Where Southern Cross the Dog

by Allen Whitley

  Finally, the weekend arrived. Before heading home to get ready, Travis stopped by the local baseball field to watch one of the Negro teams from Louisiana, the Shreveport Black Sports, play a doubleheader against Clarksdale’s local team, the Brown Bombers. The Negro field was located a half mile outside of town. When Travis arrived, he noticed a handful of other whites who were also taking the opportunity to see some professional baseball in Clarksdale. Travis sat between home and third base, ten rows up. After some shadow ball, Shreveport led off. Travis ate peanuts and cheered for his hometown team, but mostly he thought about Hannah. He left after six innings of the first game.

  When Travis arrived home with some groceries his mother had requested, she was listening to Ella Fitzgerald wistfully singing her most recent hit on the radio. His father was in the living room, finishing the paper. Travis bounded upstairs, changed clothes, and scrambled back down in less time than it took his mom to put everything away. He picked up an apple.

  “When will you be home tonight?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Travis said. “It’ll be late. I might stay over at somebody’s house if I need to.”

  “Be careful, and tell your father good-bye before you leave. Are you taking the car again?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’d better ask him first.”

  Travis sauntered into the living room. His father laid the paper on his lap.

  “You going out?” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where to?”

  “I’m gonna head over to Conner’s house, and then we’ll go to the movie or something. Can I use the car?”

  “Sure. Can you put some gas in it?”

  “Yes, sir. Thanks.”

  As Travis headed to the door, his father said, “Before you go, son, I’ve been hearing rumors around town.”

  Travis nervously turned toward his father.

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “Just things.”

  Travis knew his father was being evasive. He didn’t want to come right out and say it. Travis didn’t want him to.

  “You know, Travis,” he said, “we have rules that are written down and enforced by law. Rules against murder, for example.”

  “Luke broke that rule.”

  “That’s right. And then we have other rules that aren’t written down. Those rules are more like customs, and we know them because that’s what we’re taught from our parents and from the people around us.”

  “Yes, sir, and for the past two years you’ve been bringing Hodding Carter’s articles into our home, and we’ve been reading them, and you’ve been teaching us that some of those unwritten rules, well, they’re just not right. You said Carter’s the future of the South, and that if it’s a foregone conclusion, then we ought to get on board now.”

  Travis could see his father pondering this fact. Neither of them looked away.

  “And you’re correct. Those are my thoughts in my house. But that’s not how everyone outside these walls thinks. I can’t tell them what to think and neither can you. If I tried, I’d be without a job. The rules, morality, and the actions must all be unified.”

  His father brought his hands together and interlaced his fingers. “Any one of those without the others just brings trouble.”

  “It’s got to start somewhere.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “You’re a man now, and I’m not going to tell you what to do. You have to make your own choices. But what I will tell you is that even the unwritten rules get enforced. And breaking them carries a penalty.”

  “I understand, Dad. If I spend the night out, I’ll make sure to be back for church. ’Night, Dad.”

  Travis drove toward the movie theater near Hannah’s house. He arrived at 6:40 p.m. and parked across the street, exactly one block from the building where she had asked him to meet her. He could see the front of the theater and several blocks on the other side of it. He couldn’t miss her.

  At 7:05 p.m., he began to feel impatient. At fifteen after, he was concerned. Maybe she wouldn’t show, had gotten into trouble, worked late, or any number of other possibilities. By twenty-five after, he thought about just driving home and forgetting the party.

  “Hey, Travis!” Hannah said. She poked her head in the passenger’s side window.

  Travis flinched in his seat. “Where’d you come from?”

  “I walked between those two buildings,” she said, pointing over her shoulder.

  Travis hurried out of the car and opened her door.

  “Thanks,” she said, pulling her skirt into the car and tucking it up under her legs.

  “I never even saw you coming. Where have you been?”

