“What were you thinking about, bringing that boy here? You know he was gonna pull a stick on us?”
“No, I didn’t. I wish he hadn’t.”
From the look on Wendell’s face, Callie could tell it cost him something to say that. Not that she cared. “Well, you better not bring him back again.”
“Don’t think he’ll want to come back. He wasn’t all that interested to begin with.”
“He sure got interested when he found out there was somebody up here to beat with a stick.”
Wendell turned and walked over to the fireplace. “You really think that boy that drowned knew about this place?” He was looking at where the name Jim was carved in the wall.
“I know of one way to find out,” Callie said, the idea coming to her right then. She’d been worrying the whole day about how she was going to walk up to Jim Trebble’s house and ask his mama to talk to her about her drowned son. Who was she to Jim Trebble’s mama? Just some eleven-year-old colored girl who’d never known her boy to begin with. Mrs. Trebble would probably shoo her away, and then she’d have to go back to Mr. Renfrow empty handed.
“Oh, yeah, how’s that?” Wendell asked, his finger tracing the air over the carved-out name.
“You and me are gonna go talk to his mama. And we’re taking that old dog with us.”
15
The Weekly Advance
Orin Renfrow arrived at work Friday morning at seven fifteen. He always came in early on the day the paper was published in order to take care of any pressing business before the real work of the day began. At approximately eight thirty, five stacks of newspapers, each one bound with twine, exactly 246 papers in all, would be tossed off the back of a Hatcher’s Printing Company truck onto the sidewalk in front of the Weekly Advance office. Mr. Renfrow would be standing at the door, waiting for them.
Seven fifteen was especially early for Mr. Renfrow to come in, but today was a special day. His editorial about the need to integrate the town pool was in today’s paper, and he was expecting an especially vociferous response. Many of his readers would be against the idea. Don’t trouble the water, they’d write in impassioned letters to the editor. Leave well enough alone. He’d be stopped on the street, interrupted while eating his meat-and-three at the Hop, called up in the middle of the night. Let’s just keep the peace around these parts. Marcus Overby, who’d moved up to Celeste from Greenville, Mississippi, would take him aside after church on Sunday and say, You don’t understand how bad things can get when you start messing with white folks. We got it good here, Orin. We live our lives, they live theirs. Believe me—that’s the way you want it to be.
Mr. Renfrow understood. Why rock the boat? White folks and black folks had always gotten along well enough in Celeste, mostly by staying out of each other’s way. White folks were happy to take colored money; they’d even let you walk through the front doors of their restaurants to pick up your food instead of making you come around through a back alley to get it through the kitchen window. White and colored worked together at the paper mill, and though no colored worker ever got advanced through the line up to management, from what he’d heard and observed, the mill was a good place for a colored man to work. The bosses didn’t seem to care what hue your skin was if you did the job you were told to do.
There was an uneasy peace between white and colored in Celeste, and Mr. Renfrow understood how fragile it was, and how scared colored folks were about breaking it. He himself had a cousin in Breckinridge County who’d been lynched twenty years before, dragged from the county jail after he’d been accused of attacking a white woman. Violence was never far from the surface of any human relations. Folks were right to fear it.
Even so, he couldn’t help but believe that the world was changing. Colored men had fought alongside white troops on the battlefields of Europe during World War II, and only the year before, a federal court had heard a brilliant young Negro lawyer argue that the schools of America should be open to all. There were rumblings all around. Mr. Renfrow read colored newspapers from across the country—the Chicago Defender, the Carolina Times, the Tri-State Defender, the Jackson Advocate—and there was no doubt in his mind that a new day was on its way. He felt his editorial was a small but necessary step toward bringing that day closer.
So after he’d taken care of the daily business of the Advance, he made his way to the sidewalk in front of the office and waited for the truck’s arrival. Although it was early, the day was already promising to be hot, and Mr. Renfrow wished he had thought to bring a fresh shirt with him that morning. He planned to deliver the mayor’s copy of the paper to him in person. Every mayor of Celeste received a complimentary subscription, but Mr. Renfrow was not convinced that any of them had ever read it. Perhaps Mayor Fowley would feel more inclined to read the Weekly Advance if its editor was standing directly across his desk from him.
