Nobody Said Amen

by Tracy Sugarman

  She was angry now. “Obviously, you know more about whoring than I do.” She began to move past him to the door and he seized her arm.

  “I’m not going to argue about this,” he said. “I don’t want you working at Parchman. Period. End of discussion.”

  Willy calmly confronted him. “No. You don’t understand. Willy McIntire Claybourne is gonna do what she needs to do.” When he raised his hand to strike her, she seized it and slowly pushed it down. “Don’t you dare, Lucas. Don’t you ever goddam dare.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The guard left Willy at the door of the women’s section on that first day at Parchman. “They’re all yours, Mrs. Claybourne. Watch your back.” She stepped inside, and he lingered for a moment, holding the door open behind her. Five black women lounged around a table with soft drink bottles and coffee cups. Their conversation was muted, focused on two of the women who were angrily arguing.

  “You doing same inside as you did outside, stealing anything not nailed down. Like you stole my Henry!”

  The woman opposite shrugged and laughed, turning to the others. “You hear this bitch? Says her toilet paper is same as Henry!” When the guard closed the door, the banter stopped and the women swiveled to face her.

  “Good morning,” Willy said. “I’m Wilson.”

  There was silence until one woman said, “Sergeant Baker said your name was Willy. She wrong?”

  Willy smiled. “My growin’ up name was Wilson. To my friends, I’ve always been Willy. We’re not friends yet, but I’d like you to call me Willy.”

  “Your name ain’t Willy. It’s Wilson Claybourne. Recognized you minute you came in. Yeah, the Claybourne plantation. My Aunt Livia used to work there till she got fired. What you doin’ here? This ain’t the country club.” No one laughed.

  Willy said, “I didn’t want to go to the country club. I wanted to come here.” Her eyes met theirs as she scanned the table. “This shit hole is Parchman Prison, isn’t it?” For a beat there was silence and then laughter erupted.

  “Oh, yeah,” said one. “This shit hole is Parchman Prison!”

  A large, very dark woman with a scar from her eyebrow to her lip poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Willy. “What do Willy Claybourne know ’bout shit holes?”

  Willy nodded thanks and took the cup. “Long ’fore I was Willy Claybourne I was Willy McIntire. And we had a shit hole for a toilet when my family worked shares at the old Stennis place. And if any of you remember Stennis, you know he never offered anyone choppin’ cotton a cup of coffee. Even cheated on the weigh-out scale.”

  The dark woman nodded. “Coffee? You lucky you got water! He was a mean son of a bitch.” She tilted her head and examined Willy. “I remember there was a cracker family named McIntire used to pick, must have been you. Only family that wasn’t colored in this part of Magnolia that worked those fields. We worked Stennis summer of ’41. Never figured out which was worse, old man Stennis or the cotton-mouths in his back forty!”

  Willy grinned. “First snake I ever killed was with a hoe at the Stennis place. Was just before my first period. I thought for a long time it was the snake made it happen!”

  The scarred corner of the woman’s mouth lifted and she chuckled. “Wasn’t no snake, girl! I’m Lena. Why don’t you pull up a chair? You can meet all these losers. Just don’t believe anything they say.”

  Willy laughed. “I don’t see losers. Just some women stuck in this Parchman shit hole.”

  After the first three sessions, Eula concluded that Willy’s ministry was working. A house mother sometimes, she could also cuss them out like a top sergeant. Willy was giving her people a taste of outside, an ear that listened and an eye that recognized some of the past that had distorted their lives. The first time Eula heard them singing, “Jesus loves me, this I know,” she knew Willy was reaching them.

  “Yeah, Jesus loves you,” Willy said, “but you got to love yourself. Why would your old man want you back? What boss would hire you? You got to be ready to leave here one day.”

  Slowly the volatile temperature of discord was lowered, and the violence in the Women’s Section declined. Sergeant Eula Baker’s new ministry program with Willy Claybourne was the gossip of Parchman. Lucas watched his maddening “born-again” wife from a distance with a mixture of jealousy and pride.

  And then there was the visit from the governor. Eula had told Willy he was coming, his first visit to Parchman since his inauguration.

