Delta Blues

by Carolyn Haines

  “Yes’m,” she said. Miz Hattie understood all too clearly.

  “Jes’ reach up on that shelf over there,” Miz Hattie instructed her in a light, friendly tone. “Yes, lamb, that one there. Did you bring something to put the rice in?”

  Stricken, she turned to her benefactor as she set the jar of rice on the table. “Oh, Miz Hattie, I was in such a terrible hurry I didn’t even think.” She glanced down at her dress. “I reckon I could carry it in my pockets.”

  Miz Hattie chuckled. “Lord, chile, Heaven knows I gots all kinda jars jes’ sittin’ around this house. You find one over there and get the rice you need, baby.”

  Hands trembling, she did as she was told, measuring out what she needed for tonight’s meal, pouring it into a small jar.

  She tried to pay Miz Hattie, but the old lady wouldn’t accept it.

  She needed to get back home, but curiosity got the better of her. He never told her anything much, so she was always starved for news. Any kind of news.

  “Miz Hattie,” she began, her hands rubbing the jar of rice like a talisman, “I couldn’t help hear, when I came up to your door, that something terrible’s happened.”

  Miz Hattie’s gaze grew dark, and she glanced away for a moment. “You’s better off not knowing about such things, baby. Stay in yo’ house, and don’t even stick yo’ head out of it for a while.”

  “Please, Miz Hattie.” She’d never seen her only neighbor in a mood like this. “What’s goin’ on?”

  Miz Hattie shook her head. “Oh, chile, they was a killin’ two nights ago at one of them juke joints.”

  “Who got killed?”

  “Johnny Blue.”

  Stunned, she reached for the table to steady herself, almost dropping her jar of rice. She set the jar down and then lowered herself into a chair.

  Johnny Blue. He’d been in her thoughts earlier. He was a boy from around Clarksdale with a whisky-roughened voice. She’d heard him perform once, before she was married. She’d sneaked out of the house one night along with her friend Bobbie Sue, and they’d walked the two miles to a joint where they’d heard he’d be singing.

  She and Bobbie Sue sat outside, too young even to sneak in, and strained their ears to hear what they could. The raw emotion in Johnny Blue’s voice made her heart ache.

  Many a night since, she’d lain awake, listening to that voice in her head. She’d heard him on the radio a few times. He sang to her, even if he didn’t know it. He knew her pain, her fear, the longing she had.

  And now he was dead.

  She burst out crying.

  “Lord, chile,” Miz Hattie said, alarm in her eyes. “What you carryin’ on so for? How come you cryin’ for some black man you don’t even know?”

  The old woman reached out a hand, and she grasped it. Trying to contain her sobs, she managed a few words. Miz Hattie seemed to understand. She handed across her handkerchief.

  “Wipe yo’ eyes, lamb.”

  She handed back the sodden handkerchief, and Miz Hattie laid it aside.

  “Why would somebody kill him?”

  Miz Hattie stared at her, and she read the pity in the old woman’s eyes. “Oh, Lord, girl, when do a white man need a reason to kill a black man? Nobody don’ know for sure who done it. But they reckon it was a coupla white men done jumped him late that night when he be on his way home.”

  She shook her head, still trying hard to understand it all. “Why?”

  “Don’ know why, girl, don’ keep askin’ me.” Miz Hattie got stern with her. “But you keep yo’self in that house, and don’ be goin’ nowhere or talkin’ to nobody. They’s something bad gone happen. Peoples is mighty angry. Johnny Blue had a lot of friends.”

  “Yes’m.” She nodded, reaching for her jar of rice. Miz Hattie had said all she was going to say, she could see that.

  “You best be gettin’ on home, baby,” Miz Hattie said. “It be almost fo’ thirty.”

  Alarmed, she jumped up. She couldn’t be late serving him his dinner. “Thank you, Miz Hattie,” she said, her breathing already coming hard.

  She darted out of the kitchen, jar clutched in her hand, slowing down only to open the screen door. She didn’t mean it to slam behind her, but she didn’t have time to waste.

