Writing to Save a Life

by John Edgar Wideman

  They said Emmett bad, Mama, and say that’s why he’s dead. Bad like his bad daddy, like father like son they said and I need someone to talk to me, hold my hand. I need kind words doesn’t matter who says them, and when this half brother or cousin or friend or whatever of my Albert, this Wealthy, his odd name, comes to the door, I ask myself is he the answer to a prayer I only halfway allowed myself to pray, prayed so softly under my breath, couldn’t hear myself praying it was so quiet and so deep down inside me because I wasn’t sure I wanted God to hear either, maybe just overhear, didn’t want God to get the wrong idea that maybe I blame Him or always expect nice things from Him or like I know better than Him what’s right or wrong for me or think I deserve His special attention when I don’t because this whole wide world like you say Mama ain’t nothing but a stool for Him to rest His feet on. Just bear the burdens the Good Lord give you to bear, girl, Mama says. He ain’t never gon burden you with more’n you can handle, she says. And sure enough here comes this man Wealthy. He doesn’t know me, never knew Louis, never met Bo. Here he is out the goodness of his heart in my mama’s apartment in a polka dot tie and a nice gray suit he wears like he’s in the army, all buttoned up, pressed and starched soldier sharp like Louis grins picture perfect clean in his army photo. This Mr. Wealthy not a strapping man like Louis or Albert. A smallish, tight fist kind of man, iron creases in his clothes and straight-backed as an arrow and proper the way he took a seat on the chair Albert carried in from the kitchen and Mr. Wealthy straightens his neat little self, tugs his silver tie, as if one too few polka dots showing. Tugs a pant leg straight after he crosses a short leg over his knee.

  No ma’am. No thank you, ma’am. Nothing to drink for me, thank you, Mrs. Till, the first thing he says after he said, Pleased to meet you, ma’am, though I’m truly sorry we are meeting under these unhappy circumstances, Mrs. Till. Same words she heard from the lemon-colored undertaker, Mr. A. A. Rainier, who buried Emmett, undertaker smiling his sad, droop-mouth smile at people so he gets that check when they’re grieving for somebody or somebody grieving for them. Mr. Rainier says pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. So and So, sorry it’s under these circumstances, fresh graveyard mud on the wingtips of his shoes, spit-shined like Mr. Wealthy’s shoes, Mr. Wealthy with one narrow foot standing at attention in the air, the other foot patting Mama’s living room rug after he crosses his little leg over his knee and begins to speak.

  * * *

  Don’t you believe a word those dogs say, Mrs. Till. Excuse my language, please, ma’am. Albert told me many times what a fine young man you were raising. Albert very fond of your son, Emmett. You all have my deepest sympathy, Mrs. Till. You and your family and Albert, too. Wished I could do something to help and thought to myself it’s not much but it’s the least you can do, Wealthy, go on over there with Albert and tell Mrs. Till about the army. Army something I know, Mrs. Till. I’m a veteran. I know the army and I can tell you from experience. Army lies. Tell a person every kind of lie there is. Bad business they put in the newspaper about your late husband, best not believe a word of it.

  Army and the government lie. Lie, lie, lie all the time. When the sneaky Japs bomb Pearl Harbor, plenty of us colored men in a hurry to join the army. We want to enlist because it’s our country, too. Only country we got, and it’s a man’s duty defend his country. Signed up like Old Uncle Sam pointing his crooked finger at everybody said sign up. But the army lies. They don’t want colored soldiers.

  Treat us like slaves. Like animals. Yes they did. And nothing we could do about it. Behave like they say you better behave or they lock you in the stockade. Beat you, kill you quick as they kill the enemy we all spozed to be together in the U.S. Army to fight. Treat us colored soldiers like they own us, like they got the God-given right to kick us, spit on us and the only right we got is salute and say, Yes, sir. Here’s my behind, sir. Kick it again, sir. Dirty dog duty or days we’re mules and horses and elephants carrying Uncle Sam’s war on our backs.

  Don’t you believe a word they putting out about Mr. Till, God rest his soul. Any the fellows went through the war, tell you what I’m telling you, Mrs. Till. Say just exactly what I’m saying. No different for colored over there in the war than things here today, in this United States of America. This Chicago. White man lie and say you’re guilty—you’re guilty. Case closed.

