Nobody Said Amen

by Tracy Sugarman

  It was clear by now that the volunteers were nonviolent. But after every public meeting, anywhere in his county, he’d get the agonized calls from Mayor Burroughs. “What is your problem, Haley? Those Commies are organizing civil unrest right under your goddam nose, and you’re not putting a stop to it? Magnolia County is going to be the laughingstock of the whole country!” Haley would hold the receiver at arm’s length, staring at the circulating fan. “The White Citizens Council is meeting Thursday, talking about candidates for the fall elections. Your name is not real popular with the folks upstairs in my bank. Get your ass in gear, Haley. There are others in this community who seem to have more balls than the sheriff’s office and will do something about the Reds if you don’t.” The sheriff would close his eyes and wait impatiently for the harangue to stop. “Thank you for the heads-up, Mr. Mayor.”

  The call from Dick Perkins made him smile. “You got a drink for the local carpetbagger, Dennis?” Ever since 1958, when Perkins arrived from Colorado to run the U.S. government’s agricultural demonstration farm just south of Shiloh, Haley and Perkins had shared an affectionate but slightly jaundiced view of the reality of Delta life. As a result, they enjoyed each other’s company. “I’m taking my latest foreign delegation to the bus terminal at five and I’m going to need some American talk and some Kentucky bourbon.” After the latest tirade by the mayor, Haley could use a drink himself. And Perkins was good company.

  “Come on over to the office,” he said, “and if you don’t have plans, come on home and have some ribs with Janey and me.”

  Mrs. Skinner, his secretary, had already left when Haley heard Perkins on the stairs. He turned his overhead fan to high, kicked off his shoes, and took out the Jack Daniels and a couple of glasses. His feet on the desk, he was lighting his after-work cigar when Perkins stuck his head around the door.

  “This Mayor Burroughs’ office?”

  The sheriff grinned and motioned to the chair opposite. “No, he just left. He needed a high colonic for his rapid heartbeat caused by worry that the Bolsheviks are already here. You can have his seat. Matter of fact, I wish you’d have his seat.”

  Perkins poured himself a drink and settled down comfortably to enjoy it. “Thank you, sir. It’s a just reward for doing the Lord’s work one more day. I feel blessed. Two Brazilians, one Chileño, and two good neighbors from Ecuador are right this moment discussing how American know-how, as exemplified by the highly mechanized Perkins farm, can be replicated, turning South America into a fecund Eden. It is truly a wonderful thing that I am doing. And your invitation to visit Madame Jane and share your ribs makes this weary bachelor very happy.”

  Haley grinned. Perkins’s arm’s-length view of the life in Shiloh where he had chosen to settle was uncannily close to Haley’s own, although he himself had been born and raised Delta. Being sheriff did that. Every time he got cynical, he found out it wasn’t cynical enough. “Have you met the Ambassador from Newsweek yet?” he asked Perkins. “No? Well, his presence in our Shiloh is giving Mayor Burroughs all kinds of shit-fits. And Mayor Burroughs is giving this sheriff all kinds of shit-fits, threatening in his own way to let loose the savages to do the cleansing of the Bolsheviks. Did you know that Newsweek is a Bolshevik rag, Richard? No? Well, I think the next time I hear from the mayor I’ll put you on the phone. It’s past time to educate outlanders like you.”

  “Outlander? Sheriff, I am now in my seventh year as a plantation owner and taxpayer in Magnolia County, garden spot of America. And I don’t take kindly to your characterization. In forty-three more years I will be considered one of your own. So watch your tongue. You got a little more ice? No, in answer to your question. In Colorado, Newsweek was not considered hazardous to your health. But we were an enlightened community at the university. We knew Reds when we saw them. Didn’t even fire the ones Joe McCarthy said we should.”

  “What made you leave? Politics?”

  “No. Helen’s dying. After she was gone, the music went out and Colorado got a lot chillier. I decided to leave the ag school and make my fortune as a wily carpetbagger at the government’s expense. I run their demonstration farm in Shiloh and then make a deal to lease the land from Washington with an option to buy. Smartest thing I ever did. So now, Dennis, I am doing well and doing good. For which I am truly grateful.”

  “Grateful, Richard, but not yet humble. You still have forty-three years to learn how. Maybe your friend Claybourne can help teach you.”