  “Oh, you know, it always takes a woman a little longer to get ready,” Hannah said, settling into her seat and turning slightly to face him. “It also took a little longer than expected to get out of the house.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “What time do you have to be home?”

  “Tomorrow before church. I told my parents I was sleeping over at a friend’s house.”

  “So did I.”

  Travis drove northwest out of town past the Stovall plantation and then back south.

  “You know, we’re only a few miles from the river, as the crow flies,” he said, squinting ahead. “But we’ll probably have to drive thirty to get where we’re going. By the way, where are we going, exactly?”

  “Just keep driving.”

  Travis kept glancing at Hannah. She seemed to glow in the light from the setting sun. She was wearing what appeared to be a new blouse and skirt. It was neither flashy nor prudish, and its color perfectly complemented her brown, flawless skin. Hannah was self-assured: she knew who she was and what suited her, and she never failed to capitalize on it. Travis realized he had yet to find any faults in her.

  About ten minutes into the trip, Travis pulled a small flask from under the seat. Hannah looked down at it, then up at Travis. “I’m a little nervous,” he said.

  “Bourbon?” Hannah said.

  Travis nodded.

  “Where you’d get it?”

  “There’s a little storage room in the courthouse for confiscated contraband.”

  They passed the flask back and forth a few times as they chatted about nothing in particular. “You still nervous?” Hannah said a little while later.

  “Maybe just a tad. But a few more swigs should help.”

  Around one corner, Travis took a turn a little bit wide, and Hannah grabbed the wheel and yanked the car back on the road. “Why don’t I drive?” she suggested. “That’ll give you time to sip. And I know where the party is.”

  Travis pulled over and stopped the car. They switched places and continued.

  “I think I’m finally relaxed,” Travis said after he capped the flask. “I only wish I had brought another.”

  “There’s plenty more where we’re going, so don’t worry.”

  There was still some light in the sky when they reached their destination. Hannah parked the car about a hundred yards from a brightly lit cabin. Near their car were more cars, trucks, four wagons, and several horses tied up among the trees.

  “We’re certainly not the first ones to arrive,” Travis said.

  “I bet some of these folks have been here all day,” Hannah said.

  Travis’s bourbon had done its work. He felt comfortable, relaxed—almost too much so. The smell of roasted meat wafted around the front yard and grew stronger as they approached the house.

  “Ever been to a juke joint before?” Hannah asked.

  “No, never. What’s a juke anyway?”

  “Juke? Juke, or joog, is Gullah. It means ‘disorderly.’”

  Just as Hannah stepped onto the porch, the cabin door opened and raucous chatter and laughter spilled out. The cabin was old, but there was still a roof on it in most places. Because of its odd layout, Travis couldn’t tell right away whether the ca
bin had three or four rooms. It looked like two of the rooms had been an afterthought. One of these, near the front, housed the kitchen, where several women were cooking and serving food. Two boards were nailed across the doorway and served as an ordering window. There was never a line, just a steady stream of customers filling themselves in anticipation of the events to come.

  In the back, one of the newer rooms held a noisy group of men shouting and cheering.

  Travis leaned over to Hannah. “What’s going on in there?”

  “Cards, craps, sometimes a chicken fight,” she said. “Always some kind of gambling in there.”

  In one corner of the main room stood an old piano with a guitar laid across its top. Travis knew it was just a matter of time before the instruments would come to life and the main room would be packed with people juking off the chains of their everyday lives.

  Travis looked out onto the backyard through two doors that stood wide open. Most of the crowd seemed to be back there. Some sat at tables, some on blankets, and still others stood eating, drinking, and talking. Several men tended cooking meats over two open pits.

  Standing alongside Hannah, Travis felt friendly because of the bourbon, but he knew better than to act familiar. He stayed close to Hannah but was careful not to appear possessive of her.

  They approached the makeshift bar. It wasn’t big, but it was functional. “Let me do the talking,” Hannah whispered.

  Travis nodded in agreement, trying not to stare at the bartender. He was such a huge man that Travis figured he must double as the peacekeeper.

