Nobody Said Amen

  Haley slipped the envelope into his glove compartment and confronted the apprehensive officer. “You just happened to not be here? Did the Klan preacher have anything to do with this?”

  “Hell, no.” Butler’s voice was aggrieved. “Why would he? Just a no-account nigger house in the woods? He’s got other fish to fry. Besides, he knows I work here for you.”

  “Stay here till the fire’s out and make sure nobody gets into the Platter. Those rednecks will steal all the liquor if you give them half a chance.” He stared at the desolate bar and his distracted nod was a dismissal. Butler swiftly closed the car door behind him and stationed himself at the front door of Fatback’s Platter. The sky was just beginning to lighten behind the pines.

  When he was alone, Haley opened the envelope. Printed neatly in Nefertiti’s careful handwriting was the amount of receipts from the weekend, $2,420.00, the subtraction of 20 percent, $484.00 (as per agreement with the proprietor), and the amount of receipts enclosed: $1936.00. At the bottom was a brief note in her hand. It had been crafted over two long afternoons in the back booth of Billy’s Chili.

  TERMINATION OF CONTRACT

  October 20, 1974

  As of this date, I bequeath Fatback’s Platter to Mr. Dennis Haley. The residence on the property built and owned by Mr. Calvin Bell, until recently occupied by Nefertiti Bell, the proprietor of Fatback’s Platter, will have been destroyed by a fire of unknown causes. Among the possessions that will be lost in the fire, will be a rocking chair, a bed, and the services of Nefertiti Bell, all once owned by Dennis Haley. Nefertiti Bell is now under legal contract to Mr. Richard Perkins, owner of Richard’s Rook at the Silver Spoon Casino in Gulfport, Mississippi. It is my wish that Fatback’s Platter continue in its long tradition of providing the best of Delta blues to the citizens of Magnolia County.

  A full, dated record of all transmissions of funds from Fat-back’s Platter to Dennis Haley during the years of prohibition of the sale of liquor in Mississippi will be found in Nefertiti Bell’s deposit box whose number is held by my attorney, Mr. Leroy Ellis of Tupelo, Mississippi.

  If there are any physical or monetary impediments to the execution of the terms of this termination of contract by Dennis Haley, his deputy, Harold Butler, or any other parties associated with Dennis Haley, my attorney is instructed to immediately send copies of this termination of contract to the Liquor Authority of Mississippi, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Mrs. Dennis Haley, the mayor of Shiloh, Mississippi, and the editor of the Shiloh Clarion-Journal.

  Nefertiti Bell

  Natalia Johnson (witness)

  When the last engine finally pulled out of the muddy parking lot, Harold Butler blinked as the sun topped the pines, flooding the forlorn scene with a cheery radiance he didn’t feel. He was dying to sleep as he climbed into his truck. It was only then that he saw the sheriff’s car, parked on the far side of the demolished bungalow in the shade of a huge pine. Butler eased alongside. A nearly empty bottle of bourbon was tilted on the dashboard, and in the driver’s seat sat Dennis Haley, staring drunkenly at the sodden scene before him.

  Butler rolled down his window. “Anything I can do for you, Sheriff?” Haley stirred, trying but failing to focus. Butler got out of his truck and approached the car. “Wanted to know if there’s anything I can do.”

  Dennis Haley peered out at the voice then closed his eyes, and his head fell to his chest. Butler waited, but there was no response from Haley,who began to snore deeply. Butler shrugged, reached inside the car, and drank the rest of the whiskey. As he carefully replaced the bottle on the dash, he spotted the crumpled letter on the passenger seat. He checked the unconscious driver and then took the letter into the sunshine to read. It was nearly seven on the dashboard clock when he dropped the letter back on the empty passenger seat. When I say jump, you say, how high? He grimaced, spat, stretched, and drove home in the morning sun. He was grinning as he pulled up to his mobile home. Wait till I tell Luther Lonergan.

  Four damn days. Even with the work of the prisoners, and the back-hoe he got from Parchman to clear the burned wreckage and fill the foundation, it had taken four damn days. Dennis Haley watched as the prisoners finally entered their van and started down the highway, the backhoe lurching slowly in its wake. Now Fatback’s looked like a bereft orphan. The sign he’d placed on the door, CLOSED TILL FURTHER NOTICE, spoke to no one. Who the hell was going to come with Nefertiti gone? He gazed morosely at the building. Some fucking gift from that smart-assed bitch. He caught a glimpse of his scowling face in the car mirror. Meet Br’er Rabbit in the briar patch. How the hell could he get out of this?

