The Kleage

By Gary Welsh

After a priest invites a black army sergeant to stand at attention in his church on Memorial Sunday, his whole congregation walks out. His life becomes a nightmare as the KKK burns a cross on his lawn, destroys his family vehicles, and kidnaps his daughter, who manages to escape.

Tom Lackey, the Kleage, recruiter for the KKK, is asked by the Dragon in Jonesboro, Arkansas, to return to the town and recruit more members. Hearing what the KKK has done and that people are being killed, he realizes he wants out. A huge rainstorm as he drives from St. Louis to Jonesboro forces him to stop in a predominantly black town, where he is aided by a black man and wife, who invite him to share their supper. He sees that they are no different from him. He decides to leave the KKK and help the sheriff and the priest but must reveal his position to them. Now, he must gain the trust of the sheriff, the priest, and especially that of Belinda, the priests daughter, with whom he has fallen in love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781503525078

Gary Welsh

Gary Welsh is a retired business owner residing in Peoria, AZ. Writing was not taken seriously until his wife encouraged him to put into print The Reynolds Lot. Since then he has written and published four more books. Book number six is still in manuscript form and book number seven is in note form. He and his wife, Barbara, who does his editing, have been married 51 years and have four children and six grandchildren.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Just before the service began, an army sergeant in dress uniform, hat tucked under his left arm, entered the church and walked to the first pew where he knelt and remained kneeling until the processional hymn began. The two ushers, not knowing what to do, belatedly followed him down the aisle but stopped short of confronting him, while the congregation murmured and stretched their necks to get a better look. The organist, unaware of the dilemma, began the introit, blasting the trumpet sound scored by George Warren, and the ushers returned to the narthex.

The processional began with all its Sunday glory as 150 parishioners stood and sang God of Our Fathers. The American flag, the Christian flag, the cross, acolytes, choir, subdeacon, Eucharistic ministers, and the priest followed the verger up the aisle … a grand procession on a memorial weekend, meaning that nearly one hundred of the parishioners were celebrating at the lake or parks or backyards. They missed the real excitement … the black soldier that somehow didn’t know better than to worship in a white church in the state of Arkansas in the 1960s.

As the procession came to an end, the choir took its place in the pews to the left of the altar, the three acolytes stood against the wall to the right of the altar, and the subdeacon and Eucharistic ministers stood in front of their assigned chairs to the right of the altar … several of them whispering and glancing at the black man seated alone in the front row pew to the left.

Father Andrew, a short man, 5’7", with a thick stock of white hair, faced the congregation and raised his arms for silence, something he never before had done in a service. The church was so quiet that if your eyes were closed you would have thought it was empty.

Brothers and sisters in Christ, please be seated. I have someone I would like for you to meet, he began. Sergeant Henry, would you come up here, please?

Not taking his eyes off the priest, the sergeant stood, adjusted his magnificent uniform coat, and walked up the three steps to stand beside him. He saluted the American flag, then did an about-face to the congregation.

Sergeant Glenn Henry is here today to help us honor the fallen soldiers of WWI and WWII, Father Andrew said. He stands here before you as one who has served our country outstandingly. He is also here to worship with us as an American under one flag, one constitution, and one God.

Sergeant Henry, with medals and ribbons decorating the left side of his coat, stood at military attention during the introduction. His eyes didn’t betray his training as they looked straight ahead, seeing nothing but the wall at the rear of the church.

A man’s deep, bass voice from halfway down the aisle said, He needs to do all that in his own church, Father.

I agree, said another voice from the back of the church. He may have the right to represent our fighting men, but not in this church. There’s a black church just six blocks from here.

The sergeant stood perfectly still … not even a twitch of the eyelids.

Father Andrew was surprised. He had expected to receive some negative responses, but not during the service. He felt his neck and face grow exceedingly warm.

Please! he said, raising both arms for silence over the murmuring congregation. This man has as much right to speak as any of us.

Not in our church, Father, said a woman two rows from the altar rail, standing as she spoke. You all know my son died in the war, but he needs no black person, soldier or not, paying tribute to him in what was my boy’s own church.

The murmuring throughout the congregation became louder.

