“No,” said Burke. “And I highly doubt he strangled Evelyn, Francis. The man’s ‘bout as harmless as a dragonfly.”
“Don’t-” Francis choked.
“Leave these people alone,” Burke said. But his cousin was out the door already.
The white mob swept across the river to the black community that lived there. They banged on doors.
“Anyone who harbors this man, shelters this man, or gives him an escape is gettin’ strung from that tree!” roared Francis. He and his goons were bristling with guns- farmer’s guns, with old ammunition. Most of the black people were unarmed, and all were afraid.
“He ain’t here,” called Wendel Brown. The elderly black man rose from his stoop, his voice firm. “He’s gone.”
Francis marched over to Wendel and jabbed the point of his pistol into the man’s gut. He half-dragged the old man to kneel before the white mob. A crowd of black and brown faces surged in the windows of the houses. Most were too frightened to come outside. They huddled and prayed the white men would leave.
“What’s your name, boy?” Francis said, his voice a curse.
“Wendel Brown, sir. And that’s my wife Esther, and my children, right there in that window.”
“Nigger brats,” spat Ernest Masters. “Now, Francis-”
“What do you know about Emmett Freeman? Since you’re so smart, boy, tell us what you know.”
Wendel’s eyes were wide with fright, but he was a proud man, and would not be talked down to. He raised both hands.
“I don’t know nothin’ but that y’all are out here terrorizin’ innocent folks over another man’s mistakes. Please-”
“Pointless questions,” Masters said. He snatched the pistol from Francis and cocked it. “Tell us the truth, boy. Since you got such a big mouth.”
Wendel licked his lips. “I’m jus’ tryin’ to explain. We don’t know nothin.’”
“Please,” Esther Brown wailed from her window. “Leave him ‘lone! He’s got a bad heart!”
“Get the men out of these houses,” Ernest barked to his attack dogs, the slavering white mob whose thirst for blood had already worked into a frenzy. “Every one above fifteen. Let’s show them what happens to high-steppin’ niggers like this one.”
Then he shot Wendel in the heart.
The seal broke. People poured out of the shanty-houses. Their voices made a single war-cry, and they took nothing to defend themselves but their fists.
Before the hunt for Freeman, Ernest Masters, the Grand Dragon of Rickshaw, had had no time to don his red robes, a fact which bothered him. He’d wanted this to be done swiftly, and he wanted the Klan’s name all over it. The negroes had to know who they were dealing with. But not even the red hood could have protected his skull from the flat, deadly river stone aimed with all the accuracy of a vengeful heart.
It sailed through the air as if shot from David’s sling, taking the white man between the eyes.
The crowd erupted. The white people tore into the black folks with their knives and pistols and bullets. The black people came for Wendel’s body, then they came for revenge. They beat the white mob across the river, but once they had done that, the white people came with backup.
The streets of Rickshaw raged for hours. Burke saw the flames from his home in the woods, and he took his father’s rifle and went to see. By the time he got there the lamps were still burning, and the stores were burning too. A few black folks lay dead in the streets, huddled, bloody forms. Burke checked their faces; he recognized only one. His friend Jeremiah. He looked around to see if the man had at least gotten revenge on his murderer, but Jeremiah’s body lay alone and forgotten. The dead white people had already been removed.
His heart thumped numbly. Burke’s gaze turned East, to the biggest inferno of all. The flames devoured a house of wood, a small house that for months the black people of Rickshaw had concentrated their best efforts towards. The pinnacle of Emmett Freeman’s dreams for Rickshaw. It was as if Francis and his goons had honed in on it like killer bees. Janie Ross’s schoolhouse was a mass of smoke and flame.
He would return for the body.
Burke made his way to the burning building. Outlined sharply in front of it was a small woman’s form. Betty Young, Janie’s cousin. The fire seemed to light upon her clothes, throwing her dark skin into a shadow full of night. She turned quickly when Burke approached, though she hardly could have heard him over the thirsty crackle of the fire.
“Betty,” Burke said urgently. “What you doin’ out here?”
“I threw it,” she said, not looking at him. He saw with dull horror that her dress was in tatters.
“You what?”
“I started it. I threw the stone at that white man. The one who shot Mister Brown- Esther’s husband.”
Burke didn’t know what to say. “Is that how this all started?”
“No,” said Betty. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “It all started with my Samuel. He was good but they didn’t like ‘im. He insulted a white man and they hanged him. Then Emmett. It starts with you white people, it don’t start with us. Every time we try to dream up somethin’, white folks come and tear it all down.”
Her voice broke. “I hate all of you! I wish you were all dead!”
Burke held her arms. “I’m sorry. I can’t say much but that, Betty.”
“We’re leavin’,” said Betty. She brushed away her tears. “All of us. Me and Ma and my brothers. We’re goin’ up North to Michigan. Maybe Chicago. Ain’t nothin’ left for black folks here.”
