My Water Path

by Timothy Joseph

  On the way back, we stopped so Mayhew could show me a tree hut he had made out of branches chopped with a hatchet and tied with string to two larger branches. It was neat because the tree was close to the water and you could see out over the cove and way across the river. He said the best place was at the top of the tree, and I followed him way up the old oak, nearly to the top. It was high and scared me at first, but he was right: it was a great place to spy on the world.

  Once we reached the houseboat, I pushed the bike across the planks to the front deck and left it there. It was a small deck, but it had a bench seat with a long cushion built against the front wall of boat. Mayhew asked if I’d like to go fishing. We went to the back deck where Moses was working, and Mayhew asked if it was okay.

  “Sure, on two conditions. You need to catch us dinner, and you need to take Lucilla.”

  “Do we have to take Lucilla? Can’t we just go alone? I always take her,” Mayhew complained.

  “She’s your sister, and it’s not nice to leave her behind.”

  “Yeah, I know, but she’ll catch more fish.”

  “Well, just watch how she does it.”

  “I’ve tried, but she always does.”

  “Well, now you have a partner. Maybe you two can catch more together than she does?”

  “That’s not catching more, Grandpa, jeez!”

  Moses laughed.

  “We can take my boat,” I suggested, “and I have my own fishing pole.”

  Moses took down three cane poles hanging neatly on hooks against the roof and three hand-lines rolled up on short pieces of wood. “How are you fixed for worms?” he asked.

  “Got plenty,” Mayhew answered.

  The three of us hopped in my boat. I grabbed the oars, and Mayhew pushed off the stern of the houseboat. “Let’s both row,” he said. It only took a couple of pulls before we were coordinated and moving quickly away from the houseboat. In no time, we were at one of his favorite fishing spots. I had never used a cane pole or a hand-line and felt badly because I had a rod and reel, so I let Mayhew use it

  and showed him how to cast. He was fascinated with the different lures in the box and couldn’t imagine how a wooden minnow could actually catch a fish.

  When we got back to the houseboat after only a couple of hours, we had four catfish, eight sunfish, and Mayhew was the champ, having caught two largemouth bass using my rod. He was excited to show Moses his prize, telling him about the wooden minnow and how he used my rod to cast into the lily pads where he knew the bass liked to hide.

  After making over the fish, Moses asked, “Did you let your sister use the rod and reel?” When Mayhew didn’t answer, Moses said, “Next time, you be sure and share, okay?”

  “Yes, Grandpa.”

  “Just remember, happiness in not just you being happy. There’s as much happiness in making other people happy. I suspect that’s why Jory let you use his rod and reel.”

  I thought about it for a moment and realized Moses was right. It did make me happy to watch Mayhew enjoy himself. Every time the lure splashed down in a great spot, his eyes lit up, and my hopes were high that a big fish would take it.

  Mayhew and Lucilla headed for the kitchen to bring Bess to see the fish. When the screen door closed, Moses was still smiling at me. He motioned for me to come over. He put his arm around my shoulder and he gave it a squeeze. “You’re a mighty generous young man,” he said, “the way you let Mayhew use your bike and your fishing rod like that.”

  “It wasn’t anything,” I said.

  “But it was. I’m trying to get Mayhew to understand, sharing is very important, and you helped me do so by being an example. I’m more proud of you than I am about catching any big ole bass.”

  I looked down at the deck, embarrassed. He gently placed his fingers under my chin, lifted my face to look at him, and said, “I see your hurt inside, child, deep down inside. Try hard to remember, this moment right now is the only moment you have. Yesterday is long gone, tomorrow never comes, and today, this moment, is the only real part of life. And right now, you are here with Grandpa.”

  As he squeezed my shoulder again, I thought, what happens when I leave? What about that moment? I’ll have nobody.

  He let go of my shoulder and rubbed my head. “What say we clean those fish for supper?”

