing flowers and food to ensure you’d feel better. Mildred tried to hand me some sort of questionable cure-all for broken-bone pain, but that particular gift I turned away.”
A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth.
“Mildred also told me to thank you for taking care of the matter she requested you to,” added Mama. “Although she wouldn’t say what that matter was.”
I nodded, and a tear slid down my right cheek with the burn of salt.
My mother brushed my face with the back of her right hand. “Not everyone’s a part of that group, Hanalee. As I said before, it’s just a small, obnoxious percentage of residents causing the trouble.”
“We’re going to move, though, aren’t we?” I asked.
“The Klan, and even the eugenics movement”—Uncle Clyde swallowed—“they aren’t problems exclusive to Oregon, unfortunately.” He laid my wrist back down on the bed. “But we are strongly considering a move, perhaps up to Washington, where you wouldn’t be faced with interracial marriage laws. The physician friend of mine who offered to help Joe said he’d also help me if things turned ugly down here.”
I nuzzled the fuzz of the teddy bear’s head against my chin and thought I smelled the scent of pond water. “Is Joe going up there?”
“More than likely.” Uncle Clyde sat down on the opposite side of my legs from Mama, and the mattress squeaked beneath me. “His father still doesn’t know what to do about him.”
“Don’t worry so much about everyone else right now.” Mama stroked my right arm, below my elbow. “You just rest and heal. Your body’s been through a great deal of trauma, and it needs sleep and care.”
I nodded again, and my brain wobbled from the movement. “I am awfully tired,” I said, “but I don’t think I can quite stop worrying about everyone just yet.”
CHAPTER 29
TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE
ON A MONDAY AFTERNOON, FOUR days after I’d seen Joe collapse into the grasses in front of the old oak tree, I heard the distinctive chug-chug-chug of a Model T pulling into the drive in front of our house. Uncle Clyde had carried me downstairs for the afternoon, for the heat in my bedroom roasted me good, and my right leg itched from sweating inside my cast. I reclined on the sofa with my broken leg stretched out in front of me and my left wrist propped on a pillow. A sizable percentage of my body remained bruised and sore.
I heard the car pulling up outside while I was in the midst of attempting a pencil sketch of the trees outside our window—the type of sketch my father liked to draw. If we were to leave the state, I wanted a visual record of my woods.
“Is someone here?” I called to Mama upstairs and Uncle Clyde in his little study in the back of the house. An unsettled feeling, equal parts dread and curiosity, brewed inside my chest. The world outside still didn’t feel safe enough to expect every visitor to be a benevolent one.
Uncle Clyde—too protective to yet return to full-time office hours—hustled into the living room and veered straight toward the front window. “It’s Joe.”
“Really?” I set the paper and pencil aside. “Did he drive over? Does his nose look all right?”
“I bandaged him up to ensure it would heal properly. It looks like he hasn’t picked off the wrappings, which is good.” Uncle Clyde strode out of the living room and to the front door around the corner.
Joe knocked, and I heard my stepfather open the door for him just as Mama’s feet traveled down the staircase.
“Hello, Joseph,” said Uncle Clyde from around the bend.
“Hello, sir,” said Joe, although I couldn’t yet see him. His voice sounded so formal, I almost didn’t recognize it—I almost even laughed. “How’s Hanalee?”
“I’m in here, downstairs.” I scooted myself farther up on the sofa’s cushions. “Please come in, Joe.”
“It looks like the bruising beneath your eyes has gone down,” said Mama.
“It’s getting there, ma’am.”
I smiled at his use of “ma’am.”
Flanked by my parents, Joe meandered around the bend, smoothing down his hair, which shone a bit from water or pomade. F. Scott Fitzgerald would have called him a “slicker,” with a jazzy, combed-down coiffure such as that. Bandages crisscrossed his nose. He wore clean white shirtsleeves and gray trousers with a shiny black belt.
He stopped when he saw me and drew a short breath. “H-h-how are you?”