The Road to Memphis

by Mildred D. Taylor

“Ahhh,” he said, as if a revelation had just hit him, then he laughed. “That’s what’s bothering you?”

  “That’s not funny!”

  “No . . . no, it’s not,” he agreed, smiling still. Then he stopped smiling. “But I thought maybe those men had . . .” His eyes studied mine, then he squeezed my shoulder and moved away. “We’ll fix your clothes.” He went to the door, and if he had smelled the sourness of the vomit, he didn’t say so. He opened the door and called the woman Mag. “Cassie’s in somewhat of a fix here,” he told her when she came in. “She needs a change of clothes. I was just thinking maybe one of your daughter’s clothes might fit her.”

  Mag gave me a look up and down. Then she came closer and walked around me. I knew she smelled the vomit, but she didn’t say anything either. “Yeah, I got something she can wear.”

  “Good. Then, why don’t you send Mort over to your place, and you see Cassie upstairs to mine so she can wash up and change.”

  “We have time for this?” asked the woman. “I’m trying to get this story set—”

  “That story can wait another five minutes, Mag. Just tell Mort what clothes to ask for.”

  “Oh, all right,” agreed the woman somewhat begrudgingly, “but we’re losing precious time here. Remember, you’re the one insists on getting this paper out on time.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” said Solomon with a smile of mocking acquiescence.

  She shook her head and returned to the outer office, calling for Mort as she went.

  Solomon turned back to me. “It’ll be all right. Mag’s got a bark. Actually, she’s got a bite, too, but she’s a rock. She keeps things on track around here. I depend on her.”

  I frowned. “What about my clothes? They need to be cleaned.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s a cleaners in the building and I’ve got a little pull with them. We’ll make sure you get your clothes before you leave.”

  Mag stepped back into the doorway. “I sent Mort,” she said to Solomon; then to me, “You ready?”

  I glanced at Solomon. “Where’s Little Willie? I’d better tell him where I’m going.”

  “That boy’s in that back room following Joanne all ’round,” said Mag. “No need to worry about him. You’ll be back before he even gets to missing you.”

  “I’ll let him know where you are,” said Solomon. “Now, go on.” Despite my stepping away again, he came to me, put his hand on my back, and pushed me toward Mag with a gentle touch. “Don’t worry. We’ll let him know where you are, and your brother, too, if he comes back before you finish up there. Just take your time.”

  I took one more look at him, nodded, and left with the woman. I followed Mag through the office and outside, then to the end of the building, where she opened a door and led me up a flight of stairs.

  “Don’t get winded, now,” she told me as she reached the landing. “I told Solomon, seeing he owns the building and just about everything in it, he ought to have a place on the second floor so folks don’t have to be climbing all these stairs.”

  “You mean he owns this whole building?” I said, somewhat incredulous, as I trailed behind her. “Those other businesses too?”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it? He won’t listen to me, though, about moving from the top floor. Says he likes the exercise. Besides that, he doesn’t like to hear people walking over him.”

  “This whole building . . .” I repeated in a mutter.

  “Here we are,” Mag said, reaching the top floor landing. She led me down a hallway to a corner door, pulled out the keys Solomon had given her, and unlocked it. She flicked a switch as we entered, bathing the room in light. The room had a comfortable look to it. A wall of books lined one side. Paintings, certificates, newspapers, photographs, all framed, lined another, and the third wall was lined with windows that faced the street. There wasn’t much of a fourth wall, for the room opened directly into a second room that looked as if it logically should have been a dining room but held instead a desk and a chair as its only furniture. Stacks of paper were on the floor, both newspapers and writing paper, and there were more books too. “It’s a bit congested in here,” said Mag, “but you’ll find your way. Solomon’s a collector. I told him he’s too young to be collecting all this stuff, but he pays me no attention. He’s thinking about knocking out a wall into the next apartment to give himself more room, but he’ll just fill that up, too, with more books and newspapers. Come on, it’s this way to the bathroom.”

