Where Southern Cross the Dog (29 page)

They stepped back into the hallway, and Travis immediately saw the door he wanted and hurried to it.

Seated behind a desk piled high with files was a white-haired woman of about sixty. Reading glasses were perched on the end of her nose, through which she squinted at the typewriter she was banging on. Each thump of a key made Travis jump a little. The woman's fingers must certainly ache.

They stood in the doorway for what seemed like minutes until the woman finished what she was doing. She turned her head and stared down her nose at them, just like she did at her typewriter.

“Close the door, please,” she said. “Come inside or out, I don't care which, just close the door.”

Travis closed the door and turned back to face her.

“What can I do for you?” she said.

Travis looked at her nameplate and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Beamer, my—”

“It's Miss,” she said.

“Miss Beamer, ma'am, my name is Edward Barker and this is a friend.”

“Good afternoon, Edward.” She only glanced at Hannah.

“I've been sent by the district attorney of Clarksdale, Mississippi, to gather some information for an upcoming trial. This is the Records Department, isn't it?”

“Did you not read the door?” Without waiting for a reply, she answered, “Yes, this is the FBI Records Department in Jackson. Now, these are active records. Archived records are in the basement. Have you checked in with the guard downstairs?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And you're from where?”

“From Clarksdale. Assisting the district attorney.”

“Who is?”

“Sam Tackett.”

“I'll need to place a telephone call to verify—”

“Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am, I almost forgot.” Travis scrambled to get something from his bag. “I have a letter from Mr. Tackett requesting assistance from the bureau and giving me authority to bring the requested information back to Clarksdale.” Travis searched for the letter in his bag.

“What kind of information are you looking for, young man?” Miss Beamer asked.

“Just some information on a couple of folks who live in Clarksdale. Personal information. Do you have those files?”

“Of course. Records are filed by region. Northwest Mississippi files are over there.” She pointed to three filing cabinets in the back corner of the room.

Travis looked in the direction she was pointing, and then at Hannah, who was also looking at them. “Do I need to check them out?” Travis said, while he took his time finding the letter.

“Yes, indeed. Files on private citizens, with the proper authorization, can be checked out at eight in the morning but must be returned by two o'clock sharp. If someone wants to look at them after that, they have to review them here.” She motioned toward a small table near the files. “We had some trouble this year with lost files. It's more like a library now.”

Travis looked at his watch; it was 2:10 p.m. He finally pulled the letter from his bag and handed it to Miss Beamer.

She opened it carefully and began to read. Travis had typed it up last week and signed it himself. He was starting to believe he had thought of everything.

Miss Beamer looked up. “I'll still need to call Clarksdale to verify everything. Do you have the number?”

“Let me see.” Travis picked up his bag and moved to a corner near the window. He pretended he needed the light to look inside his bag.

While he searched for the nonexistent number, Hannah sat down beside him.

“I'm still looking, Miss Beamer.”

Suddenly, the phone rang. Miss Beamer answered it. Immediately, Travis could tell it was a friend, and he might have a little time.

“Hannah, did you see where the files were?” Travis asked in a hushed tone. Miss Beamer was laughing now, looking out a window on the other side of the room.

“Yes, I saw.”

“If for some reason you end up in the room alone—”

“Alone? How will I end up in the room—”

“Just listen. If you do, I want you to go into the files and find anything you can on Higson. You know where to look, right? You remember the address? This is our only chance.”

“What do I do if I find something?”

“Take it. Put it in my bag or something. Hide it.”

“You mean steal it? Steal government property?”

“Yes. Steal it. We've got to take the files to Clarksdale. We need them. Without them, we've wasted our time, and we won't know anything more than we did this morning. It's all we've got, but we don't have the time to look at them here. Now go on, walk across the room. Get her attention.”

Hannah stood up and walked toward a bookcase on the other side of the room. Miss Beamer's eyes followed her while she continued talking on the phone, engrossed in her conversation.

