Many will wonder what happened to Grebey Island. Once a crown jewel of Saxon County, it is now forlorn and all but abandoned. Many will point to the sale of prime farmland to Negroes as the reason for the island’s demise. An island population of over eleven hundred a century ago has dwindled to just thirty-five. Most of the residents are Negro, a fact that would infuriate Grebey Island landowners of old. The fertile farmland, once owned by a score of farmers, now belongs to a few. Of these, only two are white, with one of those being the Mueller heirs. Their farm has remained fallow, awaiting a new owner.
Three years after the Muellers’ death at the hands of a Negro arsonist, one cannot help but notice a stench hanging over the island. The arsonist/murderer was put to death at a public hanging thirty months ago, but his family still resides and farms on Grebey Island. This seems to be a shameful miscarriage of justice.
It is the hope of Your Editor that Grebey Island can somehow return to the days of yesteryear, when proud farmers put their shoulders to the plow and local residents need not make the drive into Adair or Sainte Genevieve to purchase supplies and necessities. Perhaps, on another Saturday not too far into the future, we can venture eastward and find the Grebey Island of our memories.
TWENTY-ONE
Earl pulled open the screen door and entered the kitchen. Mama wouldn’t be back until suppertime, but had promised to leave some fresh cornbread. After slathering a couple pieces with butter, he carried it to the living room and settled onto the floor.
They had bought a Zenith floor radio last winter, and Earl loved listening to Ripley’s Believe It or Not and Buck Rogers in the Twenty-Fifth Century. Late afternoon offerings weren’t as exciting, so he finally settled on The Goldbergs, a show that was pretty funny sometimes.
Just as the story was getting interesting, the back door slapped shut with a bang. Mama had made her trip into Sainte Genevieve and back quicker than expected. Earl got up and went to the kitchen to help unload the truck.
He walked smack into Grover Petty.
“What’s the rush, boy? Missed me that much?”
Stunned, Earl stared up into the face he’d tried to forget. It was three years since Grover Petty last set foot in the house, back when Daddy was on trial. The memories weren’t pleasant.
“Why are you here?” The question was barely out of Earl’s mouth before Grover smacked him.
“That ain’t no way to talk to your elders,” Grover snarled. “How about we try again. Say, ‘Hello Grover, we’ve missed you.’” It would probably cost him another slap or maybe worse, but Earl preferred that to being nice to the monster standing in front of him. He said nothing.
“Well if you must know,” Grover grinned, “I seen your daddy awhile back. He was begging me to move out here and run this place for him.”
“We’re running it just fine.” Earl jumped back when Grover feigned another slap. He didn’t seem as big as before, but he still had Earl by a foot of height and sixty pounds. Still, the fear he’d had of Grover Petty as a six-year old was gone. Now it was all hate.
“You might think you’re doing fine, but I know you got a field full of nigras working for you and one staying here in the house. Your daddy wasn’t happy when he heard that.”
“Nobody’s living with—” Earl stopped short of denying Grover’s unfounded claim. Let him think there might be somebody here.
“Don’t lie to me, boy. I hear things.”
“I thought you had a job in Adair.” Earl could tell by the look that crossed Grover’s face that he’d struck a nerve. Good.
“City didn’t stick to the promises they made, so I quit. I can do better out here running the farm.”
Grover smiled when he heard a vehicle driving up.
“That’ll be your mama. I’ll bet she’s missed old Grover... I know I’ve missed her. Them Adair girls is a bunch of cold fish.”
Things Earl hadn’t understood as a six-year-old were clearer now, and he was angered and sickened by the way Grover talked about Mama.
Still, as he’d learned from hunting quail with Mr. Davis, you don’t make your move too quickly. Make your plan and carry it out. A mouse can beat a lion if he goes about it right, Mr. Davis said. If that was true, then Earl was certain a nine-year old could beat a grown man, especially one as stupid as Grover Petty.
But first he needed a plan.
