everyman

by M. Shelly Conner

  “So, what’s Nawlins doing to us now?”

  The porter sighed, and his eyes grew heavy. “What you think? City’s flooding and they standing on the backs of colored men, trying to stay afloat. They’re snatching folk off the roads and forcing them to dig it out.”

  Cornelius’s face fixed into a hard determination that the porter recognized. “Look here, son. You’re young and you’re strong. You think you can handle yourself, and I’m sure that most times you can. But right now, you’re exactly what they’re after down there.”

  Cornelius turned his head toward the window and stared. The porter sighed, cleared his lunch scraps, and rose. He’d return to his duties in the sleeping car section. While Cornelius would be turning over in his mind where he was going, the porter would be turning down seating into sleepers, brushing off his charge’s coats, and finding a small space to wrap himself in the blue-dyed blanket that was issued to porters after a lifetime of warming white patrons. Hours later, he’d be relieved to see Cornelius exit in the small town of Pascagoula, Mississippi.

  Cornelius exited the train depot and walked toward a small storefront where several colored men sat shaded from the summer heat. They were older, perhaps Deuce’s age, give or take a few years. One was thin; another wore a hat pulled low over his face and appeared to be sleeping. He made sure to make eye contact with each as he nodded and spoke clearly, “G’afternoon, y’all. It’s a hot one, ain’t it?”

  The slender one grinned, revealing two gaps in the space where his front teeth should have been. Cornelius pretended not to notice.

  “Boy, dis is Mis’sippi. Dey all hot ones!” Snaggletooth laughed, not bothering to wipe at the sweat that was slowly dragging down his face. “Where you comin’ from?”

  “Macon County, suh.”

  “Aw, well hell, you ought to know ’bout heat.” Snaggletooth paused and took a long sip from a bottle of Coca-Cola. “Where you headed?”

  “Nawlins, suh.”

  “Nawl, you ain’t,” one of the others broke his silence. “Nawlins is under water. Been that way for a couple of months now.”

  Cornelius directed his attention toward the speaker. “I ain’t scared of no damn water.”

  “Shoot, son, if da Mis’sippi take up in its mind to let loose like it done, it could do it anywhere from way ’yond Chicago all way past Nawlins.”

  “And dat jes what it done too!” Snaggletooth chimed in. “This ain’t jes some water you can wade in yo’ swim trunks.”

  “So you ain’t gonna make it. Can’t nobody git cross dat Ponchatrain.” Sleeping Hat concluded, finally lifting it to look Cornelius square in the face. “But that’s the least of yo’ worries, boy.”

  “It ain’t safe for no Negroes to cross,” the final porch dweller added. “I hear it’s back to slavery times over dere. Dey roundin’ up as many of us as dey can and makin’ them dig Nawlins out of mud!”

  “And you don’t wanna muss up yo’ fancy clothes!” Snaggletooth laughed, sending the rest of the porch howling.

  Cornelius plopped down on the store’s porch and slapped his handkerchief against his thigh. He no longer cared about the Sunday suit he had worn especially for this trip, which began in his mind as a search for his mother but had evolved with each passing mile into an introduction to big-city living, a place from which he could return as someone who knew of things outside Macon County. He had enjoyed it when Deuce called him Big C and wanted to live up to the persona the name insinuated.

  “So, what’s so special in Nawlins?”

  Cornelius exhaled. He didn’t know who the question came from this time. It no longer mattered. They seemed to speak as a single unit, filling in parts of the same story. “I’m looking for . . .” He paused, unsure of how much to divulge.

  “A woman?” Snaggletooth interjected. “Dressed like that you gots to be lookin’ for some tail.” The porch erupted in laughter again.

  This time Cornelius smiled. “Well, suh, actually I—I am,” he stammered. “Not for tail, I mean—a woman. I’m lookin’ up some kinfolk I got down dere.”

  Sleeping Hat sucked his teeth, his eyes were once again concealed by the wide brim. “Lot of dem folk up here now. You might want to stick around for a few days. Dangerous for a young Negro to be movin’ around.”

  The quieter of the three spoke again: “Who dat you say you lookin’ for?”

