The Road to Memphis (14 page)

Jeremy stood aside and said nothing. Leon and Troy laughed, then Troy knocked his knuckles against Clarence’s head too. “Well . . . it sure ’nough hard!” And then all the gray men and the Aames boys burst into raucous laughter. Clarence didn’t react. He just stood stock-still.

“Well, what you think, Leon?” called Statler. “Come on over here and see what you think ’bout this nigger, whether or not he got the hard head.”

Leon, though, objected. “I ain’t touchin’ no nigger’s greasy head.”

“Shoot, boy, don’t mind that! Papa always told me it bring good luck to rub a nigger’s head. Don’t you know that, boy?”

Leon shrugged and gave it a try. Clarence clutched the flat cap in his hand. Jeremy looked on soberly, then turned and started off the porch. Statler called after him. “’Ey, Jeremy! You could do with some good luck, can’t ya, now? Come on, give a feel.”

Jeremy glanced back. “I gotta see ’bout my truck.”

“You rub this black nigger’s head, you won’t have to worry ’bout your truck. Maybe you’ll come into a new one.”

Jeremy shook his head and went on down the street toward the Dueeze Garage. As he walked away one of the old gray men called Clarence over. When Clarence didn’t move, Statler ordered, “Go on ’round there, nigger! Just ’cause Mr. Jeremy don’t want no good luck don’t mean Mr. Bowater don’t. Go on! Let Mr. Bowater feel your head, boy!”

Clarence, his head bowed in humiliation, still didn’t move. His eyes were downcast, looking at no one.

“You hear me, boy?” questioned Statler. “You move when I speak to you!”

Clarence looked up. He was bigger than Statler. He was bigger than Leon and Troy. He could have taken any one of them on and whipped the mess out of him. But he couldn’t whip the mess out of all three of them. He couldn’t even whip the mess out of one of them and expect to sleep well tonight. He could never expect to hit a white man and sleep well.

“Don’t you be eyeballing me, boy,” Statler warned, “’cause we gonna get us some luck outa you. Now, go on, do like I say and get on there to Mr. Bowater.”

I looked on, hoping Clarence would knock him flat; but I knew he could never do that.

“Watch yourself, son,” Little Willie murmured. “Watch yourself.”

Clarence looked around, almost as if he had heard. I stepped forward, but Little Willie slipped his hand tightly over my wrist and stopped me. He knew as well as I did that there was nothing we could do. If we started something,
they
would finish it. We couldn’t win, not against white folks. They did what they wanted, and there was no sense in starting up trouble just about a little ridicule. A little ridicule wasn’t supposed to hurt. But it did. It sliced like a knife.

“Boy!” commanded Statler.

Clarence moved slowly toward the bench and Mr. Bowater Jones. Just then Moe came out of the mercantile. As he stepped onto the porch he saw Clarence with his hat in his hands and his head bent, and he said, “Clarence . . . come on.”

“We got business with him,” said Statler Aames.

Moe glanced across the street at us, at me, then he turned back. “Cl-Clarence?”

Statler Aames now turned his attention to Moe. “Nigger, you hard of hearing? Ain’t I just done said we got business with this boy?”

Moe seemed unable to speak. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Statler Aames started toward Moe now. Moe didn’t move.

“Moe Turner! Clarence Hopkins!”

Statler stopped and looked across the street. Everybody looked. Standing on his office steps was Mr. Wade Jamison. Stacey stood beside him.

“Clarence!” Mr. Jamison said again. “Would you come over, please? I’d like to see you. You too, Moe.”

Clarence, uncertain what to do, looked around at Statler, Leon and Troy, and the old gray men. Moe, keeping his eyes on Statler, moved slowly down the steps.

“Clarence! Moe! Now, please!”

At the second summons Clarence moved quickly and followed Moe into the street. Statler, Leon, Troy, and the others watched them go and didn’t try to stop them. They didn’t say a word. Mr. Wade Jamison, after all, was a formidable figure and, despite everything, one of their own. In the past there had been those who had retaliated against Mr. Jamison’s liberal ways by burning out his office late one night, but he had survived. He seemed always to survive. Now they weren’t about to go against him in broad daylight. If they did anything at all, it would be under the cover of darkness. That was their way.

Moe and Clarence went and spoke to Mr. Jamison, then Clarence went back inside the office with Stacey. Mr. Jamison remained standing on the porch. Moe came back to the car and said, “Let’s go on to the garage. Clarence and Stacey’ll be down in a bit.”

Little Willie, Oliver, and I didn’t question Moe. We just got into the Ford with Little Willie at the wheel and headed for the Dueeze Garage.

