Have No Shame

by Melissa Foster

  I felt stupid standin’ there, wantin’ to go down and talk to them, to see what the children were playin’. I wondered, did they know Mr. Bingham? Had his death impacted their lives? I wanted to apologize for what had happened, even though I had no idea how or why it had. I realized that the colored side of town had been almost invisible to me, save for understandin’ that I was forbidden to go there. Those families had also been invisible to me. My cheeks burned as my feelin’s of stupidity turned to shame.

  A child’s cackle split the silence. His laughter was infectious. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard uninhibited giggles like that. It made me smile. I bit my lower lip, feelin’ caught between what I’d been taught and the pull of my heart.

  A Buick ambled by, slowin’ as it passed behind me. I startled, rememberin’ my place, as Daddy called it. Daddy’d keep me right by his side if he could. He didn’t like me to be around anyone he didn’t know, said he couldn’t take care of me if he didn’t know where I was. I turned and headed back toward town, like I’d just stopped for a moment durin’ a walk. The elderly white man drivin’ the shiny, black car squinted at me, furrowed his brow, and then drove on.

  I wondered what my daddy might think if he saw me gazin’ down Division Street, where his farmhands lived. Daddy’s farmhands, black men of all ages, were strong and responsible, and they worked in our fields and gardens with such vigorous commitment that it was as though the food and cotton were for their own personal use. Some of those dedicated men had worked for Daddy for years; others were new to the farm. I realized, surprisin’ly, that I’d never spoken to any one of them.

  A long block later, I heard Jimmy Lee’s old, red pick-up truck comin’ up the road behind me. The town was so small, that I could hear it from a mile away with its loud, rumblin’ engine. I wondered if someone had spotted me starin’ down Division Street and told him to come collect me. He stopped the truck beside me and flung open the door, flashin’ his big baby-blues beneath his wavy, brown hair. Jimmy Lee was growin’ his hair out from his Elvis cut to somethin’ more akin to Ringo Starr, and it was stuck in that in-between stage of lookin’ like a mop. I liked anything that had to do with Ringo, so he was even more appealin’ to me with his hair fallin’ in his face.

  “Alison, c’mon.”

  “Hey,” I said, as I climbed onto the vinyl bench seat. He reached over and put his arm around me, pullin’ me closer to him. I snuggled right into the strength of him. It was hard to believe we’d been datin’ for two years. We’d met after church one Sunday mornin’. I used to wonder if Mama or Daddy had set it up that way, like a blind date, but there’s no proof of that. Jimmy Lee’s daddy, Jack Carlisle, was talkin’ to my mama and daddy at the time, so we just started talkin’ too. Jimmy Lee was the older, handsome guy that every girl had her eye on, and I was the lucky one he chose as his own. I’d been datin’ Jimmy Lee since I was sixteen. He was handsome, I had to give him that, but ever since findin’ Mr. Bingham, some of the things he’d done and said made my skin crawl. Others thought he was the perfect suitor for me. I wondered if that, along with my daddy’s approval, was enough to make me swallow these new, uncomfortable feelin’s that wrapped themselves like tentacles around every nerve in my body, and marry him.

  I twisted the ring on my finger; Jimmy Lee’s grandmother’s engagement ring. In eight short weeks we’d be married and I’d no longer be Alison Tillman. I’d become Mrs. James Lee Carlisle. My heart ached with the thought.

  The afternoon moved swiftly into a lazy and cool evenin’. I was still thinkin’ about the women I’d seen on Division Street when we stopped at the store for a few six-packs of beer. Jimmy Lee’s favorite past time. Like so many other evenin’s, we met up with my brother Jake and Jimmy Lee’s best friend, Corky Talms, in the alley behind the General Store. I think everyone in town knew we hung out here, but no one ever bothered us. The alley was so narrow that there was only a foot or two of road between the right side of Jimmy Lee’s truck and a stack of empty, cardboard delivery boxes, boastin’ familiar names like Schlitz, Tab, and Fanta, lined up along the brick wall beside the back door of the store. On the other side of his truck, just inches from the driver’s side door, a dumpster stood open, waftin’ the stench of stale food into the air. Just beyond that was a small strip of grass, where Jake and Corky now sat. And behind them were the deep, dark woods that separated the nicer part of town from the poor.

