Have No Shame

by Melissa Foster

  Jimmy Lee stretched. I craned my neck to look up at my handsome giant. Maggie called me Pixie. Although she and Jake both got Daddy’s genes when it came to height, I stopped growing at thirteen years old. While being five foot two has minor advantages, like being called a sweet nickname by my sister, I often felt like, and was treated as if, I were younger than my age.

  Jimmy Lee set his beer down on the ground and wiped his hands on his jeans. “What’re those cotton pickers doin’ in town this late?” He smirked, shooting a nod at Corky.

  “Jimmy Lee, don’t,” I pleaded, feeling kind of sick at the notion that he might go after those boys.

  “Don’t? Whaddaya mean, don’t? This is what we do.” He looked at Corky and nodded.

  “It’s just…” I turned away, then gathered the courage to say what was nagging to be said. “It’s just that, after findin’ Mr. Bingham’s body…it’s just not right, Jimmy Lee. Leave those boys alone.”

  Jimmy Lee narrowed his eyes, put his arms on either side of me, and leaned into me. He kissed my forehead and ran his finger along my chin. “You let me worry about keepin’ the streets safe, and I’ll let you worry about—” he laughed. “Heck, worry about somethin’ else, I don’t know.”

  Corky tossed his empty bottle into the grass and was on his feet, pumping his fists. My heartbeat sped up.

  “Jimmy Lee, please, just let ‘em be,” I begged. When he didn’t react, I tried another tactic and batted my eyelashes, pulled him close, and whispered in his ear, “Let’s go somewhere, just you and me.” I hated myself for using my body as a negotiation point.

  Jimmy Lee pulled away and I saw a momentary flash of consideration pass in his eyes. Then Corky slapped him on the back and that flash of consideration was gone, replaced with a darkness, a narrowing of his eyes that spoke too loudly of hate.

  “Let’s get ‘em,” Corky said. The sleeves of his white t-shirt strained across his massive biceps. The five inches Jimmy Lee had on him seemed to disappear given the sheer volume of space Corky’s body took up. He was as thick and strong as a bull.

  I jumped off the hood of the truck. “Jimmy Lee, you leave those boys alone.” I was surprised by my own vehemence. This was the stuff he did all the time, it wasn’t new. I was used to him scaring and beating on the colored boys in our area. It was something that just was. But at that moment, all I could see in my mind was poor Byron Bingham.

  Jimmy Lee looked at me for one beat too long. I thought I had him, that he’d give in and choose me over the fight. One second later, he turned to Jake and clapped his hands. “Let’s go, Jake. We’ve got some manners to teach those boys.”

  “Don’t, Jake,” I begged. “Please, leave them alone!”

  Jake looked nervously from me to Jimmy Lee. I knew he was deciding if it was safer to side with me, which would lead to instant ridicule by Jimmy Lee, but would keep him out of a fight, or side with Jimmy Lee, which would not only put him in Jimmy Lee’s favor, but also make his actions on par with our father’s beliefs. He’d happily fight for a few bonus points with Daddy to balance out his poor grades.

  My hands trembled at the thought of those innocent boys being hurt. “Jake, please,” I pleaded. “Don’t. Jimmy Lee—”

  They were off, all three of them, stalking their prey, moving swiftly out from behind the General Store and down the center of the empty street. Their eyes trained on the two boys. Jimmy Lee walked at a fast clip, clenching and unclenching his fists, his shoulders rounded forward like a bull readying to charge.

  I ran behind him, kicking dirt up beneath my feet, begging him to stop. I screamed and pleaded until my throat was raw and my voice a tiny, frayed thread. The colored boys ran swift as deer, down an alley and toward the fields that ran parallel to Division Street, stealing quick, fear-filled glances over their shoulders—glances that cried out in desperation and left me feeling helpless and even culpable of what was yet to come.

  Jimmy Lee, Jake, and Corky closed in on them like a sudden storm in the middle of the field. The grass swallowed their feet as they surrounded the boys like farmers herding their flock.

  “Get that son of a bitch!” Jimmy Lee commanded, pointing to the smaller of the two boys, Daddy’s farmhand. The whites of his eyes shone bright as lightning against his charcoal skin.

