Have No Shame

by Melissa Foster

  “You’re such a jerk, Jimmy Lee. That’s just awful. Who would want to see that?”

  “A dead nigger? Most of the town,” he laughed. His eyes danced with delight at the nastiness of his own comment.

  I clenched my teeth against the unfamiliar venom that wanted to spew, and leaned against the door. In silence, we drove out to the river in the next county, which we’d done often enough for me to know what he had in mind. He had to return to school the next day, and the last thing I wanted was to be intimate with him again before he left. Sometimes I regretted giving into him the first time. Oh, I can’t blame him for that. I wanted to do it just as badly as he did. He was everything I had dreamed of, strong and decisive like Daddy, and on a successful enough career track that I knew Daddy would be pleased. I just wish I had understood then what I understand now. Somehow, and I’m not sure why, sex complicated things. Sex was no longer something that we fought the urge for. Now it was expected.

  Jimmy Lee reached over and grabbed my hand, a lusty look in his eyes. He hadn’t started drinking yet, and he was always kinder when he was sober. I liked his gentler side and felt my heart softening toward him.

  “Soon, we won’t have to sneak away to the river to be alone,” he said with a grin.

  I feigned a smile, then turned and looked out the window, watching the town fall away. I wish I had talked to Mama about my feelings. I was battling myself, wanting to be with him and not wanting to at the same time. I wish I understood what was going on inside my crazy heart.

  The wind blew the tips of the long grass this way and that, the smell of manure from nearby fields hovered in the air. Leaves rustled in the trees as we walked toward the water. Jimmy Lee carried a blanket under one arm and held me with the other. The smell of him rose to meet me, musk and pine, liked he’d rolled around on the forest floor. I felt a tug down low, and gritted my teeth against my growing desire for him.

  Jimmy Lee spread the blanket out below a tree and lay down, relaxing back on one elbow. He beckoned me with his finger in a playful way. I continued toward the water.

  “Can’t we just walk a little first?”

  “Walk?” he asked.

  “Yeah, you know, one foot in front of the other? Come on.” I headed down river, hoping he’d follow. The last thing I felt like doing was lying naked beneath him. I was too confused, too sickened by the way he’d viciously attacked Albert Johns, leaving the poor boy in a field, lying in pain, broken ribs and all.

  Jimmy Lee came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my middle. I flushed, ashamed of how my heart fluttered at his touch.

  “We don’t have much time,” he whispered in my ear. “I want to be with you.”

  It was hard to turn away from him. As much as I loathed what he’d done, I still loved him.

  He took my hand and led me back to the blanket, lowering me to my knees. I closed my eyes, willing myself to be in the moment. Allowing myself to. His fingers trailed down the buttons of my blouse, unbuttoning them one by one, then caressing the skin beneath. Shivers ran up my chest, a collision of desire and the frigid air. He pulled my blouse down off my shoulder, kissing each bit of skin as it was revealed. His lips were soft and tender.

  “I’m cold,” I complained, partly to slow him down, and partly because it was chilly kneeling there in the breeze.

  “I’ll warm you,” he said. The scent of him wrapped itself around me. He leaned against me, pushing me back until I was lying beneath him. I could feel him pressing against me. With one hand he reached behind his back and pulled his t-shirt over his head, his hungry eyes looking right into mine. His knees pushed my legs apart and I wanted to hate his touch, wanted to want to push him away because of what he’d done to those boys, but that hatred melted under his touch and I longed for him to be closer to me. His hand slid down my side and hiked my skirt up around my waist. He kissed my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. His fingers hooked my panties, drawing them down. I hated myself for wanting him.

  A bird sang out from the tree, bringing my brain back to the surface. The breeze on my naked chest was causing me to shiver. I opened my eyes, listening to the flow of the river, the bristling of the leaves above us, Jimmy Lee’s heavy breaths against my neck, and I began to tremble. Byron Bingham. Albert Johns. Thoughts tumbled like stones into my mind, knocking me out of my reverie. I must have gone rigid, because Jimmy Lee lifted his head and looked at me with a quizzical, lust-filled gaze, like he wasn’t really seeing my face, but he was lost in the frenzy of what he was doing. I pushed at his chest.

