Mississippi Trial, 1955

by Chris Crowe

  “And are you glad you did? I mean, has it helped any?”

  “I don’t know. At first it was fun, riding the train alone and all, visiting with Grampa, seeing places and people I knew when I was a kid. But it hasn’t been all fun; some things have changed around here, at least they seem like they’ve changed to me. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Kind of disappointed, I guess.”

  “Have I changed?” She smiled, her voice teasing me. “Are you disappointed?”

  “You’ve changed, all right, but believe me, I’m not disappointed.”

  “Good.” She looped her arm through mine. “I’ll let you keep talking then.”

  I remembered why I had always loved being around her. Naomi was so easy to be with, so comfortable. Most good-looking girls made me nervous, but being with Naomi seemed like the most natural thing in the world. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking about things, about my dad and my grampa. Those two never did get along, just like me and Dad don’t get along. But, I don’t know. Some stuff that’s happened down here has made me wonder about Dad, kind of helped me think about him in a different way.”

  Naomi leaned her head against my shoulder and sighed. “You know, I’m dying to leave, even if it’s only for a little while, but I’m not like you. There’s no place for me to go. R.C. can be a real headache when he’s around, but at least he looks out for me, always has. Lately, though, I can feel him pulling away, and I don’t know what I’m going to do when he finally leaves. He’s working, and feeling more like a man every day, ready to be on his own. Pa can’t see it, and he still treats R.C. like a kid, and sometimes, boy, do they battle.” Her voice grew soft and sad again. “It’s hard to take, awful hard to take.”

  I slid my arm around her shoulders and hugged her. “I’m sorry, Naomi, truly sorry.”

  She hugged me back, hard, but her body felt soft against mine and her hair smelled fresh, like river water.

  After supper Friday night Grampa was reading the newspaper, and I was out on the back porch hoping for a cool breeze. I’d been thinking a lot about Dad and Grampa, about how the three of us were connected even though on the surface we seemed to be pretty disconnected. My life felt like it had been tied into a giant knot, one that would take a long time to untangle. I was looking forward to going back to Tempe, because maybe I could finally talk to Dad, and we could start undoing some of the snags we’d gotten all caught up in.

  While I was sitting on the porch steps, R.C. crashed through the back bushes. My stomach tightened as he flicked his cigarette into the grass and sat down next to me.

  “Ain’t seen you round town for a while, Hiram.”

  “Been spending most of my time with Grampa. That’s what I came here for.”

  “We sure had us a good time fishin’ Wednesday. You remember that?”

  “Only thing I remember is you torturing that kid.” Even though R.C. scared the heck out of me, I had to say something. Maybe he’d break my neck right there, maybe he wouldn’t, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep that night if I didn’t finally stand up to R. C. Rydell. “And I want to tell you something, R.C.: I’m never letting you—or anyone—do stuff like that around me again.”

  R.C. looked surprised. “What are you talkin’ about, Hiram? All’s I remember is that you and me went fishing on the Tallahatchie, caught us some fish, ate us some lunch, took a nap, and headed home. Nothing else. Pa even remembers that string of fish I brung home.”

  “Yeah, well, I remember something sick. Something wrong.”

  “Is that right? Well, Hiram boy, don’t go forgettin’ that you was there the whole time, and you’re just as much to blame for anything sick or wrong that might’ve happened.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sheriff Smith come round askin’ questions yesterday, stuff about some black boy from Chicago. Old Mose Wright, the kid’s uncle, complained that a couple local guys had been pickin’ on the boy, and he remembered that one of ’em’s name was R.C. Course, the sheriff don’t put much stock in some strange nigger’s complainin’, but he said it was his sworn duty to check out the boy’s story. I told him I didn’t know no strange niggers, and he knew I steered clear of colored folks anyhow.

  “‘Just checking,’ he told me. ‘Just making sure no peckerwoods round here start any illegal violence.’ He told me to stay out of trouble and then left, and I been wonderin’ if he come talk to you yet.”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, if he does, just you make sure you get your story straight. We don’t want to be confusin’ poor old Sheriff Smith.”

  “Look, R.C., if you’re asking me to lie, forget it. I haven’t seen Sheriff Smith, and I don’t plan on seeing him, but if he comes around asking questions, I’m going to tell the truth.”

  R.C. swore and jumped to his feet. “You little sisbaby! I shoulda knowed you’d get all cry-ey over that colored boy.” He looked mad enough to chew tar, and just when I expected an uppercut to my jaw, he smiled. “But hell, it don’t matter none. Smith’ll believe me over you. You ain’t been around here for years anyway, and you’re goin’ back home pretty soon.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Guess I worried you over nothin’, Hiram boy.”

  He lit a Viceroy, and I got up to go back inside. “What’s your hurry? Don’t you want to sit around and visit with an old pal?”

  “You got that right, R.C.”

  “Well then, I’m glad I came to say good-bye. One other thing. You hear about that trouble up in Money a couple days ago?”

  “Trouble you’re in the middle of?”

  “Me?” R.C. grinned. “No, not me. Least not yet. Naw, it’s nigger trouble. Some strange nigger messed with a white woman up to Bryant’s store.”