  I sat on the hood of Jimmy Lee’s truck, and watched him take another swig of his beer. His square jaw tilted back, exposin’ his powerful neck and broad chest. The familiar desire to kiss him rose within me as I watched his Adam’s apple bounce up and down with each gulp.

  Jimmy Lee smacked his lips as he lowered the beer bottle to rest on his Levi’s. His eyes were as blue as the sea, and they jetted around the group. I recognized that hungry look. Jimmy Lee had to behave when he was away at college, for fear of his uncle pullin’ his tuition, which I knew he could afford without much trouble. Jack Carlisle was a farmer and owned 350 acres, but his brother Billy owned the only furniture store in Forrest Town, Arkansas, and was one of the wealthiest men in town. Jimmy Lee might have been king of Central High, but now he was a small fish in a big pond at Mississippi State. The bullish tactics that had worked in Forrest Town would likely get him hurt in Mississippi, and Billy Carlisle wasn’t about to be humiliated by his nephew. Jimmy Lee was set to become the manager in his uncle’s store, if he behaved and actually graduated. I was pretty sure that he’d behave while he was away at college and make it to graduation, but I rued those long weekends when he returned home, itchin’ for trouble.

  “Jimmy Lee, why don’t we take a walk?” I suggested, though I didn’t much feel like takin’ a walk with Jimmy Lee. I never knew who we’d see or how he’d react.

  He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. “How’s my pretty little wife-to-be?” He kissed my cheek and offered me a sip of his beer, which I declined, too nervous to drink. I felt safe within his arms, but those colored boys were out there, and my nerves were tremblin’ just thinkin’ about what Jimmy Lee might do. I took my hands and placed them on his cheeks, forcin’ his eyes to meet mine. Love lingered in his eyes, clear and bright, and I hoped it was enough of a pull to keep him from seekin’ out trouble. Jimmy Lee was known for chasin’ down colored boys when he thought they were up to no good, and I was realizin’ that maybe he just liked doin’ it. Maybe they weren’t always up to no good. Ever since findin’ Mr. Bingham’s body, I noticed, and was more sensitive to, the ugliness of his actions.

  I took inventory of the others. My brother Jake sat on the ground fiddlin’ with his shoelace. His golden hair, the pale-blond color of dried cornhusks, just like mine, though much thicker, was combed away from his high forehead, revealin’ his too-young-for-a-nineteen-year-old, baby face. Jake seemed content to just sit on the grass and drink beer. He had spent the last year tryin’ to measure up to our older sister’s impeccable grades. While Jake remained in town after high school, attendin’ Central Community College, Maggie, with her stellar grades and bigger-than-life personality, begged and pleaded until she convinced our father to send her to Marymount Manhattan College.

  I wished more than ever that Maggie were home just then. We’d take a walk to the river like we used to, just the two of us, climb up to the loft in the barn, and giggle until Mama called us inside. We’d do anything other than sittin’ around watchin’ Jimmy Lee blow smoke rings and think about startin’ trouble.

  Corky cleared his throat, callin’ my thoughts away from my sister. He looked up at me, thick tufts of dark hair bobbin’ like springs atop his head as he nodded. I bristled at the schemin’ look in his brown eyes. He smirked in that cocky way that was so familiar that it was almost borin’. With muscles that threatened to burst through every t-shirt he owned, one would think he’d be as abrasive as sandpaper, but he was the quiet type—‘til somethin’ or someone shook his reins. He came from a typical Forrest Town farm famil
y. His father was a farmer, like mine, but unlike Daddy, who saw some value in education, Corky’s father believed his son’s sole purpose was to work the farm. Everyone in town knew that when Corky’s daddy grew too old to farm, he would take over. Corky accepted his lot in life with a sense of proud entitlement. He saw no need for schoolin’ when a job was so readily provided for him. I swear Corky was more machine than man. He worked from dawn ‘til dusk on the farm, and still had the energy to show up here smellin’ like DDT, or hay, or lumber, or whatever they happen to be plantin’ or harvestin’ at the time, and stir up trouble with Jimmy Lee.

  Corky took a long pull of his beer, eyein’ Jimmy Lee with a conspiratorial grin.

