One Night in Mississippi

by Craig Shreve

  I fared better as we got into town. There were more cars, but the roads were wider and paved as well, and I was growing more comfortable. I kept my eyes straight ahead, but Graden took in everything, turning this way and that to examine the buildings and the stalls and the solitary gas pump on the main corner. He met the eyes of all who looked at him, whether they were white or black.

  Mr. Stevenson’s store was a third of the way down a long side street, tucked between a hardware store and a laundry. I took the truck to the end of the street, then circled around so I could park around the back, as I had seen our father do. Mr. Stevenson was a thin man with a slight stoop, who tried to cover his balding head with a few long strands of black and grey hair that he combed over from the side. He stood in the doorway at the back of the store and watched us get out of the truck.

  “You’re James Williams’s boy.”

  “Yes, sir. I was here last year, sir.”

  “I remember. Where’s your pa?”

  “He’s sick, sir. He sent me.” I waved to indicate Graden. “Us. This is my brother, Graden.”

  Mr. Stevenson ignored the introduction. He stepped out from the doorway to look at the sacks of cotton on the back of the truck. He grunted and spat.

  “You can park by that post over there. Bring your goods into the stockroom here when you’re done.”

  I thanked him and moved the truck as he directed. Mr. Stevenson stood by as we unloaded the sacks. Inside, a pungent smell of livestock assaulted our nostrils. His backroom was dark except for a few slats of sunshine slipping in through gaps in the walls, and the air was thick with dust. By the time we had finished unloading the truck, the legs of our coveralls were coated with thin white fibres and our ankles itched ceaselessly where they had gotten on our skin.

  When we were done, Mr. Stevenson waved us outside while he went in to examine the cotton.

  “We supposed to just wait here?” asked Graden.

  “Shhh.”

  “What if he doesn’t give us anything?”

  “Be quiet! I been here before, not you. Just be still. Don’t cause no trouble.”

  We could hear the old man shuffling around in the darkened room, could see him moving in and out of the dusty shafts of light. He called his son in from the front of the store, and one by one they hauled the sacks on to a scale. He opened each bag and ran his hand through the white fibres, assessing them. He came back out with a smile on his face.

  “Well, I must say, your old man does know how to run a field. Them bags is pretty even for measure. I can give you a dollar and eighty-five cents on the bag. That’s an even twenty dollars for the lot.”

  Mr. Stevenson reached into his pocket and started counting out one-dollar bills. Graden shuffled his feet, but looked steadily at him.

  “We brung fourteen sacks, sir.”

  I stiffened and watched my brother from the corner of my eye. Mr. Stevenson stopped counting and looked up at Graden.

  “Yup. I counted ’em, boy. Don’t you worry.”

  “But that ain’t right, sir. A dollar eight-five a sack is twenty-five dollars and ninety cents.”

  Mr. Stevenson’s expression darkened, but Graden either took no notice or ignored the warning.

  “You saying I’m cheating you?”

  “No, sir. Maybe you made a mistake, sir. I can show you.”

  I stepped in front of Graden. “Please don’t pay him no mind, sir.”

  “Don’t pay him no mind? Well, that’s an odd request considering he just called me either a cheat or an idiot. Now listen here. I done right by your old man. I dealed with him for a lot of years, and I always been fair, but don’t think that I need some nigger boy coming to my store to insult me!”

  Graden didn’t respond, but he didn’t step back or look away, either. I turned to him, pleading, “Just get back in the truck. This ain’t the time for you to be fancy.”

  Graden did as he was asked, and I turned back to Mr. Stevenson, whose gaunt face was now flushed with rage.

  “You know I’m the only man in town that will buy cotton from a nigger? I imagine your father is going to tan your hide something awful when you go back to him with a truck full of cotton and no money.”

  He turned as if to walk back into the store, then stopped and seemed to collect himself.

  “I’ll tell you what I will do, boy. I will give you thirteen dollars, and you can be on your way. I only do this for your father’s sake.”