A truck rumbled up Lexington Street, and Mr. Renfrow readied himself. As soon as the papers landed on the pavement, the work would be continuous until the last one was delivered to its reader. At nine Marvin Booker and Sheldon Keyes, his paper carriers, would arrive to begin folding papers and stuffing them into canvas bags, and by eleven fifteen they would begin delivery. The minute they left the office, Mr. Renfrow would pick up a grilled cheese sandwich at the Hop and be back at his desk by eleven forty-five, ready for the phone to begin ringing. At one o’clock, he would take the paper to the mayor, folded open to his editorial.
“Morning, Orin!” the driver, a young white man by the name of Mac Anderson, called out, and Mr. Renfrow tried not to bristle. He was a good forty years older than Mac; did he not deserve the respect of an honorific? Well, he supposed that was a fight for another day.
“Good morning, Mac. I trust you’re well.”
“Fine and dandy. I’ve only got two more deliveries this morning, and then the rest of the day I’ll be working inside, get out of this heat.”
“That’s fine, just fine. Let me get the front door propped open, and we can begin.”
Mr. Renfrow loved the sight of the neat stacks of the Weekly Advance sitting in the back of the Hatcher’s Printing Company truck. Each copy was a collection of his week’s work. Oh, some weeks there was little news to report—a church supper, a dry city council meeting—and he didn’t feel as though he’d accomplished much. But even at the end of a slow week the phone still started ringing thirty minutes after the papers had gone out for delivery—praise for a good recipe on the women’s page, a question about a council ruling, a comment about his weekly editorial. Even on slow weeks Mr. Renfrow felt he was performing a service to his community.
“You want help carrying those papers in?” Mac asked from his perch on the truck’s back bumper. “I got a little extra time.”
“No, thank you, son,” Mr. Renfrow replied, watching Mac’s face to see if it registered annoyance at being called “son” by a colored man. But Mac’s countenance remained open and cheerful. Maybe if Mr. Renfrow had been younger, Mac would have taken offense. The older you get, the more harmless they think you are, he thought as he lifted the first bundle, staggering a bit under its weight.
By the time he’d carried in the fifth bundle, he knew he would have to go home and change shirts. The temperature had risen sharply in just the last twenty minutes, and the shirt he had on was already damp. When he sighted Marvin riding toward him on his bike, he called that he had an errand to run and would return shortly. Marvin had been working for him for three summers now and could be trusted to get down to work without Mr. Renfrow’s supervision.
At nine in the morning the stores and shops along Lexington Street were just beginning to come alive, the exception being the Laundromat, which opened at six thirty every morning and had already been doing a brisk business by the time Mr. Renfrow passed by. Shirley Markham was standing in front of Shirley’s Grocery fussing with her keys, and Mr. Renfrow tipped his hat to her. Shirley had opened her store two years after Turner’s Dry Goods burned down, giving fo
lks from the Bottom a place to go for milk and bread if they didn’t want to do a big shop at the A&P over on Elm, which was a good twenty-minute walk for those who didn’t have cars.
Mr. Renfrow’s small house was on River Street, and it was as he was walking down Marigold and just about to turn right onto Calvin to cross over to River that he spotted young Callie Robinson coming up Marigold toward him. She had the old yellow dog on a leash, and walking beside her was a white boy Mr. Renfrow had never seen before.
“Hello, Miss Callie,” he called, speeding his steps. He forgot all about the need to get a new shirt, his desire for neatness no match for his desire for a good story. “What has you out on this fine morning?”
“I’m going to see Jim Trebble’s mama, just like you said. Old Wendell here’s coming with me, since he’s the one who helped me find Jim’s dog.”
Mr. Renfrow raised an eyebrow but didn’t say what he was thinking. He knew Callie Robinson well enough to know that she wasn’t one to share glory. She was taking that white boy for protection or to appear more legitimate.
