One Night in Mississippi (4 page)

Mississippi, 1961

My father was the toughest
man I knew. Graden and I often complained to each other on plucking days and flagged during the brutally hot afternoons, but Papa worked mechanically from dawn until dusk, ignoring blistered palms and the blood seeping from his fingertips. He'd torn toenails and fingernails clean off without so much as pausing, and he'd come into the house some nights with strips of skin hanging like tatters from the bottom of his feet, his flesh so hot that the water-soaked cloths that Mama placed on his forehead were dry within moments, but I couldn't once remember hearing him complain.

He was not a large man, but muscles knotted his arms and legs like twisted tree trunks. He'd often told us that he could strap the rusty plough blade to his back and work just as fast as any mule, and we were never sure whether to believe him or not. He had scars that none of us ever asked him about — raised lines of purplish skin criss-crossing the midnight of his forearms and shoulders. He had dark skin, even by Mississippi standards, and his eyes and teeth were a sickly yellow. When he closed his eyes and mouth, his face was an impenetrable black from which no angles or features could be distinguished. He was kindly to us, but he rarely smiled. We had learned to judge his moods by his hands. They were active when he was angry, either clenched or flexing, and hidden when he was happy, either behind his back or in the folds of his clothes, as if the rare joys he experienced were things that he could grasp and discreetly tuck away.

One day in late September, he did not get out of bed. We all sat at the table spooning a slatelike mix of oatmeal and grits into our mouths while Mama had already set to work behind us, scrubbing away at the pan. Glenda and Etta swung their legs beneath the table, excited because Papa was planning to go to market later that morning to sell the cotton that he had been storing in the shed. Sometimes he would return with a gift for the girls — a hair comb or a bow or once a tin bracelet that they took turns wearing.

“Isn't Papa coming to eat?” Etta asked.

“Never you mind,” Mama responded, not bothering to turn around. “You finish up your breakfast and be on about your chores.”

They did as they were told, gathering up the clothes bundled on the floor and carrying them out to the tub for washing. Graden and I lingered on, eating more slowly, and questioning each other with glances. Papa was always the first one up in the mornings, and some days when I couldn't sleep, I could hear my father moving around the house before the rooster called out the day. The fact that Mama had not even set out a bowl for him was worrisome. Graden picked up his own bowl, with a few meagre spoonfuls left in it. He headed towards our parents' bedroom, and I quickly rose to follow.

It was the first time we had seen our father sick. He had thrown off the bed sheets and he lay there, sweating profusely and staring at the ceiling. He turned his head to look at us in the doorway, but his eyes were unfocussed. His breathing was gravelly and weak and a trail of spit glistened across his cheek.

Mama was right behind us and slapped at the backs of our heads, screaming for us to get out. She was fiercely protective of Papa, and I suppose she didn't want us to see him in a weakened state. Graden dropped his bowl and it clanged off the floor and rolled as the two of us hurried out of the house.

We went straight to work. We walked through the rows in unusual silence, picking handfuls of dew-heavy cotton and keeping mostly to ourselves. When we broke at midday, we returned to the house. We ate potatoes and thin strips of fish while Mama glared at us. When we were finished, she nodded at me.

“Your father's been asking for you.”

I went back to the bedroom, but would not advance past the doorway. The room smelled of filth. Papa was sitting upright in the bed, swaying slightly, his skin a palish grey. When he spoke, he used as few words as possible.

“How many sacks?”

I tried to picture the sacks of cotton already sitting in the shed, plus the few we had been able to gather that morning, but I didn't know how many.

Before I could answer, Graden appeared at my shoulder.

“Fourteen, sir.”

I kicked Graden's ankle sharply in the hope he would leave, but he barely flinched.

Papa continued, “You know the way to town?”

“Yes, sir,” Graden and I answered in unison. I jabbed Graden with a quick elbow, then added, “I can drive the truck, sir.”

In truth, I had never taken the truck off the farm and had only driven it a few times at that, but it was still something that I could do that Graden couldn't. His interruption irked me. Papa asked for
me
, not Graden. I wanted to show Papa that I could handle the responsibility, and maybe I wanted to prove that to Graden as well. Papa lay back down and pulled the sheet around him. It was settled.

