by H. M. Mann
You better straighten this old man out, Manny.
I’m trying, now hush.
“You ever mess with a white girl?”
“Yeah. So? I’m half-white.”
“No you ain’t. One drop makes you black. Folks runnin’ around sayin’ they’re both. Can’t be no both down here. You can only be black in Mississippi.”
I’m beginning to wonder who has more demons, Red or me. “Look, I love Mary, who just happens to have dark skin. I’d love her if she was green, blue, or purple.”
“A black girl named Mary? She proud?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t know music neither.”
What’s he talking about?
I know.
Well, tell me.
You told me to hush.
Just tell me. I know you can’t hush for long.
Proud Mary. Music. Put it together.
I don’t know.
Ike and Tina Turner, Manny. Everybody knows that.
But I didn’t. That means that you aren’t—
Shh. He’s talking again.
“Boy, what I’m about to tell you I ain’t never told no one,” Red says, “and I’m only gonna tell you cuz I ain’t gonna be around much longer. And if you tell a single soul about this while I’m still alive, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”
I believe him.
So do I.
“I’m good at being quiet.”
“You’ll want to tell folks about this, trust me.”
I watch the greenery flying by in a blur. “How will I know you’re dead?”
“Hmm.” He nods. “Good point. Jes’ don’t tell it nowhere in the South.”
“I won’t.”
“Specifically Mississippi.” He coughs. “How many kids in your family?”
“Just me.”
“Just one? Boy, I had thirteen brothers and sisters.”
Whoa.
They had a football team with three on the bench.
“And we all had to work,” Red says. “When I was six or seven, I was up at sunrise every single day collectin’ golf balls for the white men at the golf course. I didn’t want to work for white folks like everyone else in my family, but it wasn’t that hard. And they all weren’t mean. As long as I gave ‘em lots of compliments, I got lots of change.” He laughs. “And some of ‘em couldn’t play a lick.” He stops laughing. “But I hated ‘em just the same.”
He looks into the sky. “My granddaddy came home from France wearin’ his uniform, so they tell me, and he was lookin’ sharp with all those brass buttons. White folks didn’t like him wearin’ that uniform, so the Ku Klux cut all those buttons off. It wasn’t the time of the double-V. That wasn’t till the next war.”
“The double-V?”
“The double-V. You ain’t heard of it?”
“No.”
“It was started by that Mr. Vann of yours in the Pittsburgh Courier. Great newspaper, that was, one of the best newspapers that ever was.”
Vann … He was on the plaque at Freedom Corner.
He was?
Yeah. Robert Vann.
“Yeah, one of the V’s was for victory over the Germans,” Red continues, “and the other V was for victory over racism back here. The double-V. Nice idea, but it didn’t amount to nothin’. And neither almost did my granddaddy. After the Ku Klux cut off all his buttons, he had to go beggin’ some rich white man for money during the Depression. Granddaddy called the rich man up, and the man told him no. So Granddaddy went to the man’s business with my daddy and sat in that office till it closed. They sat there for twelve hours. Then Granddaddy went in and told him, ‘I need money.’ The white man said, ‘You comin’ back tomorrow?’ ‘Yes sir,’ Granddaddy said. They mighta cut the brass off his uniform, but they didn’t cut the brass outta him. The white man couldn’t believe a colored man was so bold. ‘You comin’ back tomorrow even if I don’t give you no money?’ he asked. Granddaddy didn’t bat an eye. ‘Even if,’ he said. Granddaddy got fifteen dollars from that man that very day, and Granddaddy paid back every cent, and that white man never called my granddaddy a nigger, not … even … once.”
I can’t help asking, “What happened to him?”
“Granddaddy lived to be a hundred and seven.”
“Whoa.”