“Earl, I’m back. Who’s—” Cora’s smile disappeared when she spotted Grover standing in the middle of the kitchen.
“What are you—”
“Well hello there, sweetheart. Levi sent me out to keep you safe... and warm.” Grover’s leering smile was more than enough incentive for Earl to keep thinking, keep planning. Cora looked past Grover, at her son.
“Did he hit you? He did, didn’t he?” Before Earl could respond, Mama launched herself at Grover. He was smaller than her, and the surprise of her attack sent him stumbling against the kitchen table. Snatching up a hammer they kept by the back door, Earl swung wildly, somehow making solid contact with Grover’s kneecap. He screamed like a baby as he writhed on the floor.
They didn’t see him reach into his pocket, the pistol appeared so quickly.
“Okay, both of you get against the wall.” Grover’s face was bathed in sweat as he tried to stand. It was apparent that his injured knee wasn’t going to support him.
They did as they were told. Grover backed toward the screen door, leaning heavily against the sill for support.
“Now here’s what’s gonna happen. Cora, you call Doc Fritsche. Tell him Grover Petty is hurt. Ask him to come down and see to my leg.” Grover turned his attention to Earl, his eyes full of venom.
“Boy, you made yourself a huge mistake. You gonna keep quiet when the Doc comes, and if you say a word about what happened I’ll put a hurting on you that’ll make a busted knee feel like a mosquito bite. After the Doc gets me fixed up, I’ll be moving in and running this place. No more nigras. No more working with the coons on the other side of the island. You both is a disgrace to Levi. He sent me to get things straightened out before he gets out in a few years and I’ll tell you, the next coon that tries to come into this house is gonna—”
Grover Petty was no longer standing in the doorway. Earl and his mama looked at one another and back at the spot where he had disappeared. The screen door he had been using to support himself, had flown open, sending him scrabbling down the steps onto the dirt. Grabbing the hammer, Earl raced to the door, hopeful of another chance to inflict pain.
He wouldn’t get it.
###
It took only a few days for Harvester to discover a very different side of Professor Joshua Handy.
The Louisiana-born, UCLA-educated scholar was the sternest of taskmasters. Students in his Introduction to Agriculture class, including Harvester, were overwhelmed to the point of tears when he laid out his expectations. Hundreds of pages of reading prior to each class. Exams every other week. Papers. Oral reports. Half of the fourteen students in class threatened to drop, before being advised by President Drake that the class was required of every student pursuing a degree in agriculture.
So they stayed, banding together, helping one another to the point where all fourteen showed up each day prepared for the worst Professor Handy could dole out. This was, Harvester learned later, exactly what he expected.
Still, they hated Professor Handy, all of them.
Except Harvester.
Harvester couldn’t hate anybody who tore into crawdads with the enthusiasm of Professor Handy. And from the third week of class on, after the professor hired him to be his assistant, Harvester became, among other things, the professor’s crawdad fetcher.
Most days, Harvester would walk the three blocks to Gussie’s Fish Shack. He always went to the back door where Gussie or one of her boys was waiting with a greasy paper sack. Harvester never paid. Professor Handy had a tab that he settled every month.
The order was always the same, a pound and a half of broiled crawdads. Harve
ster would report back to campus just before twelve, handing the bag to Professor Handy who would invariably open the sack, inhale deeply, and then pour the crawdads atop the day old newspaper covering his desk. Then the show began. The Professor Handy the other students didn’t know was a marvel, pinching heads, sucking meat, and drinking tea, all while smoking and carrying on a non-stop monologue that Harvester wouldn’t miss for the world. Fifteen minutes later, the slender, middle-aged academic would sweep the remains into the trash, delicately wipe his face and hands, straighten his bow tie, and revert to the Professor Handy the students knew and loathed.