  I had no means with which to argue. I accepted the thirteen dollars and thanked him and apologized again for my brother. When I opened the truck door, Graden was shouting before I could climb up into the cab.

  “He cheated us!”

  “I know that,” I yelled back, although in truth I’d had no idea until Graden had spoken up.

  “Well, what are we going to do?”

  “Nothing. That’s what. You done opened your mouth, and now we got thirteen dollars instead of twenty. You want to go back out there and talk some more? Maybe we’ll get nothing instead of thirteen, and maybe you’ll get a beating out of it too. And maybe I’ll let him do it!”

  Graden leaned back and looked away.

  “That ain’t right.”

  “Right’s got nothing to do with it,” I said.

  “Right’s got everything to do with it.”

  I told him to shut up and for once he listened. I was angry at Graden, but it wasn’t only because of the money, and the trouble he had almost started. I was also angry because he had expected me to deal with the situation, and I didn’t know how to. I was flustered and kept flooding the engine. It took me three tries to get the truck started. The ride home felt longer than the ride into town, but it was just as silent.

  ◀ 6 ▶

  Amblan, 2008

  I thumbed the wheel on the binoculars and brought the black-rimmed world into focus. The bread stacked in rows in the window of the store down the street. The salt pellets sinking slowly through the ice on the sidewalk. The old man sorting through money in the back of the cab.

  The man extended one shaking hand across the seat, the cabbie reaching over his shoulder to take the fare. The door opened on the side facing me. I adjusted the binoculars again, watching the man rest both feet on the ground, then grab the top of the door with one hand and half-push, half-pull himself to a not-quite-upright position. I studied his face. Weathered, sagging. Tired. I tried to subtract each line in my mind, each crease, raising the cheeks, brightening the eyes, trying to match the face to one I last saw forty-three years ago.

  I thought I would know when I saw him — just know — but I didn’t. I couldn’t be sure, but I had to be.

  The man tapped the back of the cab as it pulled away. He wore a thin Kangol-style cap, and the collar of his coat was open. He looked accustomed to the cold. He stepped on to the sidewalk, shuffling along slowly to the store entrance and went inside.

  I folded the binoculars and put them back in the case on the seat beside me, then picked up my camera and snapped a few quick photos. The engine of the rented Ford Explorer was off. I watched the door of the shop for a moment, then turned the ignition, and drove off.

  ◀︎ ▶︎

  I tucked a newspaper under my arm and entered the coffee shop, shaking the snow from my jacket and hanging it over the coat rack. It fell from its hook, and I bent over to pick it up, my knee groaning its displeasure at the unwanted strain. I hung the garment back on the rack, more securely this time, then draped my hat and scarf across it.

  As I crossed the floor and selected a table that was free in the corner, I could feel the watchful eye of the manager. He was leaning against the serving window between the kitchen and the counter. I seated myself and gave him a brief nod. He returned it and offered a curt smile, then half-turned towards the kitchen, reading order tags hung from the spin tray like some ragtag Christmas tree. It was a reaction I’d seen many times before. I guessed that they probably didn’t see many black folks in these parts. Or maybe just not many
strangers.

  A waitress flipped over the empty cup in front of me, filled it, and offered me a menu.

  “Thank you, ma’am. Just the coffee’s fine.”

  I produced a handful of change from my pocket and started fingering through the coins, separating the Canadian from the American, until I had matched the total. I watched her walk away. The shop was about a third full, and she stopped at several other tables on her way back to the register. I spread the newspaper out in front of me, pulled a pair of reading glasses from my shirt pocket, and sipped on my coffee.

  “What happened to your hand, mister?”

  I looked up and looked over the rim of my glasses. A young boy, maybe five or six, stood by the table, strands of brown hair hanging limply from under his toque, like the woolen mittens dangling on yarn from the sleeves of his coat.

  “Thomas!”

  His mother shot towards him, a short, doughy-faced woman whose cheeks flushed in reaction to her son’s question. I tried to be subtle as I pulled my hand away from the edge of the newspaper and out of sight under the table.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Not a problem, ma’am.”