“Can’t say the same for my daddy, though. Wish I could, but I can’t. You see, feedin’ fourteen children and payin’ the rent wasn’t easy, even with all of us workin’ for the white folks. One day Daddy got behind in the rent, and we got kicked out.” He shakes his head. “They was jes’ waitin’ on the day he couldn’t pay, I know it. And they put all our furniture out in the rain. All of us, my mama, my daddy, and fourteen children sittin’ out in the rain on our furniture. I’ve never been able to get over that smell.” He closes his eyes. “That smell of old, moldy furniture.”
“It still happens,” I say, reminded of families kicked out of the Bedford Dwellings.
“It ain’t the same,” he says, opening his eyes, “cuz nowadays they give you notice. They didn’t give us no notice. One day we’re in a house, the next day we’re sittin’ in our furniture at the side of the road.” He sighs. “So mama and daddy farmed us out to our relatives, to our cousins, broke us all up so we could survive. I hated it so much, to be away from my whole family, so I tried gettin’ work wherever I could, you know, so I could get enough money for us to live under one roof again. I shagged balls, hauled whatever needed haulin’, cleaned whatever needed cleanin’. I remember once cleanin’ out some old white lady’s basement, haulin’ old junk for most of a morning into a big pile in her backyard, and I was sayin’ to myself, ‘This here’s a two-dollar job for sure, all this work I been doin’ for this ol’ white lady.’ And you know what? She gave me a quarter. ‘Is this all you gonna give me for all this hard work I done here this hot mornin’?’ I asked her. She told me it was more than enough. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it ain’t enough, and I want two dollars.’ That’s when the woman threatened me and even threatened to call the cops on me. All I wanted was decent pay for a nasty, dirty job she wasn’t willing to do herself. I let her keep her quarter, and I haven’t done nothin’ for white folks ever since.” He turns to me. “Present company excepted, of course, since you think you’re both.”
“I’ve never thought that.”
“Uh-huh.” He gives me a withering stare, and I turn away. “Had some friends I came up with who went north and passed into whiteness. You ain’t no different than them.”
“I ain’t passing for nothing but who I am.”
Red rolls his eyes. “Uh-huh.”
“My mama was black. I live on the Hill, and it’s all black. I went to mostly black schools. I was raised by a black aunt—.”
Red laughs. “Those are the worst.” He pats my knee. “Jes’ messin’ with you, Cinders.” He laughs again, this time louder.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“I’ve jes’ met, for the first time in my entire life, a man who actually wants to be black.”
“And that’s funny?”
“Just proves how the times are changin’, I guess. Must be hip to be black now, huh?” He chuckles. “Oh, how the times have changed. For example, you’re runnin’ from the police without any kinda weapon. In my day, that was askin’ to be beat down and arrested … or lynched. I used to carry a brick in my pocket, even when I was a little boy. You hit me, I hit you. With a brick. A boy called me a ‘nigger’ once, and I hit him with a brick. He never called me a ‘nigger’ again. That turn-the-other-cheek stuff was never for me. If someone hits you, hit ‘em back. That’s one reason I became a boxer. I used to go down to the south side of Birmingham, right off Green Spring Avenue. Think there’s a barbecue joint over there now. Anyway, they had a big ol’ ring, and we’d fight there. Made okay money, too. I liked throwin’ my hands, yes sir. Liked Malcolm X for that reason, too, only he wasn’t throwin’ hands. He was throwin’ words. That
man wasn’t scared of nobody, sayin’ white folks bought our forefathers and brought ‘em here and white folks should pay us back for it. I never marched for that reason, you know, cuz I was too liable to hit back. You sic a dog on me, I’m killin’ your dog and beatin’ you in the head with what’s left of the dog. You hit me with a nightstick, and I’m hittin’ you with a Louisville Slugger. An eye for an eye, that’s my motto.”
Can you sleep with an eye open, Manny?
I’m going to have to try, huh?
“So you didn’t march?”
“Nah, but I watched ‘em. From a distance, though. The police back then didn’t play. Not like today, no sir. They was on the offensive, not the defensive. I saw a couple thousand black folks surrounded by police at a park right across from the little girls’ church on Sixteenth Street in Birmingham where they was havin’ a meetin’ about bein’ nonviolent. While they was prayin’ and practicin’ bein’ nonviolent and singin’, the police was swingin’ clubs and usin’ hoses that ripped off clothes and took the bark off live trees and even tore some bricks loose from the church. It was like heaven and hell were operatin’ at the same time right before my eyes and ears. If that don’t mess you up, nothin’ will.”
