Ruth looked at him and smiled. “Yes, sir,” she said, rearranging her grin into a disapproving look.
“Travis, can you pick up Rachel today?”
“Sure,” Travis said.
“She needs you at Gilman’s place in two hours.”
“Okay. I’ll leave in a little while.”
“If you leave now, you can watch some of Professor Higson’s experiment. He’s testing another cotton harvester this afternoon. Sheriff Collins will be out there with some other folks if you want to go.”
Travis tossed the magazine on the table next to the couch. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ruth,” Travis said. He stepped into his father’s doorway. “See you at home, Dad.”
“Don’t be late for dinner.”
Travis pulled off the road in front of the Gilman commissary and saw that Rachel was not outside waiting for him. He looked down the road and saw a half dozen cars and two trucks parked on the shoulder about two hundred yards away. In the field directly in front of the cars was a strange contraption. It could only be one thing—the harvester.
He walked over and recognized Sheriff Collins in the small crowd.
“Afternoon, Sheriff,” Travis said, approaching the group.
“Travis,” Collins said.
“Hello, Travis,” said Wilson.
“Hello, Mr. Wilson,” Travis said. “Plan on writing an article for the paper?”
“Not just yet. The professor says it’s still experimental. Don’t want to get everyone excited for nothing.”
“What are you out at Gilman’s for?” Collins asked.
“Picking up Rachel,” Travis said. “But I’m early, so I thought I’d take a look at the harvester.”
“Not much to see,” Collins said, removing his cap and wiping his forehead with his sleeve.
They watched as Professor Conrad Higson, perched on the monstrosity, requested tools from his assistants and made the final mechanical adjustments to his harvester.
“When was the last test?” Travis asked.
“It’s been a while,” Wilson said.
“Couple months at least,” Collins said.
“I think he’s been up in Oxford conducting some research,” said Wilson. “I also heard he was doing a little work with the Agricultural Extension Service in Starkville.”
Finally, Higson stood up on the machine and turned to the gathering. “Well, all right, chaps,” he began, his peculiar accent and word choices a result of having spent part of his youth in England before his family returned to the coal mines of Germany. “We’re going to start it up and see how we do.”
Hank Gilman walked over and stood next to Wilson. His arms were folded across his chest. “If Higson doesn’t get this thing to work—” Gilman said, shaking his head.
With help from an assistant on the ground, the professor turned the ignition, and the giant machine sputtered to life. It backfired once or twice at first, which caused a few in the crowd to flinch, but it finally settled into a low growl.
Higson pressed on the gas and the engine roared a little louder. He raised a hand with his thumb in the air, then reached for the gearshift. The harvester bucked into motion and started down a path parallel to the rows of cotton.
Travis watched the machine slowly rumble through the field, its massive width stretched across five rows of cotton. The stalks passed underneath the machine, and the cotton bolls were fed between two arms that yanked the bolls from the stalks and tossed them into a hopper attached to the rear of the harvester.
At ten yards, the harvester appeared to be cleaning the stalks fairly well, but at fifteen the crowd heard metal grinding on metal. Before Higson could shut it down, the arms were entangled with one another, twisting and bending in every direction. Finally, the harvester locked up and quit moving forward.
Higson turned off the ignition and stared at his newly spun web of steel. “Well there, I guess that just about does it for today. Wouldn’t everyone agree?”
His assistants rushed to the harvester trying to piece together exactly what happened. The crowd let out whistles and murmurs of exasperation as it began to disperse.
“He’s never going to get that thing working,” Gilman said. “This is the one thing that could change the face of the South, and our friend Higson can’t make it work. I’ll be paying someone to work my doggone plantation ‘til I die. You know how much money I’ve sunk into this?” Gilman didn’t wait for an answer. He waved his hand at the professor in frustration and stomped off.
“He’s obviously none too happy,” Collins said as he, Wilson, and Travis watched Gilman get in his car and leave.
“Yep,” Wilson said. “Seems he wants to get rid of his sharecroppers and day laborers once and for all.”