  “What do you mean ‘messed with’? He raped a white woman?”

  “Naw, but the boy don’t know his place. Folks are sayin’ he talked ugly and whistled at her. A married woman, even. The lady’s husband was pretty upset when he heard ’bout it. Asked me to go with him and some friends to visit the boy tomorrow night and teach him about how things work down here in the Delta.”

  “Don’t do it, R.C.” I felt dizzy, scared like something terrible was going to happen. “I swear if you do anything, I’ll—”

  “Look at you!” R.C. laughed. “Don’t get yourself all worked up for nothin’, Mr. Sisbaby. I ain’t stupid enough to come and tell you of all people right before I go and do somethin’ illegal. It’s gonna be talk, nothing else. I’m just doing my citizen’s duty to guarantee that white women are safe in our community.”

  “I’ll call Sheriff Smith. I mean it.”

  “Go ahead.” R.C. shrugged. “Nothing to tell. We’re just gonna talk to the boy.” He patted me on the head. “Night night, Hiram boy. Hope you don’t have no bad dreams.” R.C. walked across the yard and out through the bushes.

  When I came back into the living room, Grampa was asleep in his chair, The Greenwood Commonwealth folded in his lap. I wanted to ask him if he’d heard about the trouble in Money and to tell him what R.C. had said. I wanted to ask him what I should do. I almost woke him, but then I decided that I was sixteen years old and could make up my own mind. I went into the kitchen and called the sheriff’s office. My hand shook a little as I dialed the phone.

  Sheriff Smith wasn’t there, so I ended up talking to one of his deputies. I told him everything R.C. had said.

  “Ain’t nothing to worry ’bout, son,” he replied. “R. C. Rydell’s sure enough a troublemaker, but that’s all he is. I don’t expect that he’ll even make it to Money; he’s too busy getting into mischief down here in his hometown to head up there.”

  “But he said he was going up there with some men because of that trouble at Bryant’s on Wednesday.”

  “Know all about that. Coloreds round here been talking about it since yesterday: The word is that some nigra boy from Chicago made ugly remarks and then whistled at Miz Bryant.” The deputy chuckled. “Fool boy forgot where he was and what he was, and it’
s a fact somebody’s sure to give that boy a talking to. It’ll do him good to learn how things work here in the Delta.”

  A Negro from Chicago? Emmett! My heart thumped like it was going to rip right out of my chest. “You don’t understand. R.C. doesn’t just talk. He’s dangerous.”

  “Oh, he likes to think he’s dangerous, but I’ve known him since he was a kid. Ain’t gonna be no harm done, believe me.”

  “But I know R.C. and what he can do. Can’t you at least go talk to him? Or maybe pick him up tonight to keep him out of trouble? What if you send somebody by that boy’s house, you know, to warn him or to send him back to Chicago right away?”

  The deputy sighed. “Lookit, son, we can’t be running all round the county for no good reason. Why don’t you just let us worry about the law around here? There ain’t gonna be no serious trouble; I can guarantee it. Now I gotta get back to work.” The phone line clicked and the dial tone sounded like an alarm in my ear.

  CHAPTER 10

  When I finally fell asleep Friday night, I dreamed that Dad and I were fishing somewhere on a gorgeous morning. The sun filtered through the trees and light reflected off the river like shiny scales, while we sat on the banks enjoying the peace and beauty of the place. Dad looked content and happy, not just with life but with me. We weren’t talking, but I could feel his love and acceptance. More than anything, more than even my next breath, I wanted to stay there at his side, to bask in the warmth of the morning sun and the security of his affection. He put an arm around my shoulders. It felt warm and strong. And real. I felt the weight of his arm and the movement of his ribs as he breathed. I’d never been closer to him.

  Then, for some reason, I stood up and left. I walked up a path away from the river to get something, something that seemed important to me at the time, something I thought would please him.

  When I got back, Dad was gone. At first I didn’t panic. I sat down exactly where we had been before and waited. I knew he’d return, and when he did, so would all the comfortable, good feelings.

  Minutes passed.

  Dad didn’t come back.

  As I sat alone on the bank of that river, the secure, loved feeling I had savored with Dad bled out of me, and a horrible emptiness replaced it. My heart ached for that feeling to return, but it didn’t. I knew that moment with Dad was lost forever, and I sat on the riverbank crying for my father.

  And for me.

  When I woke up, the ache in my chest lingered, and I felt lonelier and sadder than I had ever felt in my life.

  All day Saturday, I kept worrying about Emmett. If I thought I could have found his uncle’s home, I would’ve driven out to warn him. I knew they wouldn’t have a telephone in a sharecropper’s shack, so trying to call him wouldn’t have done any good. I felt lousy and helpless, and I said something to Ruthanne about it while she was cleaning up after breakfast.

  She shook her head and frowned. “I already heard plenty about his stupid stunt at that white man’s store up in Money, and soon as I see him, I’m going to give that boy a talking to he won’t forget. It’s thoughtful for you to be worrying about him, Hiram, but I’m sure Uncle Mose knows all about what happened and’ll keep an eye on Bobo till they get him safe on that train back to Chicago.”