  “Her name Luella. Luella Gaines.” Cornelius anxiously searched their faces. There was a scratch of a chin, an adjustment of a hat, and a last drain of Coca-Cola, but nothing that looked like recognition.

  “We don’t know all dey names, the ones that come up here, but most night dey over dere at one of dem juke joints . . .”

  Snaggletooth interrupted the quiet one, “Aw, you should go to Junior’s!”

  “Junior’s?”

  “Yeah, Junior’s Bait Shop. Dey got a fish fry tomorrow. Every Friday.”

  “Alright,” Cornelius responded. “What’s the other one?”

  “The other place,” Sleeping Hat said.

  “Yeah,” Cornelius answered. “What’s it called?”

  Snaggletooth laughed, “That is what it’s called . . . The Other Place.” More laughter from the porch. Cornelius joined in. Snaggletooth finally wiped the sweat from his neck. “So, you gon’ stick around then?”

  “Look like it.”

  “Well, in dat case . . . me an’ da missus run us a little boardinghouse—nothin’ fancy, but clean. Um . . . you got any money?”

  Cornelius had quite a bit of money, but he was no fool. “I got a little.” He sat straighter, working to communicate that his youth told nothing of his strength.

  Snaggletooth grinned. “Aw, don’t go swellin’ up, young buck. I jes wanna make sho you can pay somethin’.”

  “How much?”

  “Five dollars a week.”

  Cornelius pretended to think. Then he slipped his hand in his pocket and pretended to count. After waiting a few seconds, hoping that Snaggletooth got the impression he was short on money, he responded, “Well, alright. I shouldn’t be here no longer than that, I reckon.”

  Snaggletooth grinned, “Well, c’mon then. Let me show you.”

  Junior’s was indeed a bait-and-tackle shop, at least in part. The rear section of the building, with its haphazardly built room additions, lent a spacious area where a three-man band played blues. As Cornelius’ eyes adjusted to the darkened room, he realized why Snaggletooth had recommended the place.

  “Welcome to Junior’s!” Snaggletooth embraced Cornelius and clapped him on the back. “I’m Junior.” He continued to hold Cornelius’s elbow and guided him to a table in the corner. “Set right here and you can see e’rybody.”

  Cornelius settled into the rickety chair and scanned the room. Junior was right: it was a great view of the entire place, and of the door. He had learned from Deuce to never sit with his back to a door and to always keep it in clear view. Cornelius took another look, this time slowly taking in each person. He searched the faces of the women, keenly aware that he no longer remembered his mother’s face. His suit began to feel tight on his body. He slid a finger into his collar in an attempt to loosen it. Although he wore the same suit, he had changed shirts and shined his shoes. Looking at the scattering of men, he felt appropriately dressed.

  Junior appeared, slapping down a mason jar filled with clear liquid. “Here, son, try some of this shine.” Moonshine is strong enough to power an automobile, and everyone makes theirs differently. Some distill it from corn, others from potatoes. Just as Cornelius reached for the glass, four red-painted nails curled around it. He followed the hand up the slender, golden-brown arm to the face. The woman smiled before gulping half of the glass down. She seductively licked her full lips. “It ain’t half bad, shug.”

  Junior gave his trademarked toothless grin. “Wish I could say the same ’b
out you.” He looked at Cornelius, “G’on finish dat, and watch out for dis lady. She’ll drank you under the table.”

  Cornelius looked at his tablemate and examined her face. She was older, maybe younger than his mama, but maybe not. He hadn’t had much experience with women and was set on heeding Deuce’s advice. “They call me Big C.”

  “Mmm,” she murmured. “Why dey call you dat?”

  Cornelius smiled. “Maybe later. What can I call you?”

  “You can call me whatever you want. But buy me a drink first.”

  Junior, seemingly privy to some private joke, arrived unsummoned with another jar of shine. Glancing at Cornelius’s glass, he slid the lipstick-rimmed glass in front of the woman and placed the new glass in front of Cornelius. “Baby Girl, at least let the man have a drank to hisself.” He disappeared before she could respond. Once again, Cornelius stared into her face.

  “Baby, you keep looking at me like that and you’ll go blind.”

  He tried a different approach. “So, where you from?”

  “Oh, round about. You?”