  She raced home, in a tizzy to get his dinner ready. Stopping only long enough to wash away the dust from her bare legs and feet, she set to work.

  It was close to six o’clock when Mr. McAlister made it home. She thanked the Lord for small mercies as she set his plate in front of him.

  He started in without even a word to her. She went back to the stove to fill her own plate. She sat down across from him and started eating. She never dared take a bite first. He didn’t like it.

  His plate empty, he shoved it toward her. She got up and refilled it, set it down in front of him again.

  She couldn’t watch him while he ate. He always shoved food in like he wasn’t ever going to eat again. If she looked at him, she wouldn’t be able to eat her own plate.

  Finally, he was done. He drained his water glass and sat back.

  She put aside her fork. Once he was done, she was done.

  “That was good,” he said. “You cain’t do much else, but you can cook.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced at his eyes. This was going to be one of the bad nights.

  “How was your day?” Sometimes he liked it if she asked him about his work. It could put him in a mellower mood.

  Not tonight, she could tell at once. His face darkened.

  “Them damn niggers were ‘bout as useful as tits on a boar hog today. They ain’t much good the best of times, but today and yesterday, I swear they wasn’t even worth killin’.” He shook his head. “But ain’t much I can do about it. Mistuh Bell won’t let me use a whip on ‘em.”

  Mr. Bell was the general manager of the whole plantation and Mr. McAlister’s boss.

  “They upset about something?” She tried to sound like she didn’t know nothing, but she couldn’t tell if she fooled him.

  “Oh, yeah,” Mr. McAlister said. He grinned real big. “Somebody beat the shit out of some singin’ coon and killed him. They’re all riled up about it, mutterin’ and carryin’ on. Ain’t a damn thing they can do about it though.” He laughed.

  “That’s terrible,” she said, realizing her mistake the second the words were out of her mouth.

  THE NEXT MORNING she could barely get out of bed to cook his breakfast. He didn’t speak, wouldn’t even look at her. He was always this way the next morning.

  After he left for the fields, she cleared away the remains of the food. She couldn’t eat anything. It was all she could do not to vomit all over the stove while she cooked.

  She cleaned herself as best she could, wishing she dared heat water for a bath. But he’d know she’d used the wood, and that wouldn’t do.

  During the night she hurt too much to be able to sleep, so she’d had time to think.

  Once he was safely gone, she dressed, this time putting on her shoes and sticking what she needed in an old carpetbag. She didn’t run this morning. She couldn’t.

  The heat made breathing even harder. By the time she reached Miz Hattie’s house her dress was soaked through, and she thought she might faint before she could make it up to the front door.

  But she got there. Leaning against the frame, she knocked, unable to call out.

  “Come on in,” Miz Hattie called.

  She knocked again. She didn’t have the strength to move.

  Miz Hattie came bustling up to the door moments later. One look, and she knew what had happened.

  Gently the old lady led her inside and into the kitchen. She sat, numb and exhausted, while Miz Hattie gathered what she needed.

  By the time Miz Hattie finished her ministrations, she felt better. Her head had cleared, thanks to a drink the old lady had given her. She still hurt, but she felt stronger.

  “Thank you.” Her voice came out as a whisper. Miz Hattie served her more tea, and
she drank.

  “Po’ little chile,” Miz Hattie said. “That man, he be the devil himself. Ain’t no call for him to be beatin’ on you like this. May the good Lord strike him dead.”

  She smiled faintly. She had little faith that the Lord would stir Himself on her behalf. It was up to her to find a way out of her little room in hell.

  She reached for her bag and pulled out one of Mr. McAlister’s white shirts. She thrust it at Miz Hattie.

  Puzzled, Miz Hattie took the shirt and unfolded it. Together they stared down at the bloodstains all over the front of it.

  “I found it this morning,” she said. “I got to countin’ up, and I knew there was one missing. I finally found it stuffed behind the bureau.”

  Miz Hattie pulled the shirt closer, one gnarled black finger tracing the outline of blood spatters. She shook her head and looked up.