  Corky hooted and hollered into the night, “Yeeha! Let’s play, boys!”

  Bile rose in my throat at the thought of what I knew Jimmy Lee would do to them, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he might take it as far as killing those boys—if even by accident. I stood in the field, shaking and crying, then fell to my knees thirty feet from where they were, begging Jimmy Lee not to hurt them. Images of Mr. Bingham’s bloated and beaten body, his tongue swollen beyond recognition, seared like fire into my mind.

  Jimmy Lee moved in on the trembling boy. I was riveted to the coldness in his eyes. “No!” I screamed into the darkness. Jimmy Lee threw a glance my way, a scowl on his face. The smack of Jimmy Lee’s fist against the boy’s face brought me to my feet. When the boy cried out, agony filled my veins. I stumbled and ran as fast and hard as I could, and didn’t stop until I was safely around the side of the General Store, hidden from the shame of what they were doing, hidden from the eyes that might find me in the night. There was no hiding from the guilt, shame, and disgust that followed me like a shadow. I sank to my knees, and cried for those boys, for Mr. Bingham, and for the loss of my love for Jimmy Lee.

  Chapter Three

  Every morning began the same way. Before sunrise, Daddy would creep downstairs, listen to the weather on the radio, and walk softly into the kitchen. I’d lay in my bed, listening to his morning noises—the refrigerator door opening and closing, a mug drawn from the cabinet, the sink water running, the kettle settling on the stove—and then, I’d roll over and fall back to sleep feeling the safety of his familiar rituals.

  Mama and I were in the kitchen when Daddy came in from the fields. I swear he has a sixth sense, because every morning he came inside just as breakfast was being prepared. It wasn’t until years later that I learned that Daddy watched the sun, and when it had risen to just above the roof, he’d know it was time for breakfast. Today he patted my head, as he’d done every morning for as far back as I could remember, and though I was too old to be patted, his touch brought comfort.

  “Good mornin’, Pix,” he said. His tired eyes lit up at the smell of the warm eggs and hot, buttered biscuits. The deep lines that etched his forehead softened as he reached out and gently touched the small of Mama’s back, and whispered in her ear. She turned to face him, her eyes wide. Her hand flew to her gaping mouth. All of the color drained from Mama’s face.

  “Mornin’ Daddy,” I said, watching Mama press her lips into a tight line and rub her neck. I knew better than to ask for specific details of whatever they were wrestling with, so I kept my question light; the kind of question Daddy didn’t mind answering. “Is everything okay?”

  “Sure is,” he said. He washed his hands, then sat down at the table.

  Mama set our plates on the table then wiped her hands on a dishcloth, removed the apron from her waist, and set it on the counter. Her fingers remained clenched around the fabric. She didn’t make a sound. She just stood there, one hand on the crumpled apron, the other covering her eyes.

  “Mama, aren’t you gonna eat?” I asked. I glanced out the window. Jake’s bicycle was already gone. He had class in an hour, and it was a long ride to school.

  “Eat up, Pixie,” Daddy said.

  Mama was a quiet woman who rarely let her opinions be known, and I was used to Daddy speaking in her place. I picked up my fork and swallowed my questions.

  “Is Jake at class?” I asked, just to break the silence.

  My father nodded, and shoved his third biscuit into his mouth, chewing fast. “He’s comin’ back early. We’re down one hand today. Some dumb boy got himself beat up.”

  I put my fork down as my stomach lurched and twisted. “Who?” The smell of the ri
ver came back to me like a bad dream.

  “I dunno. One of them coloreds.”

  I set my napkin on the table and stared at him. “You don’t know who it is, but you know he’s missin’?”

  My father glared at me. “Alison, know your place young lady.” He took a sip of his coffee. The tension in his cheeks softened. He reached out and patted my hand. “Sorry, Pix. Albert Johns, if you must know. Why are you so interested?”

  Albert Johns. I repeated his name over and over in my mind. I could no longer listen to Daddy refer to the coloreds in town, or the ones who worked for him, as “them coloreds.” I’d been ignoring how Daddy’d spoken of them forever, as if they were invisible. But now, having come face to face with a dead colored man, a man who I was sure had died at the hands of a white man, I could no longer pretend they didn’t matter. They were people. They had names, and families, and feelings, and thoughts.