  “Luke?” Perkins laughed. “There are a lot of nice things about Luke Claybourne. He was very generous when I first came down. He and Willy made me feel at home. But humble? Not Luke. He got his road map on living from his daddy, and the old man never taught humble. When he died Luke had to take over and pretend he knew what he was doing. He became more like his old man than his old man was.” Perkins added ice to his drink and settled back in his chair. “It wasn’t easy for Willy, who’s a lot more curious about the world out there.”

  Haley’s eyes crinkled. “Ah, Willy. You never knew her family, the McIntires, Richard. They sharecropped at the old Sheridan place. They were gone by the time you got here. Poorest white folks I ever saw— four kids, a drunk for a father, and a mother who worked herself to death. After she died, the kids split, heading north. Only Willy stayed. The Kilbrews took her in and she and their daughter, Emily, started high school together. She and Em have been tight ever since.”

  “Luke said that Willy was the most beautiful girl he ever saw when she came to Shiloh High. Prom Queen. Cotton Queen.” Dennis smiled. “I remember her. Beautiful blonde. Wasn’t a boy in Shiloh didn’t have savage thoughts about Wilson McIntire. But Lucas Claybourne had the inside track. Growing up rich and a star linebacker at Shiloh High gave him a sense of entitlement that nobody could compete with. As for Willy McIntire, she loved Luke for all those reasons. But she was antsy. Gettin’ used to Claybourne life was pretty daunting for a McIntire who never knew shit from Shinola. Luke’s mama was old New Orleans money and Luke’s daddy had a tight rein on his only son. Mama never did approve of Willy, and they didn’t marry until she passed on.”

  “It’s worked out,” said Perkins. “You can get used to money. Besides, she really seems to love Luke. Got one kid, Alex, already and another in the oven to prove it. Willy’s great. But she’s going to be antsy all her life, I suspect. She’s never really been out of the Delta except for her honeymoon with Luke in New Orleans. I keep trying to broaden their horizons a little, being kind of a genteel outside agitator. I’ve been trying to get them interested in some of the Delta blues I love. I’m going to take them to a juke joint outside of Clarksdale I heard of last week. A place called Fatback’s Platter. Ever hear of it, Dennis?”

  Haley looked up sharply. “Fatback’s? Yeah. It’s not a licensed joint because we’re a dry state, so I pretend I don’t know. Long as there’s no trouble the Nigras can play their music and drink their ’shine. Besides, I got a small insurance policy, a man named Bronko, who makes sure that no trouble comes out of Fatback’s.”

  “Bronko? What’s a Bronko? Sounds like a Polish car.”

  Dennis laughed. “No. This Bronko is a half-Polish, half-Nigra off-duty policeman. He’s a mean mother, but I’m never quite sure which half is turned on. He came to work for me about nine years ago when he got out of the slammer for beating up a Polack who happened to be his father.”

  “And that’s your insurance policy at Fatback’s?”

  “Uh huh. He sure is. Nobody fucks with Bronko. He’s a killer, Richard. But he owes me, so I keep him handy for emergencies. Hey, the mayor may be right. If the Bolshies act up, our little county will have Bronko to show them the light.”

  “And what does this mighty man do at Fatback’s?”

  “He runs the door and keeps away all evil so the sheriff can sleep well. Not many of your racial persuasion ever show up there. So if you’re really going and you want to get in I’d suggest a fifty-dollar lubrication for the Bronko and a message from his frie
nd the sheriff that it’s okay.”

  He swiveled in his chair and looked hard at Perkins. “Luke really said he’d go?”

  “I hunt quail with Luke, and he trusts me when I can get him to look up from his bountiful plantation for longer than the next weather report. It took a little persuading from me and a lot of persuading from Willy. But good ’shine will always be attractive for Luke, even if the ‘jungle music’—Luke’s description—isn’t. But we’re going Saturday night.” He grinned. “If it’s any good, Dennis, I’ll take your Janey there some Saturday night. Being the sheriff, I don’t think you’d be comfortable going.”

  “Bachelors like you, Perkins, give bachelorhood a bad name. No man’s wife is really safe. It’s okay for tonight, you can come home with me for dinner with Janey. I’ll be right there. But when you go to Fat-back’s Platter, Janey’s going to be busy at home with her sheriff.”

