Nobody Said Amen

by Tracy Sugarman

  Jimmy turned to Mendelsohn. “I have to meet the HUD people in Jackson tomorrow. You want to ride down with me? I want to pick your brain. You’re my man in Washington, Ted. You know these kind of guys.”

  Ted cocked his head and smiled. “You’ve got nothing to be nervous about. This is your turf, kid. You’ve earned it. You know more about this corner of the world than they do. But I can’t, Jimmy. Max is waiting on my wrap of Cheney’s funeral in Meridian before sending me to interview Mandela in Cape Town.” He shook his head, his eyes desolate. “All of this, this whole toxic, incredible summer, all—” His voice broke. “It’s just another story to Max. And when I get to see Mandela and write about the horrific apartheid in South Africa, all of it will be just another story for Max.” He shook his head, angry and frustrated. “And it’s not Max I’m frightened of. It’s me. I feel like the world is skidding past me, and all I can do is take notes”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve been a lifeline for us, and a megaphone. We can’t do that ourselves.”

  Ted blinked hard and searched Jimmy’s face. “I’ve gotten a hell of a lot more than I gave. I’ve gotten to know you, and Eula, and the Claybournes, and Rennie Williams, all the people I’ve come to know and care for in this American wilderness. Victims, heroes, and too many of them damaged or dead like Mickey and Andy and James.” He shrugged and cleared his throat. “But it’s just another story for Max, soon to be yesterday’s newspaper.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Reverend Gladsome Neeley had seen Willy Claybourne at the Johnny Reb Day parade when he’d finished his invocation on the town green. It was the only such parade in the Delta, so folks showed up from all the cotton towns halfway to Jackson. She was there with her boys, Alex and Benny; the reverend had christened them both. Willy’s blond hair was tucked beneath a lavender sun hat that softly shadowed her face. No way to miss Wilson Claybourne. She moved with the quiet assurance of a beautiful woman who had always been beautiful. Gladsome and Willy had been friends since she had moved in with the Kilbrew family and started at Shiloh High. His mother had encouraged their friendship. “That child has seen more grief than a good Christian should ever know about, Glad. Be a good friend.” And his father had welcomed her into the Bible studies class at the church, knowing full well the girl had never been in a church before.

  For the shy Gladsome, Willy had been his first real crush. When she found Luke Claybourne, it had been a terrible disappointment for him. Being 18, Gladsome bemoaned his luck and went off to the University of Virginia and then Yale Divinity School. The friendship with Willy had revived when he was summoned by his father to take over as his assistant pastor. One of his first duties upon succeeding his father at the pulpit was to marry Lucas and Willy Claybourne. Luke went to church only for weddings, christenings, and funerals, and never did understand Willy’s Sunday ritual of attendance. But for Willy, who longed for the ordinariness of a childhood that had been denied her, Sunday church filled some of that emptiness.

  When the plantation had been lost, Luke seemed to be nearly drowning in frustration and guilt. Willy’s need for something or someone to sustain her led her to seek Gladsome’s counsel.

  “I’ve never felt so helpless, Glad. I watch Luke leave for Parchman Penitentiary in the morning, and I think: I made him do that. And I weep once Alex goes off to school.”

  “There will be better days, Willy. You and Luke are going to make it. You are there for each other.”

  Her response was sodden. “I’ve never felt so alone.”

  “Willy, you never were raised in the church, never known Jesus as part of your life. Church has been something social for you, like the Shiloh Club, like the PTA, just a place to be part of the community. Now you’ve been stripped of so much that was material. And you feel naked, but you’re not, Willy. Starting from now, you have a friend in Jesus. Every day.”

  “How do I find Him, Glad?”

  He had taken her hand and knelt. She blinked away the tears and knelt beside him. “Pray with me, Willy.”

  When the student volunteers of Freedom Summer had arrived in Shiloh in June of 1964, Oscar Kilbrew was alarmed. He urged Rev. Neeley to convene an urgent meeting with the church Elders. Gladsome, noting the agitation in his caller, had readily consented, but asked his wife, Martha, to take notes and listen. He sensed it would not be an easy meeting. It was to take place at the elderly Kilbrew’s home.

