by Daniel Black
A mosquito lit on Enoch’s left arm and died three seconds later. “How’s life been treatin’ you in de big city, sis?”
“Oh fine.”
Enoch stared at her until she told the truth.
“Okay, okay. It’s hard as hell, Enoch. I git up ’bout five every mornin’ and work ’til ’bout dark.”
“What chu do?”
Possum wanted to tell Enoch something that would make him proud of her, something that would justify her decision to abandon Mississippi, but all she had to offer was the truth. “I clean houses some days and otha days I wash white folks’ dirty clothes.”
Enoch nodded and asked, “They pay you pretty good?”
“No. Negroes in Chicago barely make ends meet, and sometimes de ends don’t meet. But, overall, I guess I’m doin’ all right for myself.”
“You ain’t found yo’self no husband?” Enoch nudged playfully.
“Chile, please,” Possum grunted. “I’m sick o’ smooth-talkin’ colored men. They don’t want nothin’ but a woman to take care o’ them, and I sho ain’t gon do that. I can barely take care o’ me and Cle—” Possum covered her mouth abruptly.
Not knowing what to say, Enoch rubbed her back in circular motions and prayed that she would not crumble again.
Feeling his apprehension, Possum took a deep breath and tried hard to relax. “What these white folks done gone and done to my son, Enoch?”
“I don’t know, sis,” he admitted helplessly. “I jes don’t know.” They ceased talking for a long while, then Enoch added, “Everybody colored in Money, and a few white folks, is lookin’ for him real hard.”
“What happened?” she asked.
Enoch explained everything, even how Rosenthal had volunteered his services. He told Possum about the town meeting and the subsequent commitment everybody made to find Clement, come what may.
“Good, good,” Possum repeated solemnly.
“I wish I could promise you Clement’s gon be fine, but ain’t no need in me lyin’ to you. I sho hope he’s all right, but ain’t no guarantees. All we know to do is keep lookin’.”
“Why didn’t you make him come outta dat store, Enoch? He woulda minded you. I know he woulda.”
“I wunnit even there!”
Possum sighed. “I’m sorry.” “I know it ain’t yo’ fault. I jes want my boy back, that’s all.”
“I know, sis. Dat’s what we all want.”
Pet Moore’s old ’52 Dodge truck came rattling down the dusky road. Enoch and Possum looked up simultaneously.
“Who in the world …” Possum mumbled.
Enoch squinted his eyes. “Look like Pet’s old pickup, but I cain’t make it out. Whoever it is, they flyin’ like they goin’ to a fire.”
Seconds later, Pet Moore hopped from the truck and trotted over to the Johnsons’ front porch. When he saw Possum, he grabbed her quickly, squeezing her harder than he had intended.
“Uh … Mr. Pet?” Possum burbled in confusion. “Is you all right?” Her face was practically buried under his right armpit.
Pet Moore held her tightly, like one trying desperately to keep water from leaking through trembling hands.
“Daddy! Momma! Ella Mae!” Enoch called. He knew something was terribly wrong.
When the family had gathered on the porch, Pet Moore slowly released Possum, exposing his wet eyes and distressed look.
“I sho is done missed you, young lady,” he said in a broken voice.
Possum was totally off guard. “I missed you, too, Mr. Pet. But surely you ain’t cryin’ cause …” Then her eyes bucked in fear. “Oh my God, Momma!” she cried, and reached for someone to grab hold of.
“They found a body in de river dis evening,” Pet Moore explained painfully. “Whoever it wuz, he wuz beat so bad cain’t nobody recognize him.” He paused and added reluctantly, “It’s a colored boy’s body.”
“No!” Possum wailed. Her voice echoed in the nearby woods. “It ain’t my boy! God no!” Miss Mary and Enoch held her hands as the agony twisted her body into contortions. “Momma! My baby!”
“Jes hold on,” Miss Mary counseled. “It probably ain’t even Clement. Don’t git bent all out o’ shape ’fo we know somethin’. We gotta keep on believin’ ’til we find out somethin’ fu sho,” she comforted although shaking her head skeptically.
“Who told you dis, Pet?” Jeremiah queried.
“I overheard Pat Chadwick tell old man Cuthbert that some white boys was fishin’ down by de Big Mouth Crossin’ and saw a body floatin’ in de river that like to scared them half to death. They knowed it wuz a Negro boy, they said, ’cause they seed de head.”
“Lord have mercy,” Ella Mae murmured.