  Bess came out and praised our catch, saying how good dinner would be. Moses reached for a board with a rope attached used for cleaning fish, and grabbed a knife with a long, narrow blade hanging on the wall. He placed the board on top of the corner rails, making it a small table, and asked us to take the bass off the stringer.

  “Let me show you how to fillet a fish.”

  The bass had no sooner hit the board than Moses made a slit behind its gills, the width of the fish. “Now I line up the knife with the backbone and slowly cut toward the tail by sliding the blade along the bone…like this.” The sharp knife severed the stomach bones and slid easily toward the tail. He stopped, leaving the skin at the end of the tail uncut. “Make sure you don’t go all the way; leave the skin attached to the tail.

  “Now watch closely.” He turned the fillet over and gently cut through the flesh just to the skin. “Now just slide the blade along the skin, but don’t cut through it.” In one easy motion, the blade quickly and easily slid along the skin, and in two seconds, the fillet was separated from its skin. He flipped the other half of the fish over and repeated the process, leaving the bass with nothing but head, guts, skin, and backbone.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that,” I said in wonder. “You cleaned the whole fish in less than a minute.”

  “Well, son, after you clean a few hundred fish, you’ll be just as quick.”

  We tried our luck with the other fish, each taking turns. Mayhew and Lucilla were great at it, obviously experienced, while I left too much meat on the backbone, but did the skin just fine.

  Bess boiled potatoes with the skins on, and heated the big, cast iron frying pan. The fish sizzled in the pan while we set the table. She let me mash the potatoes while she handled the fish. Moses sliced fresh bread, and we had a feast.

  “Hope you like fish, Jory, for we do eat a lot of fish around here,” Moses said.

  “I love fish,” I said, reaching for more.

  8

  Memories

  I CAN’T PUT MY FINGER ON HOW OLD I WAS when memories became permanent residents, but I know clearly, my favorite place in the world was upon my dad’s lap. I can feel his arms around me as if it were yesterday. I remember vividly the last time I felt his knee under me, my shoulder against his chest—his voice the story in the book. I can feel the warmth of his cheek, but mostly, I remember the power of his affection. When my mom died, it seemed I became his sole purpose.

  More than once, I found my dad rubbing his eyes to prevent his tears from telling the true story, while repeating his complaint about pine pollen and his allergies. They were what made his eyes water and nose sniff—he would explain again and again. I believed him, of course, for a little boy doesn’t know of a silent cry, and besides, a dad is always right.

  He loved to read to me as much as I loved being read to. My bookshelf was always full, but he continually added to it. The Dr. Seuss and picture books quickly gave way to more words, and the simple stories of animals and trains changed to The Chronicles of Narnia, and other adventures. I lived his excitement as we read stories by Mark Twain. I would close my eyes and feel the raft under my feet, the current pulling us along, the pole in my hand pushing into the muddy bottom, and meeting life head-on as the Mississippi River itself became a lifeboat for a boy named Huckleberry Finn, and his Negro friend, Jim.

  Mark Twain’s story told me the way to go when my life was suddenly, drastically changed, and peace and happiness turned into chaos and fear. It was to become my map.

  “Dad, read me that again,” I would say when losing my way in the story. Or, “Dad, what happened?” He would explain in detail to be certain I was on track. The s
ide of my face fit perfectly against his chest, the top of my head under his chin, and the feel of his jaw moving up and down as he read with such expression and realism made the story seem real. Horns would honk, birds would chirp, frogs would croak, sirens would scream, and trains would whistle and chug down the track. We soon shared the reading and the sounds; he would read a page, and I would read the next, sound effects and all.

  I knew little about my mom other than how much Dad loved her and how pretty she was. Photos of her, and us, filled the house—they allowed me to know her. Dad said a rogue disease called TB took her away from us when I was a baby. I often thought about what it might have been like to have her around, a dad and a mom. I couldn’t imagine being given the love of them both.

  If I had known what was to happen to my dad, I would have pushed harder into his chest, and my eyes would have watered with allergies.