  “Stop,” I whispered. My voice was lost in the image of Byron, strangled by the thought of Albert.

  Jimmy Lee laughed, tugged his jeans down.

  I turned away, a tear slipping down the side of my face. “Stop,” I whispered again, or maybe I just thought it in my mind.

  He thrust himself inside of me, groaning, one hand clenching my breast, the other clamped onto my hip.

  “Stop, stop.” I whispered. My body shook with each pounding thrust of his body. Anger rushed through me. I clawed at his back, screaming, “Stop! Stop!” I kicked and fought against him, and he pumped harder, faster, as if he didn’t hear me.

  “Almost,” he said. “Al…al—”

  “Stop!” I found my voice and screamed until my throat was raw, my nails stripped chunks of skin from his back.

  He gave one last, long thrust then fell on top of me, panting. I pushed him off, crying and shaking as I did so. I thought I was going to throw up, pass out, die. I crawled away. He lay there, spent, looking at me with a stupid grin on his face.

  I pulled my clothes on, sobbing, struggling to stay upright, and stumbled through the grass, toward the water. The breeze stung my skin. The birds sang out in a beautiful tune that I could not reconcile with the awful feeling blooming inside me.

  “What?” he called after me with his palms held up toward the sky, confusion in his spent eyes.

  Hate blinded me. I wanted to go home. I wanted to run away. I wanted to find someone to beat him up. The grass and trees swirled around me, pointing their branches like fingers at my guilt of knowing what he’d done. As he climbed back into his jeans, I ran past him, clambered back into the truck, and slammed the door, sobbing. Curled up against the door like a child, I covered my face and waited for him to get back into the truck and take me home. I smelled like him, like sex. I had never felt so powerless and alone.

  On the way home, I remained huddled against the door. All I could think of was Mama, and how she’d kill me if she knew I was having sex with Jimmy Lee, and how Daddy might slaughter me if I told him I wasn’t sure we should get married. Jimmy Lee kept looking over at me.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  I opened my mouth to answer, but all I could do was cry. How do you tell your fiancé that he makes you sick to your stomach? Anger simmered within me when he didn’t ask me again, or try to figure out why I was pulling so far away from him. I never thought Jimmy Lee would force himself upon me. He’d been rough with me before, but not like this, not like he ignored what I wanted. How do you tell him that the world you’ve lived in for eighteen years suddenly looked different, that you noticed sneers that you previously accepted as normal, or maybe that you—ashamedly—had also doled out? Jimmy Lee was humming to the radio, his thumbs tapping on the steering wheel like he was fine and dandy, while my world was spiraling out of control and I could barely keep my head on straight.

  My father’s truck was gone when we arrived home. Jimmy Lee leaned over to kiss me but I pulled back and hopped out of the truck.

  “That’s it? No goodbye kiss? I’m goin’ back to school. Won’t you miss me?” He looked so hurt, and the last thing I wanted was an argument.

  “Sorry,” I said, and reluctantly climbed back into the truck. I scooched across the seat and pecked his cheek.

  “That’s more like it,” he said.

  Anger bubbled up again, but this time, I found my voice. “Jimmy Lee, I asked you to stop, an
d…” I saw it then, a look in his eye that said it all. Not only was I wasting his time telling him something he didn’t want to hear, but he could no better understand what I was saying than I could understand what he’d done to those boys. “Nevermind,” I said, and slammed the door.

  As I walked toward the house, I could feel my heart breaking into a million little pieces. I couldn’t bear to face Mama. I knew I’d break down in tears and have to tell her the truth. She’d surely kill Jimmy Lee if she knew he’d forced himself on me. Or had he? Had I led him on? Confusion drove me around the house to the backyard. I didn’t dare look at the windows of the house, or toward the barn or the garden. I didn’t want to accidentally see Mama. I ducked beneath the drying line hanging from the massive oak tree in our backyard, and hurried toward the cellar doors, thinking about how livid Daddy would be if I backed out of the wedding. All he ever wanted for me was to be happy, like him and Mama, and I don’t think Daddy could understand how I could be anything but happy with Jimmy Lee.

