In the Gray of Eve
Does loving an evil man make a woman evil? It certainly makes her evil by association, but does loving such a man actually make her as nefarious as he himself is? Do people see her slithering when she approaches them, as she supposes they must see him, as she herself has viewed him lately? Perhaps so. She had to admit to herself that it probably does, and if so, then she was indeed an evil woman.
So how had she become this abhorational thing, and what to do about it?
She had not set out to be vile. She had once been young and sweet... innocent even. She could remember skipping and dancing in her play clothes, as a good child will. She had once held buttercups under her chin and laughed as the buttercups turned it yellow, and she had done it just as sweetly as any of the sweetest children could do it. Even today she would not kill an insect if she could instead whoosh it out of the window, or the door. And yet with all of that, with all of the sweet things she had done, here she stood with a tumbler of iced whiskey, her guilty conscience staring through the plate-glass and down the shadowed drive, awaiting the approach of the dimmed and hurried headlamps that shone his way home.
Eve married up. She could not deny that. Anderson Ivey had given her a life that she would never have had otherwise. She lived in his house on the hill. She wore the nicest clothes and jewelry paid on his line of credit, and she flew along the rural highways in his big, fast car. Through Anderson she had achieved the dream. All of the things she didn’t have as a child she had now, and more. She had someone who loved and respected her. She was trusted to run his home, which was a great trust that she took seriously, as it was a rich, and fine home. He needed her. He gave her responsibilities that none of her friends knew. He gave her a purpose that she desperately wanted to uphold. He even loved and honored her parents. In so many ways he was a good man. He made her a part of everything, which is why this was so hard, trying to follow him along this newest path he had chosen. This darkened path. This unnecessary path. This path to greed, and power. Eve could not for her life understand this need for power, his need for more, and still more. Once elected to the State House he had immediately begun the wrangling necessary for the Governorship before he had even taken a seat at his new desk. Could he not see that none of those things he craved were necessary for him to be a respected and popular man? What was it that drove a man so, and pushed him to these unthinkable things.
He had been no different than usual tonight at supper. He had read his newspaper and shared its highlights. They had discussed the fields, the almanac, and the weather. They argued over universities for the children, he always wanting Sewanee, she preferring the Northern schools, Yale or Harvard, but knowing also that they would go where he said they should go. And then he had stood. He had pushed his chair in as always. He had walked around the table to kiss her, as always, his loving smile for her as bright as always.
Her heart had become heavy, so heavy that it weighted her to her chair so that she could not rise to meet him. “You are going, then?”
“Of course. Don’t worry, I will be back shortly.”
“I don’t know if I can love you if you go.”
“Of course you will.” That most familiar and bright smile had taken on a gray aspect. She inspected it closely, so closely that she saw that it might be just a touch off. How had she never noticed that before? Could that be new? Or only newly appreciated?
Anderson tipped his hat from the rack in the entryway before pulling the door softly-to behind him, and he was gone. His demeanor had been no different than if he were leaving for work, or for a hunt. There had been no extra emotion, no nervousness, no hesitation. That was when she got up from the table and poured the first whiskey, the weight of its bottle steadying her hand, the weight of its spirit steadying her heart.
Anderson Ivey, college graduate, decorated military officer, church deacon, successful businessman, State Assembly Representative, faithful father and husband... the man who had it all. Anderson Ivey was on his way to kill a man, a man whom she knew, and had known her whole life. A good, hard-working black man who would die because of a comment made to a white man while on a Saturday night binge, a comment so “insulting” that he must die for having uttered it, even while it was spoken in a drunken stupor. She took more than a sip of the bourbon, so that it burned going down and crinkled her nose into a scowl. The scowl was a repugnant look, but was one she was assuming more and more these days.
Of course Anderson would not actually have his own hand in the killing. No, he was too rich for that. He would only stand by while some poor, uneducated, rural thugs committed the killing of Hardiman Brown. Those red-necks would do the dirty work for little more than a bottle of cheap whiskey and some cheaper promises. Anderson would only be there to show them that he was on their side, that he was one of them, but by his presence was he not every bit as guilty as were those whose hands hauled on the rope? Their problems were his problems, and Anderson Ivey knew all of the answers. He was the one man who could make their problems go away, and for just the price of a vote.