Travis pulled a small bottle out of his bag. He opened it and drank the contents. He had tasted syrup of ipecac only once, when he had eaten some rat poison as a young boy. It tasted just like he remembered—bad. He thought about the big lunch he had eaten.

Five minutes went by, then ten.

Finally, Miss Beamer said good-bye and hung up the phone. “I'm sorry. That was my aunt who I haven't spoken to since last year. Did you find the number?”

“No, not yet.” Beads of perspiration had started to form on his lip.

“I'll get the number,” Miss Beamer said, reaching for the phone.

“No, that's all right, I'll find it. But can I open a window? All of a sudden, I'm not feeling well.” Travis unlatched the window and stood near it breathing in the warm air.

“Edward, why don't you have a seat? You do look a little pale. Do you need some water?”

“No, thank you. I'll just keep looking for the number in all these papers I brought.”

Hannah looked toward Travis and walked back to him. “Are you okay?”

Travis looked at her intently. “Do what I told you. Please.”

Travis pretended to dig through his bag, but eventually he leaned back in the chair and waited for the inevitable. Miss Beamer had resumed typing. After a few more minutes, Travis knew there wasn't much time left. “Do you have a towel or something, Miss Beamer?” Travis said.

“No, I don't. And I'm not supposed to leave the room. Security reasons. Can't she get it?” She gestured toward Hannah.

“Miss Beamer, I think the colored bathrooms are all downstairs, and I need a towel now.”

“They are downstairs, aren't they? I guess I never thought about it. Can't you get to the bathroom?”

“No, ma'am, I feel too sick.” He groaned. “Can you get it, ma'am? Please?”

“All right,” she sighed, rising. “I really shouldn't be doing this. You two don't move until I get back. Do you understand?”

“I'll try,” Travis said.

Miss Beamer walked out the door into the hallway. Travis could hear her heels clicking on the floor. When the clicking grew faint, he stood up.

“Find the files,” he said to Hannah, stepping into the hall. “Lock this door, and make sure you get the letter back that I brought. I forged Sam's signature.” He heard Hannah turn the latch, and he checked to make sure it was locked.

Travis's first convulsion was a dry heave. He felt his stomach churn and the onset of the queasy feeling he used to get whenever his mother made liver for supper. He was bent over in front of the office door, hands on his knees, when the first of his lunch hit the floor. Then he heard the clicking heels again, and a shriek.

He looked up at Miss Beamer. “Can you get some more towels? I'm sick to my stomach.”

Miss Beamer turned and ran for more towels.

Travis heard several people gasp as they walked into the hall from their offices. He continued to vomit directly in front of the office door. Soon the mess spread across the entire entrance and began to seep under the door. This was even better than he had planned. Travis lay down and tried to block the doorway. He groaned and rolled from side to side as people approached, groaning louder when someone reached for him.

At last Miss Beamer returned, this time with two janitors. “Move him and clean this mess up,” she ordered.

Five to ten minutes had passed, Travis figured. He hoped Hannah had found the files.

The janitors lifted Travis by his arms and placed him in a chair that someone had brought from their office. He leaned forward staring at the floor.

The door opened, and Hannah looked out.

Everyone looked up. She glanced at Travis, then down at the mess. Travis saw the bag in her hand.

“It must've been something I had for lunch,” he said.

“Do we need to take you to a doctor?” Hannah asked with concern as she stepped around the mess and set the bag next to Travis.

“No, I'm feeling better already.”

“Let's hope so,” Miss Beamer said, scowling at the entrance to her office.

Travis rubbed a towel across his forehead. “Thank you, Miss Beamer. I do sincerely apologize for the mess.” After a few minutes, Travis stood up. “I think we better get going. I'm feeling well enough to walk, and the fresh air will do me good.”

“What about your information?” Miss Beamer said.

“Maybe we can come back tomorrow, when I'm feeling better, and try again. Thank you so much, ma'am, for all your help.”

“Don't come back till you're fully recovered, young man,” Miss Beamer said almost vehemently.