Graden would not be talked out of going to town under any circumstances. We argued the whole time that we loaded the bed of the truck with the sacks of cotton, and in the end I relented. I could not go alone, and Graden, despite being only fifteen, had already grown to be strong and tall enough that he would give pause to anyone thinking of starting trouble.

Our truck was a 1941 Ford that had been all but left for dead by a grocery store owner in town. During the winter months Papa took on whatever odd jobs he could find, and after repairing the roof of the grocery, he negotiated for the truck in lieu of payment. Papa had driven it, rattling and sputtering, up to the house with a grin on his face like he'd found gold. He spent the next few weeks cleaning and tuning it, and it had served us well since, although it could be fussy at times.

The engine turned over easily, but I stalled it twice just backing away from the shed and easing it out past the front yard. Graden had the good sense not to say anything, but I knew he was watching closely and thinking that he could do better. The truck bounced and lurched along the rutted track. It rolled along more smoothly once I made it to the road, but I kept my grip tight on the wheel, regardless. Graden sat beside me on the bench seat, his head bobbing with each jolt from ridges in the hardpan of dried clay. I was focussed on the road, but I checked over my shoulder often, making sure that the sacks were still securely in place.

The engine whined and occasionally coughed smoke that wafted up from the front grill. I'd told Papa I could drive the truck, but I realized that I had no idea how to fix it if it broke down, which he said it was sometimes wont to do. I wondered what would happen if we found ourselves stranded on the side of the road, but I knew Graden was watching and so I tried not to look concerned.

We'd both been to town before, but never without Mama or Papa. I'd helped my father unload last year's cotton and had met the merchant, Mr. Stevenson, but I'd waited outside the store while the men went inside to complete the sale.

“I can take the wheel for a spell.”

I glanced at Graden. I was sweating and my arms were sore, but I didn't want to look weak in front of my younger brother.

“Papa told
me
to take the truck.”

“Papa's not here. I was just offering to help.”

“Don't need your help,” I said. Then embarrassed by the harshness of my tone, I added, “We ain't got much longer. Town is just up ahead.”

In truth, I was not sure how much farther it was, but the patches of trees along the side of the road had started to thin, and we'd already passed a few isolated houses carved out from the land, so I felt sure we were getting close. I'd thought the road might get smoother as we got closer to town, but in fact it got worse. The heavier traffic caused deep furrows on wet days, which then dried into a criss-crossed series of ridges that I had to navigate carefully to avoid getting stuck.

I had never driven in traffic, and I panicked when the first car came rolling slowly towards us, also carefully picking its way along the road. I turned out of its way too sharply, taking the right front wheel off the road, then had to fight to keep the truck from rolling into the ditch.

I fared better as we got into town. There were more cars, but the roads were wider and paved as well, and I was growing more comfortable. I kept my eyes straight ahead, but Graden took in everything, turning this way and that to examine the buildings and the stalls and the solitary gas pump on the main corner. He met the eyes of all who looked at him, whether they were white or black.

Mr. Stevenson's store was a third of the way down a long side street, tucked between a hardware store and a laundry. I took the truck to the end of the street, then circled around so I could park around the back, as I had seen our father do. Mr. Stevenson was a thin man with a slight stoop, who tried to cover his balding head with a few long strands of black and grey hair that he combed over from the side. He stood in the doorway at the back of the store and watched us get out of the truck.

“You're James Williams's boy.”

“Yes, sir. I was here last year, sir.”

“I remember. Where's your pa?”

“He's sick, sir. He sent me.” I waved to indicate Graden. “Us. This is my brother, Graden.”

Mr. Stevenson ignored the introduction. He stepped out from the doorway to look at the sacks of cotton on the back of the truck. He grunted and spat.

“You can park by that post over there. Bring your goods into the stockroom here when you're done.”

I thanked him and moved the truck as he directed. Mr. Stevenson stood by as we unloaded the sacks. Inside, a pungent smell of livestock assaulted our nostrils. His backroom was dark except for a few slats of sunshine slipping in through gaps in the walls, and the air was thick with dust. By the time we had finished unloading the truck, the legs of our coveralls were coated with thin white fibres and our ankles itched ceaselessly where they had gotten on our skin.

When we were done, Mr. Stevenson waved us outside while he went in to examine the cotton.

