I tripped and fell on the concrete and looked up to see Big Earl standing over me, laughing. Before Earl could grab me, I kicked him hard in the ankle and caught him off-guard. He tripped and stumbled but didn't fall, but it gave me time to get to my feet and I kicked Earl in the crotch as hard as I could. Earl screamed and bent over, holding himself in agony. James rounded the corner and saw that Earl was hurt, which stopped him long enough to check on his friend; then James took off running after me.
I didn't wait around to see what happened with Earl and James. I had a lead and was out of sight. My only hope was that James would be confused about which direction I went, so I doubled back to the last place I thought James would look—the convenience store. I ran in the front door, down the back hall, and hid in the stockroom. Once I stopped and sat behind a stack of boxes I felt fatigue seep through my bones. I hadn't stopped for days, since I was kidnapped, shot, jailed, and picked up by my dad.
I know James is smart, so I needed a plan if I was going to outsmart him. I tried to think, but it was difficult; I was too tired and afraid that my exhaustion would cause me to make a mistake, one that could cost me my life. So I decided to rest, then think.
The clerk came to the back to see where I had gone. I asked the young guy, who seemed laid back and agreeable, to cover for me and allow me to rest up in his stock room.
"This ain't my store, man. You can stay long as you want."
"Please, can you cover if any of those white men come looking for me?"
"One already come in and axed were you here, I tole him I don't see you since the time you ran through."
"Thanks, man; I appreciate that."
"What you think, I not take care of a brother. I just soon kill them white boys as look at them, if I thought I could get away with it." He was younger than me by a few years and much smaller—short, in fact, and very thin. He had a wad of tobacco in his cheek and talked slowly. His baseball cap said "Mustangs," and was pushed back on his forehead so you could see his hairline and brought attention to his wide-set eyes, big as walnuts with pupils as dark as ink wells. He picked up a box, put it on his shoulder, and left the storeroom. I began to relax.
I wondered how many Klan members were after me. James and Earl and the guys who were staking out the train station—oh, and the ones on the train to Memphis. So far I'd counted nine. They seemed to anticipate places I would be before I got there, something that confused me, still does, because even I didn't know I would go to the bus station in Richland. Did they have men positioned at every transportation hub in every town and city between Baton Rouge and Memphis, and all the way to Illinois?
I questioned why I was so important. Then I remembered that I am trying to marry the daughter of a senator, the former mayor of Jean Ville, and that he's the type who had to save face.
I figured the men trailing me would expect me to keep moving and probably head north, so I decided to do the opposite. While the posse staked out all the modes of transportation I might take to go north, I took a nap in the convenience store in Richland. At about three-thirty in the morning the clerk, Devon—he later told me he pronounced it Dah-VON—came into the storeroom and pulled on the waist of his jeans to hike them up over his flat butt.
"Hey, man. They gonna start making deliveries around four," he said. "You'd better scoot." I woke with a start and was disoriented for a few minutes. I shook my head and opened and closed my eyes a few times, trying to focus.
"Are they gone?" I stood, stretched, and looked side-to-side as if waiting for someone to jump out from behind one of the boxes where I'd been hiding.
"Yep. Haven't seen any of them since midnight. Doesn't mean they won't be back after they get rested up," Devon said. I was still disoriented and tried to think of my next move when he surprised me.
"Look, man. I have an old pickup out behind the store. Why don't you lay low in the cab and I'll take you where you want to go when I get off at five."
"Yeah. Uhm, thanks. I'll take you up on that." I said. I went out the back door and got into the rusted Chevy pickup. The door squealed when I opened it and I looked around the mud-dark night to see if I'd awakened a nemesis. Unsure, but without options, I climbed into the cab and folded myself in half on the bench seat. I must have fallen asleep again because I was startled by the squeal of metal when Devon climbed into the cab.
"You musta been pretty tired," Devon said. "You done nothing but sleep since I saw you last night."
"Yeah. I've been on the run. Didn't have much rest till now. Thanks, man."
"No problem."
I had been thinking about where to go since I'd stashed myself in the storeroom. I asked Devon if he could take me to Pearl and he said, no problem, it was only about five or ten miles away.
I knew about a faction of the National Urban League that had a chapter in Pearl, Mississippi. One of their organizers had been to Jean Ville to try to start a league chapter a few years back. I remembered him because a friend I played football with at Adams High School got a scholarship to play for Mississippi State. He had settled in Pearl. We'd kept in touch and my friend, I don't want to tell you his name in case someone gets hold of this letter, got a job coaching at a middle school in Pearl. I had asked the Deacon representative, Jason, if he knew my friend and Jason said he did and told me that my friend was a member of the League in Pearl.
"You know anyone in the League?" I asked Devon.
"Sure. I go to meetings."
"Do you know (I said his name to Devon)? We went to high school together."
