“Look here, Stacey,” Clarence said, “we get to Strawberry, I wanna stop a minute at the store, get me some B.C. head medicine.”
“All right. Have to stop in town myself to see Mr. Jamison.”
“Good, then, ’cause that girl Sissy sure done give me one bad headache.”
I looked at him. “Thought you had a headache before you left Jackson. Didn’t you get rid of that thing?”
“Yeah, for a while. But it’s back now, and that Sissy, she just done made it worse.”
“Yeah, well, I can understand that,” I said. “She gave me one too.”
Incident in Strawberry
I had never much liked riding down the main street of Strawberry. I hadn’t particularly liked it as a child, and I sure didn’t now. Strawberry had always been a sad, desolate kind of place to me, and in the years since I’d first seen it nothing much had changed. Verandas still sagged in front of gloomy store buildings and raised wooden sidewalks still creaked and groaned. Wagons and pickups still lined the short strip of paved road that ran hurriedly through the town and away from it, and the spindly row of electrical lines that gave the town its claim to modernity still looked out of place. On Saturdays farm women wearing dresses cut from cotton flour sacks and farm men wearing denim populated the town, and a hound dog that looked to be as old as the town itself still slept wherever it pleased, in the middle of the road mainly, and folks just left him be and went around him.
That was Strawberry.
And then there were the old men. They were always sitting there on that bench in front of the Barnett Mercantile watching folks, reporting every move, just like some old police force. Like old gray sentinels from another era, they were always on the alert, reporting the latest comings, the latest goings, the slightest stray from the ordinary. It was December, yet they were sitting right there, and would be until the weather turned chill and damp and the dreaded days of winter swept this hot land, forcing them inside. Nothing much got past that bench that they didn’t see, so we hardly could. We expected them to stare at us and wonder about our business, for they always did. They were staring now as Stacey parked in front of Mr. Wade Jamison’s office, across the street from the mercantile.
As we got out of the car Stacey frowned down at one of the tires. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
“That left front tire looks low.”
Little Willie came over. “Lookin’ more than low, hoss. Best put some air in it.”
“Been low too often,” said Stacey. “Best to change it Put on the spare.”
“Well, you go on see ’bout your business with Mr. Jamison, man. We take care of it for you.”
“Thanks, Willie. The jack’s in the back with the spare. But I tell you what. Take the car on down to Mr. Dueeze’s garage and see if you can’t get this tire here patched. Don’t like to drive without a spare.”
“Don’t worry ’bout a thing,” said Willie. “It’s already taken care of.”
Stacey gave Willie some money and the keys. “I’ll catch y’all up there.”
Willie started to take the driver’s seat, but then Clarence said, “Y’all wait on up a minute while I run in here and get me some BCs for my head. Be right back.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Moe, and the two of them crossed the street to the mercantile. As they stepped onto the porch Statler Aames and his brothers came out of the store and Jeremy was with them. They looked at Clarence and Moe as they went in, then leaned against the store posts and began talking to the old men.
Stacey, who had been watching, turned and headed for Mr. Jamison’s office. As he reached the walkway Mr. Jamison opened the door to his office and came out carrying a briefcase. He was a lean man, gray, in his sixties, and as usual when we saw him, he wore a suit and a hat. He noticed Stacey and gave a nod. “Were you coming to see me?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, I was, but it looks like it’s a bad time—”
“No matter. Glad you caught me. I was just on my way to Jackson.”
“We’re on our way there too. It be better for you, I can come by your office in Jackson next week sometime. Wanted to make my final payment on the car.”
If Mr. Jamison was surprised that Stacey was paying the car note off so quickly, he made no indication of it. He glanced over at the Ford, at Willie, Oliver, and me, spoke to us, then said, “Car looks mighty good, Stacey. Mrs. Jamison would be proud to see it.”
Stacey smiled, for those were fine words coming from Mr. Jamison. “Thank you. Course, it’s not looking the best right now, what with all the dust from the trip down, but I’m right proud of it.”
Mr. Jamison’s eyes studied the Ford a few moments longer, then he looked back to Stacey. “I take it you’re all home for the funeral.”