  “He’s heard good things from Dora Walters, his Prisons Department Director, about our program. The governor wants to check me out and meet you.” She had grinned. “Walters said the governor remembers you as Magnolia Queen when he was a student at Ole Miss.” Willy had been embarrassed, but Eula had kept on. “You don’t have to wear your ball gown or your crown, Willy!”

  Willy had recovered quickly. “It will be nice meeting a man who wants to talk to me. Luke seems to have forgotten how.”

  The governor, tall and rather courtly, had stood up when Willy arrived at Eula’s office. “You’ve had a remarkable six months, Mrs. Claybourne. Mrs. Walters has kept me in touch with Parchman developments and Sgt. Baker has been describing the changes you’ve brought to her Woman’s Program. It is impressive.” He smiled, “I never thought the Magnolia Queen had to be anything but beautiful.”

  Willy grinned. “Thank you, sir. There was nothing in the job description that called for anything more, Governor.”

  He had invited her to sit and talk and was remarkably candid. “When you attain the prize of the governorship of Mississippi, you also inherit the fact of Parchman Prison.” He had smiled wryly. “And that’s not a gift. As you know, Parchman has had an ugly history. Hearing good news from this facility is a rarity, Mrs. Claybourne, so I took this opportunity to meet you.” He stood up and extended his hand. “I wish you continued success with your ministry.”

  Driving home that night, she recalled the governor’s compliment. “You’ve had a remarkable six months.” Exhilarated and exhausted, she shook her head and thought, “You don’t know the half of it, Governor.”

  The last six months had damn near cost her her marriage and her sanity, trying to build trust with discards who had never been trusted, let alone finding a new neighborhood for one son who missed his friends and another who was mad at her that he was going to be in a strange school. Remarkable? You could say that. She peered into the gloom as she slowed the Chevy and turned into the gravel driveway, eager to get home. It had been the most remarkable six months of her life.

  A month after the governor’s visit, Eula summoned Willy to her office. A slender, light-skinned black woman prisoner stood defiantly before her desk. What distinguished her was the intensity of the appraisal in her dark eyes. Willy had the feeling that both she and Eula were being imprinted and catalogued behind the intent young face.

  Eula said, “This is prisoner Minny Lou Thompkins. She’ll be housed in your unit.” She sat back down behind her desk and her eyes locked on the seething young woman. “Prisoner Thompkins, you can make your time here as difficult as you wish. Or you can use it to your profit. That’s up to you. I will take your request for a headscarf and pass it to my superiors for their decision. Making demands and shouting, as you did upon arrival, will not hasten their decisions or mine. You’ve been convicted of a very serious crime, and you will have to pay for that here in Parchman. You will be treated like every other prisoner.” The Sergeant handed the woman’s file to Willy and glanced at the wall clock. “Your meeting starts in fifteen minutes, Mrs. Claybourne. Take the prisoner with you and introduce her to the women in your group.” Willy was struck by the concerned gravity in Eula’s eyes. Prisoner Thompkins had clearly made her presence known.

  Willy held the door to the meeting room open and the prisoner stepped in, stopping to stare at the women at the table. “I want you to welcome Minnie Lou Thompkins. She’s new to Parchman,” Willy said, and turned to face the prisoner. “I’m Wilson and I’m here
to lead this group. In this room we’re free to say whatever we want, Minnie Lou, and what’s said in this place stays here. We don’t discuss it outside.” She motioned to a seat but Thompkins remained rooted, standing alone, her arms tightly folded against her chest. Willy moved past her and took her seat at the table as the women held hands. “We start our meetings this way, Minnie Lou.” Willy tilted back her head and began to sing, “Jesus loves me . . . ”

  One by one the voices of the women rose to join her

  Jesus loves me,

  This I know,

  For the Bible tells me so.

  Little ones to Him belong.

  They are weak but He is strong . . .

  Now the voices rang out in unison, filling the room:

  Yes, Jesus loves me!

  Yes, Jesus loves me!

  Yes, Jesus loves me!

  The Bible tells me so.

