"Yes, sir, Mr. Van, sir."
"So if William, or any other white man or woman on this plantation does any of those things, you know they are against my orders, right?"
"Well, Mr. Van, I guess so, sir."
"There's no guessing, George. Now, tell me what I would NOT tell someone to do to you."
"Beat or curse me or call me 'Nigger' or 'Boy', or tell me to do something that's not my job, sir."
"That's right. Do you know what the word 'demeaning' means?"
"No, sir."
"It means when someone does something to make you look and feel low, such as, if someone ordered you to eat dirt, or crawl on all-fours, or pushed your head under water and held it until you choked. It also means when someone points a gun at you or threatens you with a whip. Do you understand, George?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Van," George stammered. "I guess so, sir."
"Take you shirt off, George."
"Sir?"
"Just take your shirt off," Van said. "This is not meant to demean you; I want to look at your back."
George pulled his shirt over his head. Two long red scars ran across his chest in a big "X."
"Turn around, George." His back was layered with scars; the freshest ones still bulged and oozed pus and a watery red liquid. "You can put your shirt back on." George slipped back into the stained, off-white shirt.
"William, where do we store clothing for our slaves?"
"I think it's here in the tack room, right, George?" William asked.
"Yes, sir, Mr. William. I can show you if you want," George said.
He moved towards the door in the back of the barn next to the last stall on the right. The two white men followed him. George opened the door and they all went in. It was a big room with deep shelves and hooks on the sidewalls that held bridles, ropes, horseshoes, stirrups, and spare leather parts, all neat and clean. On the shelves were boxes, stacks of blankets, and lots of stuff like tobacco, cigarette papers, pipes, bottles of whiskey, jerky, all sorts of food, drinks and smokes.
George grabbed a wooden bench and dragged it to the shelves. He climbed on it, pulled a box off the upper shelf, and let it fall in his arms. He stepped off the bench and placed the box where his feet had been.
"They's in here." George patted the box.
Van reached into his front, right pocket and pulled out a switchblade knife. He cut through the tape on top of the box and ripped it open. A folded stack of thin, off-white muslin was crammed into the cardboard container. Van lifted the first piece of muslin out of the box and let it fall from its folds. It had a drawstring around the neck and long, loose sleeves that, along with the bottom of the shirt, were not hemmed. Van put the shirt on the bench and shuffled through the box until he found a pair of pants, also un-hemmed, also with a drawstring around the waist.
"What do we give the women to wear?" Van asked. He stared into the box and directed his question at no one.
"The men and women all get the same clothes, twice a year," William said.
"I see the women in skirts in the fields," Van said. "Where do they get skirts?" He turned to look at the two men who faced him. Neither answered. "George?"
"Well, sir. My wife, Audrey, she use what she can find to make her skirt. Sometime we find an old shirt your daddy throw in the trash. Sometime the Missus throw away some curtains to get new ones or a sheet or blanket and Bessie and Maureen divides it up with the womens."
"We need to change some things; lots of things. I'm going to need your help, George, to talk to the others and tell them about the new rules. You are going to help William learn where to order clothing and other items the slaves need. No, not slaves. We'll call them workers, until I can come up with a better term." Van turned and looked directly into George's bright eyes.
"Tomorrow I want to tour the Quarters and the fields. George, you will come with me and William and show us the Quarters. William will take me on a tour of the fields. I'll see you in the morning, George." Van turned around. "Come with me, William." William hurried to follow Van.
"Next stop, the cookhouse," Van said to William. "Then back to my study. Just stay with me, Son."
"Yes, sir."
Van and William entered the cookhouse where Van interrogated Bessie about meals for the slaves, what she fed them, how often, how much, and how she felt about their meals. He tole her that there was no reason to prepare separate meals. Whatever she cooked for the workers she could feed him.
The two men went in the back door of the plantation house and Mr. Van stopped Maureen in the hall to ask her about other provisions for the workers, fabrics for the women, linens for their beds, and other household needs, especially for the women and children. When Van and William entered the study, they sat across from each other in the wing-backed chairs, the tray of refreshments on the table between them. Van felt the pot; it was still hot. He poured them each a cup of coffee that they both doctored with cream and sugar, then they attacked the cakes. It had been a long day and the sun was about to disappear behind the trees.
"Today has been a real eye-opener for me, William. I have a lot more to learn but I need to make decisions along the way and not wait until I know everything to change things. How much do I pay you?"
"I make $25 a month, sir."
"I'm going to double that. I want you to be my right-hand man. How does that sound, son?"
"That sounds real good, Mr. Van. You tell me what you want me to do. I follow orders real good!"
"Let's begin with philosophy." William's mouth fell open; he was out of his league. Philosophy?
"It's a big word, but it has a simple meaning," Van said. "We have to believe the same things, or you have to learn to believe what I do. The most important thing I believe is that we are all God's children, white, black, poor, rich, and we all deserve a decent life. Just because my life was handed to me doesn't mean I don't have to work hard to keep it, build it, make it better. Just like you have to work hard to make your life better. Slaves are no different in that way."