  “Does he live alone?”

  “Could hardly say alone,” said Mag, crossing the office and entering a hallway. “He’s got too many women friends to say that.”

  “Oh.”

  She turned on the light in the bathroom. I noticed there were two other doors along the hall. One of the doors was half-opened, and I could see the bedroom. The bed was made, but there were papers on it too.

  “He reads a lot, doesn’t he?”

  “You could say that,” Mag conceded. She opened a drawer, pulled out some towels, and gave them to me.

  “When he was in Jackson, he had a woman with him. I didn’t get a chance to meet her, though. You know who she was?”

  “Could’ve been one of a dozen young things. Here.” She slapped a fresh bar of soap into my hand and turned to the door.

  “What kind of women does he bring up here?”

  She looked back at me. “Girl, you sure are asking a lot of questions about that man. Go ahead and wash up. Get in the tub and take yourself a bath if you want. Soak and relax. Nobody’ll bother you. Time you get out, Mort ought to be back from my place with some clothes. I’ll bring them up. By the way, you can just wrap yourself in one of these big towels hanging here when you finish.”

  She left the bathroom and went back into the living room. I followed her out. “You sure it’s all right I stay here?”

  “Course.” She opened the door, then looked back at me with a frown. “You’re not afraid to be here by yourself, are you?”

  “No . . . . What about Mr. Bradley, though? Would he come up?”

  There was a second of silence, then Mag laughed. “Girl, don’t you worry about Solomon. He’s not thinking about you, and even if he was, he’s too busy now to do anything about it. Now, there’s the phone. You want something, need something before I get back with some clothes, you can call downstairs. Here.” She wrote on a pad by the phone. “I put the number down for you. Now, just lock the door and get yourself that bath. I’ll be back in just a bit.”

  With that she went out, closing the door behind her. I made sure it was locked, then stood with my back to the door a moment, surveying the room. I imagined Solomon here, in this room, then left the door and walked slowly along the three walls. I looked at the paintings, studied the photographs, read a few lines of the articles, the newspapers, fingered the books, then sighed, and headed for the bathroom.

  It was then that I noticed the record player and the shelf of records. I glanced through the records. There was Benny Goodman and Duke Ellington, Glenn Miller and Artie Shaw, Billy Holiday, and Cab Calloway. I longed to play one of them, but knew I shouldn’t. I knew I probably shouldn’t even be up here in this man’s place; but it was exciting for me to be here, alone in Solomon Bradley’s apartment. If Stacey knew, he would probably raise the devil; but he wasn’t here, so I figured to enjoy myself while I had the chance, and the first thing I was going to enjoy was a bath.

  I soaked for more than an hour. Then, wrapped in a towel, I took a book from Solomon’s shelf, curled up in Solomon’s chair, and read while I waited for Mag. When Mag returned some time later, she brought with her a skirt, a blouse, and a cardigan sweater. I thanked her for the clothes, then went again to the bathroom and put them on over my own still damp underwear which I had washed out and hung to dry over the heater. As we were leaving the apartment I hesitated at the door, not yet wanting to leave. Giving the room another look, I asked Mag about one of the photographs on the fireplace mantle. She looked around to see what pi
cture I was talking about. “Oh, that’s some girl up north.”

  “You know her?”

  “Just seen the picture.”

  “Well, is she Mr. Bradley’s special girlfriend or something?”

  She laughed. “Solomon’s got plenty of lady friends that are special. Didn’t you see them all lined up there?”

  “But her picture’s sitting different from the others. Sitting apart, like she’s somebody special.”

  Mag glanced again at the picture, then at me, and put her hands on her ample hips and gave me an odd look. “Now, how come you asking so many questions about Solomon Bradley? How come you so interested in those pictures?”

  I looked away from her, casually turning to take in the room once more. “Oh . . . I was just wondering.”