  I looked down. I’d overstepped that thin, gray line Daddy saw so clearly. “I’m just…it’s just…after what happened to Mr. Bingham, I just wanted to know his name.”

  My father set down his fork and wiped his mouth with a napkin. I could feel Mama’s eyes on me from behind. “The boy isn’t dead, Pix, he’s beat up. Probably did somethin’ to deserve it.”

  “Yes, sir,” I mumbled. “May I please be excused? I need to get ready to go to the library before Mama and I start bakin’ for the day.”

  Daddy nodded. “Sure, Pix. Come over here and give your daddy a hug.”

  “I’ll drive you in today, Alison.” Mama’s eyes were dark and serious.

  “Okay,” I said, thankful that she’d saved me from what was sure to be an uncomfortable ride with Daddy—me holding in my new feelings about the coloreds and him trying to talk to me about marrying a boy I wasn’t sure I wanted to be marrying. I wrapped my arms around Daddy’s neck. His earthy smell warmed me, his whiskers tickled my cheek.

  “Are you sure, Hil?” Daddy only called Mama by her full name when they were in contention, which wasn’t often. She was always Hil, not Hillary. Her features softened as he spoke.

  She nodded. “I have to go into town for some sugar anyway. I’m makin’ a cake for tonight’s Blue Bonnet meetin’ so we need more. Go get ready, Alison, and don’t forget your sweater. It’s gettin’ chilly.”

  Mama drove faster than her usual careful pace, her left elbow rested on the open window, her fingers pressed firmly against her forehead. You’d think a small-framed blonde might look out of place driving a beat up, old, pick-up truck. I always thought she made Daddy’s truck look better. Mama didn’t need to drive an expensive car to get noticed. People were drawn to her natural beauty. When it was warm out, she’d whip a scarf around the front of her hair, and tie it under the back, the scarf trailing down her back. The end result looked perfectly planned. Today her waves blew free.

  She hadn’t said a word since we’d left home, and as we neared town I asked her if she was okay.

  “Mm-hmm,” she answered, then forced a smile. “I’m fixin’ to stop at the drugstore first.”

  As I wandered through the drugstore door behind Mama, I caught a whiff of Mr. Shire’s familiar aftershave. Ever since I was little, he’d worn Old Spice, a fragrance Daddy said smelled like a waste of good money. I loved the peppery-vanilla and warmed-wood smell. “Are you ready for your weddin’, Alison?” he asked. Mr. Shire reminded me of any generic grandfather; a sweet, gray-haired man who tsked at the ways of youth these days.

  “Yes, sir, almost. I’m wearin’ Mama’s weddin’ dress, and the church is all set. We just have to coordinate who’s makin’ what for the reception. Thank you for askin’.” Thoughts of the wedding left an acrid taste in my mouth. I glanced at Mama as she shopped and contemplated talking to her about my misgivings about Jimmy Lee, but I wasn’t sure she’d understand. My own father talked about his farmhands as though they were a commodity, not individual people, and she was married to him. I decided I’d better hold my tongue for a while.

  Mama returned to the counter with an armful of bandages, bottles of antiseptic, and medicated creams. She quickly slipped down the condiments aisle and returned with a bag of sugar.

  “What’s all that for?” I asked.

  She looked at me, then at Mr. Shire. “Oh, just stockin’ up. You can never be sure when you’ll need first aid items.”

  We made one more stop on the way to the library that morning. She pulled up behind the furniture store and told me to wait in the car.

  Seconds later she was up the back steps, carrying the bags she’d just purchased. She knocked on the door, her back to me. A colored woman opened the door and peeked out. Mama shoved the bag into her arms, looking behind her as she did so. The woman pushed the package back at Mama, shaking her head. Mama pushed it back into the woman’s arms. What was she doin’? If Daddy knew that she used our money to buy things for a colored family, he’d…I don’t know what he’d do, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near the house when he found out.

  The woman nodded fast and hard. Mama took the woman’s hand in her own and leaned in close, saying something that I couldn’t hear. The colored woman looked down, hugged the bag to her chest, and nodded.