  “Good evening,” Hannah said to the man behind the bar.

  “He with you?” the bartender asked without greeting her. He was obviously offended by Travis’s presence.

  “He’s with me,” Hannah said.

  “Is he staying long?”

  “As long as I do.”

  “Is he here for business?”

  “No, he’s here just like you and me. For a little music, food, dancing, whatever.”

  “Maybe y’all can stay out the way. I’ve got regular customers.”

  Travis wanted to grab Hannah’s arm and leave, but the moment his arm moved toward hers, the bartender glanced down at it. Travis redirected his hand into a pocket.

  “We’ll just stay where we stay,” Hannah said, not backing down. “Can we have a drink now?”

  The bartender jerked his head, indicating he was ready for their order but not happy about it.

  “Whiskey. Two glasses,” Hannah said. The bartender placed a small bottle on the bar. Hannah picked up the bottle and inspected the seal.

  “Don’t worry, our whiskey’s good,” the bartender said.

  “Okay,” she said to Travis.

  Travis laid some money on the bar. The bartender took what he needed.

  They walked away, and Travis said, “Let’s hope we don’t have to get another drink. But I definitely need one now.”

  They stood by the door while Hannah poured some whiskey into their glasses. She smiled at the first sip.

  “Good?” she said.

  Travis nodded. Hannah then turned to walk outside, and he followed. He could feel the eyes on him. She walked toward a vacant spot near an old fence line, and Travis followed slowly but deliberately, staring at the ground and choosing his steps carefully. When he accidentally made eye contact with someone he smiled, but didn’t speak.

  He felt out of place, like he was somewhere he shouldn’t be, but was it any different for him than it was for anyone else here almost every day? Eyed suspiciously. Unwritten rules existed everywhere.

  “Rebecca,” Hannah called to someone across the yard.

  A woman’s hand went up. She smiled at Hannah, grabbed the hand of the man behind her, and walked toward them.

  “I didn’t think you’d make it,” Hannah smiled, embracing the woman lightly.

  “I thought we were going to Memphis this week but it’s next week,” she said. “I got the dates mixed up.”

  Hannah turned to Travis, “Travis Montgomery, this is Rebecca and Butch. They’re friends of mine.”

  Travis felt paralyzed by the awkwardness. Should he extend his hand or just nod politely? He let Butch make the first move. Butch extended his hand, and Travis shook it vigorously. “Butch,” he said. “Travis Montgomery, nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” Butch said with a well-mannered smile.

  Travis could tell instantly why they were friends with Hannah. They, like Hannah, were from Clarksdale’s elite black families.

  “Has the band started yet?” Hannah asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Rebecca said. “But we just got here a little while ago.”

  “Isn’t your father the county coroner?” Butch said.

  “Yes—yes he is,” Travis answered.

  “Does he enjoy that line of work?”

  “I think he does,” Travis said. “He doesn’t talk much about it. It’s not always good dinner conversation, how people die and all the associated topics.”

  “Did he go to medical school?”

  “No, he didn’t. But he trained with coroners in Oxford. For Clarksdale, he’s pretty well trained.”

  “Will you be following in his footsteps?”

  “We’re still deciding,” Travis said with a grin, taking a sip of his drink. Butch also laughed, letting Travis know he understood the burden of family expectations. “What do you do, Butch?”

  “I attend school up north. I’m just down for a quick visit. Helping with some family business.”

  “Coming to see me,” Rebecca said, looking flirtatiously over the rim of her glass.

  “Of course, that goes without saying,” Butch said.

  “It better not,” Rebecca said. “You better say it often and with some enthusiasm.”

  “Do you like coming back to Clarksdale?” Travis said.

  “You’ve lived in Clarksdale a while. Would you if you were black?”

  Travis assumed the question was rhetorical.