He shakes his head. “And none of the Birmingham papers showed none of it. In fact, the only Negro ever in the paper back then was Willie Mays every now and then on the sports page.”
I can’t even imagine that. How can you have a sports page with only one black athlete? And how can you report the news honestly from your city if you don’t highlight the stories screaming from the TV in every house in your city?
“That Doctor King,” Red continues. “I’ve never figured him out. Either he was the most courageous man ever born, or he was the craziest. I was always surprised he lasted as long as he did. He had to have somethin’ on his side to keep him alive, ‘specially since he wasn’t homegrown.”
Homegrown? King was a Southerner. “What do you mean by homegrown?”
“Jes’ that he wasn’t originally from Birmingham. He didn’t ever fit in with the preachers down here. While King had him some citified airs, our preachers were all about in-your-face hellfire and prayers. I remember when King’s crew came down wearin’ new overalls and ironed shirts. Looked right funny next to folks who had been wearin’ their overalls and shirts for years. And that Thurgood Marshall? Heard him speak at a church in Birmingham once. He wasn’t afraid of nobody either. Man had the biggest hands, the biggest cheeks. No one ever took him out. While we was all waitin’ for the bottom rail to come on top, these men were tryin’ to put us on top. Yeah, they was men, all right. Me, I was born to eat butter beans and biscuits for pay.”
He doesn’t speak for the longest time, his eyes closed, his breathing quiet. Is he asleep?
He might be dead.
Shh.
“Red?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You still haven’t told me about the man you killed.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to?”
He sighs, and his face hardens into stone. “My landlord’s son. I killed my old landlord’s son. That landlord kicked us out of bein’ a family, so I took part of his family away. I was older, seventeen, livin’ away from my family, still smellin’ that moldy furniture in my head. I walked up to him late one night outside a juke joint where he was tryin’ to sport with the colored gals, and I just stood there, waitin’ for him to say somethin’, anythin’. Had that brick ready, too. ‘What you want, boy?’ he says. And that was enough. Beat him to death right there with that brick, and afterwards I threw that brick into the Tallahatchee River in memory of Emmett Till, and I caught me a train and hit the road.”
I want to change the subject now. I mean, I wanted to know, but now that I know … Wow. He killed a man for being related to the man who kicked out his family. “You, uh, you got any family left?”
“Oh, they’re here and there. Even had a family of my own once. Nice girl. She even went to college for a time. White folks told her that it didn’t matter none that she was gettin’ educated, that she still would be stuck doing white folks’ washin’ and ironin’ and tendin’ their kids instead of her own. She told ‘em, ‘I’m gonna be somethin’ special,’ but she never finished college. And she ended up washin’ and ironin’ for the rest of her life. I think. I’m not sure.”
“You have any kids?”
“Two for sure, a boy and a girl, maybe one more. I ain’t seen them in thirty, thirty-five years.”
“Why not?”
“They’re better off without me.”
Red was right about his story. I don’t understand it. I’m sitting next to a proud man who wanted to keep his family together and even killed someone over it, yet he left his own family and never looked back.
“And I’m still waitin’ for the bottom rail to come on top.” He sighs. “Now you know it all.”
Tell him your story, Manny.
Why?
Just tell it.
“Want to hear my story?” I ask.
“Is it as long as mine?”
“No.”
“Well, let me hear it. Ain’t got nothin’ better to do.”
I tell Red my entire story, from the Hill to Tunica, and except for him asking questions about my scars under the tattoos, he stays silent. And when I finish, his hard face softens.
“What are you doin’ here?” he asks in a whisper.
“What do you mean?”
