Garden Party

CW: Hate crime

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“....and she dropped that on him without even a hint of a smile! I could never,” Aunt May interrupted herself, laughing, “could never understand how she could do that. Lay some of that, what do you call it,” she said, gesturing in Lexie’s direction.

“Shade,” Lexie prompted her, to a round of laughter from the women seated around the picnic table in the little garden.

“Yes, dear, thank you, shade, how she could cast shade…”

“Throw shade, Aunt May.”

May managed to finish, “....throw shade, as though she hadn’t said a thing. Not a thing. Grace was just remarkable that way. How did she do that.” She wiped her eyes and hiccupped once, to another gale of laughter from her sister, Jean, and the other five women who had joined the garden party in honor of Lexie’s engagement. Lexie grinned at all of them and thought, I am lucky actually.

The party would clearly be described to the rest of the Chapman family as a success. Jack’s grandma, great-aunt and their friends were enjoying themslves. More importantly, Lexie had managed to avoid the third rail of politics, pick up some family history about the past triumphs and tribulations of Chapmans employed in small-town retail, and more recently, in franchise management. And she’d largely enjoyed the company of this collection of Southern ladies, who reminded her powerfully of her own extended family. It was going to work, their marriage. At every level that mattered.

Family did matter. You weren’t marrying them, but you sort of were.

May’s house in Covington was on the older side of town. May and Jack’s uncle Tilman had lived there since the 1950’s and the house felt like it had never really been remodeled. The kitchen had an avocado-colored refrigerator. The library had deep leather chairs that smelled of tobacco, and encyclopedias and almanacs, alongside numerous family albums. May pointed out the row of albums with pride, explaining that she was the family’s “documentarian.” In the front hall, there were family portraits, both painted and photographed, May’s wedding photo hung next to a grim-faced oil painting of a man she identified as Jack’s paternal great-grandfather. 

“I must say, Lexie, I am so, so impressed that you have timed all of this wedding business so well,” Jean said, with an approving nod. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy to do, what with law school and all.”

Lexie nodded, reflexively. “Well, seemed like it was the best time. Between first and second year for me. I don’t think either of us could do it later than August. Jack’s got to study for his CFA this fall.”

“What made you want to study law?” asked Louisa. She looked to be around ninety, and Lexie wasn’t sure she had heard much of the conversation. She raised her voice and replied, “I just always found it so interesting. How justice works. What needs to be done to make sure our society is,” she paused, trying to explain it better, and then gave up. “Just. What we need to do to be just.”

“Well, that’s lovely,” May said, “You’re both such achievers. We’ll be so lucky to have a lawyer in the family, too.” Lexie smiled politely, envisioning a future with many family members calling for “advice” in the form of free legal consultations.  

Jean said, “Yes.” She ran her finger around the rim of her empty glass. “And you set the tone by setting the timeline for the wedding.” Lexie watched her, not understanding. “I mean to say, a woman needs to know when to set expectations. Limits. Of course you must be ladylike about it, but without limits and expectations, men don’t do so well.” She smiled at Lexie. “You are,” she tapped the glass again, “you are just, just right.”

Lexie smiled back, unexpectedly touched. Jack’s grandmother was quieter than May. Her part of the conversation had been minimal. Jean never interrupted and May was usually the one to start and finish a story or a question. But Lexie felt Jean’s approval, and it warmed her. 

The June sunshine lit the scraggly tea roses edging the garden and made the canvas shade over the table a necessity. Lexie reached for the iced tea pitcher and offered it to Jean before pouring herself more tea. The ice had melted in the heat. “Aunt May, would you mind if I stepped inside for more ice?

“No dear, you stay here,” May said. “I’ll get it. I wanted to show you some photos of Jack in school, let me get the album, too.”

Lexie and Jack had met at the University of Georgia. Although they were both Georgia natives, Lexie had grown up in Atlanta and Jack, outside of Covington. His lack of interest in his family’s business hadn’t been an issue, since his older brother was already working with their father. Jack had opted for a finance major at UGA and had gotten a job offer after the summer of his junior year. His clearheaded practicality and ability to plan ahead felt comfortable to Lexie.