Pet Moore went on: “They wuz laughin’ ’bout colored folks deservin’ whatever they git ’cause them white men’s lives got to be accounted for. Cuthbert asked Chadwick what de boys did wit de body, and Chadwick said they left it in de river.”
“They didn’t even have the decency to pull my baby outta de water?” Possum mumbled deliriously.
“Stop it, girl!” Enoch yelled. “Now jes stop it. We don’t know if it wuz Clement or not. We’ll jes have to wait and see.”
“I came by to tell ya what I heard and to tell ya dat me and a couple o’ otha boys is headed down to de river to see what we can find. I didn’t know if y’all”—he meant Enoch or Jeremiah—“wanted to come. I sho didn’t know you wuz here yet, Possum. I’m sorry ’bout what’s done happened to Clement. I wish I—”
“Don’t worry ’bout it, Pet,” Jeremiah interrupted. “We sho thank ya for lookin’ out fu de family.” He turned toward Miss Mary and the others. “Y’all go on in de house and wait fu us to git back. We ain’t gon be long. Enoch, let’s go.”
The three men squeezed into the small cab of the truck and bobbed away down the road.
“Come on in the house,” Miss Mary instructed. “We gon pray and trust de Good Lawd to do His perfect will.” She and Ella Mae escorted Possum slowly, and the children held the door open. “Lawd have murcy,” Miss Mary repeated countless times.
Possum fell into the rocker. Ella Mae rested on her knees beside her, and whispered, “You stay strong, girl. You hear me? Everything’s gon be all right. You jes gotta stay strong.” She handed her a glass of water. “Drink it slow, Possum, and breathe deep. Everything’s gon be all right. Jes take it easy.” Ella Mae slapped her hand continuously as though trying to revive her.
The children were gathered at the kitchen table. Ray Ray admonished, “Don’t cry, Sarah Jane. We don’t even know nothin’ fu sho yet.”
“Who else could it be?” she whispered.
“I don’t know, but ain’t no need in gettin’ all worked up ’til we know de truth. At least wait ’til Daddy nem come back.”
“Is D-d-d-d-d-daddy nem gon b-b-bring de b-body ba-back here?” Chop asked.
“Shut up, boy!” the other two said. Chop lowered his head onto his folded arms, defeated.
“If it is Clement,” Ray Ray directed toward Sarah Jane, “we gotta stay strong for Aunt Possum.”
Sarah Jane looked at Possum’s incapacitated form. “What chu think gon happen, Ray Ray, if—”
“I don’t know,” Ray Ray muttered. “But …”
“But what?”
“Never mind.”
The women and children assumed a shield of silence while they waited. Somewhere in everybody’s souls, they already knew the truth.
Fourteen
PET MOORE DROVE DOWN TALLEY LANE AND TURNED LEFT AT Old River Road. In the middle of the annual August drought, there was always a shallow crossing in the river where logs and debris gathered, so if the body made it that far, he assumed, it certainly wouldn’t get any farther.
When they reached the river, they were surprised to see several other colored men ready and waiting with loaded shotguns.
“We heard de news,” Tiny said, as they exited the truck. “We knowed y’all would be here sooner or later.”
“I sho’ ’preciate all o’ y’all,” Jeremiah announced sincerely. “Let’s see what we can find.”
Without instructions, the men formed a single-file line and walked into the river, shoes and all. They moved their feet back and forth with each step, some hoping to discover something, others praying not to. When the lead man was halfway across, he motioned for the others to spread out. Tiny bent and searched the riverbed with his hands as though feeling for something microscopic. At one point, he screeched, thinking he felt an arm or leg, but then he sighed and lifted a broken tree limb from the water.
Enoch, on the other hand, tiptoed through the muddy stream, having convinced his heart that Clement was still alive. Somehow. His head had a difficult time following his heart’s resolve, though, especially with no proof, so Enoch examined the river cautiously, hoping not to find his nephew. While the others searched the expanse of the shallow waters, he kicked his right foot lazily within the same three square feet. He wanted nothing more than to return home and tell his sister that her fears were unfounded and that, in fact, they had found Clement tied up in a barn or next to a tree somewhere. At the very least he wanted to report that Clement wasn’t in the river and, as of now, it looked as if he wasn’t.
“We used to swim all up and down dis river,” Jeremiah offered, disconnecting Enoch from his thoughts. “Back then, times wuz betta than they is now.” He patted Enoch’s shoulder.
“How’s that?” Enoch asked, grateful for the distraction.
“’Cause Negroes did this all de time.” He pointed at the other men.
“Did what?”
