Delta Blues

by Carolyn Haines

  Luleen cut me a look, and for a minute I thought she’d caught on to my manipulation. “Mr. Dale never struck me as someone who’d like Ne-gra music.” She said the word like Dale did.

  “Dale’s a mystery to me. He seems truly caught up in that bluesman’s reputation. Must be he’s just tryin’ to put a chill in me on dark nights, but he says he’s seen a tall stranger standin’ outside the camp where Amos Samples is. Says the man has a long butcher knife that catches the moonlight. When they go out to check, ain’t no one there. No footprints or nothin’.”

  She dropped her brush in the bucket of water. “Mr. Dale’s not tellin’ you that kind of foolishness. Where you hearin’ that talk?”

  Fighting the panic, I tried for nonchalance. “I don’t recall who told me.”

  “Talk like that gone get someone kilt.” She went to work, and I went to the kitchen window to watch Buster and the three men with him begin to set up for the party. There was work for me to do, but I allowed myself a moment to gather my nerve and imagine what would come next.

  FULL MOON. Harvest moon. The light gilded the cotton fields, softening the thousands of acres into a strange beauty that belied the harshness of the harvest. The white bolls were picked and gone, leaving the dead plants, which would be chopped under in a matter of days.

  Parchman prison stretched out in all directions, a place where anything except justice could take root and grow.

  Dale lit some torches and stuck them around to illuminate the backyard. The smell of cooking meat permeated everything, a sickly sweet odor. Dale shared a family resemblance with the two hogs. Small eyes, flat nose. All he needed was an apple.

  He’d been drinkin’ since noon, when he’d come to supervise Buster as he basted the hogs. Dale wouldn’t hit Buster because he worked in the big house for the warden. He was a favorite of Warden and Mrs. Langford. What Buster didn’t catch, I would get later. That was the way it fell out with Dale. Somebody had a good time, then somebody paid.

  I’d made up my mind it wasn’t going to be me.

  Wearing the new yellow dress Dale bought me, I made sure the tea was in good supply. While the men drank beer and whiskey, it wasn’t seemly for the women. I’d made tea for us, ice cold and sweet with fresh lemons floating. My mama used to let me sip her whiskey, but Dale put a stop to that. No man wanted a woman with a vice. Wasn’t enough room in most marriages for two partners with that kind of trouble.

  I put the last garnishes on the big pan of potato salad I’d made just the way Dale liked it. Lots of mustard and tiny cubes of bread and butter pickles. The kitchen was unbearably stuffy, and I wiped the sweat from my brow on my arm. My hair had been set in pale blond ringlets, the way Dale liked it, but the kitchen heat had worked me over even before the first guest arrived. I carried the pan out to the picnic table and the cooler temperatures of the yard.

  As I took a breather, the guests began to arrive. Most everyone worked at Parchman; some lived on the grounds like me and Dale. Others were day workers or somehow connected with the buying and selling of the many goods produced on the prison grounds. Parchman was a state institution that turned a profit.

  “I like that dress.” Dale came up behind me. His hands circled my bare arms and squeezed, hard. Something about bruises made him happy.

  “Thank you, Dale.” I’d learned quickly the important lines for the role I played—thank you, yes, yes and thank you. The dress was awful. The bright yellow made my white skin look sallow and my hair garish.

  The band struck up then. Mizelle moved the bottle neck along the guitar strings, makin’ a guttural sound that made me close my eyes. Dale lost his focus on me and walked up to the temporary stage he’d had built. “Don’t play none a that dirty music,” he told Mizelle. “There are ladies here.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Dale.” Mizelle knew his role, too. He was doing hard time for trespassing.

  “Get on with it. Play somethin’ frisky. My wife wants to dance.”

  Amos Sample watched the exchange, but his gaze drifted to me. I looked back, using everything in my power to tell him what I needed him to know.

  Still looking at me, he started to sing. A popular war tune. Sweet and sentimental. Not what I’d expected at all. Dale grabbed my wrist and pulled me to the dance floor. He crushed me against him and let his hands wander along my waist and down on my ass. I tried not to stiffen, but I saw Betty Havard, another wife, bite her lip as she watched. She knew where this night was headed, or at least she thought she did.