Please! Please … listen to yourselves, the priest said. We are all Christians here …

The noise level rose considerably as people began leaving the church. Father Andrew stood with his mouth hanging open and his eyes turning red with unshed tears. He turned to offer his apologies to the sergeant, but was too late … the sergeant had wisely exited out a side door just to the right of the altar. He watched as the last of the congregation left, never leaving the spot from which he had first begun his introduction. He looked at the old, cream-colored walls surrounding twelve windows, the cherry wood baptismal font standing at the entrance to the sanctuary, the eight wrought-iron-encased lamps hanging from the cedar beams, and the empty pews littered with strewn bulletins. He was dumbfounded, embarrassed, and angry at himself. He never should have used his good friend, Glenn, to support his planned sermon. He knew the sermon he had worked on so hard would have been enriched, but he had caused harm to Glenn and to the congregation. He hadn’t dreamed the reaction would be so strong as to interrupt the service. As he stood staring at the marbled altar, he realized he had just worked his last Sunday at St. Bartholomew’s. Without a doubt, the vestry would ask for … no, demand his resignation.

Fr. Andrew O’Reilly, a fifty-year-old priest who had served St. Bartholomew’s Episcopal Church for eleven years, was dearly loved by almost everyone. With a perpetual smile complementing blue eyes that always appeared to be smiling, he was truly an approachable man. He wore glasses, but only when reading, which gave him the habit of putting them on and removing them whether he needed to or not. He knew most of his parishioners by their last names, some of their kids and grandkids by first names. The very elderly he knew by both names, and was in touch with them on a weekly basis.

While one devoted usher quietly picked up the scattered bulletins, Father Andrew walked down the aisle to the narthex, stood in the open doorway and stared at the empty parking lot.

I’m truly sorry, Father, the usher said as he worked himself around the priest and out the door.

Andrew returned slowly up the aisle, stopped in front of the altar and stared at the empty cross hanging on the back wall, then began removing his green stole and folding it as he walked to the sacristy. There he removed his white robe and hung it in the closet, filled out the book’s register, locked the church, which he always did, walked to his designated parking spot behind the church, and got into his black,’58 Plymouth, four-door sedan. He sat for a moment staring at the steering wheel. He must see Glenn right away. However, this might be too soon. It could be that his friend would want time to himself after what had happened. What an injustice he had done to him. Could he ever make it up? What could he have been thinking?

He and Glenn had been friends since before the war. They had graduated from different high schools in Rolla, Missouri, the same year. He had entered Arkansas State College and graduated with a master’s degree in science, then entered seminary in Pennsylvania, while Glenn continued to work the farm for his ailing parents. Before WWII ended, he and Glenn entered the military together. After the war, he was called to be rector of St. Bartholomew’s in Jonesboro, Arkansas, and Glenn stayed in the army. They stayed in touch by mail and telephone all those years. Glenn was transferred to Fort Leonard Wood where he and his wife, Sheila, raised their family in Rolla, only six hours away from Jonesboro, Arkansas. His wife, Rita, and Glenn’s wife had become immediate friends. What would happen to that friendship now? He would drive home and tell her what happened. She would know what to do.

It was 12:30 PM when he left the church and drove the long country road lined with magnolia trees and snowball bushes. A prettier drive existed nowhere in the county. As he drove, he wondered what Glenn must be thinking, and couldn’t begin to imagine anything but resentment. He turned into his driveway and suddenly stopped. There on the lawn was a large, white sign with the words nigger lover scrawled upon it in bold, black letters. His heart sank. He parked the car in the garage and walked hurriedly to the house. He knew the implications of the sign. His wife and daughter would share the title, and the news about such a sign planted on his lawn would reach the entire town of 41,352 people by the next morning.

Rita met him on the front stoop, her arms held out to greet him. She had not gone to church with him this morning as she was preparing dinner for their evening’s guests, the mayor, Karl Brandon, and his wife, Sue. As always, she looked like she had just left the beauty parlor, with her black hair weaved into a long braid, her face made-up with just the right, faded pink tint, a touch of pink on the lips, and her light blue eyes enhanced with black eyelashes. She took great pride in how she looked and her status as the wife of the only Episcopal priest in town.

Andy, she whispered in his ear. I’m so sorry. Sue Brandon called me. Are you all right?