  The song wavered to an end, and the women stared at the still silent woman. Willy said gently, “Minnie Lou, I’m sure you must know this hymn. Why don’t you sing with us?”

  “I don’t sing about Jesus.” The words were dropped like stones.

  Cleo hooted, “Who the hell this bitch thinks she is? The warden?” Laughter rippled around the table. “I don’t sing about Jesus? Maybe she the new Judas!”

  Willy contained her smile and held up her hands. “Let her explain, ladies. Why don’t you sing about Jesus, Minnie Lou?”

  Thompkins raised her chin. “’Cause I’m not a Christian anymore. I am now a Muslim.” She confronted Willy. “And my name is not Minnie Lou. I changed it to Hosina. And I don’t sing about no honky white preacher who was a Jew to start with.”

  Willy nodded. “I hear what you’re saying, Minnie Lou. When you’re in these meetings, you can be Hosina. Outside these walls, officially, you remain Minnie Lou Thompkins.”

  Lena angrily pushed back her chair and pointed to Thompkins. “What this bullshit that Jesus was a Jew?”

  Willy said, “Hosina is right. Jesus was a Jew. There was no Christianity until after Christ died, but according to the Bible he was also the son of God.”

  Hosina spoke sharply, “No! Not according to the Koran, which is my bible!”

  Georgia challenged Willy. “You a born-again and you lead this group. So what’s an Arab doing in here with us, Miss Willy?”

  “The reason I’ve brought my born-again ministry here is because born-again means a second chance to me.” Willy scanned the angry faces of the women. “I hope that it means a second chance to you. And a Muslim like Hosina can use a second chance as much as a Christian.”

  Hosina glared. “Allah give me all the chances I want.” Her eyes were pleading. “I don’t even know why I’m here with you people, praise be to Allah. They won’t even let me wear my head scarf which I wear to honor him.”

  Willy rose and brought a chair to the table. “Sit with us, Hosina. You’re the first Muslim to join our group. And it shouldn’t matter to us how you worship. Georgia’s a Baptist. Lena’s a Methodist. Cleo doesn’t want to belong to any church. Mickey’s a Lutheran. What brought all these women to Parchman is their own business, not mine. I’m not here to judge you, and I’m not here to sweet-talk you. You’ve been judged already. We don’t get together every Tuesday to talk about the past. That’s a time we want to forget.”

  Staring straight ahead, Hosina reluctantly took the offered seat.

  Cleo spoke directly to her. “I been in this shit hole for two years of my twenty-year sentence. Twenty years, you hear what I’m sayin’? For killing my husband after I found he raped my daughter?” Hosina raised her head and stared at her. “Take it from me, girl, you’re gonna need friends in here. My name is Cleo.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  In March, Lucas signed up for classes at Delta State in aquaculture. Eula commended him and arranged for him to have night duty so he could make daily classes. It was one more hurdle for Willy to manage, Luke sleeping in the afternoon when he wasn’t doing his homework for Delta State. It was a harrowing schedule with the ministry, managing the two boys, settling the new house. Willy’s sister came from across town when she could to help with the kids, but it was always tight.

  But for the first time since leaving the plantation, her man was happy. The courses on aquaculture seemed to rekindle the excited young man Willy remembered from the early days when he first took the reins of the plantation from his father. There was excitement as he expounded about the bright new world of water agriculture that was beginning here in their Delta. Willy watched her husband embrace the new information, making plans and plotting strategies. “It’s going to take hard work, boys, but we’ll do it together. This is brand new!” He had looked fondly at his sons. “The days of plantation droughts and floods are the bad old days! That was my daddy’s business, and it was my business. That’s not going to be your business. It’s going to be another world for you both to understand.” He pulled them closer. “Your grandpa would never recognize it. There’s going to be so much for us all to learn!” For the first time in a decade, Willy saw her husband totally and happily engaged in the future. Her Luke was no longer grappling with a past that had nearly destroyed him.

