Have No Shame

by Melissa Foster

  Each time I called home, I yearned to speak to Daddy. It just about killed me each time that he refused to come to the phone. He told Mama to tell me he loved me, but he had yet to speak to me himself. I prayed every night that he might come around and allow us to find each other once again. I missed him, but when I look at my baby’s face, and I see the love he holds in his father’s eyes, I know I did the right thing, and I have no shame about my decision or those I love.

  Jackson walked through the door of our tiny apartment and asked how my day was. It was a day like any other. I woke up next to the man I loved, nursed the baby I adored, and spent the entire day with our son, just waitin’ for his daddy to come home—on time, sober, and hungry to spend time with us.

  “Perfect,” I answered.

  I hope you have enjoyed reading Have No Shame.

  Please visit the back of the book to read the acknowledgements and about the author.

  Reviews are always appreciated, though never expected.

  · Return to Table of Contents

  · Acknowledgments

  · About the Author

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  Chapter One

  It was the end of winter 1967, my father was preparing the fields for planting, the Vietnam War was in full swing, and spring was peeking its pretty head around the corner. The cypress trees stood tall and bare, like sentinels watching over the St. Francis River. The bugs arrived early, thick and hungry, circling 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 walking instead of jumping because that’s what’s expected of me. I could just hear Daddy admonishing me, “You’re eighteen now, a grown up. Grown ups don’t jump across rocks.” Even if no one’s watching 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 underlying hint of desperation, but today it smelled like something else all together. The rancid smell hit me like an invisible billow of smog. I covered my mouth and turned away, walking a little faster. I tried to get around the stench, thinking it was a dead animal carcass hiding beneath the rocks. I couldn’t outrun the smell, and before I knew it I was crouched five feet above the river on an outcropping of rocks, and my humming was replaced by retching and dry heaving as the stench infiltrated my throat. I peered over the edge and fear singed my nerves like thousands of needles poking me all at once. Floating 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 throwing 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 floating body. A branch stretched across the river like a boney finger, snagging 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. Trembling and gasping for breath, I lowered myself to the ground, warm tears streaming down my cheeks.

  While fear sucked my breath away, an underlying curiosity poked its way through to my consciousness. I covered my eyes then, telling myself to look away. The reality that I was seeing 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 imprinting 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 opening, like a flesh-sock had been stuffed in the hole, stretching 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 quaking, 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 hearing of a colored man’s death was bad enough—I’d heard the rumors of whites beating colored men to death before—but actually seeing the man who had died, and witnessing the awful remains of the beating, now that terrified me to my core. A feeling 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 lying 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 beating 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 finding 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 feelings still burned inside me like a growing fire I couldn’t control. It didn’t help that some folks looked at me like I’d done something bad by finding Mr. Bingham. Even with those sneers reeling 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, looking down the street that divided the colored side of town from the white side. Even the trees seemed to sag and sway, appearing 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 looking 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 sitting 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 doing. Two women, who looked to be about my mama’s age, stood in the gravel driveway. One held a big bowl of something—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 something 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 looking 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.

  I felt stupid standing there, wanting to go down and talk to them, to see what the children were playing. 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 understanding that I was forbidden to go there. Those families had also been invisible to me. My cheeks burned as my feelings 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, feeling caught between what I’d been taught and the pull of my heart.

  A Buick ambled by, slowing as it passed behind me. I startled, remembering 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 during a walk. The elderly white man driving 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 gazing 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, surprisingly, that I’d never spoken to any one of them.

  A long block later, I heard Jimmy Lee’s old, red pick-up truck coming up the road behind me. The town was so small, that I could hear it from a mile away with its loud, rumbling engine. I wondered if someone had spotted me staring down Division Street and told him to come collect me. He stopped the truck beside me and flung open the door, flashing his big baby-blues beneath his wavy, brown hair. Jimmy Lee was growing his hair out from his Elvis cut to something more akin to Ringo Starr, and it was stuck in that in-between stage of looking like a mop. I liked anything that had to do with Ringo, so he was even more appealing to me with his hair falling 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, pulling me closer to him. I snuggled right into the strength of him. It was hard to believe we’d been dating for two years. We’d met after church one Sunday morning. 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 talking to my mama and daddy at the time, so we just started talking 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 dating Jimmy Lee since I was sixteen. He was handsome, I had to give him that, but ever since finding Mr. Bingham, some of the things he’d done and said made my skin crawl. Others thought he was the perfect suitor for me. But I wondered if that, along with my daddy’s approval, was enough to make me swallow these new, uncomfortable feelings 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 evening. I was still thinking 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 evenings, 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, boasting 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, wafting 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, exposing 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 pulling 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, itching for trouble.

  “Jimmy Lee, why don’t we take a walk?” I suggested, though I didn’t much feel like taking 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 trembling just thinking about what Jimmy Lee might do. I took my hands and placed them on his cheeks, forcing 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 seeking out trouble. Jimmy Lee was known for chasing down colored boys when he thought they were up to no good, and I was realizing that maybe he just liked doing it. Maybe they weren’t always up to no good. Ever since finding 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 fiddling 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, revealing 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 trying to measure up to our older sister’s impeccable grades. While Jake remained in town after high school, attending 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 anyt
hing other than sitting around watching Jimmy Lee blow smoke rings and think about starting trouble.

  Corky cleared his throat, calling my thoughts away from my sister. He looked up at me, thick tufts of dark hair bobbing like springs atop his head as he nodded. I bristled at the scheming look in his brown eyes. He smirked in that cocky way that was so familiar that it was almost boring. 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—until something or someone shook his reins. He came from a typical Forrest Town farm family. 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 schooling when a job was so readily provided for him. I swear Corky was more machine than man. He worked from dawn until dusk on the farm, and still had the energy to show up here smelling like DDT, or hay, or lumber, or whatever they happen to be planting or harvesting at the time, and stir up trouble with Jimmy Lee.

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

  I tugged Jimmy Lee’s arm again, hoping he’d choose a walk with me over trouble with Corky, but I knew I was no match for a willing 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 building. At ten o’clock at night, the streets were dark, but not too dark to notice the colored boys across the street walking 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.