Have No Shame
Melissa Foster
WORLD LITERARY PRESS
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
HAVE NO SHAME
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2013 Melissa Foster
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This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover Photography © Susan Fox / Trevillion Images
Cover Design Regina Starace
World Literary Press
PRAISE for Have No Shame
“A gripping and poignant novel dealing with a subject once taboo in American society.”
Hagerstown Magazine
“Have No Shame is a powerful testimony to love and the progressive, logical evolution of social consciousness, with an outcome that readers will find engrossing, unexpected, and ultimately eye-opening.”
Midwest Book Review
“A historical novel of love and its triumph, told with a unique and compelling voice.”
Bestselling Author, Kathleen Shoop
“[HAVE NO SHAME] Perfectly catches the South at the dawning of the Civil Rights Movement … an adventure that twists and turns unpredictably to a tense climax that renders this novel a true page-turner. Undoubtedly the best novel I have read in a long time.”
Author, Roderick Craig Low
“… a delightful eye opener and a rather poignant book that everyone everywhere should put on their ‘must-read’ lists.”
Readers’ Favorite
“A dynamic and heartwarming tale of young love, giving testament to those who struggled so we can live in an integrated society.”
Author, Rachelle Ayala
“Overall Have No Shame is a stunningly impactful read.”
Rabid Reader Reviews
PRAISE for Traces of Kara
“TRACES OF KARA is psychological suspense at its best, weaving a tight-knit plot, unrelenting action, and tense moments that don't let up, and ending in a fiery, unpredictable revelation.”
Midwest Book Review
“What sets Melissa Foster apart are her compelling characters who you care about...desperately. This is psychological suspense at its most chilling. I dare you to read the first chapter and not be hooked.”
International Bestselling Author, M.J. Rose
“[TRACES OF KARA] Hannibal Lector, Freddie Kruger and the Tami Hoag villains combined with the emotional bond of Jody Picoult, Jane Fitch, and Steel Magnolia.”
Author, Rachelle Ayala
“TRACES OF KARA is a thriller that offers the readers unexpected twists and turns as one page follows another [and] will keep readers absorbed throughout its pages.”
Readers’ Favorite
“TRACES OF KARA is a minute by minute thriller...[it] will test your bravery, loyalty and make you want to hug your own family.”
Stephanie, Beauty Brite Blog
“TRACES OF KARA is a tense and engrossing read.”
IndieReader
PRAISE for Megan’s Way
“A wonderful, warm, and thought-provoking story...a deep and moving book that speaks to men as well as women, and I urge you all to put it on your reading list.”
Mensa Bulletin
“MEGAN’S WAY is a fine and fascinating read that many will find hope in.”
Midwest Book Review
PRAISE for Chasing Amanda
“CHASING AMANDA – the MUST READ THRILLER OF 2011. Intelligent, entrancing, luminous.”
Author, Dean Mayes
“Secrets make this tale outstanding.”
Hagerstown Magazine
PRAISE for Come Back To Me
“COME BACK TO ME is a hauntingly beautiful love story set against the backdrop of betrayal in a broken world.”
Bestselling Author, Sue Harrison
“COME BACK TO ME is passionate, romantic, and moving. A vivid story of loss and hope—a fine read for a wide audience.”
Midwest Book Review
LITERARY AWARDS
Megan’s Way
Beach Book Award
Readers’ Favorite Award
New England Book Festival, Honorable Mention
Next Generation Indie Book Award, Finalist
Chasing Amanda
Dan Poynter’s Global EBook Awards
Readers’ Favorite Award (2 categories), Finalist
Come Back To Me
Next Generation Indie Book Awards, Finalist
Readers’ Favorite Award, Finalist
Kindle Book Review Best Indie Books Award, Finalist
Dan Poynter’s Global EBook Awards, Finalist
Author’s Note
Some stories just beg to be written, and Alison and Jackson’s story, Have No Shame, is one of those stories. I could not turn away from their voices if I had wanted to. I know there is ugliness in this beautiful world of ours, and for that reason, I feel that stories such as this one are so very important to be told.
