Nobody Said Amen (6 page)

“You shouldn’t ask that of a Washington reporter. So your quote is that there is no trouble to report?”

“That’s right. You can quote me. Mayor Roland Burroughs says there is no trouble in Shiloh, and we’re not going to stand for any bein’ brought here. Our Nigras are good people. We know them and they know us. There’s nothin’ these beatnik Freedom Riders can give them. They’re happy folks, Mendelsohn. And they sure as hell don’t want any trouble with the whites who they’re going to have to get along with after the beatniks go home. What are they doing down here, anyway?”

“They’re starting Freedom Schools to teach American history and black history and trying to register black voters.”

“Freedom Schools? Why, hell, we’re spendin’ more money on the Nigra education in Magnolia County than in the white schools!”

Mendelsohn hiked back in his chair and looked at him. “You believe that, Mayor Burroughs?’

“Sure I believe it. Everybody down here knows that.”

“Same folks who believe that Negroes are voting in Mississippi?”

“Damn straight! We’ve had Nigras voting in Shiloh for thirty-five years. Go ask your friend Senator Tildon. All his Nigras vote! Nigras who’ve voted all these years are fine folks. And we respect them. They know that these outside agitators are just stirring up trouble. Why, they’re embarrassed that white girls are sleepin’ over there in the Sanctified Quarter!” He rose abruptly and strode to the office door as the reporter gathered his notes and followed him. “There’s never any trouble from the Nigras in Shiloh, Mendelsohn. Tell your Jew magazine that.”

Mendelsohn met his eyes. “I’ll do that. And I can quote you on that?”

“Yeah, Lieutenant. B.U.R.R.O.U.G.H.S”

Jimmy Mack crossed the highway and followed a small tractor lane that led on to the Claybourne plantation, his mind filled with the images of last night at Sojourner Chapel, hearing still the crashing of glass, his thoughts racing to spread the word about the next meeting on Sunday. Urgent that the volunteers really get to know the community, and the folks get to know these white kids. Long as they’re here, everybody in Sanctified Quarter is open to the kind of violence that happened at Sojourner.

The path dipped through a stand of pine into a hollow where a tractor had gotten mired in the brackish water of a swamp. As he moved to circle the tractor, a large white man crawled out of the brush carrying a heavy chain that he had attached to a tree. Startled, Jimmy stopped abruptly, recognized the man, and stepped forward.

“Mr. Claybourne!”

The tall, heavyset man dropped the heavy chain and turned to stare at the intruder. “Yeah. I’m Claybourne. But who are you? And what in hell are you doing out here on my spread?”

“I’m Jimmy Mack, Mr. Claybourne. Nephew to Justin and Lottie Mack? Your tenants? Don’t suppose you’d remember me, but I used to pick here when I was still living in Shiloh.”

Claybourne leaned back on the crippled tractor, wiping his greasy hands on a rag, studying the young black. “No. I don’t remember you. Justin and Lottie are kin?”

“Yes, sir. Aunt and uncle. First time I met you was when you carried my aunt to the hospital over in Mound Bayou in ’59. I think it probably saved her life. Her appendix had burst when she was hauling a full bag to the weighing machine. They said you picked her up in your arms and toted her to the car. They still talk about it. I met you when you came to the house to see how my aunt was makin’ it.”

Claybourne smiled for the first time. “You remember that? They’re good folks, Lottie and Justin. Been working for the Claybourne place since I was a kid. You comin’ to visit?”

“Hope to. Like to see them again and meet some of their friends out here on the place.”

Claybourne’s eyes were suddenly attentive. “Why’d you want to do that, boy?”

Jimmy cleared his throat. “We’re havin’ a meeting over in the Sanctified Quarter on Sunday afternoon, right after Vespers. I want to tell them about it, urge them to come.”

Claybourne stood up, his hands on his hips. His voice was soft. “You a preacher, Jimmy?”

“No, sir. Hopin’ to get to college soon. But, no, sir. Not a preacher.”

“So it ain’t a church meetin’.” His voice rose and he stepped toward the young black. “Jesus, boy, are you one of those Freedom Riders? That kind of meetin’?”

Jimmy licked his lips, his mouth feeling suddenly dry. “It’s just a meetin’ to talk about voting, Mr. Claybourne.”

“You mean a Communist meetin’.”

“No, sir.” He stopped in mid-sentence as three black field workers came over the rise, halting in surprise.