  She could hardly breathe while the old woman thought about it. Miz Hattie nodded. “Yes, chile, I see. I do see.” She folded the shirt with care and laid it aside.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Miz Hattie nodded again. “Now you go on home, girl. You take it easy.” She got up from the table and fetched a jar. “You put this on you when you start hurtin’, and you’ll be feeling better soon.”

  “Thank you.” This time her voice was stronger, and when she stood, she didn’t hurt near as much.

  Out on the road, she glanced back once to see Miz Hattie standing in the doorway of her house, watching her. She didn’t wave, just turned and headed down the road to home.

  That night he didn’t make it in til sundown. She had his pork chops, sweet potatoes, collard greens, and cornbread ready. He ate without talking, still not looking at her.

  While she cleaned up in the kitchen, he went into the parlor and turned on the radio. He’d listen to a baseball game, she knew. Probably the St. Louis Cardinals. They were his favorite team.

  The sun faded away outside, and she stood at the kitchen window with the light off. She fancied she could see the rows of cotton, marching ever forward. The moon was dim, but she could make out the first few feet of cotton. She stood there for a long time, not moving, simply waiting.

  Must have been well after nine when she heard a loud thud from the front of the house. The radio switched off, and Mr. McAlister started yelling. She paid no attention to the words.

  Moments later she heard him open the front door. He was too arrogant to be afraid. She could just see him, out on the front porch, defiant, unwilling to back down.

  Her legs suddenly weak, she eased herself to the floor beneath the window. She heard the commotion, angry voices, Mr. McAlister’s among them.

  Then the shotgun blasts. She didn’t try to count them.

  The night grew quiet around her. She sat under the window for a long time.

  SHE HANDED THE DRIVER HER TICKET and climbed into the bus. With the money she got from selling his radio, plus the money Mr. Bell gave her—saying it was back wages, though she knew better—she was able to buy a ticket to Oklahoma City. She even had enough to tide her over until she found a job.

  It was too bad about the radio. She could listen to whatever she wanted to now. But she needed the money more. She could always buy a radio for herself sometime. She smiled.

  She’d been thinking a lot about Johnny Blue. Especially his song about his own little room in hell. She’d been there, but now she was free.

  She stared down at her left hand. The cuts in her fingertips had had a week now to heal. He’d beat her pretty bad that night, but not enough to draw much blood.

  She’d had to cut herself. She hardly noticed the pain at the time, even though the sight of the blood made her faint-headed.

  Some day she might have regrets. But she didn’t think she would.

  Mr. McAlister had found his own little room in hell, and welcome to it.

  8 Dog Thunder Blues

  Nathan Singer

  Baby did you see that fire burnin’

  Straight up in that black Oklahoma sky

  O now did you see that fire burnin’

  Straight up in that black Oklahoma sky

  Lord I seen them buildings all come-a crashin’ down

  And I reckon somebody gots to die …

  AIN’T BUT TWO THINGS my father left for me in this world: a beat up old no-name six string, and a .38 Smith & Wesson. Just like the old man I keeps the pistol stowed away inna same guitar case I now tote cross my back. Everywhere I go. Heavy load, sure nuff, but it done served me well.

  Most folk know me as Plow Boy Lewis. Been also called the Oklahoma Ox from time to time. But to other guitar pickers, this here Big Junior Slides at your service. Yes indeed. I can sings and plays any old tune you might like to hear, and swearing on a stack of Bibles, it won’t be like nothing you ever done heard before. You see, when I gets to playing this here guitar I keeps a three-inch length of brass pipe on my ring finger, and a sawed-off bottle neck right there onna middle. I’m the onliest one who play that way, so far I ever seen. Give me a real special sound when I switches back and forth tween the two, howling like a cold wind or grinding like a buzzsaw blade.

  Ain’t no gimmick or stage trick, you understand. A heavy boot heel on my right hand nigh on to fourteen year ago, that there were the mother of my invention. Since then them two fingers been stiff as copper rods, and I can’t fret no chord or ball up a fist to save my soul. All on count of a man who come to call one hot black night in Tulsa.