"And if you can't believe that, William, believe this: if we don't treat our slaves in a humane fashion—feed them well, clothe them properly, give them time to rest with plenty of water for hydration, they will get sick and even die. Then what do we have? Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you, William?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Van," William said. Silence filled the air until he added, "No disrespect, sir, and I don't mean to talk out of turn, but I never whipped a slave. Mr. Buckley ordered me to do it many times but he would ride off and expect that I'd carry out his orders. I didn't do it, sir. I couldn't."
"Explain that to me, William. Why couldn't you whip a slave?"
"Well, sir, I believe the Bible. It says to treat the least of men like we would treat Jesus. Slaves are the least of men, ain't that right, sir?"
"That's close enough, William." A silence hovered above the men as they both considered the words that hung between them. "We both have lots to learn and we'll learn it together. You and I will turn this place around and make a profit; and when we do, you'll get a bonus."
William didn't respond, he simply stared at his boss and wondered what was coming next. He was probably thinking about that raise, double salary, and not having to answer to Buckley any longer.
"What say we have something a little stronger, William?" Mr. Van walked to the back of his desk, pulled out the bottom drawer, and produced a bottle of fine bourbon whiskey. He lifted two crystal glasses from the drawer and set it all on the desk. After he poured the brown liquid in the glasses, he walked back to the tray of refreshments and handed one to William.
Mr. Van sat back down in the facing chair, the men lifted their glasses, nodded, and turned them up so the bourbon slid down their throats in one fiery gulp.
The story of Mr. Van gave me hope that there might be someone, somewhere, who would help Rodney, even though I knew the South was full of people like Buckley and his men.
I st
opped at the post office on Utopia on my way home from work every afternoon during my first week at Shilling Publishing. Each day the box was empty, until Friday, when I saw a letter through the three-inch section of smoky glass, "204" stamped in white across it. I tried to insert my key in the hole above the glass and fumbled around until it finally slid in and I turned it to the left. The latch gave way and I pulled the door opened with my key. I took out the white envelope with my name and address scrawled across the front. No return address, just a sticker that said the letter had been forwarded from my address on campus.
The postmark was eight days prior. My hands shook as I closed the door to my mailbox and walked to the tall table in the corner where customers addressed and stamped letters and packages. People came in and out of the main door, bringing with them gusts of hot air and the smell of gasoline and dirty socks. I couldn't get the letter opened and ended up tearing the envelope in three pieces. I unfolded four sheets of ruled pages, torn from a composition book, written on front and back.
I stuffed the letter and torn envelope in my purse and rushed out of the post office and almost ran the rest of the way to my apartment, six long blocks. I flopped into my big, overstuffed chair in the corner of the living room and dug the letter out of my purse. I sat with my elbows on my knees, bent forward, Rodney's handwriting almost touching my eyes, to make sure I read every word.
Chapter Five
***
Jackson
Jun 17, 2974
Dear Susie,
Where do I start? First, let me say I love you more than anything and I'm praying you will wait for me. I'll be there as soon as I can, but I'm not sure how long that will be.
The people who followed me and my dad to Jackson must have been surprised when I jumped from the car, because they drove up the road a ways before they found a place to turn around. I relied on the cover of darkness for protection until I could lose them.
I was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, too easy to spot, so I ran across the road and backtracked to a deep ditch in a stand of pine trees, hoping the change of direction would put more time between me and the posse, which is what I called them in my mind. I slid into the ditch, pulled black sweat pants and a long sleeved black T-shirt from my duffle bag and changed clothes, then pulled my black baseball cap low over my eyes. I figured these men would not be tricked easily but I know I can pass for white if I cover my head.
I crept through the trees and jogged to the back of a small shopping strip and made my way to the back of the last store then crossed the street as casually as possible and weaved in and out of small businesses, an open lot, and a warehouse until I reached the train station. I hid behind a big pine tree and counted the men who staked out the parking area. I could make out five of them, spread out, stooped low on the sides of cars and pickup trucks, and peeking around trees. They didn't wear white sheets and dunce hats, but I knew their faces: Toussaint Parish Sheriff Guidry, one of his deputies, and three businessmen from Jean Ville.
Darren Bordelon, who owns the Five and Dime, was chewing tobacco behind a line of tree. I don't know if you remember him, a short squatty man built like a stump, real mean, and ready to fight with whites or coloreds. Always itching for a reason to use his hairy fists on someone's jaw. He'll join any group, the Klan, the White Camellias, or the Dixie Gang when Guidry calls for warriors to seek racial justice. He'll wear any uniform, sheet, or mask and jump in the back of a pickup with his hunting rifle, so it didn't surprise me to see him there.
The Moreau brothers who own the Mobil station on the other side of town hate my dad because he's colored and has a competing gas station. Those two might not join just any vigilante group, but they would certainly agree to ride with the Klan against the Thibault family. None of the Moreaus get along with each other until they have a common cause against some poor Negro who they think has wronged the whites.
Jack Moreau is tall and thin as a reed. From the back, his narrow butt and long thin torso are the opposite of his frontal view, which seems to belong to a different person: a pot belly that hangs over the big, silver cowboy buckle and a huge, wide chest. His brother, Eric, is shorter by a few inches and has no neck. His round shaved head looks like a large ping pong ball sitting on a board, and his squared shoulders give way to short, dangling arms.