Betty looked even more rumpled than ever. The chubbiness of her face dragged down into heavy, stressed lines. She looked like she’d seen a thousand lifetimes.
“Did the men get you?” Burke asked quietly.
Betty fingered the tattered remains of her dress. “It looks that way. But Naw. Jeremiah fought ‘em off. I hope he got away- I didn’t stay to look.”
“He’s dead,” said Burke heavily.
Betty shuddered away another sob. “Well- alright. Alright, then.”
“I think it was quick,” Burke said. “He was my friend, too. I’ll help him get buried.”
“I was the one who cut down Samuel,” said Betty. She seemed not to hear him. “No one else had the stomach. They messed him up bad. I remember when they got old Shadrac, too. Back in the day. You never forget the smell. That’s the worst part.”
“I don’t know why,” said Burke. It looked like the fire would burn itself out, though it was blowing dangerously close to the trees. He thanked God that it had been a wet summer. “Don’t know why white folks got so much hate. I think it burns ‘em up to see that y’all don’t just give up and lay down. Maybe they’d be easier if you did.”
“Never,” swore Betty. “We never will. I for damn sure never will.”
“Good,” said Burke. “It would sure be depressin’ if you did.”
“They need someone to hate,” said Betty. “If all the black folks took sick and died tomorrow, white folks would just be beside theyselves. They need us around to kick. Like dogs.”
“Dogs bite,” said Burke.
“And we ain’t dogs,” said Betty. “We’re human beings. That’s what kills ‘em. That’s what they can’t stand. They want to keep us separate, but they know.”
“You’re a smart girl, Betty,” said Burke. “I do believe you’re right.”
“I’m quotin’ Janie,” said Betty, hugging herself, though the heat of the schoolhouse was blistering. “She would always say that. I wonder where she went off to. I hated her for leavin’. Thought she was bein’ mighty selfish. But I see why she did. I sure wish we’d all had her sense- to leave.”
“Where would you go?” said Burke sensibly.
“Africa, I guess.” Betty laughed without humor. Then she added, quietly: “Anywhere.”
“Janie will be back,” said Burke. He had tried, these last few weeks, not to think of her.
“Then where will you go?”
“Anywhere,” said Burke.
Betty eyed him. She wanted to talk about Janie, about Burke. She didn’t want to think of tonight. She would push it away as long as she had to.
“Are you gonna marry her?”
“I might,” said Burke.
“You’re gonna have a real job of it.”
“I can only try. There’s got to be some place we can go.”
“Uh-huh.”
They watched the school crumple in on itself. He could remember carving every window. Making the chairs. Nailing the roof shingles. He’d done it for Emmett Freeman, then he’d gone beyond, for Janie. Now Emmett was gone- disappeared. Janie too. And the thing linking them all together was rising into the starry roof of the world in a flurry of smoke and dust.
Suddenly Burke could bear it no longer. He put a hand on Betty Young’s shoulder.
“Let’s go find Jeremiah.”
“I’m scared to go back,” said Betty. She clutched his wrist.
Burke patted his rifle. “Nothin’ to worry about now. I promise. ”
They walked.
“Burke,” said Betty. “You think Emmett did it?”
Burke sighed. “I know they was sleepin’ together. I saw ‘em runnin’ in and out of the woods for weeks. I talked to him ‘bout it and he nearly blew a gasket. Said I oughtn’t to meddle. Told me to mind my business.”
“He said that to you?” gawked Betty. “After all the hell he raised ‘bout you and Janie?”
“Folks is funny,” shrugged Burke. “I wish I’d known what he said to her.”
Betty nodded. “He ain’t have it in him to strangle a dog that bit ‘im, let alone some white woman. He was all bark no bite. Croup is lyin’.”
“He better have some swift feet,” said Burke. “They’ll be lookin’ for him all over Mississippi.”
Chapter 6
Hell is Empty
Janie read about it in the paper. Talk of the Rickshaw Riot had reached New Orleans. the subject would be passed over and done with in a week. Such was the way with these things. These days there always seemed to be a riot of some kind.
Still, she cut out the newspaper clipping, and placed it next to her letter from Burke. The letter had arrived a few days after the Rickshaw Riot.
Dear Janie I hope you are well, it read. I am having Betty your cousin write this down for me. You probably heard about what happened. The schoolhouse burned down too and some of the black folks here are dead. I know the paper said Wendel Brown, but also Jeremiah my friend, and Sampson Green and one woman I don’t know if you knew her, her name was Etta Thompson. The white folks swept through and burned most everything that could catch but they didn’t find Freeman, and that little boy Curtis is missing too.
Anyway there’s talk of leaving now among most of the black folks. Following your example I see? I sure wish you’d come back, Janie. I’m about to get right on a train and come to New Orleans myself to find you. You can say what you want. Some nasty business is happening in Rickshaw and I think they’re coming for me next. I don’t aim to make you worry because I can handle myself. But either I come to you or you come to me. I wish I knew what else to tell you to convince you to get back here. But I guess I can’t blame you if you don’t. Take care of yourself.