  It was time to get my feelings in check. I pulled open the cold, metal doors and descended the stairs into the dark dirt cellar where Mama kept jugs of water, first aid kits, towels, and all sorts of canned supplies in case of tornadoes. The damp, earthy smell was cold and seemed appropriate given what I’d done. I quickly slithered out of my clothes and doused a towel in water. I scrubbed his kisses from my neck, his touch from my breasts. The water was cool, raising goose bumps on my arms and across my chest. The blood rushing in my ears reminded me of his lousy, lust-filled grunts, and I cried louder, trying to drown them out as I spread my legs and wiped his chlorine-like scent from within the soft folds of my skin. In my mind, my fighting him replayed over and over, and with it came more hatred, more disgust with myself. I started scrubbing his sweat from my stomach, legs, and arms. I was pressing too hard, deserving of the pain, and hoping it would wipe all of the ugliness of the last few weeks away. I scrubbed until my skin was red and raw. By the time I'd finished, my body shook and shivered, my heart ached from loneliness, and my mind ran in circles. There was nothing left for me to do but slip my soiled clothing back on, sit on the cold step, and sob until I had no more tears to free.

  I washed my face, bundled the dirty towels together, and took them with me to the burn barrel by the barn, where I hid them beneath the debris. I hoped it might even burn away the memories of the afternoon, the alleyway, and the field where Jimmy Lee had stolen precious moments of those boys’ lives.

  The barn loomed before me, a big, wooden structure almost as big as our house. I walked through the double doors; the familiar smell of hay and the sharp odor of stored wood and fuel assaulted my senses. Memories rushed in. Oh, how I wished Maggie was here to help me with the way I was feeling about Jimmy Lee. I could almost feel her pulling my arm toward the stall where our old cow, Hippa, used to live. Mama had painted a mother and baby cow on the wall inside of the stall. It had chipped and cracked with age, and by the time Hippa died, a few years ago, it was nearly indiscernible. I’d cried for days when Hippa died. By then Maggie was too old to be attached to a cow, I guess. She didn’t cry, but when Daddy told me that it was just a fact of life on a farm, and that I should be used to it by then, Maggie took me up to the loft and held a memorial service for Hippa. Just the two of us.

  Maggie went away to college while I was still in high school, and I wondered if she’d want to hang out with me anymore, or if she’d be too grown up. I longed to talk to someone about Jimmy Lee, and I had no one to turn to. Thoughts of Jimmy Lee made my stomach clench all over again. I went out the back doors of the barn and sat against one of the tractor’s tires, shaded between a thick, old maple tree and the barn, out of sight from the fields and the house. I laid my head on my arms, and tried to wash away the thoughts of what I had just endured.

  The calm of the breeze and the familiar sight of the newly planted rows of cotton should have filled me with ease. Instead, I grew even sadder. Nothing felt right. The life I thought I had swirled around me with the realization that Daddy, who I treasured, was treating people like machines, Mama, who I believed to be honest and good, was keeping secrets from Daddy, and my boyfriend, whose strength I used to adore, I now loathed. It was as if they all mixed together and whirred in circles, like a tornado of a mess unraveling around me. I didn’t know how to move forward. I didn’t want to move back. So I remained there, stiff and confused, with no outlet other than my own tears.

  “S’cuse me, Miss, are you okay?”

  I jumped at the unfamiliar man’s voice, and pushed to my feet. I’d never been approached by a colored man before. I was even more startled because this young man wore a military uniform. He stood so straight I thought he might salute me. My stomach tightened, my senses heightened. I fought the urge to run away.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” I took a step backward. They’ll rape you faster than you can say chicken scratch. I whipped my head around. My father’s truck had not yet returned. I suddenly regretted my decision to hide behind the barn.

  The man removed his hat and held it against his stomach with both hands. He looked down, then up again, meeting my eyes with a tentative, yet respectful, regard.

  “I’m lookin’ for a Mr. Tillman?” His uneasy gaze betrayed his confident tone.

  “My father?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I have a message for him.”