"Sure. Everyone in Pearl knows him. He coaches over at the colored middle school. Straight-up guy." Just as the sun began to peek over the horizon, I showed up at my old friend's back door. The look on my face must have alarmed him because he opened the door and ushered me into his kitchen without a word. Devon waved at us from his truck and backed out onto the side street, tucked in a cul-de-sac, and backed up to the woods.
And that's where I am now, with my friend.
He called a few members of the League to meet with us on Friday, to come up with a plan. My friend says all League members' phones are tapped so I can't call you.
Susie, I'm worried about you. The guys here believe there could be people watching you, staking you out in case I show up. Please be careful. I'm glad all I have is a post office box for your address. I hope no one knows your physical address.
I miss you more than anything. I don't know what's going to happen but trust me when I say I'm doing everything I can to get to New York so we can be married.
Forever yours,
Rod
The meeting must have taken place last Friday, I thought as I turned the pages over and started reading the letter again from the beginning. At least he's alive. If anything happened to him or to anyone in his family, it would be all my fault.
I needed to start looking over my shoulder because I was probably being followed and watched. It felt spooky.
Chapter Six
***
Burton
The beginning of my third week at Shilling Publishing I was sitting at my desk when I heard a familiar voice say my name at the reception desk. I hurried into the ladies' room. About fifteen minutes passed and one of my co-workers came in.
"Your dad's here, Susie. He said he came all the way from Louisiana to see his little girl." Harriet Goldie worked at the desk next to mine. We shared a cubicle and had become fast friends during my first two weeks at Shilling. Harriet was a dark-haired Jewish girl with a big nose and bright, brown eyes. She was short and a bit stocky, but attractive in her own way, and always well dressed. She gave me suggestions on where to find a nice sweater on sale or which lipstick by Revlon would go best with a green dress. And she made me laugh. I needed to laugh.
"Oh, God, Harriet, you have to help me," I begged her.
"What's wrong?" she asked. "You're trembling."
"He'll kill me," I told her.
"You can't mean i
t. He's out there charming everyone. He's the nicest guy. I wish he was my dad." She searched my face for clues that I had gone off the deep end or was flat-out lying.
"No, you don't." I clouded over as I thought of what he had done to me, how often he'd beaten me, once almost to death. I thought about what he might do to me if he had the chance, now. Tears welled up in my eyes and I fought to hold them back. I had to keep my wits about me.
"Look," Harriet said. "I'll go tell him you're in the ladies' room and that you'll be out in a minute." She walked to the door and started to pull it open. I pushed it shut with my back and faced her.
"You have to believe me, Harriett. He will kill me. That's why he's here. He tried to kill me the last time I went home, but I ran away."
"You're exaggerating," she said, but I saw something change in how she looked at me. We stared at each other.
"Okay," Harriet said. "Let's say I believe you and want to help you. What do you want me to do?"
"Can you tell him I went home sick?" I begged her.
"That would have to come from Mr. Mobley," she said.
"Okay, then; can you just divert his attention long enough for me to go down the stairs and get out of this building? I can lose myself in the street crowd."
"We're twenty-two stories up, Susie," she reminded me.
"It's down. I can do it. Please help me."
"Will he go to your home?" she asked.
"He doesn't know where I live." I told her that I'd moved and didn't leave a forwarding address. I still didn't know how he found out where I worked.
"Please, Harriet. You've got to do it." She stared at me, and something in her expression made me believe she might help me. "I need my purse. My subway tokens and apartment keys are in it." Just then, someone tried to get in the ladies' room and began to knock on the door. I went into a stall and stood on the toilet and bent forward so my feet couldn't be seen under the door or my head above the stall. I prayed I could trust Harriet.
"Is she in here?" I heard Shelia, another co-worker, ask.
"Nope," Harriet said. "I've looked in every stall. Let's go look in the break room." I heard them leave and stayed where I was, hoping against hope that Harriet would come through for me. A couple of minutes went by and I heard the door open and saw my purse slide under the stall door. Then the door to the ladies room closed. I slipped out of the bathroom, turned the corner, and headed for the stairwell.
I wondered how my dad found out where I worked. I'd only had the job two weeks, and Merrick had promised not to tell anyone but Rodney. If Daddy could get someone to tell him about my job, he could get someone to tell him where I lived. I couldn't remember whether I'd used my current or old address when I applied for the job.
As I ran down the stairs and onto the subway, I thought about how my dad would be charming Mr. Mobley into looking up my current address. I got on the subway and when it stopped at my station, I remained on it and got off closer to St. John's campus. I went to a pay phone in the coffee shop that Merrick and I frequented and called him.
"Merrick, it's me."
"Susie, you sound flustered. Are you okay?"
"Did you tell my dad where I work?"
"What? I've never met your dad. What are you talking about? Where are you?"
"I'm at the coffee shop. I'm scared."
"I'll be right there."
I didn't wait for Merrick. I was too close to campus, where my dad might find me. I got back on the subway and went into the city. Without thinking about where to go, I wandered into the New York City Library and felt safe, hidden in the massive building among the herds of people and racks of books. I stayed until it closed at nine o'clock, got on the subway, and went directly to my apartment. No one was there. I let myself in, double-bolted the door, sat in my chair and cried.