  Later, walking home from the Haleys, warmed by the hospitality and drowsy with the many drinks of the evening, Perkins remembered Dennis’s sly voice: “Wasn’t a boy in Shiloh didn’t have savage thoughts about Willy McIntire.” Perkins chuckled. Dennis Haley had nailed it. Savage thoughts. How could they not? That very first afternoon. . . . Jesus. Seven years ago, and he could paint a picture of it. It was his first visit to introduce himself to Roland Burroughs, the banker and mayor, a man he had to get to know. Burroughs was all hominy and honey, happy to meet the man who was going to run the experimental farm and introduce Magnolia County to the world’s farmers.

  After the meeting Burroughs had said, “I want to take you upstairs and show you the Shiloh Club. I want you to feel welcome here and meet the folks you’ll want to know who use the Club.” When they’d walked up the stairs he’d felt like he was back in Boulder, Colorado, at the Faculty Club. A busy comfortable bar, an inviting smorgasbord arranged before two large windows looking out across the town green, and the easy laughter and lilt of southern conversation, much of it from a table of women where the morning’s shopping was piled on an extra chair. Nice. The kind of a room Helen would have liked.

  As they’d approached the bar, Willy Claybourne had pivoted, carrying two Bloody Marys. She had nearly run into him and jockeyed quickly to save the drinks from capsizing. He’d had a quick vision of blond hair and wide green eyes.

  “Oh, I am so sorry! Did I spill some on you?”

  He had assured the lively and lovely lady that all was well and he didn’t need repairs.

  She’d grinned at him and said, “I was trying to help Sammy because the bar was so busy and so I—” She’d stopped, embarrassed. “I do go on. Forgive me. You probably want to get your own drink from Sammy. Hi, Mr. Mayor!”

  Burroughs had laughed. “Hi, Willy. Before you mow any more men down, meet our new friend from Colorado. Richard Perkins. This is Shiloh’s one and only Wilson Claybourne.”

  She’d cocked her head and smiled. “Hi. You are absolutely the only person I have ever met from Colorado. Did you ski to Shiloh?”

  Before he could answer, Burroughs had said, “If those drinks aren’t for us, then you’d better get on to your table!” Willy had paused and given them a brazen look, up and down.

  “I would have taken you two for bourbon and soda. Or maybe just bourbon. No, these are for Miss Emily and me. Nice to meet you, Richard Perkins.” He had watched her trim figure as she’d threaded her way to her table. And when the noon sun from the large windows caught the mop of blond curls, he—well, he could paint a picture. When he’d raised his bourbon to her across the crowded room, she had grinned and raised her glass in response.

  Southern women. He never had figured them out. From the getgo, Willy was bewitching, knowing, teasing, feminine. What was it that made them different? Helen was a beautiful woman, sexy in her own way, but a little unattainable, not as aggressively female as a Willy Claybourne. More mysterious. But Willy gave him the impression she was attainable and reminded him that he was male every time he encountered her. From that first tangle with the Bloody Marys it was a given that they were going to know each other a lot better. The next weekend Luke Claybourne had invited him out to his plantation. He said his wife had told him Richard Perkins was new in town and he wanted to make him welcome. And Perkins knew he wanted to go.

  Chapter Twelve

  NEFERTITI. The sign was tacked to the door, and caught their headlights when they came down the long winding road. Perkins pulled up alongside the line of dusty cars and trucks parked almost around the bungalow. He grinned at Luke and caught Willy’s smiling eyes in the mirror. “This has got to be it. Welcome to Fatback’s Platter, and songs by the Queen of the Nile, Nefertiti.” When they opened the car door, the beat of the music from the cabin was shaking the place. A cluster of blacks crowded the entrance and Willy’s hand tightened on Luke’s arm.

  “Richard, you really think we can take Willy in that joint?” Luke asked. “Last time I went to a juke joint like that I was drunk and had the whole football team with me. Got out by the skin of my teeth.”

  “Relax, Luke. I know a man who knows a man. Stay here with Willy till I call you.” He strode across the yard and reached out to shake hands with the huge man at the door. Over the music Bronko’s guttural voice was saying, “I told you niggers to stay back. You’ll get in when I say you’ll get in.” He and Perkins put their heads together, and then Perkins waved Luke and Willy to join him.