  I stood up straighter, suddenly feeling as though I needed to exert my strength and take control of the situation, as Daddy might. “Farmhands show up at five in the mornin’. It’s gotta be seven o’clock at night by now. What are you doin’ here?”

  He smiled, then shook his head. “My apologies. I’m not a farmhand, ma’am. My younger brother is Albert Johns.”

  Albert Johns. The night came rushing back to me. The way Corky had egged on Jimmy Lee and Jake. Oh, God, Jake. What had he done? I hadn’t even seen him since last night. “I…I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you. I came to let Mr. Tillman know that my uncle, Byron Bingham, he passed away recently, and the funeral is tomorrow. My brother Albert got beat up real bad, so he won’t be here tomorrow on account of his injuries and the funeral. I wanted to come work in his place after the service, to make up for his absence.”

  “Your uncle?” My chest constricted. The oxygen around me slowly disappeared. I gasped for air, my heart palpitating so fast I thought I might pass out. I reached for the tractor, missed, and stumbled.

  “Ma’am?” He rushed to my side, grabbing my arm just before I hit the ground, and lowered me slowly to the earth.

  I waited for my breathing to calm.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to—are you okay?” A flash of fear washed over him. He squinted, glancing around to see if he’d been seen touching me, and backed away quickly.

  The magnitude of that one act of assistance suddenly burst before me like fireworks. I understood the fear in his eyes, and it killed me to know that if someone had seen him—Daddy, Jake, or Jimmy Lee—he’d be running for his life right now.

  I nodded, unable to find my voice. Mr. Bingham’s bloated face floated before me. My eyes dampened. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, unsure if I was apologizing for what had happened to his uncle or to his race for how his people were treated. I rubbed my arm where he’d grabbed me.

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” He watched me with concern. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. I just didn’t want you to fall.”

  “You didn’t hurt me. I’ve just never been touched—I’m sorry, I’ve never even spoken to a colored person before.” The realization of that statement sickened me. It also wasn’t quite true. Once, when I was a little girl, maybe five or six, I’d seen a colored girl in the street by Woolworths. I asked her if she wanted to come in with me and get a soda pop at the counter. Mama had dragged me away. I remember crying because I had no idea what I’d done wrong. That was the instance that drove home the meaning of knowin’ my place. I’d never spoken to a colored person again—child or
adult.

  He dropped his eyes, nodding his head as if he’d expected my response.

  I looked behind me. If Daddy caught me I probably wouldn’t be allowed out of his sight for weeks. The coloreds in town never would have spoken to me, even if I had been crying. They knew better. But this man who stood before me, he had a gentle confidence about him that made me want to know more about him.

  “Yes, ma’am. I understand. I don’t want to cause no trouble.” He lifted his eyes to meet mine. “I heard a noise, and I thought you mighta been Mr. Tillman. I’m sorry to have startled you. I meant no disrespect.” A friendly warmth lingered in the gentle way he spoke. He looked right into my eyes, as if he was interested in, even waiting on, what I had to say next. There was a little lifting of the edges of his lips, not quite a smile.

  “Aren’t you afraid to talk to me? You know what happens to colored men when they talk to white women, right?” I realized after I’d spoken that I’d said that because it’s what was probably expected of me, not because it was something that I felt.

  He pursed his lips, holding tight to his hat. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. Before I could respond he added, “I know what happens here in Forrest Town when colored men speak to white women, but that’s not what happens everywhere.”

  I knew there had been racial riots in some of the bigger cities, even if Daddy did turn off the radio the minute I walked into the room. Kids at school had talked about civil uprisings, but I’d never seen them, or, I suddenly realized, cared enough about them to ask for details. I lifted my eyebrows in question.

  “Yes, ma’am. I serve with white men. Do you think we don’t talk?”

  “Men, not women,” I smirked.

  “No, ma’am. I’ve been to other states. My people talk to white women in other areas.”

  I was not accustomed to being told I was wrong by a colored man. I thought of Mama—the way she’d hidden her conversation with that woman at the furniture store, and the supplies she’d given her—and it gave me pause. Were there places where that was allowed? Why was it so wrong, anyway? I looked again for Daddy’s truck, thinking about why I had to know my place. What had this man ever done to me?