Mudbound

by Hillary Jordan

  By the time I headed back home it was coming on to dark and raining hard. I’d left without my hat so I was soaking wet. I was about halfway there when I heard the sound of a vehicle bearing down on me for the second time that day. I turned around and seen two sets of headlights. I jumped down into the ditch but instead of passing me they stopped right beside me. I didn’t recognize the car in front but I knew the truck behind it. There were white figures inside, four in the car and maybe another three in the truck. Seemed like they practically glowed in the dark. When they got out I seen why.

  LAURA

  JAMIE DIDN’T COME back on Saturday, or on Sunday. When Rose brought the girls home Sunday morning I asked if she’d seen him in town, and she said no. It was a long couple of days, waiting. The sweet ache between my legs was a constant reminder of what Jamie and I had done. I had a few pricks of conscience—seeing Henry’s pajama bottoms hanging forlornly from a peg in our bedroom, his comb on the dresser, a stray white hair on his pillow—but real shame and regret were absent. In their place was a riotous sense of wonder. I’d never imagined myself capable of either great boldness or great passion, and the discovery that I had reservoirs of both astounded me. I couldn’t stop picturing myself with Jamie. I burned the grits, forgot to feed the animals, scalded my arm on the stove.

  Pappy was in a fouler mood than usual. He was low on cigarettes and furious at Jamie for leaving us with no transportation. He smoked his last one early Monday morning and spent the entire day punishing me for it. My biscuits were too dry, was I trying to choke him to death? My floors were so dirty they weren’t fit for a nigger to walk on. My brats were making too much racket. My coffee was too weak, how many times had he told me he liked it strong?

  Short of walking, there was no way to get to town until Henry or Jamie got home.

  “Goddamnit, where is he?” Pappy called out for the tenth time.

  “Mind your language,” I said. “The children are right here.”

  He was out on the porch watching the road, which was preferable to having him in the house with us. Florence had gone home for the day. I was sewing new dresses for the girls, and they were making paper dolls. We could hear Pappy’s boots clomping back and forth outside the window.

  “It’s just like him,” said the old man, “pulling a stunt like this. Thinking only of himself, the hell with everybody else.”

  The irony of Pappy complaining about Jamie or any other person being selfish was too much, and I laughed out loud. The shutters banged open, revealing Pappy’s scowling face at the window. I was reminded of a malevolent cuckoo clock.

  “What are you snickering at?” he demanded.

  “Something Bella just did.”

  “You think it’s funny, an old man being without his cigarettes. Just you wait and see how you feel when you get old, and you have to do without your comforts because nobody cares enough to look after you.”

  “You could always ride one of the mules to town,” I suggested, deadpan.

  Pappy couldn’t stand animals, especially large ones. I think he was afraid of them, though he never admitted as much. It was the reason we didn’t have any pets on the farm; he wouldn’t tolerate them.

  “I ain’t doing any such thing,” he said. “Why don’t you go ask that nigger gal if she’ll go? Tell her I’ll pay her two bits.”

  “I’m sure Florence has better things to do than fetch your cigarettes for you.”

  His face retreated as abruptly as it had appeared. “Never mind,” he said. “I see the truck coming.”

  The girls ran out to the porch to wait for their uncle. I took a deep breath and followed them. I would need to be very careful around Jamie to avoid raising Pappy’s suspicions.

  “Drunk again,” Pappy said scornfully.

  The car was weaving all over the road. At one point it went off entirely and into the newly planted fields. I was glad Henry wasn’t home to see that; he would have been apoplectic. Jamie pulled up in front of the house and got out of the truck. Bella started to run to him but I held her back. He was rumpled and unshaven. One shirt tail hung out of the front of his pants. “Afternoon Laura, Pappy, little petunias,” he said, swaying on his feet.

  “You got any cigarettes?” said the old man.

  “Hello, son,” said Jamie, slurring the words together. “I’m so glad to see you, how are you today? Why Pappy, thank you for asking, I’m fine, and how are you?”