  On the drives home from Parchman Prison, as the rising sun would anoint the endless cotton fields, Luke could almost see what was coming. The first catfish pond will be right there, he thought, about twice the size of a football field. The outbuildings just beyond. Going to take financing, maybe a proposal to Burroughs at the bank, because this could grow. And there will be a sign. He squinted as the sun rose to flood his windshield. Yeah, a large sign. Color for the name, black and white for the rest. He could see it clear:

  CLAYBOURNE AND SONS

  Catfish Farmers

  Shiloh, Mississippi

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  It was an odd way to start the year in Mississippi, Z thought, but beautiful. A light dusting of snow had mysteriously moved across the Delta, leaving a pristine scrim of sparkling white over the withered ochre landscape. Z smiled, driving slowly up the approach to Fatback’s Platter. Like Umbria in February, except there the snow would not disappear by noon as it would in this strange place. “The snow princess” they’d called her when they were in the forests, because she loved it. She remembered that the Partisans from the south only liked the hot weather. The Nazis, too. Even before the war, the Germans had come only for the sun. They never gave a smile or a lira to anyone or anything Italian. The Partisans taught her, “It’s not hard shooting Nazis.” She had been a good learner.

  Nefertiti embraced her at the door, a shawl pulled tight against the damp. “Come out of the snow and warm up. You want some coffee?”

  Z laughed. “Coffee sounds good. But this Mississippi white magic is hardly snow, Titi.” They settled in the corner, the bar lit with the unfamiliar glow of the snow beneath the window. “When is your Perkins friend coming?”

  “He called from the airport. He’s driving up now and should be here by eleven.”

  “This is a good thing?”

  Titi put down her coffee, her eyes bright. “Could be. It’s something I’ve dreamed would happen.” She looked lovingly around the room. “I’ve never been good at change, Z. This has been all I’ve known since I was sixteen. But it’s why I asked you to be here. You’ve been good at change. I like the way you think, the way you’ve acted.”

  “This Dick Perkins wants you to leave this place, and go to the Gulf?”

  “He’s an old friend, Z, and he loves the Delta music I’ve grown up singing, loves the way I sing it. He thinks I can have a real career at Richard’s Rook, and the money’s more than good.”

  “So what is the complication?”

  “Sheriff Dennis Haley.”

  Z leaned across the table and took Titi’s hand. “Your silent partner, yes? Your Count Sforzi?”

  Titi nodded. “It’s a long-time arrangement, Z. We’ve had prohibition in Mississippi since 1907, and people like Haley like that setup. He jus
t gets richer from all the places he lets stay open. A blood-sucker. When my daddy started Fatback’s back in the thirties, there was no way to run a juke joint without paying off whoever was sheriff. If he didn’t get his slice off the top every night, you were put out of business. It’s still that way. During the war most of the men around here were gone, and to keep up Daddy sold off pieces of Fatback’s to the new sheriff, Dennis Haley. By the time the war was over and the crowds were back, Haley owned eighty percent of the Platter. The twenty percent left for daddy just covered the cost of the booze and my wardrobe. After daddy died, my silent partner made it clear that the eighty percent included me. ‘You want to work, bitch, this is the only place. You got the bed and I got the keys.’ Finding the courage to say no has been hard. I’ve loved Fatback’s and I’ve loved the work. And I never found your courage.”

  “And the policeman, Butler, who runs your door? The fascisto?”

  “A racist pit bull. All he knows is to keep the niggers from tearing up the place and keep a sharp eye out on the bitch who sells all the tickets and make sure she don’t stray.” Her bitter laugh cut through the room. “There ain’t going to be a new handyman like Bronko, that’s for damn sure. If it happens on Butler’s watch, the sheriff goes public on Butler and his Klan connections.”

  Z remained silent, watching the sunlight touch the tops of the pines that stood vigil beyond the parking area. When she turned to Titi, she seemed to have come to some private conclusion. She smiled. “Don’t look so—how do you say—morose? Dear Titi. Look, the sun is already melting away your snow! And here comes your Dick Perkins!”

  Perkins paused at the door, letting his eyes adjust to the dim room while he sought out every corner of Fatback’s Platter. “It’s what I remember, Nefertiti. I even dreamed twice about this room. I never saw it in daylight before.” He crossed to the table and took Titi’s hands. “You made me have nice dreams, lady.”