  Now I’m not saying terrible things didn’t happen in the war. But not just colored boys doing wrong. All the lies they put in the newspaper you’d think it was just us doing wrong. Just colored soldiers guilty. Not the truth, Mrs. Till. Never met your husband, but he was a soldier in the same colored army I served in, Mrs. Till. So the bad they say he did, maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, but if the army say he did bad things, your husband finished. Never had a chance. Nothing a colored soldier can do about it. Nothing, Mrs. Till. Not until God rises up off His throne and stomps down those golden stairs and stops the lies.

  * * *

  Mamie Till wrote an autobiography. Didn’t give Louis Till much space in it. According to Mrs. Till, Louis was often brutal with her. Put his hands on her. Then absent. Then dead. Then he turned up ten years later at a very inconvenient time, an embarrassing boogeyman from Mamie’s past to haunt the trial of their son’s murderers. Mamie wrote that Emmett was Louis Till’s only accomplishment and in the end his only reason for being on earth. Must have been a bit more to her relationship with Louis than that, I believe. Probably adored the cute, mischievous little boy inside her handsome, mean man Louis. Maybe a tough guy was attractive to her. Maybe she thought she could stick her head in the lion’s jaws without getting hurt. Mamie also a down home, practical country girl. What sorts of men available in Argo, Illinois. What choices did she have. Most colored men and women newly arrived immigrants from the south, people marginalized economically, socially, in segregated enclaves. Mamie Carthan took a chance with Louis Till. Hoped she could tame him, mother him into a decent, dependable man. A project that was failing, she wrote. Then the army took Louis. Mamie Till probably lavished all her love on Emmett while she waited for Louis to return. After a telegram from the army said Louis Till dead, she could fall in love with him again in the person of his son. And this time love him without the worry of getting mauled.

  Of course Mamie Till a lion, too. Like my mother she did not derive her sense of self-worth solely from her relationship with a son, though she would do anything in her power to protect him and demonstrate her love. If the Till offspring had been a daughter, Mamie Till would have loved her as much as she loved a Louis Till son. Like my mom, Mamie Till worked hard to maintain her integrity, dignity, honesty, her consistency in how she viewed herself, how she treated other people and expected them to treat her. Once I grew smart enough to appreciate my mother’s example, I attempted to emulate her but fell far short of her standards.

  Mamie Till, a lion and a warrior. She risked her life in September of 1955 when she traveled from Chicago to Mississippi. Her son Emmett’s blood still fresh on the hands of the murderers she confronted at the trial in Sumner. Threats, harassment, disrespect did not chase her back to Chicago, though she admitted in her memoir she was deeply frightened each day by the ordeal of the trial, by cars that trailed the car she rode in from the courtroom to her motel, by bullets she lay in bed at night waiting to hear crash through the windows of her room. Soon after she returned home from Mississippi, she became a public spokesperson, a relentless witness who told her story to anyone willing to listen. First with NAACP officials sharing the podium as her sponsors, then alone, on her own two feet, traveling to welcoming cities or hostile cities across the country. She persisted in this work, until her death—speaker, writer, activist, dedicated crusader for civil rights, determined not to allow her fellow Americans to forget the terror, the injustice inflicted upon her son Emmett. Upon many, many other colored children of colored mothers.

  * * *

  Mamie Till remembers fixing Louis a sandwich. She wraps it in waxed paper, folds the edges like
you gift wrap so edges even and neat. She’s out of rubber bands. Rubber bands not around like before the war. Hopes the sandwich will hold together. Tucks it into a brown paper bag, adds an apple, creases the bag’s top tightly shut. What kind damn sammich dat. She does not respond What the hell damn kind do you think, Louis Till. A T-bone steak sammich, hands ready to fly up to protect her face. No. Don’t start. She is Louis Till’s wife. Her mother’s good daughter. Her daddy’s sweet girl. Raised in Argo Temple Church of God in Christ. Baloney, she answers. A baloney sandwich for your lunch today, Louis. Thank goodness Louis not listening for an answer, not looking for a fight this morning. Brown bag in hand he’s out the door. Slams it behind him. She can allow her arms to relax, her fists to drop to her sides. Wipe her fingers on her apron. Finish her thought. A baloney sandwich for your lunch break at Argo Corn Products, Louis, with my daddy and all the other colored men carrying sammiches fixed by wives, mothers, women who buy cold cuts from the A & P with money from Corn Products paychecks.