  “No, I can’t say that I enjoy returning,” Butch said. “I like to see my family, but that’s about it. I try to stay around the house while visiting, or come to parties like this.” Butch looked around the crowded yard. “I might like coming back when I’m older, but not now. There’s a lot of youthful rebellion in me.”

  “In all of us,” Hannah said. Travis knew she was protecting him—with good reason.

  The moon was almost full, and Travis felt more at ease in the dim light. He lingered in the shadows, moving gradually during the conversation so that he ended up leaning against a tree: not hiding, just being discreet.

  The conversation waned, and the foursome noticed that most of the people had started to go back inside the cabin. The strumming of a guitar could barely be heard above the hum of the crowd. The musician plucked a few notes, lazily practicing chords; then the sweet keys of the piano rang out, discordant against the guitar. A harmonica joined in. Finally, the beat of a drum emerged, a steady rhythmic pounding behind which the warm-up fell into step.

  “Should we go inside?” Hannah said to the others.

  “Sure,” Rebecca said.

  “It’s probably a little hot in there right now,” Travis said. “I think I’ll wait ‘til it cools down.”

  Hannah, Rebecca, and Butch looked at each other and then at Travis.

  “It’s not going to get any cooler tonight.” Hannah laughed. She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the door. “C’mon.”

  “Hold on,” he said, pulling his hand from hers. He took a long drink, then refilled his glass from the bottle they had bought. He slipped it into his pocket. “Okay,” he said, “I’m ready.”

  “It’ll be fun, Travis,” Rebecca said. “You’ll see.”

  The four approached the door to the cabin just as the band started playing in earnest. What had been painful to hear a moment earlier now transformed into something the crowd clearly recognized, even if Travis didn’t. Several people let out a shrill b
ut controlled scream and a few whistled. Hannah picked up her pace.

  The cabin was now packed. Everyone had crowded onto the dance floor in front of the band members.

  Hannah led them into the crowd to get a better look at the musicians. Travis focused on the music. The drum pounded a beat while the piano player put his old but properly tuned instrument atop the rhythm. Several people had begun swaying to the music, but no one was dancing yet.

  Travis passed through the mass of people and felt the stares. A stiff shoulder, a slight bump. He knew that everyone saw him as one thing—white. No matter what he thought or how he acted, he was white, and he was where he didn’t belong. Suddenly, all he could think about was being the scapegoat for someone who had been cheated by a landlord or shopkeeper or boss earlier in the day. Why wasn’t Hannah concerned?

  Without stopping, the band moved into a much more upbeat tune. The guitar player joined the other three for a few instrumental bars, and then he started singing. The change in tempo brought the crowd into the beat, and the dancing began, slow swaying, picking up into a much more rhythmic and faster-paced movement. Travis watched and learned.

  Hannah, who had been watching the band, turned to Travis and started to dance. Travis began to move but felt awkward because he was still holding his glass. He held it up to Hannah, who recognized his dilemma and held out her hand. Travis drank the remains and handed it to her. She turned and gave it to Rebecca, who set it on a table near the edge of the dance floor.

  Travis’s head was swimming. The heat and the bourbon were potent; he knew the next day promised a vicious headache and nausea, but he didn’t care. It was Saturday night, and he was with Hannah—the only place he could imagine ever wanting to be.

  He looked around the room and watched the others on the dance floor. Most were from the country, he surmised, and only a few came all the way from town.

  Travis moved with the music while he made his way toward Hannah. Butch and Rebecca had danced themselves to another part of the room. Travis could barely see them now.

  A few beats more and Travis stood right in front of Hannah. Their legs and arms touched intermittently while they danced.

  Travis looked at her and she at him. She met his eyes then glanced away, drawing him toward her with each look, pulling and teasing with every motion. A brush of her arm against his became a clasp of her hand around his forearm. She steadied herself and used him for support, stepping up the intensity of her dancing. Finally, he dared to place his arm around her waist and pull her toward him. Her thighs brushed his, briefly straddling his leg and then moving away.