  Oscar, who had been a parishioner when Gladsome’s father was still the minister, nodded curtly to Gladsome and Martha as they entered his living room. “Good Evening, Martha, Gladsome. Since we’ve all known each other for a long time, I think it’s good if we have a frank exchange of views about this worrisome invasion of our town.”

  Gladsome nodded. “I certainly agree, Oscar. It is worrisome.”

  Kilbrew said, “If it’s worrisome, then everyone in town has got to do his part to deal with it. Do you agree?”

  The minister sensed a tightening of tone in Kilbrew’s voice, and a nervous shifting among the five Elders. “Of course. The whole country is watching Magnolia County this summer, and Shiloh in particular. How we stand the spotlight will be a measure of our character.”

  Kilbrew frowned. “Frankly, Gladsome, I think our problem may not be character as much as patriotism, fealty to our country and to our Mississippi.”

  Neeley’s eyes widened. “What in the world are you suggesting, Mr. Kilbrew? That your minister is not patriotic?” His voice was so strident that Martha looked up hurriedly from her note taking. She could see the throbbing vein in her husband’s neck and the unusual flush on his face. His voice dropped. “I am certain you are not implying that. What is it you wish to discuss with me and the Elders?”

  Kilbrew said, levelly, “I am questioning your judgment, not your patriotism, Reverend Neeley. I leave it to others to judge what is patriotic in these terrible times. My son, who runs the garage, has told me that a colored who works for him, and lives in the Sanctified Quarter, reports that a radical minister who is counseling these local Communists is planning to come to services on Sunday. At their meeting, the minister told the group that he had known you at the Divinity School at Yale and was certain that there would be no problem attending our Sunday services. He showed the group a picture of a rally at Yale celebrating the Brown v. Board of Education decision in 1955. You were on the podium.”

  The room became still. Pale, Martha halted her writing and stared at her husband. Kilbrew’s voice broke the silence. “That was you?”

  “It was, Mr. Kilbrew. The whole Divinity School felt it was an advance for our country toward solving racial segregation. I do believe that. It’s the law of the land, sir.”

  “You believe that racial segregation should be abolished?”

  Gladsome met his furious gaze. “I believe that every society must work to make the world that Jesus offered us. None of us are perfect. But it’s part of our task as Christians to help bring that world. I do not apologize for being on that podium.”

  Kilbrew was on his feet now and the other Elders rose behind him. “Those radicals are not coming to our church. Not this Sunday. Not any Sunday. The minute they sit in our church, your contract will be nullified. You understand that?”

  Gladsome stood and faced them. “This church is not your church, Oscar. And it is not my church. This is the Lord’s church, and as long as I am minister of His church it will be a welcome place for anyone coming to pray here.” He beckoned to the shaken Martha and when she joined him, he nodded to the Elders. “Good evening, gentlemen. I think we are done here.”

  On Sunday, as Gladsome stood at the top of the steps welcoming his parishioners, he saw a knot of people cross the highway and start up the walk approaching the church. A white man in a suit, wearing a clerical collar, led four young black men and women and two white student volunteers to the base of the steps. The man waved and called, “It’s Bill Farley, Reverend Neeley! I haven’t seen you since New Haven. You have a
pretty town, but it’s a whole lot warmer here than in Connecticut. If you don’t mind our perspiration, my friends and I have come to pray with you.”

  Gladsome saw the parishioners stiffen by the door, their eyes wide. When Farley’s group started up the steps, he heard a murmur at the door as Oscar Kilbrew and the five Elders stepped out of the church and made a phalanx of bodies before the entrance. Taking a deep breath, Gladsome started down the steps and shook hands with the other minister. “Welcome, Reverend Farley. We’re about to start.”

  Oscar Kilbrew held up his hand. “Stay right there. The clerical collar doesn’t fool anybody. We know who you are and what you are. And you are not welcome here.”

  Gladsome said, “Mr. Kilbrew, these people have come to pray in the Lord’s house. This church has never—”

  Kilbrew interrupted. “I’m not talking to you, Reverend Neeley. I’m talking to these Communists who are here to embarrass and destroy us. This man Farley is living with Nigras in the Quarter and sleeping with Nigras in the Quarter, and he can go pray with Nigras in the Quarter.”