“Yes, sir. Folks came from all over.”
“Well, Reverend Gabson ministered throughout the county. Wouldn’t have expected any less. He was a respected man.”
“Yes, sir, that’s a fact.”
Mr. Jamison turned back to his office. “You’ll be needing a few legal papers now that you’ve got full ownership. Come on in and I’ll write them for you.”
Stacey followed Mr. Jamison back up the walkway and into the office. Little Willie, Oliver, and I waited by the Ford. Across the street the old gray men were watching us and so were Statler, Troy, and Leon Aames. I could feel Jeremy’s eyes on us too. I knew they were all wondering about our business. I turned my back to them, leaned against the car, and looked the other way.
“Ah, there’s that scound,” said Willie. “Come on, we can go.”
He opened the car door. I turned around and saw Clarence coming out of the mercantile. Moe wasn’t with him, but I didn’t figure him to be far behind. I started to get into the car but then stopped as Statler hollered out to Clarence. “’Ey, soldier boy!” he called. “That uniform you got on making you forget your manners?”
Clarence was already at the steps. He turned, his face etched with surprise. “S-suh?”
Statler now moved from his post toward Clarence. “You walked right on past me twice now, boy, and ain’t minded your manners neither time.”
Clarence stared at Statler as if not certain what he was talking about, but he apologized anyway. “Well . . . I’m sorry.”
“You sorry, then what your cap doing on your head, nigger, when I’m talking to ya?”
Immediately Clarence’s hand went to his head and snatched off the cap.
“Niggers put on a uniform, make ’em get the big head. You got the big head, boy?”
“No, suh.”
“Well, why don’t you just show me that, then?”
Clarence looked puzzled, not knowing what he meant. Leon and Troy sniggered at Clarence’s confusion. “Suh?”
“Come on over here, let me see your head. Want to see how big it is.” He motioned him over with a friendly gesture, as if inviting him to come sit down to tea. “I said, step on over here!”
The old men on the bench laughed. Clarence looked at them, then slowly walked over to Statler and waited, his eyes questioning what was coming.
“Bend that head!” Statler ordered. Clarence obeyed. Statler walked around Clarence, his eyes on Clarence’s head, giving it close inspection. Then he lifted his hand, balled it into a fist, and knocked on the back of Clarence’s head as if he were knocking on somebody’s door. He looked around at the others. “Well, watcha think?”
Jeremy stood aside and said nothing. Leon and Troy laughed, then Troy knocked his knuckles against Clarence’s head too. “Well . . . it sure ’nough hard!” And then all the gray men and the Aames boys burst into raucous laughter. Clarence didn’t react. He just stood stock-still.
“Well, what you think, Leon?” called Statler. “Come on over here and see what you think ’bout this nigger, whether or not he got the hard head.”
Leon, though, objected. “I ain’t touchin’ no nigger’s greasy head.”
“Shoot, boy, don’t mind that! Papa always told me it
bring good luck to rub a nigger’s head. Don’t you know that, boy?”
Leon shrugged and gave it a try. Clarence clutched the flat cap in his hand. Jeremy looked on soberly, then turned and started off the porch. Statler called after him. “’Ey, Jeremy! You could do with some good luck, can’t ya, now? Come on, give a feel.”
Jeremy glanced back. “I gotta see ’bout my truck.”
“You rub this black nigger’s head, you won’t have to worry ’bout your truck. Maybe you’ll come into a new one.”
Jeremy shook his head and went on down the street toward the Dueeze Garage. As he walked away one of the old gray men called Clarence over. When Clarence didn’t move, Statler ordered, “Go on ’round there, nigger! Just ’cause Mr. Jeremy don’t want no good luck don’t mean Mr. Bowater don’t. Go on! Let Mr. Bowater feel your head, boy!”
Clarence, his head bowed in humiliation, still didn’t move. His eyes were downcast, looking at no one.
“You hear me, boy?” questioned Statler. “You move when I speak to you!”
Clarence looked up. He was bigger than Statler. He was bigger than Leon and Troy. He could have taken any one of them on and whipped the mess out of him. But he couldn’t whip the mess out of all three of them. He couldn’t even whip the mess out of one of them and expect to sleep well tonight. He could never expect to hit a white man and sleep well.
