Over The Fence

Book 2: Neighbors Series

by Mary Monroe

Genres: African American Women's Fiction

Synopsis

In this page-turning novel set in the Depression-era South, New York Times bestselling author Mary Monroe transports readers to a small Alabama town where home is not always a sanctuary, and two neighboring families let pleasantries mask increasing resentment. . . Bootlegging was Milton and Yvonne Hamilton's ticket out of poverty, prison time, and plain bad luck. Now they've moved on-to a bigger, richer pool of clientele-right in their own respectable new middle-class backyard. And their growing friendship with seemingly-perfect couple Joyce and Odell Watson is proving golden in more ways than one . . . As Milton soon learns, Odell is hiding an outside family and dubious business dealings. It's the perfect recipe for a blackmail scheme that will help Milton hide his own dirty secrets-even from Yvonne. Better yet, he can take ever more dangerous risks to ace out his liquor-smuggling rivals-and add a lucrative temptation to his illicit services. And Yvonne, emboldened by her husband's new gravy train, delights in tormenting Joyce about everything the snobbish matron doesn't have-especially children. But even a winning hand can be played too far. Pushed past their limits, Odell and Joyce will play on Milton's careless boasting-to get him and Yvonne out of their lives for good. And soon, a devastating frame-up will plunge one couple into a living nightmare-and set the stage for explosive retribution . . .

Release date: March 26, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

November 1939

IT WAS HARD FOR ME TO PINPOINT EXACTLY WHEN I STARTED THINKING about killing Milton Hamilton, my so-called “good friend” and neighbor one house over. The idea had probably eased into my subconscious back in July. That was when he’d accidentally found out about my intimate relationship with Betty Jean Bonner. He had confronted me and threatened to tell my wife, Joyce, if I didn’t pay him hush money on a weekly basis. If that wasn’t bad enough, that sucker told his wife, Yvonne, about my affair. The next thing I knew, that greedy bitch started blackmailing me, too. If I killed him, I would have to kill her.

Yvonne and Milton had so many enemies I was surprised somebody else hadn’t already bumped them off. Nobody in their right mind would suspect me of killing them. I was one of the most well-respected and beloved citizens in town. On top of all that, I managed MacPherson’s, the most successful colored-owned country store in Branson, Alabama. And I was married to the owners’ only child. I had a lot to live for, and I was going to stop them jackasses from disrupting the prosperous, kicked-back lifestyle I had worked so hard to get.

Joyce and her parents loved me to death and believed I could do no wrong. They praised me all the time, and I was too humble to let it go to my head. Despite what my wife and my in-laws thought, I wasn’t perfect. I’d made a few mistakes along the way. But men like me didn’t belong in prison. Especially for killing greedy, blackmailing hounds from hell like Yvonne and Milton.

Before I could talk myself into committing murder, I decided to consider something else first. Something that wouldn’t be too painful for them, or me. If I decided to kill them, folks would expect me to say all kinds of good things about them at their funerals. Even though I juggled the truth when necessary (who didn’t?), I wasn’t about to tell lies in a church. On top of that, their dirt-poor relatives would probably ask me for financial assistance to help cover the funeral expenses. Them was some mortifying thoughts. Murdering the Hamiltons would be my last resort. In the meantime, I’d leave that on the back burner and figure out another way to get them out of my pockets.

It didn’t take me long to come up with the perfect solution: have them sent to prison. They had done time before. Like most ex-convicts, they still didn’t have no respect for the law. So, they belonged behind bars anyway. I was convinced that if I set them up for a crime that was serious enough to get them locked up for a few decades, my problem would be solved. Shoot. By the time they got released—if they made it out alive—I would probably be dead of old age or so senile that anything they said or done wouldn’t matter.

There was only one offense worse than murder that a colored man could commit: raping a white gal. I was going to call up Sheriff Potts and tell him that Milton—with Yvonne’s help—had lured an innocent teenage white girl to their house this evening for that purpose.