  9

  Prejudice

  DAD’S DEPARTMENT STORE WAS ON MAIN STREET in our little town of Tchula, Mississippi. Stewart Craig worked for Dad. I liked him and his wife, Madge. She worked in the restaurant next door, the Palmetto Grill. Dad was good friends with the owner, Otis Bronson. His wife, Luella, worked for Dad. We ate at the Palmetto Grill a lot, and Dad and Otis would talk about everything there, especially politics and fishing. Otis never held back what he thought, while my dad usually would when I was with him. We would always sit at the table in the grill next to the double swinging doors to the kitchen, so if needed, Mr. Bronson could take charge. In the corner was a small table with magazines and newspapers patrons could read while waiting for their food. I would often sit at the table when finished with my meal; looking through a fishing magazine was better than listening to adults talk politics or business.

  I was flipping through a magazine, wishing I could catch a bass as big as the one in the photo, when I heard Otis say, “Damn!” I listened without looking his way. “There was another damn lynching, and another damn cross was burned outside the colored-quarters—you see the paper?”

  I stared at the bass in the photo so they wouldn’t think I heard. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my dad look my way, hands fisting, and turn back to Mr. Bronson and Stewart. In a low, angry voice, my dad said, “I’d shoot those bastards in a heartbeat. I really would.”

  “Me too,” Stewart replied. “What the hell’s happening to this country anyway?”

  “Devils—every one of those mindless KKK, devils in sheets,” Otis said.

  As my dad read the newspaper article, his head shook slowly, and he swayed back and forth. He closed the paper, folded it in half, in half again, and tossed it on the table. He glanced my way, and again I looked at the big bass. “What’s the matter with this government? How can these bastards keep doing this? How can there even be a frigging Klan?”

  I was only eleven, yet being in the midst of such a chaotic time of human rights and human wrongs, I was bombarded with the incomprehensible. Why was it an eleven-year-old boy understood right and wrong better than grown men dressed in sheets? I despised those three letters. All I knew about the KKK was it meant burning crosses, lynching, murder, hate, and men dressed like ghosts.

  * * *

  I walked into the store after school. Dad saw me and said with excitement, “Look, Jory,” pointing to the newspaper. “The Supreme Court is unanimous—segregation is unconstitutional.” I read the headlines: Brown vs. Board of Education of Topeka Kansas. He read me the article. When I asked if this meant all the trouble was over, he looked down and said, “I wish it did, Jory, but it’s going to get worse before it’s over.”

  The next time the subject was brought up, we were sitting at the kitchen table and the morning newspaper was open in front of him. His brow was wrinkled, his eyes slits, his jaw tight and moving. When I asked what was wrong, he told me a fourteen-year-old Negro boy named Emmett Till had been brutally beaten and shot because someone said he whistled at a white woman. I looked down at the paper and saw those three letters again.

  “Dad, what’s the KKK anyway?”

  He looked away, thought for a moment, and answered. “Jory, it’s a filthy gang of ignorant, evil murderers, who admit how evil they are by hiding their identity under sheets and dunce caps while spreading hate and prejudice. The only thing they got right is their dunce caps.”

  I never could grasp the concept of sheets and dunce caps. Whenever I saw photos in the paper or Klansman on TV, my head would shake in bewilderment that adults could actually be so stupid. There was no understanding how grown men could lynch and kill another human being because of skin color. I knew the colored people who did things for Dad. They picked up the trash, brought us firewood, and fixed things. I saw them all the time, yet never did I see one with hate, anger, or evil—not a single one. How could someone scorn or kill someone else for no reason except color? I felt ashamed to be a white boy.

  In the back of my dad’s department store was a storage room with a door to the back alley. A hard pounding on the door meant a delivery. If it was a light knocking, I knew it was probably a colored woman with maybe a child or two in tow. I would peek out and say, “Wait a second.” Making sure the door between the store and the back room was closed, I’d poke my head back out and look carefully to make sure no one was watching, motion them in, lock the door, and go get Dad.