“Don’t you be eyeballing me, boy,” Statler warned, “’cause we gonna get us some luck outa you. Now, go on, do like I say and get on there to Mr. Bowater.”
I looked on, hoping Clarence would knock him flat; but I knew he could never do that.
“Watch yourself, son,” Little Willie murmured. “Watch yourself.”
Clarence looked around, almost as if he had heard. I stepped forward, but Little Willie slipped his hand tightly over my wrist and stopped me. He knew as well as I did that there was nothing we could do. If we started something, they would finish it. We couldn’t win, not against white folks. They did what they wanted, and there was no sense in starting up trouble just about a little ridicule. A little ridicule wasn’t supposed to hurt. But it did. It sliced like a knife.
“Boy!” commanded Statler.
Clarence moved slowly toward the bench and Mr. Bowater Jones. Just then Moe came out of the mercantile. As he stepped onto the porch he saw Clarence with his hat in his hands and his head bent, and he said, “Clarence . . . come on.”
“We got business with him,” said Statler Aames.
Moe glanced across the street at us, at me, then he turned back. “Cl-Clarence?”
Statler Aames now turned his attention to Moe. “Nigger, you hard of hearing? Ain’t I just done said we got business with this boy?”
Moe seemed unable to speak. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Statler Aames started toward Moe now. Moe didn’t move.
“Moe Turner! Clarence Hopkins!”
Statler stopped and looked across the street. Everybody looked. Standing on his office steps was Mr. Wade Jamison. Stacey stood beside him.
“Clarence!” Mr. Jamison said again. “Would you come over, please? I’d like to see you. You too, Moe.”
Clarence, uncertain what to do, looked around at Statler, Leon and Troy, and the old gray men. Moe, keeping his eyes on Statler, moved slowly down the steps.
“Clarence! Moe! Now, please!”
At the second summons Clarence moved quickly and followed Moe into the street. Statler, Leon, Troy, and the others watched them go and didn’t try to stop them. They didn’t say a word. Mr. Wade Jamison, after all, was a formidable figure and, despite everything, one of their own. In the past there had been those who had retaliated against Mr. Jamison’s liberal ways by burning out his office late one night, but he had survived. He seemed always to survive. Now they weren’t about to go against him in broad daylight. If they did anything at all, it would be under the cover of darkness. That was their way.
Moe and Clarence went and spoke to Mr. Jamison, then Clarence went back inside the office with Stacey. Mr. Jamison remained standing on the porch. Moe came back to the car and said, “Let’s go on to the garage. Clarence and Stacey’ll be down in a bit.”
Little Willie, Oliver, and I didn’t question Moe. We just got into the Ford with Little Willie at the wheel and headed for the Dueeze Garage.
“That sure was a lowdown thing they did to Clarence,” I said as we drove down the street.
“Just be thankful they ain’t done no more,” said Willie. “’Sides, nothin’ to be done ’bout it, Cassie. They do what they want.”
“Still lowdown. Wish Clarence had knocked them out.”
“No, you don’t,” said Moe and looked out the window. “No, you don’t.” I sighed and looked away.
The main street of Strawberry was only three blocks long. The Dueeze Garage at the other end was at the town’s outskirts. Upon reaching the garage, the pavement ended, and just beyond the garage the forest sprang up. As we drove onto the lot, we saw the Simmses’ pickup truck parked in front of the garage alongside Mr. Dueeze’s car and another truck. Jeremy was on the back of his truck, arranging a load. He glanced over but said nothing. Neither did we. We saw no one else. The doors to the garage were open, but no one was inside. “Looks like we gonna hafta go on ’round back to get Mr. Dueeze,” said Willie, parking the car at the far end of the lot, some distance from the pickups.
When we got out of the car, Oliver took the jack from the trunk and placed it in position. The hub cap was jammed in tight. Moe took out the crowbar and pried it off, then Oliver slipped off the tire. It was then that Little Willie noticed that the spare looked as if it could use a patch job too. Taking the tire that had just come off the Ford and the spare from the trunk, he and Oliver went around to the back of the garage to look for Mr. Dueeze. Moe and I stayed by the car.