  I tugged Jimmy Lee’s arm again, hopin’ he’d choose a walk with me over trouble with Corky, but I knew I was no match for a willin’ participant in his devious shenanigans. Jimmy Lee shrugged me off and locked eyes with Corky. Tucked in the alley behind the General Store, trouble could be found fifty feet in any direction. I bent forward and peered around the side of the old, wooden buildin’. At ten o’clock at night, the streets were dark, but not too dark to notice the colored boys across the street walkin’ at a fast pace with their heads down, hands shoved deep in their pockets. I recognized one of the boys from Daddy’s farm. Please don’t let Jimmy Lee see them. It was a futile hope, but I hoped just the same.

  Jimmy Lee stretched. I craned my neck to look up at my handsome giant. Maggie called me Pixie. Although she and Jake both got Daddy’s genes when it came to height, I stopped growin’ at thirteen years old. While bein’ five foot two has minor advantages, like bein’ called a sweet nickname by my sister, I often felt like, and was treated as if, I were younger than my age.

  Jimmy Lee set his beer down on the ground and wiped his hands on his jeans. “What’re those cotton pickers doin’ in town this late?” He smirked, shootin’ a nod at Corky.

  “Jimmy Lee, don’t,” I pleaded, feelin’ kinda sick at the notion that he might go after those boys.

  “Don’t? Whaddaya mean, don’t? This is what we do.” He looked at Corky and nodded.

  “It’s just…” I turned away, then gathered the courage to say what was naggin’ to be said. “It’s just that, after findin’ Mr. Bingham’s body…it’s just not right, Jimmy Lee. Leave those boys alone.”

  Jimmy Lee narrowed his eyes, put his arms on either side of me, and leaned into me. He kissed my forehead and ran his finger along my chin. “You let me worry about keepin’ the streets safe, and I’ll let you worry about—” he laughed. “Heck, worry about somethin’ else, I don’t know.”

  Corky tossed his empty bottle into the grass and was on his feet, pumpin’ his fists. My heartbeat sped up.

  “Jimmy Lee, please, just let ‘em be,” I begged. When he didn’t react, I tried another tactic and batted my eyelashes, pulled him close, and whispered in his ear, “Let’s go somewhere, just you and me.” I hated myself for usin’ my body as a negotiation point.

  Jimmy Lee pulled away and I saw a momentary flash of consideration pass in his eyes. Then Corky slapped him on the back and that flash of consideration was gone, replaced with a darkness, a narrowin’ of his eyes that spoke too loudly of hate.

  “Let’s get ‘em,” Corky said. The sleeves of his white t-shirt strained across his massive biceps. The five inches Jimmy Lee had on him seemed to disappear given the sheer volume of space Corky’s body took up. He was as thick and strong as a bull.

  I jumped off the hood of the truck. “Jimmy Lee, you leave those boys alone.” I was surprised by my own vehemence. This was the stuff he did all the time, it wasn’t new. I was used to him scarin’ and beatin’ on the colored boys in our area. It was somethin’ that just was. But at that moment, all I could see in my mind was poor Byron Bingham.

  Jimmy Lee looked at me for one beat too long. I thought I had him, that he’d give in and choose me over the fight. One second later, he turned to Jake and clapped his hands. “Let’s go, Jake. We’ve got some manners to teach those boys.”

  “Don’t, Jake,” I begged. “Please, leave them alone!”

  Jake looked nervously from me to Jimmy Lee. I knew he was decidin’ if it was safer to side with me, which would lead to instant ridicule by Jimmy Lee, but would keep him out of a fight, or side with Jimmy Lee, which would not only put him in Jimmy Lee’s favor, but also make his actions on par with our father’s beliefs. He’d happily fight for a few bonus points with Daddy to balance out his poor grades.

  My hands trembled at the thought of those innocent boys bein’ hurt. “Jake, please,” I pleaded. “Don’t. Jimmy Lee—”

  They were off, all three of them, stalkin’ their prey, movin’ swiftly out from behind the General Store and down the center of the empty street. Their eyes trained on the two boys. Jimmy Lee walked at a fast clip, clenchin’ and unclenchin’ his fists, his shoulders rounded forward like a bull readyin’ to charge.