  “You can talk to yourself all you want, just give me a smoke first.”

  Jamie reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes, tossing them to his father. The throw fell short, forcing Pappy to bend down and pick them up off the ground. “There’s only one cigarette here,” said the old man.

  “Guess I smoked the rest.”

  “You ain’t worth a damn, you know that?”

  “Well, I’m worth one cigarette. That’s something. Unless you don’t want it.”

  “Just give me the truck keys.”

  Jamie held them up, dangling them. “Ask nice and maybe I will.”

  Pappy walked toward Jamie, his steps slow and menacing. “You trying to mess with me? Huh, mister big hero?” The old man’s cane was in his left hand, but he wasn’t leaning on it; he was gripping it like a club. “Just keep talking, and we’ll find out which one of us is a man and which one ain’t. See, I know the answer already, but I don’t think you do. I think you’re confused on the subject. That’s why you keep giving me lip, is because you want to be straightened out. Ain’t that right, boy?”

  When he reached Jamie he stopped and leaned forward until their faces were inches apart. How strongly they resembled each other! I’d never seen it before—I’d always thought of Pappy as ugly—but their features were essentially the same: the arched sardonic brows, the slanting cheekbones, the full, slightly petulant mouth.

  “Ain’t that right?” said the old man again.

  My muscles tensed; the urge to step between them was almost overwhelming. Suddenly Pappy raised his cane, thrusting it toward Jamie’s face—a feint, but Jamie flinched and took a step back.

  “That’s what I thought,” Pappy said. “Now give me the goddamn keys.”

  Jamie dropped them into his outstretched hand. The old man shook the cigarette out of the pack, lit it and blew the smoke in Jamie’s face. Jamie crumpled to his knees and retched. Liquid gushed out, not a solid thing in it. I wondered when he’d last eaten. I went and knelt beside him, helpless to do anything but pat him gingerly on the back as his body convulsed. His shirt was soaked through with sweat.

  I heard a bark of laughter and looked up. The old man was watching us from the cab of the truck. “Well, ain’t you a pretty pair,” he said.

  “Just go,” I said.

  “Can’t wait to have him all to yourself, eh gal? Too bad he’s too liquored up to be any good to you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then why’s your face so red, huh?” Pappy started the truck. “Don’t let him fall asleep on his back,” he said. “If he throws up again he could choke to death.”

  He drove off. I looked down at Jamie. He’d stopped retching and was lying limp on his side in the dirt. “When he is best, he is a little worse than a man,” Jamie said in a hoarse voice, “and when he is worst he is little better than a beast.”

  “What’s the matter with Uncle Jamie?” Amanda Leigh called out.

  I turned and saw the girls watching. I’d forgotten all about them. “He just has an upset tummy is all,” I said. “Do me a favor, darling, fetch me a clean washrag. Dip it in the bucket, wring it out, then bring it here. And a glass of water too.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Somehow I got him to his bed in the lean-to. He fell onto it and lay on his back without moving. I took off his shoes. His socks were missing. A vivid and unwelcome picture of them lying abandoned under some woman’s bed flashed into my m
ind. With some difficulty, I rolled him onto his side. When I’d gotten him settled I looked down to find him watching me with an unreadable expression.

  “Sweet Laura,” he said. “My angel of mercy.” His hand lifted and cupped my breast, possessively, familiarly. I felt a stab of desire. His eyes fluttered closed and his hand fell to the bed. I heard a familiar tapping sound on the roof; gentle at first, then sharper and more insistent. It had begun to rain.

  IT MUST HAVE been about two hours later that the front door flew open and Florence came bursting in. The girls and I had just sat down to a late supper. Pappy still hadn’t come home, and I wasn’t going to wait on him any longer. The children were hungry and so was I.

  “Where’s Mist Jamie?” Florence said, without preamble. She was soaked to the skin and breathing harshly, like she’d been running.

