by Ace Atkins
“Welcome to Mississippi,” Jason said.
“Then why do you live here?”
“My family’s lived here since before the Civil War.”
“You know you can leave.”
“Not when you have family,” Jason said. “My grandmomma needs us. And my momma has work here. It’s her calling. She said everyone has a purpose and hers is to look out for the unfortunate folks who land in Tibbehah County.”
“Your mother is a saint.”
“Yep,” Jason said, taking Ana Gabriel’s hand. “She’s something special. I just hope she doesn’t hate me for going.”
“You didn’t tell her?”
“Of course not,” Jason said. “Why would I? She’d never let me go.”
“I’m fine,” she said, letting go of his hand. “I’ll be back tomorrow. This boy Angel is the cousin of my friend Alejandro. He said he is a very good driver. A very good boy. We packed plenty of food. We all found enough money to pay for the gas.”
“I don’t know this Angel,” he said. “He doesn’t go to school here. I never heard a damn word about him.”
Ana Gabriel didn’t say anything, turning her head as a white van pulled into the parking lot and curved toward the stadium ticket stand. Smoke poured from the exhaust and the front windshield was cracked. It sat idling for several moments, the front windows tinted nearly black.
“May I kiss you?” Ana Gabriel asked.
Jason nodded. “Sure.”
She kissed him on the cheek and as she reached for her backpack, Jason reached down for his. He slung its heavy weight up onto his shoulder.
“It’s only one night,” Jason said. “Momma can’t ground me past Christmas. Everyone gets forgiven at Christmas. It’s the law.”
The van’s side door slid open, revealing a skinny teenager with a thin little mustache and long black hair. He smiled at them both, showing off a row of bright gold teeth.
“Oh, hell,” Jason said.
“Get in,” Angel said. “There is little time.”
* * *
• • •
Caddy wasn’t exactly sure how she and Donnie started dancing in the barn at The River but it had a little to do with her weakness for George Strait. Donnie knew it, had known it forever, and started playing “One Step at a Time” from the tape deck in his daddy’s gold GTO. He’d driven the car on into the dusty space where they held service on Sunday, bringing in two big boxes of chicken wings he said he was donating to the cause. They’d loaded them into the freezers, and then Donnie leaned in the open window and started the song, grabbing Caddy by the hand and leading her round and round in a Texas two-step. His blue eyes clear and focused, stubble against her face as he held her close, the tape moving on to the song “Maria,” his hands clasping at the base of her spine until they heard a couple of the children giggling, that boy Sancho and his friend, Abel, watching them.
Caddy let go of Donnie’s waist, heading back to close one of the great barn doors, already thinking about suppertime and wondering how many families might show up tonight. Her mother had promised to pick up Jason from football practice and she’d bring him home later. Until then, there was a lot to get done. The kids had run off and Donnie was back with her, reaching for her hand again, laughing and grinning, telling her that even Jesus would want her to have a little fun once in a while.
The afternoon light bled in through the cracks in the barn walls and shone onto the dirty floor. The song stopped and it was quiet, Caddy’s hands filled with a great big sack of masa that a local woman needed to make fresh tortillas. Donnie reached his arms around her, pulling her back to his chest. He set his face down on her shoulder and said, “Won a hundred dollars eating hot wings today. How about me and you head to the town square and have us a big nice meal.”
“Not tonight,” she said. “Tonight’s Thursday.”
“What’s Thursday?”
“Open house,” she said. “And we have to set out the tables and chairs for the kids.”
“How about tomorrow?”
Caddy turned and pushed him away. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think too long,” Donnie said. “That money’s burning a hole in my pocket. I’ll even drive you up to Big Creek for a T-bone steak.”
Caddy laughed and Donnie bent down to kiss her on the lips. She closed her eyes but didn’t move. She didn’t kiss him back but she didn’t stop it, either. It felt damn familiar, him being there, the smell of drugstore aftershave, the funny comments and light touch with the hands. She finally opened her eyes as Donnie backed off, staring toward the barn doors and saying, “Can I help you out, friend?”