Harvester thanked God every day that he was the lucky one who got to experience Professor Handy’s other side. Thankful too that the professor had taken an interest in him after hearing about his family’s rise from tenants to farm owners. The professor was mesmerized as Harvester recounted the problems faced by his family and the others, including the attempted arson and the lynching of Aldus Dobson. Professor Handy had surprised him two weeks earlier by asking if he could visit Grebey Island next summer.
Despite his lack of formal schooling, Harvester fit in well on campus. He usually scored near the top of his class on examinations, and was told by two professors that his enthusiasm for learning was inspiring. He didn’t understand what they meant until he took a closer look at his classmates, many of whom were the offspring of well-to-do Alabama and Mississippi colored families. Most would never plow a field or manage a farm. Of the fourteen freshmen who were majoring in Agriculture, Harvester guessed that four aspired to be farmers.
After silently reading and rereading the newspaper clipping Harvester brought from back home, Professor Handy placed it on his desk, pushing it to the furthest corner.
“What does your father say about this?”
“He hasn’t said anything to me, but that’s his way. He doesn’t want worry to get in the way of my studies. Charlene sent it to me.”
“This Richland Rice sounds like an old cracker who wants Grebey Island to be lily-white again. Do people listen to him?”
“That’s a good question, Professor. I’ve never met the man, but I believe he has a lot of sway in Adair. Whether or not it stretches to all of Saxon County I can’t say.”
“You were telling me how you used to hide out at the Klan meetings or whatever they called themselves. Did Rice attend?”
“The Saxon County Knights. No, sir, he didn’t, but some members had his ear. He published reports of their meetings. Of course, a lot got left out.”
“Of course.”
Harvester told Professor Handy about Harry Davis’s offer to buy the Mueller farm.
“The ground’s just been setting there for three years. Mr. Davis is the only person to make an offer.”
Professor Handy grew quiet, his hands clasped under his chin. Harvester had seen this pensive look before and knew not to interrupt. It was several minutes before he raised his head.
“How many white-owned farms are left on the island?”
“Think of Grebey Island as the face of a clock, except more oblong than round.” Professor Hardy nodded, encouraging Harvester to continue. “The bridge comes onto the island at nine. Mr. Mueller’s farm is from nine to eleven. Our place is eleven to one. The Dobson and Cornish families own from one to four.”
The professor nodded again. “That leaves the section from four to nine.”
“That’s right, sir. The largest farm on the island. It’s owned by a man named Manning, but he’s in jail for trying to burn down Mr. Dobson’s house. His wife Cora is running it. Mr. Davis works for her. The other families have helped her and she’s helped them in return.”
“Probably won’t be that way when her husband gets out.”
“He still has seven years to serve, sir. A lot can happen in seven years.”
###
A lot had happened in the seven seconds it took Earl to grab the hammer and rush toward the door. Grover was outside, flat on his back in the hard dirt. The pistol laid harmlessly fifteen feet away.
Standing over him, his boot pinning Grover’s face to the ground and his rifle pointed at Grover’s chest, was Harry Davis.
“You and Earl okay, ma’am?”
“We’re fine, Mr. Davis. He hit Earl a good one,” Cora came up behind her son, taking his face in her hands. “But he’s okay, aren’t you sweetie?” Earl nodded.
“You want this one gone?” Davis nodded at Grover who was wrenching his body from side to side, trying to get free of Davis’s heavy boot.
“More than anything.”
“Okay then,” Davis said, removing his boot from Grover’s face. “Gone he’ll be.”
Grover, still on the ground, moved his head slowly from side to side, getting his bearings. When his eyes focused on Davis, they filled with hatred.
“You sure gonna pay for this one, nig—”
The blast caused Earl to jump backward into his mother’s arms. He heard her breath catch, like his own. Did Mr. Davis just shoot Grover Petty?
He hadn’t. Grover was sobbing, but unhurt.
“Next time I’ll aim to hit.” Davis stepped back, motioning with the smoking gun for Grover to get up and leave. When he struggled to his feet, Earl could see burn marks on one of his sleeves, residue from the shot aimed inches away.