  “You need to wear long sleeves when you ride that horse,” Dale said as he danced me close. “I don’t want your arms all splotched with sun.”

  “Yes, Dale. I’ll do that.”

  “And gloves.”

  “Yes, Dale.” He was sweating hard, and the feel of it, pressed into my skin, made me want to scream.

  “That Ne-gra bluesman is watchin’ you.” His thumb dug into the small of my back with such force that I lost my footing. Only his grip held me up.

  “I’ve heard things about that man.” My voice was breathy because of the pain he inflicted. “I’ve heard he traffics with a tall black man carrying a sharp knife.” He lessened the pressure of his thumb and I tightened my grip around his neck. “Don’t let him look at me.”

  “Lookin’ at you could come at a high price for him.”

  I kissed his neck. “Who cares about a Ne-gra convict. He’ll spend the rest of his days choppin’ and waitin’ to die, and you won’t let nothin’ bad happen to me.”

  Dale’s chest rumbled with a laugh. “You sound like you was born to the role of bein’ my wife.”

  “My mama always said I was a quick learner. And you taught me good.” I caught his ear lobe in my teeth but applied no pressure. Over Dale’s shoulder, I made eye contact with Amos Sample. Help me. I let him read it plain on my face.

  Amos Sample broke into a frisky number that allowed me to escape Dale’s embrace and dance on my own. Others joined us, crowding to get up and move to the raw power of Amos Sample’s voice. I never looked at him again, but I could feel him lookin’ at me, calculatin’ what it might be that I wanted from him.

  Toward the end, Amos held the audience transfixed. Too tired or too drunk to dance more, Dale had fallen into a chair, his legs sprawled wide and spittle strung between his lips. My feet throbbed. Dale had stomped all over them, demonstrating his oafishness on the dance floor, again and again.

  “Let me help you clean up,” Betty offered. Together we carried in the leftovers. Luleen stacked a tray with meat, potato salad, beans, rolls and some pies. I wanted the prisoners to eat, and Dale wouldn’t let them in front of the guests. They’d take the food back with them and Dale would never know.

  I walked out with the tray and handed it to the guard who rode in the back of the truck to watch the prisoners. Amos Sample sat on the tailgate.

  “Luleen made that sweet potato pie special for the singer,” I whispered to the guard. “She’s got a crush, I think.” I thought my knees might buckle, but I locked them and stood my ground.

  He took the tray, looking it over in the moonlight. He didn’t say anything as the truck pulled out of the yard.

  Once the prisoners were gone, I sent Luleen on her way. Dale had fallen asleep in the chair. I stood at the kitchen window, looking out at him.

  “Can you get him in?” Betty asked.

  Anyway I went about it, I was going to get hurt. I could take it with or without an audience. “I can manage.”

  She patted my back and went to find her husband, Verl. He’d wandered down to the barn with Pic and a couple of other prison employees. I went outside, gathered up the rest of the party detritus and doused the torches. The coals in the fire pits smoldered red beneath a thick coat of ash, but they were safely contained. Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I walked over to Dale. It was now or never. I let myself see what I had to.

  In the thin moonlight, something moved at the edge of the cotton field. The figure was darker than night,
more shadow than real, except for the glint of moonlight on a long silver blade.

  My scream cut the silence, shrill and blood-curdling. I shook Dale, hard, screaming for all I was worth. “Get up! Get Up! There’s a man with a knife!”

  Verl, Pic and two other men came running from the barn with Betty in tow. Dale fell to the ground, cursing me.

  “Mrs. Walters, what is it?” Pic caught my shoulders, trying to grasp the meaning of my terrified screams.

  “I saw a man in the field,” I managed. “He had a knife. He was watchin’ me and Dale.”

  Pic and two others ran toward the field, calling to each other as they fanned out, searching. Verl helped Dale to his feet.

  “Crazy bitch!” Dale’s fist connected with my cheek and I spun backward into a table.

