“rid the county of these Communist Fifth Columnists!” and, on election eve, paraded his handcuffed captive ’round the polls, then personally kicked his Red ass over the county line.
In this, his third campaign, the Supreme Court had handed him The Terrifying It on a silver platter. The very idea of desegregation had everyone, from the Governor on down, up in arms. This fellow Hathaway was riding the reactionary wave with the right idea—beat back the N.Double-A.C.P. with a white-people’s version. Sell memberships, donate the proceeds to prosegregation candidates. On the night DeLuth went to see him up in Jacksonville, Hathaway raised over three thousand dollars in less than ninety minutes! DeLuth can hardly wait to see what Hathaway’s take will be today.
“Kyle-honey?” Birdilee’s calling him from the back porch. “You wearing your uniform? Or should I air out your seersucker suit?”
13
Ruth Cooper Barrows wheels into the fairgrounds’ parking lot just as Birdilee DeLuth is closing her car door, preparing to leave.
“Is the rally over, Mrs. DeLuth?” Ruth calls through her car’s open window. “Didn’t the flyer say two o’clock?”
The Sheriff’s wife has a sunny freckled face that radiates, in intriguing contrast to her husband’s, a warm and wholesome sincerity. She glances over her shoulder toward the milling crowd. “Oh, they’re just gettin’ started. But I . . . well, Ceely and I have things to do at home.”
Ruth leans forward, sees the tall black woman in the rider’s seat of Birdilee’s car, and nods. “Of course.”
“And, to be honest,” Birdilee’s tone is teasing, “politics is Kyle’s cup of tea, not mine.”
Ruth chuckles at the surprising confession. “May I quote you on that, Mrs. DeLuth?”
“Don’t you dare!” The Sheriff ’s wife’s freckle-stretching grin leaves Ruth wondering, not the first time,
How does a seemingly
nice woman like that wind up with a bigmouthed bully like DeLuth?
Out of her car, Ruth picks a spot in the shade, in front of the red-and-white poultry barn, and removes her thick, black-rimmed glasses to wipe the sweat off the bridge of her nose.
It’s mid-October, for God’s sake!
she thinks, feeling nostalgic for fall in Philadelphia, the cool, crisp days, the colorful leaves of her youth. She leans back against barn wood to watch the speaker, Billy Hathaway, warm up his audience in the County Fairgrounds’ center ring.
Big crowd,
she notes,
four, maybe five hundred, predominantly
male, all white.
In a front corner, she spots half a dozen of the county’s big citrus growers, in short-sleeved shirts and string ties, chatting amiably with a number of cattlemen, dressed western, slapping big Stetsons against powerful thighs.
Inter
esting that the Sheriff’s chosen uniform is an amalgam of both styles. The rest of the crowd seems a cross-section of the local male population: a few suits, some ties, mostly plaid, bleached work-shirts, broad suspenders, denim overalls. Was it the Sheriff ’s flyers that brought them out? Or, the loudspeaker-equipped crop-duster plane that spent the morning buzzing the county’s small towns, blaring a come-on for today’s “All White is All Right!” rally?
This guy’s trouble with a capital “T,”
she thinks, eyeing the handsome young man who sports his dark blond hair in a close-cropped military cut, glittering blue eyes, and the kind of chiseled good looks that could sell Sunday Best dress shirts in the Sears or Monkey Wards catalog. Billy Hathaway’s blue serge suit is no mail-order number, however, Ruth notes, as he strides to the edge of the stage, arms wide open in an embracing gesture.
“Folks, in my right hand here, I got the Holy Bible, the Word of God given me by my home church, First Baptist of Houston, Georgia, on the day I accepted Jesus”—
He says it
“JEE-sus,” just like Billy Graham,
Ruth notes—“as my Lord and Savior. I bet you got one just like it, sitting at home
In this, his third campaign, the Supreme Court had handed him The Terrifying It on a silver platter. The very idea of desegregation had everyone, from the Governor on down, up in arms. This fellow Hathaway was riding the reactionary wave with the right idea—beat back the N.Double-A.C.P. with a white-people’s version. Sell memberships, donate the proceeds to prosegregation candidates. On the night DeLuth went to see him up in Jacksonville, Hathaway raised over three thousand dollars in less than ninety minutes! DeLuth can hardly wait to see what Hathaway’s take will be today.
“Kyle-honey?” Birdilee’s calling him from the back porch. “You wearing your uniform? Or should I air out your seersucker suit?”
13
Ruth Cooper Barrows wheels into the fairgrounds’ parking lot just as Birdilee DeLuth is closing her car door, preparing to leave.
“Is the rally over, Mrs. DeLuth?” Ruth calls through her car’s open window. “Didn’t the flyer say two o’clock?”
The Sheriff’s wife has a sunny freckled face that radiates, in intriguing contrast to her husband’s, a warm and wholesome sincerity. She glances over her shoulder toward the milling crowd. “Oh, they’re just gettin’ started. But I . . . well, Ceely and I have things to do at home.”
Ruth leans forward, sees the tall black woman in the rider’s seat of Birdilee’s car, and nods. “Of course.”
“And, to be honest,” Birdilee’s tone is teasing, “politics is Kyle’s cup of tea, not mine.”
Ruth chuckles at the surprising confession. “May I quote you on that, Mrs. DeLuth?”
“Don’t you dare!” The Sheriff ’s wife’s freckle-stretching grin leaves Ruth wondering, not the first time,
How does a seemingly
nice woman like that wind up with a bigmouthed bully like DeLuth?
Out of her car, Ruth picks a spot in the shade, in front of the red-and-white poultry barn, and removes her thick, black-rimmed glasses to wipe the sweat off the bridge of her nose.
It’s mid-October, for God’s sake!
she thinks, feeling nostalgic for fall in Philadelphia, the cool, crisp days, the colorful leaves of her youth. She leans back against barn wood to watch the speaker, Billy Hathaway, warm up his audience in the County Fairgrounds’ center ring.
Big crowd,
she notes,
four, maybe five hundred, predominantly
male, all white.
In a front corner, she spots half a dozen of the county’s big citrus growers, in short-sleeved shirts and string ties, chatting amiably with a number of cattlemen, dressed western, slapping big Stetsons against powerful thighs.
Inter
esting that the Sheriff’s chosen uniform is an amalgam of both styles. The rest of the crowd seems a cross-section of the local male population: a few suits, some ties, mostly plaid, bleached work-shirts, broad suspenders, denim overalls. Was it the Sheriff ’s flyers that brought them out? Or, the loudspeaker-equipped crop-duster plane that spent the morning buzzing the county’s small towns, blaring a come-on for today’s “All White is All Right!” rally?
This guy’s trouble with a capital “T,”
she thinks, eyeing the handsome young man who sports his dark blond hair in a close-cropped military cut, glittering blue eyes, and the kind of chiseled good looks that could sell Sunday Best dress shirts in the Sears or Monkey Wards catalog. Billy Hathaway’s blue serge suit is no mail-order number, however, Ruth notes, as he strides to the edge of the stage, arms wide open in an embracing gesture.
“Folks, in my right hand here, I got the Holy Bible, the Word of God given me by my home church, First Baptist of Houston, Georgia, on the day I accepted Jesus”—
He says it
“JEE-sus,” just like Billy Graham,
Ruth notes—“as my Lord and Savior. I bet you got one just like it, sitting at home
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