“I can’t even hear—” Davis took a menacing step in Grover’s direction, causing him to take off in a stumbling sprint toward his car. Davis watched until he was out of sight, then turned back to the doorway where Earl and Cora had remained throughout.
“Maybe you should call the sheriff, Miss Cora. Might be better hearing it from you first.”
###
It took two things to convince Sheriff Les Belanger that Harry Davis wasn’t the guilty party. Earl’s swollen eye was the first bit of indisputable truth of what had happened. Earl told him the entire story about how Grover Petty had come uninvited and unannounced. Then, Earl’s mama asked the sheriff to step outside with her. Earl couldn’t hear everything, but he heard enough to know Mama had told Sheriff Belanger about the things Grover did to her while Levi was awaiting trial. When they returned to the house, Sheriff Belanger looked grim and Mama looked like she’d been crying.
Still, the sheriff couldn’t help himself from leveling a thinly-veiled threat at Harry Davis.
“Boy, we got too many nigras out here as it is. If I find out you’re causing trouble, I’ll be the first one to—”
“He never did nothing but help us.” The adults turned in surprise when Earl stepped forward.
“Mr. Davis helps us. He don’t hurt us like Grover Petty and the Knights wanted to do.”
“Boy, what do you know about the Knights?” Sheriff Belanger’s voice was stern, menacing. Cora placed her hand on Earl’s shoulder, shaking her head at him to stop, but he was having none of it.
“I know they hate Negroes for no reason except they’re Negroes. I know they planned to burn Mary Dobson’s house down. And I know that Mr. Dobson didn’t kill the Muellers.”
“Saying stuff like that can bring you as much trouble as being a Nigra yourself.”
“You know it too, Sheriff,” Earl continued, his voice growing louder. “You know Grover Petty set the fire at the Muellers. You didn’t even try to do your job.”
The burly sheriff’s face grew red with rage. He reached for the boy’s arm, but Earl pulled away. Thinking better of it, the sheriff stepped back, turning his anger at Cora.
“Any boy who speaks like that needs his rear end lit up!”
“No Sheriff. I think getting slapped around by a no-account murderer was enough for one day. Why don’t you go ahead and get out of my house? Next time I need help, I’ll call my friends at the Missouri Highway Patrol. They seem to be the only ones who care about us out here.”
TWENTY-TWO
Levi pulled the tray through the bars and lifted it to his nose.
“I ain’t sure it’s cooked all the way.”
“Let me have it, then
.” In their seventeen months as cellmates, Levi had learned that Clyde Matchett would eat anything. Cooked, undercooked, raw, it didn’t matter. Levi spooned the corn and green beans into his mouth, then handed the congealed turkey and what passed for stuffing to Clyde.
“It’s my fourth Thanksgiving in here, Clyde. Men who did a lot worse than me got a lot less time.”
“I know, Levi.” Clyde spoke through a mouthful of turkey. “It’s hard. It’s my second Thanksgiving, but I only got one to go.”
Levi watched Clyde tear into the turkey and dressing with no thought of a fork. The boy was young, twenty-two. He was in for cattle rustling but didn’t have the brains to know he’d been set up. Clyde didn’t have half his teeth; his balding head was dented on one side from getting kicked by a horse on his eleventh birthday. He stuttered, causing no end to the misery he faced at the hands of other inmates, misery Levi was unable to help him with. Neither of them was very big, but at least Levi could figure out who to avoid.
Still, he envied Clyde Matchett. Despite so much going against him, Clyde had a wife, Ramona, who was as faithful as the days were long. Twice a month, without fail, Ramona made the two hundred and fifty mile round-trip from Palmyra to Jefferson City in a fifteen-year-old Chevy that was forever breaking down. She usually brought their boy, Donald. Ramona was fat, ugly, and sweet as syrup. Donald was slow and, at age three, already showing signs of inheriting his daddy’s stutter. Still, they were there, every other Saturday.
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