I was lucky enough to be brought up by a woman who believes that love knows no boundaries, and I try to raise my children with the same conviction. In this very short life we live, we are lucky to find true love, and my hope is that society will accept—and even strive for—happiness for all, regardless of color, sexual orientation, or religious beliefs.
I hope you enjoy Have No Shame, and I thank you for picking it up.
**ATTENTION READERS**
Choose Your Reading Format
You will notice that this book is presented in two formats: With Southern Dialect in Narrative, and Without Southern Dialect in Narrative. I queried over 400 readers about their reading preferences, and the response was overwhelming, and almost evenly split. It became apparent that readers are very passionate about their reading preferences, and in this digital world of ours, we are lucky enough to be able to give readers what they want. Therefore, please make your reading preference selection below, and you will be taken to your chosen edition of Have No Shame.
· Read With Southern Dialect in Narrative
· Read Without Southern Dialect in Narrative
For everyone who has ever been touched by the harshness of society, and for my mother, for teaching me that the heart is color-blind, just as it should be.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Author’s Note
**ATTENTION READERS**
With Southern Dialect Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
&
nbsp; Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Without Southern Dialect Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
It was the end of winter 1967, my father was preparin’ the fields for plantin’, the Vietnam War was in full swing, and spring was peekin’ its pretty head around the corner. The cypress trees stood tall and bare, like sentinels watchin’ over the St. Francis River. The bugs arrived early, thick and hungry, circlin’ my head like it was a big juicy vein as I walked across the rocks toward the water.
My legs pled with me to jump from rock to rock, like I used to do with my older sister, Maggie, who’s now away at college. I hummed my new favorite song, Penny Lane, and continued walkin’ instead of jumpin’ because that’s what’s expected of me. I could just hear Daddy admonishin’ me, “You’re eighteen now, a grown up. Grown ups don’t jump across rocks.” Even if no one’s watchin’ me at the moment, I wouldn’t want to disappoint Daddy. If Maggie were here, she’d jump. She might even get me to jump. But alone? No way.
The river usually smelled of sulfur and fish, with an underlyin’ hint of desperation, but today it smelled like somethin’ else all together. The rancid smell hit me like an invisible billow of smog. I covered my mouth and turned away, walkin’ a little faster. I tried to get around the stench, thinkin’ it was a dead animal carcass hidin’ beneath the rocks. I couldn’t outrun the smell, and before I knew it I was crouched five feet above the river on an outcroppin’ of rocks, and my hummin’ was replaced by retchin’ and dry heavin’ as the stench infiltrated my throat. I peered over the edge and fear singed my nerves like thousands of needles pokin’ me all at once. Floatin’ beneath me was the bloated and badly beaten body of a colored man. A scream escaped my lips. I stumbled backward and fell to my knees. My entire body began to shake. I covered my mouth to keep from throwin’ up. I knew I should turn away, run, get help, but I could not go back the way I’d come. I was paralyzed with fear, and yet, I was strangely drawn to the bloated and ghastly figure.
I stood back up, then stumbled in my gray midi-skirt and saddle shoes as I made my way over the rocks and toward the riverbank. The silt-laden river was still beneath the floatin’ body. A branch stretched across the river like a boney finger, snaggin’ the bruised and beaten body by the torn trousers that clung to its waist. His bare chest and arms were so bloated that it looked as if they might pop. Tremblin’ and gaspin’ for breath, I lowered myself to the ground, warm tears streamin’ down my cheeks.
While fear sucked my breath away, an underlyin’ curiosity poked its way through to my consciousness. I covered my eyes then, tellin’ myself to look away. The reality that I was seein’ a dead man settled into my bones like ice. Shivers rattled my body. Whose father, brother, uncle, or friend was this man? I opened my eyes again and looked at him. It’s a him, I told myself. I didn’t want to see him as just an anonymous, dead colored man. He was someone, and he mattered. My heart pounded against my ribcage with an insistence—I needed to know who he was. I’d never seen a dead man before, and even though I could barely breathe, even though I could feel his image imprintin’ into my brain, I would not look away. I wanted to know who had beaten him, and why. I wanted to tell his family I was sorry for their loss.