“Help one another out. We wuz always gatherin’ hay for one another or pickin’ peas together or diggin’ up potatoes to put in each other’s barn.”
“We do dat now, Daddy, don’t we?”
“Naw, son, not like we used to. I don’t mean a few folks helpin’ each other out. I mean”—he raised his voice for emphasis—“everybody. Sometimes it would be forty or fifty folks sittin’ ’round shuckin’ corn and laughin’ and havin’ a good ole time. Momma’d have a big pot ’o greens on de stove and fry two or three chickens in de big black pot in de front yard. Folks would sit and clown all night long.”
Father and son looked around at the other men and dreamed of times when such a sight had been the norm.
Jeremiah reminisced further: “My granddaddy disappeared when I was seven. Just walked off one day and never did come back.”
“Really?” Enoch said. “I never knew that.”
“Lotta thangs Negro people don’t talk about, but we oughta. Ain’t no way de children gon know if de old folks don’t teach ’em.” Jeremiah continued: “Granddaddy was a li’l fella, maybe, five-five or so, but he could outrun anybody in dis county, young or old, all de way ’til he disappeared.”
“He musta been pretty young when he disappeared,” Enoch guessed.
“He left de day after his sixtieth birthday.” Jeremiah turned to witness the disbelief sure to color Enoch’s face. “Dat’s right! Young fellas used to challenge him all de time, and he neva did lose. They’d git out in de middle o’ Talley Lane and folks would gather all ’round ’em, waitin’ on somebody to outrun Mr. Jessie. Dat’s what everybody called him. But nobody neva did.”
“Come on, Daddy!” Enoch said. “You mean to tell me dat twenty-year-old fellas couldn’t outrun a sixty-year-old man?”
“Dat’s right!” Jeremiah proclaimed. “Dat li’l man would take off like a lightnin’ flash, and by de time de othas got to de finish line, he’d be standin’ dere waitin.”
“Git outta hyeah!”
“I’m tellin’ you what I seen fu myself, boy! Couldn’t nobody explain it. And, on top o’ dat, he had arthritis.”
“He musta been in tiptop shape to be runnin’ like dat,” Enoch asserted.
“Drank a glass a wine a day and ate chitlins every chance he got,” Jeremiah teased. “One day, they say my daddy wuz caught under a wagon wheel and couldn’t nobody move it. They went home to tell Granddaddy ’bout it, and he ran and moved de wagon and saved my daddy’s life.”
“I don’t mean to sound rude,” Enoch frowned, “but that don’t sound like a big deal to me. Most wagons ain’t very heavy.”
“Well,” Jeremiah chuckled, “they is if you first gotta run to Greenwood to lift ’em.”
“What? Grandpa Jessie ran all de way to Greenwood?”
“In about fifteen minutes, they say.”
“It takes forty-five minutes in a wagon!”
“I know how long it take. But that’s what they say happened. Then, he lifted de wagon by hisself, and they pulled Daddy out.”
“Wunnit nobody else around to help? I mean, surely there was some otha men who coulda helped lift de wagon and save him?”
“Plenty otha folks around, but none of ’em strong as Granddaddy. The wagon was loaded.”
“You mean to tell me, Granddaddy Jessie lifted a loaded wagon by hisself when a whole group o’ men couldn’t move it?”
“Dat’s what de tell me,” Jeremiah affirmed. “And he neva did weigh over a hunnert fifty pounds.”
“Daddy, some o’ de thangs you tell me …”
“You ain’t gotta believe it. It’s gon be true even if—”
“Hey!” Tiny called. “I think I got something.”
Jeremiah and Enoch froze. This was the moment they had strategically avoided. Knowing they couldn’t any longer, they waltzed in the water, side by side until they stood before Tiny. Each glanced at the other’s blank face and telepathically agreed to survive whatever truth they were about to encounter.
“What is it, Tiny?” Jeremiah murmured.
“Look,” Tiny said, extending his right hand.
Some emitted sighs of sorrow; a few cursed freely.
“What is that?” Enoch asked, refusing to see what everyone else saw clearly.
“Hair,” Tiny stated glumly. “It’s somebody’s hair.”
Enoch felt his legs weaken beneath him. “It could be anybody’s,” he said, refusing to consider what the others had already concluded.
Jeremiah blinked tears away. “It’s his.”
“You don’t know that, Daddy!” Enoch yelled. “Lot’s o’ boys swim in de river in de summer.”
“They don’t shave their heads in it, do they?” Jeremiah screamed.
