The Staircase of Fire

THE

STAIRCASE

OF FIRE

By Ben Woodard

Miller-Martin Press

The Staircase of Fire

Ben Woodard

© 2018

All Rights Reserved

Fiction

No portion of this book may be copied, transmitted, duplicated, stored, or distributed in any form (including, but not limited to print, mechanical, audio, handwriting, video, digital, or electronic means), except for brief excerpts used in reviews or commentaries, without prior express written permission from the publisher.

Although this work centers around historical events, this is a work of fiction. Some of the characters, names, incidents, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

Cover Design: Trifecta

Summary: Struggling to escape his nightmarish past and searching for courage to face an unknown future, 14-year-old Tom Wallace must make a decision that can change his life.

ISBN: 978-0-9973448-5-1 (eBook)

ISBN: 978-0-9973448-8-2 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-0-9973448-9-9 (hardcover)

Published by: Miller-Martin Press, Lexington, KY

First Edition

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To all the young people who in the face of adversity and danger have the courage to stand up.

CHAPTER

One

Rose stood up.

They could kill you, whispered Tom.

Tom, sometimes a person has to stand for what they believe, and this is one of them. Go on home.

The County Clerk’s door opened and Rose and James moved toward it. A crowd followed.

Tom’s eyes pleaded with James. His friend ignored him.

Rose, said Tom. Don’t do this. It’s not that important. Your vote won’t change anything.

You don’t understand, she said softly. "You can’t understand. The Nineteenth Amendment says I have the right to vote. I intend to use it."

But you know an amendment passed a couple of years ago won’t change anything. Mercer County will never allow you to register, much less vote. Few Negroes ever have—especially women.

Rose moved closer to the door, and eyes, dozens of eyes, followed her.

She wants to register, an elderly man yelled.

Tom tensed as the crowd pressed toward them.

A stench of hate filled the stale, tobacco-laden air and constricted Tom’s throat. Doors slammed, feet pounded on steps and curses echoed through the tight courthouse space.

The news had sped like a bullet through the small town and an angry crowd of white people filled the tiny courthouse room, spilling into the hallways and out the door.

Tom unconsciously eased away from his friends. He stopped himself. They needed to get out of here. He leaned closer to Rose, We have to leave, now.

Go home, Tom, James spat out the words.

Tom flinched. This wasn’t the James he knew—the gentle and quiet farm hand Tom worked with on a daily basis.

James stared straight ahead, the muscles in his face like granite, his eyes hard, showing only confidence and determination.

Rose and James edged toward the Clerk’s office, and  the crowd surrounded and jammed against them.

Tom stood horrified. As he tried to push his way back to his two friends, a rawboned farmer in overalls stopped him.

Are you with those two? he asked.

I’m trying to get them out.

I seen you with them. You need to leave. We’ll take care of them.

Another man spoke up, I’ve seen him before. He knows those Negroes.

Yeah, said the first. Isn’t he the one from Nicholasville who—

Tom moved with the crowd into the Clerk’s office. He had to escape before they figured out who he was, and what he did.

Sweat formed on his upper lip as he glanced in every direction desperately trying to find a way out of the courthouse.

The two men were now in the door and continued to point at him as Rose reached the counter. She said above the din, I want a voter registration form.

The room went quiet. Deathly quiet.

Then, a woman to Rose’s left screamed, Damn Negroes.

Beside Rose stood an older woman in a simple cotton dress with a bonnet covering her mousy-gray hair. Her face contorted with rage. The rest of the crowd joined her in shrieking at the small, brown woman.

A glob of spit and tobacco juice smacked into the back of Rose’s starched calico dress and the screaming woman yanked out Rose’s yellow hair ribbon. James spread his arms around his mother and took the brunt of the slaps and pushes.

The women behind the counter stood confused.

The County Clerk came out of his office and held up his hands for quiet. He glared at Rose.

What do you want? he said.

I want to register to vote.

The crowd growled again and the Clerk quieted them.

We don’t allow your kind to vote, he said.

Rose only smiled. What kind? she asked.

The two men came closer to Tom, and others pointed in his direction. They must have figured out who he was and they might turn on him next.