They was throwing a shindig tonight to celebrate Willie Frank Perdue’s thirty-fifth birthday. He was their best friend and the hillbilly moonshiner who supplied the alcohol for their bootlegging business. They would drink more than they usually did, so they’d be good and drunk by the time the sheriff showed up, and he’d catch them off guard. I didn’t know what would happen to the other folks in the house and didn’t care so long as Yvonne and Milton got their just deserts. Icing on the cake would be if they gave the sheriff and his deputies a reason to shoot them. Usually, when white folks shot at colored folks, they didn’t stop blasting until their target was dead.

“Joyce, I can’t go to the party tonight,” I announced. It was a few minutes before six p.m. We’d been home from work for about an hour. I was slumped in a chair at the kitchen table. She was putting some canned goods I’d brung home from the store into the cabinet above the stove.

My wife was such a blissful woman. When she was in a good mood, which was most of the time when we was alone, she liked to hum spirituals. It was one of the ways she praised God for bringing us together. This time it was “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” She stopped humming, slammed the cabinet shut, and whirled around to face me. Joyce was the only woman I knew who could shift her demeanor from happy-go-lucky to frantic so fast. She shook her head and looked so weary, I almost felt bad.

“You can’t? Aw, baby. Willie Frank is expecting us to be there. We’ve been looking forward to the party for weeks. I even bought a new dress and had your double-breasted suit cleaned.”

I didn’t like it when she whined. But I did quite a bit of that myself. Now was a good time to do it again. “Well, you know I ain’t been feeling too good lately. I’d hate to go over there and puke all over Yvonne’s floors.” I made sure my face was scrunched up to show her I was in distress. Then I coughed and moaned. Pretending to be sick was part of my plan, and I had to play it to the hilt.

“I’d hate to see that happen. Not that it would make that much of a difference. Those floors over there look messy with or without puke,” she said with a grimace, shaking her head some more. “I thought you were feeling better.”

“I was. But now it feels like somebody is tap dancing inside my stomach.”

“Huh? You said it was your head that was bothering you.”

“It was! Now it’s my stomach, too. Whatever this bug is I got, it jumps around…”

“Well, your health is way more important than a party,” Joyce said with a heavy sigh. The weary look was still on her face, but she leaned over and kissed my forehead. Then she grabbed my hand and led me to the living room couch. She fluffed up the throw pillows before I eased down and stretched out on my back. “Now you just lie there and take it easy,” she ordered, standing over me with her hands on her hips.

“Sugar, I am so sorry. The last thing I wanted to do was ruin your night.”

Joyce rolled her eyes and waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it. Milton’s thirty-fifth birthday is coming up in February. Yvonne’s is in the same month a week later. She told me they always celebrate on the same day. He’s two years older than her, but the way they’ll probably go all out, it’ll seem like a milestone birthday for her, too.” We laughed.

“Well, that’s something to look forward to. I wouldn’t miss that party for no reason in the world. I’ll be there even if I have to be carried over there on a stretcher.” We laughed again.

Joyce had been giving me pills and chicken soup ever since I told her I wasn’t feeling well a few days ago. If my scheme worked, all hell was going to break loose next door tonight, and I didn’t want me or her to get caught up in it. I decided to do some more coughing and moaning, hoping it would make her skip the party and stay home to look after me. It worked. She broke in right at the beginning of my coughing fit.

“Odell, you sound awful. I can’t leave you alone,” she said, wringing her hands.

“Thank you, sweetie. I’m so pleased to hear that. I know you wanted to go to the party and have some fun. I did, too.”

“Odell, I’m doing what any other good Christian woman would do.”

I gave Joyce the most loving look I could manage. She glowed like a full moon. Her face lit up even more when I told her, “God is so good to me. I thank Him every day for blessing me with a woman as wonderful as you.”

She stopped wringing her hands and gave me a coy smile. “Aw, shuck it! I am not that wonderful.” If she was light-skinned or white, she would had blushed as red as a tomato. I loved her reaction when I complimented her. And I did it as often as possible, whether she deserved it or not.

Joyce was taller than any woman I ever met. And she was so ordinary-looking, most men never gave her a second glance. I had surprised her when I asked her for a date more than five years ago. Me being six feet four meant she finally had a boyfriend who didn’t have to crane his neck to look in her eyes.

