James Smith - The Flock

There were three other women with her, doing their best to attend to her instructions, and to keep up with her when she put her own hand to the task. All of the women were black, and all of them had been with the Grishams since they had bought the land and built the farm twenty years before. These women knew that the Colonel was called a racist by many. But he had never shown them anything but kindness, had even hired their young sons to work around his farm when he wasn't being visited by the groups of stone-faced men who came to the farm from time to time to act like soldiers and troop out into the bush. Of course, none of the women had ever read Grisham's mind. If so, then they would all surely leave at once and never return. His mask of kindness where they were concerned was merely that: a mask.

Grisham breathed deep, sucking in the aromas. "Let me see," he said, exhaling. "Collards, of course." He sucked in again. "And sweet potatoes." Again. "And okra, and squash. Fried squash." Grisham stood on tiptoe to peer over his wife's shoulder. "Fried chicken, of course," he noted, watching as Mazie moved breasts and thighs, drumsticks and wings about a truly huge cast iron skillet full of hot oil and frying chicken. The batter was turning a golden brown. "What's for dessert?"

"Shoo! You get out of here, now." Mazie had turned on him, handing the big two-tined fork over to Elaine, one of her cooks. The place usually needed all four of them at meal times, especially when Grisham was running one of his military camps or training sessions. Which he was doing more and more often of late. Even at that moment, the bunkhouses and the apartments over the barn were filled with the serious men who came to talk and prepare for a time when they thought they would be needed to save the nation. Mazie knew what was going on. "You'll see what's for dessert when it's served this afternoon." She prodded her muscular husband until he relented and backed out of the kitchen and returned to the dining room. "Now, get." He let the door close in his face and he chuckled.

That woman. How she can work those niggers.

Slowly, savoring what remained of the cooking smells that clung to him, he went out of the dining room, through the parlor, and into the foyer. There, he stood and looked around him, at the antiques he'd carried from his father's house to this one when he'd put up the farm more than two decades before. All of the furniture in that room had been in the Grisham family for generations. Some of it predated the War Between the States, in which his great grandfather had fought, in which his great uncles had all died, leaving the Grisham lands to the line that had culminated in Winston Grisham and his two sons.

And then he frowned, his mood broken by the reminders.

Both of his sons had been lost to him. One, Ronald, had rejected military life on so-called moral grounds, had even refused to join the Marines, and had spent his two years as a conscientious objector in the Coast Guard, of all places. But the worst of the two had been John, who was dead to him, if not in reality. Of course, he couldn't know, for sure. He'd forbidden anyone in the house to ever speak John's name, and he knew that there was no one with guts enough to break that particular taboo. Sometimes, Grisham did think of John, but he tried not to do it around Mazie, for she could see through his masks, could see exactly what was going on in his mind, sometimes. She would know if his thoughts ever turned toward memories of that traitorous, homosexual beast. Grisham rubbed his eyes, and John was gone again.

Today, he was tired. He was tired because he'd spent most of the previous two weeks out in the country with his boys. This was a particularly gifted group. Most of them had been talented soldiers until they'd been discharged, all of them honorably, within the past few years. These were good, brave, focused men, who were not yet ready to retire their anger and their talents. Grisham gave such patriots a place to prepare for the coming struggle, which they all knew must come sooner or later. He hoped it would come soon, sometimes. For despite his daily workouts and the fact that he was in enviably fine condition for a man of his years, he was getting on and the day would arrive when he'd no longer be able to lead these young soldiers into the bush to train.

Thinking of that, Grisham went through the wide foyer and out of the polished oak doors that led out to a covered porch that wrapped around the big farmhouse. He had planned and overseen the construction of every square inch of that porch. It was twenty feet wide, the roof twelve feet overhead, with silently, slowly spinning fans wafting air every eight feet the length of the porch. And there were oak rocking chairs all along the walls, thirty of them. He picked one out and sat down to relax and to think. It had been a long time-six months or more-since he'd seen his friend, Davis. It would be good to see him.

In a moment, although he hadn't asked anyone, a tall glass of iced tea appeared on the little table next to his rocking chair. He hadn't even noticed exactly who had brought it, only that it had been one of the colored women. He picked up the glass, put it to his lips, and enjoyed the sweet taste and the cool drink as it trickled down his throat.

And he waited for Davis.

The Mercedes arrived just before three in the afternoon. Grisham had actually dozed as he'd sat and rocked, and had only noticed when the big, white car had pulled up to the split rail fence at the edge of the lawn, about fifty feet away. Quickly, he stood, rod straight, and marched down the red brick stairs to meet his friend. He grinned in genuine pleasure as Davis Cauthen emerged.

Cauthen was currently serving his fifth term of office in the Florida State Senate. For years he had fended off the badgering requests of hundreds of men, local fans to real shakers and movers, that he run for some national office. It wasn't his style, he had told them. He did things best in the more informal state house, where he could get things done, where he could still have time for his family and his friends. Where he could still work the kinds of deals his father had worked, which his grandfather had worked, and at which even his great-great grandfather had already been adept those generations ago. His family had almost been original snakes in the grass. They were good at it.

Grisham, standing at the foot of the steps, greeted his old friend. They looked almost to have been stamped from the same mold. Tall, lean, weathered, both men were in better shape than they had a right to expect to be. But of course they expected nothing less than everything they ever wanted. And both usually got it.

"Davis, how are you doing?" The colonel's arm was extended and he took his old friend's hand and gripped it.

"I'm fine, Win. You know, I think you must have the only three-mile long driveway in the state of Florida. And I should know, because I've been down the ones at most of the really big estates. Can't recall another one quite this length, though." He smiled back at his old school chum and both men went up the steps to the porch.

"Well, you know how I feel about things. Same as you, only I can't tolerate the Yankees and the niggers the way you do."

"Just part of my job, old man. Part of the job."

For a moment, the two merely stood on the porch, out of the hot summer sun. Off in the distance, in the far pastures, cattle were slowly chewing their way along; some lying in the shade trees spaced here and there, some wading in the ponds. The politician sighed and took it all in. "Wonderful place you have here," he said. "I've been sorry to hear about your problems with those developers at your doorstep, but you know how things are."

Grisham put his hand on Cauthen's shoulder. "And I've appreciated your sympathy, and all the help you've given me." He followed Cauthen's gaze out toward the pastures and all of the cattle. "I assume this visit has something to do with that?"