“Looks like I’m interrupting something,” the man said. “Sorry about that. I can come back later.”
Caddy turned and squinted into the light. It was Bentley.
12
Excuse the mess,” Chief Robbie said, moving through the casino floor with Sam Frye. Lights, cables, and cameras were set up around the blackjack tables and roulette wheels, the air thick with smoke and the stench of the working people burning through minimum wage. “We’re announcing the expansion for Christmas. Double capacity in two years. Not to mention the Legends Theater. Have I told you about the Legends Show?”
“Many times,” said Sam Frye.
“It’s like having all these famous people, most of them long dead, up onstage without having to pay full price,” he said. “I have a Dolly Parton who looks more like Dolly Parton than she does anymore. Her voice, the same. Her breasts even larger, more magnificent. We have a young Garth Brooks, an old Whitney Houston. A Las Vegas Elvis, of course, and this young man from Branson who can put on a whole Bruno Mars act. The dancing, the splits. All of it. It’s going to be amazing, brother. Fantastic.”
Sam Frye nodded, walking beside the Chief, trying to keep up as Chief Robbie went from subject to subject, one grand plan to the next, never slowing down to enjoy all they’d accomplished in the last thirty years. Robbie wore a lot of makeup, the blemished parts of his face showing at the edges of his ears and forehead. Somewhere between busting heads and keeping order on the Rez, his old friend had become an entertainer. A Native American Wayne Newton, only in turquoise and denim instead of a tux, with a closet full of alligator boots that cost two thousand dollars a pair.
“It pains me that we can’t go ahead and break ground on Takali,” Chief Robbie said, walking in the big ring around the casino floor. “But this expansion is long, long overdue. Our third pool. Think of it. Three grand pools and the tiki bar. With Tunica being what it has become, we will be a beacon of light for families. Waterslides and games for the children, shopping and spas for the women, and gambling and golf for the men. White men love golf so very much. It’s almost a religion. And now we will be unrivaled entertainment. I have not forgotten about the REO Speedwagon incident. No more of that. Never.”
Sam Frye nodded to two men in green blazers standing by the big metal doors back to security and the counting room, heading in with the Chief, the Chief stopping to say hello and shake hands or pat the backs of everyone he passed. He moved through the shuffling money counters and the jingling of the token and change counters on the way up the staircase into his office. The Chief launched up the steps like a much younger man and headed down a dark, narrow hallway. More handshakes, a few jokes, talk of the new commercial they were shooting with members of the tribe excited about the expansion. The biggest the casino had made since the late nineties. Big, thick Choctaw women squealed with delight.
“What would you think about a Tanya Tucker?” Chief Robbie asked.
“For what?”
“The Legends Show,” Chief Robbie said. “I’ve always liked her music a great deal. I recall when she was all but thirteen and singing ‘Delta Dawn.’ She sang it so true and deep that it broke my heart. But she is very expensive. Her people won’t return our phone calls.
So what do we do? We find a replacement, a teenager who looks and can sing just like she could.”
“Yes,” Sam Frye said. “Of course.”
“You are so far away, Sam Frye,” Chief Robbie said, stepping over to the broad window and staring down on the casino floor, spread out with the glowing slot machine displays, the green felt of the tables, the wild hand-blown glass lights and cheap and durable patterned carpet. “Are you leaving us again? I told you that’s what’s best. But then you return and return again. This place calls to you.”
“It’s not this place,” Sam Frye said. “I have other reasons.”
“Do you want a different car? Perhaps a Mercedes this time.”
“I don’t need a new car,” he said. “The one I have is fine. I had Pinti put on new plates. No one knows this car. It’s big, has leather, good gas mileage. Thank you.”