Yes … of course, he said, holding her tighter than his words conveyed. Was there a problem? he asked, pointing at the sign.

No. I didn’t even know the sign was there until I heard you drive up. I looked out the window and saw it for the first time. I can’t read it from behind, but I can guess what it says.

Let’s go inside, Andrew said.

She led the way into the house, then disappeared into the kitchen. He removed his black sport coat and clerical collar, walked to the bar in the dining room, and poured himself a scotch.

Do you want a drink? he called to her.

No thank you. Lunch will be ready in an hour. Is that okay?

He didn’t answer. He walked to his favorite chair facing the large picture window, picked up the Sunday paper, and sat down. He couldn’t read it. His mind dwelt on his need to see Glenn. He looked out the window and was quickly reminded that he needed to remove the abomination from his lawn. He laid the paper on the lamp stand and walked to the front door. Just as he opened the door, three cars pulled up along the curb directly in front of his house. Watching the cars, he slowly walked to the sign, pulled on it, first one way then the other, until it gave and came loose.

Hey! Nigger lover! came a shout from the street. We’re sorry about the sign. The sign should read, ‘Reverend nigger lover.’

Andrew walked back to the house as horns began blasting, causing Rita to appear on the stoop. She held the door open as, with back straight, head high and sign in hand, Andrew walked to meet her. He saw the look of fear on her face and put his arm about her as they entered the house. He placed the sign behind the door and went to the picture window to watch the cars pull away, then drew the drapes. He had two problems: consoling his friend Glenn, if possible, and keeping his job at St. Bartholomew. A third problem suddenly projected itself while drawing the drapes … protecting his family from possible harm. The beginning of a nightmare was upon them, and he knew it. He carried the sign through the house and out the back door where he laid it against the porch.

Born and raised in Rolla, he never gave much thought to the nation’s problem with racism. Even when attending college in Jonesboro, or seminary in Ambridge, Pennsylvania, he was tucked away from the problem of racial controversy. He knew that problems existed in the South and several states in the North, but it all seemed far removed from his life until the planting of the sign on his front lawn. He would report the incident to the sheriff’s department in the morning.

When the mayor, a short, bald man with a paunch, and his wife, who was half a head taller without her big hairdo, entered the O’Reillys’ residence at 5:30, the mayor was quick to offer his comments about the walk-out at Andrew’s church.

It’s a tough way to learn, but there you have it, he said.

I don’t understand, Andrew said, as he poured drinks for the four of them. My parishioners know me. I expected some objections, but not the whole congregation and a massive exit.

This is the South, Andy. The blacks have their place … the whites have theirs. Everybody knows that. You, as a leader of your congregation should have known. We have not had any problems with that issue. I hope we don’t now.

Do you think today’s episode will start something?

I don’t know. A soldier … having served in the military … that might be considered. But showing up in an all-white church … I don’t know.

Dinner is on the table, Rita announced.

CHAPTER TWO

Sheriff Richard Johns was a large man, six feet tall and weighing three hundred pounds, with diminishing blonde hair and a permanently wrinkled brow caused by serving duty the past seven years as county sheriff. He sat in the wooden chair offered him when entering Father Andrew’s office, but didn’t sit long. He was livid when he heard about the walk-out.

What the hell were you thinking, Andrew?

Andrew felt the urge to fight back, but looked away from him toward a picture of the resurrection hanging on the wall near the door. He would let the sheriff continue to reprimand him if necessary. He would not attempt to explain himself to anyone. It would do no good.

How long have you been living in this town? Ten, eleven years? the sheriff asked, pacing the floor in front of Andrew’s desk. You are concerned about a stupid sign planted in your yard. You want to know what my concern is? This town! This county! You have no idea, do you? This town could light up like fireworks with fires, mobs fighting in the streets, lynching, gunfire … and all because you wanted to embellish your sermon yesterday morning. Damn, man!

He had been a deputy sheriff in a neighboring county long enough to witness racial violence, been an arresting officer after the lynching of two blacks, and watched with fear in his stomach as men dressed in white sheets and hoods surrounded a town with torches in their hands, threatening to light up all of Main Street.

Andrew started to speak but was stopped short.