His jaw trembles slightly. “I mean, you should be dead. The man who killed your mama shoulda taken you out, prison shoulda taken you out, the street shoulda taken you out, the heroin shoulda taken you out, and jumpin’ from that bridge definitely shoulda taken you out. You’re a cat with nine lives, boy.” His hands tremble, too. “Look what all that marchin’ got us.” He leans out, squinting in the wind. “About another half hour or so. Gonna be a hot one.”
“Yeah.”
“How old are you, boy?” he asks.
“Twenty-nine.”
“Hmm.” He looks up. “God’s talkin’ to me again, boy. I hate when He does that.”
So he was talking to God.
Told you he heard voices.
Red turns to me. “Gimme some paper and a pen.”
I don’t ask why, digging a sweaty notepad and a pen from my back pocket and handing them to him.
“Now where are you headed?” he asks, preparing to write.
“I don’t know. I’d like to get down to Mobile, see if I can find Africatown.”
He nods. “Been there. Nice people. Let’s see … I could shoot you through Selma or Montgomery … More to see in Montgomery, bigger yard. Hmm.” He draws two lines on the page, labeling one “L&N” and another “NS.” He taps the pen several times on the page. “Best if I keep you to one line.”
“You’re … going somewhere else?”
“Yeah.” He scribbles out the line labeled “NS” and extends the “L&N” line. “This here’s the Louisville and Nashville. One of the best places to catch it is around Fourteenth Street in Birmingham, and if your luck holds out, and you are the luckiest son-of-a-gun I’ve ever met, you can ride it all the way down through Montgomery to Mobile. But you got to get off after the train crosses the Mobile River just before you get to the city. The yard down in Mobile can get pretty hairy cuz it’s a port, and the port police are locked and loaded since nine-eleven.”
“I’ll be careful.” I take the map from him. “Thank you, Red. But where are you headed?”
He clears his throat. “Home to see my boy. That story of yours made me want to go home, make sure he’s okay. I’ll see you into Birmingham.”
“Thanks.”
“Not to say that I won’t be poundin’ the rails right after, you understand?”
“I understand.”
“I mean, jes’ cuz I’m goin’ to check up on him don’t make me soft.”
“You’re right.” It doesn’t.
It makes Mississippi Red a
father after all these years.
15: On the Louisville and Nashville, Birmingham to Mobile
The skyline of Birmingham looks like Pittsburgh, all flash and mirrored glass and more stories in the buildings than necessary, but I can’t see why Red calls it South Cinders because it’s a beautiful city surrounded by green forests. They’ve even left trees in the ground where trees belong.
“Best cheap food’s over on Seventeenth,” Red tells me as we look to the east, the sun flashing off the tallest building. “Get you some country-fried steak or somethin’. Think it’s called Bahama Wings or somethin’ like that. Don’t think you’ll need to catch the L and N till later, but I may be wrong, so listen out for it.”
“I will. Are you staying on?”
“Yeah. Gotta switch trains up ahead of where you’ll be gettin’ off. You might even have time to go up to see the little girls’ church on Sixteenth.” He looks at me. “But stay downwind of anybody cuz you are one stank man.”
I am gritty, grimy, and grubby. My knuckles are dark black, my shirt blue-black, my tan khakis turning browner than my boots. I have grass in my matted, oily hair, and my underarms smell like ham. “It isn’t Sunday, is it, Red?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
He laughs. “It’s Sunday, all right.”
“Oh.” I guess I won’t be attending church today. I pull a ten from my pocket and offer it to Red, but he waves it off. “You sure?”
“I’m okay.” Then he looks up and frowns. “All right, all right.” He pulls out a ten from somewhere inside his shirt. “You actually had a hundred and seven somethin’.” He puts the ten in my hand.
I did?
You had enough for a bundle, and you didn’t even know it. See how messed up you are?
Why didn’t you tell me he took that much money?
It wasn’t my money.
I push back Red’s hand. “Keep it.”
What? You’re gonna need that money!
What do you care? It ain’t your money.
“I can’t, Cinders, I … jes’ can’t take your money.”