  Cornelius took a sip of the shine and clenched his jaw shut as it burned his throat and stomach. When he could speak again, he answered in a voice that had been scratched and deepened by alcoholic conflagration. “Macon County.”

  “Is that right? I got some people up that way.”

  “Yeah? Who? I might know ’em.”

  “Aw, shug, they probably long gone by now. I mean, maybe not that long ago . . . I’m still young, you know.” She winked.

  Cornelius continued to sip and began to feel the burning give way to another, more pleasant sensation in his chest. “Anyone can see that.” And suddenly, he could see youth beyond the rouge and eye shadow, and perhaps a few years past, but he was starting to see it. She reached across the table and stroked his hand. Cornelius recoiled.

  “Aw, don’t worry, shug. I can go slow.”

  His lips felt dry. He licked them, sipped the shine, and stretched his neck to clear his vision. He looked at the woman and cleared his throat. “What’s your name?”

  “You still stuck on that, shug?”

  Slowly, at first, then quickly he saw her spin around him, still seated. He shook his head trying to stop it. When that didn’t work, he reached out and clutched her arm. “Who are you?”

  The woman yanked her arm back, knocking over his glass in the process. “Turn loose my goddamned arm! Look, I was just trying to make nice, knowing you was new in town, but you ain’t got to be grabbing me.” She stood and left him steadying himself against the table.

  Junior was at his side in seconds. “Son, sometimes it’s jes a slow-hand, easy touch, know what I’m sayin’? You really pissed Josephine off good.”

  “Josephine?” Cornelius muttered.

  “Yeah, Josephine. She’s a tough little gal, but still a woman, you know what I’m sayin’. Uh, soft-like. You cain’t be too rough on ’em.”

  “Josephine . . .” Cornelius repeated and weaved his way toward the exit.

  Junior grabbed his shoulder. “You alright there, son?”

  Cornelius stopped and turned to face Junior, “You my daddy now?” he slurred.

  “Huh? Boy, you gotta speak up! The band getting started again.” Junior shouted in his ear. Cornelius nodded but continued to shuffle out the door.

  Cornelius spent the rest of the week sitting at the depot watching the trains pass. They were always timely. The 1401 hit Pascagoula precisely at 12:40 in the afternoon, Central Standard Time, as established by the Railroad in 1883. The Railroad insinuated itself into America’s landscape and is often mistaken as a permanent fixture. But in truth, the Railroad is movement, a series of departures. Cornelius thought that he could board the same train and end up in the same place as Luella. But the Railroad is like a wormhole. Once boarded, it’s not always clear where one may end up. Simply put, the Railroad moves, and some are just left behind.

  Twelve

  birth of a mann

  It’s a long old road, but

  I know I’m gonna find the end.

  —Bessie Smith, “Long Old Road”

  Johnita’s Inn, a quaint two-story Georgian in the middle of Back Street, had been a boardinghouse and juke joint in a previous life and proudly listed in the Negro Motorist Green Book until about eight years prior to Eve’s stay. Eve hadn’t spoken much to Johnita after her initial arrival, and she gave only a cursory wave to the woman on her exit to meet Deuce. Eve flew out the door, propelled by a hunger for food and a thirst for whatever information Deuce could share about her family.

  Much to the delight of Deuce and his wife, Evelyn, Eve ate ravenously, and as he and Eve sat on the large wraparound porch afterward, Deuce felt the intensity of her gaze and knew that he could no longer foil her questions with dinnertime pleasantries.

  “Mr. Deuce, what can you tell me about my grandfather?” Eve once again extended the photo.

  Deuce hesitated before taking it in his withered hand and smiled at the memory of Cornelius addressing him in the same way so long ago. He wondered if there existed a best way to share information with one who is entitled to know it while respecting the privacies of those who had lived it. He glanced at Evelyn, and upon receiving a barely perceptible nod of approval, answered, “I can tell you that that ain’t him.” He pointed to Cornelius, allowing his index finger to linger slightly before returning the photograph. “Your granddaddy name was Hezekiah Mann. He come up this way as a boy from Flawda—that town the white folks burn down back in ’23.”

  Eve’s face twisted in confusion. “This is not my grandfather?”

  Before Deuce could respond, Evelyn chimed in, “Nawl. That’s somebody else.”