  Late on Saturday afternoon he got the call from Billy Johnson. “Afternoon, Sheriff. This is Billy Johnson, of Billy’s Chili? Thought maybe you might find a little time on Sunday morning to drop by here, have a cup of Joe together. I’ve got a few ideas that I’d like to talk to you about, and Sunday morning there’s nobody at Chili’s but me.”

  Puzzled and wary, Haley frowned at the receiver in his hand before replying. “Sunday sounds good, Billy. How about ten o’clock?”

  “Coffee’ll be ready.”

  Other than a few families walking to St. Ann’s for the ten o’clock mass, downtown Shiloh was Sunday-still. When Haley opened the door at Billy’s Chili, Billy called to him from the rear of the restaurant and brought two mugs of coffee to the table.

  The sheriff settled back and raised his cup. “Thank you. My Sunday coffee is usually in bed, but you sounded like this was something important.”

  “Depends,” said Billy. “Could be important.”

  “Could be? What’s on your mind, Billy?”

  “I want to buy Fatback’s Platter. And you own it.”

  “Who said I own Fatback’s Platter?” Haley shifted in his chair. “That’s an unlicensed juke joint, Billy.”

  Billy put his elbows on the table and regarded Haley. “Let’s just say you do own it, and I know it. Let’s just say that, before she left Shiloh, Nefertiti had a close friend that she told, and the close friend told me. Let’s just say that it’s so, and that since it’s so, I want to take this burden off your shoulders.”

  Haley’s eyes narrowed. “And, if it’s so, why would you do that, Billy?”

  “Because unlicensed juke joints are disappearing, and the state is going to be legally selling the booze that used to be bootleg. That’s going to make some folks who liked it the other way very unhappy, folks who had a good thing going for a long time. I thought that being so, Fatback’s could be a burden.”

  “It could be.” Haley’s eyes never left Billy’s as he finished his coffee. “But you want to buy it, if I own it and if I’m willing to sell it. Why is that?”

  “I could make Fatback’s into a real fine, legal chili and jazz joint, Sheriff. And you’d have some folding money so you could go to Belize and do the fishing you always said you wanted to do.” He refilled their cups. “How long you been on the job, Sheriff?”

  “It will be twenty-one years next January, Billy.”

  “Twenty-one is a nice long run. Maybe it’s time to quit and go enjoy yourself.”

  “Maybe.” Haley rose from the table. “A lot to think about on a Sunday morning, Billy.”

  “A good day for thinking.” He followed Haley to the door. “I like Sundays,” he said.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  On Monday, Deputy Harold Butler picked up the police cruiser and was at the curb when Lonergan left the mayor’s office. He climbed in, and Butler eagerly shared his news about Haley’s dilemma. Lonergan listened and nodded, a secret smile in his eyes as he gazed back at the office. “Uh hunh.”

  Butler hit him with his elbow as he moved into traffic. “Uh hunh? That’s it?” His voice was incredulous. “The nigger, Nefertiti, has Dennis Haley by the balls, and you don’t care? The guy who has the job you want?”

  Grinning, Lonergan turned to face him. “It don’t change anything for me, partner. Burroughs just promised to appoint me sheriff s
oon as Haley’s term is over, end of December.”

  Butler’s eyes narrowed. “Burroughs said that? Knowing about you and the preacher . . . ”

  Lonergan cut him off. “He said any outside arrangements I might have are to be terminated as of now, and he doesn’t want to know who or what they involve.” He spread his hands and laughed. “Home free, baby! No skeletons in the closet, no preachers I got to explain, no nothing as of this date. It seems to be an understanding he has arrived at with the FBI to guarantee close cooperation. My mayor has bought himself a virginal sheriff-to-be—loyal, brave, clean, and reverent!” He shifted in his seat and looked at Butler appraisingly. “May be a good idea for my partner to shed some arrangements also, given that he is known to be my pal and partner.”