“We supposed to just wait here?” asked Graden.

“Shhh.”

“What if he doesn't give us anything?”

“Be quiet! I been here before, not you. Just be still. Don't cause no trouble.”

We could hear the old man shuffling around in the darkened room, could see him moving in and out of the dusty shafts of light. He called his son in from the front of the store, and one by one they hauled the sacks on to a scale. He opened each bag and ran his hand through the white fibres, assessing them. He came back out with a smile on his face.

“Well, I must say, your old man does know how to run a field. Them bags is pretty even for measure. I can give you a dollar and eighty-five cents on the bag. That's an even twenty dollars for the lot.”

Mr. Stevenson reached into his pocket and started counting out one-dollar bills. Graden shuffled his feet, but looked steadily at him.

“We brung fourteen sacks, sir.”

I stiffened and watched my brother from the corner of my eye. Mr. Stevenson stopped counting and looked up at Graden.

“Yup. I counted 'em, boy. Don't you worry.”

“But that ain't right, sir. A dollar eight-five a sack is twenty-five dollars and ninety cents.”

Mr. Stevenson's expression darkened, but Graden either took no notice or ignored the warning.

“You saying I'm cheating you?”

“No, sir. Maybe you made a mistake, sir. I can show you.”

I stepped in front of Graden. “Please don't pay him no mind, sir.”

“Don't pay him no mind? Well, that's an odd request considering he just called me either a cheat or an idiot. Now listen here. I done right by your old man. I dealed with him for a lot of years, and I always been fair, but don't think that I need some nigger boy coming to my store to insult me!”

Graden didn't respond, but he didn't step back or look away, either. I turned to him, pleading, “Just get back in the truck. This ain't the time for you to be fancy.”

Graden did as he was asked, and I turned back to Mr. Stevenson, whose gaunt face was now flushed with rage.

“You know I'm the only man in town that will buy cotton from a nigger? I imagine your father is going to tan your hide something awful when you go back to him with a truck full of cotton and no money.”

He turned as if to walk back into the store, then stopped and seemed to collect himself.

“I'll tell you what I will do, boy. I will give you thirteen dollars, and you can be on your way. I only do this for your father's sake.”

I had no means with which to argue. I accepted the thirteen dollars and thanked him and apologized again for my brother. When I opened the truck door, Graden was shouting before I could climb up into the cab.

“He cheated us!”

“I know that,” I yelled back, although in truth I'd had no idea until Graden had spoken up.

“Well, what are we going to do?”

“Nothing. That's what. You done opened your mouth, and now we got thirteen dollars instead of twenty. You want to go back out there and talk some more? Maybe we'll get nothing instead of thirteen, and maybe you'll get a beating out of it too. And maybe I'll let him do it!”

Graden leaned back and looked away.

“That ain't right.”

“Right's got nothing to do with it,” I said.

“Right's got everything to do with it.”

I told him to shut up and for once he listened. I was angry at Graden, but it wasn't only because of the money, and the trouble he had almost started. I was also angry because he had expected me to deal with the situation, and I didn't know how to. I was flustered and kept flooding the engine. It took me three tries to get the truck started. The ride home felt longer than the ride into town, but it was just as silent.

Amblan, 2008

I thumbed the wheel
on the binoculars and brought the black-rimmed world into focus. The bread stacked in rows in the window of the store down the street. The salt pellets sinking slowly through the ice on the sidewalk. The old man sorting through money in the back of the cab.

The man extended one shaking hand across the seat, the cabbie reaching over his shoulder to take the fare. The door opened on the side facing me. I adjusted the binoculars again, watching the man rest both feet on the ground, then grab the top of the door with one hand and half-push, half-pull himself to a not-quite-upright position. I studied his face. Weathered, sagging. Tired. I tried to subtract each line in my mind, each crease, raising the cheeks, brightening the eyes, trying to match the face to one I last saw forty-three years ago.

I thought I would know when I saw him — just know — but I didn't. I couldn't be sure, but I had to be.

The man tapped the back of the cab as it pulled away. He wore a thin Kangol-style cap, and the collar of his coat was open. He looked accustomed to the cold. He stepped on to the sidewalk, shuffling along slowly to the store entrance and went inside.

