The Sacred Place

by Daniel Black

  To Emmett Till:

  Your life forced us to rise

  and change the world.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Also by

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  To my elders: Your wisdom permeates these pages. Be proud of what you’ve taught.

  To the Lebechi: Your support made this effort possible. Thank you for funding so meticulously that I could write.

  To Akinyele, Kokumo, Akobundu, Makata, Ajani, and Rasidi: Walking with you has been a sheer joy! Might this novel stand as evidence of the fruit of hard work. I thank you for letting me lean on you when my own strength began to falter. You are my sons and daughters forever.

  To my friends who read this novel in its embryonic state: Thank you for your criticisms, your encouragement, your belief in my literary abilities, and your reminder to me that I have a gift.

  One

  “COME ON, CLEMENT!” HIS COUSINS DEMANDED. “YOU AIN’T got no business in dat store! Granddaddy kill you if he find out you went in there all by yo’self!”

  Clement smiled at the thought of his own defiance, trying to imagine what eighty-year-old Jeremiah Johnson could possibly do to him, with one bad leg and two failing eyes. Of course a whoopin’ would hurt, he considered, but the pain was always temporal. All he wanted was a soda pop, and he didn’t understand why he couldn’t simply waltz into the General Store and get one. That’s what white folks did when they wanted something; why should he be afraid to do the same?

  “Clement!” the others screamed more vehemently as he approached the old wooden screen door. Sarah Jane’s tears were more than her mouth could speak. At twelve, she knew never to be found alone with white folk because her grandmother’s threat to whip her good was not to be taken lightly. Stories of Black kids who disappeared after being last seen with whites was enough to keep her at least fifty feet from any of them, so Clement’s audacity frightened her and rendered her mute. Only her tears expressed her fear that he was making a fatal mistake. The boys, Ray Ray and Chop, simply shook their heads, and murmured, “City boys. They think they know everything.”

  Hoping not to witness a tragedy, the three walked home in the ninety-degree heat and mumbled silent prayers that Granddaddy wouldn’t beat Clement too badly. After all, he was new to the place and didn’t understand the rules of Black Southern life. Chicago had groomed him for fourteen years prior to his arrival in Money, Mississippi, and left him believing that a resident of the Windy City could survive anywhere. Indeed, the day Jeremiah Johnson retrieved him from the Greenwood train station, Clement boasted of insight beyond anything his cousins could imagine. He spoke of prostitutes, pimps, and kids who roamed the streets long after the night-light appeared. The brand-new twenty-dollar bill he excavated from his front pocket elicited praise and envy from sharecropping children who had never seen anything beyond a five. Clement was the teacher who, with feigned exasperation, shared stories about Chicago Negroes who owned houses and never worked for white folks.

  “Whwhwhwhat d-d-d-dey d-do thththen?” Chop stammered incredulously. Silence was his usual mode, but the notion that Negroes somewhere didn’t submit their labor to whites unleashed an otherwise restrained tongue. At eight, his self-esteem, like rain on a rooftop, was falling in more directions than he could catch. His stuttering kept folks—both his own and others—from planting seeds of intelligence in him, having concluded already that he would make a marvelous field hand one day. His mother had allowed him to wear his one good pair of overalls to meet his citified cousin, who laughed at the only hole she had failed to patch.

  “They work for theyselves, fool!” Clement proclaimed, although everyone knew these weren’t his folks. “They own they own businesses, and they hire Black folks just like they white.”

  “Wow,” Chop mumbled. Everybody he knew picked cotton, washed white folks’ clothes, or worked on the railroad in Greenwood.

  “That ain’t all. Some of ’em even marries white, too. And they live together like it ain’t nothin’!” Clement continued.

  “You hush up dat kinda talk ’round here boy,” Jeremiah Johnson interrupted. “You ain’t in Chicago no mo. Yous in Mississippi. And round here, coloreds stay wit coloreds and whites stay wit whites. And dat’s de way it is.”