Collins stared down the road at Gilman, pulled out a notepad and pencil, and wrote something down. “They sure are a heap of trouble,” he said, nodding. “Of course, we got someone trying to do that for him.” He chuckled at his own joke.
“Got to have ’em, though,” Travis said. “Else that cotton’s staying in the field.”
“But not all of them,” Collins said. “That contraption will work one day, and then all those pickers won’t have any pickin’ to do, and they’ll head north. Save us all a lot of trouble.”
Collins and Wilson each got in their cars and headed back into town. Travis walked back to the commissary and went inside to let Rachel know he had arrived. He was instantly engulfed in the day’s-end frenzy, people scurrying in and out with their purchases.
“Excuse us, sir,” two young girls said, bumping into Travis on their way out the door.
“Have a good evening,” Travis said. They quickened their pace, startled at his civility.
Travis looked around for Rachel but didn’t see her. Most of the patrons were Gilman’s sharecroppers, most of the help Gilman’s family or friends. Rachel got a job because Bill Montgomery and Hank Gilman knew each other from college.
“Hey, Travis,” one of the employees shouted from behind a counter.
Travis replied with a nod and a wave.
The store was stocked with a large variety of provisions to ensure that the laborers would not have to go anywhere else to shop. It was also the only store where tenants and sharecroppers were offered credit. Although the prices were high and the 20 percent credit terms usurious, the plantation laborers’ options were limited. All debts were settled at the end of the year, when the cotton crop was in.
Travis strolled through the store, looking at shelves of canned foods, bags of sugar and flour, sewing supplies, and some toys. He glanced around for Rachel every so often. Eventually, he made his way behind the wide and deep counter and peeked in the back for her.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Raymond Wilkins recording a customer’s order. Travis had known Raymond since they were kids, and he had never cared for him. Raymond had grown up in town but decided he liked it better out here for some reason. After high school, he took a job at one plantation and then another. Recently, he had been hired at the Gilman plantation as the store’s assistant manager. Raymond was a bully—always had been—and life on the plantation offered him the opportunity to flourish.
Travis eased along behind the counter until he was just a few feet from Raymond, who was still busy ringing up some purchases. The buyer was a widow Travis had met once when Rachel introduced them. She was about seventy years old, and her children worked the land her husband, their father, had worked. Because she didn’t produce crops, the widow’s balance was always added to her children’s account at the end of the year.
Travis peered over Raymond’s right shoulder while the clerk noted the widow’s purchases in the tenant-transaction ledger. “These cans all together are thirty-four cents,” Raymond said, while writing down the amount in the ledger, then picking up another item. “These are twenty-three cents.”
Travis watched closely. Raymond recited a price for each item, but for a few, he wrote a different—higher—price in the book.
&
nbsp; “Twelve cents,” Raymond droned. Travis watched him write twenty-one cents.
“Whoa there, Raymond,” Travis said.
Raymond jumped a little, startled.
“You said twelve cents, like on the label, but you reversed the numbers when you wrote it.”
Raymond picked up the can and compared its price to the number he had written.
“You wrote twenty-one cents,” Travis said. “It should be twelve cents.”
“Oh, I guess I did write down the wrong number,” Raymond said, putting the can down to erase his last notation.
“And you did it here and here,” Travis said, pointing to two more lines in the book.
“Thanks, college boy. Or maybe Aunty should thank you.”
The old woman nodded her head in Travis’s direction when Raymond looked away.
Travis acknowledged her with a smile. “There’s no need to thank me. I’m just trying to help out.”
Raymond scowled as he corrected the other numbers and gave the woman her purchases. Travis turned away. He knew Raymond was furious.
At last Rachel emerged from the back of the store.
“Where’ve you been?” he said. “Let’s go.”
“Okay, just a minute.”
“C’mon, Rache, let’s go now!” Then she disappeared again.
Travis walked back outside to the car. A couple of minutes later Rachel came out, carrying a paper sack and accompanied by a young woman. Travis guessed she was almost his age.