  Then she laughed. “Well, I hope that’s all you were doing, ’cause the last thing you want to do is get your mind set on Solomon Bradley. That man got too many women as it is running after him, and they got a whole lot more experience on how to get him than you do. Take my word for it. You fix your mind on Solomon Bradley, you just asking yourself for trouble.”

  “I’m not fixing my mind on anybody!” I declared, looking her full in the eyes.

  “Well, good, then!” she said. “One less heart for me to have to worry about.”

  “How old is he, anyway?”

  “Too old for you, little country girl. Now, come on, I’ve got work to do.”

  With that we left the apartment and went back downstairs to the newspaper office. “Feeling better?” Solomon asked me as we entered his office. He was seated at his desk.

  I nodded. “Yes, thanks.”

  “Solomon, need you to check this copy here,” said Mag, going over to him. “Henry’s ready to set the page.”

  Solomon took the pages and began to read. Mag leaned over his chair, talking about cutting part of an article. As they conversed I took a better look around. There were photographs on the walls here too. All looked to be school class pictures of white folks and a boy who looked very much like Solomon. There were two college degrees hanging on the wall as well. When Mag and Solomon finished with the article, Mag took the pages to the outer office. I turned to Solomon. “You’re not from here, are you?” I said. “I mean, you’re not from Memphis.”

  He glanced over at the wall. “Guess those pictures do give me away, don’t they? They were taken in Amherst. Amherst, Massachusetts. I was born there, grew up there.”

  The place was foreign to me. “You went to school with white folks?” That idea, like the town of Amherst, was foreign too.

  He shrugged. “Amherst was a white town, so I went to a white school. My father owned a store there, and my mother was a teacher. All while I was growing up just everybody I knew and associated with was white. It wasn’t a bad life.”

  “Well, how did you end up here?”

  He considered the question, then answered with a mock smile. “I got lucky.”

  “What was it like?”

  “What was what like?”

  “Being in a white school?”

  “Sometimes it was rough. Sometimes it was lonely, but I got a good education. It was good enough to get me accepted into Harvard.” He looked at me as if that should mean something. It didn’t. I didn’t know anything about any Harvard. He laughed, at himself, it seemed. “That’s a very prestigious school. You’re supposed to be impressed.”

  “Oh. Well, what was it like there?”

  “Well, again I got a fine education. But a Negro in a white school misses out on a lot of social life. Fraternities were off limits to me, white girls were definitely off limits, and there were no colored girls nearby. It got lonely.”

  “Was it worth it?”

  “As I said, I got a fine education.”

  “Then you came here?”

  “After law school. I met a man while I was in Boston who was from here, and we used to talk a lot. I was intrigued by what he told me about the South. He encouraged me to come to Memphis and I did. I set up a law office and I’ve been here ever since.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  He smiled. “Now you’re asking my permission?”

  I knew he was teasing, so I paid no attention. “Back in Jackson at my cousin’s cafe, I asked you if you were a lawyer and you said you figured a body had to practice the law to be a lawyer. Then you said you spent time in jail once and after that you didn’t have much respect for the law. Now I know I’m not suppose to be assuming anything, but I thought from what you said, you weren’t practicing law, but Oliver said you were, among other things. It’s confusing to me and I’d like to get it straight.”

  He laughed outright. “You know, I like you, Cassie Logan. I like how your mind works . . . among other things.” I wasn’t sure how he meant that and my face went hot, but he seemed not to notice as he went on talking. “The truth of the matter is that I use my knowledge of the law to further my business interests. I also use my knowledge of the law to advise people who come to me on a personal basis, not as clients, but just people who want some advice from a knowledgeable source. I don’t charge them for any advice I might give. So you see, that’s the extent of my law involvement and I don’t consider that practicing law.”

  I glanced away from him, thinking on what he had said, then looked back. “What was it about going to jail that made you lose respect for the law?”