Despite her plain looks, she was still as vain and prissy as she could be because she knew how to make herself look appealing. She wore her shoulder-length hair in a becoming style, and her makeup was always perfect. To keep her skin looking young, she slathered on cold cream and mysterious lotions from her face to her feet every night before we went to bed. She took her bath and done the rest of her beauty rituals around nine p.m. every night. If we happened to be out at that time, no matter how late we got home, she still done it. The whole process took at least thirty to forty minutes.

After supper, we conversated about a few things and listened to a gospel program on the radio for a while. When Joyce hadn’t gone into the bathroom by ten minutes after nine p.m., I decided to give her a little push. “Baby, don’t you think you should do your nightly routine before it get any later?” I had stretched back out on the couch. She was peeping out the front window, something she’d been doing every few minutes for the past half hour.

“I’m going to get started in a minute. I was just wondering how many folks were going to be at the party tonight. There are at least a dozen cars and trucks already parked out front.” Joyce fanned her face with her hand and took in a sharp breath. “I hope Yvonne and Milton don’t run out of alcohol and snacks. I would have taken some tea cakes if we’d gone.” She left the window and stopped in front of me and folded her arms. “We haven’t been to a party since last year …”

“Sugar, please don’t sulk. Don’t make me feel no worse than I already feel.” I coughed again.

“I’m not sulking,” she insisted.

“Tell you what; I’m sure I’ll be feeling much better by tomorrow evening. We’ll go next door then. I’ll bring a gift from the store for Willie Frank. Giving it to him a day late won’t make no difference.”

“That’s a good idea, honey. I’m sorry we didn’t think to pick up something for him already. I could have run over there tonight and dropped it off. Oh well.” Joyce yawned and stretched. “You need anything before I get busy in the bathroom?”

I coughed and moaned some more before I answered. All my coughing and moaning was making me feel sick for real. It was a good thing I’d be feeling much better by tomorrow so I could ease up on my symptoms. “No, baby. I’m fine. You go right on ahead.”

I waited until I heard water running in the bathtub before I tiptoed to the door and put my ear against it. When Joyce started splashing around, I sprinted back to the living room and picked up the phone book we kept on the end table next to the telephone. I located the sheriff’s number and dialed it right away.

“Hello,” a woman with a husky voice answered.

“Hello, ma’am. I need to speak to Sheriff Potts right away.”

“This is Mrs. Potts. What do you need to talk to him about?!” she barked. Her harsh tone made me nervous and I didn’t say nothing else right away. Now I didn’t know if I could finish what I’d started. I didn’t stay nervous long, though. As soon as I recalled the last time Yvonne and Milton shook me down for “extra” money on top of what I was already paying them, I knew I was doing the right thing. Even though I had had dozens of conversations with Sheriff Potts and his wife over the years, I didn’t disguise my voice. Most of my life, I’d been hearing white folks say that all colored men looked and sounded alike to them. What I did do was speak in a very low voice in case Joyce forgot something and had to come out of the bathroom to get it. “Well, I’d rather talk to the sheriff. Is he home?”

“Yeah, he’s here. But he’s fixing to go walk the dogs. Can you call back in thirty minutes?”

“Ma’am, this can’t wait that long. I need to talk to him right now,” I insisted. The Potts family shopped at the store a lot and I always treated them with the respect they expected. They was usually pleasant, but every colored person in town knew that they thought we was beneath them. Everybody knew that Sheriff Potts roughed up most of the colored folks he arrested, and his wife slapped or cussed at her colored housekeepers for all kinds of reasons. However, they didn’t talk down to me the way some of my other white customers did. And every time they came in, they got special treatment. No matter how many folks was in the check-out line ahead of them—if they was colored—my cashiers waited on them first. “Tell the sheriff this is very important,” I added.

“Very important, huh?” Mrs. Potts sucked on her teeth and cleared her throat. “Who is this and what’s this about? You can tell me, and I can let him know. He’ll decide if it’s important enough for him to take the call now.”

I had no choice but to bite the bullet. I took a deep breath and went on. “All right then. I just left from some colored bootleggers’ house in the upper south side,” I blurted out. To make sure the woman didn’t misunderstand me, I said the rest slower and louder, “The bootleggers was making a sport of a white girl.”