  Farley held up his hands in peace and turned to the young people behind him. “We’ll have our service at the Sojourner Chapel.” He looked up at the Elders. “You are very welcome to come,” he said, then retreated down the steps.

  Gladsome watched in silence, then looked at the Elders. “I have never before felt ashamed of Shiloh until this Sabbath. You have made me ashamed. I will take the advice you gave my Christian brothers, Mr. Kilbrew. I will go with them to the Sojourner Chapel, and I will pray for you.”

  Across the highway, a television crew from NBC filmed Gladsome Neeley as he caught up with Farley and the volunteers as they re-crossed the highway.

  When the story broke, YALE MINISTER DENIED ACCESS TO MISSISSIPPI CHURCH, it raced across America, one more piece of evidence that segregation was not going to go away quietly in the South. The NBC story was seen as an urgent call for solidarity among the beleaguered whites like Oscar Kilbrew and the Elders. Fearsome change was at their very gates, promoted by radicals from the North, and circulated by a corrupt press that was determined to destroy their vision of what constituted a good society. A call went out from the Elders for a new minister. In the local paper Oscar Kilbrew, chairman of the Board of Elders, announced that the replacement for Rev. Gladsome Neeley would arrive before the end of the summer.

  The firing of Gladsome Neeley was the line in the sand for the white community. Black riots in the northern cities were evidence enough to white Shiloh that segregation was not only justified, but had to be staunchly defended. The calls for “segregation ever, integration never” were soon back in the Mississippi press. Luke, sensing a growing restiveness in his black prisoners, confronted Willy.

  “Your Jesus thing is your Jesus thing, Willy. But it’s not just your Jesus thing. Your friend, Neeley, is kicking the hornet’s nest and getting every black in the Delta riled up, every black in Parchman riled up. That’s playing with fire, Willy, and it’s goddam dangerous. The sooner that rabble rouser, Neely, leaves Shiloh the better. Your ‘born again’ meetings with this pinko are over.”

  Willy felt abandoned, knowing that her long friendship with Gladsome Neely could not continue. Her note to Gladsome said only, “Thank you, dear friend. Pray for me.” Not even Em could know her sense of loss. She was left now with only her Jesus. For Gladsome, Willy’s turning away was a wound that never really would heal.

  When word reached the Sanctified Quarter that there was unusual activity around the Kilbrew gas station, Neely was visited by Rennie Williams. On that very night, Gladsome Neeley packed Martha and his kids into the old Oldsmobile and headed north on Highway 49 for Memphis.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  It was dusk when Jimmy returned from Jackson. Eager to share his news with Eula who would be waiting at the Freedom House, he left from the Trailways station and cut across the highway near Sojourner Chapel. A familiar figure came from behind the building, tonelessly singing. Jimmy stared at the man through the early darkness.

  When you wake up in the morning and your prick doth stand From the pressure of your bladder on the prostate gland . . .

  “Ted?” Jimmy’s shocked voice echoed in the churchyard, but the song continued.

  If you can’t find a woman, find a clean old man,

  And you’ll revel in the joys of copulation!

  Mendelsohn belched and laughed, “At your service. C’est moi, Ted the scrivener.” He wagged his finger, “Whoever you are. In the dark they are all the same.” The lurching figure had stopped, staring through the darkness. “Why, it’s Jimmy! Have I got a drink for you!” He extended a nearly empty bottle of bourbon. “For you, brother.”

  “You okay, Ted? Jesus, you look like hell.”

  “Sure you won’t join me? Misery loves company, and I’m sad and I’m miserable.” Mendelsohn put an unsteady hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “And I’m going to leave this wilderness, Jimmy. On the next bus or sooner.”

  Jimmy took Ted’s damp hand and led him to the steps of the church. “Sit down. Now hand me the bottle.”

  Jimmy took a large swig of the bourbon. “You want this back? It’s almost a dead soldier.”

  Ted’s voice had become melancholy. “No. Had enough. Had enough booze. Had enough Missifuckingsippi. Wanna go Manhattan. Point me toward the bus station.”

  “Later. Where you been?”