The most dangerous of the five men, by far, is Sheriff Guidry. I've never seen his head because it's always covered by a white, felt cowboy hat with a red band around the base and a small feather on one side. I wonder if he sleeps in that hat. Guidry is a big man, not simply in height—you know, he's probably six-feet-five if he's an inch—but also in girth. I'll bet he weighs at least 300 pounds and he always wears starched Levis with sharp creases down the front of the legs and a stiff, white long-sleeved shirt with snaps up the front and on both breast pockets. The pointed toes of his alligator boots peek out from under his jeans that would probably brush the ground in the back if the heels on his boots weren't two inches high. He wasn't wearing his badge that night, I guess because this was personal business, but at home his bright silver "Sheriff" star is always pinned above his left pocket.
I played football against Deputy Keith Rousseau. He was a defensive lineman who sacked me more times than I can count. It was personal for Keith, taking down a colored quarterback in front of an audience. He's a big, hulking, Cajun boy with a beer belly and long brown, shaggy hair that hangs over his eyes. He grins on one side of his mouth and some of his teeth are missing. He's a mean one and he hates coloreds, especially me…
I watched the five of them for a while and wondered how many more there were on this mission. I could almost smell their excitement and perspiration. I wondered who I had not spotted, since they usually travel in pairs. They outnumbered me like a pack of dogs against one rabbit, and had probably planned this attack as thoroughly as a general against the Viet Cong.
How did they know my dad would take me to Jackson? Did they follow me? And if they followed, how did all these men get here ahead of us and take their positions?
I knew none of that mattered; all that mattered was that I outsmart them and stay alive.
I circled around the station and crossed the track, grateful for the tall weeds and the lack of Mississippi pride that would keep the grass down and the trees pruned. One of the few states lower than Louisiana in education, racial progress, and economy is Mississippi. Alabama and Arkansas could probably go toe-to-toe with both states on the racial issue.
I am desperate to get out of the South.
The weeds and bushes on the backside of the tracks provided cover as I worked my way north for about a quarter mile. The train pulled into the station, people got off and got on, and the whistle blew to indicate it was ready to depart for Memphis. When half of the train passed me, I jumped onto the step between two cars and held the side rail until I got my bearings, then I boarded.
Tucker Thevenot was sitting near the window on the right, about halfway down. He's a nasty man from Toussaint Parish who people say does perverted things to children, even his own. He's blond with a thin goatee and mustache that makes his face look dirty. He looked at me as I walked down the aisle as casually and nonchalant as I could with my head down and my cap pulled low to hide my eyes.
I pretended to look for a seat and a place to stash my bags. Just before I reached the back of the car I spotted Antoine Borrel on the last row, sitting near the aisle. You remember Antoine, he was in your graduating class, I think. He's a customer at the Esso station and I've had many conversations with Antoine about football and other sports, both local and national. His dad's a carpenter and they've never treated me like I'm colored so it shocked me that Borrel was part of this witch hunt. I continued down the aisle and stepped out of the back door and into the next car, marked "Colored."
I felt a sense of urgency and went through door that joined the colored car to the caboose. As soon as I emerged between the two cars, the train slowed in a curve and I jumped. I
stayed still and quiet in a ravine for ten or fifteen minutes to make sure no one had followed me. A line of trees that ran parallel to the tracks was set back about six yards and I used them for cover as I made my way south to the small town of Richland, about five miles out of Jackson.
I dropped into a convenience store, bought a Coke and asked the colored clerk for directions to the Greyhound bus station. It was only three blocks away. The guys on the train hadn't followed so I felt safe, until I got to the bus station and spotted two familiar faces outside the entrance. Oh, God, I thought, now it's really personal. Your brother James and his friend Earl, "Big Earl" Daigrepont were waiting. James had a pistol tucked inside his belt.
"What?" I screamed and put the letter in my lap. "James? My brother, James was after Rodney with a gun? Oh, God! This is personal." I felt sweat gather in my neck and scalp and had an eerie feeling my dad was behind this whole stakeout that Rodney called a posse.
I picked the letter up and read on…
James started running towards me yelling at Big Earl to cut me off. You know, your brother was a running back in high school and he's still tall, slim, wide-shouldered and fast. Didn't he finish LSU Law School last year? Anyway, James is in great shape and he gained on me. I threw my duffle bag at him as if it was a football and it hit him in the face. My loafers and the two books inside the duffle made it heavy and it stopped him for a minute, but it didn't knock him down. He kept coming, but now I had a lead.
Big Earl is a huge, scary-looking fellow with beady eyes and a shaved head, bigger than a beach ball. He isn't fast, just big—very big and strong.
I zigzagged through the area using some of the buildings for protection in an effort to lose James and Earl. I made my way back to the convenience store, since I knew the layout. I ran through the front door, past the colored clerk who barely looked up from the girlie magazine he had on the counter, towards the back hall, past the restrooms, and through a door with a sign that said "Employees only." I peeked out the back door into the parking lot to make sure no one was waiting, then stepped out and started running.
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