Mrs. Potts gasped so loud, it sounded like she was standing right in front of me. “What kind of sport? Are they plying her with booze?”

“Yes, that’s part of it. And they was raping her…”

“GREAT BALLS OF FIRE!” she roared. The way she started gasping for air, I thought she was about to have a conniption fit. Then she suddenly composed herself. “Excuse me. I declare, this is a shock to my system. Mr. whatever your name is, are you telling me the gospel truth?”

“Yes, ma’am. I seen everything with my own eyes. Men was lining up and just getting started when I left that house a few minutes ago,” I said calmly. I was feeling so bold now, I couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “There was at least five or six, but more could have got in that line after I left.”

“Jesus save us! Hold on!” Mrs. Potts cussed under her breath and yelled to her husband, “Orval, come to the phone! Quick! I got somebody on the other end who claims there’s a gang of colored men over yonder on the south side raping a white girl in some bootleggers’ house!”

I heard a yelp in the background, dogs barking up a storm, and what sounded like a fist hitting the wall. About three seconds later, Sheriff Potts was on the line. “This is Orval Potts. What’s this about some niggers pestering a white gal?” he growled. “And who the hell are you?”

“Sir, I can’t tell you my name on account of this bootlegger and his wife is some pretty ferocious people. They done already served time in prison. If they found out I tattled, I’m as good as dead. Please get over there as soon as you can.”

“I need to know one thing, were you in on it?”

“Good God! No, I wasn’t, sir!” On top of everything else, Sheriff Potts was also dumb as hell. Did he think that if I was involved in raping a white girl, I’d be fool enough to admit it? I wanted to laugh, but I stayed calm and serious.

“I had to ask. For all I know, you could be getting back at them bootleggers for not letting you have a turn—if what you claim is true.”

“I’m telling the truth and I ain’t trying to get back at nobody. I’m just a God-fearing man who believes in doing the right thing.” This call was not going the way I thought it would. I had expected the sheriff to go check out my claim right away. Him taking his time had me worried. What if he didn’t go for it? If that happened, what would I do next? “I got a wife and eights kids and a good job working for one of the mayor’s friends. I can’t get involved in no scandal and shame my family and lose my job.”

“In that case, I can understand your reluctance to tell me your name. I appreciate you having enough decency and courage to come forward. Now tell me this, how do you know about them niggers raping a white girl?”

“Like I told your wife, I seen everything with my own eyes. It started just a few minutes ago. I ran out of the house and didn’t stop running until I got to this telephone I’m talking on now. If you hurry and get over there in time, you might be able to catch them in the act.” I suddenly decided to juice up my story. “If that poor girl don’t go crazy or die from the shock and disgust of being ravaged by colored men, she’ll probably end up with the clap and pregnant.”

“My Lord! What’s them bootleggers’ names, and the address of their den of iniquity?” The sheriff sounded a lot more concerned now.

“It’s a married couple named Milton and Yvonne Hamilton. He’s the ringleader, but she was eager to help him set up this rape. They hate white folks, and this is their way to get back at y’all and make some money by charging each man a dollar a piece.” I gave the sheriff the address and decided to add a couple more details to sweeten the pot. “Sir, this blue-eyed blond girl ain’t no older than sixteen. She looks so much like your youngest daughter, Maybelle.” That was enough, so I abruptly hung up.

I tiptoed back to the bathroom door and listened some more. Joyce was humming another one of her favorite spirituals when I knocked. “Joyce, do you want me to bring you one of your romance books so you can read while you bathing?”

“I already got one, sweet pea. Do you need something? The pills are on top of the dresser in the bedroom and there is plenty more chicken soup in the ice box.”

“I’m all right. I’m going to pour myself some buttermilk and get back on the couch.”

“Do you feel any better?”

“A little bit.”

“Good. I’ll be out in a few minutes. Take a look-see out the window and tell me how many more folks have come to the party.”

“Um, I looked a minute ago. Several more folks done came and it’s getting mighty rowdy over there. Folks is hooting and hollering like they at a rodeo.”