  “Taking a nap in the lean-to. What’s the matter?”

  “Where’s the truck then?”

  “Pappy took it to town. Now what in the world’s gotten into you?”

  “Ronsel went to town earlier and he ain’t come back. What time did Mist Jamie get home?”

  Her high-handed attitude was beginning to annoy me. “Shortly after you left,” I said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Something’s happened to my son,” Florence said, “and Mist Jamie’s caught up in it somehow, I know it.”

  “You’re talking nonsense. How long has Ronsel been gone?”

  “Since bout five o’clock. He should a been home by now.”

  “Well, it’s nothing to do with Jamie. Like I said, he’s been here since around three-thirty. Ronsel probably ran into a friend in town and lost track of the time. You know how young men are.”

  Florence shook her head, just once, but I felt the weight of that negation as strongly as if she’d shoved me. “No. He ain’t got no friends here, cept for Mist Jamie.”

  “What do you mean, they’re friends?”

  “You got to wake him up and ask him.”

  I stood up. “I’ll do no such thing. Jamie’s worn out, and he needs his rest.”

  Her nostrils flared, and her eyes flickered to the front door. She means to force her way past me and go wake him, I thought. I wouldn’t be able to stop her; she was a foot taller than me and outweighed me by a good forty pounds. For the first time since I’d known her, I felt afraid of her.

  “Best if you go on home,” I said. “I bet Ronsel’s there right now, wondering where you are.”

  There was real animosity in Florence’s eyes, and it woke an answering flare in me. How dared she threaten me, and under my own roof? I remembered Pappy telling the girls one time that Lilly May wasn’t their friend and never would be; that if it came down to a war between the niggers and the whites, she’d be on the side of the niggers and wouldn’t hesitate to kill them both. It had angered me at the time, but now I wondered if there wasn’t a brutal kernel of truth in what he’d said.

  Bella started coughing; she’d swallowed her milk the wrong way. I went and whacked her on the back, then looked at Florence. I thought back to the first time we’d met; how crazy with worry I’d been for my children. The memory was like a clean blast of air, clearing my head of foolishness. This wasn’t a murderous Negro in front of me, but an anxious mother.

  “Watch the girls,” I said. “I’ll go and ask him.”

  I knocked on the door of the lean-to, but there was no answer, and when I opened it the lantern light revealed two empty beds. Jamie’s pillowcase was cool to my hand. I checked the outhouse, but he wasn’t there either, and there was no light in the barn. Where could he have gone, on foot and in such pitiful condition? He couldn’t possibly have sobered up; it had been less than three hours since he got home. And where was Pappy? Tricklebank’s was long closed, and it wasn’t like the old man to miss supper and a chance to complain about my cooking.

  It was with a growing feeling of dread that I went back to the house. “Jamie’s not here,” I told Florence. “He must have gone for a walk to clear his head. He sometimes does that in the evenings. I’m sure it’s nothing to do with Ronsel.”

  Florence headed swiftly out the door. I followed her to the edge of the porch. “I’ll send Jamie to your house as soon as he gets back,” I called, “just to set your mind at ease. I’m sure you’re worrying for nothing.”

  But I was talking to the air. The darkness had swallowed her up.

  JAMIE

  THE RAIN STARTLED me awake. The din of a Delta thunderstorm hitting a tin roof is about as close as you can get to the sound of battle without actually being in it. For a heart-pounding minute I was back in the skies over Germany, surrounded by enemy Messerschmitts. Then I realized where I was, and why.