  Chop lamented Granddaddy’s imposition and planned mentally what he would ask Clement later. He wanted to know more about city life and how he could, one day, live in a house he owned all by himself. Chop refused to stop hoping for the day when Granddaddy—or any Black daddy—could work without giving all his money away.

  Clement entered the General Store with an entitlement unknown to Mississippi Negroes in 1955. He didn’t even knock. He just opened the door, walked in, and started looking around for the soda pop machine.

  “Help ya?” Catherine Cuthbert’s soft soprano voice asked reluctantly.

  Staring her in the eye, Clement returned, “Sure. Where you keep your soda pops?”

  “In the big barrel over there,” she drawled, and nodded. Never had a Negro boy looked directly at her without flinching. She knew he couldn’t be from Money or anywhere in Mississippi for that matter.

  Clement proceeded, humming snippets of Fats Domino’s “Ain’t That a Shame,” and retrieved a root beer. Setting it on the countertop, he reached into his right trouser pocket and placed a nickel next to the soda bottle.

  “You put that nickel in my hand!” she demanded.

  Clement frowned, surprised. “Excuse me?”

  Catherine Cuthbert’s hazel eyes narrowed. “I said, put that nickel in my hand—boy!”

  Clement’s brow puckered at the insult. “There it is! You pick it up!” he sneered, opening the soda and beginning to drink.

  “I said hand me that nickel, nigger boy!” Her outstretched hand trembled with expectation as her face transformed from cotton to crimson.

  “I already paid you, lady! If you too lazy to pick up the nickel, that’s your problem, not mine,” Clement belted, and turned to exit.

  “You’ll never get away with disrespecting me like that!” she screamed.

  “I already did!” Clement chuckled and skipped away. Who did she think she was anyway, he wondered. “Slavery been over,” he shouted over his shoulder, sipping the root beer like it was a spoil of war.

  Catherine Cuthbert watched him with a vengeance she could not articulate. Never had a colored boy disobeyed her command, and absolutely never had one attempted to speak to her as an equal. “He just laid that nickel down and expected me to pick it up,” she whispered repeatedly to herself, inciting an internal rage that produced rivers of sweat beads meandering down her rose red forehead. Pacing in fury, she vowed to reclaim her purity from a nigger boy who dared think he could speak to her any kind of way.

  Catching up with the others, Clement told them what had happened.

  “Is you crazy?” Sarah Jane yelled. “Don’t you know dat white folks kill colored boys over dat kinda stuff?” Her father had rendered his life one windy, October evening a few years prior after some whites had raped and mutilated his wife. Knowing no other recourse, he killed them. By nightfall, his long legs added to the extensions hanging from the big oak tree on Chapman’s place. Sarah Jane couldn’t explain all the details without wailing uncontrollably,
but she tried. “You cain’t come down to Mississippi, Clement, and ack like you still up Norf!” She swung mightily and hit him in the shoulder.

  “What’s wrong with you, girl?” Clement’s bulging eyes showed that he didn’t comprehend the depth of Sarah Jane’s objection.

  “No, what’s wrong wit you!” she bellowed in his face. “You think you ain’t colored like de rest o’ us? You think dat jes ’cause you from Chicago, you ain’t got to bow to white folks?”

  “I ain’t got to bow to nobody,” Clement said proudly. “My momma told me dat I was jes as good as anybody else, and dat she would whip me if she ever caught me bowing my head to white folks.”

  Sarah Jane swung her arms as though a spirit possessed and said, “Aunt Possum didn’t mean fo you to come down here and sass white folks ’til you git yoself kilt!” She fell to the ground helplessly and released the heavy sobs she had been trying to confine.

  “Don’t cry, Sarah Jane,” Ray Ray begged, embarrassed. “Everythang gon be all right.”

  “No, it ain’t!” she screamed. “You know white folks don’t ’low no colored peoples to talk to dem like dat!”

  “Well, they don’t know me,” Clement boasted. “Anyway, I didn’t do nothin’ wrong. I just went in the store, bought me a soda pop, and paid for it.”

  Sarah Jane tried not to imagine Clement pleading for his life before a merciless white mob, but each time he spoke, the image became clearer. “Why didn’t you hand the woman the nickel, Clement?” she huffed.