“The noise doesn’t bother me at all. I like to know folks are having a good time. But I hope they don’t get rowdy enough for none of our neighbors to call the law. I’d hate for Yvonne and Milton to get in trouble for disturbing the peace,” Joyce said in an edgy tone.

“Pffftt! I wouldn’t worry about that. The law don’t care nothing about colored folks disturbing other colored folks.”

I got a glass of buttermilk, went back to the living room, and dropped down on the couch again. After taking a few sips, I glanced at the clock on the wall next to a large color-framed picture of Jesus walking on water. Four minutes had ticked by since I’d spoke to Sheriff Potts. Whenever colored people called him for an incident that involved only other colored folks, he took his time showing up, if he did at all. But since this situation was about a white girl, I knew he’d arrive any minute. With a self-satisfied smile, I reared back in my seat, finished my buttermilk, and waited for the mayhem to begin next door.

Eight minutes after I’d made the call, I heard tires screeching outside, car doors slamming, and men yelling. I didn’t even have to look to see who it was. The sheriff lived on the opposite side of town. For him to round up his deputies and arrive in only a few minutes, he had to have sprung into action right after he got off the phone with me.

A few seconds later, Joyce returned to the living room in her bathrobe and her hair in rollers. I was standing in front of the light switch on the wall by the front door. I had turned on the small lamp we kept on the same end table with the telephone and turned off the ceiling light. “Odell, why did you turn off the main light? And who is doing all that cussing outside? I could hear them with the bathroom door closed.” She glanced at me, the window, and then back at me. “If there’s fighting going on next door, I am not going to sit back and let somebody get hurt and not do anything. I’ll call the law myself.”

“You ain’t got to! The sheriff and his deputies is the ones out there making all that noise! I turned off the bright light because I don’t want them to think we seen nothing and have them drag us into this mess!”

There was just enough light coming from the lamp for me to see the scared look on Joyce’s face. That bothered me. But the shaky tone of her voice bothered me even more. “Drag us into what mess, Odell? What in the world is going on next door?”

“That’s what I’d like to know!” I made sure I sounded as frantic as she did. We rushed to the window at the same time and parted the curtains enough to peep out, but not be seen. Sheriff Potts and three of his deputies stormed up on Yvonne and Milton’s porch with billy clubs and guns. “I hope that whatever it is, it ain’t too serious…”

August 1937

LESTER FULLBRIGHT HAD VISITED ME ONCE EVERY OTHER MONTH in the women’s prison camp where I had been the state of Alabama’s guest for almost two years. He was the man I’d been living with when I got arrested. He’d told me that when they let me out, I could move back in.

But when I arrived at his house that Thursday evening, the day I got released, he looked surprised and a little annoyed when he opened the door. “Yvonne, what the hell you doing here? You ain’t supposed to get out until next week!” He looked over my shoulder in both directions as he waved me in.

I felt sure enough frumpy in my drab release outfit: a mud-colored cotton dress, matching paper-thin slippers, and dingy white bobby socks. My hair was in three limp plaits. I had a brown paper bag that contained a few pieces of underwear, the dress I’d been wearing the day they locked me up, my Bible, a comb, and two baloney sandwiches. I’d had a wallet with four dollars and some change in it when they checked me in, but it had mysteriously disappeared. Stuffed way down in my brassiere was ten dollars gate money and a bus ticket back to the county I’d been arrested in. Them two things, and the baloney sandwiches, was what every inmate got on their way out. The bus ticket hadn’t done me no good, because the closest depot was even farther than my destination. The sandwiches had such a foul smell, I wouldn’t have fed them to a hungry hog.

“Did you escape?”

“Do you think I’d be stupid enough to bust out of jail with only a week to go? They turned me loose early for good behavior.” I took a deep breath and set my bag on the floor.

“Whew! Praise God I ain’t got to worry about them laws coming after me for harboring a fugitive.”

“The same day they told me they was letting me out, I sent you a letter. I told you to find somebody with a truck or a car and come pick me up today.”

“Well, I don’t know where that letter went, but it sure didn’t come to me. You know how bad mail delivery service is in colored neighborhoods. The only things that always make it to me on time is my bills. How did you get here?”