  I lay in the dark of the lean-to and took stock of my condition. My head hurt and my mouth was full of cotton. I was still a little tipsy, but not nearly lit enough to face Pappy and Laura. There’d been a bad scene earlier, that much I remembered, but the details were vague and that was just fine by me. Amnesia is one of the great gifts of alcohol, and I’m not one to refuse it. I groped under the bed for the bottle I kept stashed there, but when I picked it up it felt light in my hand. There were only a couple of swigs left and I took them both, then I shut my eyes and waited for the whiskey to kindle me. My stomach was empty so it didn’t take long. I might have gone back to sleep, but I had to piss too bad. I fumbled for the lantern on the bedside table and lit it. Pappy’s bed was empty. There was a pitcher of water sitting on the table, along with a basin, a neatly folded towel and some cornbread wrapped in a napkin. Laura must have left them there for me.

  Laura. It came back to me then, in a rush of images: Her hair falling down around my face. Her breasts filling my hands. The dusky sweet scent of her. My brother’s wife.

  I went outside. It was full dark, but the lights were on in the house. I stood at the edge of the porch and added my own stream to the downpour, wondering what time it was. A flash of lightning lit up the yard, and I saw that both the truck and the car were gone. We didn’t expect Henry till tomorrow, but why wasn’t Pappy back? Maybe the old goat had gotten stuck in the rain. Maybe he was sitting in the truck in a ditch at this very moment, cussing the weather and me both. The thought cheered me.

  As I was zipping up my pants I saw a light moving near the old sawmill. At first I thought it was Pappy coming home, but no headlights approached the house. The light bobbed along the river, winking in and out like somebody was walking through the trees with a lantern, then it went out. Whoever it was must have gone inside the sawmill. Ronsel, probably, or a drifter seeking shelter from the storm. They were welcome to it. I wasn’t about to go investigate, not in that downpour.

  I went back inside and got myself cleaned up. I didn’t want to face Laura and the girls stinking of sweat and vomit and whiskey. I was half-dressed when I remembered the fifth I had stashed out in the sawmill. As soon as I pictured it, I wanted it. Without that bottle, I’d be on my own with Laura, and then with my father and Henry whenever they showed up. I knew Ronsel wouldn’t drink my whiskey without invitation, but a drifter sure would, if he found it. The thought of some bum sucking down my Jack overcame my aversion to getting wet. I stuffed some cornbread in my mouth and put on my jacket and my hat. At the last second I grabbed my .38 and stuck it in my pocket.

  I was wet through within seconds of leaving the porch. The wind tore my hat from my head, and the mud tried to pull my boots off with every step. It was so dark that if it hadn’t been for the occasional bursts of lightning, I wouldn’t have been able to see a thing. As it was I almost ran straight into a vehicle parked off to one side of the sawmill. The hood was warm. When the lightning came again I recognized Henry’s truck. And there was another car parked beside it. What the hell?

  I went around back of the building. Strips of light showed between the planks, and I put my eye up to one of the gaps. At first all I saw was white. Then it moved and I realized I was looking at the back of somebody’s head, and tha
t he was wearing a white hood. He wasn’t the only one. There were maybe eight of them standing in a loose circle.

  “How many times did you fuck her?” I heard a voice say.

  One of the figures shifted, and I saw Ronsel kneeling in the center of them. His hands and feet were tied behind his back, and there was a noose around his neck. The rope was slung over a beam in the ceiling. The man holding the other end gave it a vicious yank. Ronsel gagged, and his head came up.

  “Answer him, nigger!” said my father.

  RONSEL

  I STARTED TO RUN but then I heard the sound of a shotgun round being chambered. I froze and held my hands up. A high tight voice said, “If I was you, boy, I’d stay right where I was.” It sounded like Doc Turpin, the sonofabitch who’d messed up my daddy’s leg. He’d talked through his nose like that, that day at Tricklebank’s. And Daddy had told me he used to be in the Klan.

  “Get him in the car.” That voice I recognized straightaway—it was Old Man McAllan. I wondered if Henry McAllan was there too underneath one of them hoods. Somebody came up behind me and threw a burlap sack over my head. I flailed out and he punched me in the kidneys, then somebody else grabbed my arms and tied them behind my back. They drug me to the car and threw me in. One of them got in on either side of me, then we started moving.