“What’s in the bag?” Travis asked.
“I’ll tell you in the car,” Rachel said. “Get in. We’re going to give someone a ride home.”
“Okay.”
They all got in, Rachel in the front, and their guest in the backseat. Travis had pulled onto the highway and was headed back toward town before his sister spoke.
“This is Hannah Morgan,” she said. “Sometimes she works at the commissary with me when they need extra help.”
“Hello, Hannah,” Travis said.
“Hannah,” she continued, “this is my brother, Travis.”
“How do you do, Travis,” Hannah said.
An awkward silence held for a few moments as the setting sun cast a long beam of light into the car. It filled the backseat, dancing around Hannah’s face and hair, its brilliance enhancing her beauty. Her skin was flawless, her eyes bright, her features matchless.
“What’s in the bag?” Travis asked again.
“Oh, these are some books for Hannah,” Rachel said. “She can’t get all the good ones she wants down at her library, so I’ve been checking some out for her. But we don’t like to let anyone know what we’re doing. You know—”
“What do you like to read, Hannah?” Travis asked.
“Mostly the classics,” she said. “Shakespeare, books like that. Some poetry, too.”
“Hannah’s father is in the insurance business,” Rachel said.
“Is his name Richard?”
“Yes, it is,” replied Hannah, somewhat puzzled.
“I met him the other day at Mr. Hollingsworth’s funeral home. He seems very nice.”
“I’m sure he is, but he’s still my father. My view is somewhat different.”
“You haven’t been in Clarksdale long, have you?”
“No. We moved down a few months ago from Philadelphia, to be near my grandmother. My parents were worried about her health, although she’s never been sick and doesn’t seem to be now. She used to visit us when we lived in Atlanta, and she lived with us up North for a little while. But she wanted to come back home.”
Silence fell again. Finally, Hannah broke it. “It’s nice living near my grandmother. She’s the one who got me interested in books. She taught me to read.”
“You came from Philadelphia?” Travis said. “You don’t usually hear about people moving to the South from up North. That’s the wrong direction for most people in the Delta. Were you in school there?”
“At Cheyney University,” Hannah said, still gazing out the window. “I’m helping my grandmother now. I’ll go back to school next year, closer to Clarksdale.”
Travis entered the city limits. “Where do you live?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm, though he knew perfectly well what side of Clarksdale Hannah Morgan lived on.
“Do you know where the Brickyard area is?” Hannah asked.
“Yes,” Travis said.
“We live on Mississippi Avenue.”
To get to Brickyard, Travis first had to drive through Roundyard, a neighborhood immediately south of Brickyard next to the Sunflower River. They looked out the windows at Roundyard’s small homes, many adorned with dry flaky paint and drooping roofs.
“Most of these homes are rentals,” Travis said. “You’d think the owners on the other side of town would at least throw some paint on them every once in a while.”
“Why should they?” Hannah said. “They don’t have to live in them.”
Once in Brickyard, the houses became larger and better kept, their yards manicured and their paint fresh.
“Do you have indoor plumbing?” Travis asked.
“Absolutely,” Hannah said quickly. “It’s a newer house, so the plumbing was in when we bought it. But some of those bigger, older homes up there don’t.” Hannah pointed straight ahead between Travis and Rachel. “Anyway, my parents would never have moved back if we didn’t have indoor plumbing.”
Travis drove slowly down Mississippi Avenue.
“It’s two houses up on the left,” Hannah said.
Travis stopped in front of the house. White with brown shutters, it sparkled from a fresh coat of paint, and it stood out as the nicest house on the block.
Hannah got out of the car and walked to the passenger’s side window, where Rachel sat.
“Thank you for the ride,” Hannah said. “I hope it wasn’t too far out of your way.”
“Not at all,” Rachel said. She passed the bag of books to Hannah through the window.
“And thanks again for the books.”
Hannah sauntered in front of the car and up the walk to the front door. Travis’s mind was racing. What could he say? “Maybe we can give you a ride again sometime.”