Tom remembered a stairway to the basement that led to a rear exit. He wormed his way toward it finding the stairway door closed, but unlocked.

Tom jerked it open.

His body tightened.

The sounds faded as memories and fears came charging back at the sight of wooden steps vanishing into the shadows.

Sweat stung his eyes and salted his lips. Tom’s hands trembled. He wiped his face on a sleeve.

He couldn’t go down. He wouldn’t.

But the men still watched. Tom was trapped.

The bedlam of the room returned and he heard the Clerk scream at Rose and James telling them to get out.

He had to help them, but fear glued him in place.

Tom jerked as Sheriff Smith pushed his way into the room bellowing for the mob to get away from Rose. Two grim-faced deputies armed with shotguns flanked the lawman. They elbowed their way to Rose and James and the Sheriff whispered to Rose. She shook her head. He spoke to her a few more minutes and she finally nodded.

The three lawmen surrounded Tom’s friends and led them through the crowd. Screams and curses followed.

Tom snuck through the throng and barreled down the front courthouse steps. The Sheriff and deputies escorted Rose and James to their wagon.

Tom stared as their rig bounced down the dusty road toward Shakertown. His stomach rolled. He should have done something.

Anything. Except freeze in fear.

The reeling in his gut got worse and he staggered toward the clump of trees where he’d tied his horse.

Tom untied the reins and slipped into the saddle. He was sure, or at least tried to convince himself, that the Sheriff would protect Rose and James.

He spun the horse around and headed for Shakertown.

As he rode, the fear for Rose and his fear of the staircase still gripped him. Was every set of stairs he saw going to terrify him? Cause the memories to come crawling back?

And no matter where he was in Mercer County, someone might recognize him.

He released the reins, letting the horse find its way home, and dropped his head on the animal’s neck, trying not to throw up. And then the sweats started, soaking his body.

The usual. Caused by a memory from that morning at Grandfather’s house. Still there after four years.

He needed to get himself under control before he saw Will or Helen, his best friends. But he couldn’t tell them, or anyone, what happened that Sunday morning. The memory hurt too much.

But he had to talk to them about Rose and James. His friends would understand.

And right now, Tom needed a friend.

CHAPTER

Two

Will paused from nailing a fence plank as Tom rode up.

What the hell are you doing here?

It’s nice to see you, too, said Tom. We have to talk.

I figured you and James would be in the barn all day. Did you sneak out?

Nope, we finished up early. And I left before Uncle Davis or Leon could catch me. I needed to see you.

Will tossed a hammer and Tom caught it in midair.

Get your scrawny ass over here and help me nail this board.

Tom moved beside Will, lifting his end of the board and pounding the nail in, beating the steel head long after it was snug.

Whoa, take it easy, said Will. You’ll break the board. What’s going on?

Tom threw down his hammer.

I told you we needed to talk. About Rose.

Rose Lincoln? What’s going on with her?

You’ll find out soon enough. She went to the courthouse today to register to vote. James told me they were going. I followed hoping I could talk Rose out of it. I couldn’t.

Oh, shit. What happened?

A big crowd showed up and they got nasty. Cussing, pushing, and spitting on James and Rose. The Sheriff came.

Good thing. That was a damn fool idea. I just don’t understand, said Will.

What? That someone wants to vote? And it’s okay to harass them and spit on them?

Hell no, those fools have the manners of a hog. The sheriff should’ve kicked them across the room. But how come the Negroes can’t leave well enough alone? There’s no reason for them voting. I never understood the women either. How in the hell can they know enough about anything to vote for the right person?

I bet Rose does. She’s smart. I saw her reading books at Grandfather’s house. And you better not be saying that around Helen. She’ll come after you with her Bowie knife.

Will snorted. She’d never use that thing. Helen’s a big talker. She looks good, but she’s never gonna do all the things she says.

I think you’re wrong. Remember how she climbed the tree in the dark to spy on the gangsters. She’s smart, too, and tough. Nobody’s going to tell her she can’t do something.

Yeah, but when you’re around her you’re like a one-eyed horse with blinders on.

Will paused. I guess you’re not going fishing with me again.