  “Stop it!” Verl grabbed Dale from behind. The two men tumbled to the ground, scuffling. Dale was no match for Verl, who was far more sober. Betty grabbed a pitcher of iced tea and dumped it on Dale’s head. He came up sputtering and cursing her until Verl slugged him hard enough to stun him.

  “Jesus,” Betty said.

  Pic and the other two men returned from the cotton field. “I didn’t see anyone,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll come and check for tracks.”

  “Thank you, Pic.” I didn’t look at anyone. My face throbbed.

  “Let’s get ‘im in the house,” Verl said.

  They lifted Dale and half dragged him inside, his boots scarring the waxed polish of the floor. Without asking, they put him on the sofa.

  “You want to come home with us?” Betty asked. “It ain’t safe out here alone with some man watchin’ your place.”

  We both knew it wasn’t a strange man she feared would harm me, but I couldn’t leave. Not this night. “I’ll be fine,” I said.

  “I’ll be back at daybreak,” Pic said. “We’ll find the tracks and run down whoever was out there watchin’ you.”

  They left, but I heard Betty tell her husband that Dale would one day kill me. They didn’t know the half of it.

  I filled a dishcloth with ice and held it to my cheek while I sat on the front porch and listened to the silence. The first frost had hushed the crickets and frogs. At dawn, birds would call each other, but now there was no sound. The night had grown chill, and while the moon was round and full and the stars were bright, they cast no warmth.

  I wondered if my mama was still alive and where she might be. Dale hadn’t allowed me to write her, and if she wrote me, he destroyed the letters. I was his. Period. He approved my moment-to-moment activities. After tonight, if he remembered what had occurred, he would stop my friendship with Betty.

  The ice soothed my face, finally numbing it. I went to the kitchen and looked out the window to the cotton fields. If I squinted hard, I could see a shadowy figure holding a knife. I left the doors unlocked before I went to bed.

  THE NEXT MORNING I’d barely had time to dress when Pic arrived with the Warden. They took note of my bruised cheek and black eye, but they said nothing. Dale still snored on the sofa, and they got him up and moving in the breaking day. They spread out from the backyard, working the field behind the house, looking for the prints I knew they’d never find. With the Warden there, I was safe from Dale’s abuse. He didn’t dare step out of line. I was left in peace to tidy up the house.

  An hour later they returned, puzzled and worried.

  “Mrs. Walters, we didn’t find a single track,” Pic said. Dale glowered in the background.

  I folded the dish towel I held and put it on the drainboard. “I can’t explain that,” I said, “but I saw him, as clearly as I’m seein’ you right now.” I described again the apparition with the long, silver blade in his hand.

  “There’s been talk about one of the prisoners,” the Warden said. “Maybe you heard some of that. Maybe that stirred up your imagination.”

  I shook my head. “Dale don’t allow such talk in the house, and he can tell you I don’t talk to anyone. I don’t know nothin’ about gossip and talk, I’m just tellin’ you what I saw.”

  “She wasn’t drinkin’,” Dale said. “My wife don’t drink.”

  The Warden nodded. “Well, if you see anything else, you tell us. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  They left and took Dale with them. I hoped one of them would hose him off before they sent him home. He stank.

  I saddled Piper and set out for the backfields where the old oak had once stood. A work crew was still chopping the tree into firewood. They’d left it for several months, harvesting the cotton instead. Now it was time to lay up a store of wood for heating and cooking.

  I missed the branches of the tree on the bare horizon, but when I was close enough to hear the powerful voice of Amos Sample and the work song of the prisoners, I slowed. Pic wasn’t in charge of this crew and I dared not get too close.

  Amos Sample must have heard the beat of my horse’s hooves, because he looked up. There was the tiniest nod of his head, just that. Nothing more. But it was enough.

  THANKSGIVING CAME, as it does each year, a time when many prisoners were furloughed home for family gatherings. The Warden allowed this favor for some prisoners who worked hard and gave no trouble. Those who had a family to go to. Some of the prison employees, too, made visits off the penitentiary grounds to places where life had a different rhythm. Dale had no truck with his family, and I had no idea where my mama might be. We stayed at the prison. I cooked and he ate.