“Maybe,” Hannah said. She walked up the porch steps, gave a casual wave, and was gone.
Travis stared for a moment before shifting gears. Mechanically, he drove through the neighborhood until the car crossed the railroad tracks. Then he headed for home.
“What was all that about?”
“What do you mean?” Travis said. He hadn’t heard a word, only the sound of his sister’s most nosy tone.
“You’re usually not that forward.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to be,” Travis said. “She just seemed nice. We have a lot in common.”
“Like what?”
“I like the classics as well.”
Rachel made a sound of disgust while rolling her eyes. “Okay, I’ll remember that at Christmas this year. But you better be careful. You’re not the one who would get in trouble. She may not think anything of it since they lived up North, but you know it’s different down here.”
They made the rest of the short trip home in silence.
CHAPTER 9
And she’s tailor-made.
—Willie Brown
THE WORKWEEK’S ACTIVITY REVOLVED AROUND farming, commerce, and business, but Saturday afternoons were devoted to recreation. Although some fieldwork was done on those mornings, around noon the streets of Clarksdale began to fill with people prepared to enjoy themselves by partaking of the Delta’s few pleasures. Coahoma County residents came to the county seat from all parts of the city and country to shop, visit, and relax for a few hours. By four o’clock, downtown Clarksdale was overflowing. And at no other time was the area’s racial disparity more apparent. Two-thirds, even three-quarters, of the people in town were black.
Travis slept in late Saturday morning and did a few chores around the house after he got up. By two o’clock, he was
ready to venture downtown and see if anyone he knew might want to go to a movie.
“Bye, Mom,” he called as he headed out the door.
“Hold on,” his mother said. “I need you to get me a few things.”
Margaret handed him a slip of paper on which she had written a list of grocery items in perfect penmanship.
“Is that it?”
“That’s it. Have a good time.”
Travis made his way to his favorite soda shop along the north end of Issaquena Avenue. On the southern end was the hub of Clarksdale’s black business sector: Fourth and Issaquena streets was an intersection where, weekday mornings, day laborers waited for trucks coming from the plantations to pick up workers and, on weekends, folks socialized. Only one other Clarksdale corner was more famous: the intersection of highways 49 and 61, where young Robert Johnson was said to have made a pact with the Devil, trading his immortal soul for temporal virtuosity on the guitar. The Devil took his due when the wandering bluesman was twenty-eight.
Both Fourth and Issaquena were lined with small black-owned shops: a grocery, a cleaning and pressing shop, a soft drink stand, a cobbler’s shop, a few eating establishments, a poolroom, and a barbershop. And Clarksdale had one amenity most towns didn’t: a black-only movie theater.
Travis passed two police officers standing near a street corner. They acknowledged him with a nod.
“Mr. Crow coming out today?” Travis overheard one mutter to the other. Travis knew he was referring to the famous 1896 “separate but equal” doctrine, so named after a famous white minstrel popularized a song and dance routine in the 1820s that was originally performed by a stableman named Mr. Jim Crow in Louisville.
“He’ll be out strolling today, no doubt,” the other said.
Travis came to a building with a large sign over the door that read “Saul’s Retail.” He pushed open the door and walked into the only Jewish-owned store on Second Street. Saul Zlato’s Russian accent was undiminished by a quarter-century in the American South. “What brings you to my store? Something for your mama?” he said to Travis.
Just then, however, Saul spied a new customer and politely excused himself. His father, a rabbi, had served as Saul’s model for devoting attention to customers. Everyone who ever had a problem—Jews, Catholics, Protestants, and Greek Orthodox alike—came to see Rabbi Zlato for advice. Instead of selling salvation like his father, however, Saul sold an assortment of items from clothes and shoes to housewares and gardening tools. If he didn’t have something in stock or if someone wanted a specialized piece of hardware or clothing they’d seen in a catalog, he’d order it for them.
Where Southern Cross the Dog Page 5