An uncontrollable urgency brought me to my feet and drew me closer, on rubber legs, to where I could see what was left of his face. A gruesome mass of flesh protruded from his mouth. His tongue had bloated and completely filled the openin’, like a flesh-sock had been stuffed in the hole, stretchin’ his lips until they tore and the raw pulp poked out. Chunks of skin were torn or bitten away from his eyes.
I don’t know how long I stood there, my legs quakin’, unable to speak or turn back the way I had come. I don’t know how I got home that night, or what I said to anyone along the way. What I do know is that hearin’ of a colored man’s death was bad enough—I’d heard the rumors of whites beatin’ colored men to death before—but actually seein’ the man who had died, and witnessin’ the awful remains of the beatin’, now that terrified me to my core. A feelin’ of shame bubbled within me. For the first time ever, I was embarrassed to be white, because in Forrest Town, Arkansas, you could be fairly certain it was my people who were the cause of his death. And as a young southern woman, I knew that the expectation was for me to get married, have children, and perpetuate the hate that had been bred in our lives. My children, they’d be born into the same hateful society. That realization brought me to my knees.
Chapter Two
It had been a few days since that awful night at the river, and I couldn’t shake the image from my mind; the disfigured body lyin’ in the water like yesterday’s trash. At the time, I didn’t recognize Byron Bingham. I only knew the middle-aged colored man from town gossip, as that man whose wife was sleepin’ with Billy Carlisle. Daddy told me who he was after the police pulled him from the river. I know now that the purple, black, and red bruises that covered his skin were not caused from the beatin’ alone, but rather by the seven days he’d spent dead in the river. I tried to talk to my boyfriend, Jimmy Lee, about the shame I’d carried ever since findin’ that poor man’s body, but Jimmy Lee believed he probably deserved whatever he got, so I swallowed the words. I wanted to share, but the feelin’s still burned inside me like a growin’ fire I couldn’t control. It didn’t help that some folks looked at me like I’d done somethin’ bad by findin’ Mr. Bingham. Even with those sneers reelin’ around me, I couldn’t help but want to see his family. I wanted to be part of their world, to bear witness to what was left behind in the wake of his terrible death, and to somehow connect with them, help them through the pain. Were they okay? How could they be?
I walked all the way to Division Street, the large two-
story homes with shiny Buicks and Chevy Impalas out front fell away behind me. A rusty, red and white Ford Ranch Wagon turned down Division Street. There I stood, lookin’ down the street that divided the colored side of town from the white side. Even the trees seemed to sag and sway, appearin’ less vital than those in town. A chill ran up my back. Don’t go near those colored streets, Daddy had warned me. Those people will rape you faster than you can say chicken scratch. I dried my sweaty palms on my pencil skirt as I craned my head, though I had no real idea what I was lookin’ for. The desolate street stretched out before me, like the road itself felt the loss of Mr. Bingham. Small, wooden houses lined the dirt road like secondhand clothes, used and tattered. How had I never before noticed the loneliness of Division Street? Two young children were sittin’ near the front porch of a small, clapboard house, just a few houses away from where I stood. My heart ached to move forward, crouch down right beside them, and see what they were doin’. Two women, who looked to be about my mama’s age, stood in the gravel driveway. One held a big bowl of somethin’—beans, maybe? She lifted pieces of whatever it was, broke them, then put them back in the bowl. I wondered what it might be like to help them in the kitchen, bake somethin’ delicious, and watch those little childrens’ eyes light up at a perfect corn muffin. The short, plump woman had a dark wrap around her hair. The other one, a tiny flick of a woman with a stylish press and curl hairdo, looked in my direction. Our eyes met, then she shifted her head from side to side, as if she were afraid someone might jump out and yell at her for lookin’ at me. I felt my cheeks tighten as a tentative smile spread across my lips. My fingertips lifted at my sides in a slight wave. She turned away quickly and crossed her arms. The air between me and those women who I wanted to know, thickened.
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