Nobody Said Amen (8 page)

Kilbrew turned to Luther. “You hear that, old buddy? Reporter here says that niggers are tryin’ to register to vote.”

Luther grinned. “Naw. Sure haven’t heard about no niggers here tryin’ to vote, BJ. You sure you mean Shiloh?”

Mendelsohn turned to Kilbrew. “Were you able to patch the tube?”

“Yeah. Em said you was lookin’ for a little Christian charity, so me and Luther here fixed the tube and replaced the tire. Hope your magazine’s payin’ for your little accident. Not really charity, but it was the Christian thing to do. Comes to fifty-six fifty. Cash. Tire’s just inside the door of the garage. Luther’ll show you where.”

Mendelsohn took bills from his wallet and fished two quarters from his jeans. “I’m mighty grateful, Mr. Kilbrew.” He placed the money on the desk. “About that accident to the tire.” He looked at Luther and then at Kilbrew. “I’ve been driving for almost thirty years, and never saw a tire get into that condition. Either of you got any idea how that could happen?”

Kilbrew sat motionless, looking up at the reporter. “Yeah, I got a good idea.” His tall, lanky body unfolded from his chair and he picked up the tire iron as he stood. “Luther tells me you’re stayin’ with Deacon Williams, over in the Quarter?” His large hand holding the iron pointed toward the highway. “Accidents happen all the time over there in nigger-town. It’s a dangerous place for outsiders who don’t know about how to avoid accidents, not bein’ from nigger-town. Probably not too bright of Deacon Williams puttin’ you up there, where these kind of accidents can happen. Some people ’round here, Luther for instance, and me, just don’t understand why a good old Christian man who never had an accident before would do that for a Communist. Take that kind of chance. Got any idea how that could happen?”

Half-smiling, the reporter nodded. “Yeah, I got a good idea.” He picked up an empty beer bottle that rested on the edge of Kilbrew’s desk. Holding it by its neck, he patted his other hand. “Still had one bottle left, Mr. Kilbrew? If you got to ask the question how come Deacon Williams took me in, I guess you wouldn’t understand the answer.” His smile disappeared. “But you ought to understand this, Mr. Kilbrew. The FBI knows about my tire, and they know all about the attack on the Sojourner Chapel because I told them. It’s the kind of work a good reporter does. And they know that my magazine is worried about the continued good health of Deacon Percy Williams who lives at number 17 on Mulberry Lane in Shiloh. I made sure they got it right.” He repeated the words slowly. “17 Mulberry Lane. Your Senator Tildon is eager to have our magazine’s understanding, if not always its support, come election time. He sure wouldn’t appreciate anything embarrassing happening in his hometown of Shiloh this summer. So let’s hope that there won’t be any more accidents.” He stepped around Luther and tossed the bottle into the empty beer case near the door. It bounced but remained intact. “They don’t break too easy, do they? I guess you really have to throw ’em hard. You don’t have to come with me, Luther. I’m sure I can find the tire.” He nodded to Kilbrew. “Remember to thank your sister for me.”

Deeply troubled by the naked confrontation, Mendelsohn headed directly to the Freedom House, eager to share his concerns. Dale and Jimmy met him as he crossed the porch.

“What’s happening, brother?” Dale asked. “You look unhappy.”

“I just got my wheels back from Kilbrew and I think everybody in Sanctified Quarter ought to expect trouble. Those are mean bastards. The Coke bottles don’t mean anything. They want us gone. Period.”

Dale nodded. “Those guys play hardball. I’ll pass the word through the Quarter and call down to headquarters at Jackson.”

“I called the FBI and filled them in about the attack on Sojourner. I didn’t get the impression that they were going to do anything but ‘investigate.’”

“We all could be long gone by the time Hoover’s guys move on any of this,” said Dale. “I think you should lay it all out for Dennis Haley, the sheriff, Jimmy. This is his turf. He ought to know that we expect violence when we have our organizing meeting. And Mendelsohn ought to go with you. The man from
Newsweek
.” He grinned. “That’s going to get the sheriff’s attention.”

Jimmy said, “Call him, Dale. Tell Haley that Mendelsohn and I want to see him and that it’s urgent, even make it this afternoon. We can get some lunch at Billy’s Chili before we go.” He chuckled. “Wait till you meet Billy, Ted. He’s tough, he’s smart and he gives the Shiloh cops nothing but grief.”