  Questions flew through her mind at lightspeed. Who was the man? Why wasn’t her grandfather pictured? But as Deuce began to speak, the slow tenor of his voice lulled her into a calm. As storytelling goes, there were some omissions. There were some things that he didn’t know. But in small southern towns, too many people know too much of what they shouldn’t about others, anyway. But there were also other things that Deuce just didn’t feel comfortable telling. In recounting Hezekiah’s story, omissions occurred quite naturally on several levels—at the intersection of an elder addressing a younger person, a man addressing a woman, and a southerner addressing an outsider.

  Deuce told Eve that her grandfather was a proud man who loved his family, especially his children. He did not share that Hezekiah also loved to drink and gamble. Hezekiah Mann mostly loved to do everything on a large scale. His passion for women other than his wife had made things difficult at home. But it wasn’t entirely his fault. Gertrude’s passion was reserved for the Lord, and there hadn’t seemed to be anything left over for Hezekiah. One opinion on the matter, mostly held by Hezekiah, was that it was Gertrude who was cheating on him, and it didn’t matter that the receiver of her affections was Mr. Jesus H. Christ. Of course, it hadn’t always been that way. But this was well beyond the scope of Deuce’s knowledge and the range of his interest. It was Deuce’s wife Evelyn who provided an additional layer of information regarding Hezekiah’s courtship, which contained its own omissions. Had Evelyn known them, she wouldn’t have approved or shared. Had Deuce known, he would have simply seen it as a rite of manhood, a man learning the things that men need to know before marriage and that women wait to learn through marriage.

  Hezekiah spent a year courting Gertrude in the summer of 1932. He would have proposed marriage the first day they met, he later boasted to friends. It was Gertrude who needed the time to fall in love with him. He enjoyed the challenge of exercising restraint in his courtship.

  Hezekiah’s courtship of Gertrude was an enviable fairytale that, if one must view it as a trope, had to end tragically. Hezekiah’s wooing was worthy of folklore.

  During their initial walks, he never made a move to touch Gertrude. He walked clo
se enough that their shoulders nearly touched, and his eyes sparkled when he looked at her, but it was Gertrude who initiated hand contact, reaching for his as they strolled among the tree-covered area east of town. He gently squeezed her fingers and continued to point out the different varieties of trees to which neither paid much notice. The heated sensation pulsating within their clasped hands crept up their arms, making it difficult for each to concentrate. Yet they pretended to be unaffected and trudged on past the spot where the old dry well lay broken and exposed, a gaping hole in the earth. Holding hands became a permanent component of their daily walks. Sometimes they would swing their arms as children. Other times, their arms hung rigid at their sides, fingers entwined.

  They had managed to lengthen their walks by incorporating basket lunches. Hezekiah would carry the wicker basket that Gertrude filled with thick chunks of ham between slices of bread, fresh fruit, and jugs of lemonade. They would carefully wind their way to the dry well, where they would spread a blanket and relax into conversation between bites of food. When they were done, Hezekiah would toss the remains into the depths of the well and recline to feel the sun’s warmth on his face. It was during one of these times that Gertrude leaned over and planted a soft kiss on his lips. Hezekiah opened his eyes and slowly returned the kiss.

  Gertrude never took Hezekiah seriously whenever he talked about the large house he was building in an area near the place where they walked. To her surprise, Hezekiah’s wagon stopped at the large house that was indeed constructed for their union. It was an impressive two-story home with a fresh coat of gleaming white paint.

  Gertrude prepared a feast for their first meal as man and wife. When Hezekiah saw the spread of fried catfish, smoked ham, collard greens, sweet potatoes, biscuits, ho’ cakes, and sweet potato pie he remarked, “Trudy, who gon’ eat all dis food? We ain’t even started workin’ on young’ns yet.”

  Gertrude blushed and responded, “I guess I gots to git in practice.”

  Hezekiah smiled, hoping to comfort her apparent nervousness. She seemed to be waiting for the impending deed of all honeymoons. Surely women have spoken to her about it, Hezekiah thought. But she didn’t have to worry with him. He didn’t want Gertrude cringing in pain when they joined. Hezekiah wanted her to feel the ecstasy that he would experience.