  “Thomas, you know better than to be rude to people. Apologize to the gentleman.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  I muttered another “no problem” and waited for them to leave. The mother turned to me instead.

  “My son’s curiosity sometimes gets the best of his manners. You know how it is with young boys.”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t believe we’ve seen you around before. Are you new to Amblan?”

  “Just visiting, ma’am.”

  She held her hand to her chest and smiled broadly.

  “Why, I just love your accent. I’m good with accents. Let me guess: Kentucky?”

  I set the paper down and sat upright in the booth, then removed my glasses, and set them on the table. The manager was still looking at orders on the rack, but I could tell he was no longer paying attention to them.

  “Mississippi.”

  “I knew it! I knew I was close. Well, I’m Margaret, and this here is my boy, Thomas. Welcome to our little town.”

  “Nice to meet you. Thanks.”

  She waited for my name, but I didn’t offer it. After a second or two, she continued, “I imagine all this snow and cold must be quite a change for you, coming from Mississippi and all.”

  “I’ve spent a fair bit of time in the northern states. I’ll survive.”

  She leaned forward slightly, as if to share a secret, and I stiffened reflexively, keeping one eye on the manager. Margaret was puzzled for a moment, but continued, “Well, the northern states ain’t the same as northern Ontario. Things are pretty tepid right now, but there’s a right storm coming this way. I suggest you keep yourself someplace cozy, ’cause when they hit, they hit in a hurry. No time to be out on the roads, if it ain’t something you’re used to.”

  The boy was starting to fidget beside her, as anxious to leave as I was to see them go. I looked at the manager, who had now moved closer, under the pretense of wiping the counter. I spoke lower.

  “Some of them roads up in the hills, I imagine they must get tricky.”

  “Humph! When things turn bad like they’re supposed to soon, those roads up in the hills get damn near impassable.”

  Thomas looked up at her, and she blushed.

  “Darn near impassable, I guess I should say.”

  I sipped my coffee, then reached for my reading glasses, and put them back on.

  “Well … I sure appreciate the warning.”

  Margaret beamed at me. “You have a good day, sir.”

  She prodded Thomas in the back, and they walked on. I didn’t turn, but I watched them leave in the mirror that was hanging above the service window. Behind them, a taxi wobbled past, drunken and distorted in the mirror’s reflection. I took another sip from my coffee and returned to my paper. I kept my hand under the table.

  ◀ 7 ▶

  Mississippi, 1961

  We kept the secret from our father for six days. He remained in bed for three days after our trip to town. On the fourth day we heard him scuttling about the kitchen in the dust-coloured dawn and just as quickly heard Mama’s animated whispers, telling him to get back to bed for more rest. On the fifth day he woke vigorously and ordered Mama to fix him up a colossal breakfast — six eggs with two thick slices of crusty bread and a half-inch thick slab of ham — but he ate little, his appetite fading after a few triumphant mouthfuls. He went out to the porch to sit in the weak sunlight and, after a reluctant nod of the head from Mama, Graden and I pounced on his plate, slathering our fingers and chins with grease, while Etta and Glenda watched with reservation. After a short time on the porch, Papa sank back into his previous state and spent the rest of the day in bed.

  We woke on the sixth day to the sound of wood splitting in the backyard. We found our father, axe in hand, sweating and still gaunt, but no longer as hollowed out as he had been the previous days. We stacked wood as he split and knew by the pace that his strength had returned.

  We worked through the morning without saying a word. Mama poked her head out the back door and called us for lunch. I had spent the hours outside racking my brain for a way to avoid telling my father the truth, and in the end I’d decided the simplest thing was to say that Mr. Stevenson had short-changed us. It would be believable enough — the reason Papa always went to town himself was to prevent us from being taken advantage of — and it would make sense that, feeling ashamed of the fact, I would wait as long as possible to tell him what had happened. I dipped my hands into the water bucket and started rubbing them clean, turning myself so that I would not have to look at my father when I told the story, but Graden spoke first.