  He would ask what clothes they needed, and then retrieve the right sizes. They could try stuff on if they wanted. He often gave them clothes with flaws or items that didn’t sell so he wouldn’t have to return them to the company. When they picked out what they wanted, he would never charge more than the clothes cost. They would see the price tag, and when my dad would tell them their cost, which was nowhere near what was on the tag, I’d hear, “I thank you, Mr. Warren. Thank you so much, Mr. Warren.” Sometimes, they carried a coffee can with coins and bills, and they would count out the right amount. They never paid tax either.

  I thought it weird that a person’s last name was used as their first name, but it seemed all the colored people switched our names around. It was as plain as day on the big sign out front, Warren Sheppard’s Apparel. They had to know our last name was Sheppard. After thanking Dad, they would always look at me and say, “Thank you, too, Mr. Jory. You be a good boy now.”

  I would smile back and answer, “I will. See you later,” as I opened the back door and surveyed the area to make sure no one would see them leave. It made me feel as though I was pulling something over on the whole town. Sometimes I would tuck my cap gun under my belt and put my hand on it as I inspected the outside world for dastardly people, especially any wearing sheets. I never did need to use it.

  I asked dad about the name switch and he explained. “You see, for colored folk, real friends call each other by their first names, but when they want to show extra respect they always say Mister or Miss. By calling you Mister Jory, they’re telling you you’re special and they respect you a whole lot.”

  “Is it because we’re white and they’re colored?” I asked.

  “Nope, color doesn’t matter, Jory. If they don’t respect you, they will use your last name, and you’ll know when you haven’t earned their respect.”

  I changed my mind about the name switch. I was proud to be called Mr. Jory.

  If people had known a Negro had touched some of the clothes in the store, they would never shop there, and he would be out of business in a blink. When he told me to never tell anyone, he rubbed my head and said, “Negroes are just like you and me, Jory—real people. A person’s color has no bearing on anything.”

  “Why is it like this?”

  “Because the idiots in Washington don’t know how to read. They can’t seem to understand what our constitution demands, when it’s clearly written all men are created equal.”

  We talked often about civil rights, the constitution, and how messed up our government was. He talked about churches, local governments, and people who called themselves Christians, yet were so blinded because of color. I learned quickly
what the word ‘hypocrite’ meant.

  Why colored people had to sit at the back of a bus, could not use water fountains, restrooms, shop in the store, or eat at restaurants was beyond me. Dad explained it this way:

  “You love Kirk, don’t you?” Kirk was my German Shepherd.

  “Yes!”

  “Do you hate Russell’s dog because he’s a Cocker Spaniel?”

  Russell was a good friend of mine. “No.”

  “Well, not so with stupid people. They hate those who aren’t white, just like hating every dog that’s not a German Shepherd.”

  “Why?”

  “Because what little brains they have contain absolutely no intelligence. They are selfish, petty, and ignorant. It’s a terrible thing, Jory. Mississippi is just not the place to be colored.”

  What bothered me terribly was pretending it didn’t upset me when kids at school said nasty things about colored people. I didn’t dare say anything or I would be called a nigger-lover and endlessly picked on. I was not a popular kid, and I didn’t risk anyone knowing my feelings. If they knew my dad let Negroes in the store, I would be ostracized, and surely, they would call the cops on Dad, with or without my cap gun drawn.

  Dad let me help him count the money from the cash register and put it in the zipper bag with the bank’s name on it. He would even let me hand it to the bank teller, who would always tell my dad he had a great assistant. Sometimes Dad would send me to the bank alone for change. I felt grown up, carrying all that money two blocks down the street. I’d walk in flashing the bank bag as if I were the president of a big business.

  With all the money we put in those bags, I figured we were the richest people in Tchula. Dad had another zipper bag of money he kept hidden in the tool shed. The shed had a dirt floor with boards to stand on in front of the workbench. The last board was just under the workbench. The boards had been there so long they were sunk into the floor, nearly level with the dirt. Under the first board, he had dug a hole a bit larger than the size of a cigar box. The box fit perfectly in the hole, and with the board back on