“I walked.”

Lester’s mouth dropped open so wide, I could see all his back teeth. “Say what? You walked ten miles by yourself through dangerous Ku Klux Klan territory?”

“I didn’t have no choice. You wouldn’t believe how many snakes and lizards I had to dodge. I got so thirsty and hungry, it’s a wonder I didn’t pass out. If I hadn’t come across a spring and a blackberry bush by the side of the road, there ain’t no telling what might have happened to me in that hot sun. Anyway, after I’d covered about five miles, a farmer came along on his mule wagon. He gave me a ride the rest of the way.”

“Oh. The important thing is you made it home.” Lester gave me the once-over and frowned. “You look like a scarecrow in that dowdy frock, but you still a sight for sore eyes,” he declared with a great big smile. “Give me some sugar.” He puckered up, wrapped me in a bear hug, and gave me a rough kiss on my chapped lips. “We should stop wasting time and get loose so we can celebrate your homecoming. Don’t you think so?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I muttered. After the wretched day I’d had, the last thing I wanted to do was get loose in bed with a man. But I wasn’t in no position to say no. I glanced around the living room. As gloomy as it was, it was paradise compared to where I’d just come from. On top of dirty clothes scattered all over his floor, coal-oil lamps sat on his dusty coffee table and both end tables. There was more clothes and other odds and ends on the saggy couch. “It’s good to be free again. We can celebrate, but I need to wash and lotion up first.” I slid my tongue across my lips and couldn’t believe how dry they felt, even after Lester’s sloppy kiss.

“You know where everything is at. Make sure you put some calamine lotion on them ashy lips. And hurry up, so I can show you how much I missed you.”

After I took a quick bath and scarfed down two peanut butter sandwiches and a glass of buttermilk, Lester grabbed my elbow and steered me to his bed. We stayed there for the next hour.

Once he was satisfied, he sat up with his back against a stack of pillows, gazing at me with his eyes narrowed. He started laying out the rules in a gruff tone, which was odd for a man that had squealed with pleasure the whole time he was humping me a few minutes ago. “We better get a few things straight right now. You had it easy the last time you stayed with me. You was lazy, spoiled, and came and went as you pleased.” I sat up, but I kept my mouth shut, because he was telling the truth. “I ain’t going to put up with all that foolishness this time. If you want to stay under my roof, you going to get a job and pay half of the rent. You’ll cook all the meals, keep the house clean, wash the clothes, and everything else I tell you to do.”

“Is that all?” I sneered.

“Naw! You’ll pay half for the utilities, food, and every other household expense. We straight?”

“We straight,” I mumbled. I would have agreed to anything because I was too tired to argue. All I wanted to do was relax, organize my thoughts, and figure out what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

“And another thing,” Lester continued, wagging his finger in my face. “If I find out you fooling around with other men, you will suffer.”

“I ain’t going to fool around on you,” I assured him, shaking my head. “I ain’t never cheated on none of my men.”

Lester wasn’t the best boyfriend in the world, but the best I could do at the time. He was a little on the bossy side, unpredictable, and self-centered. I’d always overlooked his faults because I liked his light brown skin; cute baby face; hard, trim body; and good hair. He always had a decent job, and he had never beat me. Besides all that, he had been hinting for years that he might make me his wife someday. Since Lester had more of the things I liked than any other man I’d been with, I assumed he’d make a good husband. He was thirty-six now, and I was thirty, so I prayed that he’d be ready to marry me soon.

I could have moved back in with Aunt Nadine and Uncle Sherman. They had raised me after my mama and daddy died in a tractor accident when I was six. My aunt and uncle had moved to Mobile last month, and I wanted to stay on in Branson. It was just another typical segregated small town in Alabama, but I never wanted to relocate because it was the only home I’d ever knowed. And it kept the memory of my parents alive. Most of the residents in our part of town lived on dirt or gravel roads, in ramshackle houses. Lester’s place was one of the few on our block that had an inside toilet. The folks that didn’t have one had to use the numerous common-area outhouses. Every house had a potbellied stove in the living room, and almost everybody had a garden, a bunch of chickens, an. . .