Moe, still holding the crowbar, walked around the car checking the other tires. I started to lean against the car, then straightened and stared down the street toward town. I didn’t believe what I saw. “Can’t be,” I said.
Moe glanced over. “What is it?”
“That truck coming . . . isn’t that Harris’s old truck?”
Moe stared at the beat up vehicle coming our way and smiled. “Sure looks enough like it.”
“Well, what’s he doing here?”
As the truck drew closer we could see Harris at the wheel with Sissy beside him and Christopher-John and Little Man riding in back. We left the Ford and walked toward the road. The old truck sputtered to a stop in front of us, and Sissy jumped out. “Where’s Clarence?” she demanded. “Cassie—”
I left her to Moe and went around to the back. “Christopher-John, Man, what y’all doing here? Papa and Mama know y’all in Strawberry?”
“Nope!” said Little Man, jumping down and brushing himself off.
“Well, what you doing here?”
“We were with Harris when Sissy got to hollering at him about coming into town to see about Clarence leaving her the way he did.” He grinned. “Look like it was going to be too good to miss.”
“I imagine that punishment that’ll be waiting for y’all won’t be too good to miss either,” I pointed out. Little Man shrugged off the probability.
“I told him we ought not come,” complained Christopher-John as he, too, got down.
“Well, too late now,” I said.
They glanced over at Jeremy, who met their eyes and turned away without a word as he went on loading his truck. Then they noticed the Ford all jacked up and Little Man asked, “What happened to the car?”
“Bad tire,” I said. “Oliver and Little Willie inside getting it and the spare fixed.”
“Oh,” they said and went over to inspect. Harris got out of the truck and hobbled over as well.
Sissy’s voice rose impatiently. “Y’all gonna tell me or not? Where Clarence at?”
“He’s with Stacey,” said Moe.
“Well, where?”
“There, over at—” Moe didn’t
finish. His eyes were on the road. Another truck was coming toward the garage.
“Oh, goodness,” I murmured. “Statler Aames.”
But Sissy wasn’t caring about Statler Aames at the moment. All she was concerned about right now was Clarence. “Moe! Where is he?”
“Hush, girl,” I said as the truck turned onto the garage lot and parked alongside the pickup next to Jeremy’s. Over at the Ford, Harris’s eyes grew big. He limped back toward us and his truck.
“’Ey, Cousin!” exclaimed Statler, getting out with Leon and Troy. They walked toward Jeremy’s truck. “Uncle Charlie here?”
Jeremy picked up a feed bag and stacked it against the cab. “Yeah, in back there. We gotta make a run up to Bogganville and take Mr. George Goods a load. Been having a bit of trouble with this clutch, though. Had to get Mr. Dueeze to take a look at it. Just hoping we don’t have no more trouble with it ’fore we get back.”
“S-Sissy, c-come on,” hissed Harris, his eyes on Statler. “Come on, let’s get on ’way from here!”
“Not till I find out ’bout Clarence,” insisted Sissy stubbornly.
“B-but, Sissy—”
Statler turned and looked at us, and Harris froze. “What you need, Jeremy, to keep this here truck running is some good luck,” said Statler. “Like I told ya, maybe what you need to do is knock on a few heads here!” He squinted at Moe, as if trying to place him. Then he smiled in full recognition. “Ain’t you the boy messed with our getting ourselves some luck with that soldier boy?”
Moe didn’t answer.
Statler came toward us. There was a look of mock uncertainty in his eyes. He stopped in front of Moe and studied him some more. “Yeah,” he said, as if now certain. “Yeah, you the one. Well, now, seeing you the one done stopped us from getting all our good luck before, seem like to me you need to do something ’bout that. Don’t you figure that’s only right?”
Moe’s jaw slackened, and he looked at me. His grip tightened on the crowbar.
“Unh-unh, boy! Don’t you be looking at Cassie when I’m talking to ya! You owe me some luck, and I’m planning on getting it. Get that hat off!” he ordered, but he gave Moe no time to react before he knocked the hat off himself.
The Road to Memphis Page 11