  Baloney. Three paper-thin, pink slices between four slices of white bread. I wish like you wish Louis it could be country ham or turkey or roast beef or half a fried chicken with potato salad, greens and biscuits Louis but you know good and well Louis you only give me baloney money and plenty of times I don’t even see baloney money. Do my best. Spread margarine on bread then mustard and mayonnaise, some ketchup if we have ketchup in the house. When I press the slices together, careful not to press too hard, and get the crusts messy. Wipe stuff from the knife back inside the bread so I don’t waste. It’s baloney today Louis not one of those mustard and mayonnaise days, so consider yourself lucky today, man, and yes I know you work hard Louis and I know you want more and I truly believe you deserve more and I know you think the only way you can get more is card playing and shooting dice Louis and you lose the little bit we have and you don’t bother to come home at night like there’s nothing here to come home to I guess you think Louis with the cupboard bare and my tired, bare face up in your face, my tears, my mouth all twisted up to holler at you when you come in here empty-handed and maybe you’re shamed, maybe my tired body not enough for you, just good for scrubbing floors, washing your clothes, and even with everything I do around here to make a decent home Louis sometimes I believe it means nothing to you, home no place special in your mind, slinking in here with your hands empty when the money’s gone and you can’t even give me the little bit I need to feed you and feed myself so my body can feed my child, your child, Louis, our baby I carry every day God sends here and when you’re not home I’m here day and night carrying your child Louis and today it’s a baloney and bread sammich Louis and roll your big eyes at me if you need to but what else you think it’s going to be.

  I can hear you mock me down at Corn Products, see you ball up the paper I take my time to fold to make nice for you and hear you fuss at the sandwich I made and I wish wish maybe just once Louis you could try not to tear the wax paper, not crumple it up and toss it in the trash at work. I wish one day you would save wax paper I wrap your sandwich in. Why can’t you for once just fold the wax paper up neatly like a person folds a nice letter to slip in an envelope and bring it back home in the bag and I could use bag and paper again and it would save a little money, Louis, but that’s not the only reason why.

  * * *

  Little Mississippi. Mamie Till say it like she proud. Argo, Illinois, but we call it Little Mississippi, she say. So many of us from down there come up here to live. On Mama’s street lots of family. Aunt Marie. Uncle Kid. June Bug. Uncle Crosby. Then next block it’s Aunt Babe and Uncle Emmett and Great-Uncle Lee Greene. Mama and them started up Argo Temple Church of God in Christ and Sunday morning it’s Webb, Mississippi, all over again right here in Argo.

  Louis Till shuts his eyes to hide from her, hide what he’s thinking. He ain’t no country ass Webb ass Mississippi ass goddamn Negro. He shadowboxes. Speed bag blippety-blip-blip. Fists a blur. He’s from Missouri not no goddamn lynch niggers Mississippi. Ain’t no damn cotton fields out where he come from. Day he leaves New Madrid he looks through a dirty bus window at fields of something growing and truth is he don’t know what the fuck it supposed to be. Maybe corn for Corn Products. Alagra syrup and Mazola cooking oil and margarine. Argo starch with that green and yellow Indian man on the box look like he a ear of corn. They make every damned thing from corn. Corn they grow out west and he sees flying green fields, flying Indian man boxes, flying speed bag. Opens his eyes, nods at this Mamie and hopes she’s done talking that dumb country ass shit she’s talking. Asks his self why Mississippi Negroes never get enough of other Mississippi Negroes night or day. Sure won’t ask her.

  Everybody white as snow out in Missouri, Louis Till would like to say to Mamie if he could. But there are some Negroes out there because here he is black in Argo, Illinois, so got to be some black like me back in Missouri. She know the name of her people come up here, names of her people down there, all her people names and he don’t know one, not one of his people. No names. Only Louis Till. Orphan. No middle initial. No people. What I’m spozed to do, girl, with all those names you saying. Not my names. Not my church. Not my people. Got none. Got one name, Till. Louis Till. Me. My people. My name.