  “I think Mr. Stevenson’s been cheating you, sir.”

  I turned in shock, eyes wide. Papa looked at Graden as well, but his face was calm. He said nothing.

  “His figures didn’t add up. We brung fourteen sacks, but he wasn’t going to pay for fourteen sacks. Warren and I tried to explain it to him, but he just got real angry.”

  I flinched at hearing my name. Graden’s expression was unchanged, and I realized that he actually thought he was helping. That he was giving me credit for standing up alongside him, when it wasn’t true. I wanted no part of it then, and I wanted no part of it now. I shrunk against the side of the house as I dried my hands on an old rag and waited for my father’s anger.

  It didn’t come. Papa stared at Graden for a few moments, then spoke quietly.

  “Go on in the house.”

  He walked away from us. We did as we were told, but he didn’t join us. He picked up his axe again, and we ate corn and strips of ham leftover from breakfast in the kitchen, listening to the rhythm of his chopping.

  ◀︎ ▶︎

  I was getting ready for bed when Mama appeared in the doorway.

  “Your father wants to talk to you. He’s on the porch.”

  Papa was holding a thin, hand-rolled cigarette and blowing wisps of smoke into the dark blue dusk. He had built a bench, and he gestured for me to sit beside him.

  “I bought this from a Mr. Parson.”

  For a moment, I thought he was referring to the cigarette, but Papa was gazing out over the yard, at the carefully groomed dirt lawn and the chestnut tree.

  “There wasn’t no house on it then. It was just a scrubby patch of trees and bushes. Been cleared once, of the big trees, but then had overgrown again. Your uncle and I spent the better part of a year re-clearing it. Cut down all those trees and bushes, pulled out all those stumps. Hauled one rock out of the ground the size of a pig. Some of that wood I sold. Some of it I used to build this house. Most of it, well, Mr. Parson sent a few boys over and they just took it. Wasn’t much I could do about it.”

  I sat silently, studying my father. There was a lantern on the porch, but my father never liked to light it because of the insects. My father was just a shape in the darkness, a
shadow shrouded in sweet-smelling smoke.

  “Your brother’s a smart one. And brave too, ain’t no arguing against that. But every man has his place in the world, and there ain’t much mercy for a man who tries to change that. I hear these men on the radio sometimes, talking about changing things, talking about protestin’ and the like. But those men ain’t from here. Some of ’em might be from Mississippi, but they ain’t from this Mississippi.”

  Papa raised the cigarette to his lips, and the faint glow seemed to shine off the lighter-coloured scar tissue criss-crossing his forearm. I had never been curious about the scars before, but now I couldn’t stop looking at them.

  “I heard Mr. Parson sold that wood for a good penny. Stuffed his pockets real good off this property, too. I knew I was paying more than what someone else would have had to, but that’s the way it is. I could have fought, but then what would I have now? Sometimes a little common sense beats a whole lot of courage.”

  Papa turned and leaned in towards me, close enough that I could make out his face. His eyes were yellow, and I realized that he was drunk.

  “I ain’t as dumb as your brother thinks I am. And he ain’t as smart as he thinks he is. All them figures and science and history he learns, those are things that I ain’t ever gonna know, but I know things that he ain’t ever gonna learn, either. I know how to survive. Graden don’t. All those smarts ain’t gonna do nothing but get him in trouble. You need to look out for him. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Papa turned his gaze back towards the darkness, and when no more was said, I got up to leave. Graden was lying in bed. The lantern was lit, and he was writing figures on a sheet of paper. I watched him for a moment, replaying my father’s words in my head, until the meaning of them finally was clear. Papa was afraid of Graden. Not afraid for him, but of him. And I realized that I was a little afraid of him too. Papa had called him “brave,” but that was the wrong word. Graden was fearless, and that fearlessness made him dangerous, to himself and to all of us. Graden was capable of anything, and that realization terrified me, but also excited me.