Page 3 of At Midnight Comes the Cry
Clare tilted her head toward where the men were arguing with the officers. “It’s the big kids you have to worry about.”
The woman blinked, then laughed. “You got that right.”
“I’m Clare.” She held out her hand.
“Meghan.” Close up, and in the light, Clare could see Meghan was younger than she had thought by at least a decade. Not unusual for their rural area, where girls finished high school at eighteen, married at twenty, and became mothers within a year or two, just as they had for generations. Clare’s mother and her friends had done the same, albeit after graduating from Sweet Briar College.
Meghan squinted at her. “Where are you from?”
“Oh.” Clare touched her mouth. “My accent, right? Southern Virginia, originally. I live up here now. My husband’s from Millers Kill.” She couldn’t control the little smile she still got at the word “husband,” despite celebrating their first anniversary last month.
“A Southerner. Okay, that makes sense.” Meghan glanced back toward where several other men had joined the argument.
“No, that doesn’t mean—I’m not— Not every white Southerner is a racist!”
“We’re not racists.” Meghan sounded indignant. “We just believe our own culture should be respected in our own country. My family’sbeen here since 1720! And now our government’s being controlled by globalists and our jobs are getting taken by immigrants.”
Arguing that there had been non-white people here long before 1720 was probably not going to win Meghan over.Arguingwasn’t going to win her over, at least not here and now. Clare took a breath. “I just wanted to thank you for helping defuse that fight. And to give you this.” She dipped into her parka before remembering she had put them in her jeans pocket. She pulled out a small stack of business cards, which she had started carrying when she realized a surprising number of people she encountered were flustered by a phone-to-phone exchange of information.
Meghan looked at her suspiciously. “Are you in real estate?”
Clare laughed. “No. I’m an Episcopal priest. A minister.” She held out a card. “I’m not trying to proselytize you. Convert you. But if you’d like to talk sometime, I’d be happy to.”
“About what?”
“About anything. Husbands. Kids. Life. Choices.”
“Huh.” Meghan still looked doubtful, but she took the card. “I guess I should say thank you, too. Rick would’ve punched that guy’s lights out and I’d’a spent the rest of the night trying to scrape up bail money if it wasn’t for you and your husband.” She glanced to where the tractor, sans white supremacy banners, was getting slotted back into the flow of the parade by the officers, who had spread out and were slowing down the next two floats. “I better go.”
Clare couldn’t bring herself to sayNice to meet you,so she settled for “Stay safe.” She watched as Meghan strode down the sidewalk, her candy bucket bumping against her side.
The momentary holdup of the parade gave her the chance to cross the street without dashing; emerging on the other side from between the dazzling lights reminded her of stepping out of the midway at the Washington County Fair. Hiking back toward PJ’s house, she could see Ron Tucker by the fire pit, one friend rubbing his back and another protectively hovering. Russ had collected Ethan and was balancing him against his shoulder, so thebaby could look out at the spectacle while the two men talked. Russ beckoned her over.
“Hey there. Everybody okay?” It looked as if Tucker may have collected a few bruises, though it was hard to tell in the flickering light.
“Yeah.” Ron swiped an enormous hand over his face. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. If you hadn’t tried to take that banner down, somebody else would have.”
“Maybe.” Russ looked skeptical. “What were you up to with Eva Braun over there?”
Clare pressed down on a smile. “I gave her my card. In case she’d like to talk.”
“Clare—”
“If people like us don’t talk to people like them, how are they ever going to change?”
“Scum like that doesn’t change,” Russ said. “They know what they’re saying and they know it’s wrong, but they’re enjoying hating too much to stop.”
Ron nodded. “It’s like alcoholism. You can hear facts and reason all day, every day, and if you’re not ready to give up how the booze makes you feel, it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.” He smiled crookedly at Clare. They had both been through that wringer.
“We need to report ’em to somebody,” Ron said. “You don’t put a float together and jump through all the hoops to get into the parade without having a group of ’em working together.”
Russ was shaking his head. “I don’t know who you’d tell, Ron. The cops here know about them—or at least, they do now. There’s no law against being a redneck idiot. Be nice if there was.”
Ron sighed. “I know. I know. I’m just blowing off steam.” He visibly collected himself, then looked up at his friends. “What say we get a couple beers and enjoy the rest of the evening?” He stood. Russ shifted Ethan and the two men shook hands. “Thanks, Russ. For the tough love.” He nodded at Clare. “Thank you, Reverend.”
They watched him climb the front stairs, ducking his head beneath one of the glowing Japanese lanterns. The booming brass of “SantaClaus Is Coming to Town” made Clare turn around. She tugged Russ’s arm. “It’s Santa! And Mrs. Claus!” Like in the famous Macy’s parade, the couple sat in a sleigh surrounded by waving elves, twinkling snow, and glittering trees—although unlike Macy’s, they rode in a hay wagon pulled by another enormous tractor. “Look, Ethan! It’s Santa! Can you say hi? Can you wave to Santa?”