Enoch wasn’t prepared for such a direct response, but his heart couldn’t submit without a fight. “Come on, Daddy!” He laughed uneasily. “Negro boys swim in de river all the time. Somebody’s head brushed up against a tree limb—”
“Stop it, son.”
“ … and the limb stratched a little hair off their heads like—”
“Stop, Enoch.”
“ … when you jump in the river and accidentally scrape yo’ head against a twig—”
“Enoch.”
“ … I used to do that all the time! Every Negro boy in Money done experienced—”
“Enoch!”
“ … what happens when you jump in too quick and scrape yo’ head against something then the hair floats on down the river—”
“Stop it!” Jeremiah finally screamed angrily. “We ain’t gon do this!”
“Do what?” Enoch asked.
“Act like we don’t know what this is.”
“We don’t know!” Enoch pressed on.
“Yes, we do, boy!” Jeremiah insisted. “Yes we do!”
“Daddy,” Enoch cried quietly, “it really could be somebody else’s, couldn’t it?”
“No, son, it couldn’t. Not this much.” His palms were filled with wet, woolly hair.
Enoch sobbed as he called on the last bit of fight in him. “You still ain’t one hundred percent sure,” he lamented in his father’s arms. “How you know the difference between one Negro boy’s hair and another? Huh?” His words became unintelligible. Most of the men’s eyes glazed over not from the thought of Clement, but from watching Enoch bleat like a sheep in a slaughter stall.
&nbs
p; “Y’all go ’head on home now, boys,” Jeremiah said casually. “I sho thanks ya. If we hear anything else, we’ll let ya know.”
The men hung their heads sadly and patted Jeremiah and Enoch on their backs. “Y’all take care,” some whispered in passing.
Enoch was still crying when the procession disappeared. His head lay pressed against his daddy’s chest, and Jeremiah rubbed it tenderly. They were still waist deep in the Tallahatchie River, only now they were alone.
“It’s all right, son,” Jeremiah said, rocking Enoch the best he could while standing in moving water.
“It ain’t fair!” Enoch roared. “It just ain’t fair!” His arms slid down to encircle his father’s waist.
“I know, son. I know. But everythang’s gon be all right.”
Suddenly Enoch released Jeremiah and stepped back. “No, it ain’t, Daddy! No it ain’t!” Tears continued streaming down his cheeks. “It’s always us. They always killin’ us. Don’t make no difference what we do, they try to destroy us!” he yelled.
“Take it easy now, boy,” Jeremiah whispered.
“Take what easy, Daddy? I’m sick’o ‘takin’ it easy.’” he mocked vociferously. “I’m sick o’ racist peckawoods killin’ Negroes! Dat’s what I’m sick of!” He kicked water angrily until both he and his father were drenched. “Don’t ask me to take it easy no mo ’cause I ain’t doin’ it! Maybe that’s Clement’s hair and maybe it ain’t. I ain’t gon believe it ’til I see where they pulled it from his head. And if I see that”—Enoch trembled—“you’d better git somebody to hold me down ’cause jes like Jerry went and killed them white men for fuckin’ wit Billie Faye, I swear ’fo God I’ll kill all them muthafuckas!”
He turned and stomped out of the river. Although he was still crying, his gait exposed a clarity that frightened Jeremiah. That little tuft of spongy hair had transposed Enoch into a new man. Having never cursed before in his parents’ earshot, Enoch’s intemperate language scared his father more than all of his son’s expressed frustration.
Jeremiah watched Enoch’s body grow smaller as he walked away. Pet Moore begged to take them home, but both refused the offer initially, trying hard not to be rude but knowing simultaneously that they needed time alone in order to swallow what God had given them to chew. How arrogant it is, Jeremiah thought, for people to expect a Black man to remain humble when he’s constantly being downtrod-dened. He would have to be Jesus to manage that kind of nonviolent forgiveness, and even then Jeremiah wasn’t sure he admired such meekness. In the end, it always meant being trampled upon in the service of some higher principle in which, obviously, only the oppressed believe. Righteousness had not borne the fruit Jeremiah’s ancestors promised it would, and, for the time being, he simply wanted to win. Just once. He wanted the thrill of victory, the recognition by his enemies that he had beaten them, and the life of his children to prove it. Others had warned that God’s wrath would visit itself upon him if he exacted justice on his own terms, so, trying not to anger an all-powerful God, Jeremiah had surrendered to a nonconfrontational mode of resistance until the day Cecil and the Cuthbert boys tried to take his grandson away. After then, Jeremiah determined that God would have to do whatever God was going to do because apparently his people had never considered that righteousness and whippin’ white folks’ asses might be one and the same.