  I’d made his favorites and loaded his plate three times. He celebrated the day with a bottle of corn hooch made by one of the prisoners. It was his Thanksgiving tradition. I made sure that when he passed out, he was sitting on the front porch.

  Dusk finally fell and I went to the barn and saddled Piper. I took her apples and carrots, and I wept against her mane before I led her to the front yard and tied her to a tree. Dale snored, slumped sideways in his chair. He was always meaner when he drank.

  Easing past him, I went upstairs and put on my riding clothes and one of his big shirts. In the kitchen I pulled on my rubber cleaning gloves and retrieved the carving knife I’d washed so carefully. When I stepped onto the porch, I gave myself no time to think. I walked up behind him, grabbed his greasy hair, laid his neck bare and slid the sharp blade across in a slashing motion that cut so deep I felt the bones of his spine.

  When I pushed him to the porch, he tried to crawl. The noise he made reminded me of the pigs he killed. He’d told me that a clean cut across the throat was humane. I wondered if he felt that way now.

  He made it to the steps before he collapsed. Blood seeped from the porch onto the steps, dribbling from one to the other like a slow, red waterfall. I dropped the knife, removed his shirt and the gloves, bundled them up, and ran to get on Piper.

  Instead of going to the prison for help, I rode toward the old oak tree that had been my source of comfort. Night had fallen, a dark, overcast sky hid everything. Piper knew the road and I let her have her head. She galloped with joy, and I prayed I had secured her freedom as well as mine.

  When I got to the tree, my heart fell. No one was there. A cry of fear and desperation tore from my throat.

  Amos Sample stepped away from the trunk. “I got your note baked in the crust of that pie. I couldn’t have made it, except lots of trustees went home for Thanksgiving.”

  I wanted to weep with relief, but there was no time. I dismounted and handed him Piper’s reins. “Ride north,” I told him. “Go fast. I killed my husband and you’re gonna get the blame. They’ll know you got out of the camp, and they’ll say you did it.”

  “And you?” he asked.

  “No need to worry for me,” I said. “I’ll be in Memphis in two weeks. Take care of my horse.”

  He mounted and set out across the fields as if Satan clung to his coat tails.

  I buried Dale’s shirt and gloves in the soft dirt near the tree. I dug deep in the soil that was already loosened, deeper than any plow would cut for cotton. Then I climbed into the branches
of the dead tree and jumped, meeting the ground with my body.

  When I’d reclaimed my breath, I got up and started walking to the prison. Blood seeped from my wounds and I limped. It all made for a better story.

  I SAT IN THE SUN on my freshly scrubbed front steps. The funeral was over, and the prisoners had packed my belongings and moved them out to the front yard. In a while, one of the prison trucks would come to pick me and my things up. The Warden had been kind and considerate, but the house I lived in belonged to someone who worked at the prison. I had to go.

  It was Pic who showed up in the truck. He tipped back his hat and studied me as the men loaded the four suitcases. At his signal, I climbed in the passenger seat. The truck eased away from the house, going slow, like I used to do when I rode Piper. I didn’t want to but I couldn’t stop myself from looking back. It was the nicest house I’d ever lived in.

  “We found your horse,” Pic said.

  “Is she hurt?”

  “No, she’s in good shape. A family in Cleveland said a black man left her with them. He caught a train north. Looks like Amos Sample got away.”

  The dirt road led out of the prison, past the gate where a man with a shotgun waved Pic through. The cotton followed us, flanking us on both sides, the rows of dead stalks ready to be plowed under. No matter. This was free cotton. Even the air was sweeter.

  I reached over and flipped on the radio, tuning in to the channel where I’d first heard Amos Sample sing. Through the static and scratch, the wail of a blues guitar came through and then the haunted voice of Skip James. The words spoke to me in a way that only the blues could do.

  “If I ever get off this killin’ floor,

  I’ll never get down like this no more

  No-no, no-no, I’ll never get down this low no more.”

  I clicked off the radio. “Do you think Amos Sample killed Dale?” I asked Pic.

  “Funny thing,” he said. “We found the horse tracks from your house across the field, but we never found any footprints for the man you said was with Amos Sample.”