Sorry, I did promise Helen I’d come over. I want to tell her what happened to Rose.

Sounds serious to me. Making any wedding plans?

Not serious, I just like her.

Well, hell, who wouldn’t. But if you ain’t gonna marry her, you better get all you can now before she figures out you only like her.

Tom shook his head. Will didn’t have a high opinion of girls. Thought they were only good for making babies and taking care of a family. But Helen was different. She wanted more, but in Shakertown neither a white girl or Negro woman had much chance of doing what they wanted.

Together they finished the fence a few hours before supper. Will wanted to fish before they ate, so Tom wandered the fields alone ending up at the West Lot House and dragged himself up the stairs to the third floor.

He fell on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

Thoughts of Mama and baby Mary invaded his mind.

They always did.

Now they had to compete with the horrible scene in the courthouse. The face of the woman screaming at Rose came back to him.

A warped face of hate.

Tom’s breathing sped up. He tried to push the thought of the courthouse stairway out of his mind. He drifted back to the first time he came to Shakertown.

How his Grandfather’s wagon had bounced on the gravel-covered road and how the fields seemed as green as the hills in Ireland his mother told him about. They’d pulled up in front of the West Lot house and Will came out.

He remembered the taste of bile in his mouth as Will approached him. What would he say about what happened at Grandfather’s house? And the rest of the people living in the West Lot house? Aunt Bessie, and the hired hands. He dreaded their snide remarks.

But no one mentioned it and, except for telling Tom to get over it, his cousin never asked for details.

Will was a big kid with arms the size of telegraph poles and a surly look and Tom knew he would have trouble with him. But they only had one fight and while Will was bigger and stronger, Tom held his own. They’d been friends ever since.

But Shakertown offered no solace, no real belonging. His real family was in the graveyard.

He glanced at the books in the old corner cupboard. There had to be something to help fight the awful memories and the sick feeling in his gut. A feeling getting worse by the day.

Not being able to sleep should give him plenty of time to read, but nothing interested him anymore.

Tom leafed through several volumes until he found a book of poetry by Emily Dickinson.

He remembered reading that she was a recluse who never wanted her poetry published. And, like Tom, she thought a lot about death.

She wrote for herself. To forget, or to remember? Or, to escape into her own world?

Tom skimmed a few poems and then tensed as he read the first few stanzas of one,

It was not Death, for I stood up,

And all the Dead, lie down -

It was not Night, for all the Bells

Put out their Tongues, for Noon.

It was not Frost, for on my Flesh

I felt Siroccos - crawl -

Nor Fire - for just my marble feet

Could keep a Chancel, cool -

And yet, it tasted, like them all,

The Figures I have seen

Set orderly, for Burial

Reminded me, of mine -

He closed the book barely breathing. How could someone write like that? And what does she mean? Despair is like death? Tom read and reread the verse. Each time it brought a chill. The words evoked a canvas of his life in a way nothing ever had.

His sister, his mother. Would he ever find peace?

He struggled with telling anyone about his sister, but maybe writing could help. Is that why Emily wrote? Because she couldn’t tell anybody about her feelings?

Tom searched for something to write in and found a small leather-bound journal with a brass clasp. Inside, a flowing script covered a third of the book. He turned to the first blank page and wrote:

Death,

Memories,

Endless nights.

Then:

A strange bed.

In a strange town.

With relatives that aren’t family.

He stuck the journal in his pocket and hiked to Helen’s house. She was sitting on the front stoop, waiting for him.

She jumped up and grabbed his hand. Let’s walk towards the river.

Her eyes radiated something he had never seen before.

Fear.

Once away from the house she stopped and faced him.

Did you hear about Rose?

Yeah. I followed them to the courthouse. She went in the Clerk’s office and asked to register to vote. It was awful. They treated her like dirt.

The whole town is riled up. Daddy says things are still raw from the riot at the dam and she shouldn’t have tried to do anything like this. I’m afraid for her, Tom. She has no idea what can happen because of this.

"I expect she does. She’s lived in Kentucky most of her life and she saw what happened to the Negro workers last summer at the dam. She knew they weren’t going to let her register, but she wanted to try. I