Mendelsohn settled into the uncomfortable booth at Billy’s Chili with Dale and Jimmy. Billy, who had fought during the war in the battle for Anzio with a colored Sea Bee construction group, left two fingers of his left hand on Anzio beach. Now he pulled three beers from his ancient fridge and banged them on the table. “Law says I gotta serve these brothers,” he said, “but don’t say nothin ’bout I have to serve you. However, since you seem to be a kindly old white person who is a friend of these niggers, you may have a cold beer also. What you-all doin’ this close to downtown?”

“They going to see the sheriff man, Dangerous Dennis Haley. All things to all people is Dennis,” said Dale. “But you and I can just relax, Billy, and enjoy your Pilsner.”

Billy brought a fourth bottle to the table, studying Jimmy with curiosity. “Why you do that, James? You lose a bet or somethin’?”

Jimmy laughed. “No, I don’t owe the sheriff nothin’, and he owes me, but he won’t admit it. So I’m just taking our Wandering Jew reporter to make his presence known before the mass meeting. Figure it couldn’t hurt.”

“Power of the press, Billy,” Ted said, and raised his glass. “To the press! Awesome in its potential but usually lousing up in performance. I invited myself to come.”

Billy lazily surveyed the empty room then watched as a police car drove slowly by, paused, and eased back. When Billy jovially waved, the cruiser squealed its wheels and sped away. He chuckled. “Those meat-heads been embarrassed by my cordiality since I got back from Italy in ’45. Since I saw the real racial Supermen penned up like sick pigs on our beachhead, I was just never able to be a-feared of these local Supermen. Gives ’em aches and pains every time I smile and wave. Here, piggy, piggy, piggy!”

Jimmy emptied his glass and untangled himself from the booth. “Time we go make nice to the sheriff, Ted.”

Ted put some bills on the table. “Thanks, Billy. Any messages?” Billy nodded. “Yeah, Tell him his Supermen got no manners. They never wave back.”

Mrs. Skinner, the secretary, stood awkwardly in the entrance to the sheriff’s office. “They’re here, Sheriff Haley.” She looked anxiously at her notes. “The New York reporter, Mendelsohn?” She frowned, checking her message. “And that Nigra organizer, Mack, Jimmy Mack.”

“Well, send them in, Hilda.” Haley smiled at her discomfort. “Not armed, are they?” When he noted her wide-eyed concern, he said. “Not to worry Hilda. Assassins don’t make appointments first.”

With affection, he watched her scuttle back to her office where Jimmy and Mendelsohn waited. He settled back in his chair at his desk. Hilda Skinner. She’d been with him at Shiloh High in ’39 when he was coaching the football team and she was leader of the Pep Squad. And when he got back from the Pacific and got elected sheriff, she’d been the first one he hired. He chuckled, remembering how many years it took before she stopped calling him “coach.”

Jimmy Mack in his dark glasses entered and Mendelsohn followed. “Come on in and sit down,” said Haley. “Mrs. Skinner told me you had called and wanted to meet. Seemed like a good idea because Mack and I have seen each other about everywhere in Shiloh and we haven’t spoken before.” He turned to face the reporter. “You must be Mendelsohn, from New York.
Newsweek
? Why don’t you tell me what you have in mind?”

“Not me,” Ted said. “I think that you should be talking with Mr. Mack. He’s the one with questions. I’m just a reporter.”

Haley reddened, noting the rebuke, but nodded. “Mack?”

“I’m director of the Shiloh group that came here to help Negroes organize to get the vote, part of SNCC. I’ve come because I think the non-violent volunteers I brought here are going to be violently harassed at our first countywide organizing meeting. I’m hoping that you can help us avoid that.”

“Have you been harassed down here, Mack? I’m very aware of what you’ve been doing, and I haven’t observed any problems.”

Mack took off his sunglasses and put his hands on the edge of the desk. “Yeah, Sheriff. I’ve observed problems.” His voice was chill. “Last night our Sojourner Chapel was attacked by white men who threw Coca-Cola bottles that smashed the entrance of the church as Shiloh citizens were leaving a peaceful meeting. I watched the attackers’ cars return to the Kilbrew station. When I confronted Kilbrew about the attack, he was threatening. We’re about to have our first open-to-the-public organizing meeting, and we expect real trouble. Three of our SNCC workers have disappeared.” He halted. “That’s why we’re here, asking for your help.”

Haley remained silent, studying the two men before him. “It’s right you came here. Violence in Magnolia County is not going to be tolerated, and this office is going to see that Magnolia remains peaceful. But I can’t keep my eye on every redneck who is unhappy.” He rose from his chair and went to a green file case in the corner, extracted several manila folders, and laid them on the desk. “These are letters sent to the mayor, by Shiloh citizens who are not violent. They’re solid citizens, old families, complaining about your agitators invading their property and stirring up trouble with their Nigras. They want something done about it.” He resumed his seat behind the desk. “The mayor was good enough to share them with his sheriff,” he said, his voice chilly. “There’s an election coming up this fall.”