  I ain’t killed no man, Lord

  But I come doggone close

  Said I ain’t yet killed a man, no

  But I come doggone close

  And if that man git to me first Lord

  He gonna hafta reckon with my ghost …

  Reckon I believes in God almighty, hear. Reckon I do. But he ain’t nothing I can rightly speak on. Never seen his face. But I sure nuff seen Devils. Seen them all my day. Devils all over. One here, one there, walking just like man. Some come in white hoods, you understand. Some with a badge and uniform. Some Devils, they be seen in real fine suits. Yes sir. Some don’t come in no costume at all, all right, but you will sure nuff know them by the Hell they unleash.

  O preach’m now …

  It were the end of May, nineteen-hunnet-twenny-one. Back then they call the Greenwood side of Tulsa the “Negro Wall Street,” and me and mine, we was right there in that good life. Bertie, she ten year old at that time, and Ethel just turning thirteen that day of the thirty-first. Our father, he run his very own shoe store, and us four we all done our share round the shop. Had usselves a real nice place right upstairs, yes we did.

  My two sisters and me, we was setting places for Ethel birthday supper (on that same kitchen table Mama died on giving birth to yours truly seven years before) when the first shots rung out.

  “Daddy,” Ethel say with a start, “what that noise out yonder?!”

  “Ethel, you take your brother and sister to the back bedroom and you hide under that bed now. And don’t you make no sound, hear!”

  “But Daddy!”

  “Now, girl! Don’t you make a peep and don’t come out til I says! GO NOW!”

  We run off quick as jackrabbits as old man snatch up his pump-action shotgun and head on downstairs and on outside. My sisters both crying, shaking and quaking, and I had a mind to do likewise. But them tears just ain’t come. Froze solid and still, sure nuff. Old man said don’t make a peep, and I weren’t bout to. Huddled inna dark under that bed petrified like three little old hound dogs in a thunderstorm, we could hear it all coming down outside: screaming, gunfire, busting up like war. And the louder it grow the hotter it done got. Damn blasted hot. I knew they done splitted Hell wide open outside.

  “O Daddy … Daddy …” Bertie got to sobbing. “What if he don’t never come back?”

  “Hush up that mess, Bertie,” Ethel say.

  As for me, I ain’t had no words of comfort nor words of fear. I ain’t have no words at all.

  “Imma c
atch me a look,” Ethel say, and she done slid out from under the bed.

  Just then the door slam open, and pale as death, two white mens lumber in. Staring hard with Lucifer eyes. I couldn’t barely make them out laying down there where I be, but I seen the one were fat as a brood sow set to pop with piglets, wearing blue coveralls and swinging a kerosene lamp. T’other, he were built right from bricks carved thick and sharp, his pitch black hair cut straight cross the top his head just like a push broom.

  “Now … what we got here?” the bristle-headed one say, grinning dark and broke-tooth, giving Ethel the old wild-eye and pointing his revolver at her bosom. She lock up tighter than a snare drum and press against the north wall. So he stomp on over her way, real slow and heavy, and don’t you know one them mud-caked clompers was gonna crunch down on my right hand, snapping them two fingers like brittle old twigs in a dry autumn. Bertie, she slap her hand cross my mouth for to keep me silent . but I weren’t fixing to make no sound any old way, even though that pain were hacking paths all through my skinny little frame. That man he ain’t notice, though, on count of his eyes being dead set on my sister’s trembling young body.

  “Come on, Whitney,” the fat one got to grunting. “We ain’t got no time for no fornication.”

  “Just … just do your business quick and git gone, hear?” Ethel say, putting on a right brave face.

  “Let’s just see how it goes, little girl,” that man hiss, reaching his hand toward Ethel top button.

  Right then Senior Lewis come on busting through the door swinging his shotgun like a club and he catch the hog man in his blubbery gut with one swoop. Swinging the lamp so hard the wick blow out, that fat hunky retch out a dribble of blood, drop his lamp, and stumble off down the hall wheezing and groaning like a beat down pack mule. Father were just set to cocking his rifle as that other white man turn the revolver on him, and open up his chest wide with one shot. Old man slam against the south wall, dead as a rock inna sea, smearing a thick trail of red right cross the paint. Room smelling from sulfur, flint, and kerosene.