  I ran behind him, kickin’ dirt up beneath my feet, beggin’ him to stop. I screamed and pleaded until my throat was raw and my voice a tiny, frayed thread. The colored boys ran swift as deer, down an alley and toward the fields that ran parallel to Division Street, stealin’ quick, fear-filled glances over their shoulders—glances that cried out in desperation and left me feelin’ helpless and even culpable of what was yet to come.

  Jimmy Lee, Jake, and Corky closed in on them like a sudden storm in the middle of the field. The grass swallowed their feet as they surrounded the boys like farmers herdin’ their flock.

  “Get that son of a bitch!” Jimmy Lee commanded, pointin’ to the smaller of the two boys, Daddy’s farmhand. The whites of his eyes shone bright as lightnin’ against his charcoal skin.

  Corky hooted and hollered into the night, “Yeeha! Let’s play, boys!”

  Bile rose in my throat at the thought of what I knew Jimmy Lee would do to them, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he might take it as far as killin’ those boys—if even by accident. I stood in the field, shakin’ and cryin’, then fell to my knees thirty feet from where they were, beggin’ Jimmy Lee not to hurt them. Images of Mr. Bingham’s bloated and beaten body, his tongue swollen beyond recognition, seared like fire into my mind.

  Jimmy Lee moved in on the tremblin’ boy. I was riveted to the coldness in his eyes. “No!” I screamed into the darkness. Jimmy Lee threw a glance my way, a scowl on his face. The smack of Jimmy Lee’s fist against the boy’s face brought me to my feet. When the boy cried out, agony filled my veins. I stumbled and ran as fast and hard as I could, and didn’t stop until I was safely around the side of the General Store, hidden from the shame of what they were doin’, hidden from the eyes that might find me in the night. There was no hidin’ from the guilt, shame, and disgust that followed me like a shadow. I sank to my knees and cried for those boys, for Mr. Bingham, and for the loss of my love for Jimmy Lee.

  Chapter Three

  Every mornin’ began the same way. Before sunrise, Daddy would creep downstairs, listen to the weather on the radio, and walk softly into the kitchen. I’d lay in my bed, listenin’ to his mornin’ noises—the refrigerator door openin’ and closin’, a mug drawn from the cabinet, the sink water runnin’, the kettle settlin’ on the stove—and then, I’d roll over and fall back to sleep feelin’ the safety of his familiar rituals.

  Mama and I were in the kitchen when Daddy came in from the fields. I swear he has a sixth sense, because every mornin’ he came inside just as breakfast was bein’ prepared. It wasn’t until years later that I learned that Daddy watched the sun, and when it had risen to just above the roof, he’d know it was time for breakfast. Today he patted my head, as he’d done every mornin’ for as far back as I could remember, and though I was too old to be patted, his touch brought comfort.

  “Good mornin’, Pix,” he said. His tired eyes lit up at the smell of the warm eggs and hot, buttered biscuits. The deep lines that etched his forehead softened as he reached out and gently touched the small of Mama’s back, and whispered in her ear. She
turned to face him, her eyes wide. Her hand flew to her gapin’ mouth. All of the color drained from Mama’s face.

  “Mornin’ Daddy,” I said, watchin’ Mama press her lips into a tight line and rub her neck. I knew better than to ask for specific details of whatever they were wrestlin’ with, so I kept my question light; the kind of question Daddy didn’t mind answerin’. “Is everything okay?”

  “Sure is,” he said. He washed his hands, then sat down at the table.

  Mama set our plates on the table then wiped her hands on a dishcloth, removed the apron from her waist, and set it on the counter. Her fingers remained clenched around the fabric. She didn’t make a sound. She just stood there, one hand on the crumpled apron, the other coverin’ her eyes.

  “Mama, aren’t you gonna eat?” I asked. I glanced out the window. Jake’s bicycle was already gone. He had class in an hour, and it was a long ride to school.

  “Eat up, Pixie,” Daddy said.

  Mama was a quiet woman who rarely let her opinions be known, and I was used to Daddy speakin’ in her place. I picked up my fork and swallowed my questions.

  “Is Jake at class?” I asked, just to break the silence.

  My father nodded, and shoved his third biscuit into his mouth, chewin’ fast. “He’s comin’ back early. We’re down one hand today. Some dumb boy got himself beat up.”