  “’Cause I didn’t have to! All I had to do was pay her, and that’s what I did. I ain’t no slave! She cain’t talk to me like I ain’t nothin’!” Clement had hoped his cousins would celebrate his boldness; instead their reprimand infuriated him. “I ain’t scared o’ white folks! Y’all might be, but I ain’t!”

  As though she hadn’t heard him, Sarah Jane said, “I hope to God this don’t come to nothin’.” She stood and brushed off her cotton sack dress. “You didn’t have no business bein’ rude to Miss Cuthbert like dat, Clement. You coulda jes put de money in her hand”—she acted out the motion slowly—“and left.”

  “Okay, okay. Let’s jes fugit about it,” Ray Ray intervened before allowing himself to envision a wounded Clement. Ray Ray was fourteen, too, only a month older than Clement, but at least five inches taller. His overalls, which were always too short and too tight, made him look bound and constrained. Most girls considered him the cutest boy in Money though, with his enviable, flawless, caramel brown complexion and hair that curled at the sight of water. He never said much, afraid of saying the wrong thing, and he hated nothing more than tension. Or maybe looking after his younger brother Chop. Ray Ray named him that after watching him devour a pork chop—bone and all—at six months. Their parents had named him Hope, but once Ray Ray started calling him Chop, his birth name faded into myth. At the moment, Ray Ray simply wanted everybody to stop talking so his nerves could settle.

  They walked home in silence. Occasionally, Sarah Jane shook her head sadly as she remembered, but she decided to pray now instead of argue. Chop wanted to hear more of Clement’s Chicago stories, but as the youngest of the bunch he had learned early when simply to shut up and follow. He watched Ray Ray kick the same stone for almost a mile, amazed at his brother’s concentration and precision. Some days, he wanted to hug him and tell him he was the greatest big brother in the whole wide world, but fear of rejection kept him from ever doing it. Plus, his stuttering probably wouldn’t have let him get the words out right.

  Clement wondered what the summer would bring. He had visited before, but now he wouldn’t go home until the end of August. What do colored country kids do when they don’t go to school? he wondered. What he knew for sure was that he wasn’t going to genuflect to white folks all summer. It seemed demeaning to him, the “yessir” and “no ma’am” Southern culture required of Black folks. How would the world ever become equal if only colored people showed respect? No, that couldn’t be right, and he promised himself he wouldn’t do it. White folks needed to see what a Black person looked like who refused to degrade himself on their behalf, and Clement concluded that he was the one to show them.

  The house the Johnsons lived in offered very little room to four grandchildren and four adults. It contained a kitchen, living room, and two bedrooms, and a small wash area where one could stand and clean himself. Old man Chapman allowed the Johnsons to live in the house since they worked his crops. It was the least he could do, he said. Yes, it needed a little mending—that’s how he described it—but it beat living outdoors. “Barely,” Miss Mary had mumbled. Still, she tried her best to beautify a dilapidated structure by placing plants and handcrafted afghans everywhere she could. The house was always immaculate, and Miss Mary’s warm smile kept people coming. She was a rather burly woman whose ability to construct a full meal from nothing but flour and potatoes was miraculous. There was always something to eat, even when the cupboards were bare, so Miss Mary never complained about adverse circumstances. “De Good Lawd gon provide!” she always said, lifting her thick arms in praise.

  Jeremiah had asked, years ago, if he could paint the house, but Chapman told him to spend his energy raising crops. “You ain’t got time for no foolishness like that, boy!” Chapman scolded. So the dull, gray planks remained weather-exposed as the Johnsons vowed never to emulate Chapman’s bigotry.

