Moses said, “Well, Bess, I guess we’ll be seeing our two boys leave home. It just won’t be the same around here with you boys away, but we’ll have Lucilla to keep us on our toes.”
I knew this day was coming, but I hadn’t planned for it. I had no desire to return to Tchula, for there was more Moses needed to teach me. I wasn’t ready to be without him.
Dinner was done, and Mayhew was in the bedroom packing. Bess and Lucilla were in the living room, and out the front window, I saw Moses on the front deck reading a book. I walked out to sit beside him. The sun had disappeared behind the trees on the far side of the Mississippi. A tug pushing six barges was slowly fighting its way upstream against the current, its telltale black diesel exhaust shooting high into the air.
I was struggling with the excitement of what lay ahead, and the sadness that it would be without Moses. I pulled a rocking chair up alongside his and sat, staring at the river, the barge, and the dilemma I faced. “Grandpa, is it okay if I borrow some books to take with me? I’ll bring them back.”
“Why, son, you know you can have all the books you want.”
Tomorrow, I would be leaving my home and family—leaving Moses. I wouldn’t be seeing him every day, hearing his voice, learning. Since that night I first heard his voice pierce through the storm, the voice remained a pillar of my strength. I was eleven years old and thinking I could make it on my own; yet now, at eighteen, sitting next to him, I realized I never would have. I dropped my head, listened to the waves lap against the hull, turned my gaze toward Moses, and felt as though I was letting him down. I felt selfish and unjust. I showed up at their houseboat in such need, was given the greatest home and care that life could grant anyone, and I was leaving as quickly as I came. How could I thank someone for giving me happiness, let alone my very existence?
“Grandpa, you are so good with words. I’m not. I…I can’t find the right ones to tell you everything I want to say. Remember when you towed me here in a sinking boat?” I held my open hands in front of me and stared at them. “Look at me now.”
Moses reached over and placed his wrinkled hand in mine. “Remember that time we talked about how feeble words are, and I told you how a flower is not a word, but a reality? I told you to just pull into you—its essence. Do you remember?”
I did. My throat wouldn’t allow for words, so I just nodded.
“This is one of those times, Jory.” He gave me a few long moments. Then, he half sighed and half chuckled, “Is it working?”
I laughed quietly. “Yes, Grandpa… It’s working.”
* * *
Mayhew and I drove to town, picked up Jacob, and went to a used car lot. Jacob spotted a 1953 Ford pickup and suggested it would be the perfect vehicle for Moses. It was easy to get in and out of the truck, and he would have a clear view all around. Jacob checked it over and found it in good shape. He talked the man down an amazing amount—I’d never seen his haggling skills in action before. I paid the car lot owner, and we drove Jacob back to the dock. Mayhew drove the car, I drove the pickup, and we headed home.
Mayhew had hardly stopped the car in the front of the houseboat before he ran in and told Moses we had a surprise.
“My word, Mayhew,” he said when he saw the truck, “is this yours?”
Mayhew said, “Nope, it’s yours, Grandpa.”
I smiled at Moses. “Grandpa, you can have whichever one you want, but we just thought you’d like the truck.”
“Goodness, boys, I can do fine with the boat, just as before.”
“Grandpa, it’s getting too hard for you to use the boat, and Bess, too.”
Mayhew made him get in the pickup and try it out. Five minutes later, we pulled up to the houseboat, and he turned off the engine. “Well, truck or car?” Mayhew said.
“Seems I’d be wasting my time trying to talk you out of this. I do like this truck.”
“So what’s her name, Grandpa?” I asked.
“Why, Betsy, of course.”
58
Of Crosses and Fire
MAYHEW AND I WENT BACK TO TCHULA. We had been at the house for a little over a week when the first cross was burned in the front lawn.
It was about midnight when I saw the flickering light reflecting off the bedroom walls. Half asleep and confused, I opened the front door, and when I saw it, my mind exploded. I ran toward it and kicked at the burning wood. Sparks flew and it toppled to the ground. I grabbed the hose, turned on the water, and sprayed the flames. I kept drowning the cross in water long after the fire was out. Mayhew came outside and a couple of neighbors appeared.
One of the neighbors came to me and said he thought he had seen a red pickup truck. I thanked him. He said he would be happy to bring over his truck so we could take the cross away. We drove to a bridge and tossed it over.
When I got back to the house, Mayhew was in the living room. He immediately started ranting about how he shouldn’t stay with me anymore, how I was putting myself in danger by his living with me. I told him there wasn’t an evil person in the world who could make me have him leave.
“I don’t care how many crosses they burn or what they do,” I said. “They will not control me.”
There were two more burning crosses over the next two months, and when I went to the store one morning to open, I arrived to see “Nigger Lover” painted across the picture window and the front door.
We tried to go back home to the houseboat every other weekend, but Mayhew wasn’t always able to make it, for he often had to work on Saturdays. When he had to work, I’d drive home alone. One weekend, when Mayhew wasn’t there, I was sitting in the living room with Moses and Bess. It was nice to see electric lights rather than the kerosene lamps. Moses was listening to the record player I had given them. He loved Mozart, and I had gotten him a bunch of classical LPs, much to his appreciation. He handed me a newspaper he had folded over to an article.