  Butler blinked furiously, then stumbled over the words that came tumbling out of his mouth. “You fink! You turncoat selfish bastard! You just walkin’ out?” His voice rose. “Skipping away? Free at last? Well, let me tell you, you Judas prick, you got skeletons in the closet, and I’m one of ‘em! And the preacher is sitting on his porch, right now, waiting to see us. And he ain’t gonna be pleased that you’ve decided to take a walk. I think you’ve lost your mind.”

  Butler stared at the road, gunning the cruiser past the town green and heading south on highway 49, his foot flooring the gas pedal. “You forget what happened to Frank Tinsley when he decided to leave the preacher?” He shouted over the roar of the racing engine, refusing to look at Lonergan. “Feds found him tied to a tree four days later. Jesus, you saw his back!” His head swiveled. “You ain’t with the preacher, ain’t with me, then you’re with the devil and all those Commie bastards who want to bury us!”

  Lonergan reached over and turned off the ignition key. Startled, Butler fought to control the wheel as the car swerved to a lurching stop at the side of the highway. Lonergan calmly slid the key into his pocket and got out of the car. Once on the curb he leaned against the hood and tapped his knuckles on the roof. “Sorry you didn’t get the message, Butler. You’re cussing out your new boss who’s going to be perusing the personnel records of those officers he wants to have rehired. And you, buddy, sound like an embarrassment to me and to my friend the mayor. As of now, the Klan is yesterday’s newspaper, and you and the preacher are on the front page. The FBI is all over this, Butler. Maybe you and the preacher should go away for a while.” He walked around the cruiser and opened the driver’s door. He pointed to the dirt road that angled off the highway. “Preacher’s house is right up the road. You won’t have to call him.”

  Butler stumbled from the car and stood, staring, as Lonergan got in the cruiser, raced the motor, and swung into a screeching U-turn, heading back toward Shiloh.

  In November there was an announcement from Mayor Roland Burroughs’s office that Sheriff Dennis Haley would not seek reelection once his term was over at the end of the year.

  Sheriff Haley posted a letter in the Shiloh Clarion:

  I want to thank the good citizens of Magnolia County for the cooperation and support they have offered me for 21 years. It has been a privilege to be your guardian during turbulent times in our beloved county. I will miss you all. I am moving on to pursue a new business opportunity in the country of Belize. I wish you all the best.

  It was also announced that Deputy Harold Butler, after 17 years on the force, was retiring to Idaho due to pressing family business and a desire to spend more time with his wife and growing children. Mayor Burroughs declared: “The post of deputy sheriff, served so well by Deputy Harold Butler, will be filled by the best law enforcement applicant, regardless of race. It is time, once again, for Magnolia County to lead the way in Mississippi to achieve racial harmony among all our citizens.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The ceremony at Delta State had been brief, but for Luke Claybourne Willy knew it was a glory day. When he stepped from the stage bearing the diploma, his face was exultant, and he shepherded his family down the crowded aisle with an urgency of pure joy. “Race you to the car, guys!” He bounded across the lawn toward the car followed by Alex and Benny, hooting with laughter. She watched them. This was happy. God, how long since she had felt this? When she reached the car, the boys lay across the back seat, panting and giggling.

  Luke leaned back from the steering wheel, grinning as he watched her approach. “Got a couple of sprinters here, Wil.” He glanced up at the rearview mirror and smiled at the kids. “Your ma must be running cross-country, boys!”

  Willy slid into the car and kissed Luke. “Just didn’t expect all that speed from your daddy, him being the oldest kid in the class!”

  He laughed. “Oldest, but the fastest!”

  “You really the fastest, daddy? ” Benny’s eyes were wide. “Mama says you really are the oldest.”

  “Listen to your mama. She knows everything.” He tapped her knee. “Knows she’s married to the first Claybourne to get a B.A., and got it in two years. Now that’s fast!”

  There was whispering in the back seat and Benny erupted with laughter. “You the teacher’s pet, daddy? Alex says the teacher looked real sweet at you.”

  “Did not!” shouted Alex.

  “Did too!”

  Willy turned in her seat. “Hush! This is a special occasion and daddy doesn’t need fighting.” She chuckled. “Come to think of it, though, the Dean did look sweet at your father!”

  “She was just glad to get rid of me,” Luke said as he backed the Chevy out of the parking lot. Once home, the boys went loping up the block to join a softball game and Luke followed Willy into the house. She settled into a seat and watched Luke pour two highballs to celebrate the occasion. Handing her the drink, he planted his feet in an oratorical manner and spoke enthusiastically to an imaginary microphone. “Ex-cotton planter and ex-Parchman guard Lucas Claybourne III announced today that he is entering the field of aquaculture that Mr. Claybourne triumphantly mastered in his studies at Delta State University after resigning his post at Parchman Penitentiary.”