“That sure was a lowdown thing they did to Clarence,” I said as we drove down the street.

“Just be thankful they ain’t done no more,” said Willie. “’Sides, nothin’ to be done ’bout it, Cassie. They do what they want.”

“Still lowdown. Wish Clarence had knocked them out.”

“No, you don’t,” said Moe and looked out the window. “No, you don’t.” I sighed and looked away.

The main street of Strawberry was only three blocks long.
The Dueeze Garage at the other end was at the town’s outskirts. Upon reaching the garage, the pavement ended, and just beyond the garage the forest sprang up. As we drove onto the lot, we saw the Simmses’ pickup truck parked in front of the garage alongside Mr. Dueeze’s car and another truck. Jeremy was on the back of his truck, arranging a load. He glanced over but said nothing. Neither did we. We saw no one else. The doors to the garage were open, but no one was inside. “Looks like we gonna hafta go on ’round back to get Mr. Dueeze,” said Willie, parking the car at the far end of the lot, some distance from the pickups.

When we got out of the car, Oliver took the jack from the trunk and placed it in position. The hub cap was jammed in tight. Moe took out the crowbar and pried it off, then Oliver slipped off the tire. It was then that Little Willie noticed that the spare looked as if it could use a patch job too. Taking the tire that had just come off the Ford and the spare from the trunk, he and Oliver went around to the back of the garage to look for Mr. Dueeze. Moe and I stayed by the car.

Moe, still holding the crowbar, walked around the car checking the other tires. I started to lean against the car, then straightened and stared down the street toward town. I didn’t believe what I saw. “Can’t be,” I said.

Moe glanced over. “What is it?”

“That truck coming . . . isn’t that Harris’s old truck?”

Moe stared at the beat up vehicle coming our way and smiled. “Sure looks enough like it.”

“Well, what’s he doing here?”

As the truck drew closer we could see Harris at the wheel with Sissy beside him and Christopher-John and Little Man riding in back. We left the Ford and walked toward the road. The old truck sputtered to a stop in front of us,
and Sissy jumped out. “Where’s Clarence?” she demanded. “Cassie—”

I left her to Moe and went around to the back. “Christopher-John, Man, what y’all doing here? Papa and Mama know y’all in Strawberry?”

“Nope!” said Little Man, jumping down and brushing himself off.

“Well, what you doing here?”

“We were with Harris when Sissy got to hollering at him about coming into town to see about Clarence leaving her the way he did.” He grinned. “Look like it was going to be too good to miss.”

“I imagine that punishment that’ll be waiting for y’all won’t be too good to miss either,” I pointed out. Little Man shrugged off the probability.

“I told him we ought not come,” complained Christopher-John as he, too, got down.

“Well, too late now,” I said.

They glanced over at Jeremy, who met their eyes and turned away without a word as he went on loading his truck. Then they noticed the Ford all jacked up and Little Man asked, “What happened to the car?”

“Bad tire,” I said. “Oliver and Little Willie inside getting it and the spare fixed.”

“Oh,” they said and went over to inspect. Harris got out of the truck and hobbled over as well.

Sissy’s voice rose impatiently. “Y’all gonna tell me or not? Where Clarence at?”

“He’s with Stacey,” said Moe.

“Well, where?”

“There, over at—” Moe didn’t finish. His eyes were on the road. Another truck was coming toward the garage.

“Oh, goodness,” I murmured. “Statler Aames.”

But Sissy wasn’t caring about Statler Aames at the moment. All she was concerned about right now was Clarence. “Moe! Where is he?”

“Hush, girl,” I said as the truck turned onto the garage lot and parked alongside the pickup next to Jeremy’s. Over at the Ford, Harris’s eyes grew big. He limped back toward us and his truck.

“’Ey, Cousin!” exclaimed Statler, getting out with Leon and Troy. They walked toward Jeremy’s truck. “Uncle Charlie here?”

Jeremy picked up a feed bag and stacked it against the cab. “Yeah, in back there. We gotta make a run up to Bogganville and take Mr. George Goods a load. Been having a bit of trouble with this clutch, though. Had to get Mr. Dueeze to take a look at it. Just hoping we don’t have no more trouble with it ’fore we get back.”

“S-Sissy, c-come on,” hissed Harris, his eyes on Statler. “Come on, let’s get on ’way from here!”

“Not till I find out ’bout Clarence,” insisted Sissy stubbornly.