  Jeremiah and Mary married in the spring of 1900, the day after Mary buried her mother. They moved to Chapman’s shack a week later and had been there ever since. The winter before their occupancy, it functioned as the hay barn and toolshed although a badly leaking roof caused Chapman to build a new barn, thus allowing the newlyweds to move into the old one. “The rain ain’t so bad,” Chapman encouraged, spitting tobacco on the tip of Jeremiah’s brogans. “Six or seven buckets here or there oughta take care of it.” The poor Black couple made the best of it. Jeremiah patched all the holes he could find, anxious to give his pregnant wife a modicum of comfort, and Mary milled about making pretty yellow curtains for glassless windows. Both had dreamed of leaving Mississippi, but poverty and self-doubt bound them permanently to the Delta. However, the land, the Tallahatchie River, the jonquils, the brown squirrels, and the Friday night fish fries were all cultural relics that they cherished. Actually, the only thing they hated about Ole Sippi, as they called it, was the ubiquity of racist white folks.

  The couple was determined to retain at least some agency although they owned nothing and possessed little power. The barn shack held memories of Thanksgiving dinners complete with wild turkey and dressing, corn on the cob, collard greens, and chitlins. Miss Mary was famous, before arthritis intervened, for cleaning a hundred pounds of hog guts at a time as she hummed church songs in the deepest alto a woman could sustain. She’d place them in a large black caldron in the front yard and boil them slowly throughout the night. Next day, folks walked two and three miles to partake of what Miss Mary called her delicacy. “Goddamn!” menfolk exclaimed as their wives smiled in envy. “Dese thangs make a man hurt hisself!” By nightfall, the caldron, plates, and forks had been washed and put away, and chitlin lovers were forced to endure until the next Thanksgiving.

  The first child was a girl, Clement’s mother, whom they called Possum. Her name was Mamie, but when she came out, the midwife announced, “You got yo’self a pretty li’l girl, Miss Mary! Eyes narrow like a l’il ole possum!” so that’s what folks called her. She never knew her birth name until the day she started school.

  “Each of you stand and introduce yourselves,” the teacher insisted.

  “Billy Joe Harris,” one confident, curly-headed boy began.

  “Catherine Sneed,” a chubby Black girl followed.

  Miss Mary’s firstborn rose, and declared, “Possum.”

  “Beg pardon?” the teacher prodded.

  “Possum,” she pronounced slowly and more loudly. Other children bellowed.

  “Silence!” the teacher demanded. And like the turbulent wind
and waves upon Jesus’ command, the children calmed instantly. “That is not your name, young lady!”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is,” she whimpered, afraid to defy yet knowing no other name by which she had ever been called.

  “Your name is not Possum, young lady. It may be what others call you, but that could not possibly be your rightful name.”

  Having no other name to offer, Possum assured her she would inquire at home about the matter, and when she did, her parents laughed gleefully and told her her name was Mamie Johnson. “I don’t like dat name,” she frowned in return and consequently told the schoolteacher her real name was, in fact, Possum. Unwilling to admit differently, she stood in the corner three weeks until the teacher relented and accepted Possum as her legitimate identity. She would continue this tradition of contentiousness until, at age sixteen, she escaped to Chicago and promised never to pick another cotton bole as long as she lived.

  Miss Mary noticed the slow waltz of the children in the distance and knew something wasn’t right.

  “What’s de matter, chile?” she asked Sarah Jane, who dragged onto the front porch lazily. “You been fightin’? Why yo clothes so dirty?”

  She looked at Ray Ray, and said, “Somebody better start talkin’ ’round hyeah ’fo I get after y’all!”

  Not wanting to expose Clement, Sarah Jane lied, “I fell.”

  “How you fall, girl?”

  Sarah Jane hesitated. “When we wuz … um … crossin’ de pond bank, I slipped and fell. Ray Ray had to help me up.”

  Miss Mary looked to Ray Ray. “Her foot musta slipped on a rock or somethin’, Grandma. I don’t know how it happened. All I know is I heard her cryin’ like somebody wuz killin’ her, so I ran to help her out. She okay though.” Ray Ray walked into the house, praying his explanation would satisfy a skeptical grandmother.

  “Oh I see,” she said. “I’m glad y’all takes care o’one another. That’s real sweet.” Of course she didn’t believe them, but Sarah Jane was glad simply for the moment to be over. She had never lied to Miss Mary, and she hoped doing so now would be worth the outcome.