Their future together spooled out in her imagination, orderly, predictable.

May’s enthusiasm for Jack’s high school marching band photos quickly outlasted the attention span of the other guests. As Jean and the other aunties began carrying plates and flatware into the kitchen, Lexie excused herself to use the restroom.

She lingered in the library on the way back, drawn to the shelf of albums. There was the gap left by the one May had brought outside. The rest of row held increasingly weathered albums. Lexie reached for a leather-bound specimen near the end of the row, and opened it to a random page. 

There was Covington, in black and white. The parked cars on the main street were really old; Lexie wasn’t into cars, but she knew they were all vintage and this album had to be from the 1940’s, maybe even the 1930’s? Wow. She paged past a series of photos of a man outside of a cafe, smiling next to his wife, then alone, then with a wife and two small children. Was that May? And Tilman? Yes. She recognized Tilman from the wedding portrait in the front hallway. 

Lexie turned another page and stopped.

There were six white men. One black man. The black man was hanging by a noose from a limb of the tree. One white man in front wore a hat and a tie and leaned against the trunk of the tree. The others were arranged behind him. Their faces were calm, certain. The black man’s face was tilted away from the camera, his neck at a sickening angle, his bare feet brushing the ground. 

It was Tilman, to the right of the man in the hat and tie. Jack’s great-uncle Tilman. May’s husband. Looking directly at the camera. Calm, certain.

Lexie stared down at the photo album in her hands. This photo was a record of a homicide. 

She reminded herself numbly, from criminal law 101, there is no statute of limitations on homicide. 

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her iPhone. She had to steady her hands to get a clear shot of the photo of the lynching. Then she put the album back on the shelf and took a deep, steadying breath. 

Then she went to help clear the remains of their party from the picnic table.

At the end of the afternoon, Lexie drove away from May’s house, fresh from the goodbye embraces of the friendly white women in their garden party dresses. In the long June evening, she drove slowly through light traffic. Suburban strip malls loomed outside of Covington, then diminished in favor of housing developments. There was a faint buzzing in the air. 

Did Jack know?

May knew. That row of albums, stored in the library. She knew. She had probably put the photo in the album. 

What do you say to the nephew of a murderer? 

Jack was already home. “I ordered a pizza, sorry, I couldn’t wait, you weren’t picking up. How was it?”

Lexie set down her bag, with her phone inside it, and took another steadying breath.

“Lex. You okay?”

“I, no.” She tried the deep breath again, but the buzzing in the air was back. 

There is no statute of limitations on homicide. 

“I saw…Jack, there’s a photo.” He looked at her, not getting it, clearly worried. “In your Aunt May’s photo albums.”

“Right, yeah, she has a lot of those. Sorry, she probably pulled out my band photos. Right? Come on, it was that bad?” 

“No. The hanging man.”

Jack’s face turned blank so quickly she knew, knew right away. That he knew. That he’d known for a long time. 

He sat at the table, in front of the pizza box. He put his hands flat on top of the box. “You have to understand, Lex. It was a different time. I’m not saying it’s not horrible, but it was a different time.”

“Did they,” she tried to make it come out neutral, flat. Like she’d ask a witness on the stand. “Were they. Were any charges pressed? Ever?”

“Lex.” He looked away from her. “Like I said, it was a different time.”

“Who was he?” Her voice wavered.

“I don’t know. I’ve never talked to them about it.” He still wasn’t looking at her.

The silence stretched out between them. She could feel that he was torn between impatience to eat the pizza, getting cold on the table in its box, and wariness of her mood. She pushed the box in his direction, and he opened it gratefully. She watched him gradually relax, eating, telling her about his day, asking no questions. The photo on her phone burned quietly in her mind.

It was three days before Lexi called the FBI’s tip line. She told them names, and the address of the house in Covington. She emailed the photo from her phone. The she sat and listened to silence.