Burke.
He signed his name himself, in bold, spiky letters.
Janie took the news as she took in almost everything these days: with dull acceptance. She was getting apathetic. At first she thought it was just New Orleans. The city had a way of easing one’s mind. But Janie wasn’t easy. She was making music, sure. Every night she sang at one of Mindoo’s clubs, or a venue of his choosing. The crowds were as extravagant as the dresses she wore. She sang songs that Mindoo wrote. She sang songs that she knew- ones he pre-approved, of course. They made two records and were working on a third. She learned to do her makeup, she bought and wore fine things to make herself look good and feel better. She told herself she was living her dream- working towards something great. But at night when the darkness of her hotel room seemed to swallow her up like a great black fish, Janie couldn’t help but feel that she had made a grave mistake.
One night Mindoo took her out in his flashy brown convertible. It had began to occur to Janie that this man was the type to surround himself with beautiful women as a sort of status symbol. Janie had become one of these women. The thought made her uncomfortable.
“What’s the matter, Queen Sugar?” he asked. They pulled up next to Rita’s, a small dive bar.
She hated his nicknames. He tried about three a day, hoping one would stick.
“Nothing,” Janie intoned.
“Then fix ya mouth,” said Mindoo, lighting a cigarette. He let Janie out and they ducked into Rita’s. A seedy crowd gathered at the bar, and at the pool tables.
“Am I singing here?” Janie asked skeptically.
“What do you think? Of course not,” said Mindoo. “We’re just guffin’ it for tonight. You just sit there and look good for me.”
Janie didn’t want to sit and look good. She wanted to be home, in bed. She took a seat at the very edge of the room. A layer of grease covered the floor of Rita’s. The patrons left their food where it fell- and everything in Rita’s was fried twice and crumbled when you bit it. The place had a heavy food-stink about it.
Pushing back her nausea, Janie took in her surroundings. She and Mindoo looked out of place here. Her dress was much too nice. His even nicer. The man wore a flashy gator-skin suit and shoes. He sported enough gold to shame Mansa Musa. Everything about him, from the trimmed salt-and-pepper beard to the mirrored sunglasses, bespoke arrogance, wealth, and intimidation.
Mindoo had friends here- poor men who he had grown up with. They laughed and joked. They seemed to resent him, love him, and envy him all at once.
“Who’s the quiet gal?” One man asked, thrusting his chin at Janie.
“One of my singers,” Mindoo said. “Janie Ross.”
“Oh?” The men looked interested. “So you say, huh? Janie Ross.”
“The one and only.”
“I seen you singin’,” said another man- the only white man of the group. He addressed this to Janie. “You got good pipes. Pretty face, too.”
“Ain’t she a sight?” laughed Mindoo. He gave a careless shrug. “You wouldn’t know it, but she’s a fussy prude, that one.”
The men chuckled. Janie felt the breath coming short in her ears. She felt silly and hot in her nice dress and shoes. She longed to throw her purse at Mindoo’s handsome, sinister face and leave.
“Around you?” said the white man. The one who had called her “pretty”. He looked about twenty years older than her- at least. His gaze crawled over her like a nest of cockroaches. “She’s a dumb thing, then. Girl, you don’t know nothin’ ‘bout opportunity. Any woman who can spread her legs for Mindoo better do it- this man’s the fastest movin’ thing in New Orleans. You won’t keep him interested or your mouth fed if your knees stay together.”
Janie looked to see if Mindoo would say something. He didn’t. He laughed and shrugged. “She’s got a voice like the Lord’s angels.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Sing something for us,” said the man, his green eyes oily and violating.
Janie clenched her fists. She hated- hated - being commanded to sing. Her eyes flashed daggers of hatred at the man, and her mouth stayed closed.
“Aw, you made her mad,” laughed another friend. “Look at that face! Girl you ain’t half so pretty when you mad. Smile.”
I got nothin’ to smile for, Janie thought. For some strange, horrible reason she felt like crying.
But her eyes stayed dry. The men became uncomfortable. She wasn’t joining in the fun. And her rebellion was making Mindoo, the star of the show, look bad.
“What you so fussy for?” Mindoo snapped.
“Needs someone to loosen up that mouth,” said one man suggestively. The others laughed. “What’s the price, Mindoo?”
“Not for sale,” said Janie clearly, speaking up for the first time. This was too much. Her career be damned. She shot to her feet.
“Shut the fuck up,” Mindoo barked. “And sit your ass down.”
He turned to the man who had spoken. “I don’t sell the singing girls, usually.”
“She got an attitude.”
“I like attitude,” said the white man. “Look, I got money. What’s the price?”
Janie started to leave. Mindoo intercepted her with an iron hand clamped on her arm. He dragged her back into the circle.
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