“B-but, Sissy—”

Statler turned and looked at us, and Harris froze. “What you need, Jeremy, to keep this here truck running is some good luck,” said Statler. “Like I told ya, maybe what you need to do is knock on a few heads here!” He squinted at Moe, as if trying to place him. Then he smiled in full recognition. “Ain’t you the boy messed with our getting ourselves some luck with that soldier boy?”

Moe didn’t answer.

Statler came toward us. There was a look of mock uncertainty
in his eyes. He stopped in front of Moe and studied him some more. “Yeah,” he said, as if now certain. “Yeah, you the one. Well, now, seeing you the one done stopped us from getting all our good luck before, seem like to me you need to do something ’bout that. Don’t you figure that’s only right?”

Moe’s jaw slackened, and he looked at me. His grip tightened on the crowbar.

“Unh-unh, boy! Don’t you be looking at Cassie when I’m talking to ya! You owe me some luck, and I’m planning on getting it. Get that hat off!” he ordered, but he gave Moe no time to react before he knocked the hat off himself.

Moe gazed at him with a fierce look.

“Nigger, don’t you eyeball me! Now, you pick it up!”

Moe didn’t move.

“Nigger, I said pick up that hat!”

The stiffness went out of Moe, and he bent to obey. At that moment Troy moved in close and goosed him, and Leon knocked on his head. Moe jumped back without retrieving the hat.

Leon laughed. “He got the hard head, too, Stat. You the one figure rubbing a nigger’s head bring good luck, come rub his.”

Statler grinned. “Yeah, you must got a powerful lotta luck in you, boy, you courtin’ a gal like Cassie Logan here. Put that head on down, boy, let me get a good feel at it. Who knows?” he said, reaching for Moe’s head. “Maybe I get lucky with Cassie myself—”

Suddenly the anger in Moe burst forth like a thunderstorm. He knocked Statler’s arm away with the tire iron, then smashed it full force into Statler’s side.

“What the—” screamed Statler as he fell to his knees.

“Nigger, you gone mad?” cried Leon as Statler held his side in shock. “What done got into you?”

“Y’all get holda him!” ordered Statler. “Y’all get hold of him now!”

Leon and Troy moved cautiously toward Moe as the rest of us just stood there stunned, watching. “Now, boy, put that iron down ’fore you get into more trouble,” warned Troy. “You put it down right now!” Moe stepped back, holding tightly to the crowbar.

“I said, get hold of him!” hollered Statler, and both Leon and Troy rushed at Moe, who swung the crowbar as hard as he could. As Troy came at him Moe laid the crowbar upside his head. Leon came at him, and he smashed the crowbar into his chest. Both brothers went down.

It was all over in a matter of seconds.

Troy, his head bleeding, lay prone on the ground. So did Leon. Statler knelt, holding his side, staring icily at Moe but was unable to rise. Moe, as if in a dream, stood frozen, gazing at Statler and his brothers, as if he had had no part in what had just happened. The rest of us stood frozen too. Then we heard shouting and came back to ourselves. Someone was coming.

Moe looked around wildly and threw down the bloody crowbar. Then he turned to Harris, who had already gotten into his truck. Moe took a step toward Harris, but Harris hollered: “Naw, naw, they get me! Like that night on the Rosa Lee! Like that night on the Rosa Lee!” Then he rammed the gas pedal and tore away, up the road, out of the town, leaving Moe and Sissy, too, behind.

“Harris!” called Sissy. “Harris, come back here!” But Harris didn’t stop.

Moe turned frantically, searching for a place to hide. But there was no place. There was no escaping in the Ford; it had no tire. There was no place to run either. Then Moe saw Jeremy standing on his truck, staring down at him. Jeremy had seen the whole thing. A moment passed, and their eyes remained fixed on each other. Then, without a word being spoken, a decision was made. Jeremy nodded and motioned Moe onto the truck. Moe glanced around, his eyes meeting mine, then quickly climbed on. Statler, Leon, and Troy, lying on the ground, did not see. Leon and Troy were both out; Statler, looking dazed, faced away from Jeremy’s truck. Jeremy threw the tarpaulin over Moe and jumped down just as Mr. J. D. Dueeze and his wife came running from the garage with Mr. Charlie Simms. Oliver and Little Willie came running too.

“Lord! Lord have mercy!” screamed Mrs. Dueeze. “Lord have mercy! What happened here?”

Mr. Simms took one look at us standing there and accused us. “Y’all dirty, filthy niggers! I’ll see y’all hung for this!”

“Naw, Pa, ya wrong!” cried Jeremy, hurrying over to see about Leon. “They ain’t done nothin’! They ain’t touched ’em!”