Chief Robbie rested the flat of his hands across his grand cypress desk with eagle-claw feet. He stared at his old friend. “I know what is bothering you.”
Sam Frye didn’t answer.
“It’s the makeup,” he said. “You know my hair has gone gray. I have added color to it for almost ten years now. The color that comes in the box for smiling white men. You believe I’ve gone soft? That I am no longer Robbie who would dive into an alligator pit in Houma and come out with two gators in each hand, gripped by the throat, wiggling and snapping?”
Sam Frye didn’t know what to say, but was spared as the back door opened and Pinti walked in. The young man had been a close friend of Toby’s, a kid Sam had been grooming before he got shot and killed up in Tibbehah County. Toby had wanted to become a famous rapper someday, throwing away a good and profitable life his late father and Sam Frye had offered. He hoped Pinti had more of a commitment to his people.
“Yes?” Chief Robbie asked.
“There’s a white man on the Rez who says he must see you.”
“I am too busy.”
“He’s out at the gin,” Pinti said. “Dropped off some TVs and computers for us.”
“Was he not paid?” Chief Robbie said.
“He was paid,” Pinti said. “But he says he has personal business with you.”
“Hah,” Chief Robbie said, pushing off the desk and rolling up the denim sleeves of his shirt. “Tell him to speak with Jackie Jim.”
“Jackie Jim is on the Coast.”
“Too bad.”
“He says his name is Curtis Creekmore,” Pinti said. “Says he has news of Sam Frye. A warning.”
Sam Frye lifted his eyes up to Robbie. Robbie looked across to Pinti and told him that they would drive out to the gin and listen to what this man had to say.
* * *
• • •
There were eleven of them, mostly kids, sitting on the dirty van floor, packed behind the driver and that boy Angel in the front passenger seat. The driver was a wiry guy, older, maybe in his twenties with head shaved nearly bald, a skinny little mustache and goatee with tattoos all over. Jason tried to ignore the men up front, resting with his back to the sliding door and touching feet with Ana Gabriel.
Jason recognized two, maybe three, kids from school, mostly girls his age or a little older. They all carried backpacks or cheap suitcases, none of them speaking for the first hour on the road as the radio pumped out some Mexican-sounding music, lots of accordions and a big brass band. It sounded big and heroic as they cut across the state, heading on over to Meridian and then down to Jackson. Ana Gabriel saying they’d be across the state line by nightfall. That’s when Jason would call his momma and let her know everything was OK.
There was little, in fact zero, doubt he’d be getting an ass-whipping when he got home. His momma still believed that sparing those willow branches might spoil the child. But looking across at Ana Gabriel, her flushed and nervous face when Angel turned back to joke with her, he knew he’d done the right thing. He didn’t know what Angel was saying, but Jason sure as hell didn’t like the way the older boy was eyeing Ana Gabriel’s bare legs.
“What’d that boy say?” Jason asked, whispering as the van cruised along.
“Nothing.”
“Well, he said something.”
Angel turned back to look at Jason again, giving him a hard, black-eyed stare, and then traded some words with the driver. The driver didn’t answer, Jason focusing on the back of the man’s neck and the black ink that read MS-13. He knew what the letters and numbers meant, but pointing them out to Ana Gabriel would only worry her more. Jason stood up, bending over not to hit his head, and stepped around all the legs and backpacks, some of the girls already falling asleep in the jostling van. It was hot and humid inside, smelling of sweat and rancid breath. He wished to God someone would open up a window.
Jason poked his head up between the driver and Angel, catching sight of the road ahead. They weren’t on Highway 45 or even I-20 but riding up far north of Jackson, a sign saying they weren’t but eight miles from Batesville. What the hell?
“Hey,” Jason said, pointing. “You’re going the wrong damn way.”
“Siéntate, chico,” the driver said. His voice was low and mean, eyes on the road ahead.
Jason looked to Ana Gabriel, who was up on her knees now, sweeping her hands toward him, telling him to please come back. “Please,” she said. “Please.”