  “Comin’ through,” Bronko said, moving into the crush with Willy, Luke and Perkins in his wake. Startled at the sudden intrusion of whites at Fatback’s, the crowd at the door grudgingly parted and the four stepped into the smoke and noise. As Bronko led them to a small table in the corner, dancers were leaving the crowded floor and a throaty singer’s voice seemed to hush the place.

  Nefertiti, the pretty, buxom, glistening woman at the mike, was singing, her eyes closed and her expressive hands making little circles to match the lyrics. Dressed in a scarlet gown that plunged tantalizingly over well rounded breasts, with a cascade of glass necklaces catching and reflecting the funky light of the room, she commanded the scene. With every tilt of her expressive head, the long dangling earrings trembled in the half-light. The alto sax groaned a rhythmic background, and a sinuous snare gave a shivering, suggestive accompaniment to the music.

  Whoever said a good man is hard to find

  Positively absolutely sure was blind

  I’ve found the best man there ever was

  Here’s just some of the things that my man does. . . .

  Laughter rolled like surf in the little room then subsided.

  Why he shakes my ashes, greases my griddle,

  Chimes my butter and he strokes my fiddle,

  My man is such a handy man (oh, yes he is). . . .

  Willy tilted her head to catch the words through the noisy merriment in the room.

  He threads my needle, creams my wheat

  Heats my heater and he chops my meat

  My man is such a handy man.

  Willy was laughing, her eyes bright, her hand tight on Luke’s arm. She caught Perkins’s broad smile as he ordered drinks for the table, and saw Luke frown, staring at the singer. “Oh, for God’s sake, Luke,” she protested. “Lighten up and have some fun.”

  Luke’s eyes never left the woman at the mike. It really was her. How many years? Seventeen, maybe? He stirred uncomfortably in his chair. Long before I even met Willy . . . “Never-titty! Nefertiti! Jesus!” When he turned finally to Willy she was chuckling quietly as she followed the glistening singer. Verse after verse, the ribaldry built as Nefertiti grimaced and clucked, sharing the wicked fun of the words with every corner of Fatback’s Platter.

  Yeah you know my ice don’t get a chance to melt away

  Cause he sees that I get that fresh piece every day,

  My man, my man is such a handy man . . .

  Nefertiti’s eyes grew large as she suddenly spotted Luke. Fanning herself with her large lavender scarf, she wrapped up her patter. Then she pointed at Lucas,
and the patrons howled. “I know that white man. And I ain’t kiddin’!” As the room roared its approval, Nefertiti blew kisses to the crowd and moved with surprising nimbleness to Perkins’s table, both hands extended to Luke. “My, God, it really is you. White Lightning!”

  Willy turned to Luke with a wide smile, her eyebrows arched. “Introduce us to your friend, darling.” He was flushed with embarrassment as he rose to greet the woman, but could not contain a pleased smile.

  “A long time, Nefertiti. Hell, a very long time.” As the voluptuous woman enthusiastically embraced him, Willy exchanged astonished glances with Perkins. “This is my wife, Willy, and my friend, Dick Perkins.” He clumsily extricated himself, but held the singer’s hand. “Willy, right after the war, Eula’s mother had a gentleman friend— Calvin—who used to come visit us at the plantation. He was a widower, and loved Josie’s company. He had a pretty, skinny little daughter he brought with him—this lady. And every time he came, Nefertiti and I were left to play together. I was about eight and you about six, Titi, first time you came.”

  Nefertiti grinned and took Willy’s hands in her own. “I knew your man long before you did, Willy.” Mischievously she rolled her eyes and winked at Perkins. “We played a lot together!”

  Reddening, Luke looked sideways at Willy, struggling to find a way ahead in the conversation. “Last time I saw Titi,” he mumbled, “I was fifteen.”

  “A large fifteen, Willy! I mean a tall fifteen!” She shook with laughter and squeezed Luke’s hand.

  Shaking his head, Luke waved to the waiter. “We could use a drink for the lady,” he said, and everyone laughed.

  “It took you a long time to get there, White Lightning. You used to be a whole lot faster!” She smiled at his discomfiture and placed a wet kiss on his cheek.