sight, nor any known white council members, either. Although the absence of those people relieved a bit of tension, it did seem odd, to say the least.
“Where are they?” Eulalie whispered to Clayton.
He shrugged imperceptibly, and sipped his mint julep.
“Why aren’t they here yet?” she insisted.
“I don’t know, dear. Why don’t you go call them and find out?”
“I’m not going to call my invited guests to ask why they aren’t here!”
“Well, then, I suppose we’ll just have to wonder.”
The hosts weren’t the only ones who were beginning to wonder. “Where is everybody?” Marty Wiegan’s wife askedClayton. By “everybody,” he knew exactly what she meant: the majority, the people on the other side, the ones who weren’t supposed to know.
He smiled his gracious smile and joked, sotto voce, “Maybe my wife forgot to mail their invitations, accidentally on purpose.”
“I did no such thing,” Eulalie remonstrated, coming up behind them. “And where are Michael and Lyda, I’d like to know? At least if they weren’t coming, you’d think they’d let me know before now!” She clapped her hands to get the attention of her guests. “Hello, hello! Clayton has an announcement, ya’ll!”
“I do?” he asked, turning toward her.
She gave him a little shove. “Of course you do. Tell them to start eating!”
“Start eating, folks!” he called out with good humor.
Slowly the eighteen people who were there began to form a line and then to fill their plates from the abundance that Eulalie’s own “colored help” had put out. But the conversation was desultory, as if none of them could keep a topic going. What had looked like coincidence was beginning to look unnervingly like a plan.
Was Eulalie’s party being deliberately snubbed?
Heads kept turning toward the house whenever one of the help pushed through a doorway with more food or plates. When the garden gate clicked loudly shut, several voices stopped in midconversation and people turned to stare to see who was coming, but it was only Lackley Goodwin, who had stepped into the front yard to have a smoke with Austin Reese. The two men looked startled when they saw how many faces—expectant, apprehensive faces—were turned their way.
“It’s just us, folks!” Austin called out, with a wave.
But once everyone had turned back to their plates and uneasy chatter, he and Lackley moved over to Clayton, whowas standing with Marty Wiegan. Austin said quietly, “Why aren’t Michael and Lyda here? Have they called? You know we delivered a package to them last night.”
Clayton patted the air in his habitual way, to silence such dangerous talk.
“I’m sure they have their reasons, Austin,” he said. “The baby may have colic.”
“You’re taking a lot for granted, Clay,” Marty Wiegan said. It was sharply put, but then he was northern-born. Nervously, he patted the long dark strands combed across the top of his head. “Have you called them to find out?”
“No, Eulalie wouldn’t let me.” Clayton smiled at a passing guest and said to her, “You need to refill that drink, darlin’!”
“Clayton Fisher, you’d get me drunk!” she trilled back at him.
He smiled, turning the warmth of it onto his male friends and fellow Hostel members. “But that needn’t stop anybody else from callin’ who might desire to do so.”
Marty Wiegan turned at once to go into the house to call the Folletinos.
“I wonder if one of us ought to just go over there and see,” Lackley Goodwin worried out loud. “Austin, why don’t you come up with a sudden need to make sure you turned off your garden hose before you left home?”
“I wouldn’t do that,” their host said quickly. He looked around and then lowered his voice so only they could hear him. “If there’s trouble, we can’t be associated with it, you know that, Lackley.”
They all knew that. It was their agreement: they stood together, but they fell alone. It was the
“Where are they?” Eulalie whispered to Clayton.
He shrugged imperceptibly, and sipped his mint julep.
“Why aren’t they here yet?” she insisted.
“I don’t know, dear. Why don’t you go call them and find out?”
“I’m not going to call my invited guests to ask why they aren’t here!”
“Well, then, I suppose we’ll just have to wonder.”
The hosts weren’t the only ones who were beginning to wonder. “Where is everybody?” Marty Wiegan’s wife askedClayton. By “everybody,” he knew exactly what she meant: the majority, the people on the other side, the ones who weren’t supposed to know.
He smiled his gracious smile and joked, sotto voce, “Maybe my wife forgot to mail their invitations, accidentally on purpose.”
“I did no such thing,” Eulalie remonstrated, coming up behind them. “And where are Michael and Lyda, I’d like to know? At least if they weren’t coming, you’d think they’d let me know before now!” She clapped her hands to get the attention of her guests. “Hello, hello! Clayton has an announcement, ya’ll!”
“I do?” he asked, turning toward her.
She gave him a little shove. “Of course you do. Tell them to start eating!”
“Start eating, folks!” he called out with good humor.
Slowly the eighteen people who were there began to form a line and then to fill their plates from the abundance that Eulalie’s own “colored help” had put out. But the conversation was desultory, as if none of them could keep a topic going. What had looked like coincidence was beginning to look unnervingly like a plan.
Was Eulalie’s party being deliberately snubbed?
Heads kept turning toward the house whenever one of the help pushed through a doorway with more food or plates. When the garden gate clicked loudly shut, several voices stopped in midconversation and people turned to stare to see who was coming, but it was only Lackley Goodwin, who had stepped into the front yard to have a smoke with Austin Reese. The two men looked startled when they saw how many faces—expectant, apprehensive faces—were turned their way.
“It’s just us, folks!” Austin called out, with a wave.
But once everyone had turned back to their plates and uneasy chatter, he and Lackley moved over to Clayton, whowas standing with Marty Wiegan. Austin said quietly, “Why aren’t Michael and Lyda here? Have they called? You know we delivered a package to them last night.”
Clayton patted the air in his habitual way, to silence such dangerous talk.
“I’m sure they have their reasons, Austin,” he said. “The baby may have colic.”
“You’re taking a lot for granted, Clay,” Marty Wiegan said. It was sharply put, but then he was northern-born. Nervously, he patted the long dark strands combed across the top of his head. “Have you called them to find out?”
“No, Eulalie wouldn’t let me.” Clayton smiled at a passing guest and said to her, “You need to refill that drink, darlin’!”
“Clayton Fisher, you’d get me drunk!” she trilled back at him.
He smiled, turning the warmth of it onto his male friends and fellow Hostel members. “But that needn’t stop anybody else from callin’ who might desire to do so.”
Marty Wiegan turned at once to go into the house to call the Folletinos.
“I wonder if one of us ought to just go over there and see,” Lackley Goodwin worried out loud. “Austin, why don’t you come up with a sudden need to make sure you turned off your garden hose before you left home?”
“I wouldn’t do that,” their host said quickly. He looked around and then lowered his voice so only they could hear him. “If there’s trouble, we can’t be associated with it, you know that, Lackley.”
They all knew that. It was their agreement: they stood together, but they fell alone. It was the
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