I folded the binoculars and put them back in the case on the seat beside me, then picked up my camera and snapped a few quick photos. The engine of the rented Ford Explorer was off. I watched the door of the shop for a moment, then turned the ignition, and drove off.

I tucked a newspaper under my arm and entered the coffee shop, shaking the snow from my jacket and hanging it over the coat rack. It fell from its hook, and I bent over to pick it up, my knee groaning its displeasure at the unwanted strain. I hung the garment back on the rack, more securely this time, then draped my hat and scarf across it.

As I crossed the floor and selected a table that was free in the corner, I could feel the watchful eye of the manager. He was leaning against the serving window between the kitchen and the counter. I seated myself and gave him a brief nod. He returned it and offered a curt smile, then half-turned towards the kitchen, reading order tags hung from the spin tray like some ragtag Christmas tree. It was a reaction I'd seen many times before. I guessed that they probably didn't see many black folks in these parts. Or maybe just not many strangers.

A waitress flipped over the empty cup in front of me, filled it, and offered me a menu.

“Thank you, ma'am. Just the coffee's fine.”

I produced a handful of change from my pocket and started fingering through the coins, separating the Canadian from the American, until I had matched the total. I watched her walk away. The shop was about a third full, and she stopped at several other tables on her way back to the register. I spread the newspaper out in front of me, pulled a pair of reading glasses from my shirt pocket, and sipped on my coffee.

“What happened to your hand, mister?”

I looked up and looked over the rim of my glasses. A young boy, maybe five or six, stood by the table, strands of brown hair hanging limply from under his toque, like the woolen mittens dangling on yarn from the sleeves of his coat.

“Thomas!”

His mother shot towards him, a short, doughy-faced woman whose cheeks flushed in reaction to her son's question. I tried to be subtle as I pulled my hand away from the edge of the newspaper and out of sight under the table.

“I'm so sorry.”

“Not a problem, ma'am.”

“Thomas, you know better than to be rude to people. Apologize to the gentleman.”

“Sorry, sir.”

I muttered another “no problem” and waited for them to leave. The mother turned to me instead.

“My son's curiosity sometimes gets the best of his manners. You know how it is with young boys.”

I nodded.

“I don't believe we've seen you around before. Are you new to Amblan?”

“Just visiting, ma'am.”

She held her hand to her chest and smiled broadly.

“Why, I just love your accent. I'm good with accents. Let me guess: Kentucky?”

I set the paper down and sat upright in the booth, then removed my glasses, and set them on the table. The manager was still looking at orders on the rack, but I could tell he was no longer paying attention to them.

“Mississippi.”

“I knew it! I knew I was close. Well, I'm Margaret, and this here is my boy, Thomas. Welcome to our little town.”

“Nice to meet you. Thanks.”

She waited for my name, but I didn't offer it. After a second or two, she continued, “I imagine all this snow and cold must be quite a change for you, coming from Mississippi and all.”

“I've spent a fair bit of time in the northern states. I'll survive.”

She leaned forward slightly, as if to share a secret, and I stiffened reflexively, keeping one eye on the manager. Margaret was puzzled for a moment, but continued, “Well, the northern states ain't the same as northern Ontario. Things are pretty tepid right now, but there's a right storm coming this way. I suggest you keep yourself someplace cozy, 'cause when they hit, they hit in a hurry. No time to be out on the roads, if it ain't something you're used to.”

The boy was starting to fidget beside her, as anxious to leave as I was to see them go. I looked at the manager, who had now moved closer, under the pretense of wiping the counter. I spoke lower.

“Some of them roads up in the hills, I imagine they must get tricky.”

“Humph! When things turn bad like they're supposed to soon, those roads up in the hills get damn near impassable.”

Thomas looked up at her, and she blushed.

“Darn near impassable, I guess I should say.”

I sipped my coffee, then reached for my reading glasses, and put them back on.

“Well … I sure appreciate the warning.”

Margaret beamed at me. “You have a good day, sir.”

She prodded Thomas in the back, and they walked on. I didn't turn, but I watched them leave in the mirror that was hanging above the service window. Behind them, a taxi wobbled past, drunken and distorted in the mirror's reflection. I took another sip from my coffee and returned to my paper. I kept my hand under the table.