I looked at the photo that accompanied the article and gasped. It was a picture of one of the crosses burning in my yard. I had seen the article in the local newspaper, but I had no idea it would be picked up in the Vicksburg paper. I knew the man at the dock saved all newspapers for Moses, but I sure wished he hadn’t saved this one.
“I didn’t want to worry you,” I said as I cast the newspaper aside. I didn’t want to see that picture again. “I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you, but I knew you and Bess would worry about us. Mayhew and I don’t want that. When I’m not there, like tonight, I have a friend I grew up with, Russell—he’s a police officer—make sure everything is okay. He drives by often and parks his car in my driveway sometimes when he’s off duty.”
“What about what it’s doing to you, to your store?” Moses asked. “The paper said what happened. You even had bricks thrown through your big windows.”
“Grandpa, no one is going to change what I do. If people don’t want to shop at my store, it’s their business, but I’m not going to let them change my life. I’m not running from anyone.”
Moses looked at me with great sadness in his eyes. “Sometimes we have to do what’s best, and it isn’t always the same as what we want. I don’t want you or Mayhew in danger. I think Mayhew should live somewhere else, or come home and get a job.”
Near to bursting with frustration, I said, “Grandpa, I will do whatever you ask, but it’s not what I want to do. I want to stand firm for what I believe in, as you always said I should. I don’t want Mayhew to leave. He’s my best friend, my brother, and I don’t care if people can’t understand that.”
“I know,” Moses said, “but in these times, standing firm can mean harm in many ways.” His words stung as I thought about the recent lynching I had read about in the paper.
“I’m not the only one,” I said. “Look at the marches, the efforts of others to change things. And my friends understand, and they don’t like what’s happening either.” Still, I understood that Moses was struggling to protect us, and at the same time allow us to stand true to our beliefs.
“Grandpa, if Mayhew wants to live somewhere else or move back in with you, I’ll understand.”
* * *
When Mayhew got off work the following Saturday afternoon, we drove to the houseboat. We sat at the kitchen table while Bess made us grilled ham and cheese sandwiches. With the spatula, she placed one on each of our plates, sat down, and cut Moses’ sandwich in half for him.
“How many times have I told you I can cut my own sandwich?”
“I reckon more than I can count.” She smiled and touched the back of his head. It was one of her many ways to remind him she loved him.
We talked about Mayhew’s job, the store, and I mentioned I was going to start taking classes at a local college. Moses smiled as big a smile as I had ever seen. “I’m glad, son. I know you want to run the store, but you have such a need to do more, to be more and accomplish all the things ahead, like being mayor or governor.”
I shook my head. “Grandpa, I think your ambitions for me may be too high.”
“No, they aren’t,” Bess said. “You can be the president one day if you wish.”
Moses looked at Mayhew and placed his hand on top of his head. “And you, young man, will one day have your own mechanics shop. That I know.”
“I hope so, Grandpa.”
Lucilla asked me what I was going to take in college, and I told her I really liked business and politics.
“I need to learn all I can about politics so I can know how to make a difference and help change the way things are today,” I said. “There are lots of good people trying to bring about equality, and I want to be part of that.”
Bess reached out and touched my shoulder. “And you will do that, I’m certain. You will make a difference, son, because you have a pure heart. Over these past years, you have sought wisdom, and you listened when it spoke to you. That has made you smart and strong.”
I smiled at her and said, “Why, Grandma, you sound just like Grandpa.”
“Well,” she said, “I usually don’t need to say much because Grandpa says it first.” She gave him a gentle shove. “Right, old man?”
He chuckled. “That’s why I love you, Bess. You always let me ramble on.”
Mayhew and I, having talked about the risks of his living with me, knew we needed to tell Moses. Mayhew said, “Grandpa, if you want me to come back, or move, you know I will. But Jory and I talked about it a lot, and I don’t want to leave. We’re both plenty worried, but I wanted to stand firm with him. He’s my brother, and I just want you to know I really want to stay with him.”
Moses opened his mouth, but Bess didn’t give him a chance. She placed a hand on his shoulder as he dropped his head in thought. We could see by his tight mouth and his wrinkling brow it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
“Moses, darling,” Bess said. “Our boys are no longer boys. They are grown men. We can worry about them, but they must do what is right in their hearts. We need to let them remain together. They will be okay, by the grace of God.”
Moses looked at Mayhew, looked at me, and put his hand on Bess’ hand still on his shoulder. “It is not what I think best, but my Bess is right. I just worry about my boys.”
Bess reached over and kissed Moses on his cheek. “I will worry with you, but they will be together, and we will both be happy for that.”
Lucilla said, “I’ll worry with the both of you.” We both smiled at Lucilla, and we hugged her as tight as we could until she laughed and swatted us away.
59
He Had a Dream
THE DEATH THREATS scared us. Blacks were being lynched, murdered, and the KKK considered any anti-segregationist white person to be just as black—we, too, were targets. Mayhew had offered to leave several times, but I would have none of it. It seemed every evening we were glued to the television, hoping for something positive in the widening racial unrest, but even though laws were being changed, it did little to change the attitude of prejudice, and the KKK was seeing to that.