I didn't go to work the next day. At around noon I called Harriet and she said my dad had been there again looking for me. The following day, he returned to the publishing house. I asked Harriet whether Mr. Mobley gave him my home address. Harriet didn't know but said the two men were in Mobley's office for a long time the second day.
I was afraid to go back to work so I began to look for another job in Soho and Greenwich Village. I was a ball of nerves and knew I would give a bad impression in interviews, but I couldn't help myself. I called Harriet and she told me my dad hadn't come back Thursday, but I was still afraid to return to work. When I didn't show up on Monday or Tuesday of the following week, Mr. Mobley called Merrick and asked him to have me call him.
Merrick showed up at my apartment to give me the message from Mr. Mobley and reprimanded me because I refused to give anyone, even Merrick, my phone number.
Mr. Mobley and I met at a coffee house near Shilling.
I didn't want to tell him about my dad because it was a reflection on me, but Mr. Mobley seemed to know. He told me that my dad had tried charm, persuasion, and finally threats to coerce Mobley into showing him my application.
"There was something about him, Susie, that didn't sit right with me," Mr. Mobley said. "I wondered why a father wouldn't know where his daughter lived, why he had to obtain her address that way. Something seemed off. When you didn't return to work I realized my instincts might not be so crazy. I talked to some of your co-workers; most of them were clueless, but I could tell Harriet knew something. She didn't want to tell me, but I convinced her I was on your side."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mobley. I never wanted to cause you or the publishing house trouble. I love my job, but I can't go back now that he knows I work there."
"I've thought about that. I want you to come back. You are smart and talented and you have intuition. You're going to move up quickly in our company." He told me he would protect me, and if my dad showed up everyone would know to keep him busy until I could get away. He said he would keep my file at his house and falsify the one he kept in his office, in case my dad was able to convince someone else to show it to him.
Mobley talked me into returning, but I lived in fear for a long time.
I felt the August heat through my bones when I picked up my mail at the post office after work. I was still reluctant to give out my apartment address, especially after my dad's visit. I threw the mail on the kitchen counter when I got home and went to the bedroom to shed my work clothes and put on an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
I flopped into my pillowed chair, put my feet on the ottoman, and flipped through the bills, flyers, and junk mail. Then, suddenly, I recognized Rodney's handwriting on an envelope. The postmark said it had been mailed six days before and was forwarded from the post office at the university. I wish I could write back to him and give him my new address and phone number, but I didn't know where he was. I tore the envelope open and began to read the letter written about a week after the first one I'd received.
July 22, 1974
Dear Susie,
There's so much to tell you, I'm not sure where to begin.
When I got to my friend's house and told him our story, he felt I should lay low for a week and he'd put out feelers to see if any of the men from Jean Ville were still hanging around. He has lots of friends and people who could tell him if there were any unusual white men in Jackson.
During the rest of the week several young men came and went, bringing information about the activities of the white guys from Jean Ville. Every day the number in the posse was fewer until, by the end of the week, it appeared they were gone, although no one was really sure. My friend invited a few members of the League to his house the beginning of the second week to help us formulate a plan.
The League members are sure their phones are tapped, so they all agreed I shouldn't make any calls. They keep promising to take me to a pay phone in the next county so I can call you and my family, only that hasn't happened because no one feels the danger is over.
The members that showed up included one white guy and three other Negroes, besides me and my friend.
S
teven is a light-skinned colored man about thirty years old with an easy disposition and a quick smile. He has two small children and recently finished college in accounting by going to night school and working as a mechanic during the day. He got involved with the League because of the abuse he and his friends and family suffered at the hands of white supremacists when they tried to integrate the schools in 1971. Two of his friends were shot and dumped in a bayou, found four months later half eaten by gators. Of course I thought about Jeffrey and continued to wonder whether he'd survive the beating and lynching he'd received. I think about him all the time and was too choked up to respond to Steven, so I just squeezed his shoulder.
Tobias and Mickey came in together. Toby is medium brown, tall, thin, and quiet. He has huge wide-set eyes that make me feel like he's looking at several people at the same time. He wore overalls with one strap falling around his knee, a sleeveless T-shirt and sneakers, no socks. His hair is a big afro, standing about six-inches from his head like a fuzzy black ball. We shook hands but he didn't say anything.
Mickey is short, squatty and has a smile plastered to his face as if, when he sleeps at night, it might still be there. When he talks his wide, white teeth show, and his huge lips spread across the bottom of his face, clown-like. He's friendly and talkative, and whistles when words with s's and th's come from his lips.
"How you doing?" he asked me when we shook hands. "You from around here?"
"No, Louisiana," I told him.
"Whatcha doing in these parts?"
"Running from a posse from Toussaint Parish that seems to know my every move."
"Why they after you?"
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