“I see. Does she know that you’re coming?”
“Nah, I thought it’d be better to surprise her. If she knew we were coming, she might run out the back door.”
Mr. Renfrow turned to the boy. “I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance, young man. What is your name?”
The boy shoved his hands in his pockets. “Wendell,” he mumbled, barely audible. “Wendell Crow.”
“And why are you on this errand with Miss Callie, Wendell Crow?”
“I dunno,” the boy said, shrugging. “She asked me to go.”
“Are the two of you friends?”
“Wouldn’t say that, exactly. We just sort of know each other.”
Mr. Renfrow nodded. “Interesting. Well, I’m Orin Renfrow, editor of the Weekly Advance. Are you familiar with it?”
The boy shook his head no, and Mr. Renfrow held back a sigh of annoyance. “Do you read any newspaper? Do your parents subscribe to the Covington News or the Lexington Herald?”
More shaking of the head. Well, then, Mr. Renfrow wouldn’t take the boy’s lack of interest in the Advance personally. “If you’re ever interested in taking a look around a newspaper office, please stop by. We’re over on Lexington Street. Perhaps the two of you could come by this afternoon, after your visit with Mrs. Trebble.”
“It’s my story, Mr. Renfrow,” Callie reminded him. “Don’t you go trying to steal it.”
“I wouldn’t think of it, Miss Callie. But I can’t help but be interested in what Mrs. Trebble has to say.” Mr. Renfrow leaned over and scratched the old dog behind the ears. “Does she even know, for instance, that Buddy here is alive and well?”
“I wondered about that too,” Callie replied. “I’ve seen him by the river and around the Bottom, but I don’t know where else he goes. Nowadays if you want to find him—” Callie stopped abruptly, covering her mouth with her hand to stop the rest of her sentence from coming out.
“If you want to find him?” Mr. Renfrow asked leadingly. “Is there somewhere he stays now?”
“Bend of the river,” Callie said, flashing a look at Wendell. “He almost always stays there now.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Mr. Renfrow replied, surprised that Callie was such a bad liar. Must not have had enough practice. He looked at his watch and frowned. Nine fifteen. The morning was getting away from him. But he was intrigued by this startling duo standing in front of him. From the expression on Wendell Crow’s face, he’d venture that the boy was here under some duress, perhaps against his own will. Nonetheless, something interesting was going on.
He’d picked the right time to pen his swimming pool editorial, Mr. Renfrow decided as he waved good-bye to Callie and Wendell and hurried toward his house. Because a black girl and a white boy walking a dog down the street together was not something you saw every day.
In fact, Mr. Renfrow had never seen it before in his life.
16
The Road Home Is Through the Window
Jim and Thomas had been sitting quietly in the cabin, Jim on the rickety chair under the window, Thomas on the edge of the bed frame, when the racket outside started. “Buddy, where are you, boy?” the colored girl’s voice called out, and Buddy gave a welcoming bark from the yard. For some reason he didn’t like to come inside. Maybe he felt like he needed to stand guard, Jim thought.
They’s folks here all the time now, Thomas said from the bed. Folks and dogs. Don’t like them dogs, though. I know that yellow one yours, and I expect he all right. But that other one? That King? I don’t know about him.
Jim turned and looked at Thomas. So tell me again what happened yesterday?
How many times I got to say it? Yesterday that girl come down in the hole there with me. Wasn’t but ten minutes after you went off chasing after your shadow again. Callie’s what they called her. I tried to talk to her, but she kept slapping at me, like she don’t want me around.
Jim smiled to himself. He’d had that same feeling about Thomas about a hundred times. He wondered if Callie had a little brother or sister, somebody who pestered her all the daylong. Or was she the youngest, like him? He knew Wendell had sisters, so he’d know what it was like to want somebody out of your hair. Only Jim was getting used to Thomas now. Was glad for his company.
The voices grew louder. “Buddy! Come here, boy!”
