From a photograph by Kris Reichl
Willy Junior loved his wife.
Beth-Ann was everything he could hope for, she cooked superbly, she kept the house real nice, she was surprisingly fun in the bedroom. And she was a great dancer, loved to step out with her husband, she was as proud of him as he was proud of her. Beth-Ann was perfect, as close to perfect as a wife could be, apart from one small thing. Beth-Ann could not get to terms with a needle and thread. She tried, bless her, she tried, it was a skill she could never master.
It mostly didn’t matter, Willy Junior earned well, they could afford to buy all their clothes, but it did seem a waste to throw out a good shirt for the lack of a button.
Willy Junior took this small quirk in his wife in good humour, mostly, but things came to a head when he began attending klan gatherings, when he was accepted as a member and had to attend his first meeting wearing a white robe, and a white pointy hat. Beth-Ann tried to turn a sheet into a uniform her husband could be proud of, but he ended up looking like a Halloween child ghost wearing an old man’s sleeping cap.
Willy Junior had no choice, he had to delay his debut with the klan, he invented a family emergency, told everyone he had to stay with his sister out of state for a few weeks.
Willy Junior locked himself in his basement, with a sewing manual, needles, cotton, all the old sheets in the house.
Willy Junior taught himself how to sew.
His friends always said there was nothing Willy Junior couldn’t turn his hand to. In this case his hands had found their calling, Willy Junior was born to sew, in a society where men did not sew.
That time in the basement changed Willy Junior. Alone, with time to think, his mind focused on learning a new skill, he became peaceful, saw his life more clearly than ever before, imagined a true path. A plan formed in Willy Junior’s mind.
Willy Junior attended that first klan meeting, was hazed, initiated, welcomed. His perfectly fitting robe, his hat, the tallest and pointiest in the room, were the envy of all. In his first speech to his brethren Willy Junior told the story of the good Lord blessing the hands of his wife, a woman who famously didn’t know which end of a needle to hold, and showing her how to sew his klan garments. Willy Junior shone on that stage, he glowed, a pristine white preacher.
Willy Junior loved his wife, and she him. She happily greeted his fellow klan members and took their measurements, promised to sew them the best robe and hat that god would give her the power to sew. Secretly Willy Junior would make those garments in his basement, then smile as his friends and colleagues handed over wads of cash to his wife and thanked her for her inspired work.
Willy Junior and Beth-Ann were invited to speak at klan rallies across the south. They were feted and fed, met mayors and governors, police chiefs and judges.
They became wealthy enough to pay a maid, a young woman who they foolishly treated badly. She soon saw through the holy robe and hat scam, asked a friend who owned a box brownie to take photos through the tiny strip windows that looked down into the basement.
Beth-Ann loved her husband. For years she sat on the porch, waiting for him to come home. She knew he never would. One night Willy Junior went out to his klan meeting, and didn’t return. Despite asking mayors and governors, police chiefs and judges, no one would reveal to Beth-Ann the fate of Willy Junior.
Parkstreet
