I had gone from chummy friend to lecturer in a couple of sentences. Her face shifted immediately. “Whatever,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”
As she walked off, she turned around and gave a very small wave.
“My friend died, too,” she said, and kept walking.
9
Three seventeen-year-old Burger Bar workers
over near the Texas line admitted to poisoning
cheeseburgers in an attempt to kill classmates who were
having a meeting at the restaurant. The three, whose
names are being withheld because of their age, took their
jobs specifically to pull off the scheme after a group of five
seniors continually made fun of them, Bouef Parish
sheriff's spokesman Marilyn English said.
—The Green News-Item
My furniture arrived unexpectedly, a week later than planned and a day earlier than expected. I was in the middle of trying to salvage the next day's edition when the call came. I might have freaked out just a smidge.
Advertising linage looked good for the day, but the news report was skimpy. Without any Monday government meetings, we had little meat for the next day's paper and no plan to put any on the table. Alex's follow-up story on the lake development still had not panned out. We had a pretty decent police story about more than a hundred dachshunds being rescued from a house outside Green, along with eleven cats and an iguana, but we hadn’t gone much beyond the police report.
There was a nice food package by Anna Grace Adams. “I discovered the newspaper and the First Amendment in my seventies,” she told me when I first saw her in the lobby. “Now I’m your food columnist. I wish you’d put me on Page One.” Her story this issue was about ways to beat the winter doldrums in the kitchen and included a long batch of reader recipes.
“I’m sorry I don’t have more news today,” Alex said. His apology surprised me. “I’ll do better with upcoming editions. I’m really going somewhere with this zoning story.”
Just then Tom meandered by, eating a cookie. “Anyone mentioned the mayor's retiring?” he asked, clearly shocking Alex with the scoop.
At age 92, Mayor Oscar Myers, and that was indeed his name, had decided he had had enough. This was a big story, not only for Green, but the entire state. Myers was the oldest mayor in Louisiana and had been mayor in Green for nearly six decades. Tom picked up the tidbit over at the Cotton Boll Café. “I saw him there and asked him myself, and he said yes.”
As I hurried out the door to meet the movers, Alex jumped into high gear and started trying to find the mayor. Tom would look for our one photographer and scour the newsroom's morgue for old photos. “We must have this story,” I said, wishing the movers had kept with their schedule as planned. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
By the time I got to the house, the moving van was backed up to the front door and the guys had furniture sitting around the yard, waiting for me to get there. It looked like a giant yard sale with all my favorite stuff. They seemed relieved that there were not any stairs inside, especially when they pulled out my old upright piano. I’m going to learn to play one of these days. I bought this great instrument at an auction in Indiana, and I couldn’t bear to part with it. Now, watching these two beefy guys strain as they rolled it up on the porch, I wondered if I should have sold it.
The house had a sort of pesticide smell, and Terry Bradshaw's card lay on the kitchen counter. He had written, “Call me if you need me. I think it's all taken care of.” I opened a few cabinets and closets, looking for rats, but didn’t see any, dead or alive.
It was nearly 4:30 p.m. when they finished. I needed to get back to the paper and see how the story on the mayor was coming. We could work on it this evening and have it ready to roll in the morning, putting together a package that would do The News-Item proud. I turned out the lights and locked up.
Just then I remembered I had an appointment at the Taylor house at five o’clock. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten. I didn’t have time to go to dinner somewhere. I had work to do. And when was I going to unpack?
I raced back to the paper and stuck my head into the newsroom for a quick update. “I had a great interview with the mayor,” Alex said. “Things are coming together. This is going to sell a lot of papers.”
“Thanks,” I said, on the run and feeling like I was back in Dayton. “I’ll edit it later on tonight. Make it good!” I hurried by Iris Jo's desk to ask directions to the Taylor home and to tell her thanks again for getting the bug guy out.
“My pleasure,” she said, as though she meant it.
At five minutes after five, I pulled into the Taylor driveway, one of those neat, modest homes right on the lake, near the motel they owned. The sun was setting, leaving a beautiful glow on the horizon, but I didn’t have time to appreciate the view.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” I began apologizing from the moment Mr. Taylor walked to the door, before I said “hello” or introduced myself. I had spent so many years rushing around that this came as second nature to me, the rapid pulse, thinking up excuses for being late, trying to collect my thoughts on the fly.
“Oh, no problem, no problem at all. Come on in here where it's warm. I’m Marcus Taylor. Welcome to Green.”
“Mr. Taylor, I’m Lois Barker. It's a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for having me over this evening.”
Pearl Taylor walked in from the back of the house and gave me a small hug, something I was learning people down here in North Louisiana liked to do. “Good to see you again, Miss Lois. Have a seat.”
The house was incredibly homey. Compared to the house where my furniture now sat out on Route 2, it looked like heaven. Nothing was fancy, but it all seemed so cozy. There were similarities between the way the Lakeside Motel looked and this home. I sat on the end of an Early American style couch, and Mrs. Taylor sat on the other end. Mr. Taylor sat in an upholstered recliner that clearly was his regular seat. I got the idea that no one sat in the chair except Mr. Taylor.