Claybourne’s voice rose. “You want my workers to go to a Communist meeting!”

“No, sir. Not a Communist meeting, Mr. Claybourne. Only about five percent of the Negroes here in the Delta have ever voted.” His eyes moved to the three field workers. “Some of us think it’s time they did.”

Eyes averted, the men hurried past them now, nodding briefly to Claybourne.

“Some of you do, huh? Well, boy, you’ve got five minutes to get your black ass off my property. And those five minutes are a gift from Justin and Lottie. After five minutes I’m ringing up the Highway Patrol and reporting I’ve got an agitator here who’s disturbin’ my tenants. You don’t want to be here when they arrive.”

Jimmy Mack looked calmly at the furious man. “Do you figure that my leavin’ is gonna keep these folks from voting, Mr. Claybourne? Things have been changin’ since I got back from Korea. Lot of my buddies comin’ back want a piece of the action. They think they paid some dues. This voting thing is happening all over the South, not just in Shiloh.”

Claybourne thrust a thick finger against Jimmy’s chest. “It ain’t happening here, boy. Any of my Negroes go down to get registered will find their belongings out on the highway. Goes for Justin. Goes for Lottie. Goes for all of ’em. That’s a promise you can repeat over at the Sanctified Quarter.” He pulled a pocket watch from his jeans. “And you’ve got just three minutes left.”

Ted was talking with Jimmy Mack on the porch of the Freedom House when the old roadster pulled into the yard. The Model A Ford was packed solid. Three young men from the front and two from the rumble seat exited the car and stood uneasily, surveying the old farmhouse. Jimmy stepped into the yard and approached the group.

“Hi,” he said, “Can I help you?”

A lanky redhead moved forward. “This was the old Wheeler farm when I was growing up. Is this what’s called the Shiloh Freedom House now?”

“Yeah,” said Jimmy. “That’s our outside name for it. Inside, it’s still the old Wheeler farmhouse.” He half-smiled, “but with books.”

Ted joined Jimmy, squinting at the redhead. “Sorry, but don’t I know you?”

The redhead grinned. “Yeah, Mr. Mendelsohn. I’m Timmy Kilbrew, Senator Tildon’s summer intern last year. I met you twice when you came to interview the senator.”

Mendelsohn laughed. “Of course! We even had lunch together once in the Senate dining room. If I remember right, your grandfather was visiting the senator and joined us.”

“Grandfather Oscar was a fraternity brother of the senator at Ole Miss back in 1920. He’s still with us. Pretty much retired but still active.”

“In politics like the senator?”

“No. Just on the board of his church.”

Mendelsohn said, “I’m glad to see you again, Kilbrew. Do you live in Shiloh?”

“Not according to my mother! I’m in my senior year at Millsaps College, and I don’t get home much. In another week I’ll be back in Washington working with the senator.” His gaze moved to the blacks clustered over books in the yard, then back to the reporter. “I didn’t know you ever left Washington, Mr. Mendelsohn. Are you on assignment?”

Ted said, “I’m covering the students who came down on the voting rights drive.” He looked at the restless young men behind Kilbrew. “I guess you and your buddies are not part of the movement.”

Kilbrew wrinkled his nose and stared at the farmhouse. “Certainly not.” He nodded at the others. “We’re all from Millsaps. We were just wondering who was living here and decided to drive over to see.”

Jimmy said, “Why don’t you get out of the sun and sit down on the porch?” His voice was careful. “We don’t often have the chance to welcome white visitors. They’re usually in a hurry to leave.”

Timmy Kilbrew led the group to the shady porch. They stood, nervously scrutinizing the students in the yard and the piles of books on the porch, continuing their restless vigil even after Kilbrew settled on the top step. “We had questions and thought we’d come to the source for answers. Reading the papers about you doesn’t help a lot. Are you really a Communist conspiracy like it says in the Clarion?”

Jimmy suppressed a smile. “Kind of a shabby place to have a Communist conspiracy. Not at what we’re getting paid!” For the first time the young men laughed, and settled on the porch steps.

Kilbrew’s eyes swept the gaggle of kids in the yard. “So, what are you hoping to do in Shiloh?”

“We spend most of our time talking with the families we’re living with,” said Jimmy, “trying to convince them that they have the right to vote down here. You have questions, Kilbrew? Ask away. We’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“Senator Tildon is leading the fight against the Voting Rights Bill and our group thinks that he’s doing a hell of a job, protecting the states’ rights to determine who should vote.” Kilbrew gazed steadily at Jimmy. “It’s fair to say we resent people who don’t live here who come down and tell us how to live differently.”