  “Yeah, that’s the question, Jimbo. Where I been?” He put his head in his hands. “New York called this morning. Max said after the Chaney kid’s funeral to come home. He had sent me photos from the FBI of the three kids when they excavated them from the mud the Klan buried them in.” He took the bottle from Jimmy and emptied it. “You don’t want to see them, Jimmy.” He rose from the steps, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. The slur had gone from his speech. “So at ten this morning I’m in Meridian. Ten in Meridian. . . . They ought to put that on my tombstone. In that crummy little overheated church, I saw where I’ve been, the whole long, hot summer. Watching Chaney’s mother. That woman refused to weep, Jimmy! She was that furious, watching his kid brother agonize and cry like I never heard a kid cry. The boy looked like my Richard at that age. Hearing Hollis or Stokely or who the hell else shout out, ‘I’m sick of burying my friends! I’m never going to another funeral! They want to kill us all.’ And I watched me taking out a notebook. Goddammit, I did. I took out a notebook. Dear diary, dear editor: What I did on my summer vacation.” He spat on the ground. “I wanted to take out a machine gun, Jimmy, and just blow the hell out of all the racist bastards I’ve had to write about all summer. When they started to sing ‘We Shall Overcome,’ I bolted out of there, blind, and was hit with a Coke bottle! The redneck was leaning against his truck, grinning. ‘You got black pussy in there, nigger lover?’ I beat the son of a bitch to the ground, Jimmy. I was not non-violent. I was not a spectator. And I kept on beating him till the sheriff pulled me away and stuck me in the back of his car. ‘I thought you were a reporter. You gone crazy? Let’s get you the hell out of here. Where you think you are? Manhattan? That guy was a Kilbrew. They’ll kill you.’ He had his deputy drive my car to the Sanctified Quarter. Said ‘have a nice day.’”

  “And you’re really leaving, Ted? Who’s gonna tell our story?”

  “You are.” He sat down hard on the step. “Everybody in America discovered Mississippi this summer. It’s a lot more important that you stay, that you keep making the story. They got plans for me in New York, then Cape Town. So, yeah, I’m out of here, Jimmy. A lot of unfinished business, kid.” He stood and put his arms around Jimmy. “We’ll keep in touch. I’ll be watching.”

  Sept. 30, 1964

  Cape Town, South Africa

  Hey, Jimmy,

  For two days I’ve been in the belly of the beast here and Robben Island makes Parchman Prison look like heaven. Only revisiting Mandela justifies being exposed to these bigoted bastards. It sickens me to realize that this hell will be Mandela’s home for
the rest of his life. But he remains full of plans, strategies and hopes for the future! What the hell is it in the human spirit that is so unquenchable?

  Ted

  Oct. 15,1964

  Shiloh, Mississippi

  Ted,

  Just got back from the Democratic convention in Atlantic City. Feeling so lousy about what I saw that it’s a bad time to be checking me out on unquenchable human spirit, man. It was our moment, and the whole world was watching my folks standing up and listening to our Fannie Lou Hamer crying, “Is this America? We are tired of being tired. We want our freedom and we want it now!” Proud? You bet your ass we were proud! And we were screwed by Rev. King and Humphrey and organized labor. LBJ told Humphrey, you want to be vice president? Send these trouble-makers back to Mississippi. And all our old friends asked us to take two damn seats at the convention, and Fannie Lou said, We don’t want two seats. We are all tired. And we went home. End of story. Like I said, it’s bad timing.

  Jimmy

  Oct. 22, 1964

  Washington, D.C.

  Jimmy:

  Your letter reached me this morning. Bad news travels slow, and that’s rotten news. I thought that the only lousy stuff in Atlantic City was the saltwater toffee, but journalists are the last to know about most everything. I do know that it’s not the end of the story. There’s no end if you decide there’s no end. Mandela taught me that. All he wanted was inclusion for the Africans in their own government. But when he was betrayed they locked him away for life on Robben Island. From his cell he said America needs to know how we’re struggling. I told him there were people like Jimmy Mack who already knew that and are fighting for their freedom. He made a fist. “Tell Mack that he’s not alone.” I’m on the way to New York to cover the elections. Keep the faith.

  Ted

  Chapter Thirty-Five