  “I think I’ve made a mistake,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “Allowing you to ask me so many questions.”

  His tone was quiet, but I wondered if I had upset him by bringing the subject of his jail time up again. “I was just trying to understand . . . .”

  “I know. As I said, I like the way your mind works.” He smiled once more. “Maybe one day, if you continue in your persistence, I’ll tell you.”

  I nodded, not really satisfied with that, but knowing I shouldn’t press him further about it now. Still, there were other questions I wanted him to answer, for I wanted to know everything I could about Solomon Bradley. “So how’d you get in the newspaper business?” I asked.

  “You are a curious young lady, aren’t you?”

  “My grandmother says I’m just nosy. You don’t mind telling me, I’d like to know.”

  “It’s a bit of a story.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  He sat on the edge of his desk. “Well, to tell the truth, Cassie, things here in Memphis didn’t go that well for me at first. Lot of black folks didn’t much go in for settling matters in court. They figured the courts belonged to the white folks. Some of them would rather settle disputes with the old-time solution of guns and knives and fists. Finally, though, a case came up involving a land dispute, black against white, and I got it.

  “Thing was, I was so hamstrung by the racial laws that the only way I could figure to educate folks about the case was to put some handbills together to explain what we were up against. I did the handbills and a lot of public speaking too. The handbills and the speaking made quite a stir. I lost the case, but I found folks were coming to me after that, because of those handbills and all that speaking. So that’s how I got into the newspaper business. I figured if a few handbills and speaking to folks in a few churches and pool halls could get folks’ attention, then maybe a newspaper could too. I tried it and it worked.”

  “Yeah, well, that makes sense. But what about all these other businesses in the building? Mag says they’re yours too.”

  “That’s called enterprise,” he said with a grin. “En-ter-prise, that’s the American way, Cassie Logan.” His tone was mocking. He stood and went around the desk and sat down. “Don’t you approve of enterprise?”

  I shrugged. “I just think that if you have a law degree, you ought to be practicing law. If I had a degree, I’d practice law.”

  “You’ve been thinking about what I said?”

  “I’ve been thinking about how white folks are always falling back on the law. Maybe if colored f
olks knew the law as well as they did, we could do something about it.”

  He leaned back in the leather chair and studied me. “You know, of course, that the law is written in their favor.”

  “Yeah, I know that.”

  “Then, what good is it being a lawyer when you know the law’s written against you?”

  “Mr. Jamison says the law is a matter of interpretation.”

  “Mr. Jamison?”

  “He’s a white lawyer I know. He says that the United States government law is supposed to take what he calls precedence over state law. He says that about this precedence business, it’s all about interpretation. He says if the United States Supreme Court interprets the law different from the courts in Mississippi and says the United States law is right, then the United States law has to take precedence. He says that’s how some things get changed. Thing is, though, right now folks in the rule of things—white folks—they aren’t much calling for any interpretation about laws concerning colored folks, and that’s partly why the laws stay the same. I was thinking that if I got to know the law as well as they do, then maybe I could get some different interpretation. If we know the law like they do, then we can use it like they do.”

  His eyes on me were intense. He thumped a pencil against his mouth in silence, then he smiled.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Did you figure all that out yourself?”

  I sat down on the sofa. “Doesn’t it make sense?”

  “Could be it does,” he said, but he said no more than that. He studied me, then, looking at my knees, said, “That looks pretty ugly.”

  “What?”

  He got up. “Where you fell. Stay put. I’ll be right back.” He left, and I looked down at my knees. When I had sat, the skirt I wore had slipped just above them; they were ugly. They were red-raw now from the bath and the loss of the scabs. Solomon came back carrying a small box. He crossed the room to the sofa, knelt in front of me, and opened the box. Pulling out some cotton and a bottle of iodine, he said, “Scream if you want. I would.”

  Then he dabbed my knees with iodine. I jerked back. I felt as if my crazy bone had just been hit.