But he could not really do that, could he? He could not really make their problems disappear. All he could really do was to say what they wanted to hear, and to do what they said they wanted him to do. These Southern politics were only an illusion, a trick up the sleeve as you hid your wallet away from someone else’s greasy palm with one hand, while you yourself picked at that person’s empty pocket with the other.
She poured another whiskey. A tall one. Her third. She no longer bothered with trivial niceties like ice. What had happened she wondered? They had been so happy, for so long. Had it begun when he was elected to the state legislature? They do say that power corrupts. Was she seeing the effects of that corruption, or had this been hidden inside him all along, this evil awaiting its moment? The whiskey shaded the blackness on the other side of the window, but neither the whiskey nor the darkness offered up answers to her questions.
The headlamps appeared. They flashed between the oaks like Morse code as the Packard sped up the drive, the code a warning to her that he was coming, and that the deed was done. Part of her was happy that he was home, that part of her that would always love him. Everything had always been better when he was home. The house was not so silent with him in it, nor the nights so dark.
Eve Ivey picked up the phone from its cradle. The receiver shook in her hand. It could be that the person on the other side of the line was with Anderson tonight, hiding in the shadows, unwilling to show their face just as Anderson was unwilling to show his. It could be that there was no justice here, not in Jackson, not in 1929, not for a man like Hardiman Brown, but she would seek it. She would find justice. She must. She was still the child with the buttercup, was she not?
“Jackson Police.”
“Yes. This is Eve Ivey.” Her voice was surprisingly even. “I need you to send a car. There has been a murder.” She took another mouthful of whiskey and returned the receiver to its home. She watched through the window as her husband parked in the front drive and opened the car’s door. She saw him up the steps, sober and strong. She heard the front door open, and close. She heard his hat find its spot on the rack.
He saw her at the window and he walked over, his footsteps loud on the parquet. He put his arm around her waist from behind and pulled her to him. She felt him against her backside as he kissed the back of her neck, softly and sweetly. “I’m going to bed if you want to come.”
She sighed. Any other night! She loved the way he touched her, and the way he kissed her, even after all these years... but not tonight. He could not have her tonight. In fact, he would never have her again. She heard his footsteps on the stairs leading up to the balcony, and to the master bedroom. She had to ask him. She had to hear his guilt, before she could do it. “Did you kill him, then?”
He hesitated, but she deserved to know the truth. He did not believe in concealing things from his wife. She would have to understand, and she would. She could not help him unless she knew everything, and he needed her help. He had always been honest with her. They were a team... but he hesitated because he knew that this was different. This had an admittedly bad feel, and an admittedly bad smell. He wished he had listened to her from the start. He wished he had stayed away, but it was done now, and could not be undone.
“Yes. Yes we did.” He climbed the stairs and disappeared into the bedroom.
Eve finshed her whiskey. She set the glass on the foyer’s console and started on uneasy feet out the door. The air around the Packard smelled of burnt gasoline and exhaust, the smells of man spoiled nature’s soft night, though the crickets sang all the same. The inside of the car was empty. She put her key in the trunk. There it was... a white hood. Her skin crawled at its sight. “Dear Lord!” She could only imagine the fear Old Hardiman Brown had felt upon seeing it, God bless his soul.
Far away, very far, a siren wailed into the night. Eve closed the trunk quietly, so Anderson would not hear it close. She was suddenly afraid of the man she loved, of the father to her children. She leaned hard against the Packard. Her tears came in a flood.
“How could he do this? How could he do this to her? How could he put her in this position? And how could he have mis-read her so badly after all of these years?”
The sirens grew louder, and closer yet. She went back inside. The pistol was hanging in its holster beside his hat, just as it always was. It was heavy in her hand as she started up the stairs.
In between the black and white of this world there is a gray, but gray cannot sit fences forever. Gray too must eventually choose a side, as Eve Ivey had chosen hers.
(I will hit “publish” on this story with some trepidation, as I am fully aware of the feelings the subject may invoke. But I hope that any readers will understand and appreciate the “ghosts” that those of us of Southern heritage, both black and white, must live beside in our world. An ever-so-slow Time is allowing some of those hate-filled ghosts to rest, but the very real humans and humanities involved should not be lightly forgotten, lest the evils repeat themselves.)