  When Mama came back to the truck, I stared straight ahead. I wanted to ask her who that was, and why she’d given her the bag of first aid supplies, but I couldn’t find the right words without sounding disrespectful. I had so many questions racing through my mind. How often did she come here? Does Daddy know? How long has she known that woman? What other colored people does she know? Were they friends? I turned to face Mama, gathering the courage to ask.

  She stared straight ahead as she drove away from the store, and said, without looking at me, “Your father is never to know about this. You hear me, Alison Jean? Never.”

  Pride swelled within me. Mama had trusted me with a dangerous secret. “Yes, ma’am.” Maybe I could talk to her about Jimmy Lee after all. I learned more about Mama in that five-minute stop at the furniture store than I had in my entire eighteen years of living in her house.

  She reached out and touched my leg, her eyes focused on the road. “Good girl,” she said.

  Chapter Four

  I sat on the deep front porch mulling over my conflicting feelings, trying to enjoy the sunshine and the gentle breeze, but the air carried with it whispers of the colored boys’ cries for help. I rocked, telling myself to think of something else, but the porch creaked, reminding me of the way I impotently pleaded for Jimmy Lee to take me instead of hurting those boys. I covered my ears, wishing the memories away. Shame warmed my cheeks. What would Daddy think of me?

  The sound of tires on dirt and gravel brought my eyes to Jimmy Lee’s truck pulling into the driveway. Something I wasn’t used to rose within me. At first, it was like I’d eaten something bad and it was stuck in my throat, pushing its way out, but then, it melted to a heat that filled my chest and spread to my limbs.

  Jimmy Lee stepped from his truck, swaggering all tall and handsome across the front walk and up the steps. He wrapped his arms around me, kissed my head. “Hey there, beautiful. How’s my girl?”

  There it was—the sweet that evened out his sour. I stood in his arms, against the chest that was so familiar. I felt safe, and I breathed him in.

  “Ready to go to town?” he asked.

  We held hands as we walked to the truck. Jimmy Lee’s hand engulfed mine, like Daddy’s did. Daddy’s hand was calloused from working in the fields. Jimmy Lee’s was tainted with the blood of those boys. Daddy would never beat up anyone. I dropped Jimmy Lee’s hand and climbed into his truck, happy to be free from the memory of the fields. “As long as we stay away from the old high school crowd. I swear, ever since I found Mr. Bingham’s body, they act like I’m the one who did somethin’ wrong.” Jimmy Lee didn’t say anything, but he patted my leg as if to say, It’s okay. I’m here. We used to talk more, and I wanted that now. I needed it. I needed to feel his comfort and love, and try to wipe away the darkness that w
as creeping into my heart.

  “Remember last June, before graduation? How my friends stopped hangin’ out with me? I was the odd girl out because of datin’ someone older? I was the literal third wheel that got kicked to the curb,” I admitted, sadly.

  He drew his eyebrows together and I watched tension darken his eyes. Then his gaze lightened and he said, “I remember. It’s worth it though, right? You didn’t need to go anywhere with them. You had me.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But now, it’s happenin’ all over again. It’s as if by findin’ Mr. Bingham’s body, I carry some sort of bad luck. I never knew bad luck could be contagious, but others seem to think so.” Jimmy Lee turned on the radio, and I continued, “Do you remember a few years back, when the Holsten’s farm flooded? The neighbors helped them through, but after that year, when the next crop season began, everyone disassociated with them. I’m beginnin’ to wonder about the strange relationships that our small town is made up of, and it scares me.”

  Jimmy Lee didn’t respond. He tapped his hand on the steering wheel to the beat of the music. I tried again to bridge the gap between us, to gain his understanding.

  “I feel like findin’ Mr. Bingham is like that—like I’m bad luck and that’s why they’re shunnin’ me now. I saw Sheila Porten at the store the other day and she didn’t even say hello to me. We graduated together! Do you think they somehow blame me for findin’ him?”

  He stopped tapping the steering wheel and cast his winning smile upon me; his white teeth beaming like pearls, a sparkle in his eye. “Nah, they’re just jealous that they didn’t find ‘im.”