Jim had been feeling better about things now that Buddy was here. All you need is one good dog, his daddy used to say. A dog’ll stick by you when other folks won’t. That sure was true of Buddy, who had slept at the end of Jim’s bed every night and walked him all the way to school in the morning. He was waiting at the school door at the end of the day too.
Where had Buddy been before that day he showed up at the cabin with Wendell and that girl Callie? And why did he look so old? Fred, too. Strange seeing his big brother look like a man.
Jim leaned back in his chair and tried to do his remembering exercises, but his mind fought hard against him. What had happened to him? When had it happened? He kept seeing a picture of his friends Robert Lincoln and Harry Partin standing on his front porch, fishing poles in hand, and he could remember setting off down the road with them, Buddy trotting along behind them. Must have been headed to the river with all that gear, but Jim couldn’t picture ever getting there. Right there was where his memory stopped.
“Buddy, come here!”
Jim stood next to the door, wondering if someone would push it open so he wouldn’t have to walk through. He wished he could put a sign on the door that said DON’T SHUT DOOR! Wished he could let people know what the rules were.
Go through the window if you don’t want to go through the door, Thomas said, and Jim whipped around to look at him. How’d he know that’s what Jim had been thinking?
Window’s wide open, Thomas said.
How—how do you go out?
Don’t bother me none to walk through a closed door. But I reckon you don’t like it much, way you always waiting around like you hoping God push it open for you.
It makes my stomach hurt to walk through walls, Jim admitted.
You get over that after a while.
But Jim didn’t want to get over it. Getting over it would mean accepting something he didn’t want to accept. If you got used to walking through walls, it meant you were the type of person who could walk through walls. Jim wanted to be the type of person who couldn’t walk through a wall. The type of person who cast a shadow when the sun shone behind him and whose voice made a sound when he opened his mouth to speak.
Go through the window. He guessed that was good advice, so he turned, stepped on the rickety chair, and pulled himself through the opening. He knew he didn’t have to do that, that he could have floated up and out, but no. That’s not how he did things. Not how he wanted to do things.
“That’s a good boy,” somebody was saying, and when Jim turned the corner, he saw Callie snapping a collar on Buddy’s neck, Buddy wriggli
ng this way and that to get out of her grasp. What was she doing, taking his dog? Was she taking him to the vet? Good luck, Callie, Jim wanted to tell her. But what if she had other ideas? She looked like a girl who had the good sense to want a dog like Buddy for her own.
Come here, boy, Jim called in his windy voice. Buddy’s ears lifted, but he didn’t come. Instead he struggled as Callie tried to hook a leash to the collar. Behind her stood Wendell, looking uncomfortable.
“I knew he’d be here this morning,” Callie said, finally getting the leash hooked on. “I think this is where he’s staying all the time now. He looks skinny, too, like he’s not getting anything to eat.”
“I’ll bring him some food this afternoon,” Wendell said, and Jim wished he could say thanks so that Wendell could hear him. He hated to think of Buddy going hungry, but he hadn’t figured out a way to feed him.
“Maybe he’ll go live with Jim’s mama after we bring him over,” Callie said. “Maybe he’ll be happy to stay there.”
“Don’t you think that he’d be staying with them already if that’s what he wanted?”
“Don’t know. Maybe.”
Jim felt a wind rush through him. Wendell and this girl were taking Buddy to his house? Why hadn’t Buddy been living there? Where had Buddy been?
Where had Jim been?
Buddy! he called again, and this time Buddy looked in his direction and sniffed the air.
The girl stood and tugged at Buddy’s leash. “Come on, boy. We’re gonna go see Jim Trebble’s mama.”
You gonna go with ’em? Thomas was standing next to Jim, his back pressed against the cabin wall, as though he was trying to stay as far away from Buddy as possible.
I reckon, Jim said. I’d like to see my mama. I keep hoping to run into her, but I never do.
How ’bout your daddy? You want to see him, too?
Trouble the Water Page 9