  * * *

  Alma, my mama’s name. Alma Gaines Carthan, Mrs. Till explains in her book, raised me close up under her so when I met Louis I was innocent about the world. Mama never talked to me about female things. Once a boy stole a kiss when we were playing in the school yard. Shook me up so much I ran straight to Mama when I got home from school. Mama, I’m pregnant, Mama. She’s shook up, too, hugs me, both us crying. Then I tell her about the boy kiss me and she look at me like I’m crazy. Smacks me hard. Whap. Girl, you ain’t pregnant. I don’t stay dumb long but the way Mama raises me keeps me dumb long enough to think Louis Till real smart. Louis good looking and been out in the world on his own two feet his whole life so Louis seem to a girl like me like he knew just about everything. Swept me off my feet, you could say. Mama surprise me when she say Yes you may go with Louis Till to get ice cream. My first date with Louis. First date with anybody. A walk over to Kline’s Deli and Ice Cream Parlor.

  On the way to Kline’s, Louis nice as could be, walking alongside me like a perfect gentleman and he asks me about this and that, you know. Louis never did talk much but there he is with his big-eyed, big, brown, good-looking self walking beside me asks me one or two little things, smiling like he likes to hear my answers and I’m chattering away I bet like some country bumpkin fool telling Louis Till all my business even though I didn’t have no business to tell and he’s not giving up a bit of his. But there I am pleased as a pea in a pod with a handsome young man strolling down the Argo streets. Sure hope somebody sees us. Running my big mouth and probably grinning way way too much, too. Chattering away like if I don’t hurry up and say something make him fall in love with me before we get to Kline’s, Louis be gone and I’d be Cinderella in the story when the clock strikes midnight.

  Walking to Kline’s with Louis my feet don’t hardly touch the ground. Only thing I remember worrying me a bit was Louis asked me do I like banana split. Think to myself. Banana split. Why split. Louis work every day at Corn Products and a whole banana don’t cost very much. Why we got to split one. If Louis really love me and wants me to marry him, why wouldn’t Louis buy me my own banana. But I just smiled up at him and shook my head yes because one little bump don’t ruin a ride. Half a banana, half a doughnut, half a peanut, anything Louis buy for me in Kline’s fine with me. Any boy ever brought me anything, I ask myself. No the answer. Nothing. So shush, girl. If Louis Till buy a banana, and split it with you, take your half and say, Thank you so much, Louis.

  Louis stepped right up to the counter at Kline’s like he’s been stepping up to counters his whole life. Said two banana splits. Mr. Kline looks away from Louis and gives me one of his sneaky, halfway wanna be cute grins I never appreciated on his face when he tells me to tell Alma he said, Hi. Then he sets tw
o brown, hard cardboard bowls on the counter. Picks two bananas off a yellow pile in front of sliding glass doors with every sort of shiny dish, bowl, glass, cup and saucer behind them you need to serve people in a nice soda fountain kind of place. Lays each banana in a bowl. Slices them long way down the middle. One scoop each of three different color ice creams, chocolate sauce over the ice cream, sprinkle of nuts, a long squirt of whipped cream last thing before a big red cherry on top. Banana split. So that’s what Louis talking about. Banana splits.

  Get you a take-out box and some dry ice so your ice cream don’t melt before you get home, Mamie, Mr. Kline says and winks at me, but Louis picks up his bowl in one big hand, tells me with his eyes to pick mine up and follow him over to a booth under the window.

  Now I know better than to sit down in Mr. Kline’s store. Those red cushion stools at the counter and red booths under the front window for white customers not colored customers. Been knowing that’s the way it is since the first day I come up to Argo from Webb with my mama to be with my daddy after he found work at Argo Corn Products. Seems like certain things you always knew or better know and nobody needs to tell you. Whether it’s Webb, Mississippi, or up here in Argo, Illinois, if you’re colored, certain things you understand and you better understand and best not forget. Even if you’re an empty-head little girl your eyes and ears tell you certain things or maybe it’s a rotten egg something in the air your nose smells. Point is, deep down you know better and know best not to take a chance going nowhere you’re not supposed to be. Guess I was still floating, still daydreaming my Louis Till fairy tale because I followed Louis and sat down across from him in the red cushion booth right under the window and had a spoonful of banana split halfway to my mouth before I looked up and there’s Mr. Kline standing just where I knew he would be in the aisle at the end of the booth and he says exactly the words I knew he would say don’t matter I’m with Louis Till or not.