  Later Grampa could tell I was worried about something, and he did his best to cheer me up, even took me fishing on the Tallahatchie, but that only made me feel worse. It reminded me of all the crap R.C. had done. I went only because I hoped I’d see Emmett so I could warn him and tell him I was sorry I’d let R.C. hurt him, but our fishing trip didn’t last long because Grampa tired out so fast, and we left the river without any fish—and without seeing Emmett.

  On the way home Grampa said, “You’re still looking glummer than a lost puppy, son. Tell you what. We’ll have dinner tonight at the Crystal Grill to cheer us up. No better place in the Delta for a good meal and good company.”

  That night when we got to his favorite restaurant, Grampa really perked up. Everybody in the place knew him. Some people patted him on the back as they passed our table; others stopped to chat, usually about his work on the Council and how they appreciated all he was doing to “save the South.” I hadn’t seen him enjoy himself that much the whole time I’d been back in Greenwood.

  When we got home, Grampa settled into his living room chair to read the Commonwealth while I fiddled with the radio looking for a baseball game. I found a Dodgers game and lay on the floor listening to it until I dozed off. Some time later a knock on the door woke me up. Most of the lights in the house were off—it had to be pretty late—and Grampa had already answered the door.

  “Evenin’, Mr. Hillburn,” said one man. “Sorry to be callin’ on you so late.”

  “Yessir, it is late,” said another man, “but we gotta talk.”

  Grampa looked back into the living room and saw I was awake. “Council business, Hiram. Why don’t you go on up to bed?” Then, instead of inviting the men into the living room like he did with his regular Council buddies, he stepped outside and talked to them on the porch—with the front light off—before coming back in to tell me he was off to another meeting. “Don’t wait up, son,” he said. “This looks like it might take all night.” I watched him get into the backseat of their car and drive off and then I went upstairs to bed. He must have got back pretty late, because it took me a long time to fall asleep, and I never did hear him come in.

  The next day, Sunday, Grampa and I both woke up feeling tired and lazy. The August heat and his diabetes had been wearing on him, and I was haunted by my worries about what R.C. might have done to Emmett the previous night.

  I made us a late breakfast, and we spent the rest of the day napping, playing cards, or listening to the radio in the living room. Seemed like neither one of us ever really got awake that day. I thought about asking Grampa if I could use the phone to call long distance to talk to Mom and Dad, but I didn’t know what I’d say to them if I did. I had a feeling that maybe Dad would call me, so I didn’t mind hanging around the house all day waiting for the phone to ring.

  It never did.

  Grampa felt better Monday morning, so after breakfast we drove out to the fields. “Little fresh air is what we both need, son,” he said. “Sitting around the house all day yesterday didn’t do either one of us a bit of good.”

  As we drove to the fields north of town, I wondered if I should tell Grampa about my fears that R.C. might have done something bad to Emmett, but he seemed so happy to be outside and to see that his crops were about ready to harvest, that I didn’t want to ruin his mood.

  “Tell you what, Hiram,” Grampa said as we pulled away from the fields, “let’s drive over to Indianola for lunch. There’s a great little café downtown where we can get some catfish that’s almost as good as Gramma used to cook.” He leaned back into the truck seat and swung his arm out the window and pointed forward. “Drive on, boy. We’re having us a day trip.”

  “Grampa,” I said as we headed up the highway, “did you and Dad ever fish together much, you know, when he was little?”

  “Your daddy used to love fishing,” Grampa said. “He’d badger me all week to take him fishing on Saturday morning. He didn’t mind getting up early. Didn’t mind sitting still on the riverbank. Didn’t mind spending the whole damn day in the same spot holding a fishing rod.”

  I could hardly believe what I’d just heard: Dad fishing? He’d never said a word about it. We didn’t even own any poles. “So when did he change? I mean, he’s never taken me fishing.”

  “When your daddy got to be older, everything went crazy. He didn’t want to go fishing, didn’t want to have anything to do with me, and I don’t mind telling you that his attitude rubbed me the wrong way. This was my only child; all my life I’d planned that we’d spend time together, fishing, working out in the fields, and when he didn’t want to do that anymore, I started pushing him. Making him go. Making him do what I wanted him to do.” He shook his head. “And that didn’t do a da
mn bit of good except to push him away from me and my life. Don’t get me wrong, son, your daddy never gave us a lick of trouble. He got good grades, behaved himself in school, did everything right, but he wasn’t doing it my way, and I let him know it. By the time he was in high school, we hardly talked anymore.” He sighed. “And you yourself know that things haven’t changed much since then. Maybe they’ve even gotten worse.”

  “That’s kind of what worries me,” I said. “The same stuff is happening with me and Dad. Before I came down here, I didn’t care about how we got along—and I didn’t care because I thought he didn’t care, but I don’t like how things are with me and Dad, and now I’m starting to think that maybe he doesn’t either. The problem is, I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “It can’t be one way, I know that,” said Grampa. “To get connected, you’ve both got to reach out, you’ve both got to be willing to give a little. My problem always was I wouldn’t give an inch.”