Many had endured too much over the past few years. There had been a sit-in at a segregated lunch counter at a Greensboro, North Carolina Woolworth’s, and protests, demonstrations, and the formation of support groups such as the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, Freedom Riders, The Congress of Racial Equality, and others. But every step forward was met with another push back. I was getting involved in every local support group I could, and I was soon known as a staunch supporter of integration and equal rights. I had numerous editorials published in the newspaper, and I was receiving a regular supply of threats. It didn’t seem to have a negative impact on my store, and nearly every day, a stranger would mention something to me about my support of the black community while at the register checking out. I was getting a fair number of good wishes—most of these wishes felt like veiled messages; they were afraid to stand up, but they were glad I was.
It was October, 1962 when the headline read James Meredith was the first black student enrolled at the University of Mississippi. Of course, we suspected what would happen, and it came true. Riots and violence swept the university, causing President Kennedy to send five thousand federal troops in to maintain order. The following year, Martin Luther King was arrested and jailed during an anti-segregation protest in Birmingham, Alabama. Mayhew and I sat, stunned, in front of the TV when we watched the fire hoses, nightsticks, and police dogs unleashed on black demonstrators.
While in jail, King wrote a letter, and a quote was printed on the front page of the local paper, "Justice too long delayed is justice denied." The article went on about how King was correct, and it agreed with King’s argument that people had the moral duty to disobey unjust laws. I was proud that our paper was willing to stick its neck out for justice.
I was in the kitchen fixing dinner one day, when Mayhew yelled, “Jory, come here quick!”
I rushed to the living room to see Mayhew sitting on the edge of his chair, pointing at the TV. The screen showed a huge mass of people on both sides of the Lincoln Memorial reflecting pond in Washington, D.C. All you could see were people, a solid, teeming plain of people. “Holy cow,” I breathed. “How could that many people ever get together like that?”
“The reporter says there are more than two hundred thousand of us marching on Washington. Can you imagine that? Look at all them.”
I sat next to him. “That’s incredible. Damn, I wish we had known about it. We could have gone.”
He turned toward me. “You would have gone there?”
“Hell, yes. I don’t know how, but we sure would have gone.”
We sat together and listened to King deliver his speech. Watching all those people and hearing the strident voice of King made me feel lousy in my white skin. There he was, pleading only for fairness, asking merely for justice. He and everyone there were shoving in our faces the shame so deserved.
“Do you think this will make a difference?” Mayhew asked.
“Mayhew, it has to. How can the country simply ignore something like this? It’s got to make a difference.”
* * *
It was September, less than a month later, when I walked into the kitchen to find Mayhew at the table, his face in his hands, and a newspaper before him. I saw tears in his eyes. “What happened?” I asked.
He pushed the paper my way. Four young black girls attending Sunday school were killed when a bomb exploded at a Baptist church in Birmingham. I could only stare at the printed words in disbelief. “My God. What will it take to stop this?” I pushed away from the table and paced in slow circles in the kitchen, anger getting the best of me.
“It’s gonna get worse before it gets better,” Mayhew said, so quietly I almost missed it.
Sure enough, riots erupted in Birmingham, and two more black youths were murdered. When we learned that an eyewitness identified Robert Chambliss, a Klansman, as the man who placed the bomb under the steps of the church, we were certain he would be justly punished. But he was found not guilty, and received a fine for having one hundred and twenty-two sticks
of dynamite without a permit. So much for justice.
I thought back to when Moses told us about Sigmund Freud—if a society could not treat all people fairly, it would not succeed. Our society certainly was not succeeding, and I continued to wonder and worry.
60
A Dynamite Night
WE WERE SPENDING THE WEEKEND with Moses and Bess. She had made meatloaf, corn on the cob, and baked potatoes, and the whole family was together. We talked about when we were kids, and many tears of laughter were shed. We discussed how much progress had been made in civil rights, and I mentioned President Johnson, who had just signed the Civil Rights Act of 1964, prohibiting discrimination of all kinds, and gave the federal government the power to enforce desegregation. I asked Moses if he thought it would take hold.
“Grandpa, it’s all people are talking about. Surely things will finally change for the better.”
“Yes, son, it will happen, but not before there is more serious trouble. This is a trying and wearisome time. The government is moving forward, but evil is still too strong to accept what it must. And yet, I hope I am wrong. I pray I am wrong.”
* * *
Moses was not wrong. A few days later, Russell came to the house in the evening unannounced after his shift. It was good to see him. I handed him a bottle of beer, grabbed Cokes for me and Mayhew, and we sat down. He showed me the paper. Three civil rights workers, two black and one white, were murdered by the KKK. They had been investigating the burning of a black church, were arrested by the local police on speeding charges, and put in jail. A few hours later, they were released after dark—directly into the hands of the KKK.
Russell explained, “It was a setup by the local police, policemen who were Klansman. Can you imagine? Damn, I’d like to get my hands on those bastard cops. And I’d like to get my hands on those damn Klansman, show them identical justice. So help me, I’d shoot the bastards.”
My Water Path Page 24