Jimmy said, “I’m sure that’s true. Feelings run pretty deep, on both sides of the highway.” He met Kilbrew’s unblinking eyes. “About six hundred thousand Americans died arguing about that. But we didn’t come all the way down here to fight the Civil War all over again.”

Kilbrew pressed forward. “To a lot of the folks here, your coming down, acting high and mighty, feels a lot like an occupation we remember very vividly. It’s humiliating. And we’re not about to sit still for it.”

Mendelsohn looked quizzically at Timmy Kilbrew. “Didn’t think you were old enough to remember the occupation, Timmy. But that’s your prerogative. That’s what the courts are for. That’s what the laws are for. That’s the system we all established, and the Constitution we ratified. That’s what brought me out of Washington.”

“I’m old enough, Mendelsohn,” Kilbrew said, his voice rising, “to recognize that you’re down here covering only one side of the argument.”

“That’s not so,” said Ted. “I’m a journalist. I get paid to do this. So I’m reporting about Negro Americans who are trying to achieve equality of the franchise, and honestly telling about the obstacles they have to overcome. The people have a right to know that.”

“That’s crap!” Kilbrew was clearly aggrieved. “Then the people ought to be told that white Mississippians are daily being portrayed as savages and brutes who hate black people because they object to race mixing. There’s never a word about kindness and generosity by the white community.”

Ted nodded. “That may be so, but the headlines are more likely to be about three nonviolent students who have disappeared and are probably dead. Or about the Sojourner Chapel which was attacked while I watched, by violent men hurling Coke bottles at the black parishioners.”

Jimmy studied the faces of the Millsaps students, “Can you guys justify that violence?”

“Of course not!” snapped Timmy Kilbrew. “We believe in law and order, same as you. People who commit crimes should be held responsible. You may think of us as a lynch mob, but you’re wrong. We just know from our history that the state is a better vehicle to provide law and order than a detached federal bureaucracy. We have our traditions and we respect them. We know our people and trust them to elect candidates who share those beliefs. Those are the people who vote in Mississippi.”

“The people who vote in Mississippi,” said Jimmy in a cool voice. “The people who have been allowed to vote in Mississippi.”

Kilbrew turned to Ted. “Mr. Mendelsohn, you know that I work for a senator who has committed his whole public career to keeping the federal government off our backs. He believes that saving this state’s integrity is a public trust.”

Ted nodded. “That’s Senator Tildon.” He stood and walked with the students to their car. “So you believe that only white Americans should vote in our elections, Timmy?”

“No,” said Kilbrew. “Just Americans who share our values.” He climbed into the driver’s seat and extended his hand to Mendelsohn. “I remember the old Wheeler farm very fondly,” he said, starting up the Ford. “It was a friendly place. I’ll tell Grandfather Oscar that I saw you at the Freedom House.”

The rooster outside Mendelsohn’s window had startled him awake at sunrise, so Rennie’s call from the bedroom door came as he was already dressing. “Somebody been messing with your car I think, Ted. I couldn’t see, it was before sun up. When I went to the window, wasn’t nobody there. But I heard somethin’.”

Mendelsohn went outside and gingerly inspected the Chevy, flinching as he inched up the dusty hood and explored with his fingers under the dash. Rennie was watching from the window, so he waved reassuringly and then eased down, sliding under the car. Explosives? What the hell did he know about explosives? Nothing. And unless they were labeled EXPLOSIVES he’d probably not know them when he saw them. He crawled back into the driver’s seat and stared at the ignition key, willing himself to turn on the motor. When he closed his eyes and turned the key, the Chevy purred to life. He was wringing wet and grinning with relief when he stepped from the car. Rennie and Sharon were smiling and waving from the house. And then he saw the slashed rear tire. With a sigh, the car tilted, the last air finally escaping. By the time he’d jacked up the car and removed the damaged wheel, he was greasy and dripping with sweat.

“No place to go except Kilbrew’s,” Rennie said. “Not that they’ll be any help. Next place is seven miles away, up in Ruleville.”

He left the Williams yard, pushing the damaged wheel before him. At the Sojourner Chapel he paused for breath and then headed across Highway 49 to the Kilbrew Gas and Auto Repair. “Anybody here? Hello!”