I would be quite happy … no, thrilled, if you and your wife were to leave this town and never come back, the sheriff said softly. This little episode will not blow over until you do.

Andrew was suddenly speechless. He stood up from behind his desk and stared at the sheriff. He had just been asked to leave town. All he wanted to do was report a vulgar sign in his yard and a description of the hecklers’ cars. He was certain the law would want to know of such things and stop them from continuing. Instead, he was being accused of creating the problem and asked to leave town by a man he had known for over six years. They had enjoyed many conversations about life in general and the needs of their town. He fought the anger fueling his desire to let loose on the man standing in front of him, and lowered his eyes to his desk as the sheriff continued.

I realize you had no intention of starting a racial war, but, Andrew, unless you leave this town, I’m afraid you will have done just that.

Without looking up, Andrew said, Thank you for coming, Sheriff.

For five seconds the room was very still, as Andrew raised his head and the two men met each other’s eyes. The sheriff nodded, walked to the door, opened it, glanced back at Andrew, and quietly closed the door behind him.

Andrew stood staring, seeing nothing for a minute, then walked to the door and down the hall to the door leading to the sanctuary. He walked to the altar rail, knelt and prayed for nearly a half hour. He had no idea what to pray for but forgiveness. He jumped when touched on the shoulder by his secretary, Florence, a tall, thin woman in her early sixties, with gray hair cut short around her face, and brown eyes behind brown-rimmed glasses perched on her long nose.

I’m sorry, Father, to disturb you, but there’s a man in the office who wishes to speak to you. He says it’s urgent.

Andrew nodded and said, I’ll be there in a moment.

He wiped his eyes, blew his nose, and stood. His mind was clearing, but not enough to prevent wondering if the man waiting to see him was the secretary of defense. He smiled at his own humor and, acknowledging the cross, left for the office.

Florence was nervous, standing behind the counter that separated the office from the entryway. She was looking at a black man standing in a pair of gray slacks and a loud sport shirt.

Glenn …, Andrew half-whispered. I’m glad you’re here! Come into my office.

Glenn smiled, accepted Andrew’s handshake and followed him.

Have a seat. You left before I had a chance to talk to you.

Yeah. Well … it seemed like the thing to do.

Glenn sat in the chair briefly occupied by the sheriff and looked around the room, taking in each and every diploma, degree, award, and acknowledgement hanging on two of the walls.

Quite a place you have here.

My world, such as it is, Andrew said. Are you all right?

Yeah. Sure. Kind of surprised. I should have known what to expect. I was really worried about you. I thought the best thing I could do was get the hell out of there.

Andrew couldn’t help but laugh. That’s exactly what I wanted to do. Damn, it’s good to see you. I was afraid that …

I’ve been through worse, Glenn interrupted. What are you faced with, now?

The vestry. The secretary left a note on my desk this morning saying there is an emergency meeting of the vestry tonight. I’ve been invited to attend.

Is there anything I can do?

You’ve just now done it, Andrew said with a broad smile. How’s Sheila?

Worried about you and Rita. How about lunch?

Andrew hesitated. To be seen with him would confirm the sign’s accusation. If he agreed, he would be adding fuel to the fire. If he didn’t, he would stand a good chance of losing his best friend.

The hesitation was enough for Glenn.

Forget I asked, he said. I wasn’t thinking.

No. I accept, Andrew quickly said, feeling guilty. Let’s go to Willard’s for a burger.

Glenn smiled and stood. Let’s do it.

Let me call Rita, and I’ll be right with you.

I’m parked in front, Glenn said as he left the office.

Andrew sat for a moment, his mind racing around the issues to come. He picked up the phone and dialed home.

You all right? he asked her.

Yes, I’m fine.

I’m having lunch with Glenn.

Good. I’m glad.

Her response was exactly what he wanted to hear.

I love you. See you this evening, he said.

I love you too.

He hung up the phone and, feeling good about himself, walked to the front desk and informed Florence he was going to lunch.

With him? she asked, her arms folded in front of her, motioning to the door with her head.

Yes. Would you like to join us?

No … thank you, Father, her face looked appalled.

Andrew smiled and left.

Glenn was waiting in his new '61 Studebaker, gray with silver trim and rear fender skirts … a handsome car that added to his feeling of worth earned while in