Pearl wore brown knit slacks and a brown and peach shirt. Marcus had on navy blue slacks and a nice plaid long-sleeved shirt. He was about sixty with graying hair and a quick smile. I had guessed Pearl to be in her late fifties when I encountered her at the motel, and her appearance today confirmed that. Her hair was a deep brown, and she wore it swept up in the back, almost in a French twist.
“We thought we could visit for a while about the neighborhood association and then eat some supper,” Mr. Taylor said.
“We invited our daughter for supper, too,” Mrs. Taylor said. “Thought you might enjoy some younger company. And we’d like her to meet you. We hope that's okay.”
“Oh, certainly. That's great,” I said, alternating between thinking I needed to get back to the paper and it was very nice of them to have me in their home for a meal, the first people in Green to do so.
Our meeting for the next hour and a half was informative and helped put into context a lot that was going on in Green. Sometimes the couple chatted, and at other times Mr. Taylor referred to a handwritten page in a spiral notebook, stressing that he wanted to make sure he covered all his points. I could tell he was taking our conversation very seriously.
Every now and then, his wife got up and went to the kitchen “to check on our supper.” Something smelled quite good, and my stomach started to growl.
The couple had been involved in the Lakeside Neighborhood Association for nearly three decades, had helped found it when such community groups sprang up at the grassroots level everywhere. I was surprised when I found out the organization included these homes on the lake and those across the road, the rundown neighborhood known as Lakeside Annex.
“We’ve lived in this house on the lake for thirty-seven years. Hard to believe,” Mr. Taylor said. “We’ve owned the motel for nearly twenty-five. My bride here is a retired schoolteacher, and I retired from the post office. I drive a school bus these days, keep those young rowdies in line
.”
Looking at his notes, he switched gears and made a little statement. “Our association wants to make sure each neighbor is treated fairly, and this precious resource of our lake is never taken for granted. And we want to make the Lakeside Annex a better place to live, upgrade the houses, and hold landlords to property standards. With all of that in mind, we have officially opposed the Cypress Point subdivision, which would limit access to the lake, further pollute the area, and change the texture of our community.”
Pearl jumped in. “We bought our home from the Wilson family long before anyone ever thought the property was worth anything. Even though it's on the water, it sits lower than lots of local land. It's a bit swampy in the summertime.”
“Most black folks couldn’t afford to buy a house back then,” Marcus said, “but my Pearl was good with money, and we both had steady work. We were blessed. Nowadays, the tenants can’t afford this land, so they keep on renting. We don’t believe people should lose their houses over that. They ought to be able to work something out with Major and his partners.”
As though wrapping up their presentation, Mrs. Taylor stood up and smiled. “I think I hear Kevin now. We’ll have some supper, but I just want to say we hope the paper will support our position on the development. I know the McCullers are partners in it, but that doesn’t make it right.”
Another new piece of information. The Big Boys were investors in this. I wondered if they also were involved in Mossy Bend.
Marcus Taylor stood up, too. “God has given us this beauty, and we must be good stewards of it. And we must take care of the poor. That's what the Bible says.”
Just then the front door opened and a striking young woman walked in wearing a white lab coat and carrying a pretty leather purse. “Oh, Daddy,” the woman said, laughing and walking over to hug Mr. Taylor. “Are you preaching again?”
Her father returned the hug warmly, and her mother stepped up for an embrace of her own. For a moment they were a tight circle, and I was moved by their affection for one another, moved and isolated.
“You must be Lois,” the woman said. “I’m Kevin Taylor, lucky enough to be the daughter of this pair.” She winked. “And a de facto member of the Lakeside Neighborhood Association. I don’t contribute much to their group, but I sure get some good suppers out of the deal. I would shake your hand but I need to wash my hands before I pass on any more germs.”
Kevin Taylor? Kevin Taylor? Where had I heard that name? My mind went into its computer search mode, hoping the “find” function came up with something quickly. She wore a lab coat. She carried an expensive handbag. She was affiliated with the Lakeside group.
Aha! Alex had mentioned her, something about her wanting to build a house and getting turned down. Now I remembered.
“Our baby girl made a doctor and came home to Green to look after us,” her father said proudly. “We told her she should stay down in Houston or move to Atlanta or Dallas where there are more opportunities, but she insisted on coming home.”
It was clear that having his daughter home made his world immensely better, and I wished I had spent more time with my mother before she died—and that I could better remember my own father. Kidney failure killed him when I was only seven.
When Kevin surfaced, she smelled of Dove soap, had combed her hair, and shed the jacket. She was an extremely attractive woman in her late twenties or early thirties and one of the warmest people I had ever met, a woman who seemed comfortable in her own skin.
Our supper will stand forever on my list of memorable meals. We had roast beef and gravy, cooked all day in a Crock-Pot, rice, some peas Mrs. Taylor had put up last summer, and a tomato mix called “chowchow.” She had made that, too, and the bread-and-butter pickles and the biscuits.