  Willy grinned and applauded. Luke nodded majestically in acknowledgement and pushed ahead. “The explanter and expenologist now has plans to float a sufficiently munificent loan from the Tildon Commercial Bank to finance an ambitious new venture in Delta capitalism, Claybourne and Sons, Inc. This venture will be devoted to the production and distribution of the highest quality fish in the Mississippi Delta.”

  Laughing, Willy said, “Do you think you ought to send the announcement to the networks and Time and Newsweek?”

  “Great idea! I’ll send a telegram to the old outside agitator, Mendelsohn: ‘A bit of breaking news from the blood-soaked soil of the Mississippi Delta! Times are changing and fish are now replacing cotton in order to answer the growing demand of the American public for fast food and fried fish! First among equals is entrepreneur Luke Claybourne, once an honorary member of the Shiloh White Citizens’ Council, now head of Claybourne and Sons, whose motto will be: THE FISH WILL RISE AGAIN!”

  “Glory be!” shouted Willy. “The Stars and Bars are shuddering to the ground, and Jefferson Davis is weeping. THE FISH WILL RISE AGAIN!” She rose and embraced Luke. “I’m so proud of you, darling. We all are. Even Eula said you graduated Parchman honorably for a white cracker plantation owner. Not bad, Mr. Claybourne. And now you’ve got your Delta State degree, too. Congratulations.” She placed her glass on the table and stepped back, her eyes seeking Luke’s. The buoyant hilarity seemed suddenly to have leached from the room. In the silence they could hear the whooping of the children from the end of the street. Willy’s voice sounded louder than she intended and the words she had not anticipated escaped unbidden into the early twilight of the cramped living room. “So if I understand the scenario of riches to rags to riches as performed by the Delta Claybournes, now you . . . and Alex . . . and Benny . . . will be starting all over again with Claybourne and Sons.” The color had paled in her tight face. “Right?”

  Luke frowned and set his glass carefully on the table. “Whoa, Will
y! What are you getting at?”

  She flushed, then lifted her chin to confront him. “Where exactly with Claybourne and Sons do you see me fitting into your exciting new life?”

  He stared at her. “You know where. Where you’ve belonged for twenty years, as Willy Claybourne, my wife, mother of my sons, the heart of my family.” His voice rose. “You fit in by taking pride in my accomplishments on behalf of our family and taking your rightful place as a quality woman who is important and gets respect in our Shiloh.” His voice was now angry. “You fit in by giving up playing Lady Bountiful and leaving Parchman, as I have.”

  Willy erupted, “Lady Bountiful? How dare you! Your wife? Your woman who bears your sons? Your accomplishments? Your family? Your decisions?” Tears filled her eyes. “Luke, can you even remember our honeymoon?”

  “Of course I remember! What in the world has that to do with this conversation?”

  “Everything! Do you really remember New Orleans? The lovemaking? The long walks and the long talks when we’d go down to the river for hot croissants and watch the sun come up?” Her voice broke. “Do you really?”

  “Willy—what?”

  She sat down, her eyes squeezed tight, and he strained to hear. “That whole lovely week we talked. And we dreamed together about working together on your daddy’s place. We’d build Claybourne’s into the finest spread in the Delta. Together.” Her eyes opened and she looked at Luke. “But from the day your daddy died and you had to take over, all those dreams stopped. And Willy McIntire Claybourne was taken back to Shiloh.”

  Luke stood above her, his mouth tight. “You objected to being Luke Claybourne’s wife?”

  “Never! How could you think that? I just wanted you to love me for being who I was, the woman you said in New Orleans you adored.” Willy impatiently wiped the tears from her cheek. “You knew I could help you because I knew tractors. You said I knew cotton better in some ways than you did, and I wanted to be next to you, making Claybourne’s successful. But you took me home like a little Shiloh schoolgirl. ‘Claybourne women don’t work in the fields. You’re not Willy McIntire anymore.’ So for all these years your pretty Cotton Queen wife has been playing Miss Scarlett, buying shoes, and tending the kitchen garden. Those days are gone, Luke.”