“Agitators?” Jimmy snapped, “My agitators are American citizens who have to go out on the plantations to explain to a lot of the sharecroppers that they have rights, guaranteed by the Constitution, to vote in American elections. The only way they can do that is to get out there, where the ‘solid citizen’ owners don’t want them to be. I don’t think agitator is the right word to use about that. But I can’t promise that we won’t keep on doing that until they get registered. Hell, once they’re registered they can even vote for the mayor if they want to!”

Haley smiled for the first time. “I’ll be sure and tell the mayor that next time he calls.” The smile vanished. “Where and when is this public meeting you’re worried about?”

“On Sunday next, seven o’clock, at the old Baptist schoolhouse.”

“There will be no trouble. My officers will be there.”

Mendelsohn stood up. “I’d suggest that they stay outside, Sheriff. I’ve covered meetings like this before. If the officers are inside, a lot of the Negroes won’t speak up or take part in the meeting. The people who come there have a right to set the rules about who is allowed inside. It’s private property, and the Baptists have offered it to the Summer Project.”

Haley said dryly, “Thought you weren’t going to be part of this conversation, Mendelsohn. Thought only Mack was going to speak.”

Ted held the sheriff’s eyes for a beat. “It’s not my job, Sheriff. I’m just a reporter. I listen, take notes, and then tell the great American public what’s really happening, and who’s doing what to make it happen. What I feel I try very hard to keep to myself. That’s what I get poorly paid to do.”

“You like your work, Mendelsohn?”

“Yes, I do. Do you, Sheriff?”

“Sometimes,” Haley said, standing up. The meeting was over.

On the way to the Claybourne plantation, Ted turned from the highway on to a straight patch of gravel that sliced through dizzying rows of young cotton plants. After a hundred yards he slowed the Chevy, caught up in the beauty of the green vista that seemed as vast as the sky that arched above, wondering what this must be like when the plants burst into cotton in the fall. In the distance, tiny figures moved between the rows, bobbing like dark corks as they edged forward, chopping out the weeds. In the overheated stillness he could hear the chunk, chunk, chunk of the hoes.

At an ancient weeping willow, the gravel road curved gently into the shade of a tall stand of old oaks surrounding a stately plantation house. It didn’t look like Tara. Not a grand ante-bellum mansion that was built before Abraham Lincoln was practicing law. No, it was almost defiantly Victorian, a white soaring filigreed eminence that could be comfortably at home in Newport, Rhode Island, or on Beacon Hill in Boston. It spoke of old money, of an unquestioned sense of entitlement. Carpetbagger money? He’d have to ask. No great white columns like the ones David Selznick had arranged. Beautiful, expensive, comfortably inviting, but decidedly not Tara.

Ted had to smile, feeling relieved. On the broad, deeply shaded veranda embracing the house, he saw the woman from the gas station. Dressed in a pale green linen shift, she rose awkwardly from a porch swing and came forward to greet him. Not Scarlett, but a smiling Willy Claybourne.

“You found the Claybournes, and nobody chased you that I can see from here.” Her eyes elaborately searched the empty driveway.

He grinned and nodded. “And none of the townsfolk have arrived yet to string me up.”

“I heard you on the gravel. Come on in out of this heat. Welcome, Ted Mendelsohn!”

“Mendelsohn’s too much to handle in this humidity. Brevity is all, my editor, Max, keeps telling me. Just Ted if it’s all right with you, Mrs. Claybourne.”

Her smile was impish. “What’s good for the cat is good for the kitten. If you’re Ted, then I’m Willy. Em’s inside. Nobody’s ever called her Emily. And I want you to meet my husband.” She hesitated. “Lucas Claybourne. He’s more traditional than I am. He’ll likely call you Mr. Mendelsohn.”

“And what do I call him?”

She slipped her hand under his arm and opened the door. “You could call him lord of the manor.” She smiled wickedly. “But I wouldn’t if I were you. I think Mr. Claybourne will do nicely for now.”

Together, they moved down a cool, wide entry hall past four large, idealized oils of antebellum harbors in New England. Facing the entry to the living room a single portrait held a silent, self-important vigil. The man, painted in his elder years, was dressed in a great cloak and standing on the deck of a three-masted vessel under full sail. Ted stopped before the portrait, bursting with questions. “And who is this? He looks like Cotton Mather!”