It had been weeks since I had a home-cooked meal, and I hoped I was not making pig noises.
We opened with a lengthy blessing by Mr. Taylor, praying for everyone from the world's leaders in their quest for peace to schoolteachers and students and brotherly love. He made special mention of Kevin and her healing ministry and his two other girls and their families and then prayed that I might have wisdom as I sojourned in Green. It was a very moving prayer, although I did seriously consider sneaking a bite of biscuit to tide me over.
As we ate, Mrs. Taylor told me to call her Pearl and to call her husband Marcus. They somehow seemed a bit too distinguished for that, and so I began to call them Miss Pearl and Mr. Marcus, just like that.
Much of our conversation revolved around Kevin and me. I was curious about her name and her profession. She wanted to know about my background and how I was doing in Green. She asked the second question as though she knew the answer could go in either direction. She seemed to be asking how things were going beneath the surface, where the real action in Green happened.
Miss Pearl told the story of naming Kevin. “Her daddy already had two daughters and thought this baby was going to be his boy. He chose the name of his younger brother who had been killed in the Korean War. When Baby Girl Number Three arrived, he was not to be swayed.” At this point, Mr. Marcus jumped in. “Besides, I figured this surprise gal was going to do something special with her life and having a man's name couldn’t hurt a bit.”
Kevin laughed during much of the story, saying it had certainly made life interesting. “I am on some pretty wild mailing lists,” she said, “ranging from Viagra advertisements to Playboy subscription offers. You just wouldn’t believe what can happen when people think you’re a man.”
“So you have a private practice here?” I asked.
“I’m in a two-person family practice office with a physician who wants to retire in a year or two. He needed a partner badly, and not that many young docs want to move to towns like Green. I’ve been back for almost two years. You should see what happens when new patients walk in.” But she told the story without a trace of bitterness, as though she understood she was a different kind of doctor for this little town.
Part of what made that meal so good was the food, part was the talk, sitting around a table in a real home, visiting, laughing. The business of the association had been temporarily set aside, and I was there as a newcomer to town, someone who needed a warm welcome during this cool season. I did not want to leave. This was the first place I had felt comfortable in quite a few days.
After supper, we moved back into the living room for coffee and a frozen pound cake that Miss Pearl had heated, apologizing she didn’t have a fresh one for us. As we chatted, the talk turned again to the neighborhood association. I asked Kevin about her house-building experience, and she wrinkled up her face.
“Do we really want to go over that story?” she asked. “It's sort of old news to me.”
“If you wouldn’t mind …” my voice trailed off, and then I started again. “It would help me gain perspective on what's going on. I’m trying to learn as much as I can about the community.”
For ten minutes or so, Kevin told about moving back to Green, living with her parents for a few months, and choosing a place to live. “I finally had some money to spend after med school, and I wanted something nice. I guess if I admit it, I wanted people to know I was doing just fine.”
The first house she tried to buy was in Mossy Bend, a town-house right on the water. She went through an open house one Sunday and made an offer on Monday. The owner turned her down flat. So on Tuesday she met his price, determined to have that house.
“The next day he took it off the market,” she said, twisting her face up again. “Said his sister and brother-in-law were moving back to town in a few months and were going to live there.”
“The house sat vacant for several months and then went back on the market and sold to a young white couple. It was pretty clear Mossy Bend wasn’t ready for people like us,” Marcus Taylor said.
“Now, Daddy, we don’t know that,” Kevin said, but she reached out and patted his leg.
“Then I decided to build a house, over near the motel, on some pr
operty Mama and Daddy own. I hired an architect and adapted plans for one of those great houses that sit up on stilts. But the zoning commission wouldn’t approve my plans. Said it was too close to the lake, and drainage wasn’t adequate. I redid the plans and pushed the house site back. They turned me down again. Now six months later they plan to build a whole slew of houses like that, in almost the same place.”
She smiled, but her words had taken on a little bite. “Now I rent a house across the street in the black part of town,” she said, emphasizing the last words. “It only has one bathroom and no central heat or air, but the neighbors don’t mind having me. And I sure am saving a lot of money.”
“But that's wrong,” I said. “That's blatant discrimination. How can they get away with that?”
“Things have been done a certain way in Green for many years,” her father said.
“I know something will open up,” Kevin said, shrugging. “These things have a way of working out when the time is right.”
Suddenly the Taylor house didn’t seem so cozy. I needed to get back to the newspaper and work on the mayor's retirement story with Alex.
10
Red carcasses fill pails next to the picnic benches at the home
of Mayor Oscar Myers. “This is what I live for,” the ninety-
two-year-old mayor said, ripping the head off a crawfish.
“Mudbug season is here, and every year we invite the entire
neighborhood. This year it's bigger and better than ever.”
—The Green News-Item
While my early days in Green seemed to crawl by, the next couple of months flew. It was as though someone had taken my life off slow motion and put it on fast forward. My mind was jammed so full of new information that I didn’t know what to do. I practically lived at the newspaper office.
Gone to Green (Green (Abingdon Press)) Page 8