Travis and Hannah walked downstairs and out the front entrance to the building. The guard had returned to his desk but said nothing as they left.

“Did you find anything?” Travis asked, hurrying down the street.

“Everything I could. Are we felons now?”

“I think so.”

“Maybe we're the ones that'll end up in jail.”

“Let's hurry. We don't want to miss the train.”

The return trip to Clarksdale was much more relaxed than the morning ride had been. Travis had cleaned up in the station's washroom, but he was still pale from his self-induced illness; the porter never questioned his need for a nurse-companion. If the porter from the morning had said something, this one kept it to himself.

Hannah sat next to the window, drew the shade, and went to sleep almost as soon as the whistle blew, signaling their departure. That's what most everyone did on the ride heading north. Travis never opened the files Hannah had taken. A man was sitting across the aisle, and Travis didn't want to attract anyone's curiosity, much less risk having to explain what he was reading.

The train rolled on, and Travis watched the sun settle onto the hazy horizon. Empty cotton fields stretched for as far as the eye could see. Dry, rotting stalks awaited the spring, with its renewal of the ritual that dominated the Delta for over a hundred years.

Then he heard up ahead of them a whistle that was more like a howl. With its engine's wailing whistle and its cars' yellow accents, the Yazoo and Mississippi Valley Railroad—formerly the Yazoo Delta Railway—was familiar and singular throughout the Delta. Travis knew the railroad better by its nickname, the Yellow Dog. As the train rumbled north toward home, a tune came to mind, and
Travis hummed W. C. Handy's “Yellow Dog Blues.” He mouthed the last line of the song to himself.

“He's gone where the Southern cross the Yellow Dog.”

A child in the car tried to emulate the train's whistle, but he could not match its pitch.

Travis's eyes closed with the setting sun, only to open again, hours later, when the train pulled into Clarksdale.

Stay off of Parchman Farm.

—Booker White

JUDGE BERTRAM LONG REACHED OVER TO HIS nightstand and picked up the phone after the second ring. “Judge Long.”

“Judge, it's Henry,” the bailiff said.

“What do you need, Henry? It's almost midnight.”

“Yes, sir, but I wanted to let you know. The jury's reached a verdict.”

“Good. We've got to get this thing over with—but it's a little late now to reconvene.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Seven-thirty tomorrow morning, in my courtroom.”

“Seven-thirty? We usually—”

“You heard me.” The judge hung up. He quickly called his secretary, who called Sam Tackett and Charlie Usher. The latter then left a message with one of the jail guards to have Luke Williams in the courtroom by 7:15 a.m.

At 7:30 a.m., the courtroom was almost empty: Judge Long, Tackett, Montgomery, Usher, Luke, the bailiff, Sheriff Collins, and the jury sat in silence. The only other person in the courtroom was reporter Lewis Murphree. He sat alone, his notepad open, in the first row behind Tackett.

Judge Long was pleased. The last thing he wanted now was a crowd who might not like the coming verdict. He looked over the silent courtroom, then turned toward the jury. All twelve looked back, awaiting his directions. With so few people, there isn't any chance of anyone expressing their dissatisfaction with the decision, doing as they've done so many times before, turning their emotional discontent into violent physical rage. They can always turn vengeful later, but by then, time will have abated the wounds, and individual reasoning will reign over collective, maniacal thought. If not, they'll be back in my courtroom. Sitting in Luke's seat.

“Mr. Ellis,” Judge Long said.

Ron Ellis, the foreman, stood up in the jury box. “Yes, your honor?”

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“We have.”

“Could you please hand your decision to the bailiff.”

Ellis handed a small piece of paper to the bailiff who immediately walked over and handed it to Judge Long. The judge opened and read it, then returned it to the bailiff. Henry handed the paper to Ron, who was still standing in the jury box. Judge Long looked out over the courtroom again. “Will the defendant and counsel please rise.”

Luke and Charlie stood up.

The judge thought Luke looked like he hadn't slept well. “Mr. Ellis, will you please read the verdict.”