“Siéntate,” Angel said, pushing Jason hard with the flat of his hand and knocking him on his back right on top of all those young girls. Jason tried to get up to hit that smartass but Ana Gabriel and three other girls held his arms, begging him no.
“They’re going the wrong way,” Jason said. “They don’t know what the hell they’re doing. Bunch of damn idiots. We’re headed north up to Memphis.”
“He’s taking a shortcut,” she said. “They will get us there. I promise.”
“My grandmomma calls it going around your ass to get to your elbow,” he said. “Ain’t no damn way we’re getting down to south Louisiana like this. Who the hell are these people anyway?”
“Chico,” Angel said, turning down the music. “I said sit the fuck down and shut up. Or else we throw you from the van.”
Jason started to sweat, heart racing and adrenaline pumping through his body like it did before kickoff. He wanted to launch himself through that van and tackle that son of a bitch right to the ground. He locked eyes with Angel, ugly as sin with a buzz cut, flat nose, and gold teeth. The boy might be older, but he wasn’t nothing special. If it wasn’t for that man behind the wheel, Jason could take him down real easy.
Jason slowly lowered his back to the sliding door. Without any windows, he kept his focus on Ana Gabriel. She tapped at his foot with hers and smiled.
“Everything is fine,” she said. “We will all be OK.”
* * *
• • •
“I don’t see how that situation has anything to do with you,” Caddy said, standing in the shade of the metal roof off the single-wide she used as an office. “I haven’t heard from you for nearly a year and you drive up in a slick little sports car, wanting me to back off this current shitstorm in Tibbehah County.”
“I didn’t say that,” Bentley said, his navy polo shirt untucked and hanging loose from his wrinkled khakis. “I only said for you not to worry so much. I know your main focus is taking care of folks in this county. Right?”
“You know it is.”
“That plant will be open next week and the jobs will be filled with actual locals,” Bentley said. “Not migrant workers. We’re going to make sure the jobs are taken by hardworking Americans right here in Mississippi.”
Caddy narrowed her eyes as Bentley grinned, acting as if he’d just brought her the best news in the world. A hot wind crossed over the flat and dusty land of The River, wind chimes on the porch tinkling.
“That’s awfully nice of you and your daddy,” Caddy said. “How come y’a
ll didn’t come up with this idea years ago? Would’ve saved this town and all these people a whole lot of trouble.”
“Wait a second,” Bentley said, holding up the flat of his hand. “Wait one damn second. Don’t do me that way, Caddy Colson. Last year, I may have deserved it, but here I’m just trying to do the right thing. Sure, some folks were trying to cut corners, not wanting to pay minimum wage. When my daddy caught wind of that he was furious. I promise you. That’s why I came up here, trying to right things, make sure that plant is up and running with good labor from this county.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Caddy said, placing her hands on her hips. “But that still doesn’t fix the mess y’all caused. You people brought these workers here from all over the South. Now they’re locked up in Louisiana with their children left behind. What are you asking me to do? Tell them to hit the highway? That we’re done using them up and they’re on their own?”
“I’m saying help who you can,” Bentley said. “I respect what you’re trying to do. I just don’t want you to go and get in too far and deep with the whole political mess of it. I wanted to assure you I’m handling it. You have my word, all that’s going to get done. Your foundation, The River, all of it will continue to be funded.”
“Continue?” Caddy asked, stepping up one foot from Bentley’s face. His face lean and handsome but looking more worn and drawn. His usually clear blue eyes, something she always found attractive, were bloodshot. “Have you been too busy to notice that I haven’t cashed a single check since last year? I don’t want or need your family’s money.”
Bentley swallowed and caught a four-by-four post holding up the roof, spinning himself halfway around. He looked out over the expanse of the treeless land, the old church barn, and on up the hill, the unfinished metal skeleton of the all-purpose building his family had promised to fund.
